#because if there’s one thing I’ve ever learned it’s that all businessmen do coke

[songjay-ay]

im about to slutshame him

[killian-whump]

Dream Colin visited me the other day. The dream took place in this enooormous high rise building. I was an aspiring actress, working for a hard-nosed director who lived on the top floor, and I was trying to prove to her that I was good enough for the role she was casting. For some reason, I decided that to really impress her, I should drive her fancy sports car into the high rise, up all the stairs (soooo many stairs, and for some reason, the staircase never turned or rotated or even had landings for other floors - it just went straaaaaight up from the front door to the director’s penthouse) and pick her up at her door.

This impressed her, of course, as no one else had ever done this before (probably because it’s insane? I dunno, I only worked there). She told me then to park the car precisely ten floors down - not nine, not eleven, but ten - and park it in the hallway there. Now, you might recall I said there were no landings for other floors - and this also meant there were no doors or notices for other floors, either. So fulfilling this task required me to guesstimate how much of the staircase constituted ten floors, and then drive through the wall of the staircase and hope I ended up in the right hallway. Or A hallway, as it turned out.

I didn’t. I ended up in Dream Colin’s apartment. I tried to apologize, but he just waved me off, because he was on the phone... talking to a drug dealer about how he needed his cocaine now, not later, and where was it?

“UM,” said Dream KW. “dREAM cOLIN, THIS IS NOT APPROPRIATE.”

Naturally, I made the decision right there that I would still love and support Dream Colin (or even Regular Colin) if it came to light that he imbibed in illicit drugs, but I was still a bit disappointed, because it seemed so very Not Like Him to do so, and I was worried about his mental health and happiness.

Anyway, so I left Dream Colin chatting with his drug dealer and drove out of his apartment and tried again for the tenth floor hallway. Eureka! Second time was the charm, and I successfully parked the car.

So now the giant staircase had three openings - the director’s penthouse, the hallway where the car was kept from then on... and Dream Colin’s apartment. Surprisingly (or not, I mean, he was doing a lot of coke, apparently), Dream Colin was perfectly okay with the gaping car-sized hole in one wall of his apartment, and he started using it to come and go, as well. So we kept running into each other, and began getting friendly.

However, every time I called him “Dream Colin” (I love that this is now Who He Is in my dreams, like, no questions asked), he would look comically confused and go, “Colin? Who’s this Colin you speak of?” It also began to become apparent that he wasn’t an actor, but a business tycoon and mastermind of an elite criminal organization fueling cocaine (and other drugs) to the businessmen of the high rise (and elsewhere, it wasn’t really specific). And it was really weird. I mean, I know a Dream Colin when I see one. I’m practically the world’s most renowned Dream Colin Scientist, and this was obviously Dream Colin.

But, you know, he’s an actor, so it seemed a little mean to be like, “Haha, nobody’s buying this little routine where you’re pretending to be somebody that you’re obviously no-” HEY, WAIT A DAMN MINUTE. He’s an actor. I’m an aspiring actress.

“Dream Colin,” I whispered, real smooth and subtle like, so the Folks Watching At Home (assuming there were some) wouldn’t hear. “Are we acting together right now?”

And he looks at me like I’m completely daft and hisses back, “What the hell did you think we were doing all this time??”

“Really, I wasn’t sure...”

“You thought I just decided to change my name and become a coke dealer? Why would I do that? Why would anyone do that?”

“I’ve learned not to question some of the things you do, quite honestly.” At this point, I felt it best to point out that I’d been trying to GET this role for so long, that it would’ve been nice if someone had not only told me I’d been cast, but that, you know, filming had begun.

Well, Dream Colin clearly thinks I’m completely mental, and he goes, “No, that IS the role. You play an aspiring actress, trying to impress the hard-nosed director on the 100th floor. I’m the undercover cop on the 90th floor who has infiltrated a major criminal organization and is about to crack the case wide open, when you comically drive into my apartment and our unexpected friendship and eventual love story creates unforeseen obstacles in my case.”

“Wow. Nobody even gave me a script.”

“Then how did you do everything right up to now??”

“I don’t know...? I was just... doing stuff?”

At this point, Dream Colin informed me that I might be the greatest actress he’s ever worked with, to have given such a great performance without even having seen the script. I’m gonna take that compliment with me to my grave, thank you very much.

...but right about then, the director (who I’d never fucking seen before, and had no idea was even there, but had apparently been there the entire time) shouted “CUT!” and informed us that the whole movie was off.

“What? Why??”

“He,” the director pointed at Dream Colin, “just told the entire audience the plot. That’s just bad movie-making right there. You can’t do that. So we’re done. Pack it up, boys. Movie’s over.” and the crew (again, never seen any of them, had NO idea they were all there) start packing up the set and going home.

And it was about this time that I remembered some key words Dream Colin had said in his description of the movie. “WAIT! There was going to be a love story?!” And I suddenly became like Eeyore when he’s told he’s having a birthday party. “A real love story? With me and Dream Colin? Me and Dream Colin, going on to have a love story? With love in it? For me to act out?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dream Colin said. “It was real romantic and dramatic. Some of the best writing I’ve ever seen.”

“And now the movie’s cancelled?”

“Yup.” Dream Colin finished packing up his things and left.

So I was left standing there, on an empty soundstage, shouting into the nothingness, “Nooo! Come back!!! I want to act out the love story!!!”

