Part Two

"I don't mean to frighten you, lass, but you appear to have been robbed."

Emma pushed Killian out of the way, practically tripping over the threshold in her rush to get inside, head swiveling around to take in the damage, coming to an abrupt halt in her front room. She heard him close the door behind him, and felt the instant relief of having something solid between her and the blizzard outside. She waited until he came up behind her, still rubbing his hands together to get feeling back, that she shot him an exasperated look, shucking off her gloves and tossing them on the bare kitchen counter with barely concealed disdain.

Her apartment looked exactly as it had that morning. It's not like it was trashed or anything. True, it was a little sparse on the home furnishings and personal knick-knacks side of things, but Emma had never been a pack rat. When she'd moved to Storybrooke two years previous, taking August's recently vacated apartment above the bar, she'd managed to fit all of the detritus of her broken-down life into a single duffel bag, and she hadn't managed to spread out too much in the meantime.

Emma shrugged. "I'm not sentimental."

"No?" he asked, taking in the rather spartan living room set-up. "You're not a nun, are you?" He gave her a suspicious once-over, one eyebrow raised to say he somehow doubted it. "Because these are some very monk-like digs you've got. Although... I have to admit the alcohol-selling gig makes an excellent cover."

Emma just snorted in reply. It wasn't that bad. The apartment had come partially furnished, after all. It had the basics. There was a fridge, a microwave, a stool by the counter. In the living room portion there was even a ratty old couch, a wooden chest, and August's abandoned record collection shoved against one wall. It was the scuffed, checked linoleum and standard white walls that really gave the place that One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest vibe. Though the dated, mismatched furniture probably didn't help matters. But Emma had never really cared about that stuff. She wasn't one to turn down complimentary furniture. She sure wasn't going to buy her own to replace it. The more you have, the harder it is to leave when you need to, and Emma had long ago learned to pack light.

"I must say, it doesn't help much to unravel the mystery that is Emma Swan." It took her a moment to work out precisely why his last statement bothered her so much, beyond the obvious. Just a moment, until she whirled around to catch him holding up a piece of mail between his forefinger and his thumb, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Her electricity bill. The one she'd left unopened on the counter that morning. The one that had her full name printed on the envelope.

Shit.

"Hey!" she said, making a grab for the letter, but he was too fast for her, shuffling back a few paces and holding it higher than she could reach, like he was a playground bully out to steal her lunch money. Emma wondered if he realized she was not above sucker-punching him to get what she wanted. It had certainly worked wonders on the playground bullies of her youth. The growing look of panic in his eyes indicated that he had most probably just hit on that very realization, as he took in the determined set of her jaw, and her hands gathering into fists at her sides.

"Uh, uh, uh," he tutted, raising both of his hands in front of him in a peaceful gesture, the offending letter still clutched between his fingers. "I'm sequestered in the very austere quarters of a virtual stranger, and not a soul knows where I've got to." He shrugged, lips twisting into a grin. "Think about it! You could be an axe murderer!" A dramatic pause. "You could be a Republican!" Emma just shot him an unimpressed look. "Turnabout is fair play. Don't you agree, Swan?"

The continued use of her last name was another dig, but it came wrapped in a sound enough argument, Emma was reluctant to admit. It was all she could do to grunt her assent, stepping forward to snatch the envelope from his grasp, just as he began fanning himself with it.

"You could always just go back to your room at Granny's..." She suggested, as she threw the letter on top of her refrigerator, out of view. "I'm sure it's toasty warm in there, what with all of those snoring bodies pressed together..." His smug smile disappeared at once, replaced with something more akin to a puppy that had just been kicked.

"You wouldn't be so cruel." Emma had to give him props, it was a stronger woman than her who would be able to kick the owner of that heartbroken look out into the cold. He was laying it on really thick, his eyes twin blue orbs of sadness. Emma could be a bitch, but she wasn't actively evil. Necessarily.

She just waved a hand, to let him know he was off the hook, and headed for the chest behind the couch that housed the extra linens and blankets, lifting the lid to search for a spare down comforter. "You can stay. Just don't touch anything."

She looked up to see if he was okay with her caveat, to notice that he'd naturally gravitated towards the ancient turntable set in the corner, beneath a poster of Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo trudging through the snowy streets of New York arm in arm, practically radiating youth and promise. He was already pulling the records from their shelf to examine the covers.

