on screen [CS&COLIFER]

v. drunk

she hasn't the slightest clue why the actual hell she had agreed to attend this dumb, dumb, dumb school dance.

she sees crimson red material and suddenly remembers.

ruby.

she curses her under her breath as she downs spiked punch (which, if she is being damn honest, is the only reason she hasn't lost her head yet).

she throws her red solo cup into a nearby trash can and weaves her way through the large crowd of hormonal teenagers on the dance floor towards the bathroom.

it's occupied (& the only bathroom on the bottom floor, as storybrooke is very cheap), or at least it appears to be. she knocks.

"hello?" when there's no response, she twists the knob to discover it's open. she sighs and walks in

--only to find a boy.

a boy by the name of killian jones (hunched over the toilet seat; he looks positively wrecked, his usual suave, bad-boy, couldn't-care-less appearance gone).

she's about to exit, but something makes her turn around. (emma wants to say it's the alcohol, or the fact that if a teacher finds him here, clearly intoxicated off his ass, they'll all be in trouble, but it's not. it's the seventh grade, when she was a new transfer student, and the word orphan hung over her head, and "oi, i suggest you fuck off, mate." it's killian jones.)

she sinks to her knees besides him, and his eyes remain closed as he doesn't so much as flinch. she's kind of worried he's dead by now.

"hey," she pokes his stubble, "you okay?"

he doesn't move.

"killian?" she tries again. she shakes him slightly.

she's starting to get worried not because he's dead, she says to herself, but because she's probably going to be the number one suspect if he is dead, and dammit she had really wanted to attend college, and this will not look good on her track reco-

his eyes (blue, so so blue) slowly blink open.

"hey, beautiful."

she grimaces slightly, and tries (tries is key) to smile.

"you okay?"

"peachy, love," he hums as he closes his eyes again.

"are you sure? you look a little too pale, killian." she reaches out to brush a strand of hair from his sweaty forehead, but quickly retreats, as heat rushes to her face.

"you know my name?" he murmurs, before reaching for her hand and placing it over his head.

"who doesn't?" she tries, nervously smiling, tentatively running her fingers through his locks.

he grins, eyes closed. "most. they call me by my more colorful moniker: hook." his grin fades slightly. "thank you." she wonders if he means for asking if he was okay, or remembering his name.

it's silent for a while, before she attempts to move killian off the gross closed toilet seat.

"killian."

no response.

"killian," louder this time.

no response.

she huffs and then tugs at his roots, harshly.

"oi, love! what the bloody hell?"

"you're resting on a toilet seat. go home."

he grunts, and then tilts his head to look at her.

"what?"

"nothing, love."

he grins, and then tries to stand. he stumbles, but manages to hold himself upright, leaning into the wall.

"do you have a ride home?"

"nope." he pops the p adorably. "i'll be fine."

she scrunches her nose. "you can't drive. you can barely stand. c'mon." she reaches for his hand and slumps it over his shoulder. (guilt isn't something she wants.)

he tries to protest, but she won't let him.

they make it to car, barely really, and killian looks at her car incredously, as he raises a brow.

"killian jones will not be caught dead in this yellow contraption." he says.

"killian jones will be caught dead if he doesn't get in this 'yellow contraption.'" she uses air quotes.

"hop in, 'mate.'" she attempts and fails horribly to copy his accent.

he laughs, loud and it's the best thing emma has ever heard. she helps him in and then jogs back to her side.

"that's the worst impression i've ever heard," he turns to her.

she rolls her eyes.

-

it'd been a hassle to get killian's still slightly drunk ass up the stairs and into bed. there had been a lot of ruckus, yet, luckily enough, no one had woken up.

she's about to leave, when killain catches her hand. it's warm and she's not too sure she can trust a boy with warm hands.

"thank you, emma swan."

she smiles, slightly in disbelief. "you know my name?"

he smiles, squeezing her hand softly before letting go, "who doesn't?"

[a/n:

excerpts !]