And then I woke myself up kicking my other shelving unit in two.

[shireness-says]

Maybe I Won’t Die Alone

Summary: Emma just comes in for a drink, but ends up creating the foundation for something much better. ~4.7K words.

A/N: This... isn’t new. This has actually been up on my AO3 since November, which is why it may be familiar to some of you. However, it predates my tumblr, which is why I haven’t shared it here before. BUT! I’m planning on writing a little second part to this in the next week or so, so I thought I’d repost this here so everyone is on the same page. For those of you who haven’t read it before, it’s a Modern AU with Rock Star!Emma and Bartender!Killian. If you prefer to read on AO3, it can be found here. Lyrics are absolutely not mine, and are actually from the Ingrid Michaelson song “Die Alone”. Which is great, and you should totally listen to. Without further ado, enjoy!

Consciously, Emma Swan knows she’s only known Killian Jones for the past four years, but some days, she struggles to remember what London was like, what she did with herself, before he established a presence in her life.

It’s not particularly surprising that she meets him at a bar (his bar, she comes to learn later). No matter how good or bad a show goes, Emma always finds herself exhausted by the end, yet still too hyped to sleep, which inevitably leads to drinking. Unfortunately, she discovered the night before that this particular hotel the Lost Girls had been put up in, while wonderfully accommodating and comfortable in all other respects, stocked their bar with alcohol of a deceptively bad quality (and the scrimping orphan in Emma simply can’t justify paying the obscene prices for something that terrible). Going to the hotel lobby bar might be an option for anyone else, but Emma avoids them on principle. Belle might be their frontman, and is certainly glamourous enough to pull most of the attention directed towards the band, but Emma still attracts a decent amount of attention as the group’s songwriter, and has learned that hanging out in heavy-traffic areas when she’s tired is asking for trouble. So when Robin, the lead singer of their opening act, Band of Thieves, recommends a bar a short tube ride from the hotel (“It’s a bit of a hole in the wall, but cozy,” he’d promised. “Gets the job done. Good onion rings!”), she can’t help but jump at it.

Sure enough, the Jolly Roger is a little off the beaten track, but Emma is immediately sold. It’s not hopping on a Thursday night, but not dead – mostly relaxed businessmen, and a collection of rowdy University students in a corner (thankfully, the type who look like they’re probably more into rap than angry femme rock). There’s a small stage and sound board in a corner, and the bar looks well stocked.

So, needless to say, she’s a little surprised to ask the bartender for a whiskey coke, only to receive a very firm no.

“Excuse me?”

“No. Can’t do it.”

Emma hates to pull the “do you know who I am?” card like, ever, but it’s been a long day, and she needs a drink, dammit. She’s seconds away from pulling all sorts of lines she’s sure she’ll regret later (namely, when they land her in a tabloid), when he jumps back in.

“Don’t get me wrong, lass, I’d love to, but here’s the situation. Those idiots in the corner” – he waves towards the college students – “are apparently celebrating a birthday in grand, drunken style, and just bought the last bottle of the cheap stuff I keep under the counter. I’ve got more in the back, so normally not a problem, but the other bartender just went on break, and won’t be back for ten minutes – probably more like fifteen to twenty, since I saw her duck out the back door with one of them,” he says, hooking a thumb towards the same corner. “Now, I’ve got a bottle of the good top-shelf stuff right here, but I cannot in good conscience let you dilute it with soda. So, you can wait fifteen minutes for your original order, and I’ll toss in a basket of onion rings for your trouble, or you can take the good stuff neat. What’ll it be?”

She takes the whiskey neat. And a basket of onion rings for good measure.

(She’s not too proud to admit that it was a good call.)

------

Emma usually likes to drink alone, unwind from the show, but she finds herself continuing her conversation with this strange, blunt bartender.

(And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s hot as hell. At least not yet.)

His name is Killian Jones, and apparently Robin was somewhat misleading in calling the Jolly Roger “a little place he goes to sometimes”. They play here at least once a month. Jones, as it turns out, was an original member of Band of Thieves before finding himself injured in a car accident, and his brother is still their manager.

(“Awful lot of nerve damage in my left hand. They saved the blasted thing, but makes playing guitar a bit tricky and painful. Ergo, opening a bar. You need considerably less range of motion to pour beer.”)

Apparently the bar is his way of still being involved with music – facilitating instead of playing.

Emma reluctantly leaves at last call, finally relaxed enough to sleep, and feeling like against all odds, she’s made a friend.

------

Killian Jones isn’t stupid – he recognizes Emma Swan the moment she steps into his bar. Even beyond trying to know everything he can about the groups Band of Thieves plays with, big or small, he’s a personal fan of the Lost Girls. But he also knows how to recognize someone who doesn’t want attention, and Swan, in her knitted sweater and beanie – so different from the sheer tanks and leather she wears onstage – has the classic look of someone who’s trying to fly under the radar. Honestly, he can’t blame her – he knows through the guys that there was a show tonight, he’d just want to unwind with a drink as well.

However, the question remains: why is she here.

As it turns out, that answer is quite simple: Robin. Killian only hopes his best friend didn’t suggest that he’s got a crush on her.

(He doesn’t, for the record. He likes the band. He admires her and her writing. It’s not the same thing.)

(Then again, when has that ever stopped Robin ‘The Meddler’ Loxley?)

