Like Whiskey (We Just Can't Help Ourselves) - [Emma Swan/Killian Jones | Captain Hook]
Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian Jones | Captain Hook
Genre: AU
Word Count: 9,500
Summary: AU - Hook came along with the curse and has been living in Storybrooke all this time.
Part A | Part B
PREVIOUSLY IN LIKE WHISKEY...
And then her hands were buried in that ridiculous hair and she was kissing him. It was hot and slick and his arm was there around her waist, pulling her off her stool-and she went, hands fisted in his hair, tugging pulling gasping. Something fell of the table and shattered on the floor, but Killian’s hand was at the back of her neck and when his thumb skated the shell of her ear she was lost.
She was half in his lap, one foot on the floor and the other on the rung of his chair, when they broke apart, mouths bruised and wet, both of them breathing hard. She still had hold of his hair. Killian ran his thumb across her bottom lip, skirting the corner of her mouth, her dimples, her chin, and only then did she feel the faint warm scrape his stubble had burned into her skin.
Emma felt delirious-feverish even. But when Killian pressed his forehead against hers, he was burning too.
He smiled quizzically, eyes soft and unfocused.
“Do you hear something ticking?”
---
Emma groaned, her eyes fluttering shut as a breathy laugh filled the space between their faces. “Is this you getting back at me?”
“No, I just-“ he closed his eyes, and she could see each dark line of his lashes making shadows on his skin.
Then he pulled back slightly, shaking his head a little as if to clear it. He smirked, leaning in to kiss her again.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked again-sounding so exasperatedly fond that she couldn’t help but answer “yes” on her next exhale, like they were a pair of teenagers out for pizza and a movie.
Emma placed both feet back on the floor, cheeks flushing slightly when she realized the extent of her position-a position she couldn’t escape from tactfully with Killian smirking at her like that. Fortunately he restrained himself from making a lewd comment and Emma used the time in putting on her jacket to regain her normal color.
Killian locked the door behind them.
For some reason, this amused her to no end-as if it would be absolutely ludicrous for someone to come all the way out into the woods just to rob a single bar. Then again, for all she knew, that’s exactly what someone would do-robbery wasn’t exactly car theft.
She’d started strolling leisurely without realizing and was almost across the clearing when Killian jogged to catch up, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets.
“This is a stupid place for a bar.”
“No it’s not.”
Emma glanced up; his expression so cocksure.
“Not it’s not,” she agreed and smiled.
It was still dark, but where she had stumbled through thicket and weeds in almost total black-out, there was a new sun rising as they walked back to town, the dark shot through with murky greys and blues.
They didn’t talk much; he led the way, but most of Emma’s focus was still on her feet, determined not to trip or something equally embarrassing. Then again, what exactly did you say to the person you ate peanut butter and apples with, and then molested on a barstool?
“Nice night.”
Geezus. That definitely was not it. She cringed. Why was her mouth always the last to get the message?
Killian chewed his cheek thoughtfully, glancing at her sidelong before saying, “It’s certainly turning out as such.”
Okay. So maybe there were some things that could be said. It wasn’t something that needed an answer, but she wanted to - with an irrational yearning - yet she kept silent, not trusting her voice to frame the words she held in her throat, dusty from years of disuse. For the rest of their walk, Emma’s eyes kept finding their way back to him, and she didn’t trip-not once.
They reached her apartment too soon; and yet too late-the oncoming sun bleeding lavender across the horizon. They were the only ones in the street, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Thinking about it as he trailed her up the front steps, Emma wouldn’t put it past Mary Margaret to have waited up all this time. She was weirdly maternal that way.
“Door to door.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do all your patrons get this kind of service?”
“Just the handsy ones.”
He licked his lips and her eyes caught on the motion, so that before she knew it, he was leaning in to kiss her. In the back of her mind, she thought inanely that she was about to be kissed on her front step for the first time in her entire romantic history; and even though she was twenty-eight years old, she had the thrill of panic that her roommate might choose this moment, like a meddlesome parent, to peek out the window.
He was so close, his mouth ghosting the space above her own-and then the asshole was pulling away, stepping back; and she was left with her eyes fluttering in his wake. He whispered, “Goodnight, Whiskey,” and her eyes snapped back open.
Killian was halfway down the steps.
“And now what?” she called after him, one hand gripping the doorframe. He turned, rocking back on his heels and shrugging. “You go back to your woods, and we see each other whenever I’m in need of a quiet drink?”
He snorted. “I’m not a hermit you know.” Then, as if it explained everything, added: “I pick up pie on Tuesdays.”
“Do you maybe wanna pick up your pie around, say, lunchtime?”
Killian blinked in surprise, taken aback at her sudden (and unexpectedly alluring) forwardness.
“I do,” he said. “I really do.”
“Great. 11:00?”
“Perfect.”
“Good.”
She was biting back a smirk-he could tell; and suddenly Killian wanted nothing more than to kiss her - desperately - in that moment. But he’d already gone and played his move in this elaborate game of cat and mouse they’d started between them, and now all he could do was say goodnight and walk away. Emma watched him go from her open door.
--
Considering their first technical date took place in a bar, after-hours, they hadn’t exactly set a precedent for the classiest of rendezvous, but their next date wasn’t any more romantic than their first, even if i was more respectable one. Still, when Killian strolled into Granny’s Dinner at five after that following Tuesday and saw Emma on the far side of a booth, nose-deep in the newspaper and free hand searching blindly for her coffee, he wondered if it wasn’t already the most brilliant second date he’d ever been on.
“Got your usual right here.”
Granny’s boom of a voice was enough to get anyone’s attention, least of all someone waiting for another to arrive-and Emma lowered the paper. He grinned without really meaning to-but it was apparently hello enough for her. She quirked an eyebrow trying to hold in her amusement and went back to reading.
On his other side, Granny had already moved to the till, efficient as ever, to run the purchase-which is when Killian cut in.
“Thanks, Gran-but can you ring me up at the end?” he asked winningly, arm on the counter. “I think I’ll stay for a bit of lunch.”
The look on her face showed exactly how often that happened, but he didn’t stay and elaborate-he just grabbed his boxed pie off the counter and headed straight for Emma’s booth.
Everyone taking their lunch at Granny’s that morning watched him cross the diner.