"What did I just say?" Emma grumbled, as she pulled out the blanket she'd been searching for, letting the lid fall shut with a thud. He startled at the sound, but didn't pause in his thorough examination of the record collection.

"You're a Dylan fan?" he asked, his eyes lightening with some measure of interest, indicating the poster, and Emma rolled her eyes, dropping the blanket on the couch to make her way over to stand beside him.

"August, that's the guy who I'm renting this place from, is. All of this," she waved a hand to indicate the poster, turntable and shelves of records, "Belongs to him. He left it all here when he got married. I'd never even seen a vinyl record until I moved in here." She paused a moment, considering the implications of being honest with this guy. "But yeah, I must've played every album on that shelf at least a hundred times since. I guess you could say I'm a fan."

His lifted his eyes from the cover of an album that hailed from the oft-maligned Christian phase, to meet Emma's gaze. "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right is my favorite song in the universe," he confessed, indicating the poster. There was a flash of hesitation in his features, as if he wasn't sure if he should continue, Emma's eyes drawn to his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard. "My Mum used to play it around the house a lot when we were little. It's been my favorite song my whole life."

Emma didn't miss the plural there. We. A sibling. Maybe more than one. But there was something else too, something deeper than nostalgia teasing at the end of his words. Something like... regret, almost. Loss. Maybe that.

"Mine is Boots of Spanish Leather." The admission tripped off her tongue before she could stop it. She winced, closing her eyes as she waited for the inevitable comment on how sentimental it was, but to her surprise, it never came. She opened her eyes instead to find Killian examining her rather closely, much in the same way he had the album covers.

He cocked his head to the side, holding her gaze for a long moment before speaking at last. "I think you and I have more in common than you think, Emma Swan." Before Emma could even hope to consider that too closely, he indicated the last record he had pulled from the shelf, the one with the cover with mirrored the poster tacked to the wall. "May I?" Emma only nodded, watching as he crouched down, lifted the turntable lid, and slipped the record from its sleeve with reverent fingers. After a moment, the upbeat fingerpicking of an acoustic guitar filled the room, followed by Dylan's husky drawl, advising "Well, it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe."

They sat in silence as the song played out, Killian on the floor by the turntable, Emma having retreated back to the couch, both physically and mentally. She wasn't quite sure what to do with this quiet, thoughtful Killian Jones. She hadn't really considered there might be someone of substance hidden beneath that cocky, and yes, attractive, exterior, and now that she'd seen glimpses of one, she wasn't sure exactly how to handle it. Cocky Killian she could fend off with her trademark snark. Quiet Killian was a whole different kettle of fish.

As Emma thoughts warred silently from her position on the couch, Killian leaned forward to lift the needle before the next song could begin, sitting back on his haunches as he placed the record carefully back in its sleeve, tucking it back onto the shelf.

He turned his gaze to Emma, whose thoughts ebbed away as their eyes locked, before he walked over and plopped down on the couch beside her, bouncing up and down on the cushions, like a middle aged mom in a mattress store. "A little cramped," he admitted, stretching out his legs to indicate the length discrepancy. "But I daresay the alternative is out of the question?" There was hopeful edge to his voice, but just enough bravado to give her the courage to knock him back.

"Not a chance." He grinned anyway, leaning over to pull the comforter across, wrapping himself in it like he was the filling of a fluffy white burrito. As he closed his eyes, nuzzling into the fabric with his cheek as he savored the warmth, Emma could not deny it made for an adorable tableau. A thought which had her on her feet in a split second, backing away towards her room.

"Bathroom is down the hall to the left. My room is to the righ-." Her cheeks colored as she cursed internally. "Not that you'll need to know that. There's more blankets in the chest if you get cold, and there's milk and juice in the fridge, if you get thirsty."

"No kiss goodnight, Swan?" The smirk was still there, but it was a half-hearted attempt. He knew the answer already.

Instead of responding, Emma just retreated to her room, slamming the door between them before she could do something stupid, like actually realize maybe he wasn't entirely the cocky idiot she'd thought he was.

It took her a long time to drift off to sleep with the knowledge that someone else was out there, in her space. And she without a lock on her bedroom door. Not that she really thought he'd abuse that, exactly. As far as strangers went, he seemed pretty nonthreatening. But a locked door is better for more than just keeping out intruders. It has a way of keeping out the fear and the unknown quantities just as well. If only she had a lock on her door.