He nearly has a panic attack when Miss Swan asks for literally the one thing he can’t currently provide – admiration can only take her so far, he’s not willing to compromise one of his few principles as a bartender – but to his relief, she easily acquiesces to his suggestion without accusing him of simply trying to make more money.

(And no, it doesn’t affect his admiration at all that she’s able to recognize good whiskey when it’s placed in front of her. Not at all.)

When she leaves at last call, Killian isn’t quite sure what to think about the night he’s just had. All he knows is that Emma Swan is just as enchanting in person as she is in interviews, sarcastic and witty, and he can only hope he wasn’t so annoying as to scare her off.

------

To his enormous relief, she’s back a little under two months later – apparently in town to sort things out with her manager. This time, she skips straight to ordering his good whiskey, and proceeds to spend the rest of the evening chatting with him between patrons: about music, about pretentious cocktails, about pet peeves, about everything under the sun. That night when she leaves, though earlier than her previous visit, he’s much more confident that he’ll see her again.

------

Emma knows she’s somehow now made a habit of dropping by the Jolly Roger whenever she’s in London. What she’s less clear on is how those visits become closer and closer together.

Sure, the Lost Girls’ manager, Regina, has relocated to the city to settle her mother’s estate. But they’re between albums and tours right now – promotional stuff has dropped off, and though she keeps in daily contact, the need for face-to-face interaction isn’t really there.

And sure, Belle is now in London more often, but that’s because she’s started dating the drummer of Band of Thieves. Emma isn’t quite sure what Belle sees in Will Scarlet – she personally thinks the man is a bit too high energy and goofy, though undeniably smitten with her glamourous band-mate – but that’s not really her business. And, again, it’s not a reason for Emma to be in town.

But she’s back again – her eighth time since her initial visit a little over a year ago – and can’t figure out for the life of her the excuse why.

He’s always happy to see her, always has a new bottle on hand for her to try (“I swear, Swan, if you don’t think this bourbon is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever had, I’ll sell the Jolly and give up this bartending lark.”), and always is willing to spend his evening chatting between customers.

She still can’t quite figure out what she’s doing here, but she’s fine not to question it.

(It’s only as she’s sitting at the bar at three in the afternoon, frantically scribbling out lyrics in a burst of inspiration, that she realizes – the bar feels safe, and warm, and comfortable. It feels like home.)

(As for what that says about her, finding a home in a damn bar, well, that’s up for debate.)

------

Nearly two years into their… patronage? Acquaintanceship? Friendship? Whatever – Killian is pleased to notice that Emma has become an established presence at his bar. From a business side, that’s certainly a good thing – nothing like consistent celebrity sightings to encourage business – but from a personal side, it’s even better. He likes Emma Swan. He may even like like Emma Swan, to phrase it like a pre-teen, but mostly, he just enjoys her presence. She’s smart and easy to talk to and has a droll sense of humor that makes him snort more than he ever should in public. She’s sliding onto one of his stools every month or two, and he likes it.

And with Emma comes the rest of the Lost Girls. Belle is there most often, tagging along with Emma or coming to watch Will play. He’s shocked to find a fast friend in the woman. He’s not sure what he expected, but she’s a quick wit with an easy laugh and an inexhaustible knowledge of books and literature. Even Emma, who met Belle through their shared English major, simply sits back and bemusedly watches as the two debate classic literature. (“Listen, there is nothing you can say to me that will sway me from thinking that Nick totally had a thing for Gatsby,” Belle argues one night. “It’s so obvious we might as well call it canon.”). Ruby drops by too, every so often, happy to flirt with everyone in the place – including himself, and sometimes Emma. Mulan is in less often, preferring to spend any breaks back in Kansas with her sound technician girlfriend. One memorable night, all four come in, and end up getting trashed on a dare from Ruby – a night that ends with him escorting three very drunk Lost Girls up to his apartment above the bar. Emma and Ruby take his bed, Mulan takes the pull-out couch, and he manages to find an old air mattress in his hall closet. (Belle, the wisest of them all, gets a ride from Will back to his place and a proper bed. Lucky lass.) The four women are their own little unit, and he’s so pleased to get to see inside that.

He even meets Emma’s family, which is more nerve-wracking than it probably should be.

“It won’t be, like, a crowd of Emmas, you know,” she tries to tell him. “The Nolans adopted me at 15.”

“That’s fine, Swan. They’re still your folks, aren’t they?”

Her brother, David, seems a little mistrustful of any suspiciously consistent male figure in Emma’s life, but her mother, Ruth, and sister-in-law, Mary Margaret, are truly lovely, if somewhat over-enthusiastic and seemingly dead set on embarrassing their darling relative.

“Oh, you must be Emma’s young man!” Ruth chirps at the same time as Mary Margaret exclaims “We’ve heard so much about you!”

The ensuing shade of red on Emma’s face is truly unprecedented, and he can’t help but laugh as she crashes her head down on his counter.

All teasing aside, the Nolans have a great time on their sojourn to London, and he’s honored to have met her loved ones.

Killian’s not sure how, but he’s carved out a small, undefined corner in her life. He’ll take that.

------

A new phase in her presence at his bar begins on karaoke night. It’s one of his regular rotation events – Amateur Night once a month, trivia every Wednesday, Karaoke night twice, and he usually is able to attract a decent crowd. Emma’s never made it to one before, though, and he’s looking forward to the chance to make fun of song choices with her. But, inevitably, someone flakes. Usually, this just means an awkward pause while he wrestles with the machine to skip the pre-programmed, now useless selection. However tonight, Emma hops up on stage instead. Maybe she’s had too much to drink, maybe it’s the atmosphere, maybe she’s just in a good mood and wants to take a turn, but she pops up on stage and sings a not half bad rendition of Billy Joel. “Uptown Girl”. Hey, at least the flaker had good taste.

