someone to watch over me

(rated K)

fluff and stuff, and Granny's jukebox. takes place in the elusive six weeks post 4a

"It's a jukebox."

Her voice startles him – it's a testament to how distracted he's been that he doesn't even hear her approach, doesn't hear the muted tap of her boots echo through Granny's back hallway.

She sidles up next to him, their shoulders brushing, and glances down at the contraption in front of him. He'd been staring at it absently, the bright flashing bulbs and colorful print standing out like a sore thumb against the otherwise muted palate of the establishment.

"A—juke box?"

He tries the unfamiliar word on his tongue, rolling the syllables around in his mouth, and he catches a glimpse of her smile out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah." She shifts, digging a hand down into the pocket of her jeans, and comes up with a small silver coin. "You put money in it—" She holds up the coin, dropping it down into a slot in the machine—"and it plays music."

She leans across, pressing a small button on the side several times before a melody starts to play, slow and sweet.

"See?"

Her smile is a glorious, infectious thing, and he feels the corners of his own lips quirk up in response as she slides into the space in front of him, leaning back against the jukebox. Her fingers catch on the zipper of his jacket, the backs of her knuckles brushing against the planes of his stomach, the muscles just beneath tightening in response.

A woman's voice begins to sing, trilling notes that fall in a sad sort of rhythm. Emma hums along, almost unconsciously, and as he listens to words of a serenaded love story, he feels affection of his own bubble up in his chest, warm and pure.

His arm slips low around her waist, hook finding her wrist, and as he tugs her forward gently, she glances up at him from under her lashes, a knowing smirk lighting up her features.

"Why, Captain," she says, voice low and words brushing teasingly against the skin of his neck. He dips his head, reflexively, skimming his nose across the line of her cheek. "Are you dancing with me?"

For all her jest, she falls into step with him naturally, easily, letting him lead her through the simple footwork.

"It's been known to happen before," he returns mildly, grinning when she snorts indelicately into his shoulder. "Just don't tell anyone. Wouldn't want to ruin the reputation."

He feels the curve of her smile in the space just below his jaw, and he gives into temptation, tilts his head just the slightest bit to press his lips against her temple, the ridge of her cheekbone, the corner of her lips. She shifts, hand slipping from his hook to wind around his neck, stepping closer so that now they're no longer dancing, just more or less swaying on the spot.

Her words, when she speaks, are barely more than a whisper. "Your secret's safe with me."

She rocks forward, lips catching his, the kiss soft and slow, almost languid in the way her tongue slides against his, the way her teeth scrape across his bottom lip, and he knows she feels the groan that rumbles up from his chest unbidden, pressed together as close as they are.

She answers with a breath of her own, sharp and uneven when he breaks away long enough to guide her back, back against the faded old wallpaper and the peeling wainscoting. Her touch lights a thrill in his body, fingers clutching on to his waist, digging into the skin over his ribs, and as much as he wishes for a chance to steal her away—to worship her body in the way she deserves, pledge his fealty to her over and over again, in the most intimate of ways—she works the morning shift at the station, and her boy is not more than a hundred meters away, sharing a table and a round of milkshakes with her parents.

Her head falls back against the wall with a muted thud and he follows, resting his forehead against hers, breathing in the air that tastes like cinnamon and chocolate and something vaguely floral—something entirely Emma.

It's her turn to groan, though it's more of a whine of protest, and he chuckles as she voices his thoughts.

"It's getting late," she grumbles, carding her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he has to work to keep still, to not roll his body into hers. Her eyelashes flutter open, and he leans back several inches—'tis a dangerous thing to be so close to a woman who wants, he thinks, taking in the pout of her lips and wide-blown pupils of her eyes.

"That it is," he replies, not fighting the urge to trace a finger over the curve of her cheek, following a strand of silken gold back over her ear.

She sighs, straightening up and loosening her hold on the flaps of his coat. Her smile is soft, cheeks still flushed a pretty pink as her hands slide down the length of his torso, finally falling away just above the line of his belt—just above where he wants them the most.

"I'll see you in the morning?"

It comes out as a question, still, after all these weeks, and he can't help but smile, head shaking slightly. "Where else would I be?"