A/N: So my friend, whimsicallyenchantedrose shared a cool article about a couple of people who have met and are attempting to date during quarantine and social distancing, and I had to try my hand at it! Here's me dipping my toe more fully in the CS fandom.

CHAPTER ONE
Happy Accidents

Two weeks into this bloody pandemic, Killian's beginning to rethink living alone.

When he bought this flat, he liked the idea of having a quiet place of his own, far from the glitz and glamor that comes with his career. Now his haven has begun to feel dangerously close to solitary confinement. Which is precisely how Tink has finally talked him into that online Q&A session she's been after him about for ages.

He should be writing lyrics, strumming a new tune. That had been his plan when the state went into lockdown, but he's been oddly uninspired. He's feeling nostalgic for a night gigging at some dimly-lit pub with nothing more than his old Gibson and a tumbler of rum. Though if he's being honest, the virus hasn't taken that from him. Fame was the culprit.

With a sigh, he steps out onto the small balcony of his flat, leans against the railing and, coffee in hand, takes in the relatively fresh air of New York. It's a beautiful day, clear and balmy as if mother nature is cocking a snook at all the poor souls trapped in doors. The familiar bustle of the city—car engines and blaring horns, sirens, pedestrians shuffling along the sidewalks—all that is muted. He prefers the noise, misses it. What little is left is hardly more than a hazy echo of a dying civilization.

He grimaces at the overly dour thought. He really needs to get out of his head. But not before he jots that line down. Maybe it'll spark something.

It doesn't. An hour later, he's on his worn leather couch, fingers scrubbing through his hair in frustration as he looks at the mess of scribbles in his notebook, all jumbled, half-formed thoughts. He can't seem to make them fit together. He's about five tracks shy of his next album, and the stress of it sits heavy between his shoulder blades.

An alarm chimes on his phone, reminding him that it's time to get ready for that live video. He never thought he'd be grateful for any public appearance outside of performing, but it's a welcome distraction today. He briefly considers going online in his threadbare Ramones t-shirt and grey sweats splattered with paint. Tink would have his head, and the thought makes him grin.

But no, he's learned to choose his battles. Since his first record went platinum, he's had a team of people telling him what to wear, what to say, where to go. He may be a stubborn arse sometimes—all the time according to Will and Robin—but he's intelligent enough to understand that this is a business of image as much as it is about the music. He's willing to pay the necessary price, no matter how it chafes sometimes, for his music to reach a wider audience. That's what drives him, that soul-to-soul connection.

He changes into black jeans, a dark blue button down and a darker waistcoat, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. Next, his beard gets a trim, and he tries his best to mimic the way his stylist makes his hair look artfully disheveled, though the locks are getting longer than he likes. The jewelry, at least, is all him. Ruby built his entire wardrobe around the pieces when he told her that they were non-negotiable. She calls the look "modern pirate chic."

The reflection that stares back at him from the mirror isn't a complete stranger. Killian Jones the Star is merely an amplified version of Killian Jones the Average Bloke—more charismatic, more audacious, more mysterious, more brooding. Handsome, exciting, just a bit feral. Qualities not included in his star persona: the borderline obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness and order, the tendency to drink a little too much when he's feeling morose, the temper he sometimes has trouble keeping in check, among other failings and quirks.

He takes a selfie and shoots it off to Tink before she can badger him about the livestream.

Does this meet with her majesty's approval?

Her reply comes a few second later: Almost perfect. Try not to look like you're marching toward your death. You like your fans, remember? Smile for them.

He rolls his eyes. He does like his fans very much, thank you. He just happens to like them better in person—when he's on stage with a full band behind him. But beggars can't be choosers in a pandemic. He takes another selfie, this one with a grin that leans heavily toward being a full-blown smirk. He does his best to smolder without the kohl they normally smudge around his eyes. He'd rather leave off with that for good, and perhaps he will after today.

He texts the new shot to Tink. Better?

Much. You're on in 10.

After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, he decides to head back to the balcony. The blue skies, dotted with puffy white clouds, will make for a nice backdrop. It's as close as he can get to escaping the confines of his flat. He glances across the alleyway wishing, not for the first time, that the next building over had the same designer as his. It's shorter by several stories, ending with a rooftop at level with his place. No terraces, no fire escapes—at least on the wall nearest him. He's seen videos where the quarantined in other parts of the world manage to hold impromptu concerts or fitness classes across the balconies. At this point, he'd be glad for the chance to talk to another human without a screen between them.