Inevitably, someone in the bar takes a video, and inevitably, that ends up on the internet, and somehow, she’s an up front and center sensation. It’s not like she’s unknown – she’s a rock star, for fuck’s sake – but she’s always been able to slip under the radar somewhat, willingly ceding attention to Belle and Ruby. But now? She’s viral. And even had fun doing it.

So she comes back next month for karaoke night. And the month after that. Until there’s a permanent jar sitting on his bartop labelled “Swan Songs” for customer song requests.

Her selection is somewhat eclectic. Emma’s selections range from classic Supremes songs and other oldies to 80’s rock, modern pop and rock songs (“Listen, Killian, the reason I’m not in charge of the Lost Girls is I’d turn us into a Killers cover band, if allowed.”) and one particularly memorable night when she breaks out a Dixie Chicks song (“They are a trio of badass women and if you don’t think that is in line with what I do, then I’m not sure we can be friends.”). Killian’s personal favorite is the night she goes for Frank Turner, “I Still Believe”. Even if her American fans don’t quite get it when it’s posted to YouTube, she brings down the house that night at the Jolly Roger. What’s a better choice than a song about rock n’ roll?

It’s a new tradition for them – sitting at the bar or chatting over FaceTime, sorting through the multitude of suggestions and sorting out the more awful. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that her karaoke habit is great publicity for the band, and makes her own star rise a little higher. But he knows it’s more than that for Emma – she doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to. So if she’s here, singing the favorites of yesteryear, it’s because she genuinely enjoys it.

(He’s turning into such an old sap, but that makes him all warm inside – knowing that she likes being at the bar, being around him, and hell, he’s in so far over his head, Robin was fucking right, he’s got a massive crush.)

------

As they near the three-year mark, Emma ends up making the move to London. It’s time, really; Belle and Will have moved in together, and Regina permanently relocated after falling in love with Robin’s son (and later, Robin himself). Ruby’s always been more a “citizen of the world” anyways, traveling all over the planet during her time off and renting temporary places, and Mulan had begun to gravitate towards Kansas City and Dorothy on her own time more than towards Boston, technically their home base. It makes sense, really. Boston was alright, but never home; tinged by far too many memories of her time in the system to ever earn that title. The only thing to possibly keep her in the States is her family, and she sees them rarely enough as it is. The tiny hamlet of Storybrooke, Maine is certainly quaint, but easy to access it is not. London is the first place she’s been really excited about in ages, so she follows her gut and her heart and finds herself a decent apartment in a slightly quieter area, still close to the city. Plus, if there’s one bonus to being a so-called “rock-star”, it’s being able to afford plane tickets fairly easily.

Getting her moved into her new place turns into something of a party. Killian comes, of course, and brings his brother and sister-in-law, Belle arrives with Will in tow, and Robin with Regina, but her family is there too – Mary Margaret and David flying over to help her get settled. It’s a little ridiculous, really, because she didn’t ship most of the big stuff – her couch sold off, her piano now living in Mary Margaret’s living room. She only has a mattress because Killian thought to remind her of it the month before. There’s still things to move, but it’s more a matter of boxes instead of heavy furniture. But still, they unload her kitchenware and clothes, move in the small collection of end tables she had shipped over, and watch Will and Robin wrestle with her stereo and recording equipment for far longer than it ever should have taken.

Mostly, they’re just here for a party. Emma purchases a TV from the nearest electronics store, Killian runs down to the bar for booze, and Belle arranges for a disgusting amount of pizza to be delivered. At the end of the night, they’re all far drunker than it’s probably safe to be, and David is already passed out on her floor with a giggling Mary Margaret taking pictures. Still, it means a lot that she has so many people willing to drop everything to help with such a chore.

(And maybe it means even more that a slightly hungover Killian shows up the next morning at eleven to pick her up to go shopping for a couch.)

------

It’s nice, having Emma in town on a permanent basis. He likes to think they were already close, but something about having the option to see her every day adds a new level to their relationship. When she drags him with her to pick out a new piano, he learns in the process about how her old piano, back in the States, was the first item she bought with the money from their signing deal; helping her organize her office means he finds a box full of piano ballads she wrote that she swears will never see the light of day; her increased presence at his bar means he learns about her secret love for fruity drinks in bizarre colors. It’s like there’s these little corners of her that he didn’t know existed, and she’s finally confident enough that he’s here in her life to stay to show him those little facets.

In some ways, his life with her in London is just the same. Emma is still a karaoke fixture at the Jolly Roger; still teases him mercilessly, ganging up with his brother against him; still joins him in trying to talk his waitress, Merida, out of some of her more questionable conquests (or, more often, talking her out of punching every rude dick that wanders through the bar).

Yes, so much is still the same, but he takes comfort in the new constancy. It’s different, in that way, and he likes it.

------

Their first kiss is somewhat on accident.

Killian had always thought that if anything ever happened between him and Emma, it would be because he finally worked up the nerve to ask her out, and take her on a nice date, and everything else you’re supposed to do before you respectful and probably bashfully request the privilege of a kiss.