“We’re causing a stir,” he informed her, sliding into the booth opposite her and shucking off his coat.
Emma rolled her eyes and folded the sports section. “They should get cable.”
Killian lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater higher up on his forearms and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, settling deeper into the booth-like he was planning on staying a while. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.
“It’s Tuesday.”
Emma blinked, focusing again on Killian’s teasing face. “Yes it is.”
“Came to get pie,” he went on, drumming his fingers on the oaktag lid of his box.
Emma smirked. “I can see that.”
“And who do I find at Granny’s - sitting all alone, here in this booth - but you.”
“Strange,” she deadpanned, not breaking the farce - though he clearly expected her to. “Almost as if we planned it that way…”
Killian’s eyes dropped - and she could have sworn they settled on her mouth before flicking away - and his lopsided smile grew. “Almost if.”
And that’s when Emma realized she’d been biting her lip-for how long she had no idea, but Killian had definitely noticed and she immediately schooled her expression into one of annoyance.
He had the nerve to laugh.
Ruby cleared her throat from the end of their booth and only then did Emma notice she’d been leaning into his space and he into hers, their elbows on the table. Emma pointedly did not look at Ruby, whose expression could only be insufferably smug, but Killian’s eyes slid to their waitress.
“Hullo.”
“So,” Ruby drawled, heavy with implication. “What can I get you two?”
Emma, sinking back into her seat, didn’t have to look at the menu for her order, but she did have to look at Ruby or get called out for being impolite. She immediately regretted it. Ruby was straight up failing to contain her shit-eating grin, and Emma barely restrained herself from commenting that it might get stuck that way, but only because Killian also seemed disconcerted by Ruby’s intense interest in their lunch date.
“I’m still torn,” Emma admitted. “You go first.”
Killian glanced briefly at the menu, making his decision on a whim. “The club sandwich, if you please love. But instead of fries can I get-“
“No!” Emma interrupted, making them both start. “I want your fries,” she said - as if that should have been obvious.
“Oh?” he laughed. “Well I fancy a bit of coleslaw.”
“Ew.”
Killian tried to feign offense. “Ew yourself, lass!” He laughed.
“Well that decides it then-“ she announced, sliding her menu across the table. “If I get the rib sandwich then that comes with mine. We’ll swap.”
“Deal.”
It was the sort of thing couples do after years of learning each other’s tastes and habits, but it came so easily to them that neither made the connection; except maybe for Ruby, who made a high-pitched sound and then immediately fled the table, her platforms clicking wildly on the tile floor.
“Well,” Killian said. “That was interesting…”
--
For someone whose lunch usually consisted of a quick sandwich and soda at her desk, it was the longest lunch Emma had ever taken in Storybrooke.
It was just gone noon when she nabbed the last crumb of fries from Killian’s plate, sucking the grease from her thumb, and declared it was time to get back to work-and if Killian pretended not to hear the trace of resentment that slipped through, then she pretended not to see the flash of disappointment he was quick to cover with his usual grin.
Emma flagged down Ruby, who’d been making herself conspicuous for the entire hour, and tossed her napkin on the table. Ruby didn’t even bother asking if they wanted boxes: they'd cleaned each other’s plates. But she paused long enough to make what had before gone unnoticed something wholly obvious, and Emma pressed two fingers to her temple, sighing.
Tongue pressed between her teeth, Ruby hedged: “Will this be together, or…”
“Separate,” Emma answered immediately, already reaching for her wallet.
“You’re a cheap date,” smirked Killian - not put off in the slightest. “I like that.”
“Is that all you like?” she shot right back, surprising even herself.
Ruby mumbled something about change and ran off, leaving Killian to recover from the implication with an appraising look. He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth, eyes slightly narrowed as he studied her; Emma returned him stare-for-stare, waiting.
“Why Emma Swan-“ his mouth quirked. “You’re a dangerous sort, you know.”
“Well?” she pressed, and he met her coyness with wry suspicion.
“Is this a trap?”
She half-smirked. “No.”
“Then no,” he said before she’d even finished.
She pursed her lips. “Well?”
Clearly bemused, he held his own smirk in check, leaning towards her across the table. “Is this trap?”
The high-sheen of the formica table-top distorted their reflections, but it couldn’t distort the distance lacking between them; Emma skirted her eyes away but found them snapping back to his.
No, she thought-but what came out was “Maybe.”
“Ooo,” he drawled with a tsk. “You’re going to be trouble.”
And for a moment Emma wondered if he truly thought so. “Scared?” she ventured to ask, somewhere between taunting and casual.
Hook only smirked. “I do love a challenge.”
“I’d have thought you’d have had your fair share of challenges.”
“Oh?”
She was fishing and she knew it, but even that seemed to interest him-his eyes flashing with something unidentifiable but strangely familiar.
“Not like this,” he finally said, offhand and easy-but all Emma could hear was ‘not like you.’ He looked at her and Emma felt her breath catch; she was losing ground and knew it. “I find it refreshing.”
“Just what every girl longs to hear,” she commented, dryly-grabbing for the upper hand.
His mouth ghosted a smile, but he answered in all seriousness: “I should hope so.”
“Erhm. Your change?”
Emma tore her gaze from Killian and stared blankly up at Ruby, before coming to her senses and taking the proffered money. “Thanks, Ruby,” she mumbled - a sentiment Killian echoed - and stuffed the wad of bills into her back pocket; the tension of the moment snapping loose.
“Hey.” Killian’s hand on her wrist kept her from leaving outright; it was nearly half past noon and she’d never been so late in all her life. “Lunch was...lovely.”
Emma smiled faintly, then with more confidence, regaining her hold on their banter until she could manage a smirk. “Naturally,” she quipped, slipping loose easily. “Enjoy your pie.”
She walked out into the bright sunshine of the afternoon feeling strangely light, and turned her feet towards the sheriff’s station. Through the smudged glass of the diner window, Killian watched her go laughing softly to himself, Ruby’s pen twirling between his fingers.
--
“Long day?”
Mary Margaret made a nonsensical groan from her sprawl on the couch. Emma patted her foot sympathetically.
“Pizza?”
Her dark head appeared from the throw pillows. “Pizza,” Mary Margaret echoed pathetically.
“Tony’s?”
