Peak character design is character who is convinced they are selfish because 'they don't care about people getting hurt they, they care about getting hurt by people hurting those they care about' and then you find out that they care about anyone who has been in their general vicinity ever and anyone they care about which (bonus if they are well travelled) basically sums up to everyone. Which means they're saying 'I save the world because i care about the world. I save the world because i care about the people in the world'
40. “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”
Killian may or may not have taken to doing his laundry at three in the morning on weekdays now, which may or may not have something to do with the gorgeous blonde he’s come across twice now. It’s a gamble, and he will admit that sometimes he peeks into the laundry room in the basement of their apartment building, doesn’t see her, and blatantly turns on his heel because fuck, but if she’s not going to be there he may as well get some sleep.
The first time he ran into her was entirely an accident. He’d had an unexpectedly late night out with friends and decided it would be an excellent idea to walk home in the rain. Needless to say, by the time he’d reached the apartment building he’d been soaked to the bone and decidedly unhappy with his decision making process. Drunk, wet, and in a really sour mood, he’d stormed upstairs to grab the rest of his laundry and trudged into the laundry room, leaving a trail of dirty water behind him.
He’d been so cold and irritated that he hadn’t noticed the only other person in the room until there was a soft “ahem” behind him. Killian spun so fast on his heel that he nearly toppled over because he was intoxicated and stripped down to only boxer briefs, and of course that would be when a beautiful blonde he’d never met before was sitting on top of a washing machine reading a book.
"Good evening," he’d said automatically, trying not to stare at the long line of leg that her pajama shorts revealed, and failing miserably. Apparently he has zero control over himself when alcohol and a pretty girl are mixed.
"Looks like it was for you." She responded with a straight face, green, green eyes giving him a quick once over, something like a sneer perhaps curling at her lips, before her gaze slid back to her book.
"Ah yes, well, you go out with friends for drinks, one thing leads to another, and eventually you’re slogging your way through a thunderstorm, entirely sloshed."
She doesn’t respond.
A few minutes pass in an awkward silence broken only by the hum of the washer and dryer that she seems entirely content to let stretch on, her foot bouncing occasionally. Killian leans against the washer, all the rum finally starting to fade and the cold really creeping into his bones. He is so very aware of his nearly naked state that he’s shocked she’s still in the same room as him.
"Killian Jones. Nice to meet you," he finally ventures, staring at her curls so he doesn’t stare at the cleavage her low v-neck has revealed when she stretched her arms a certain way to tilt her book.
She isn’t wearing a bra. Fuck.
Those startlingly vibrant eyes regard him warily for a moment before she replies. “Emma.”
"Emma…?"
"I see your hearing works." She jumps down from the washer when there is a loud buzz from her dryer and quickly beings piling clothes into her laundry basket.
"Any last name, Emma?"
"Nope, just Emma." She stands, balancing her basket on one hip, and appraises him one last time. "I hope your clothes situation works out for you, Killian Jones." And with that, she sweeps out of the room, leaving only a faint flowery smell and his rapidly beating heart behind her.
He absolutely does not wake up the next morning and head straight down for the lobby to check all the mailboxes until he finds hers. Fortunately for him, there’s only one Emma in the building it seems, and her last name is Swan. Emma Swan. Her name does her justice, and he applies it to the graceful figure dancing behind his eyelids.
The second time he runs into her late at night in the laundry room is a happy accident. She is sitting exactly as he’s imagined her for the past two weeks, legs crossed, book held in one hand, green eyes skimming the lines quickly. This time there is a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and—god help him—fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet. He’d been sure he was exaggerating his memory of her, because there cannot be a person in this world who simply glows the way he remembers she did, but here she is, managing to turn the dull fluorescent lights in the ceiling into a magnificent halo. His breath hitches and he automatically checks to make sure that he’s wearing clothes this time.
He is. Thank god.
"Evening, love," he says as he tries to stroll in as casually as possible. "Fancy meeting you here again."
She narrows her eyes at him as he sets himself up at one of the washers and begins separating the colors from the whites. “I always do laundry in the middle of the night because there’s always washing machines free. What are you doing here?”
"Perhaps I’ve caught onto your little scheme and am impressed with you ingenuity, Emma Swan." He looks up and holds her gaze, noting with not a small bit of pride the pinkness rising on her cheeks.
"So you’ve figured out my last name."
"We do live in the same building. It was only a matter of time."
"Stop preening. I’m not impressed with your ability to check mailboxes. Why are you really here at two in the morning?"
Damn. “Maybe I was hoping I’d run into you again.”
"And so you’ve been, what, coming down here every night at random hours?" Emma’s eyebrows seem to be trying to merge with her hairline, and Killian has to wonder at her ability to make him feel like a thirteen-year-old fool of a boy again.