Instead, it’s a Thursday evening, and Killian’s left the bar in Smee and Mer’s hands in favor of spending the evening on the couch on Emma’s. Nothing particularly romantic even happens – they’re watching a documentary about superheroes, of all things, and she’s laughing at a joke he made about God knows what, and he just leans over and plants one on her.

Of course, the moment they separate, the world comes crashing back down on him. Jesus, what was he thinking? Moving in like that without even asking? And lord knows he’s been at least half in love with her for years, but right now he can’t honestly put enough brain cells together to remember if it seems like she reciprocates and he can feel his face turning red. He turns to her with a hand in his hair, apology on his tongue –

– and Emma grabs the back of his head, pulling him down for another, deeper kiss.

Huh.

When they finally break apart, he’s sure he’s got the stupidest grin on his face, and the only word he can come with is a breathless “Yeah?”

(Was it good? Did she like it? Would she be interested in trying that again?)

As always, she seems to just instinctually hear everything he can’t say. They understand each other, after all. So he gets a crazy grin in return, and her own “Yeah.”

Huh.

------

Dating Killian just feels natural.

Which is weird, because she spent ages telling herself that it wouldn’t, convincing herself to never make a move.

But he takes her to terrible movies so that they can make fun of them together, and finds little up-and-coming bands for them to see, and even takes her to nice dinners they both feel slightly awkward at. And it’s comfortable. Good even.

She’s happy.

Mary Margaret is ecstatic to hear the news, the squeal probably audible from Maine without the aid of the telephone and carrying on about happy endings. Which on the one hand, whoa, hold your horses, but on the other… she’s becoming increasingly open to the idea. On the other side of the pond, Regina just rolls her eyes, but Belle gets excited about the potential for double dating, and Emma’s fairly sure she saw some exchange of money between Will and Robin.

Part of Emma wants to say it’s a little much, run for the hills like she always does, but then she feels Killian’s hand envelop her own, and that little part of her falls quiet.

Like she said, it’s nice. She’s happy.

And dare she say it? She could get used to this.

           ------

It comes as a little bit of a shock when Emma approaches him, and offers for the Lost Girls to play a surprise set at the Jolly Roger, especially since she has that twinkle in her eyes that says she’s up to something. But he’s a man in love – who is he to say no?

It’s great, being able to watch from behind his bar Emma perform her own stuff instead of everyone else’s for once. The patrons are loving it, and all four women seem right at home on the tiny stage. He knows he’s going to lose her for a few months again soon – the band just released their latest album, to widespread acclaim, and touring will be starting shortly  – so he chooses to savor this night, imprint every moment in his mind.

Emma has been off to the side of the stage for most of the night, letting Belle and Ruby pull most of the attention, but now she steps forward with her guitar and a quick grin. “Hey guys, having a good time tonight?’ she calls to the crowd, predictably receiving a chorus of cheers. “Good, good… So, some of you might know that I’m the songwriter around here.”

Another round of cheers. Emma ducks her head, seemingly adjusting her tuning, which he takes as a sure sign that she’s nervous about something. Which is odd. Emma Swan is the queen of a “don’t give a fuck” stage presence.

“…which tends to be why our songs tend a little towards the angry side. I went through a metric shit ton of stuff before we hit it big, little of it good.”

“That’s about two fifths of a regular American shit ton, by the way,” Belle pipes in, to a few polite chuckles.

“Think the math joke fell a bit flat, you nerd. Anyways, I am well aware that my stuff gets a little angry and angsty. Ruby’s original suggestion for our first album’s name was actually “Fuck You I’ve Won the Break-up.” She pauses to let the crowd laugh. “But… I’ve started seeing someone in the past few months.” Emma takes a moment to smile. “And it’s going pretty well. So I thought I ought to try and write a love song.” She laughs to herself – and he has to admit, he’s looking forward to finding out why. “Apparently, this is as close as I get. If this makes the album, we’ll probably put Belle back on vocals – “

“It’s that or tambourine!” Belle calls with a grin.

“ – but the other ladies thought that since I wrote this with a particular person in mind, I should be the one to sing it for the first time. So… yeah.” She turns back to the rest of the band. “Ready?”

With a collection of nods, and without further ado, Emma counts them in.

As she starts in, he can’t help but think it’s a little unusual for a love song, what with the heavy electric guitar line and strong drum beat contrasting with the three harmonizing voices. The lyrics are nice, but he senses that this stanza isn’t what Emma is leading up to. If he knows anything about how that woman writes a song, there’s a handful of crucial lines, and the rest is little more than rhyming filler that makes a bit of sense with the rest. Sure enough, she searches his eye out at the back bar in time to croon a line about not being a fool and holding back her feelings. Then they’re building to the chorus and –

“I, never thought, I could love, anyone but myself…

Now I know, I can’t love, anyone, but you…”

She shoots a grin his way in between notes, and he can’t help but feel like she has something up her sleeve. The words are beautiful, and he’s touched, but he recognizes that twinkle in her eye, and it usually means she’s up to something. And sure enough –

“You make me think that maybe I won’t die alone,

Maybe I won’t die alone.”

And then she winks. As the crowd laughs and cheers, and even aws in a few cases, she has the gall to wink at him. Minx.

But damn if he doesn’t love it.