“Mmfgh,” Mary Margaret said into the pillow. “Get whatever we have a coupon for.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Then you’re gonna have to drag yourself over here. I am not digging through your coupon drawer.”
There was a pregnant pause while Emma ran herself a glass of water in which Mary Margaret was clearly debating whether or not her need for pizza outweighed the effort it would take to procure it. She must have settled on standing being the lesser of two evils than starvation because she groaned again and dragged herself from the couch.
The drawer in question looked just like any of the others, except when Mary Margaret opened it the drawer was nearly bursting with rubberbanded bundles of clippings. There was a system to it-but damned if Emma could figure out what it was; it certainly wasn’t any known to man. She’d learned the second day of living with the mild-mannered schoolteacher that to riffle through the coupon drawer was to court death.
“Large 1-Topping?” she offered, shuffling through neatly clipped squares of glossy paper.
“We don’t have anything to drink,” Emma pointed out, her head in the refrigerator.
More shuffling. “Medium 2-Topping and a two litre?”
“Diet Coke please.”
“Pineapple?”
“Mmm. And mushroom.”
“Mushroom?”
“Mushroom.”
“Alright - read me the number?” Mary Margaret slid the coupon across the island countertop and grabbed the house phone off the wall. “Oh! Do you have cash?”
“Yeah, I think.” Emma patted her pockets, remembering the leftover change from lunch. “Seven bucks?”
She pulled the crumpled wade of bills from her back pocket, and a few coins fell loose, jangling on the hardwood floor.
“6.50,” she corrected.
“Oh, I think you dropped something…” Mary Margaret said, bending down behind her.
“What?”
Emma glanced back, confused, as Mary Margaret scooped up a scrap of paper and smoothed it between her fingers. It took Emma a moment to recognize Killian’s handwriting. Panicking, she tried to snatch it back, but it was too late.
Mary Margaret jumped back out of reach, and waved the paper between them. “Is this-- Is this a phone number?”
Emma had no idea where his number had come from - it hadn’t been there when she’d paid for lunch. He must have slipped it into her pocket when she’d tried to leave! Mary Margaret was still staring at her expectantly, but all she could think...was that he’d managed to pull one over on her.
“Emma?”
Emma looked at the paper, at Mary Margaret, and then scratched the back of her neck. “Yeeeah.”
Mary Margaret hung up the phone with a pointed click.
“Spill.”
---
Emma:
Well played.
She’d spent the better part of a day trying to think of what to say before settling on that. She’d tested out coyer messages - “who’s this,” “does this usually work?,” that sort of thing - but they had tasted sour on her tongue. They were stubborn and maybe too clever for their own good, but they’d never been coy. She liked a game where both players knew the stakes.
And then, because it felt too strange to sit there waiting for a response, she tossed her phone on the bed and went to brush her teeth. Not ten seconds later, she heard the muffled vibration of a text message coming through.
The glance back into the bedroom was automatic; she looked back at her reflection, rolling her toothbrush to one cheek. Debating.
She snatched her cellphone off the bed and flipped it open.
Killian:
What time do you call this, Whiskey?
She’d only just finished reading the text when her phone buzzed again.
Killian:
And about time you noticed.
Chewing thoughtfully on the bristles of her toothbrush, Emma walked back into the bathroom, fingers poised over the keyboard as she thought of a reply.
Emma:
I was right when I said bartenders were shifty.
Given the lateness of the hour she knew The Nest had to be in full swing, yet he responded within a minute.
Killian:
I’m flattered. Truly.
Killian:
When can I see you again?
Emma nearly swallowed forgetting she still had toothpaste in her mouth. Coughing she dropped her phone and rinsed through her splutters. The phone glared at her, bright and demanding; she turned it over. Instead of answering, she washed her face. Hair held back by a cloth band she spent an inordinate amount of time lathering the facewash between her hands, tracing the frame of her features.
But she couldn’t ignore the text forever.
Towel pressed to her damp face, she typed her reply slowly and one-handed.
Emma:
What’s the rush?
Freshly-scrubbed and dry, Emma still wouldn’t move the towel from her face. It was something like a security blanket, a safety in the way it covered her mouth, her chin-cool and soft.
Killian:
Life moves fast.
Emma:
You know something I don’t?
Killian:
You have the tendency to disappear. The only way to prevent that is regular exposure to my charm.
She smiled; that was so typically him.
Emma:
You think quite highly of yourself.
Killian:
You think too much.
Before Emma could even sort out what she was supposed to feel from a comment like that, her phone went off again.
Killian:
For a humble bartender like myself.
Emma sat down on the closed toilet and held her phone in her lap with both hands. She took a deep breath, and - before she could reason around it - tapped out a reply.
Emma:
Tuesday.
Killian:
That long?
Emma:
Unless I see you first.
--
When Emma had sent that warning-cum-challenge, this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind: running into Killian while meeting Henry at the bus stop. He’d clearly been looking for her, but when he saw Henry on the bench next to her he stopped short (and Emma tried distantly to remember if she’d brushed her hair that morning).
“Killian!”
“I was-hullo.”
“This is my son,” she said, recovering. “Henry. Henry - this is Killian. He’s, uh, a friend.”
Henry, who seemed to be a precocious boy in his uniform and neatly combed hair, appraised Killian with a surprisingly critical eye. It was certainly a first for the bartender, so he didn’t know whether he ought to laugh or reciprocate.
“I haven’t seen you around before,” the boy announced by way of introduction.
“Mostly keep to myself,” Killian offered, hardly put-off by the blunt delivery. He was intrigued though by the pointed look the boy gave his mother before pulling a very large, very ornate looking book from his backpack.
“Eh? What’s that then?” asked Killian, curious and to keep up the conversation.
Henry was a good deal less friendly and clenched the open book to his chest as if it were a diary. He pulled it away just far enough so he could look awkwardly down at its pages without anyone else being able to see, and Killian put up his hands in mock surrender.
“Not to worry, lad,” he assured. “A man’s allowed a secret or two.”
“Henry,” Emma interjected tightly. “Put that away please.”
He stared good and long at a single page before he did as she asked, hugging his arms around the book. He stared at Killian over the spine.
“I have some questions for you, Mr-“
“Jones,” Killian supplied, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re not interrogating him, Henry,” Emma rebuked matter-of-factly. She reached for his book, but he leaned back, turning his narrowed-eye focus on Killian.
