A prompt fill request from a Tumblr fan, who asked for an "Emma/Merida friendship with CS and Merintosh". And it spun out of control, into a college AU, with Emma as an international student at St. Andrews on a golf scholarship. I have no idea if the athletics program info is accurate, but eh...needed it that way for the story. (And yes, I snuck in a line from both 'Hamilton' and 'Parks & Rec'). Title from the long-standing tradition of 'Raisin Weekend' at that school.

"Gods Almighty." Merida backed away from the third-floor window, passing her hand over her eyes. "Of all the…."

Emma looked up from the textbook she'd been furiously highlighting in for the past hour. "Now what? More half-naked revelers?" she asked, though she was sure what—or who, rather—the real problem was. The hooting and yelling had been going on for awhile now, but there was only one person Merida would bother bitching about if she caught wind of them.

"Not jest any ha'-naked types—tae verra bane of my existence." Her hand fluttered towards the window. "I mean, I cannae even tell wha'—I mean, tae be so self-cennered tae think innocent uni lasses want tae see what ye've usually got tucked aways— "

Emma's eyes rounded. "Oooh, I wanna see!" Ignoring Merida's protests, she darted to the window to look down upon their fellow St. Andrews' student (and notorious partier), Macintosh, just on the grass below with MacGuffin and Dingwall, his rugby buddies. Though the latter two were trussed up in animal onesies—a bunny and a bear— the most practical costumes for both the fall weather and drunken shenanigans, Macintosh hadn't deigned to do the same. Emma didn't know if there was a different term for it in Scotland, but back in the States, what he had on would have been known as a banana hammock. And other than a plaid scarf wound about his neck that matched the coloring on the thong, he wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. Painted blue rings marked the rest of his body, but still left nothing to the imagination. Emma smirked, and hollered down to him.

"Yoohoo, young laird!" She signaled him, waving both arms overhead in a wide arc.

Merida ducked down and crawled right next to the sill, giving Emma a hard pinch on the leg. "Jest what d'ye think yer doing? Dinnae encourage him!"

"Ow! I'm just being friendly—"

Macintosh looked up, a half-grin plastered on his face, obviously already on his way to being facedown by the end of the evening. "Aye, if it isna fair Emma. Are ye and yer flame-haired, demoness flatmate plannin' on joinin' the festivities perchance?"

"Nae another word!" Merida hissed from her position on the floor.

Emma glanced down at her side, eyes wide with faux-innocence, and nearly shrieked: "What?! What'd you say?!"

I'll kill 'er. Jest as she's a-driftin' off, I'll—

"Who's that with ye now, lassie? Could it be tae verra one who threatens to disembowel me at our ev'ry meeting? Ye ken, those who say such things really jest want tae take advantage of me. An' that includes Mer—"

"Oh!" Merida couldn't keep quiet anymore at that, and stood up quickly, shoving Emma out of the way, leaning out the window. "Dinnae let any such ideas cross yer mind. Why, I was jest tellin' Emma how much ye disgust me!" But as she looked down from her perch, Merida felt her tongue turn dry as sandpaper. Disgust was the last emotion flitting through her mind jest then. The fool ran around shirtless every chance he got, ever since secondary school, but she'd never seen quite so much of him before. More muscle in his legs and arse than even his usual tight rugby shorts revealed. And the Pict-style paint accentuating his biceps and pecs wasna exactly unbecoming….

"Ah, so ye've discussed me! I'm touched, Highness." He gave her a sloppy bow, nearly falling over as he tried to stand up straight again.

"An' how many times have I said not tae call me that?!"

"I'll stop callin' ye that when ye git off yer high horse…Highness!" He spread his arms wide, beaming up at her. "Wouldna end ye tae take the stick out o' yer arse for one weekend, now would it? Live a wee bit?"

"Better tae have a stick up my arse, an' have a mind towards my future, than tae be on tae verge o' bein' kicked off the rugby team for poor marks and be carousin' with first-year students!" She crossed her arms triumphantly, giving him the stink eye.