Because really, isn’t that absolutely Emma? She isn’t rainbows and unicorns, “love at first sight” and “the world lit up when I met you”. She’s walls and sarcasm and wanting to seem tough and not rubbing her feelings in everyone’s faces. Of course an Emma Swan love song is less “You are my forever” and more “Maybe I won’t die alone”. So he chuckles and winks right back with a happy grin on his face next time she looks his way.

After the set is over and their equipment is put away, she makes her way over behind the bar, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. “So…” she starts, “what did you think?” And he can tell, that though his mid-song wink reassured her in the moment, the nerves are back.

“I think…” he pauses, turns around to hold her in his arms more fully. There’s so much he could say, should say, but right now is a matter of picking the perfect words. “I think… that I love you. And I’m touched. It was perfect, love.”

Emma smiles, just one of her million smiles that he’s grown to love. “Yeah?”

Killian smiles right back and nods. “Yeah.”

It may have taken them four years to get here, from a single drink in an unknown bar to two people in love, but they’re here, and they’re happy. Every single second has been more than worth it.

So he kisses her one more time as they separate to serve the crowd of customers, ready to begin the rest of a life together.

[thethespacecoyote]

10 or 23 rhack, please?

I’ll still try to do 10 but for now here’s 23! I actually had some fun making this. 

Modern AU!

Rhys watched idly as the outside world blew past, scattered houses and trees blurring by against the shimmering backdrop of the ocean. He rested his temple against the window, feeling the vibrations. The train hummed smoothly along, carting day-trippers and businessmen alike south along the coastline.

Rhys was pleased. The train wasn’t packed, despite its late-afternoon stops, leaving the seat next to him happily empty. Because even if he didn’t get some nosy commuter wanting to ask about everything from where he wwas going to what he did for a living to what his favorite flavor if ice cream was, he would at least have to deal with another body bunching in uncomfortably close and run the risk of needing to maneuver over their knees if they fell asleep and he needed to go to the bathroom.

This way, he had space for his laptop bag, which freed up the legroom below so he could stretch out all the way and avoid the cramping that sometimes pinched in his muscles on those crowded train trips.

His mom had hinted several times she’d buy him a car or at least put up for the down payment to spare him the apparent iniquity of using public transit, but the allure of actually purchasing something as big as a car outright was too much so he was waiting and saving until he could get one for himself. In the mean time, the train was the best option, and the only one where you could nap for half of the trip without causing a major accident.

Rhys crossed his arms loosely over his chest, turning away from the window and sliding down in his seat, trying to get comfortable enough to take said nap. He had his laptop and his phone and the train had free Wi-Fi, but drowsiness tugged at his eyebrows and he wanted to be fully awake by the time Vaughn picked him up from the train station, so hunkering down and passing out for a couple hours now while he was bored and had the time just made sense.

He was just starting to drift off, dreams about all the fun he was going to get up to while visiting his bro swimming in his mind, when a sudden commotion jolted him awake. He rapidly blinked the sleep from his eyes, pushing himself up straight as the din continued. He made out one shouting voice needled by a couple muted ones, followed by the thumping of footsteps that grew louder and louder and closer. Rhys shifted to the other seat, leaning out into the aisle as he listened in. His heart beat quicker—there were signs all over the station and the train itself warning about potential dangers and how if you saw something you should say something, and just as Rhys was wondering if he should worry about being held hostage the door near the front of the carriage flew open.

Rhys was a little ashamed of the frightened yipe he let out when a man stormed through, the floor shuddering with each angry stomp and cutting murmur that spilled from him. Rhys’ arms threw up defensively about his body, but after a moment he realized this guy was a lot more indignant businessman than violent criminal. His charcoal suit, though rumpled, was obviously of high quality. Rhys had worked the summer after his freshman year selling and fitting suits in the mall by his parent’s house, and while he’d quit before he’d made much out of it, he ended up learning quite a bit. The lapel lifted sharply in a sleek Italian cut, and as he violently adjusted his dress collar Rhys caught a glimpse of cold cufflinks that matched the tie the man was in the process of loosening.

Rhys watched as the man thumped down the aisle, the rest of the passengers shrinking in their seats or blindly busying themselves in their books or laptops as to not catch the man’s attention. Rhys realized he was staring a moment too late, as the man’s sharp eyes suddenly lifted to fix upon him and he started to head in Rhys’ direction.

A broad hand thudded atop the plush head of the seat next to Rhys, making him flinch and rear back, staring up at the man like a frightened puppy. Tan fingers stroked angrily against the cloudy blue leather, expensive rings winking in the sun and confusing Rhys as to whether he should look at them or the piercing eyes glaring down on him.

“Move over, kiddo, I’m taking this spot.”

Rhys flattened himself against the window as the man dropped down into the seat, back thudding against the cushion with a frustrated huff that blew hair out of his eyes. He seemed to completely ignore Rhys after that, muttering to himself as he pulled out his phone and started to tap furiously at what Rhys first assumed was a message. However, as he peered curiously over he could see it to be some kind of mobile game involving popping colored balloons for points. Rhys stayed still, eyes alternating between the inside of his hoodie collar and the rapid movement of the man’s fingers and the angry concentration in his eyebrows. After a couple minutes and a new high score, the man shut off his phone with a huff, shoving it into his pocket.

“Frikkin’ bitch…” He moaned, dragging his hand down his face. His legs kicked out underneath the seat in front of him, the tense anger draining out of him and leaving what seemed to be just a simmering fury. Rhys watched tentatively, like he was dealing with a pissed-off lion that could maul him in a moment’s notice if he wasn’t careful.