“Who’s better-pirates or ninjas?”
Killian tilted his head; amused but sensing the boy expected a serious answer. “Depends on the situation.”
“Henry,” Emma frowned, but her disapproval was ignored by both.
Henry closed his storybook with an abrupt and loud whump! and the questions started coming rapid-fire. “Spring or Winter?”
Killian straightened. “Spring.”
“Favorite color?”
“Red.”
“Middle name?”
“James.”
“Do you believe in fairies?”
“Do you?”
Henry continued to stare at him with unfiltered suspicion, and Killian didn’t blame him for it-it was his mum he was sort of maybe seeing after all. He returned the stare, both eyebrows raised in an expectant expression, while Henry decided whether his answers had been sufficient. Then, bold as brass, he snubbed Killian entirely and looked up at Emma to say - quite seriously - “We have to talk.”
Emma rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were turning pink-clearly embarrassed. “Yeah, well not now-you’re late for Archie’s.”
Henry wouldn’t back down that easily. “And what are you going to be doing?” he asked pointedly.
“Hey!” She exclaimed and Killian bit the inside of his cheek to hold in a laugh he was certain neither mother nor son would appreciate at this juncture.
“Mind your own business, kid,” said Emma, but it was without heat. It was clearly an endearment for the boy, whose sternness softened at the hearing of it. He even allowed her to stuff that big book of his into his backpack and heft it over his shoulder.
“See you after? Hot chocolate at Granny’s-you promised!”
“I know, I know,” she confirmed, bobbing her head. “I’ll be there.”
Henry shot Killian one last look that had Emma shaking her head before he turned tail and jogged off down the street towards Dr. Hopper’s office. When he was too far to follow, Killian turned to Emma; she’d put a hand to her face.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I mean-about all that...”
It was endearing really. Just a little.
But of course, she’d never forgive him saying so-he knew her well enough for that. So instead, he reached out and took careful hold of her wrist, gently pulling her hand away. Her forehead was furrowed, brows knit terribly together and if he’d had another hand he might have dared to press his thumb to her brow and try to smooth away those anxious lines.
He squeezed her hand fondly and let go. “Don’t be silly.”
Emma sighed and the started walking.
“He seems like a bright kid.”
“Yeah. He’s-” That brought out a rueful smile. “-thanks. It’s just--…complicated.”
“Families always are.”
They weren’t walking anywhere particular, but it was pleasant in a strange way. Killian had been trying to think of a way to talk to her properly about things-with minimal innuendos, despite how easy she made it-before he’d run into Henry. Now he couldn’t remember what had been so important.
Emma didn’t seem to mind.
They walked in relative silence, hands in pockets-but they had strung between them an air of easy companionship, and it was as prevalent whether they were making inane comments about the morning weather or saying nothing at all.
Outside that bubble, however...
Killian bumped his shoulder with hers. “Are they staring at you or me, you think?”
And Emma looked up from her feet to see more than a few townspeople watching them from store windows and other sidewalks; only half of them bothered trying to hide it. “What the hell?” she demanded. “Don’t these people have jobs?”
Killian laughed, bumping her again when she started to grumble. “It’s probably me,” she answered half-heartedly; her frustration clearly dampening her attempts at banter. “Regina hasn’t made it any secret that she hates my guts.”
“There really isn’t that much else to do in Storybrooke is there.”
“Not really.” Their elbows brushed as they rounded a corner. “You’re pretty newsworthy.”
“Must be,” he agreed. “Since I don’t really ever come to town.”
Emma stopped walking; Killian was half a pace ahead before he stopped too, looking quizzical.
“Something the matter?” he asked.
It was the middle of the afternoon, but the position of the sun behind the bakery they’d been passing had cloaked Emma almost entirely in shade. Her face, cool and smooth out of the sunlight, was thoughtful-beyond that, unreadable-and Killian distantly recalled the smooth ripple of water, the way shadows caught in cupped hands below the surface of a dark lagoon.
Her hands were fists that uncurled at the gentle touch of his fingers.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“Come again?”
Emma licked her lips and tried again. “Why don’t you come into town?”
Killian could have said a dozen things-there was a line for every mood and tone. But sometimes-sometimes-the simplest answers were best:
“Never had a reason to before.”
Emma’s lips were pressed together in a firm line, but he could see the clench in her jaw loosen, see how she went from chewing the inside of her lips to parting them; a soft secret smile, for him and him alone.
“I think I’m going to kiss you now.”
Killian hummed, casually brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “I think you should.”
“Yeah?” She stepped closer.
“Oh yes,” he insisted.
Emma grabbed his face and pulled it down. “Shut up,” she breathed, just before she surged upwards and brought their mouths crashing together. The air was cold but his mouth was warm and she knew what she hadn’t known until that moment: just how long it had been since they’d kissed.
Her brain tried to supply the numbers - carrying the one, adding up the minutes of the days - but then Killian did something with his tongue and all logic and reason abandoned her. It was like getting lost, knowing it’s the only way to find where you’re meant to go.
His stubble was rough under her palms, her mouth reddening against it as she pulled back and he chased her. He kissed her like it had been days instead of seconds, all teeth and pressing tongues. His hand slipped at her waist, cold fingers brushing exposed skin, and she jumped.
“AHEM!”
Emma pulled back automatically, and would have been swayed not to give a damn by the growl the slipped from Killian’s wet mouth-if it hadn’t been a nun standing at the corner. In full habit no less.
Emma practically leapt out of Killian’s arms, swiping her sleeve across her kiss-bruised mouth like it made a difference. In fact, all it did was draw Killian’s attention back to her mouth; she smacked him hard in the chest.
“Afternoon,” he coughed out, rubbing at his chest. The sheriff was stronger than she looked.
Emma recognized the nun from Mary Margaret’s doomed candle crusade; Mother Superior, she was pretty sure. Just as she was pretty sure she was going to hell for making out in front of a nun. Superior had certainly earned her name-the look she gave them was downright disapproving, like every foster mother she’d ever had rolled into one.
Then, with a tsk, she went on her way-making a point to walk a wide path around them and the square of sidewalk they’d apparently irreparably sullied.
Emma groaned.
“Guess the cat’s out of the bag,” Killian chuckled, hand finding her waist again.