MacGuffin and Dingwall looked down and shuffled their feet, embarrassed at being called out as second-years who really had no official part in this weekend. But Macintosh just stared right back, keeping perfect eye contact, mouth pressed into a hard line. Merida expected some other barb about being a snooty little snob, but he glared at her long enough for her to almost start feeling contrite for the comment. Just as she was about to give and break the tension with some stupid joke, he jerked his head at Dingwall and MacGuffin, and strode away across the courtyard. Merida cleared her throat, stepped back, and drew the curtain.

"Damn," Emma frowned at her. "I thought over-the-top rudeness was my modus operandi. You hurt his feelings."

"Perhaps I might've, if he had any feelins'. Though I wouldna wager tha' someone who tries tae get ye booted from yer school's archery team—"

"You told me that was back in high— I mean, secondary school! He obviously regrets it now. Grudge much?"

Merida sniffed, nose in the air. "Til I get a formal apology, he'll get no quarter from me. An' even then, no guarantee."

"Well…at the least, don't underestimate the value of a good hate fook."

"Yer pathetic attempt at a Scots accent makes me want tae spew even more than yer repulsive suggestion," Merida said, adding a shudder for good measure. She wasna going tae start imagining that moron baring what little—or large, from what she had deduced by the outline of that clingy thong—he kept covered, and herself following suite….

"I dunno, I could cut that sexual tension with a butterknife." Emma shot her a grin that Merida didna like one bit. "C'mon, is tonight the night—going to finally drape the ol' necktie over the doorknob? Though I guess you could use Macintosh's scarf, and I'll ken what you mean."

Merida folded her arms, returning the smug look right back. "How 'bout I bring tha' ham-handed oaf tae my bed when ye finally ask tha' brooding barkeep tae see ye outside The Cellar? Kevin, is it?" she continued, knowing full well it wasna.

Emma suddenly lost her bravado, face going beet red. She looked down and started playing with a loose thread on her quilt. "It's Killian. And he doesn't like me."

"I never heard such a load o' shee-it in m'life. He gives ye free Aspall's ev'rytime ye go, an' I've nae seen him take his eyes from ye whenever yer around."

Emma moved so her long hair curtained her face, hiding her expression. Merida could read the signs; she was starting to close off, but for some reason, Merida didna want to accept it this time. Emma'd gotten her musing over Macintosh—curse her—and maybe Emma could do with some airing out on why this evident, mutual attraction was going nowhere. There were certain subjects the two had come to an understanding over in their early days as flatmates—after a few tussles ending in headlocks and several pints of Dark Fruit Strongbow—that were now simply known to be OFF LIMITS in terms of discussing. No talking about Emma's foster care upbringing or Merida's deceased father, with a somewhat loose embargo equally on the topic of their love lives. Meaning there'd always been teasing between them over the idea, but no serious conversations on either end.

"He probably only feels sorry for me, cause he jerks his hand away every time we've accidentally touched like I've burned him."

Merida cocked a brow. "An' why would he be feelin' sorry for ye? Or nae like ye, for that matter? Yer blonde, yer thin, ye've got decent sized chebs—"

"Oh, shut up," Emma said fidgeting some more. "I—it's…it's probably cause I told him."

"Told him wha'?"

Emma swiped quickly at her eyes, but they were still shiny when she looked up. "Everything. How I moved around my whole life, took the golf scholarship here just so I could go away someplace new. I had too much cider, and—oh god, I'm such an idiot! I told him everything, after just a few pints, and then—then we kissed. But all my issues must've scared him off. He's still nice—but it's never gone beyond that since."

Merida scowled. "So ye bared yer soul, kissed, an' then he thinks he can reject ye?" She jumped to her feet, started pulling her wild mane into a ponytail. "I'm goin' down tae The Cellar, an' kickin' his sorry arse. Where's yer nine-iron?"

Emma just rolled her eyes, and fell back on her bed. "Don't. It's not that big a town, and you're already kinda running out of bars to be banned for life from. I don't want to go drinking on my own all the time for the rest of my higher education days." She rolled onto her side towards Merida. "But I appreciate the offer."

