#saviourspirate

Not usually so defensive, New York City had quickly taught her that people were assholes and more importantly, everyone was pretty much out for themselves.  Working also as a bails-bonds person only confirmed Emma's dislikes towards strangers. 

If I just pretend to be asleep, maybe they'll stay the hell away...

She rested her head against the window again and waited with a held breath as the stranger - a young man - took a seat a few rows in-front without even acknowledging her. 

Huh. How about that? Seems that some strangers understand the meaning of personal space after all.

The man's lack of interest sparked a sort of quiet curiosity within Emma. She studied him in regard for a few moments.

With ruffles of dark hair sticking and curling in random directions, she assumes the man to be around her own age - maybe 29 or 30 given the broad shoulders and defined neck. His dress sense is smart, yet casual, with a dark blue waistcoat thrown over a crisp white shirt. Small earphones dangle from both ears, and Emma fights back the urge to wonder what he's listening to that's making his shoulders shift and move according to the song...

He's clearly musical, she thinks in quiet amusement, watching the young man absent-mindedly drum his lean fingers against the rail. She certainly does not wonder what those hands would feel like; to touch and venture along trembling limbs aching for more...

Seriously? Emma scolds herself quickly. Quit staring. 

As though he can sense her awkward gaze, the stranger glances back in her direction and damn, if he isn't as handsome as she'd feared.

Crap.

High cheekbones, dark, messy locks complete with a smile that sends a heated spark down her forearms, Emma is unaware of her shameful appreciation until said stranger tilts his head and goddamn it,  winks right at her. 

Get it together.

Emma snaps her gaze away and focuses on the outside world. Determination seeps into her mind. No longer are the ignorant youthful days of following love with a desperate desire, no, need, to be loved so immensely. There was no way she'd create some fantastical connection to some random guy, especially on the late bus home, after a long day.

All she needed was a bath.

And a glass of wine.

Okay, perhaps two.

I don't need anything, or anyone else. Not anymore. None of the flirty looks and bashful grins, Mr. I'd-look-good-wearing-anything.

Or nothing...

Emma buried that not unpleasant image as quickly as it formed. A quiet solitude came over her, until-

"You sit there in your, heartache;

Waiting on some beautiful boy to;

Save you from your old ways."

Jumping with a start, she ignored the quick leap her heart gave as she recognised the lyrics almost instantly. 

Oh, c'mon...

This guy couldn't be serious.

Apparently, he was.

If Jesus was the follower for so many religions, then The Killers were practically Emma's saviour. 

She wasn't ignorant to the irony of such relevant lyrics either. Especially when they were sung by someone as attractive and alluring as the stranger sitting a few rows in-front.

Never mind that he, in fact, sung rather beautifully.

"You play forgiveness, watching it now, here he comes."

A chill - whilst not entirely unwelcome in its surprisingly pleasing tingle - danced along Emma's forearms as the man tilted his head slightly, but not directly in her direction as she'd feared. 

She listened for a few more lines, lost in a mixture of taking in his quiet, soft voice, and a hidden, magnetic pull towards the lyrics forcing Emma to pay attention, and just listen-

"He doesn't look a thing like Jesus, but he;

Talks like a gentleman, like you imagined when you;

Were young..."

"Hey, you're singing aloud. You know that right?"

Hell.

Her dry quip had escaped her lips before she'd given it permission to do so.

This time, the stranger spun around with a grace that was suited to such a smooth voice, and Emma felt his full radiant grin settle against her own, thin-set lips.

"Perhaps."

He cocked a careful eyebrow at her, challenging her to make another remark of some sort. Grin widening, he was clearly well rehearsed not only in the art of charm, but in the art of recognising one's own blessed looks. Emma watched with her own eyebrow rose in equal challenge as the stare match loomed on.

"Then could you stop?"

"Perhaps."

"Please?"

"Is my voice that awful, love?"

No, and you damn well know it, don't you? She wanted to mutter, but was half pre-occupied with appreciating the low accent that graced his words with a lilted musicality.

Fed up of his smug grin, Emma decided to shake up the roles and do what she did best; analyse, and scare away. She noticed the guitar case by his feet, added one and one together and got to work.

"No need to be so quick to degrade your talents. I'm sure you'll catch a break sooner or later." She said sweetly. A brief moment was allowed as she then felt a sly smirk of her own creep across her lips. So folding her arms over her chest, Emma shot him a hard look. "How's the band going?"

His sudden look, taken aback and startled, only encouraged Emma in her readings. She breezed on, "Ah, as I thought. Not going too well is it, buddy?" She waved a hand and faked a sad, sympathetic look; complete with her best wide-eyed sweetheart gaze. "Never mind. There are plenty of studios in New York alone. Keep trying, you'll get there someday."