Maybe that was why the dreams came that night, they could tell she was unsettled. The dreams were the same as they always were. More nightmares, really, than dreams. The parade of familiar faces and familiar rejections. In her dreams she ran from all of them. Rode pirate ships across the waves, towards something better. Towards someone, a compass guiding her way. But wherever she was going, she never reached it. In the end, she was always trapped, steel walls closing in. Trapped in an elevator, plunging straight down. She always woke up before she hit the bottom.

She woke up screaming. She always did, when she had that dream. That nightmare. Only this time, there was a hand warm against her back, soothing her back into wakefulness, and it was this sudden awareness that had her at full battle stations, jumping out of her bed, flicking on her beside lamp, whirling around to confront... Killian Jones.

Killian Jones was sitting on her bed in all his sleep-rumpled glory, hands raised in surrender, a sheepish expression creeping onto his face.

Emma's equilibrium was a little off, from the dream, and the sudden movements, and she reached out a hand to steady herself on the night stand, but she didn't take her eyes from her intruder.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" It's the first thing that tumbled out, the first of many questions she had for the man currently scratching behind his ear with a hand he should be using to defend himself from all the righteous fury Emma was about to unleash on him, the fury she could feel bubbling up in her throat. "WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU IN MY ROOM?!" She stumbled forward a bit, her hand grabbing at her bedside lamp, and she clutched the base in her hand, just in case she needed to brandish it as a weapon.

"Whoa, lass!" He stood up then, hands still raised.

"Don't whoa lass me, buddy!" Emma snarled, raising the lamp in her hand slightly, so he sees she is armed. "You didn't wake up to a stranger in your bed!"

"On your bed. Not in your bed," he hastened to correct her, as if that was a crucial detail.

"You have five seconds to explain yourself," Emma said, letting her voice fill with cool menace, "before I toss you outside to the blizzard. And if I don't like your answer..." She cast a short, meaningful glance at the window.

He nodded slowly in understanding of her threat, taking a deep breath. Emma cocked her head to the side, indicating the countdown had begun.

"I heard you. In your sleep." Another ear scratch. Boy was nervous. He should be nervous. "At first I though the gallant thing would be too ignore it, pretend I hadn't heard." Emma resisted the urge to snort at his use of the word gallant. Who did he think he was? A medieval knight? "But you didn't wake up. And then you starting screaming." He shrugged, beginning to slide his hands down to his sides by inches, as though Emma wouldn't notice if he did it slow enough. "My brother Liam used to have night terrors when he was young. Terrifying episodes, sometimes nearly an hour of just bloodcurdling screams, like he was terrified of his own insides." He let his hands drop all the way to his sides. "I used to rub his back, when they happened. It seemed to calm him some. I'm sorry if I overstepped, I just..." His gaze dropped to the floor. "I overstepped. I'm sorry."

And with that, Emma felt the indignation flow from her body. Genuine contrition. Emma hadn't expected that. Nor had she expected such an innocent explanation, and now she'd gotten one, she felt a bloom of shame color her cheeks. She loosened her grip on the lamp, letting it fall back onto the bedstand with a clatter. "No, I'm sorry," she said in a small voice, smaller than she would have liked. Then again, Emma wasn't all that great at admitting when she was wrong. "I completely freaked the fuck out, and I overreacted."

His gaze shot back up at once, blue eyes seeming to be gauging her seriousness. "No, lass, I shouldn't have come in. It was stupid of me to think that-" His words were cut off when Emma shoved him back down onto the bed to get him to stop rambling.

"It was sweet," Emma said simply. "Misguided, and you are lucky I didn't brain you with my lamp, but... sweet. So... thank you." Killian didn't say anything in return, his eyes studiously avoiding her own, but she could have sworn she saw the tips of his ears turn pink.

"Want some hot cocoa?" She asked, when the silence had grown a touch too awkward.

"Oh god yes."

Making cocoa turned out to be a bit of a process. Emma couldn't find her only saucepan at first, and then, when she finally found it she had Killian's bemusement to contend with, as he wondered aloud why she didn't just use a kettle, something Emma didn't have. A little fact that seemed to leave him positively aghast, as he began muttering under his breath something about "American philistines."