There was more to the story, Merida was sure. Lads didna look at lasses the way Killian did at Emma, and want to remain cool acquaintances. Maybe he needed a push—or a shove off a Highland cliff—in tae right direction. She glanced over at Emma, still looking forlorn. Neither of them were all that social, which was why they'd broken their Raisin Parents' hearts when they said they wanted no part in St. Andrew's most infamous tradition, but perhaps it was the perfect opportunity for Emma to confront that infuriating man. The streets were running wild with uni students blitzed out of their minds—if she said or did anything tonight with Killian she regretted later, well…she could always blame it on the rum.

Merida drummed her fingers on the sill. "Ye ken…maybe we should join 'em down there."

Emma raised a brow. "Is this just because Macintosh said you're no fun? Look, I think he's harmless, unlike you, but you don't have to go out just—"

"Ye ought tae get yer mind off this eejit, and I, er…I'd like tae dump a nice, cold beer over Macintosh's overinflated head when I find him." Merida wanted to kick herself; the words sounded hollow even to herself, plus she could practically feel Emma's X-ray gaze boring into the back of her head. And sure enough—

"You're lying."

"Alright, look here," Merida turned around, determined look firmly on her face. "Yer goin' tae talk to the Brit tonight, an' get tae the bottom o' things. I ken—," Merida felt like she was on thin ice, but it needed to be said, "—I ken that most folks in yer past left ye high 'n dry, but fer once, ye can get a straight answer if he is tryin' tae give ye tae slip." Which he isna, she thought decisively, settling on: "Which isna likely."

Emma stared at her silently for so long, Merida wasn't sure if she was going to pretend the whole exchange hadn't happened or was deciding the best way to take her down. Finally, a small smirk lifted one corner of her mouth.

"Fine. I'll…well, we'll go. If—"

"There it tis," Merida grumbled.

"If you seek out your own man problem, and deal with it."

"I jest said I'm goin' tae find Macintosh's sorry arse, an'—"

"Nooo, not to antagonize him. You're going to do the same thing you're making me do—talk."

"About what?" Merida huffed petulantly.

"Whatever you want. It just can't start or end in a fight, physical or verbal."

"Yer puttin' some tight constraints on this already implausible interaction, girly."

"Fine," Emma let out a very fake yawn, curling up around her textbook again. "I'll just stay in, and—"

Merida gave a dramatic groan. "Tae things I do fer a bluidy American flatmate." She whipped her phone out of her pocket, and started sending out messages. "I'll let the academic mums ken we're back in tae spirit o' things."

"But we told Mulan and Mary Margaret we weren't interested—they won't have any costumes for us like everyone else."

"Tae thing about the anal-retentive type," Merida said, as her fingers flew over her phone's screen, "is tha' they're prepared fer any change o' tae wind. There!" She looked up triumphantly. "All taken care of."

"Mulan may be prepared for anything, but I don't think Mary Margaret—"

"Oh, I didna ask her. Nae fer you, that is. I asked Ruby; she's got quite an impressive collection o' costumes."

"I've seen what she wears just day-to-day, and that isn't reassuring."

"Relax, Barbie lass—she's got something verra tame fer ye. A bunny-rabbit."

Emma grinned at the sound of that—boony ra-beet—then sobered up. "A bunny?" Emma said cautiously. "You mean, like MacGuffin's onesie? It'll cover everything?"

"It's a one-piece, aye," Merida said, suddenly busying herself looking through her top bureau drawer.

"I'm not sure I like the careful wording there, roomie."

Merida threw up her hands. "Jest…keep an open mind, aye?"

Half an hour later, Mary Margaret and Mulan, the girls' fourth-year 'academic moms', and their mutual friend, Ruby, showed up at the Agnes Blackadder dorms. "Oh, I'm so glad you two got into the weekend spirit!" Mary Margaret, Emma's fellow American and academic mom shrieked. "I remember my Raisin Weekend, and it was just…"

Off she went about her own memories, but Merida's academic mom, Mulan, had a more cynical expression, and Merida knew she was going to give her, the anti-school spirit mascot if there ever was one, the third degree. Sure enough—

"And what inspired this change-of-heart?" Mulan asked, crossing her arms.

"I—I jest realized I cannae live wi' myself if I don't let Emma in on such a…immortal Scottish affair. An'—an' if I jest so happen tae run intae Macintosh, an' have a full cup o' cheap liquor, I wouldna mind relievin' it over his head."