Rhys figured he should probably just go back to staring out the window or trying to take his nap, but like the idiot he was he decided to prod his new seat mate. He untangled himself from the defensive posture he’d managed to bunch himself into, resting his hand on the armrest separating them.

“P-Penny for your thoughts?” Regretfully, his voice came out as a squeak.

He almost immediately wished he hadn’t spoken up, because the the other man’s neck snapped to him like it’d been broken, eyes angry and affronted as he glared at Rhys’ shirking expression.

“What was that?”

“U-Um, I mean, I just—“ Rhys faltered, unsure of what he’d been thinking to start this conversation. This guy had just barreled into his car, worked into a tizzy, and stolen the seat next to him. Obviously, he didn’t want to be bothered, and yet here Rhys was trying to start up a conversation—why was he trying to do that?

Because the guy wore a nice suit and had flawless bronzed skin and that kind of carelessly styled hair that drove Rhys absolutely wild. It was the kind of hair you expected to see in bed after sex and he wanted to run his hands through it and maybe give it a little tug.

The guy was hot. Basically.

“You…you’re just…um, who’s the bitch?”

The man narrowed his eyes, turning and leaning over the armrest right into Rhys’ space.

“Your momma ever teach you not to stick your nose in other people’s business?” He grumbled, and Rhys’ cheeks colored as he shrunk back, ready to call this a loss and sink into embarrassment, when the older man kept going.

“…It’s my frikkin girlfriend. She always gets bitchy on these long trips but then she doesn’t wanna take the car either, so what the hell am I suppose to do, y’know?” For the first time, Rhys notices the slight slur to the man’s words. This was a guy who could afford to get drunk on a train.

“What…what did she do exactly?” The man snorted, shifting so he sat slightly sideways in his seat, knee out into Rhys’ space and nearly touching his thigh.

“She orders the fish, see? And she always orders the fish. So I tell her if she doesn’t stop doing that I’m not gonna wanna go down on her anymore cause you know. Fish. Get it?” The man’s hands helped him tell the story, flopping around on well-oiled wrists. “Yeah, you get it, handsome lil’ thing like you, you probably get all the tail.”

Rhys was usually the tail being had, but he merely nodded along to the older man’s story as he carried on.

“Anyway she gets all mad at me making jokes about her junk in front of the guy taking the order but it’s just a joke and the attendant doesn’t care, he’s paid to listen to whatever I say but she doesn’t let it go, and then when I decide to order just…just a little bit of after-dinner whiskey, see?” He holds two fingers together for emphasis. “She goes all ballistic on me. ‘Bout how I’m always drinking whenever I’m with her and how if I really liked her I wouldn’t be ordering booze all hours of the day, and then I tell her if she wasn’t such a capital B bitch maybe I wouldn’t have to drink. But she’s upset, so I ask her what I should order like the gentleman I am, and she says to get a diet coke. Diet! Can you believe it? Says I’ve been packing on the pounds lately and well…” He snorted, eyes flitting to the front of the cabin. “Pretty sure you guys all heard the rest.”

“Um…yeah. Kind of did.” Rhys laughed nervously. “A-Actually, I kind of thought for a moment that something was up, like….people were trying to rob the car or something.”

“Heh, you did? What, like old-timey train bandits?” The man snickered, forming a gun with his hand and affecting a harsh accent as he nudged the barrel into Rhys’ side. “Hands up, kiddo, this ‘ere’s a stick-up!”

“Please don’t, I have a family to care for!” Rhys faux-cried as he stuck up his hands, eyes fluttering like he was about to faint across the seat. The man found this endlessly funny, because his chest heaved with laugher until his voice was practically soundless.

“Shucks kid, you’re a hell of a lot more fun than the ice queen in first class.” He patted Rhys’ shoulder and showed him his smile and oh. Oh. If Rhys didn’t already think he was handsome, that did him in. It was the kind of smile that bunched up in the cheekbones and reached the eyes with a flirtatious wink. It made fuzzy feelings dance in Rhys’ stomach.

“A-And you’re a lot better than the snoring businessmen who usually sit next to me, or the mom’s who just wanna tell me about their kids and ask where I’m going to school…”  

“Should hope so. I’m a lot more fun than all that, trust me.”

Rhys didn’t know a thing about this guy but he did, almost immediately. He had a weird, hypnotic sort of charm that already had Rhys leaning back over the armrest to get closer.  

Suddenly, as if responding to his creeping interest, the man slid his arm around Rhys’ shoulders like they were old friends. He jumped slightly at that, but the man just yanked him closer. The armrest pressed uncomfortably into Rhys’ ribs, but the sudden proximity and the man’s breath—slightly warm from the whiskey—ghosting over his face left him numb to it.

“Shoot, just remembered I didn’t ask your name yet…what do they call ya, pumpkin?”

Rhys momentarily forgot himself, dizzied by the sudden scent and warmth he’d been pulled into. This guy seemed to radiate warmth and blossomed with musky cologne that made Rhys think of black tie dinners and a cabin fireside all rolled up together.

“Rhys. Rhyyys. Rhysie.” Jack repeated his name like he was trying to figure out whether he liked how it felt in his mouth. “That’s one you don’t hear everyday.”

“Yeah, my mom had a friend with that name and really liked it…don’t bother asking me how it’s spelled though, it’s…” he laughed softly. “It’s a headache.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve got an easy one. J-A-C-K.”