"So..." he began, when she slid his mug of cocoa over to his side of the counter. Unaccustomed to guests, Emma only had one bar stool, a cracked vinyl specimen which had surely been spirited upstairs from the bar at some point, so Killian had dragged the blanket chest over at some point to use as his own personal chair.

"So..." Emma replied, blowing on the top of the her drink to cool it down.

"Is the bar yours?" He asked suddenly, causing Emma to accidentally swallow her first mouthful too soon, scalding her throat.

"I'm sorry?" Emma managed to splutter, as she felt the pain radiate down her esophagus.

"The Rabbit Hole. Does it belong to you?" He was gripping his mug firmly between his hands, but his focus was on her, waiting, interested.

"You think I'd name my bar The Rabbit Hole?" Emma snorted, shaking her head. "The bar belongs to August. Same as this apartment does. He's the boss, I guess. I just do all the work," Emma said with a self-deprecating smile, which caused Killian's brows to furrow together. "He's really not that bad," she hastened to add, feeling the need to defend her boss. "He used to be a bigger part of the picture, back before I knew him. He ran the bar practically on his own, and lived in this apartment. But a couple years ago, his priorities changed. He got married, had a kid." Emma shrugged. "I showed up at the right place at the right time, and now I manage the day-to-day, and in return I get to stay here for practically nothing, with free reign over his record collection." She grinned.

"I do reserve the right to judge a man who just leaves his records behind." Killian grumbled, and Emma resisted the urge to laugh at the scandalized look on his face. "That's just poor form, that is."

"Oh sure," Emma said teasingly, leaning forward slightly. "And I just bet you take all of your records out on the road with you?"

"Oh but if I could," he clutched a hand to his heart dramatically, and Emma rolled her eyes. "Alas, our fortunes as a touring band being what they are, they are currently laying around in a box in some shabby basement flat in Soho. But had I a brick and mortar pile to call me own? You can bet I wouldn't leave them under the guardianship of the current tenant of my depressing bachelor pad. No matter how lovely the caretaker." He waved a hand forward, indicating all of Emma's flannel-pyjama glory.

Emma resisted the urge to snort again. She opened her mouth to defend her apartment, which he'd definitely insulted, but closed it again just as quickly. He'd also kind of complimented her, no matter if he really meant it or not, and she guessed that made them kind of square.

"Always wanted to work in a bar?" It was a stupid question, and Killian surely realized this, because she heard him wince a second after the question slipped out. Or maybe he'd just burned his tongue.

"Every little girl's dream," Emma cracked, before she took pity on him. "I don't know. It works for me. I get to wear flat shoes every day, and no one expects me to be perfectly friendly all the time." Now it was time for Killian to snort in amusement. Emma reached her elbow across the counter to nudge his own, indicating she wasn't impressed. If anything, his smile grew wider.

"And Storybrooke? You're from here? Originally, I mean."

And Emma's heart sank a little. An origin story? That's what he wanted?

"Uh, no. Not really. I grew up all over." She paused, wondering how much she felt like telling this stranger. This kind of nice stranger she was never going to see again anyway. What did it matter if he knew about her? "I bounced around a lot of foster homes. Even when I aged out of the system, I never really found that place, you know? Where you just know you belong?"

"And is Storybrooke that place?"

Emma shrugged. "Maybe. But someone once told me home is the place where, when you leave, you just miss it. I guess when I leave, I'll know."

Emma looked up from her mug to see Kilian watching her quietly, considering her almost. She was half afraid she'd see pity in his eyes, after she'd let slip about being an orphan and all, but to her relief it wasn't pity that she saw there. Something more like he was trying to figure her out. She wondered if that could be more dangerous.

"What?" she asked, when he said nothing.

"You're just not quite what I expected." Emma almost laughed.

"And...what did you expect?"

"Honestly?" There was that ear scratch again. She kind of wanted to play poker against this guy. She'd wipe the floor with him. "I don't know. I guess I didn't think we'd have so much in common."

"Do we?" Emma wondered aloud. Did they?

Instead of answering, he laid his left arm flat on the countertop, rolling up the sleeve of his jacket with his right hand, revealing a network of raised pink scars running from his elbow to his knuckles, standing out against pale skin. Emma resisted the urge to run her fingers along the lines of them, to feel the ridges where the staples came out.