Mulan opened her mouth to object, no doubt, but Ruby pushed to the front, a shopping bag in her arms. "Hey, the kids wanna go—don't make a federal case out of it. Federal…does that make sense in Scotland? Whatever, anyways," she pushed the bag into Emma's arms. "Just try it on, and come show everyone!"

Emma peaked inside, gasped, and scrunched the bag together. "It's practically a bathing suit! I'll freeze my ass off!"

"Emma," Merida reminded. "Wha' did I say? Open. Mind."

"Fiiine," the other girl grumbled, disappearing into the bathroom.

Mary Margaret looked disapprovingly between Merida and Ruby. "I'm not sure of that get-up, either." She touched a hand to her own completely buttoned-up collar. "You know, just because all the other first-years are dressed like…like…ladies of the night, doesn't mean—"

The furious whispering suddenly came at Mary Margaret from both sides: Merida saying something about Emma having to "clear the air" with some guy, and Ruby saying how cuuute she was going to look, and it'd be criminal not to let her out into the world as such for the one sanctioned weekend of debauchery for the first-years. Mary Margaret held both palms out in front of each of their faces.

"I can't say I like the sound of this. Who is this boy? I haven't heard of him before. And the academic fathers are the ones who're supposed to approve the nighttime activities, and if David hasn't heard of this boy either—"

"He's a man. Like…twenty-five…or somewhere's aboot."

"That's not exactly convincing me, Merida!"

"Shee-it!" Merida exclaimed, earning a smack on the back of her skull from Mulan. "What's wi' the third degree, mumsie? Ye ken ye two arna really her parents, right? An' ye might want tae break that news tae David, too, the way he acts."

Mary Margaret pressed her lips together primly. "We have a right to be concerned. Emma's kinda our responsibility for the weekend."

Merida tried to sum it up, in a nutshell, for the fourth-year as best she could: how she wanted Emma to find out that not all men—or people, for that matter—were going to disappoint her, and how Merida simply 'had a good feeling about this one'.

"I don't think Emma should be wandering around by herself—"

"She'll be wi' me."

"Still…David won't like just the two of you out by yourselves."

"Then I guess you'll have to give him the slip," Ruby said with a smirk. "I'm sure there're all kinds of methods you can employ that he'll be only too happy—"

"I swear, Ruby, you—"

"Guys?" Emma's uncertain voice came from behind them. "I, uh…can't wear panties with this." They all turned around, their faces simultaneously lighting up with smiles.

It was definitely a one-piece bunny suit…of the 1960s Playboy variety: black velvet, high-cut leg openings, lowcut neckline, and complete with separate cuffs, collar, and of course, bunny ears. Emma tugged self-consciously at one of the cuffs. "This reeks of trying-to-hard. I can't see Kil—I mean, I can't go out in this."

"But you look ah-mazing!" Ruby swore, snaking an arm around Emma's shoulders.

Merida was already slipping into the Robin Hood outfit Mulan had brought for her, heedless of the others. "Doona be a square, girly. Jest try it out…And," she added with a look from Mary Margaret, "if ye still dinnae like it, we'll…we'll come back tae the dorms."

Last ditch attempt—her academic mom would never agree to this. "Mary Margaret?"

The other girls seemed to be holding their breath, waiting on her verdict. Finally, Mary Margaret walked up to her, adjusted the ears. "As your official academic mother, I have to voice my disapproval with this man plan. But," she reached out to arrange a handful of curls over Emma's shoulder, "as a friend, all I have to say is: you're going to knock his socks off."

Emma squirmed, unused to the casual, affectionate gesture. "Maybe…no, I know this is a bad idea."

The typically straightlaced older girl just gave Emma a wink. "What've you got to lose? At the least, you're going to stop that poor man's heart."

Great. This is just fuckin' great.

It had taken all of ten minutes for Emma and Merida to join the unruly crowd, get separated by said unruly crowd, and, for Emma, drop her phone into a mud puddle.

