yours to tame
ship: captain hook | killian jones / peter pan
rating: explicit
a/n: this is set in a very specific au featuring peter and killian in the first curse, but i don’t want to give too much away in case i wind up doing more with this au
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Chapped hands cup the cardboard sleeve around his caramel mocha as Peter gets up from his darkened location in the back of Storybrooke Coffee Co. Boot laces caked with salt and sand, he steps over to his target. Killian sits with his back to him — either he’s feeling brave or he hasn’t seen him. More likely the latter.
After texting him this morning, he’d half expected to have to go down to the shipyard to drag Killian out of the Jolly Roger himself. But he’d finally gotten a begrudging one-word response, and he knew where he’d find him. Peter knows Storybrooke Coffee Co. the only place that Killian will voluntarily go for coffee, since Granny’s Diner is all but guaranteed to be swimming with local government, school teachers, sheriffs, and a whole manner of people he doesn’t want to interact with. Peter also happens to score cheaper coffee here, as a few of his friends work as baristas.
He sets an artificially warm hand at the back of Killian’s neck, feeling the chilled chains of his many necklaces which adorn his throat. It’s a bold gesture for them in public, but Peter doesn’t care. He never did – it was Killian who made up these rules, protecting them from nosy PTA moms and their even nosier kids.
“Good morning to you,” he murmurs, sliding around to take a seat across from Killian, hand still on his neck until the last possible moment. Bottle-green eyes assess the hungover man, taking in the haggard look in his gaze, the way he seems half-torn, ripped a little before someone could fully commit to it. Peter clicks his tongue and tilts his head, bottom lip slightly pushed out. “Someone’s had a rough night.”
Killian shifts, working his jaw as icy blue eyes follow Peter into his seat.
“Every night is a rough night,” he responds quietly. He nudges a plate forward with his knuckles, passing it across the table to Peter. “Raspberry and cream cheese danish.” He punctuates the sentence with a swig of his own coffee. There’s little doubt in Peter’s mind that Killian wishes it were Irish coffee at this moment.
“You should really see someone about that,” he murmurs with no intention of stopping Killian’s self-destructive habits. If he truly wanted to, he’d take himself out of the sailor’s life. He’s not benevolent.
“And you’re generous, offering me your – what day is it? Thursday? – Thursday morning treat.” He accepts it, hardly one to turn down something free and sugary. The danish is the tiniest bit stale, but enough mocha in his mouth has it literally melting, and that’s good enough for him. “Someone wake up on the right side of the hammock this morning?”
As he speaks, he stretches out his legs beneath the table, until their booted ankles brush. He leans his legs against Killian’s, as if daring him to pull away.
Killian hesitates, freezes, and Peter grins around his next sip. He watches the conflict spill across his features, winter sunlight sharpening the hard edges of his face, and feels the warm slide of denim against cotton as Killian pulls his legs back.
“Just hungover,” Killian clarifies, eyeing Peter as he enjoys his morning treat. “Why did you text me this morning? Shouldn’t you be out spray-painting buildings and getting into trouble, since you’re clearly not in school.”
Peter raises a tawny brow. “I’m bored. And I haven’t been in school for weeks, you know this.” So the story goes, having decided college was too much of a bore for him, he quietly dropped out and landed in Storybrooke, away from his parents and anyone who knew him. Then he proceeded to lay out his own network, re-establishing himself
( not that Killian would know, not that Killian would remember )
until he found someone who would rent to him, thus securing his own place.
He stretches out his leg a little bit further, brushing the toe of his boot against Killian’s shin, green eyes cold and hard all of a sudden. He doesn’t mind causing a bit of a scene here – Killian took the bait and withdrew, and now he has to show him the consequences to those actions.
“Peter…” But the helplessness is clear in Killian’s tone, and Peter preens, even as the sailor softly commands, “Stop.”
He pulls back further, tucking his legs beneath his chair as he takes another swig from his coffee. “You can’t do that here. When we’re alone, fine, but not in public.”
“And why is that?” Peter asks, brows furrowed. He tilts his head, side swept hair barely visible beneath a black beanie – stolen from Killian about two weeks ago and not yet given back, if it ever would be. “Tell me, Killian. Why is that? you let me into your boat, into your bed, and yet —”
“Because those places are private, Peter,” Killian interrupts, and oh how Peter tires of this man’s blind confidence. “I barely want people knowing I exist, much less that I’m fooling around with a 19-year-old college drop out.” His next words are softer, almost pleading, and it helps to assuage Peter’s raised hackles.
“I can’t have you doing this in public, mate.”
“You run from the truth as if it will save you, but you’re so blinded by it you have no idea where you’re going, nor what it is, exactly, that you’re running from.” The words, spoken in a low murmur, carry across the table, punctuated with a sip of his drink. Killian truthfully does have no idea, not that Peter is going to be the one to break it to him. He’s not got his ducks quite in a row yet – but once the flock returns to roost, he’ll be ready and waiting.
For now, he crosses one leg over the other, staring into kohl lined eyes, waiting for Killian to dig himself deeper.
“…You’re awfully cryptic this morning,” he murmurs back, watching Peter. “Just…drink your sugar water and let’s get out of here.”
Defiantly, he stands with the mocha still mostly full, with the other half of the danish in his other hand. “Follow me,” he says, and proceeds to weave through the coffee shop goers, heading towards the door. Freezing cold air greets him as he steps outside, frozen kisses against his cheeks and nose, and he buries them into the scarf he’s wearing – another thing stolen from Killian.
Read the rest here!
I read this before on AO3 and I’m rereading it now and it’s so garsh darn good! I know there may not be more but if there ever is you have a follower for it in me ❤️❤️❤️