“I’m pretty sure Ruby already told the entire town,” she told him and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder with a resigned huff.
---
Part B
Genre: AU
Word Count: 9,500
Summary: AU - Hook came along with the curse and has been living in Storybrooke all this time.
Part A | Part B
PREVIOUSLY IN LIKE WHISKEY...
And then her hands were buried in that ridiculous hair and she was kissing him. It was hot and slick and his arm was there around her waist, pulling her off her stool-and she went, hands fisted in his hair, tugging pulling gasping. Something fell of the table and shattered on the floor, but Killian’s hand was at the back of her neck and when his thumb skated the shell of her ear she was lost.
She was half in his lap, one foot on the floor and the other on the rung of his chair, when they broke apart, mouths bruised and wet, both of them breathing hard. She still had hold of his hair. Killian ran his thumb across her bottom lip, skirting the corner of her mouth, her dimples, her chin, and only then did she feel the faint warm scrape his stubble had burned into her skin.
Emma felt delirious-feverish even. But when Killian pressed his forehead against hers, he was burning too.
He smiled quizzically, eyes soft and unfocused.
“Do you hear something ticking?”
---
Emma groaned, her eyes fluttering shut as a breathy laugh filled the space between their faces. “Is this you getting back at me?”
“No, I just-“ he closed his eyes, and she could see each dark line of his lashes making shadows on his skin.
Then he pulled back slightly, shaking his head a little as if to clear it. He smirked, leaning in to kiss her again.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked again-sounding so exasperatedly fond that she couldn’t help but answer “yes” on her next exhale, like they were a pair of teenagers out for pizza and a movie.
Emma placed both feet back on the floor, cheeks flushing slightly when she realized the extent of her position-a position she couldn’t escape from tactfully with Killian smirking at her like that. Fortunately he restrained himself from making a lewd comment and Emma used the time in putting on her jacket to regain her normal color.
Killian locked the door behind them.
For some reason, this amused her to no end-as if it would be absolutely ludicrous for someone to come all the way out into the woods just to rob a single bar. Then again, for all she knew, that’s exactly what someone would do-robbery wasn’t exactly car theft.
She’d started strolling leisurely without realizing and was almost across the clearing when Killian jogged to catch up, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets.
“This is a stupid place for a bar.”
“No it’s not.”
Emma glanced up; his expression so cocksure.
“Not it’s not,” she agreed and smiled.
It was still dark, but where she had stumbled through thicket and weeds in almost total black-out, there was a new sun rising as they walked back to town, the dark shot through with murky greys and blues.
They didn’t talk much; he led the way, but most of Emma’s focus was still on her feet, determined not to trip or something equally embarrassing. Then again, what exactly did you say to the person you ate peanut butter and apples with, and then molested on a barstool?
“Nice night.”
Geezus. That definitely was not it. She cringed. Why was her mouth always the last to get the message?
Killian chewed his cheek thoughtfully, glancing at her sidelong before saying, “It’s certainly turning out as such.”
Okay. So maybe there were some things that could be said. It wasn’t something that needed an answer, but she wanted to - with an irrational yearning - yet she kept silent, not trusting her voice to frame the words she held in her throat, dusty from years of disuse. For the rest of their walk, Emma’s eyes kept finding their way back to him, and she didn’t trip-not once.
They reached her apartment too soon; and yet too late-the oncoming sun bleeding lavender across the horizon. They were the only ones in the street, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Thinking about it as he trailed her up the front steps, Emma wouldn’t put it past Mary Margaret to have waited up all this time. She was weirdly maternal that way.
“Door to door.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do all your patrons get this kind of service?”
“Just the handsy ones.”
He licked his lips and her eyes caught on the motion, so that before she knew it, he was leaning in to kiss her. In the back of her mind, she thought inanely that she was about to be kissed on her front step for the first time in her entire romantic history; and even though she was twenty-eight years old, she had the thrill of panic that her roommate might choose this moment, like a meddlesome parent, to peek out the window.
He was so close, his mouth ghosting the space above her own-and then the asshole was pulling away, stepping back; and she was left with her eyes fluttering in his wake. He whispered, “Goodnight, Whiskey,” and her eyes snapped back open.
Killian was halfway down the steps.
“And now what?” she called after him, one hand gripping the doorframe. He turned, rocking back on his heels and shrugging. “You go back to your woods, and we see each other whenever I’m in need of a quiet drink?”
He snorted. “I’m not a hermit you know.” Then, as if it explained everything, added: “I pick up pie on Tuesdays.”
“Do you maybe wanna pick up your pie around, say, lunchtime?”
Killian blinked in surprise, taken aback at her sudden (and unexpectedly alluring) forwardness.
“I do,” he said. “I really do.”
“Great. 11:00?”
“Perfect.”
“Good.”
She was biting back a smirk-he could tell; and suddenly Killian wanted nothing more than to kiss her - desperately - in that moment. But he’d already gone and played his move in this elaborate game of cat and mouse they’d started between them, and now all he could do was say goodnight and walk away. Emma watched him go from her open door.
--
Considering their first technical date took place in a bar, after-hours, they hadn’t exactly set a precedent for the classiest of rendezvous, but their next date wasn’t any more romantic than their first, even if i was more respectable one. Still, when Killian strolled into Granny’s Dinner at five after that following Tuesday and saw Emma on the far side of a booth, nose-deep in the newspaper and free hand searching blindly for her coffee, he wondered if it wasn’t already the most brilliant second date he’d ever been on.
“Got your usual right here.”
Granny’s boom of a voice was enough to get anyone’s attention, least of all someone waiting for another to arrive-and Emma lowered the paper. He grinned without really meaning to-but it was apparently hello enough for her. She quirked an eyebrow trying to hold in her amusement and went back to reading.
On his other side, Granny had already moved to the till, efficient as ever, to run the purchase-which is when Killian cut in.
“Thanks, Gran-but can you ring me up at the end?” he asked winningly, arm on the counter. “I think I’ll stay for a bit of lunch.”
The look on her face showed exactly how often that happened, but he didn’t stay and elaborate-he just grabbed his boxed pie off the counter and headed straight for Emma’s booth.
Everyone taking their lunch at Granny’s that morning watched him cross the diner.
“We’re causing a stir,” he informed her, sliding into the booth opposite her and shucking off his coat.
