A/N: There wasn't really a plan with this one. It was meant to be a short little thing, a Liam thing. And now it is something I just found myself returning to because it made me happy. But this really is the end. A nice note to end on, I hope.
This one is for OnceSnow, who is celebrating a birthday this week and hinted, rather heavily, that this is what she wanted for it. Happy Birthday.
Part Three - Breakfast
There were many things that Emma Swan could have been doing with the first morning of her Christmas Break. She could be braving the unwashed hordes of Christmas shoppers in her local mall, scouring the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond for the perfect gift for her domestic goddess of a sister-in-law. She could have actually turned up for her morning kickboxing class for once, and shocked the hell out of her instructor. She could have put on her favorite record and danced around in her living room, secure in the knowledge that Walsh had finally cleared the last of his stuff out, and he wouldn't ever be around to look down on her taste in music again.
She could have done any of that.
But instead, somehow, she found herself wedged into one of Granny's vinyl booths, watching on in poorly disguised fascination as the two British men in front of her devoured their All Day Breakfast with the same dogged determination, plates piles high with fried confections. She herself was clutching another coffee, picking at her French toast with her fork.
She'd once eaten like that too. Enough grease to kill a donkey. Back before Walsh had come home one day with a juicer and a couples gym membership, and declared that they were going to Be Healthy. Which wasn't necessarily a bad idea, if he hadn't couched it in what Killian had once termed "the patronizing we". As in, when you go to the Doctor and they ask "How are we feeling today?" in the most condescending way possible. Their direct supervisor at work was famous for it. Similarly, Walsh hadn't really meant we. Emma had seen him slipping outside in the morning to go jogging, and smuggling muesli boxes and protein shakes in with the weekly groceries. He had really meant you. As in Emma. As in the person who'd been sitting on the couch, eating chips, right up until he'd started delivering his healthy lifestyle spiel.
God, why had she stayed with him so long? Scrap that, she knew why. He hadn't been a thing like any other guy she'd ever dated. He was stable. He was safe. He wouldn't run. And to his credit, he didn't. But before the end, Emma couldn't deny she kind of wished he would.
Any and all thoughts of the dreaded ex, would have to be put aside however, as she accidentally caught Killian's eye.
Killian Jones. Cocky, self-assured, couldn't-make-a-sandwich-to-save-his-life Killian Jones. And if she was honest with herself, the best and worst thing about her job.
He nudged his plate towards her, and motioned with his fork for her to take what she wanted. Damn. He must have caught her staring at his small mountain of bacon a little too longingly. She shook her head, but all he did was nudge it further forward, until Emma let out a long-suffering sigh, and snagged a piece of bacon off his plate with her fingers. It could have been worse, she figured, as she snapped off a piece and popped it into her mouth, savoring the salty goodness. He could have caught her staring at him. Which she did... sometimes. He was hot, alright? Walsh or no Walsh, she wasn't blind. And he certainly brought a bit of color to the office.
It wasn't like it was a dream job, or anything. But it paid the bills and it didn't compromise her dignity, which Emma thought wasn't too bad for a high school drop-out. But it was boring. Sweet Jesus, was it boring. Filling out spreadsheets for eight hours a day gave her a permanent ache behind her eyes, and vivid fantasies of throwing herself under every bus she saw. And then came along Killian Jones.
She wasn't quite sure how he'd done it, but within a matter of weeks he'd turned an office full of mindless automatons into rule-breaking deviants. He really did have a knack for that kind of thing. Trouble, that is. He was trouble.
It had started innocently enough, with Emma's attention drawn away from the database she was supposed to be building by the tell-tale squeal of the un-oiled joint, as he leaned back in his office chair. She watched as he had cast his eyes from side to side, checking the coast was clear. And then, quick as lightning, he pulled a well sharpened pencil from the tin on his desk, and threw it directly at the ceiling. Where it remained, embedded in the fibrous plasterboard. She was stupefied. They all were. Just.. out of nowhere. Then he lined up a second. Then a third. He made it to ten pencils altogether, with their cubicle mates, who Emma had never seen exchange so much as a greeting in the hallway, handing over their spare pencils without even being asked. That is, until, there had been the telltale clack of designer high heels on linoleum that signaled Regina Mills's imminent return, and everyone who'd paused to watch the bizarre spectacle froze, save for Killian himself, who'd hastily thrown his jacket at the ceiling, all ten pencils raining down onto his desk with a clatter just a moment before she stepped through the door, eyes peeled for any wrongdoing. And what was Killian doing? Why, he was just tidying his work space. No harm, no foul.