(And people tell him that he’s good at this. Poppycock.)
Killian presses the start button on the washing machine and watches the green numbers blink at him. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes with Emma Swan? He grins at the thought, and he knows it’s one of those stupid ones with too much teeth. “I wouldn’t have to if I knew which apartment was yours. I was hoping to stop by and apologize for my drunken antics the other night.”
She makes a ‘hmm’ noise in the back of her throat, and deftly avoids his comment with a, “Yeah, I am surprised to see you with pants on. Is this something that happens often?”
"It doesn’t have to be if you’d prefer it the other way." He runs his tongue across his teeth with a quirk of his lips. She follows the movement carefully, uncrosses and crosses her legs.
"Keep your pants on Jones, I was just making conversation."
"Something I get the feeling you don’t do often."
Emma frowns, and even though it’s directed at him he can’t help but love the adorable little wrinkle that appears between her brows. “I’m not a huge fan of people, but thanks for pointing that out.”
"Ah, would that be why I haven’t run across you before now? I would have surely remembered someone as beautiful as you if we’d met."
She shrugs. “I work weird hours.”
"Oh? Doing what?"
He’s wearing his most innocent expression, but as soon as Emma opens her mouth to answer she snaps it shut again. “Oh no. I don’t think so.”
From there she puts her books down and crosses her arms over her chest. Killian can almost feel the wall she’s thrown up between them, and she spends the next four minutes steadfastly looking everywhere but him. Thankfully her dryer buzzes before the tension can grow too thick, and she manages to throw her clothes in the basket and make it to the doorway without so much as a single glance in his direction.
Bloody hell.
Third time’s a charm, however, he thinks as he spots her in the corner, hair in a messy braid over her shoulder and long, fuzzy socks on her feet this time.
He must have made some sort of noise moving into the room because her head jerks up from where she’s tap-tap-tapping away at her phone and zeroes in directly on him. Will he ever not lose his breath when he sees that color green?
"You just don’t give up, do you?"
"I think persistence should be rewarded."
"So what is it this time? Are you going to tell me you’ve found out which apartment is mine?"
Killian heaves a deep sigh as he lugs his laundry behind him and sets up camp directly across from her. “Sadly, no. I’ve displeased far too many people in this building for the undertaking of knocking on every single door to be a good idea.”
He turns to see Emma’s head tilted to the side slightly, nose crinkled and—his heart doesn’t just skip a beat in his chest, it doesn’t a bloody backflip—a small, soft, sparkling smile.
"What’s that?" He exclaims, grinning at her. "A smile?"
It’s dropped from her face just as quickly as it came, but her eyes are dancing. “I just think it’s interesting to know that you piss everyone else off just as much as me.”
"It’s a gift, truly. Only my dashing good looks and charming personality have saved me."
"Charming, huh? I think it’s your personality that turns everyone off."
"But it doesn’t turn you off, does it, love?" He wiggles his eyebrows outrageously, and that startles a laugh out of her. It sounds the way a bright burst of sunshine looks, and Killian wants to be the cause of it again and again.
"No, your chest and arms did that already."
Was she… was that… was Emma Swan flirting with him? “Careful, you’ll wound a man with those words.”
Her dryer buzzes (damn that dryer; he needs to work on his timing), and he doesn’t feel too bad watching her bend over this time. “I knew that you were checking me out that first night.”
When Emma straightens again, she gives him a real grin. “Don’t get cocky now. You still don’t know where I live.”
And with that, sashays back up the stairs to her apartment, leaving Killian dumbfounded, astronomically pleased, and more than a little turned on.
Light and people dance through the ballroom,elegant swirls of silk and starshine splashing across the golden walls. Outside in the streets of Paris, the evening grows chilly, and Emma leans over the balcony of the ballroom, watching the city of love sparkle beneath her. Cliché, perhaps, she thinks to herself, but beautiful all the same.
(The thing about never really having a home is you end up falling in love with every glittering city you come across.)
She raises her glass to swallow another gulp of red wine, watching the wind play with the leaves on the trees below, the laughter of people ringing in the air, the music from the party swinging behind her, and then the door opens.
“Fancy seeing you out here,” says Killian Jones, a smirk in his voice that she doesn’t have to turn around to know is also on his face. “Was the party so boring you had to escape out here?”
Emma rolls her eyes over her glass and takes a careful sip of her wine. It’s probably better to be sober around him, given that not only are his host parents throwing the ball, but he already has a tendency to make her lightheaded and dizzy when she doesn’t plan on it. His eyes are blue seaglass and glinting in the lamplight like he knows all her secrets, anyway.
“Your party is magnificent,” she says, all her best and well-learned French sophisticate manners on display, and he grins before she adds, “I just needed some fresh air.”