Fuckin' great, she thought again, staring at the black screen. She turned in all directions, looking for a landmark that might lead her back to the dorms. As athletes, she and Merida had arrived before most of the rest of the school, and she thought she'd gotten a pretty good handle on what was where in the small town. Apparently, she'd just been following Merida's lead, because on her own and at night, everything looked different.

The first non-citizen to be deemed the Scottish Ladies Amateur Golf Champion, Emma thought, and look at me now. She glanced down at her barely-there costume. I can't believe I let those jerks talk me into this. Macintosh is right, Merida is a demoness. And even my own academic mom is a hench-demoness. After her first two years in high school that had brought so much grief to her life—well, more than there already had been—Emma'd consciously made golf her life. She hadn't been particularly enthused about it at first, but she was good at it, and so she'd made it her ticket out of a future of being kicked out to fend for herself when she reached eighteen.

And now you're nineteen, stumbling around the streets of St. Andrews dressed like a Vegas showgirl, hoping with everything you've got that this guy doesn't turn out to be a lackwit like all the rest. She rolled her eyes as she passed more student apartments, a used condom tossed on top of a trash lid. Emma sighed, started to run her fingers through her hair before they ran into the headband. You're the eejit here, Swan. Cut your losses, tell Merida nothing came of it—

"Swan?"

For a split-second, Emma thought her inner musings had grown so strong, they'd acquired their own voice. But then, why would they have a familiar, British, male accent?

Crap; her damned inner musings had taken her right to where she shouldn't be—the front of The Cellar Bar, complete with the most devastatingly handsome, smoldering-eyed bartender this side of the Atlantic. Oh, yeah, and completely disinterested in her. For a moment, once upon a time, she'd thought—no, he'd made himself perfectly clear. So why the hell had she given into Merida's stupid suggestion?

He'd gotten closer as she stood frozen in the center of the deserted sidewalk, tilted his head, peering worriedly at her with those baby-blues that blazed bright even in the dim street lighting. "Cat got your tongue, love?" Dammit, she wasn't plunking down a few pounds for a drink; couldn't he turn off that appealing smolder for two seconds?

She opened her mouth for what would have been—no doubt—some suave, witty retort. Unfortunately, all that came out after, "I…I…" was a rapid succession of teeth chattering.

"Come here, darling, you're chilled to the bone," Killian said, shrugging off his thick, black twill jacket, and draping it around her shoulders. "Whatever are you running around in…that for?" He did a quick double take, then met her eyes. "I thought I remembered you saying you weren't taking part in the whole Raisin foolishness."

Emma gulped. "Do—do you like it?."

"Fookin' great!" Merida yelled out, wrestling her way out of a crush of people she'd been swept up in several blocks back. She turned about, scanning the crowd wildly. "Emma? Emma!"

Splendid, she thought. Em-em an' David are going tae keel me fer losin' their fake bairn. Mulan probably would too, just in solidarity—and so it wouldn't reflect badly on her.

"Ugh!" Merida glanced down to see chalky streaks of color marring her felt costume, and—she reached up and pulled crepe paper from a red curl—was that a streamer? And shaving cream?! Those eejits weren't even s'posed to bring foam out til the following day's activities.

"Ye gods," she groaned, catching sight of herself in a shop window. She looked like she'd crawled from a dumpster outside a rave. And she could feel some cold liquid that had been sloshed down her legs—beer, most likely—starting to give her a chill. Her little feminized Hood costume definitely covered more skin than Emma's getup—though the skirt still wasn't very practical for a fall night.

Now what? Would Emma have gone directly to The Cellar, thinking they could meet up there? Well, she didna have a better idea. Hopefully the poor girl hadn't gotten the same treatment, Merida could collect her, then go back to the dorms, clean off, and pretend this ill-fated excursion never happened. She was counting on Emma not to hold her to her 'find Macintosh' promise now. She could give her the sad-puppy eyes—

"Fook!" she yelled out. She'd been so intent on orchestrating their escape back to safety that she'd walked right into the Hamish McHamish memorial. Her elbow and toe throbbed where they'd met the stone.

"Ye…ye…damned, dotty cat!" she yowled. It didna matter; Logies Lane was clear of students at a time like—

"Oy now, what'd tae poor, dead moggy ever do tae ye?"

