A/N: Here's my newest AU! I just couldn't resist posting it. I've got about six chapters done now which has given me a headstart and, since I'll be posting about 1 to 2 times a week, some time to write more In the Key of F which has fallen behind as this story started to catch my attention. So, just so you know, this story will be darker than you may be used to coming from me. I really want to try and capture that grittiness that was Captain Hook and play with the idea of him going down that path of self-hatred and distruction as a famous musician with constant vice available to him. Killian on the show has been shown as becoming an alcoholic at times to cope and I want to explore that. I really hope I can give this topic (a new one for me) the respect and justice it deserves. While I have had several serious alcoholics in my life and have witnessed first hand the distruction they can cause, I don't drink and do not have personal experience with addiction, nor do I drink at all. I have, however, gone through serious mental health concerns, SSRI withdrawal and SSRI overdose (inexperienced physician error, not my own) so hopefully, even though that isn't the same, it can lend some authenticity to the thought processes in the story. Please let me know if I am not respectful in anyway during this journey and I'll do my very best to fix it. Also, I know the characters come across brash and hard in this chapter but don't worry- they'll come around. If you've read any of my others stories about healing and trust you know the process takes time. So, without further ado, here we go. Please let me know what you think! I really hope you enjoy this!

Warning: This chapter mentions alcohol abuse and contains crude language.

Disclaimer: All aspects of Once Upon A Time belongs to ABC and the shows creators, Adam and Eddy.

Bloody buggering fuck.

Not that Killian didn't usually say that for fun but this time he really meant it. Bloody harpies following him as if he were a prized pig because he'd forgotten his big aviators at home. Maybe. For all he knew he could have left it at one of the lasses chasing him's houses. Wasn't like he actually remembered if it was his own house he stumbled out of earlier that morning. All he knew was that he wanted his sunglasses because his head was pounding with last night's vice and the sun was making it all worse.

Bloody buggering fuck it all.

Why was he so stupid? You never learn, eh Jones?

The groupies were hot on his tail so Killian swerved right, following on the heels of an older man entering a big high rise apartment building. Like some sick fox chase, a couple of hounds made it past the slamming door behind him, practically barking in their excitement. Killian made for the stairs and took them two at a time, the distinct feeling that he was being herded into a trap if he didn't get out of the stairwell soon pulling at his stomach. He needed a place to hide.

Killian decided to take his chances on the second floor and entered the hallway, going a few doors up before he started to pound on one. Metal clanging sounded as the women ran up the stairs, their heels thankfully slowing them down. Why did he have to fire his security? Why did he think he was better than them? Not better. Just needed to hide. No one needs to see you at 2am, Jones.

"Who's there?" a feminine voice came from behind the apartment door. Soft footsteps sounded, a contrast to the harsh thumps of the groupies.

"Please, lass, let me in?" Killian pleaded quickly. If he could just get in for a few minutes and take a breath it would be okay. The women would lose interest and he could go home and figure out his mess in private and no one would be the wiser.

The door cracked open, only enough for the chain lock to go stiff. A bright green eye peered around the wood, a few tendrils of blonde hair drifting through the space. The smell of cinnamon wafted out of the apartment, a sight better than the smell of his own place.

"Who are you?" she asked, voice cold as her visible eye narrowed.

Who are you? Wait- what? Well that was a first. Killian forced his face calm and into that alluring mask he knew worked so well on the fairer species.

"Please, lass, I just need a safe refuge for a few minutes."

"Are you drunk?" Obviously his forced alure did nothing for this mystery woman.

"No, I can assure you I am very cognizant of reality." To be fair her guess wasn't far off. He'd been knee deep in rum about four hours prior but the sprint had sobered him up fairly quickly, a fact he was wishing wasn't the case.

"You stink like a bar floor," the woman bit back. Killian barely held back a snort at the bluntness. No one, except for maybe his manager, was ever that blunt with him. Not since-

Fuck Jones, now is not the time.

The women who'd been giving chase finally appeared in the hallway, seemingly drawn by his increasingly desperate lilt. Or maybe it was the smell seeping from his pores that Killian's nose had become immune to after spending too many nights on said stinky surface, but the blonde woman reminded him was still present. The lady behind the door's eyes flicked towards the noise.