"Tyre blew out on the van in the middle of the night, halfway through Arizona on our first US tour. Caught Will completely unawares, poor bastard. He swerved and rolled the van right into a ditch. I don't remember much, knocked my head pretty hard, but we think I must've punched a window to get out." He shrugged, pulling his sleeve back down until it covered the worst of the marks. "Three surgeries and the tendons are still fucked." He turned his hand over slowly so it was facing palm up, and clenched his fist together, Emma noticing for the first time the way his hand shook with the effort, before he relaxed his grip. "Took two years of physical therapy to be able to play simple chords again. I wanted to be the next Jimi Hendrix, and now I've mostly been relegated to pretty-boy singer. Sometimes the lads feel a bit bad for me and chuck me a tambourine every once in a while, but on the whole, I'm bitter about it."

"That blows." It was lame, and it was all she could think of to say. And yet, to her surprise, Killian laughed.

"Yeah," he nodded. "It does. But I guess... I guess it's just one of those things. You either let it sink you, or you don't."

"And you didn't let it," Emma answered simply.

"Right." He said, chancing a glance back up at her face. "Something tells me you know a fair bit about that."

"A bit," Emma shrugged in agreement, feeling like they were moving into dangerous territory with this.

"I think that deserves a song," he said, standing up suddenly.

"A song? A song from you?" Emma asked, wondering what the hell had just occurred.

"Me? Pfft. I don't serenade on the first date, Swan," he said simply, moving back to the corner which housed August's records.

"Date?!" She called out, still frozen to her seat. But he just winked, pulling out a familiar record cover from the shelf, and expertly dropping the needle at precisely the right moment.

He returned to stand in front of her when the song began, eyes shining, and she could feel the tears begin to well up in her own eyes despite her better instincts. She wasn't sure what it was about this guy, but he had a way of sneaking through her defenses like a fucking ninja.

So when Bob sang "I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss," and he leaned forward and kissed her, she held him close and kissed him back.

When Emma awoke, it was after ten and she was alone. She paused to listen, but there was nothing to hear, just that familiar silence of Storybrooke the morning after a snowstorm. Not so much as a dog bark, or a distant sound of a snow plow. As she expected, her apartment was empty, no indication that anyone had ever shared the space, save for the blanket she found neatly folded on the arm of her couch. Not so much as a note.

He'd clearly made van check on time after all.

But really, what had she expected? He was a rake, who used his good looks and not inconsiderable charm to bed-hop his way across the USA, to spare himself the indignity of sharing a double room with four other guys. She knew this. She knew that he'd used her for her warm lodgings, the same way she'd inadvertently used to him to stave off her nightmares, and now for all intents and purposes, they were square. A satisfying exchange. No need to even bring sex into it.

So why did she still circle her apartment twice, eyes peeled in vain for a spare scrap of paper? Because they hadn't had sex? Because she hadn't just been some groupie he'd followed home? Because they'd, god forbid, bonded? Pathetic. With a groan, Emma fell back onto her mattress, covering herself over with her comforter until her standard white apartment walls were obscured from view. She didn't need this shit.

She hadn't accomplished much by the time her shift began at two. She'd managed to shower and choke down a bowl of Cheerios, but little else, unsure of what exactly it was she usually did to fill the time. When she did finally make it downstairs, she was none too surprised to find Ruby leaning against the bar, flipping through a magazine, the mid-afternoon lull in full swing.

"Angling for employee of the month?" Emma asked over her shoulder, taking some perverse pleasure in watching her friend whirl around in alarm. It was an expression Ruby quickly managed to school into one of bored indifference, tossing a brown curl over her shoulder, and haughtily turning her attention back to Harry Styles's illegitimate triplets, irritated at the interruption.

Until, that is, there was the tell-tale buzzing of a phone on silent, and Ruby immediately reached into her jeans pocket, pulling out the device. The look of bored indifference quickly vanished as she read the message, and began replying with fingers flying so fast Emma only saw the blur of red nail polish. And then her eyes fell on Emma, who was still standing there, wondering if it was the right moment to mention August's strict No Phones At Work policy. She gave the security camera trained on them an apologetic shrug, in case it helped.

And then Ruby handed her the contraband item, before she could properly refuse, her eyes dancing with some measure of new mischief.

"Rubes?" Emma asked warily, knowing that look.