“Ah,” he says sagely, joining her at the balcony railing and peering down into the streets. “I do believe that’s code for I wasn’t having a good time, Miss Swan.”
He cuts quite the handsome figure in his tuxedo, black and white with a blue tie to bring out his eyes, as hard as it is to see color out here under the night sky. She doesn’t exactly want to notice but he turns to face her, leaning sideways against the railing, and it’s hard not to appreciate the sight.
“Balls are made for dancing,” she tells him after a poignant pause, “and I am not. Nothing against the hosts, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoes, amusement playing on his lips. “Tell me, what could I do to make this evening more enjoyable for you?” He reaches out to touch her bare arm, his fingers feather-light on her skin, the movement only bringing him closer to her. Part of her wants to shake him off, leave him alone on the balcony, find someone else to sepnd her time with – but she doesn’t.
“You could drop the act, Jones,” she says after a quick and vicious debate in her mind about how to react. “You and I both know you’re not made for the upper-class elite. Just because we’re staying with rich families for a program doesn’t mean we’re rich.”
His smirk fades; his hand falls to his side. “You’re not fond of playing house, are you, Emma?” he asks, her name dark and dangerous on his lips now. Miss Swan was formalities and flutters; Emma is the sea roiling and rushing beneath his skin. She feels a shiver dance down her spine.
“They took us in to feel good about themselves for a few months,” she says, downing another gulp of wine and forgetting to care about sobriety. “I appreciate the intent and the experience, but I can take care of myself back in America. And I don’t need to speak a ridiculous language to do it.”
Killian chuckles, the sound low in his throat. “Street orphan complex,” he muses, his gaze trailing down over her body for just a second too long to be just friendly. “You’re not the only one who has it, Swan.”
She shakes a curl out of her eyes and frowns at him. “I wish you would pick one name and stick with it.” The subject change is inelegant, but it does the trick. It’s not like he doesn’t already know the extent of her thoughts on being an orphan – not like he doesn’t already feel the same way about loneliness and homelessness and being on the run.
“Which would you prefer?” he asks her, a grin tipping one corner of his mouth. She bites her lip and tastes red cherry gloss, then remembers why that was a bad idea. His eyes drop to her lips, then back up again.
“My name is Emma, Jones,” she tells him imperiously.
“Your name is Emma Jones?” he teases and she takes a moment to set her wine down on a table behind her before smacking him on the arm. “Ouch,” he says, though the wince seems more for comic effect than out of any real pain.
“You know, I came out here to escape incessant flirting,” she says pointedly, watching as he lifts a hand to loosen his tie, looking suddenly much wilder in the light of the moon than he had been when he came outside all dressed up and pretentiously elite. He looks much more like a boy now, like an orphan on the streets of New York, like someone lost – someone like her.
“You know, Emma,” he says slowly, sauntering ever closer to her, “I don’t quite think that’s true.”
Her heartbeat soars. She glances away, out to the streets of Paris beneath them, a wonderland of lights spread out in a labyrinth of metropolitan glamour, and waits for her breathing to ease.
“What do you think, then, Captain?” she asks, tilting her head and smiling up at him as his eyes widen at the usage of his old nickname, back when he’d been a boy playing in the river by their boarding school, back in the foster care system, back before Paris, before growing up, before dreams coming true. “Tell me, why did I come out here?”
“I think you came out here looking for a heady one-night stand,” Killian grins, leaning in close enough that she can smell his aftershave and the wine he’d been drinking earlier. “It’s the city of love, is it not?”
Emma bites her lip to keep the laughter inside. “I’m not looking for a one-night stand, Jones.”
“No?” he murmurs, angling his head so that all that’s left between their lips is a breath. “Neither am I.”
The wind whistles through the open balcony as he kisses her, bringing with it notes of music and laughter, the scents of chocolate cake and lemonade, but all she remembers of that night is him, his mouth warm and open on hers, his hands sliding around her, his fingers tangling in her hair.
Kissing him feels like standing in the ocean on a windy day, the sea rushing over her feet, the sand hot beneath her, countless hours spent watching the waves rise and fall. Kissing him feels like the sea, even out here in the heart of the city. Kissing him feels like coming home.
'wahhgina' is possibly the best name i've seen for her, maybe ever. (p.s. i totally share your lack of excitement for 4b)
(sorry this took me a couple days to answer! mobile needs notifications tbh)
lmaoo it's just so appropriate though since all i hear in her scenes anymore is waahhhh
the show's been gone for a month or something and i've barely noticed it lol. like, nothing about 4b interests me except the queens of darkness i guess. that mid season finale was so shit, thank god for better shows to distract me from it.
ps you have great taste in things if my dash tells me anything, let's be friends!