From there, things had degenerated fairly quickly. Soon everyone was in on it. And the feats became more daring, using more and more office supplies spirited from the supply closet. Emma had been the one who'd jimmied the lock with an old library card. Soon there was a set of rules laid down. Points were awarded depending on level of creativity, amount of supplies used, and level of risk of Regina walking in at any moment. If you managed to do something whilst she was in the room, everyone chipped in and got you a cake.
It was strange, for sure. Childish, even. But it made work a little less awful, and her coworkers a little more human, and therein lay the appeal. It was also how she'd come to know Killian, outside of his laughably bad innuendos and apparent inability to rollerblade. When he was in the middle of a feat, he was single-minded to the point of recklessness, but he always pulled it off in the end, no matter the odds. Hell, there had been a two week stretch when there had been Black Forest Gateau at lunch every day, he was just that good.
None of which explained why she'd kissed him in the bar last night. Her memories were still a little hazy, as they always were after any contact with tequila, but certain things were coming back to her. Like that text she'd gotten from Walsh, whilst Killian had been in the bathroom.
Slipped key under the door.
Have a nice life.
Most people would be sad after severing ties with their boyfriend of five years. And maybe she had been, sort of. But more than that, Emma felt relieved. Unshackled. Free.
No more protein shakes, no more 5am jogs, no more listening to Rod Stewart through headphones because Walsh didn't approve of any artist who'd ever garnered enough of a fan base to actually make money from their music. If you'd heard of them, he didn't want to know. No more talk of babies and marriage like they were inevitable, rather than conscious choices Emma wasn't sure if she was ready to make. No more pretentious antiques turning up in her apartment in the place of her beloved, if mismatched, secondhand furniture.
No more pretending that she wasn't attracted to Killian Jones, and his unique brand of mischief.
She hadn't meant to kiss him. But she was heady with her new-found freedom, and after that first tequila slammer, the burn still warm in her throat, she'd found herself watching in rapt fascination as he'd licked his spilled drink from his lips. And suddenly she wanted to know what it tasted like. What his lips tasted like. And so she'd gone for it.
The rest was a little blurrier. There had been some more making out outside, near a dumpster? More tequila. Something fruity. Killian's blue eyes, shining. She didn't recall the cab incident at all, and she thanked her lucky stars for that.
But now here she was, in Granny's, having been lured into being the unwitting third wheel of an awkward Jones Family Reunion with the promise of French toast, and she couldn't even stomach the idea of all that maple syrup.
Liam was the first to finish inhaling his breakfast, not even a stray crumb left on his plate.
"Are you going to eat that?" he asked Emma, indicating her almost untouched french toast. Wordlessly, she slid it over to him, and his face split into a wide grin.
"I like this one, Killy," he said, motioning at Emma with his fork.
Beside him, she saw the younger Jones brother slouch down further into the booth, the tips of his ears going pink. "Please don't call me that," she heard him plead under his breath. Even with a mouthful of toast, Liam's grin widened.
"So, Emma," he purred, once he'd swallowed down his first mouthful, "May I call you Emma?" Emma nodded warily, watching that gleam settle in his eyes, so much like Killian's whenever Regina announced she was taking an extended lunch. "Would you like a tale from this one's youth? I've got loads. How about the time we went sailing and he got tangled up in the-"
"I will literally pay you to stop talking," came Killian's strangled words beside him. He looked flushed, and stressed in a way Emma had never seen him. He'd always seen so calm in the office, so collected. Even when they'd woken up, he hadn't been like this. Ah. So this was his Achilles heel. The brother, and the ghost of those awkward teenager years. It was sort of endearing, in a way. To see him so off-kilter.
"Will you really?" Liam turned to his brother with interest, his next piece of toast raised to his mouth, their eyes locking.