With that, she smiled sweetly again and turned around, back to staring outside the window, and waving yet another stranger, farewell. After all, everyone was a stranger in the end. No need to build up another relationship only to watch in fail with helpless desperation.

Those days were gone.

"And how about you, darling?"

Damn it.

A ringing annoyance mingled with a quiet confidence, and he carried on in a swift manner, "Don't assume you're anything other than an open book." He swung his legs around to cast a knowing look in her direction. "See, the only ones who travel so late are workaholics and late night party folk. I disregard the latter, judging by your attire, which means you've been working late. Correct?"

She simply stared.

"Right then. Working late often means one thing; a broken heart, relationship or...an orphan."

Emma froze at the mere mention of a lifetime left behind. This stranger, this wondrous strange man was holding up a magnifying glass to peer beyond careful walls, and it frightened her beyond belief. 

"A snark remark, a dry eye roll; cynical remarks merely cover a broken heart, my dear. I've seen it all before. Trust a lowly musician to recognise the sound of a fellow cynic burying all the hurt of the past beneath whatever bitterness we can mask."

We.

No longer you, but we.

She frowned, swallowing down whatever vulnerability she'd felt threatened by the moment he began picking apart her walls as though they were simply moths. 

"We?" She repeated quietly. "What happened to you?"

Wait.

Why am I even asking?

It's not like I care.

"Nothing of import."

"Really? Now you're clamming up?"

"Was I not bothering you before?"

Emma shrugged. "A bit." She admitted, then sobered into a tense silence of sorts. His words had startled her, though truthfully, she found his readings to be intriguing. How did one interpret so much from a stranger had he not recognised a similar past within her?

"So, The Killers...you like them?"

Once again, she'd surprised even herself with her need to continue talking to this stranger. Honestly, he felt more like a ghost; someone to delve into the past and admit your sorrows to. 

It was a little scary, partially uncomfortable yet also encouraging. 

"I do."

"Me too."

There was a beat, and then the man angled his head again and grinned. "By the way, I'm not in a band."

"But you're a singer, right?"

His lips twitched. "Perhaps."

That damn word was beginning to flare Emma's nerves. She fore-well knew it meant anything but a 'maybe' but a definite surety. 

Just when she though he'd turned around and seize talking, the young man - who Emma still had no clue whatsoever why they'd struck up some sort of amusing repertoire - reached for an object beneath his feet and pulled up a large, acoustic guitar and rested it carefully on his knee.

She watched him as he began to tune and refine, tempted to move across the row, closer, as he began to sing in a quiet, captivating manner that sparked goosebumps along her arms;

"We're burning down the highway skyline,

On the back of a hurricane;

That started turning, when you were young..."

  Just those few lines, and Emma was well and truly absorbed into the moment, relaxing into the enjoyment of his gentle voice.

Never mind that the lyrics stirred painful memories of a deliberately lost childhood buried beneath new memories of friends, a job, and a new-found sense of belonging. But the stranger's small smile and quietly watching eyes began to dissolve those walls until Emma fell into silent reflection.

He broke off after a few more lines, and broke through the silence with a quiet, "You alright there, lass?"

Now it was her turn to smirk. "Perhaps."

"Touche."

Her grin was playful now, and he returned it by balancing the guitar and offering a hand across the row of seats. His smile was charming, and Emma had a fatal sense of complete knowing that she'd been seeing, and responding, to that smile for a long time.

His hand hovered in-front of her. "Killian Jones."

Emma shook his hand, lingering the hold as she quietly replied, "Emma Swan. Pleasure to meet you, Jones."

She swallowed as Killian drew her hand up to his lips and placed a quick kiss to the back of her hand with all the charm of a Victorian gentleman. "And you, Swan."

~

They spoke and chattered until Killian's stop interrupted them. As she watched him bow his head and leave, with a flash of a grin in farewell, Emma felt a quiet sadness dissolve any sudden happiness she'd built up during their time together.

A little romance wouldn't do me any harm, she thought bitterly, waving goodbye to the only man she'd even offered a chance to open up since a damn long time.

Muttering under her breath about the unfairness of timing, Emma trudged down the stairs at her stop.

"Hey, miss?"

She jumped as the bus driver waved a hand, before she was able to disappear into the night, and thrust a piece of paper into her hands with a smirk. "Guy left this for you. Said it was extremely important..."

Emma hopped off with a raised eyebrow, but as she flicked over the note, her smile began to reappear;

Swan, should you find yourself in need of another chat, or singalong, I'd be more than willing to meet up. Yours, Jones.

He'd attached his number rather subtly on the back in a neat scrawl. Despite the cold wind battling against her, and the walls and the obstacles, Emma's grin didn't waver the entire walk home. 

~