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You slipped your phone out of your pocket, anxiously checking the time on your lockscreen. You’d been at the party for over an hour, but Ketch still hadn’t shown. When you casually mentioned you’d be going, he said he’d be there. He’d even managed to reply without a hint of sarcasm.
Maybe you were wrong. Maybe your excitement of seeing him outside of hunts had blinded you to how he really felt about Mick’s idea of having a costume party to boost morale.
You finished your drink, about to give up and ask your boss to dance instead when a throat cleared behind you. Your pulse quickened, a thrill flourishing in your chest as you spun around, only to have surprise rob you of your voice.
It did not, however, prevent your mouth from hanging open.
“Don’t,” Ketch warned, more serious than you’d ever seen him.
“I…” you trailed off, eyes trailing down his form in confusion. “Ok, but how can I not ?” You pursed your lips together, trying desperately not to laugh. “What God-awful demon possessed you to wear that ?”
He fixed you with a glare before grumbling, “I lost a bet.”
Him? Lose a bet? The idea seemed almost as surreal as the obnoxiously bright costume he wore. “To whom?”
“Who do you think?” His was response was low, almost dangerous, his eyes zeroing in on a figure across the room. You followed his stare, brows inching upward as Mick caught sight of the two of you from the dance floor and grinned.
“Nice skirt, mate!” He shouted, raising his glass in salute. Suddenly, everyone’s attention shifted, and Ketch looked on the verge of burning the place down as the heckling began.
“Dare I ask?” You questioned, curious, but also knowing better than to pry too much as murder spread across his mouth in the form of a facetious smile. He didn’t respond, likely trying to calculate how many of them he could shoot before one of them was able to fire back.
“Hey,” you touched his arm, “Forget them. They’re just jealous they don’t have the legs to pull off an outfit like that.”
His gaze slid back to you, his intensity unwavering. You swallowed, unsure if you had made a mistake. “I mean… what?”
He continued to stare, the silence quickly growing suffocating as his features became unreadable. Finally, he muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like what else do I have to lose. His demeanor shifted, uncertainty rippling through him, deflating the overconfident air that normally surrounded him.
You were about to ask if he was ok (or offer him a drink from your flask) when he suddenly took you by the chin. “I didn’t come here for them.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the admission and brain in early shut down from the way he grasped your face. You had no idea his hands could be so gentle with anything, and it was all you could focus on, along with the heat of his fingers as an unintelligent “ Oh ,” left your mouth.
“Oh?” He echoed.
It wasn’t until he launched into a rant that your brain made the connection of what he was saying. He came for you. You .
“I risk my entire reputation so I could spend time with you when we’re not hip deep in monsters, and that’s it?” Just --”
Impulsively, you reached for him, hands gripping the side of his face as you cut him off with a kiss. For a second he froze, just as surprised as you had been, before his lips stirred softly against yours.
“Oh,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours as you drew back slightly.
“Came here for you too, Tinkerbell.” You murmured, smiling shyly at him. “So what do you say? Care to share a dance that doesn’t end with us covered in blood for once?”
His smile faltered at the chorus of whistles and catcalls that erupted in response to your display.
“...I make no promises it still won’t.”