A/N: Pheeewww it's finally here! Over a year ago, I came up with yet another prompt that I thought I was never going to write and then had the crazy idea to write it as a part of captainswanbigbang which was one of the best decisions I've made in a long time. I've been working on this story for months and at last, it is done and ready to be posted. This has been a 61K labor of love with a couple of obstacles along the road (I'm looking at you, uni). I owe major gratitude to my betas and superheroes acourtoftruelove and ofshipsandswans for sometimes yelling at me, often correcting me, and always squealing along with me. I couldn't have done this without them.
And check out the banner and picset on Tumblr by the lovely shady-swan-jones who gave this fic the perfect art to go along with it.
So, without further ado: A Muted Hue of Grey.
God, why were there so many people?
She thought Boston was bad but London was, quite frankly, ten times worse. She had to keep her lips pursed together to keep from grunting and swearing every two seconds. Tourists here, street vendors there. Cyclists who ran a red light, almost plowing her over when she had every right to cross as the green stick figure had given her permission. The city had its charm, of course, but not when she needed to focus and could not be distracted by a girl taking a selfie in the middle of the road while blocking every other person walking there. Emma had a mission and she couldn't fuck it up.
Avoiding eye contact with the pubescent-looking guy, clipboard in hand and a bright raincoat with a logo of some non-profit organization branded on his back, she continued on. It had to be far from an enjoyable job, standing outside, braving the cold and the rain only to be turned down time after time. Emma did feel sorry for the teenagers. She wasn't against supporting animals or the environment, far from it actually, but more often than not the "have you heard about this cause" talk generated a nuisance that could only be avoided by lowering her gaze and crossing the road. There was no time to politely listen to them rattle their practiced speech only to politely decline with the answer that she would think about it. Especially now.
Sounds of a busker infiltrated the buzz of the people around her, of all those conversations held between the commuters or across the phone. The chords played on the battered guitar were familiar, ones she'd definitely heard before, and when the words joined the rest of the music, Emma shook her head with a trace of a smile appearing, feeling foolish that she didn't figure it out earlier. Wonderwall, of course.
While the street musicians lacked originality vis-a-vis their choice of music (John Lennon, Oasis, Goo Goo Dolls, Radiohead; she'd heard it all a thousand times), most of them did possess a lot of talent. Emma halted more often than not—when she wasn't in a hurry—to listen to their rendition of some cliché song, giving them whatever spare change she had in her purse or pocket and in return being thanked with a smile.
Honestly, London wasn't all that bad. Her apartment was shit, yes; there was no point in attempting to gloss over that. It was impossible to hide the mold stains and pretend the ice water squirting out of the defect shower was pleasant and warm. Although her landlord was of that opinion somehow; anything to get him out of spending time and effort to fix some bothersome issues he'd rather ignore. The jackass.
She didn't have any friends after moving here, yes, that was true too. But she could handle being alone, she was quite experienced with loneliness and independence, had learned to be resourceful and creative every time she lacked an extra pair of hands, an additional set of eyes or simply some new company.
The city wasn't all that great either, but Emma could think of worse places to be. New York, for one, where the large crowds only resulted in chaos; a heavily-polluted, siren-screeching mess. London, however, seemed more structured to Emma. The perfect place to be undercover, to blend into the masses and only reappear when she felt like it all the while still retaining a sense of overview. And for what her job consisted of, that trait was necessary and ideal.
It had taken a while to grow accustomed to the British manners, the overabundance of pet names (she had to keep herself from answering "I'm not your love" everytime she got called some sort of variation), to everything basically. From the way they ordered food to the way their traffic was directed—god, she's never been so afraid for people riding a bike as she was for the cyclists risking their lives between the swerving and honking cars.
It had been a struggle to not be the American amongst Brits and to not ooze her Americanness in the way she moved and the way she looked. It had taken a combination of observing and adapting, but now, Emma was sure she appeared as any other London goer. One last disclosure was the moment she would open her mouth and began talking in an accent that could not be interpreted as anything but American. Luckily for her, however, she was never the socializing type so she was able to restrict unnecessary communication to a minimum. Yay for being a loner.
She scanned the crowded bridge before her again, adjusting the camera around her neck. Its synthetic band was uncomfortably chafing against the skin of her neck, turning it raw and itchy. In a soothing manner, her hand massaged the dry patch of skin, but to no avail. She had to stop thinking about it, the irritation would only get worse.