Shee-it. That voice…nae, it couldna be—she wouldna allow it. Merida squeezed her eyes shut. "This isna happenin', this isna happenin'—"

"Chantin'? Are ye intae yoga now, Merida?" A firm hand grasped her upper arm, and her eyes flew open. Curse it all—Macintosh, in tae flesh, though it seemed between their last encounter he'd acquired a grass hula skirt to hide what his thong could barely do.

She jerked her arm out of his hand. "Whaddya think yer doin'?!"

He held his hands up. "Jest seein' if ye hurt yerself. Doona get pissy." A corner of his mouth crooked downward; if it had been anyone else, it might've been cute.

She felt a twinge of…something, but just tossed her head. Emma said not tae argue. "Well…as ye can see, I'm never better." She gestured at his new piece with her chin. "Changed, aye? Modest, fer ye."

He feigned sweeping aside the fronds directly in the front. "Nae exactly, jest a new layer. I could always strip down again, if ye prefer—"

"Doona even!" she cried, jumping back a bit.

He gave her a long look up and down. "Still plannin' on raisin' some hell like that?" He gestured towards the disaster she'd turned into. "Nae that tae crazed-primary-school teacher-out-on-tae-town look is off-puttin', but—"

"Oh, piss off!" Merida gave Macintosh a double-handed shove that sent him staggering back a few paces. How in tae hell was his skin so warm in the chilly night? And the coarse hair beneath her fingertips for a split-second had been—

She shook her head. What was gettin' intae her? Maybe hypothermia was setting in. That was the only reasonable explanation. Merida looked up just in time to see Macintosh glance down at where she'd touched him, before meeting her gaze again.

"Ye doona have tae nearly break a man's breastbone tae get his attention, Merida." He shot her a pompous leer. "We all jest want tae same thing—ample glimpses of feminine flesh on Raisin weekend."

She rolled her eyes. "Why am I still talkin' to ye?", she said, started walking away. "I hafta find my flatmate, or we're both in trouble."

Merida heard Macintosh's hurried steps behind her, before he pulled alongside. "Maybe…I mean…ye could use some assistance?"

She reached behind her, patted her quiver that she'd spruced up with a lone arrow. "I can take care o' myself, thank ye verra much. Perfectly equipped tae handle louts like ye."

With a muttered grunt, Macintosh swung around right in front of her, so suddenly that she couldn't stop her next step, and their chests bumped into each other. She took a step back immediately. "What—"

But he cut her off, crossing his arms in front of his rugby-toned pecs. "For tae love o' God, Merida, twas four years ago now! Ye certainly know how tae nurse a grudge. I said I was sorry—"

"Nae, ye didna."

"Eh? Didna what?"

She was still kind of smarting from the 'grudge' comment—that made two of those accusations against her in one day. And she didna view herself as an unforgiving person, 'cept in this case, the man jest seemed tae get under her skin. Plus there was the matter of—

"Ye never apologized. I'd've remembered."

He quirked a brow at her, then smiled. "Aye, I'm sure ye would've. Well, is it too late?"

Her cheeks felt unusually warm, despite just being one drink into the evening. Emma tilted her empty glass towards Killian, who directed them both behind the bar to partake of libations, despite the place being completely bereft of other patrons. There'd always been at least the bar countertop between them before; Emma wasn't sure what to do with this newfound proximity. Even if they were huddled on the floor behind some bartop, did he really have to sit so close? He'd even found a clean bar rag for her to sit on. Who said chivalry was dead?

"So," she said when he'd refilled her rum, her voice coming out high-pitched. Get it together, Swan. "Business not booming tonight?" Smooth line, there.

Killian shrugged, eyes still on her. "There's more exciting establishments to be at tonight, I imagine. Though I did catch some young man trying to pour himself a pint earlier before running out the door."

"And what'd you do?"

"Grabbed the back of his shirt, and it sloshed down his front." His eyes shone in the dim light, a half-grin on his face.

Emma snorted at the image of it in her head. "Very upstanding of you. I'd've liked to see that."

"It would have been far less boring around here if you'd been around earlier, too, darling."