Emma rolled her eyes and folded the sports section. “They should get cable.”
Killian lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater higher up on his forearms and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, settling deeper into the booth-like he was planning on staying a while. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.
“It’s Tuesday.”
Emma blinked, focusing again on Killian’s teasing face. “Yes it is.”
“Came to get pie,” he went on, drumming his fingers on the oaktag lid of his box.
Emma smirked. “I can see that.”
“And who do I find at Granny’s - sitting all alone, here in this booth - but you.”
“Strange,” she deadpanned, not breaking the farce - though he clearly expected her to. “Almost as if we planned it that way…”
Killian’s eyes dropped - and she could have sworn they settled on her mouth before flicking away - and his lopsided smile grew. “Almost if.”
And that’s when Emma realized she’d been biting her lip-for how long she had no idea, but Killian had definitely noticed and she immediately schooled her expression into one of annoyance.
He had the nerve to laugh.
Ruby cleared her throat from the end of their booth and only then did Emma notice she’d been leaning into his space and he into hers, their elbows on the table. Emma pointedly did not look at Ruby, whose expression could only be insufferably smug, but Killian’s eyes slid to their waitress.
“Hullo.”
“So,” Ruby drawled, heavy with implication. “What can I get you two?”
Emma, sinking back into her seat, didn’t have to look at the menu for her order, but she did have to look at Ruby or get called out for being impolite. She immediately regretted it. Ruby was straight up failing to contain her shit-eating grin, and Emma barely restrained herself from commenting that it might get stuck that way, but only because Killian also seemed disconcerted by Ruby’s intense interest in their lunch date.
“I’m still torn,” Emma admitted. “You go first.”
Killian glanced briefly at the menu, making his decision on a whim. “The club sandwich, if you please love. But instead of fries can I get-“
“No!” Emma interrupted, making them both start. “I want your fries,” she said - as if that should have been obvious.
“Oh?” he laughed. “Well I fancy a bit of coleslaw.”
“Ew.”
Killian tried to feign offense. “Ew yourself, lass!” He laughed.
“Well that decides it then-“ she announced, sliding her menu across the table. “If I get the rib sandwich then that comes with mine. We’ll swap.”
“Deal.”
It was the sort of thing couples do after years of learning each other’s tastes and habits, but it came so easily to them that neither made the connection; except maybe for Ruby, who made a high-pitched sound and then immediately fled the table, her platforms clicking wildly on the tile floor.
“Well,” Killian said. “That was interesting…”
--
For someone whose lunch usually consisted of a quick sandwich and soda at her desk, it was the longest lunch Emma had ever taken in Storybrooke.
It was just gone noon when she nabbed the last crumb of fries from Killian’s plate, sucking the grease from her thumb, and declared it was time to get back to work-and if Killian pretended not to hear the trace of resentment that slipped through, then she pretended not to see the flash of disappointment he was quick to cover with his usual grin.
Emma flagged down Ruby, who’d been making herself conspicuous for the entire hour, and tossed her napkin on the table. Ruby didn’t even bother asking if they wanted boxes: they'd cleaned each other’s plates. But she paused long enough to make what had before gone unnoticed something wholly obvious, and Emma pressed two fingers to her temple, sighing.
Tongue pressed between her teeth, Ruby hedged: “Will this be together, or…”
“Separate,” Emma answered immediately, already reaching for her wallet.
“You’re a cheap date,” smirked Killian - not put off in the slightest. “I like that.”
“Is that all you like?” she shot right back, surprising even herself.
Ruby mumbled something about change and ran off, leaving Killian to recover from the implication with an appraising look. He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth, eyes slightly narrowed as he studied her; Emma returned him stare-for-stare, waiting.
“Why Emma Swan-“ his mouth quirked. “You’re a dangerous sort, you know.”
“Well?” she pressed, and he met her coyness with wry suspicion.
“Is this a trap?”
She half-smirked. “No.”
“Then no,” he said before she’d even finished.
She pursed her lips. “Well?”
Clearly bemused, he held his own smirk in check, leaning towards her across the table. “Is this trap?”
The high-sheen of the formica table-top distorted their reflections, but it couldn’t distort the distance lacking between them; Emma skirted her eyes away but found them snapping back to his.
No, she thought-but what came out was “Maybe.”
“Ooo,” he drawled with a tsk. “You’re going to be trouble.”
And for a moment Emma wondered if he truly thought so. “Scared?” she ventured to ask, somewhere between taunting and casual.
Hook only smirked. “I do love a challenge.”
“I’d have thought you’d have had your fair share of challenges.”
“Oh?”
She was fishing and she knew it, but even that seemed to interest him-his eyes flashing with something unidentifiable but strangely familiar.
“Not like this,” he finally said, offhand and easy-but all Emma could hear was ‘not like you.’ He looked at her and Emma felt her breath catch; she was losing ground and knew it. “I find it refreshing.”
“Just what every girl longs to hear,” she commented, dryly-grabbing for the upper hand.
His mouth ghosted a smile, but he answered in all seriousness: “I should hope so.”
“Erhm. Your change?”
Emma tore her gaze from Killian and stared blankly up at Ruby, before coming to her senses and taking the proffered money. “Thanks, Ruby,” she mumbled - a sentiment Killian echoed - and stuffed the wad of bills into her back pocket; the tension of the moment snapping loose.
“Hey.” Killian’s hand on her wrist kept her from leaving outright; it was nearly half past noon and she’d never been so late in all her life. “Lunch was...lovely.”
Emma smiled faintly, then with more confidence, regaining her hold on their banter until she could manage a smirk. “Naturally,” she quipped, slipping loose easily. “Enjoy your pie.”
She walked out into the bright sunshine of the afternoon feeling strangely light, and turned her feet towards the sheriff’s station. Through the smudged glass of the diner window, Killian watched her go laughing softly to himself, Ruby’s pen twirling between his fingers.
--
“Long day?”
Mary Margaret made a nonsensical groan from her sprawl on the couch. Emma patted her foot sympathetically.
“Pizza?”
Her dark head appeared from the throw pillows. “Pizza,” Mary Margaret echoed pathetically.
“Tony’s?”
“Mmfgh,” Mary Margaret said into the pillow. “Get whatever we have a coupon for.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Then you’re gonna have to drag yourself over here. I am not digging through your coupon drawer.”