He's not so self-absorbed that he doesn't understand why the lockdown is important. He gets it. He does, but it doesn't make it any less, well, lonely—for lack of a better word. He can't admit that publicly, though, lest he sound like another spoiled celebrity whining about having to use two-ply toilet paper instead of clouds mined from the sky, all while the rest of the world toils in the muck of reality.

He pulls out his phone, opens Facebook. He's still got five more minutes, but he has to figure out how to log into his official page. He's never had reason to access it before. One of Regina's minions keeps it running, and the few times he's made a video message or let the fans get a glimpse of a recording session, it's been Tink behind the camera. How does one—? There's the bloody "live" button. He turns so that most of the background behind him is an expanse of blue. The camera catches the roof of the neighboring building, but that can't be helped.

"Let's get on with it, then," he mutters to himself before pasting on a smile. Tink'll be watching. He starts the livestream.

"Hello, mates!" he says cheerfully, and for a heartbeat his mind goes utterly blank. He's supposed to babble on about nonsense for a bit while people log in. He can imagine his pixie of a manager mouthing "say something, anything!" at him right now. Hand going to scratch behind his ear—a nervous tick he can never seem to break himself of—he huffs a soft laugh to cover the swell of anxiety tightening in his chest. After an another uncomfortable beat, the words finally come.

"As you can see, the recent lack of social interaction has seemed to tarnish my silver tongue," he says, relieved to have found his voice again. He's met with a mixture of floating hearts, thumbs-up, and laughing emoticons dancing across the screen. Has that been a thing in all of his videos? "I hope everyone's been safe during the insanity lately."

There's another flurry of soaring emoticons, and the messages scroll up in rapidfire succession, too fast for him to make out any of them. He glances at the number of viewers and that, too, skyrockets. Bloody hell. How is he supposed to answer questions if he can't even read them?

"I'm glad to be with all of you," he says with another laugh, "but perhaps a little less enthusiasm? You're talking over each other."

The messages slow, but only a little. There are well-wishes, expressions of gratitude for his willingness to reach out to his fans during these difficult times, and yeah, all right. Perhaps doing this Q&A session isn't an exercise in conceit. (He despises talking about himself.) Several messages scroll past about the hardships of being cooped up—sentiments he shares.

"It is getting a bit boring, yeah? Or maybe you've all been wiser than me and have someone to share your quarantine with." He winks to keep the tone light and is rewarded with a wave of hearts.

Overtures pour in by the droves, not unexpected but not something he particularly enjoys. He gives them a saucy smile anyway. The rabid attention went to his head in the early days of his success, but the luster wore off fairly quickly. They want the star, the mask. They don't care to actually know him.

"Thank you for all of the generous offers," he says with a whisper of invitation in his words. Killian Jones the Star is supposed to be an unrepentant ladies' man. "But we'd better stay put for now." Crying icons speckle across the video feed, and he shakes his head with mock regret. "I know. It's a bloody tragedy." A slew of thumbs-up. "Shall we get started, then?"

The messages scroll up the screen at breakneck speed again, but he catches one, tries to remember the name of the asker as Tink coached him.

"Anne Michelle asks if I always knew I'd be a musician." He glances away from the screen, uncertain whether he wants to answer this one honestly. Most of his life is now a matter of public record, nearly everything laid bare thanks to gossip rags and the determined research of his most dedicated followers. "Music has always been a part of my life," he says after a beat. "But when I was a lad, I planned on becoming a Naval officer—like my older brother, Liam."

That's all he'll give them, let them fill in the blanks themselves.

Fortunately, the questions become easier from there. What's his favorite song from his last album? ("That's like asking a father which child is his favorite." Wink. "Don't tell the others, but I'm rather partial to 'This Lost Boy.'") When is he going on tour again? ("First, I've got to get back into the studio, love.") Who's his favorite artist to collaborate with? ("My mate, Robin Locksley, of course. But I also enjoyed working with Elsa last year. No, there wasn't a torrid love affair between us. Yes, we really are just friends. Sorry to disappoint.")

He ignores the inappropriate questions. Does he wear boxers or briefs? Is he a top or a bottom? He's actually not sure what that means but from the reactions of the other fans, it's not wise to ask for further clarification. He can Google that one later, if he's feeling adventurous. (Tedium will probably drive him to it.)

Someone from England asks if he's ever going to come back "home," and it's a punch in the gut. He answers with an ambiguous statement about the music scene in New York and latches onto the next reasonable question. If he could be an animal, what would it be? It's silly, but it won't have him digging up skeletons that ought to stay buried.

"I'm not sure," he says. "What do you think? What kind of animal would I be?"