"Who are you?" she asked, suspicion rising.

"Killian Jones. Musician. You might have heard me on the Top 100?" The one brow visible behind the door climbed a bit, clearly unimpressed.

"No. Sorry. No time for that shit."

"Please, lass. Just a few minutes." Killian didn't know why he was begging, why he didn't go down to another apartment and try his luck there. Or just face the fans like a decent human. But his manager would kill him if he had another interaction with a fan stinking of rum and sex. And there was just something about this woman that made him want to see her whole face.

"I have a gun," she informed him, startling Killian before shutting the door. Killian stood there, stunned for a moment before the door opened, revealing an absolute goddess of golden locks and firey eyes. There was no time to ogle though because the women chasing him had appeared in the hallway so Killian jumped into the apartment, slamming the door behind him and throwing the lock.

"Well aren't you pleasant," the woman drawled. When Killian turned back to the woman he noticed that, true to her word, there was a holster pinned to her belt that held a handgun.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Killian strolled into the apartment as if it were his mansion and not some stranger who was packing in her own home's apartment. The space, a combination of living room and kitchen, was pretty bare, just tan walls with no pictures. There was an old leather sofa against one wall, a coffee table with empty takeout containers a leg's length in front of it. The only new looking item in the space was a flat screen tv, modest in size but free from the dinginess of the rest of the place. The heat was turned down low, only adding to the coldness of the room. It wasn't a home. It was just four walls. A shot of sadness and recognition went through Killian at the thought. He knew exactly where he could find a second place with the same feeling. Killian shook himself from the thoughts threatening to consume him in front of a stranger.

"Police officer or serial killer?" Killian asked, motioning to the gun with his thumb as he flopped down on the sofa. The woman rolled her eyes, irritated. Even with the attitude she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen since-

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Killian grinned at that, something about this woman able to pull back his attention from the consuming thoughts immediately. Maybe it was the gemstone like eyes. Or the lean figure encased in tight jeans and a white tank top that kept catching his attention. Whatever it was, he would gladly drown in it. "Feisty, I like you."

"Apparently not your fans though," the woman drawled as the fans in the hallway started to yell for him. "Nice."

Killian glanced down at his knees, feeling shame at her words. Usually the comments never bothered him. As a rock sensation, Killian felt that it just added to the appeal. Wasn't being a jackass what people expected of him? It was certainly what the tabloids thought about him. Made him money and kept him in girls who he could kick out halfway through the night when the memories and guilt got too much without anyone liking him any less. But here was this beautiful stranger making an offhand comment and he felt like the shittiest person in the world.

Which he was. But the only people who knew him before were dead or long gone now so it didn't really matter how he acted. Or, at least that's what he told himself at night.

"You have a name?" Killian asked to distract himself from the rabbit hole his was treading the precipice off.

The woman considered him for a moment, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder in a smooth, practiced movement. Her eyes darkened as she calculated the danger revealing herself to a hungover musician and stranger would pose. "Emma Swan," she replied, seemingly figuring there wasn't much danger he could pose. The conclusion seemed reasonable to Killian. She was the one with the gun after all.

"Well, hello, Emma. I'm Killian."

"I know," she replied, unimpressed with a jerk of her thumb towards the door. "I remember."

"Tough lass to crack, aren't you?"

"Don't crack," Emma answered, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and gun glinting in the artificial light.

Don't crack? That was the fucking dream wasn't it? No need to fill the void with alcohol then, like some sort of burning calking. No need to go through women like people go through clean socks to keep the loneliness at bay for a few more hours. No need to scream out all the emotion on stage instead of on a street corner because that way you're seen as a performer and not a complete wreck. Keep some dignity, you know? Don't crack- wouldn't Killian give his left hand so he could say that?

And yet, there was something about Emma that made him think don't crack didn't mean hasn't cracked. There was a hardness that reminded Killian of someone who'd broken their favourite mug and then, when they pieced it together, used too much Superglue, smearing it all across the front like a shield and letting it dry without doing anything to wash it away. Maybe they thought it would keep it protected in the future? Maybe they were right and Killian needed some Superglue of his own?

Emma was quickly becoming a puzzle he needed to solve.