"Just read," Ruby urged her, tapping the phone in Emma's hand with one scarlet fingernail. "Trust me, you need to see this."

Figuring that she was already guilty by association, Emma shrugged, squinting to examine what it was that Ruby had deigned to show her. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest when she realized what it was she was looking at. It was the same Wikipedia page Emma had seen last night, complete with Killian Jones's photo and date of birth. But Ruby didn't know about that. Any of it. As far as she was concerned, Killian was just the hot Englishman who'd fronted the band of the drummer she'd fucked in the back of a van. She glanced back up at her friend, confused. "Yeah. Scruffy Guitar God from last night has a Wikipedia page. So?"

Ruby let an exasperated sound gather at the back of her throat, urging Emma to scroll down with some frantic miming.

Emma rolled her eyes at the dramatics, but turned her attention back to the article. A little bit about his childhood. Emma bypassed it; it felt too much like prying. There was a small section on his previous band, The Jolly Rogers, but the majority of the article was taken up by his last five years with The Dashing Rapscallions. Their two first studio albums. The growing interest in the industry press. The punishing touring schedule. The near-fatal van crash which almost ended their careers. The ensuing band member shuffle. The comeback album.

She couldn't lie. It made for a compelling read. But it was the very last paragraph that really got her attention.

Killian Jones was last seen in the company of a snarky blonde bartender that he would very much like to see again when The Dashing Rapscallions tour the North East in April. And if said bartender should examine the contacts on her phone, she might possibly discover a pretty-boy singer's phone number saved under K. If she were so inclined to keep in touch, that is. He hopes so.

She didn't dive for her own phone immediately. She didn't want to give Ruby the satisfaction. So instead she calmly handed Ruby's phone back, dodging her expectant look to serve a waiting cluster of college kids their pitcher of Sam Adams, taking her time to check their IDs with a suspicious amount of geniality. It wasn't until her coworker had disappeared into the back for more ice that she made her move, pulling her phone out of her pocket and practically barricading herself in the walk-in refrigerator, one hand poised on the handle in case Ruby tried to open it from the outside.

It was right where he said it was, right under K. Killian Jones. Two of them, actually. A cell number and another longer one with a mess of prefixes she didn't recognize, which probably meant it was his English number. She opened up a message conversation with the former.

I got your message. Or more accurately, my friend Ruby (I believe your drummer is acquainted) assaulted me with your Wikipedia page until I'd read your message. Very smooth, Mr Jones. Even if I'm sure referring to yourself in the third person is a sure sign of narcissism. ES

There was a pause. An agonizing moment, enough time for Emma to wonder if the couple of hours on the road to distance himself from it all hadn't made him regret reaching out, to regret getting to know the snarky bartender with all the hang-ups and defense mechanisms.

And then those tell-tale three dots appeared, as he typed back, and Emma could feel the roiling in her gut.

Thank you, I think ;-) KJ.

And then a moment later;

Am I to understand this means that you also wish to see me again?

Of course there was a winky-face. It was Killian Jones. There had to be a winky-face. But if she wasn't mistaken, there was also something like nervous anticipation creeping into that question. Emma took a breath, thumb hovering over the keypad as she considered her answer, considered another meeting with the scruffy musician who annoyed and challenged her in equal measure. The scruffy musician who'd seen her at her worst, and had stuck around to calm her down. The scruffy musician who'd kissed her like she was something special, and not something broken.

I wouldn't be averse.

She lost her nerve at the last moment, trying to keep it cool. Was it really that hard to type a simple 'yes'? It was three fucking letters. Y - E - S. She did. Of course she fucking did. But no, she had to play it coy. Why did she always have to play it coy?

But her trademark cool response didn't seem to deter him.

:-) We'll be back in Maine in April. But we're staying in Boston in February to record our new EP. I could maybe take off for a few days...

Emma smiled, imagining the flash of those blue eyes, those soft lips curving into an encouraging grin, and typed out her answer.

Good.

A/N: In this story, Killian is a weird amalgamation of two of my favourite front men, Brian Fallon and Frank Turner, but with more guyliner. If you know much about either of them, you'll know which parts I have stolen from whom, to create this Killian Jones Rock Star Frankenstein's Monster of mine. There are also some clumsy attempts at subtext through song/music. I tried. You get points for trying, right?