Wolf

Wolf

Definitely wolf

Apex predator! Grrrowl!

Vampire!

A vampire? That one pulls a chuckle from him.

Wolf

You can bite me any time

He wants to sigh, but he doesn't. "So, not a cute little puppy, then?"

Wolf all the way!

With black fur.

What was that? Did anyone else see it?

Killian frowns, then he too notices a flash of movement behind him on screen. He glances over his shoulder. A woman is dancing with abandon on the rooftop next door, oblivious of any eyes on her. She's in a vest, joggers, and shearling boots, her long wavy blond hair swinging with every movement. Her back is to him, but there's plenty to appreciate from this angle. Forgetting his followers, he's lost for a few seconds to the way she gyrates her hips, and—hold on. Is that…? It is. It's the choreography from Beyoncé's "Single Ladies" video. She's doing a fantastic job of it, too. With a laugh, he flips the camera on his phone, zooming in to get a better look.

"I'm impressed," he says, finally remembering his fans when his feed becomes a wall of hearts and laughter. "Should I hire her for my next tour? What do you—oh, shit!"

In the middle of strutting a circuit on the roof, she's finally become aware of her audience. He scrambles to switch the camera back to selfie mode, nearly dropping his phone in the process. Her eyes go wide when they land on him, then slide over to the device in his hand, and he curses under his breath. She's stunning, even from this distance. Pale skin pinking at in her cheeks.

Perhaps it's the rampant cabin fever in him, but he's suddenly beset with a need to make a good impression on this nameless beauty.

He inhales a deep breath and yells across the divide, "Apologies, love! Didn't mean to interrupt your frolicking! It was very lovely! Please don't stop on my account!"

She plants her hands on her hips, gaze narrowing, and he bloody likes that bit of fire. Her voice is barely audible as she hollers back at him. "Were you recording me?"

That's rather a loaded question, isn't it? "Not exactly!" he answers, truthfully. "I'm streaming and you danced into the middle of it! Come to think of it, perhaps you ought to be the one apologizing!"

Her expression stays hard, but he's got a feeling she isn't truly upset.

He sets an elbow on the railing, rests his chin in his hand. "Don't be afraid to wax eloquent! I do like a bit of poetry!"

And there it is—a smile from her, though if he had to guess, it's one that emerged against her will. "Nice try, buddy!" She's turning, heading toward the door that will take her away, likely forever, and that he doesn't care for at all.

"Leaving when we've only just met?" he yells. When she keeps walking, he adds, "At least give me your name!"

She glances back at him, head tilted as though deciding whether or not to give him this boon. His heart pounds as he waits.

"It's Emma!"

He very nearly pumps his fist into the air in victory. "Pleasure, Emma! I'm Killian Jones!" It's probably not the best idea to shout that in a neighborhood where he's enjoyed relative anonymity. Is that the "good impression" he's truly hoping to make—that of a roguish star?

Or maybe he's just desperate enough to say anything to keep her from leaving again, even dropping his own name.

She's not dazzled, and that makes her all the more appealing. "Good for you!" She's also not staying as she crosses the roof toward that bloody door again.

He makes another attempt. "Same time tomorrow, love? I'll even join you! Beyoncé again or shall we do one of the Backstreet Boys routines?"

She laughs, and he feels like a king. "You wish!"

"With every fiber of my being!" he yells to her retreating back.

Then she's gone.

He looks down at his phone. Bloody, bloody hell. He's still online. "Sorry, mates," he says. "Where were we?"

That was so cute! Like a Hallmark movie in real life!

Are you going to try to contact her?

What'd she look like? Was she pretty?

You totally deserve happiness!

I SHIP IT ALREADY!

He frowns. Ship it? What the hell does that mean?

Ugh. She's just some rando dancing on the roof. She's not even that good.

Rude! He likes her! You're just jealous that it wasn't you!

WTF? Catty much?

"Now, loves," Killian interjects, "while I enjoy women fighting on my account as much as the next man, this is neither the time nor the place. How about I give you a peek of something I'm working on for my next record?" Tink's going to kill him; he's supposed to release the song during his web interview with Rolling Stone next week. But it works to quell the fight brewing in the comments.

Yes! Yes! Yeeesssss!

PLZ OMG YOUR VOICE IS EVERYTHING

I'll be a good girl, I promise!

Sing! Sing! Sing!

Killian Jones Your faithful Italian fans thank you. You are a bright light in dark days.

I love you so much!

I'm a singer song-writer too. Maybe you can check out my youtube channel sometime!