Alright, enough of this. Nip it in the bud. "Killian…don't call me that."

"What? 'Darling'? You never seemed to mind before."

"I know, but…well,"—she took a generous swallow of rum. "I thought it meant something. That you,"—another long drink, "were thinking—"

"Whoa, slow down there, Swan," Killian lowered her glass. "Just let me know what I've done wrong."

"Nothing. It was me—I thought…I thought you liked me, but then you obviously didn't, and now you barely speak to me when Merida makes me come in—" Emma stopped herself; her thoughts sounded so childish when they were put into words. But she was sick of having people in her life come and go, and wondering what she'd done to cause it.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut, let his head fall back with a thunk against the bar. "You're killing me here, Swan."

"What'd you mean?"

"I mean that summertime is generally the most godawful, boring time in this miniscule town, and then this past summer you burst through The Cellar's doors, and…."

"And?"

"I couldn't not stay away from you. You were—," Killian kept his eyes closed, but gestured towards her. "—you are the most gorgeous creature I'd ever seen."

Emma turned to kneel, and punched him in the shoulder. "Quit pulling my leg." But there was nothing in his tone that gave it away as a lie.

"No tall tale here, dar—Emma. And I do apologize for the hot-and-cold maneuver I pulled, but I'm…I'm just not good enough for you."

Her eyes grew wide. "What?! Did—do you seriously think that? You're—"

"I'm a man without a real place to call home, and a naval academy dropout. Now all I do is pour out liquor to—well, you know that part of the story. You told me about your past, but now you're going places, Swan. The last thing you need is getting tangled up with someone like me."

Emma put a hand on his chin, and turned his face towards her. "Killian, shut up. I mean it. I told you how I was bounced around, and all I had was this scholarship waiting for me. But I was almost a high school dropout, and had a pregnancy scare when I was fifteen. I made a decision so I wouldn't be in dire straits after high school. So…yeah. Don't think I'm all that great. I got lucky, that's it." She paused for another sip of liquid courage before continuing. "And…and I don't see how you being in my life could be anything but a benefit." She could feel her face burn as he studied her without speaking. She'd said too much, no doubt. He probably was thinking she was too much of a mess for—

Her mind was still in overdrive as Killian closed the small space between them, and molded his mouth to hers. Emma only paused for a second before twining one hand through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and drawing him even closer. She sighed into his mouth with bliss to finally be kissing him; it was just as she'd imagined it would be: masterful, hot, pleasantly prickly from his stubble. All it took was a nip to his bottom lip for Killian to drag her into his lap, both hands at her waist, and start lining kisses down her neck. God, had she ever been properly kissed before this?

They both froze at hearing a small group in the doorway, but apparently seeing no one at the bar, started walking up the street again.

Killian grinned up at her, running a hand from her hip to shoulder. "See what you've done, lass? I'm a terrible bartender."

"Maybe…."

"Oy!"

"But you're a very good kisser, and I'm selfishly thinking that's more important."

"How could I not kiss you, walking in here tonight in this little…scrap. It's a scrap, Swan."

"No argument there."

"I was either going to kiss the everloving hell out of you tonight, or go back to my flat, berating myself for not."

"Well, since there won't be any berating now, we should probably just…continue?" She gave a firm bite to his earlobe, and any possible protest that might've come dissolved into a satisfied groan.

Had he truly always thought he'd asked her forgiveness? Men. Still, Merida wouldna let it be said she was ungracious. "I…I guess ye can apologize now. Even though it's late."

He swept to one knee, a fist held to his heart. "I swear, I'm exceedingly sorry fer bein' a right prick at tae age o' sixteen—"

"This doesna count if yer makin' excuses."

"Er, right. Well, I am. Sorry, that is. And in recompense, I offer my services in getting' that muck outta yer hair."

"Uh…but…Ye dinnae have tae—"

He tugged her wrist until she lowered herself to the grass as well. "Aye, I dinnae have tae. But I will." Both sets of his fingertips rested on her shoulders. "Lean back."

"Ah, ye mean…against ye?" She half turned to look at him.

"Aye, riiiight here." He smirked, and thumped his bare chest like a caveman. No great stretch of the imagination there, Merida thought.