A distraction presented itself and Emma let out a relieved sigh when she obtained a visual confirmation that the selfie-taking girl had not ruined everything. It had taken her more than a week to figure the whole situation out, to know where she should be and at what time. The shortcuts she was supposed to take were etched into her mind, a detailed treasure map with a moving X. Left here, two blocks ahead another left, she could almost do it with her eyes closed—if it weren't for the other people.
If anyone ever asked her what her dream job was, her answer wouldn't be traipsing around London by foot, but she'd made the choice for this profession a long time ago—after she'd been beaten up as a bail bonds person far too often—and it had stuck. She was good at what she did and after a couple of jobs, her reputation began to precede her. Offers came from left and right, giving her a wide array of choices and letting her be picky, a luxury she could not afford when she was younger. It helped her to be able to fly to another continent and pay way too much for her shit apartment.
The move here was a bit radical, almost crazy, but she'd been asked and she was never one to pass up on a good work opportunity. Her ties back in America weren't deeply rooted. They could easily be yanked out to start afresh and even though she'd had some mournful and aghast responses to her news, all of her friends knew her enough to have prepared for this situation. They had always kept an eye open for the impending moment, the sudden flash when Emma would get sick of the suburban life and would want a whole one-eighty. The whole picket fence life… well, she wasn't there yet and doubted she ever would.
She'd come back eventually; this job wasn't going to take years of her life, but there was no haste either. She would return home with a new experience and some new stories under her belt. No new friends; Emma wasn't idealistic enough to expect herself to suddenly gain friends. Nor was she social enough; the only things she did were work and return home.
Every day, she took the same route, she visited the same places. The coffee shop across the street that had the surly-looking barista but had the best price-quality ratio. The laundromat two blocks over that didn't communicate their closing hours clearly enough and had automatically locked Emma inside when she'd noticed at 9.49 pm that she had no clean underwear anymore. The night shop that provided Emma with midnight snacks and drinks and its joyful owner who always gave her a discount. Places with people, but none she spoke more words than hello, bye and thank you to.
It had taken her years to gather and open up to the people she frequently came across back in Boston: the girl with the pixie cut who lived in 2A, her sandy-haired boyfriend, the owner of the diner Emma ate at every Monday morning, the martial arts coach at the gym she used to work out at until she was sweaty and exhausted. Years of coaxing on their part, asking her in the hallway, in the locker room, mid-breakfast to hang out, only to be met by her immediate refusal. Years of learning to trust.
Honestly, she was grateful they never stopped trying, never let being cast off by the solid brick walls surrounding her deter them. They saw something in her—Zeus knows what exactly that was—and wanted to include her, let her enter their little but tight-knit circle of people when they barely knew her. Their only reasoning was that "she looked like she could use some company", a direct quote from the circle's mother, Mary Margaret, also known as 2A's pixie cut.
Emma subtly curled her lips and closed her eyes as she thought back to the people back home, momentarily basking in the warm feeling that settled inside of her. But this wasn't the time to be sentimental, she could save that for another time, one where she was preferably alone and not working. She continued to maneuver around, opening and lifting her eyes to gain sight of her target anew. The mop of black hair was about 20 yards in front of her, still moving at a steady pace.
She lifted the camera with care to avoid hurting her already damaged skin even more and held it before her face. Closing her left eye to exclude any form of distraction, her right focused on the tiny image before her. The image was still blurry and after a couple of heartbeats, it became clear, the perfect quality for Emma to press the button. The shutter clicked fast, a set of successive images following quickly, flashing along.
After a quick check of her material and a nod, showing her satisfaction with the results, she let the camera drop again, the device bumping against her stomach a couple of times before steadying and adjusting to her fast steps. He was moving fast so she had to as well.
There were white earbuds dangling from his ears, his head softly bobbing along to the beat of the song reverberating in his ears. He was entranced in his own little world, with a personal soundtrack to which he moved and acted and that drowned out the bustle of the city.
She was curious about what he was listening to, what music was worthy of the honor of being added to his playlist and blasted into his ears every morning. Was he a rock listener? Classical music connoisseur? Did he have a penchant for sappy love songs à la Ed Sheeran that he would then emotionally sing along to? Was he as original in creating his playlists as the buskers that were scattered in subway stations and on street corners? Emma supposed it wouldn't take her too long to figure it out, to figure him out, all the way to the final details of his being and character.
For not being a people person, she prided herself on being able to read people quite well.
The spring sun shone brightly and without encumbrance, hitting her skin directly and causing small beads of sweat to gather at her temples and a thin layer on her upper lip, which Emma rapidly wiped away. The clothes she was wearing—a thick woolen sweater and jeans—were unfit for this weather. It was as though it were the heart of August and not the blossoming beginning of April in a country where winter had only just ceded its powers. Emma wished—fervently—she had known that this morning. She also wished she had thought about layers. Their power could not be underestimated. They were the way of life here.