Without breaking eye contact, Killian fished his wallet from his pocket, reached inside, and pulled out a handful of notes, plunking them down hard on the table in front of them. They held each other's gaze for another long moment, before Liam turned his attention to his ill-gotten gains.
"Aye," he said flicking through the wad of cash in his hand with a self-satisfied smile. "This will do quite nicely. See you at your apartment later?" Killian merely nodded, and to Emma's surprise, Liam took one last forkful of food and rose from the table, leaning across to reach for Emma's hand. "It was truly a pleasure to meet you at last, Emma. Cheers for the French toast. It was excellent." Then he'd brushed a kiss across her knuckles and was gone, the chime above the door signalling his departure.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence, Killian's eyes set firmly on the salt shaker in front of him.
"At last?" Emma asked finally.
Instead of answering her, Killian seemed to crumple in front of her, his forehead coming to lean on the table in front of him. "Fucking wanker," she thought he heard him mutter, between the sound of his head thumping against the table a few times. Before Emma could come up with anything comforting to say, he shot back upright again, slightly more composed, a tell-tale red mark coloring his forehead.
"Shall I walk you home?" he asked. And Emma, eager to leave the whole weird breakfast vibe behind them, agreed.
They'd walked two blocks before anyone said anything. It was Killian this time, reaching out to grip Emma's elbow, bringing her to a halt on the sidewalk beside him, right by a dilapidated pizzeria, the red awning out front torn, flapping furiously in the frigid December wind.
"I know how to make a sandwich," he blurted, his eyes screwed shut with the weight of his confession. Emma stifled her impulse to giggle, he looked so tortured.
"I was beginning to suspect you did..." Emma replied, her voice light. "What with that fancy ass kitchen you've got..."
Realizing he was being teased, Killian's eyes popped open again, fast filling with frustration. "No, that's not what I meant." He shook his head, as if he could physically shake the words loose.
"No," he said, taking a small step towards her, "I mean, I like you. I've liked you since I met you. And the sandwich thing, it was just an excuse, to be near you." His eyes widened. "Not in like a creepy way. I know you had a boyfriend. I just mean..." He was rambling now, and he knew it, breaking off abruptly to jam his hands in the pockets of his coat, gaining his breath back.
Emma however, was still stuck on his words.
I like you. I've liked you since I met you.
Well, that explained a lot.
"...At last?" Emma repeated, things beginning to click.
She heard Killian curse under his breath. "Bloody traitor. My brother is a nosy prat, but he's also my best mate. He's been well aware of my... little infatuation for some time now. And a great amount of amusement it brings him, too."
"Yeah," Emma said with a small smile, crossing her arms in front of her in a vain attempt to counter the cold, "I caught that."
A little comforted by her smile, Killian returned a tiny one of his own, one gloved hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. "If you don't mind me asking, exactly how much of last night do you remember, Swan?" he asked.
"Well..." Emma's eyes were drawn to the ground as she considered the fragments of the night she'd managed to piece together. "Well, there was the tequila. And the margaritas..." she began, but she found her thoughts drawn to the more memorable aspects of the evening. His little "oof" of surprise when she'd kissed him, before his arms had slid around her waist and he'd kissed her back. The way he'd looked as he'd pulled away, eyes still closed, a stunned expression on his face like he'd just been hit over the head with a frying pan.
"Anything not beverage related?" He replied, in a perfect imitation of her earlier words, and Emma fought to contain her eye roll.
"It was me. I started it," she said, throwing up her hands in defeat. She knew he'd just wanted her to admit it. But when she glanced back up to his face, he wasn't wearing the smug grin she expected.
He shook his head. "Do you remember what you said outside?" he asked, his accent more pronounced than normal. She cast her mind back further. Outside. There had been a dumpster. A *gulp* wall. Oh. Oh. The realization must have shown on her face, because Killian's eyebrows raised in that annoyingly attractive way they did. "And?" he prompted, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, eyes fixed on Emma's.
Killian Jones. Cocky, self-assured Killian Jones, stood waiting on the sidewalk like a man awaiting sentencing.
"I think it wouldn't be the worst idea in the world."
The smile that takes over his face is blinding in its intensity, and when they kiss this time, he tastes like bacon, and coffee, and something a long time in the making.