Killian's head began to pound as his adrenaline wore off and the hangover symptoms creeped forward again. A woozy groan escaped his lips before he could stop it. If only he could get a hold of something to dull the pain. Something golden brown with a burn. He let his head fall into his hands, elbows balanced on his black jean clad knees.

"If you puke, I will shoot you," Emma growled.

"I won't puke," Killian answered, trying for a semblance of her American accent. The words just came out sounding crude and petulant. The women in the hallway were still screaming. "I've been in worse shape."

"What a relief," Emma answered, sarcasm dripping from her words. Despite the tone, Emma turned to her cupboard and pulled down a mug before setting it under her Keurig, slipping in a coffee package and pressing a button. Soon the smell of warm, bitter coffee filled the air as the steam rose from the red mug. If Killian was going to give his left hand to not crack, he'd give his right to get a mug of that beverage.

Before Killian could offer his appendage, Emma had poured a little cream into it and approached him slowly, holding out the coffee as if he were a scared deer. Or a very nauseous one. Killian took the warm mug when she got within reach, taking a large, scalding gulp as soon as the ceramic was against his lips. Even with just the one sip, the human feeling that often hid when he started to drink started flooding back to him. Killian sighed at the sensation.

"Thank you, lass," Killian said with a small and grateful smile. The only answer was a firm nod. Emma returned to her spot at the counter then, watching Killian with uninterested eyes as he continued to drink the coffee. Neither said anything. Killian, usually an expert with smooth one liners had nothing to say to Emma. There was no desire to be crude. Or superficial. Or cocky. Maybe that was because she'd shot him down so effectively before and it was too hard on his fragile ego? Or maybe it had nothing to do with that.

A few minutes later the noise in the hallway died down as the women recognized finding their idol was a lost cause and Killian finished his coffee, feeling decidedly better than before he'd stepped into the apartment. The only reason for that was probably the coffee. Nothing to do with the woman still watching him in distrustful silence who'd made him the drink. Right?

Killian stood and offered her the empty mug. "Thanks again," he said, moving towards the door. "I won't force your hospitality on you any more. If you ever need tickets to a rock show, call my people." As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized how pompous they sounded. Usually, it was his parting sentence to anyone who helped him, but saying it to Emma felt like a cheap cop-out. Killian's hand went up to scratch behind his ear, a tick he'd thought he'd kicked years prior when he adopted the edgy façade. "I mean, if you want to," he added quickly before mentally slapping himself for sounding like a virginal fourteen-year-old.

"Don't hold your breath," Emma answered, pulling open the door enough to poke her head out and checking to make sure the hallway was empty. When she was satisfied it was she stepped out of the way, letting the door swing open fully.

Killian stepped across the threshold, a sinking feeling inside that he would never see the beautiful lass again. Something which usually was a good thing. No strings. Less complications. No one to see the crash and burn. Just the high as it should be. But this time- this time there was a reluctance heavy in his gut. Ten minutes with the woman and he was already feeling wrong. Like something had gotten jumbled up inside.

Get it together, Jones.

"Good bye," he forced out before starting up the hallway, trying his best not to think about the way leaving Emma made him feel.

"Hey, Killian?" Emma called, making him pause. With a start he realized that was the first time she'd ever used his name and that her voice was much softer now that he was out of her space. His name on her lips sounded like every song he'd ever tried, and failed, to write because they were too much. And not enough. Consuming. Isolating. Everything at once.

"Yeah, lass?" he asked, trying not to sound shaky with that thought.

"There's a back door. Ask the doorman to take you through. Tell him I told you. You'll avoid the women you were running from that way. You know, in case they're still around." With that the apartment door shut and the deadbolt slid home with a resounding crash. A final crash.

Sighing Killian walked away, every step heavier than the last. Using Emma's instructions, he got out of the apartment building without being spotted, called an Uber and then went home with lyrics spinning around his brain of a song he couldn't write. Not then and not now. They teased on the edge of awareness, just enough of a sweet torture to stop him from being able to do anything else. After too long chasing them, it got to be too much. Killian needed peace again. And the only way he could stop the words and get that desired relief was to drown them in rum. So, that was exactly what he did, the cycle of self-destruction starting all over again.

Bloody buggering fuck.