kate. infj. eighteen. british. feminist/fangirl.

i have far too much to say for myself +.

i swear on emma swan
©
  1. called the wrong number while drunk!au

Whoever this woman is, she really does not like Neal. Not that he knows precisely who ‘Neal’ is either, but since he’s been on the receiving end of a twenty-minute-long-and-showing-no-signs-of-abating rant about much of a ‘useless, good-for-nothing, manipulative prick’ he is, Killian’s almost adopting a dislike of the guy too.

“And another thing, fucking Neal! You left me- as in, you. Fucking. Left me, you asshole! Who the hell do you think you are?!”

Killian had given up any serious attempt to persuade the woman she’s got the wrong number about ten minutes ago, partly because she’s so blind drunk right now that she hasn’t been listening to his protestations and partly because it seems like she really needs to have this rant, even if it’s not directed at the person she thinks it is. Sufficiently distracted from writing his article about the history of piracy, he leans back in his chair and plays along, commenting when she pauses for breath.

“Um… not Neal?” he offers, amused, but again she pays no attention.

“Just because Tamara dumped you -good on her, by the way, she deserves better- you suddenly want me back?! Does not work like that, buddy!”

“Tamara dumped me?” Killian says, feigning shock. “Bloody hell, I am not having the best of days am I?”

“N-no, you’re not!” the woman confirms, slurring. “And I’m glad!”

Killian takes a look at the clock in the corner of his computer screen: 3 AM. She’s going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning; he feels a spike of guilt for keeping this going for so long. He should have put the phone down a while ago really.

“Perhaps you should get some sleep, love,” Killian suggests kindly. “You can call and rant at me again when you’ve got a clear head, if you want.”

Strangely, he isn’t entirely joking. It’s been…interesting talking to -or more accurately being screamed at by- the unnamed woman, if nothing else.

“I am- pretty tired, I guess,” she acquiesces, suddenly calmer. “But I’m not doing this because you suggested it—I’m doing it because I want to, because you don’t get to tell me what to do, douchebag!”

Killian huffs out a laugh through his nose. “I would never presume such a thing.”

“Good. Oh, and just so you know, you’re not nearly as good in bed as you think you are—try googling ‘location of the clitoris’; you might learn something!” she says angrily then the line disconnects.

Killian spends a long time staring in shock at his phone after that, before snorting with laughter. He’s still chuckling to himself when he shuts off his computer about five minutes later, article saved but ultimately neglected. The next day, he’s almost forgotten about his late night, extended phone call to the woman until his eyes fall on the phone next to his computer and he smirks to himself, wondering how the woman is faring after her… eventful night. He realises she probably doesn’t remember, given her inebriation. A one-off amusing encounter consigned to history, he decides.

His phone rings just after 3PM, he’s working on his article and the strange woman is almost completely out of his mind so he thinks it’s probably his editor Regina. “Jones,” he answers, using his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he types.

“You’re… not Neal,” the woman says stiltedly and Killian almost drops his phone in surprise, but he recovers himself quickly.

“I am not,” he agrees with a smile she can’t see. “I did try to tell you a few times, but you seemed very determined to say your piece.”

“Oh, god.” She groans. “I just woke up with my phone in my hand and I remember wanting to give Neal a piece of my mind but according to my call history, you and I had a twenty-three minutes and forty-eight seconds long conversation at three AM. And I didn’t call Neal at all.”

“On the bright side, what you said was utterly devastating. I have no doubt the guy you dislike so much would have been quaking in his boots… had he been the one to hear it.” Somehow Killian can’t resist teasing this stranger.

“I am so, so sorry!” she says, muffled like she was covering her face with her hand. “My ex was giving me jip and it just so happened to be on the same day as my friend convincing me it was a good idea to get really, really drunk. The two things coinciding led to that delightful phone call that I’m very sorry a poor, unfortunate stranger had to be on the receiving end of.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Killian assures her. “It was very… amusing. Anyone ever told you you’re a very persuasive drunk? I don’t know this bloke, Neal, but after last night, I’m utterly convinced he’s the worst person on earth.”

The woman laughs and Killian finds he rather likes the sound. “Yeah, well. He’s just a-”

“- ‘Useless, good-for-nothing, manipulative prick’?” Killian suggests innocently.

“God, I said that to you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Killian says cheerily. “That was one of the nicer things you said.”

“I am really sorry, Mr Jones. I feel like a complete idiot. If it makes you feel better after my torrent of abuse, I’m suffering the headache of the century right now.”

He’d forgotten he’d told her his surname when he’d answered the phone. “Somehow, I feel like we should be on first name terms by now. I’m Killian.”

There’s a pause. “Emma. Emma Swan.”


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