But the white fabric stuck to her skin, the sweat not helping at all, and slowed her movements down as she attempted to quicken her pace. She was losing track of the nape, the mess of hair she was pursuing. The stress found its way to her head, making Emma's heart pick up pace as well. Her steps quickened on the concrete, the tap tap occasionally interrupted by a rasp of shoes on the underground when she turned a sharp corner and braked. Her steady breathing was turning into a pant, proving to Emma it was definitely time to renew her gym membership. Being a PI might be less physical and consist of less running, fighting, avoiding danger etc. than a bail bonds person's curriculum but that did not mean she was allowed to slouch. Not if she was doing this.
She squeezed herself between a group of tourists, much to the dismay of said tourists who indignantly addressed her in Spanish. Not that she would understand what words they were using in their complaints, her high school Spanish had withered to a dead plant after not being watered and nourished for years. Emma hastened to reach the leader, using the woman's Spanish flag as a guide to reach the end of the troop and to be able to pass her. With her camera clutched tightly, held close to not bestow any additional hindrance, she zigzagged, ducking and swerving as she seemed fit. After a minute or so—though it felt like a lifetime—she re-emerged from the group, some more Spanish thrown her way, frantically looking for him.
Shit, where did he go?
While before it was like a ray of light lit him up, pointing out where he walked in the crowd, now there was only darkness. An unlit maze without any sort of red thread, a challenge she had no idea how to tackle. The metaphorical target on his back had vanished. Hundreds of dark-haired people, dozens of earbuds, not the one Emma needed.
She needed him, with his leather bag, the pirate necklace around his neck, the tattoo on his right upper arm, with those elven ears Emma was so fascinated by but would never admit to anyone that she was.
What was he doing?
Right, three streets, right again, left until the lights.
That was what the GPS embedded into her brain told her was his route; that was what he always did on Saturday afternoon.
So why wasn't he standing before the red glowing traffic light?
He had a routine he followed almost meticulously. A creature of extreme habit, that was what he was. Emma had to buy herself a watch to be able to know what time it was at every second and not have to bother with retrieving her phone from her pocket every time, losing precious seconds. She used the simple watch on her wrist to follow his movements, needed it on every occasion. There were not a lot of people she had met before who were this exact, who left their apartment when the clock stroke precisely eight, who re-entered their apartment at 17:23 time and time again, regardless of the weather, day or season.
This was not like him.
Emma peered over her shoulder as she took a right, the sudden movement making her hair whip, attempting to look through the masses to double check if he surely hadn't taken the left turn like usual, but there was no trace of him. Or his unique ears.
Right as she turned her head back, in what felt like a blink of an eye, there was something right in front of her. Someone. Emma attempted to decelerate and stop but the distance was too small to do so, her body still in motion. She braced for the shock, the crash of two moving objects together, her body meeting another solid mass and flinched to prepare for the pain to hit her but there were two hands that softened the blow, that settled on both of her upper arms, one warm and one cold.
Emma didn't dare to open her eyes, eyelids still squeezed shut. Until the someone she almost hit, but didn't because they were paying attention while she was focused on other things, cleared their throat, an attempt to capture Emma's attention and most likely to prompt her to open her eyes again instead of standing there like a scared little child.
Biting the inside of her lip, Emma slowly peeled her eyes open, letting them first adjust to the light again and then scan her direct surroundings. She was staring at a chest. A man's chest. There were earbuds dangling from his grey Henley, a trace of chest hair peeking out the top and a silver chain around his neck. An odd feeling of apprehension plagued her, heartbeat lodged in her throat, as her eyes hesitantly traveled upwards, in search of a face, of some point of recognition who this mysterious stranger-slash-savior was.
Blue eyes stared into hers.
Familiar blue eyes.
"Can I help you, lass?" he asked and while this was the first time she had heard him speak, the cadence, the accent, the voice— his voice—felt familiar. As if she'd spent hours upon hours listening to it, talking to him. She could almost imagine how his voice would sound in a laugh, how it would change when he was tired, the accent thick and present, how it would caress in a whisper.
It felt as if she knew him.
Which she did.
But also didn't.
Because this was Killian Jones.
The man she was hired to spy on.
The man who was holding her and staring at her with expectant eyes.
Fuck.
For the next couple of months, you can expect an update every Thursday! I hope you enjoyed!