There was a pregnant pause while Emma ran herself a glass of water in which Mary Margaret was clearly debating whether or not her need for pizza outweighed the effort it would take to procure it. She must have settled on standing being the lesser of two evils than starvation because she groaned again and dragged herself from the couch.
The drawer in question looked just like any of the others, except when Mary Margaret opened it the drawer was nearly bursting with rubberbanded bundles of clippings. There was a system to it-but damned if Emma could figure out what it was; it certainly wasn’t any known to man. She’d learned the second day of living with the mild-mannered schoolteacher that to riffle through the coupon drawer was to court death.
“Large 1-Topping?” she offered, shuffling through neatly clipped squares of glossy paper.
“We don’t have anything to drink,” Emma pointed out, her head in the refrigerator.
More shuffling. “Medium 2-Topping and a two litre?”
“Diet Coke please.”
“Pineapple?”
“Mmm. And mushroom.”
“Mushroom?”
“Mushroom.”
“Alright - read me the number?” Mary Margaret slid the coupon across the island countertop and grabbed the house phone off the wall. “Oh! Do you have cash?”
“Yeah, I think.” Emma patted her pockets, remembering the leftover change from lunch. “Seven bucks?”
She pulled the crumpled wade of bills from her back pocket, and a few coins fell loose, jangling on the hardwood floor.
“6.50,” she corrected.
“Oh, I think you dropped something…” Mary Margaret said, bending down behind her.
“What?”
Emma glanced back, confused, as Mary Margaret scooped up a scrap of paper and smoothed it between her fingers. It took Emma a moment to recognize Killian’s handwriting. Panicking, she tried to snatch it back, but it was too late.
Mary Margaret jumped back out of reach, and waved the paper between them. “Is this-- Is this a phone number?”
Emma had no idea where his number had come from - it hadn’t been there when she’d paid for lunch. He must have slipped it into her pocket when she’d tried to leave! Mary Margaret was still staring at her expectantly, but all she could think...was that he’d managed to pull one over on her.
“Emma?”
Emma looked at the paper, at Mary Margaret, and then scratched the back of her neck. “Yeeeah.”
Mary Margaret hung up the phone with a pointed click.
“Spill.”
---
Emma:
Well played.
She’d spent the better part of a day trying to think of what to say before settling on that. She’d tested out coyer messages - “who’s this,” “does this usually work?,” that sort of thing - but they had tasted sour on her tongue. They were stubborn and maybe too clever for their own good, but they’d never been coy. She liked a game where both players knew the stakes.
And then, because it felt too strange to sit there waiting for a response, she tossed her phone on the bed and went to brush her teeth. Not ten seconds later, she heard the muffled vibration of a text message coming through.
The glance back into the bedroom was automatic; she looked back at her reflection, rolling her toothbrush to one cheek. Debating.
She snatched her cellphone off the bed and flipped it open.
Killian:
What time do you call this, Whiskey?
She’d only just finished reading the text when her phone buzzed again.
Killian:
And about time you noticed.
Chewing thoughtfully on the bristles of her toothbrush, Emma walked back into the bathroom, fingers poised over the keyboard as she thought of a reply.
Emma:
I was right when I said bartenders were shifty.
Given the lateness of the hour she knew The Nest had to be in full swing, yet he responded within a minute.
Killian:
I’m flattered. Truly.
Killian:
When can I see you again?
Emma nearly swallowed forgetting she still had toothpaste in her mouth. Coughing she dropped her phone and rinsed through her splutters. The phone glared at her, bright and demanding; she turned it over. Instead of answering, she washed her face. Hair held back by a cloth band she spent an inordinate amount of time lathering the facewash between her hands, tracing the frame of her features.
But she couldn’t ignore the text forever.
Towel pressed to her damp face, she typed her reply slowly and one-handed.
Emma:
What’s the rush?
Freshly-scrubbed and dry, Emma still wouldn’t move the towel from her face. It was something like a security blanket, a safety in the way it covered her mouth, her chin-cool and soft.
Killian:
Life moves fast.
Emma:
You know something I don’t?
Killian:
You have the tendency to disappear. The only way to prevent that is regular exposure to my charm.
She smiled; that was so typically him.
Emma:
You think quite highly of yourself.
Killian:
You think too much.
Before Emma could even sort out what she was supposed to feel from a comment like that, her phone went off again.
Killian:
For a humble bartender like myself.
Emma sat down on the closed toilet and held her phone in her lap with both hands. She took a deep breath, and - before she could reason around it - tapped out a reply.
Emma:
Tuesday.
Killian:
That long?
Emma:
Unless I see you first.
--
When Emma had sent that warning-cum-challenge, this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind: running into Killian while meeting Henry at the bus stop. He’d clearly been looking for her, but when he saw Henry on the bench next to her he stopped short (and Emma tried distantly to remember if she’d brushed her hair that morning).
“Killian!”
“I was-hullo.”
“This is my son,” she said, recovering. “Henry. Henry - this is Killian. He’s, uh, a friend.”
Henry, who seemed to be a precocious boy in his uniform and neatly combed hair, appraised Killian with a surprisingly critical eye. It was certainly a first for the bartender, so he didn’t know whether he ought to laugh or reciprocate.
“I haven’t seen you around before,” the boy announced by way of introduction.
“Mostly keep to myself,” Killian offered, hardly put-off by the blunt delivery. He was intrigued though by the pointed look the boy gave his mother before pulling a very large, very ornate looking book from his backpack.
“Eh? What’s that then?” asked Killian, curious and to keep up the conversation.
Henry was a good deal less friendly and clenched the open book to his chest as if it were a diary. He pulled it away just far enough so he could look awkwardly down at its pages without anyone else being able to see, and Killian put up his hands in mock surrender.
“Not to worry, lad,” he assured. “A man’s allowed a secret or two.”
“Henry,” Emma interjected tightly. “Put that away please.”
He stared good and long at a single page before he did as she asked, hugging his arms around the book. He stared at Killian over the spine.
“I have some questions for you, Mr-“
“Jones,” Killian supplied, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re not interrogating him, Henry,” Emma rebuked matter-of-factly. She reached for his book, but he leaned back, turning his narrowed-eye focus on Killian.
“Who’s better-pirates or ninjas?”