Killian shakes his head as another wave of hearts surges across his screen. He grabs a guitar in his flat, props the phone up on the coffee table before settling back on the sofa. "I call this one 'Not Just Yet'..."

His fingers work by muscle memory, his vocals too, and it's a good thing because his mind is on the mysterious lass one building over. How the bloody hell is he going to find her during a nationwide lockdown?

Shit. Shit.

Emma leans against the inside of the access door to the roof, head tipped back against the metal. She just needed some air, to work out the pent-up energy crackling under her skin. She could have gone for a run—should have—but she would have had to wear a mask and dodge any other human for the sake of social distancing. That, and she hates running. Hates. It.

Since the kickboxing gyms are closed, dancing seemed the next best option. And she wasn't going to shake her stuff in David and Mary Margaret's apartment. Nobody was going to see her on the rooftop.

Except Killian freaking Jones.

There was no mistaking that rudely handsome man, all dark hair and pale eyes. He's the physical embodiment of every mistake a woman would gladly make just to sample that thrill his smirk offers. Not her, of course. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt—and a son—as a souvenir.

That didn't stop her heart from climbing into her throat when she found him leaning over the wrought-iron railing of his balcony, phone in hand, wearing that crooked smile that has fans swooning all across America. It also didn't stop her stomach from flipping when he flirted with her. She reminds herself that from what little she knows about him, flirting is synonymous with breathing for him. If she'd been an eighty-five year old grandma doing the Macarena, she doubts their exchange would have gone differently.

What the hell is a celebrity like him doing in this neighborhood, anyway?

She squeezes her eyes shut, inhaling. This is ridiculous. She's not going to lose her mind just because she had an encounter with a musician whose work she happens to enjoy. Yeah, she's a fan, but the kind who buys his albums when they come out and maybe attends a concert if there's one nearby and she has the time and money. Outside of that, he's a nonentity in her life.

Okay, yes, she does follow his Instagram, but it's updated irregularly and usually with photos of the ocean or a good lager he's found at some bar or another. She follows Chris Hemsworth, too. So it hardly counts.

Oh, god. Did Killian say he was streaming? As in a live video?

She fishes her phone out of her pocket and opens the app. The last thing on his account is a picture of sheet music, taken at an artsy angle, with the caption, "The muse! She speaks!" It's from a month ago. Her relief is short-lived, though, when she remembers that there are other streaming platforms.

She checks Facebook next. She only uses her account for her small circle of friends and family; she's always been wary of having an online presence. Killian's official page is the first that pops up in her search, and when she opens it, the video is at the top. It's still going, though muted. She watches him for several seconds, his brows pinched downward as he strums his guitar, mouth moving soundlessly in song as hearts bubble over the image. She taps on the video and his voice comes through the tinny speakers of her phone.

Yeah, I'm a little broken
I'm a little jagged at the edges
Doesn't mean I need savin'
'Cause I'm not drowning, baby
No, not just yet.

I like me as I am
Every scar, every bruise
Can you love me as I am
'Cause I'm not drowning, baby
No, I'm not drowning
Not just yet.

This is why she likes his music. It has nothing to do with the fact that the geometry of his face falls within the golden ratio or that he dresses like sex on legs. He could have a potato for a nose and wear a burlap sack, and she'd still buy his stuff. Because he puts into words the thoughts and feelings that she can't find a voice for.

"Well? Do you approve?"

Her phone tumbles out her fingertips, clattering to the floor. He looked up at the camera after the last note and smiled, and for an idiotic heartbeat, it felt like he was talking directly to her rather than addressing a concourse of faceless fans.

"I'm glad you like it," he continues as she bends over to retrieve her phone. "I'm afraid our time's up, mates." Crying emoticons replace the steady flow of hearts, and he huffs a laugh. "Don't cry, loves. We'll do this again soon, you have my word on it. And Emma, if you're watching this—"

The air in this dimly lit stairwell becomes thick.

"—I can't wait for our dance-off tomorrow. Don't be late." He winks, and then reaches for the camera.

The screen goes dark, all the emoticons disappearing, replaced with "This content is currently unavailable. Check back later." It's going to be another thirty minutes or more before she can access it. Another thirty minutes before she can see how big of a fool of herself she's made in front of millions.

All right, there's no use denying that It happened. Doesn't mean it has to happen again. There's no way in hell she's going anywhere near the roof tomorrow or any other day, she decides as she jogs down the stairs.

Killian Jones will have to find someone else to entertain him.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you think so far. How's Killian going to get Emma to interact with him, do you think?