Summary: Killian is the charismatic lead singer of a band known for making weddings unforgettable. That is, until his own wedding is cancelled and he vows to never sing at another one. Years later, he meets Emma, a bartender at the event hall and woman planning her own nuptials. But in the process of helping her plan her own wedding, he discovers that he does still have the capability to feel again, and it all starts with the way that Emma smiles at him. Of course this would be his luck.
Rating: E (sexual situations, mentions of character death)
Word Count: 10,941
A/N: Okay so a million fucking years ago (AU Week 2016), I took a prompt that @timeless-love-story had given me and started a fic with the same premise of the wedding singer. I said it would be posted in three parts. I lied… I was originally going to break it up, but instead, I’m posting the whole thing as one go. It went from a modest T rating to very much…not. So again, with gusto, thank you @timeless-love-story for the string removal, and the awesome that you always bring to my dash. And thank you to @captainstudmuffin for her beta duties, and friend duties. I hope you all enjoy this! I’m so relieved to finally have something FINISHED! Note: I’m sorry if the format is doing dumb things. Thanks, Tumblr.
In a small town, being in a band willing to play for any events that are booked at the local reception hall is kind of a big deal, if you ask Killian. Especially when word of mouth marks you as the best reception band in a fifty-mile radius. This fact keeps Killian and his band, The Buccaneers, pretty busy through the year.
That’s not to say it’s his only gig, though. Most of his weeks are spent giving music lessons to various residents of Storybrooke. From the very young to the very old; from voice lessons to guitar, Killian spends his afternoons in half hour appointments hoping that someone has practiced their given instrument throughout the week.
The bad part of being the reigning house band is that when it comes to planning his own wedding, he can’t bring himself to hire anyone else to play the reception.
“You can’t sing at your own wedding.” Robin tells him one night as they’re tearing down.
“Who says?” is Killian’s first response. “Listen, I’m not going to book another band and let them get even a corner of the market we have here. If they want shows, they need to work their way up like we have. Besides, maybe it’ll be charming, me popping up here to sing every couple songs.” He can feel his expression going dreamy. “Serenade my new wife.”
“Whatever you say, mate,” Robin says, shaking his head as they pack away the last of the instruments.
There’s a reason they’re so good. Killian is the ultimate champion of love. He’s there to give the exact right vibe to the entire hall, to get them dancing, to make them happy, to make them seem like anything beyond the walls is unimportant. With good music, dancing, the right lighting, and the right amount of drinks being poured, wedding receptions are always his favorite.
It also helps that he’s been doing this since he got out of high school. A strange twist of fate brought him to Storybrooke shortly after that, and for the last ten years he’s happily settled into his niche. Somewhere along the road, he met Milah, and knew immediately that while she was a little older, a little restless after a touchy divorce and a son left behind, he wanted her to be his wife.
As the time passes, and his happy day gets closer, Killian can only push forward and anticipate that day that he firmly believes will be the best of his life.
Just a month before, however, Milah’s car loses control on a sharp turn. He’s at work when he gets the call, pulled just halfway from yet another reception and given the news that he’ll won’t be seeing his own.
Killian had not been pleased when one of the bags of newly purchased flour tore open while being loaded onto the Jolly and a gust of wind carried it everywhere in a billowing white cloud all over the deck that powdered both Mr. Smee right in the face and himself in the back of the head, his dark hair taking on a grey cast while he swore and raked his fingers through the strands in a vain attempt to shake the flour out.
“Bloody hell!”
Emma noticed the rest of the crew all trying their best to smother their mirth, muffling laughter in their sleeves and ducking their heads while their captain glared and ordered for the deck to be swabbed clean, muttering that he’d take the cost of the flour out of the merchant’s hide.
“The sea is a harsh mistress, Captain. She’s aged you before your time.”
Doyle’s proclamation was uttered with grave solemnity that made Killian’s lips twitch while Smee let out a loud guffaw that quickly turned into a wracking cough. Emma pulled a handkerchief and handed it to him without breaking stride while Doyle pounded him on the back, setting her parasol back on her shoulder to look up at her pirate lover in his new, silver-flecked glory.
His smile went suddenly tremulous, uncertain, while she perused him and the crew all fell silent behind her, even Smee stopped his rather violent hacking for a moment. She brushed a smudge of flour off his waistcoat and rested her hand on his chest.
“Had some of the handsome knocked out of me, I’m afraid.”
“That’s not possible.”
In truth, the grey hair lent him a rather distinguished air that did not detract from his good looks in the slightest, and there was a flutter in her belly and a blush on her cheeks that only deepened at the thought of his head against her breast and that mouth trailing along her skin when they were alone.
(and later that night the water that was heated for the captain to wash his hair cooled unused in the bath while he did just that, head dipping between her thighs and soft hair slipping through Emma’s fingers in a swirl of inky black and silvery white)
It All Starts With a Dance 