Killian tilted his head; amused but sensing the boy expected a serious answer. “Depends on the situation.”
“Henry,” Emma frowned, but her disapproval was ignored by both.
Henry closed his storybook with an abrupt and loud whump! and the questions started coming rapid-fire. “Spring or Winter?”
Killian straightened. “Spring.”
“Favorite color?”
“Red.”
“Middle name?”
“James.”
“Do you believe in fairies?”
“Do you?”
Henry continued to stare at him with unfiltered suspicion, and Killian didn’t blame him for it-it was his mum he was sort of maybe seeing after all. He returned the stare, both eyebrows raised in an expectant expression, while Henry decided whether his answers had been sufficient. Then, bold as brass, he snubbed Killian entirely and looked up at Emma to say - quite seriously - “We have to talk.”
Emma rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were turning pink-clearly embarrassed. “Yeah, well not now-you’re late for Archie’s.”
Henry wouldn’t back down that easily. “And what are you going to be doing?” he asked pointedly.
“Hey!” She exclaimed and Killian bit the inside of his cheek to hold in a laugh he was certain neither mother nor son would appreciate at this juncture.
“Mind your own business, kid,” said Emma, but it was without heat. It was clearly an endearment for the boy, whose sternness softened at the hearing of it. He even allowed her to stuff that big book of his into his backpack and heft it over his shoulder.
“See you after? Hot chocolate at Granny’s-you promised!”
“I know, I know,” she confirmed, bobbing her head. “I’ll be there.”
Henry shot Killian one last look that had Emma shaking her head before he turned tail and jogged off down the street towards Dr. Hopper’s office. When he was too far to follow, Killian turned to Emma; she’d put a hand to her face.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I mean-about all that...”
It was endearing really. Just a little.
But of course, she’d never forgive him saying so-he knew her well enough for that. So instead, he reached out and took careful hold of her wrist, gently pulling her hand away. Her forehead was furrowed, brows knit terribly together and if he’d had another hand he might have dared to press his thumb to her brow and try to smooth away those anxious lines.
He squeezed her hand fondly and let go. “Don’t be silly.”
Emma sighed and the started walking.
“He seems like a bright kid.”
“Yeah. He’s-” That brought out a rueful smile. “-thanks. It’s just--…complicated.”
“Families always are.”
They weren’t walking anywhere particular, but it was pleasant in a strange way. Killian had been trying to think of a way to talk to her properly about things-with minimal innuendos, despite how easy she made it-before he’d run into Henry. Now he couldn’t remember what had been so important.
Emma didn’t seem to mind.
They walked in relative silence, hands in pockets-but they had strung between them an air of easy companionship, and it was as prevalent whether they were making inane comments about the morning weather or saying nothing at all.
Outside that bubble, however...
Killian bumped his shoulder with hers. “Are they staring at you or me, you think?”
And Emma looked up from her feet to see more than a few townspeople watching them from store windows and other sidewalks; only half of them bothered trying to hide it. “What the hell?” she demanded. “Don’t these people have jobs?”
Killian laughed, bumping her again when she started to grumble. “It’s probably me,” she answered half-heartedly; her frustration clearly dampening her attempts at banter. “Regina hasn’t made it any secret that she hates my guts.”
“There really isn’t that much else to do in Storybrooke is there.”
“Not really.” Their elbows brushed as they rounded a corner. “You’re pretty newsworthy.”
“Must be,” he agreed. “Since I don’t really ever come to town.”
Emma stopped walking; Killian was half a pace ahead before he stopped too, looking quizzical.
“Something the matter?” he asked.
It was the middle of the afternoon, but the position of the sun behind the bakery they’d been passing had cloaked Emma almost entirely in shade. Her face, cool and smooth out of the sunlight, was thoughtful-beyond that, unreadable-and Killian distantly recalled the smooth ripple of water, the way shadows caught in cupped hands below the surface of a dark lagoon.
Her hands were fists that uncurled at the gentle touch of his fingers.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“Come again?”
Emma licked her lips and tried again. “Why don’t you come into town?”
Killian could have said a dozen things-there was a line for every mood and tone. But sometimes-sometimes-the simplest answers were best:
“Never had a reason to before.”
Emma’s lips were pressed together in a firm line, but he could see the clench in her jaw loosen, see how she went from chewing the inside of her lips to parting them; a soft secret smile, for him and him alone.
“I think I’m going to kiss you now.”
Killian hummed, casually brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “I think you should.”
“Yeah?” She stepped closer.
“Oh yes,” he insisted.
Emma grabbed his face and pulled it down. “Shut up,” she breathed, just before she surged upwards and brought their mouths crashing together. The air was cold but his mouth was warm and she knew what she hadn’t known until that moment: just how long it had been since they’d kissed.
Her brain tried to supply the numbers - carrying the one, adding up the minutes of the days - but then Killian did something with his tongue and all logic and reason abandoned her. It was like getting lost, knowing it’s the only way to find where you’re meant to go.
His stubble was rough under her palms, her mouth reddening against it as she pulled back and he chased her. He kissed her like it had been days instead of seconds, all teeth and pressing tongues. His hand slipped at her waist, cold fingers brushing exposed skin, and she jumped.
“AHEM!”
Emma pulled back automatically, and would have been swayed not to give a damn by the growl the slipped from Killian’s wet mouth-if it hadn’t been a nun standing at the corner. In full habit no less.
Emma practically leapt out of Killian’s arms, swiping her sleeve across her kiss-bruised mouth like it made a difference. In fact, all it did was draw Killian’s attention back to her mouth; she smacked him hard in the chest.
“Afternoon,” he coughed out, rubbing at his chest. The sheriff was stronger than she looked.
Emma recognized the nun from Mary Margaret’s doomed candle crusade; Mother Superior, she was pretty sure. Just as she was pretty sure she was going to hell for making out in front of a nun. Superior had certainly earned her name-the look she gave them was downright disapproving, like every foster mother she’d ever had rolled into one.
Then, with a tsk, she went on her way-making a point to walk a wide path around them and the square of sidewalk they’d apparently irreparably sullied.
Emma groaned.
“Guess the cat’s out of the bag,” Killian chuckled, hand finding her waist again.
“I’m pretty sure Ruby already told the entire town,” she told him and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder with a resigned huff.
---
Part B