"I'm, eh, I…I'm fine as is," she replied, sitting ramrod straight. She heard an amused chuckle from him, and then he scooted himself forward til his chest met her back; Merida gave a surprised little squeak. The gall of the drunken eejit!

"As ye are, then," he said, starting to sift through her curls. "If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, the mountain—"

"I ken the sayin'," she said crossly. "An' doona push the advantage o' yer position."

"Wouldna dream of it."

He worked in silence for awhile, and Merida even felt her eyelids droop to half-mast. It was more like Macintosh was giving her a head massage than cleaning her like a monkey at the zoo. At that thought, she sat up straight again—when had she leaned back?—and cleared her throat. Things were getting entirely too comfortable. Oh gods, and she still had to find Emma! A fine friend she was.

"Problem?" Macintosh peered around to meet her gaze. "Did I pull somethin'?"

His proximity was entirely too close, but she was bracketed between his knees. "N-no. only that I lost Emma, and she's probably roamin' the streets, hating me and—"

"Almost done; I'll help ye find her. A shame to leave such a friendly scene, though, wouldna ye say?"

"I dinnae ken what ye mean by that," Merida insisted, trying to recline to one side to make some space between them.

"Hmm…mmhmm…verra interestin'," he murmured, gazing down, and Merida didna like the stare that was firmly on her lips. Nae one bit.

"Wh—what's so interesting?" she asked, her own eyes falling to his full lips. They looked so pleasant, ticked up in a soft smile, probably soft and welcoming tae kiss—Merida gave herself a mental shake. Too bad those lips belonged to such a scoundrel.

"Our position," he said, warm puffs of breath tickling her face. "Why, I wouldna even have tae move one centimeter for our mouths tae meet. All I'd hafta tae do is—" he started to pucker his slightly.

Merida swallowed around what felt like a billiard ball-sized lump in her throat, barely moving her own to retort: "Ye wouldna dare."

Macintosh grinned, then jumped up so suddenly, Merida fell over, her back meeting the grass. "Hey!"

"Truth, I wouldna dare. Nae yet."

She glared up at him. "What's yer meanin'?"

"I mean that I'd like tae wait fer ye tae seek me out after this. Jest so ye cannae blame tae booze, thankin' me for helpin' ye, tae full moon, or whatever else yer wily mind would think up as an excuse for ye not tae be crazy about me."

She grumbled as she hauled herself to her feet, dusting herself off. "Keep dreamin,' ye utter clod."

Well, that hadna gone as planned.

Merida and Macintosh had arrived at The Cellar, the lights on but empty—at first glance. Until she saw a pair of black-and-white ears bobbing about from behind the bar, the sound of soft grunts barely audible.

Merida smirked. You'll never live this down, girly. She held a hand out behind her to signal Macintosh not to follow her in, and started backing quietly out.

"What's wrong? She isna here, is she?"

Merida put a finger to her lips, and her other palm against his back, and pushed to get him going. "Aye, she's there, all right. But I doona think she'd appreciate my interference at such a moment."

"Ye mean—"

"I'd wager she's resolved her differences wi' her bartender. They're either kissin' or fookin', and it isna my business to confirm which."

Macintosh craned his head back around. "Maybe I should check, jest tae make sure—"

Merida twined an arm through his—merely to keep him moving, she told herself—and started marching them away. "Walk, ye pervert."

At the end of the road, she disentangled herself, and turned to face her new…whatever they were now. She held out her hand. "Truce?"

He took it almost shyly, and refused to let Merida make a brisk go of it, gripping her palm until he was satisfied with the length of the shake.

"Are we done 'er?" Merida said, trying and failing this time to inject any irritation into her tone.

"Ye ken, Merida," Macintosh said slowly, "tae night's young. An' I meant what I said."

"Aboot?"

"Yer goin' tae hafta come after me."

He looked uncertain for a second when she didn't give a response, looking as though he might have overestimated this new…whatever it was. Until Merida flashed a smile, and started walking backwards away from him. "I'll give ye a sportin' start."

"Er, for…?"

She winked, pretended to notch the single arrow into her bow. "Why, I'm goin' huntin'—and it's you season."