“Jack?”

“Bingo, kiddo. Nice and simple. No B.S.”

“I like it.” Rhys wasn’t lying. A name like “Jack” just seemed to fit this guy like the way his suit did. Sharp and striking, but with a bit of a relaxed, casual touch. He seemed the type of person to dress to the nines and go to a chain restaurant, just to ensure he’d be the center of attention.

Jack’s lips curled at the edges, like a sticker peeling up. He rubbed Rhys’ upper arm, tugging him in closer, until he was practically resting against his shoulder. His brain continued shorting out, just allowing Jack to touch him and shift him around however he saw fit.

“And I like you, kiddo. Just what I needed after all that crap…” Rhys heart thumped against his hoodie as Jack petted him like a fussy kitten, looking wistfully out the window behind him. “Too bad this ride ain’t longer…”

Jack’s brows furrowed suddenly in thought, before bright realization beamed across his face. He roughly grabbed both of Rhys’ shoulders, turning the kid more towards him.

“Oh, wait, wait. I got it. I can take you out with me!”

Rhys gaped in startled confusion at the sudden grab and the way Jack’s smile grew, corners cutting into his cheeks.

“U-Uh, pardon?”

“You see, my girlfriend and I had reservations at this great place, steaks as big as your head and drinks that’ll put ya in a coma,  but like hell I’m gonna go with her after that little scene.” Jack sneered, eyes narrowing towards the front of the compartment. He blew air rudely between his lips. “Whatever. She can have fun figuring out how to get home without my credit card.”

“U-Um, that’s not necessary, really,” Rhys faltered, hands resting on Jack’s wrists. “Besides, um, I kind of had plans with a friend, and I don’t really think I should—“

“Just tell ‘em other plans came up. Hell, to make up for it, they can meet us for breakfast in the morning. My treat.”

“In the…the morning?”

Jack winked at him, smile never hesitating.

“Well sure, pumpkin. You think I’d travel all this way for dinner and not have a room to sleep it off in?”

“H-Hold on—“ This was all going too fast for Rhys. One moment, he’d been joking along with Jack, and now he was openly flirting with him and ditching his girlfriend to invite him out to dinner and even insinuating they spend the night together.

As enticing as Jack was, this felt a little too much, too fast. Rhys wasn’t a prude, not by a long shot, but he wasn’t the type of guy to engage in random hookups on the fly. How old was Jack, anyway? The tasteful puff of grey hair springing from his crown put him at at least forty, unless he was just aging prematurely, but that felt like a stretch.

“What d’you mean ‘hold on,’ kiddo?”

Rhys thought he saw Jack’s smile falter, but it might just be the trees rushing behind them outside the train window, cutting off the amber glow of the sun setting over the ocean. It would be night soon enough, probably well into sunset by the time the train pulled into the station. Vaughn was probably already getting read to come drive and pick him up.

Rhys glanced about for a distraction as his mind scrabbled for some kind of an excuse, a reason he couldn’t spend the night with Jack aside from the reasons that had already been shut down, when his hand grabbed Rhys’ collar and yanked him closer until they were nose to nose.

“I’ll cut right to the chase, kiddo. I’m not the kind of guy who spends the night alone.” He breathed right into Rhys’ mouth, as if trying to give him a taste of what could be. “I could go up to any old chick or dude in that city and have them in my bed not ten minutes later. So here’s your chance to get in on the ground floor. You might not get another one.”

Rhys grasped frantically for his senses, trying to settle on a decision and get his tongue to force it out, but Jack’s proximity and ultimatum was sending his brain into a flurry. All he could see was Jack’s eyes this close, brows creased and irises still vibrant sea green, like a neon sign lit prematurely in the flagging sunset.

Rhys swallowed, the conscious movement helping him think things clearer.

He’d already planned on staying with Vaughn for almost a week. They’d still have plenty of nights to hang out and go to dinner and do all the things they’d been planning on doing. One night with a handsome stranger wasn’t going to change things that much.

“So?” Jack pulled back slightly, just enough so that Rhys could see his entire face again, in its full, charming glory. “What do you say, Rhysie?”

Jack’s arm was looped around Rhys’ waist, hand stuck in his hoodie pocket as the two of them left the train together. Rhys’ laptop bag bobbed awkwardly between them but Jack didn’t seem to mind. In just an hour’s time, the space between them had shrunk to just the little space between their hips, and Rhys’ cheeks heated as he imagined where how close they’d be in another hour, two hours’ time.

The sun had long died over the train behind them, its silvery paneling glowing with the faint remains of red and purple that still streaked over the sky. Rhys looked briefly over his shoulder at it, his ears full of Jack’s voice as he noticed someone was staring at them.

The short red dress and heels set her apart from the rest of the tired, disembarking passengers, as did the piercing green eyes that seemed to glow just the way Jack’s did. She was looking at Rhys’ like she’d expected him to be there all along—or at least someone like him. He felt uncomfortable, then, like he’d done something wrong but only one other person in the world knew it.

It was only for a moment, though, as Jack tugged him away from the main body of the departing crowd and towards the curb, where a smartly dressed driver opened the backseat door to a large, sleek black limousine. Any regrets Rhys might have felt were dashed as Jack slid into the leather seats effortlessly as oil, open arms and devilish smile welcoming Rhys into his evening promise, rich with the dark comforts of luxury.