A/N- Well, here it is! The long-awaited sequel to The Ghost and Emma Swan. I truly hope this one lives up to its predecessor, as the response and love I received for that story just completely astounded me.
This one will pretty much cover all the points you asked to see: Killian trying to cope in the modern world, Killian and Henry bonding, people learning the truth about his former state of being, Emma and Killian dealing with their issues and pasts, angst, fluff, smut, etc. etc.
One little note: My version of the reaper comes from Dead Like Me. More or less. I may have changed a few little things… But I LOVE that show and really wanted to put some elements of it in here, hence the sticky notes, and a few other tips of the hat you might see later on.
SUMMARY: An old and deadly foe threatens Emma and Killian's happiness. Still trying to figure out how the fit into each other's lives, they will face their greatest challenges yet, both from the reaper who has come to set things to right, and from their own fears and insecurities.
PAIRINGS: Killian and Emma
RATING: M for language, violence, and probably some smutty goodness somewhere along the lines.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters from Once Upon a Time.
Alone (Prologue)
Portland, ME 1992
The little blonde child sat on the curb, scuffing her nearly new tennis shoes into the concrete. They were late picking her up from day care. Again. Why were they always running late?
The tell-tale sound of a motor drew her out of her musings and her head lifted to see the familiar navy blue of the Swan's minivan pulling up to the curb. Little Emma jumped up, snatching her bookbag, already heavily laden with her projects and drawings from school, and raced towards the vehicle. Her tiny five-year-old fingers scrambled for purchase on the door handle and with an exaggerated grunt, she slid the minivan door along the tracks. From the driver's seat, she could hear her foster father's throaty laugh. "Hey there, Wonder Woman! What did you do at day care today?"
Emma threw her bookbag over the seat and turned to shut the door. Using both hands, she pulled it forward with all her might, panting a little for her efforts, and grinning as the door clicked home. Hastily plopping down into the seat, she brushed away the sweaty hair that had spilled out of her ponytail and buckled herself in. "We made pictures of the ocean today!"
Her father grinned at her as he pulled the van out into the road. "Oh? What did you draw?"
"I drew a fishy, and some waves. And a big ship with sails!"
"Well, that sounds really nice, Emma." He chuckled, his voice low and melodic, sounding just as it did when he sometimes read her to sleep. However, today he was quiet, making no other comments, and they rode along in silence while the radio played softly in the background. Suddenly, he sighed, and turned his head to look at her. "Emma, do you know why I was late today?"
Little Emma bit her lip and shook her head. She hadn't been with the Swan's long, but she liked it at their house. They were very kind to her, always buying her nice clothes and new toys. There had even been talking about adopting her. Adopting. As in a real family. Just for her. She had already been given their last name. They had told her that very soon, they would be making it official. Her little heart beat so rapidly at the thought she thought she might explode. An official family.
Fidgeting nervously in her seat, she shook her head. Mr. Swan was watching her carefully in his overhead mirror. His normally kind blue eyes today seemed sort of distant. Was something wrong? Had she done something bad? The last thing she wanted to do was cause problems with her potential parents.
"Your mother and I," he began, his eyes darting back to watch the road, "went to see a special kind of doctor today."
"Is mommy sick?" Emma cried, a welling up of fear nearly chocking off her words.
"No," he assured her. "No, honey. Mommy is just fine. And so am I." His voice suddenly became excited, and she could see in his eyes do that crinkly thing that meant he was happy. Maybe the news wasn't bad after all. "Actually, we're better than fine," he continued, still watching the road and still smiling to himself. "Do you know what the doctor told us?"
Emma shook her head again, clutching at the seat belt and kicking her feet into the base of the seat. Strictly speaking, she wasn't supposed to do that, Mr. Swan hated when she scuffed up his leather seats, but she was too distracted to care. "No."
"She told us that your mommy is pregnant. That we are going to have our own baby."
Looking back a few months later, after the Swans had sent her back to the orphanage, that's when Emma should have seen it. She should have realized the cold, hard truth about herself right then and there. How could she have ever believed she could have been a part of a real family? She wasn't their child, she wasn't their flesh and blood. It never would have worked. After all, her real parents had abandoned her as an infant. They apparently didn't want her either. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Maybe she was so defective she didn't deserve a family.
Maybe someone like her was just destined to be alone. Forever.
….
This made no sense.
The man turned the little red sticky note over once more in his hands. There it was, clear as day and in the distinctive penmanship the notes were always written in:
Killian Jones, Storybrooke, ME.
No date. No time. And then there was the fact that it was red, not yellow. For two-and-a-half centuries he had been doing this job, he had only received a red letter a handful of times. Therefore, this was not a reaping. This was an assassination.
Of course, Count Rumple was no stranger to killing. He quite liked it in fact. It was what made him so good at reaping, he supposed. Unlike other reapers, he had no desire to try to come to terms with his life, to find forgiveness and move on to some other plane of existence. No, he was perfectly happy being a reaper. It was a job for which he was well suited. And the benefits were exceptional. Killing was just a perk.
For the first century or so, the Count had used his skills in the business realm to amass a tidy fortune. With it, he had built for himself a comfortable life; one full of excess of wine, woman, and song, as they say. When that had gotten boring, he had turned to his other skills as an exterminator to explore the world's darker side. With his inability to be killed, and his uncanny skill with his razor sharp blade hidden securely away on his person, he had become a legend among the criminal subset.
At first, he wondered what the catch might be. But as the years grew long and his legend and power grew, he started to doubt there was one. As long as he dutifully did his job as a reaper, he got the impression that who or what ever had put him here cared very little what he actually did otherwise. Eventually, he convinced himself that he was untouchable.
And so things continued. Gone were the pompous displays of excess. He had learned long ago that it wasn't wise for him to draw attention to himself. At least not publicly. It wouldn't do to have too many people want to start looking into his background. Things could get tricky that way. Privately, though, he ruled the criminal underground as their lord and master. A god among mere mortals. And what did gods do after they had all they desired? It seems, they became human.
Gradually, his thoughts turned back to those of the man he once was. A man with a different set of desires. One that included children and a family. Someone to share his wisdom and his legacy with. But he couldn't procreate (he was, after all, dead). Couldn't have a family. All of that was impossible. Until he met a boy and his thoughts began to change on the matter. In him, he had found a surrogate son, a like-minded and impressionable young man who he could mold and shape in his image. He had high aspirations for the lad, training him in all he knew about business and life, and eventually about the darker aspects of his being. And the boy had thrived under his tutelage, a worthy successor to his throne. The young man had even come to love him as a father, just as surely as he loved him as his own son.
And then, fate had to go and muck it all up.
There were many nights he wondered who had reaped his son. He hadn't been there when he was killed, but someone had to have been. How many nights had he dwelled up it? How many nights did he long to know who had come and collected his son's soul at the moment of his demise. Was it someone who knew what they were doing and made sure he didn't suffer? What he wouldn't give just to know.
The Count sighed, slamming the note down on the counter and running a wrinkled hand along his jaw. Surely this must be some sort of joke. Killian Jones. He hadn't thought about that man in years. So why now? Why a red note bearing that name? Someone somewhere must be having a laugh. After all, how could he kill a man he had already killed? And he was positive he had killed him. Even if it weren't for the countless years since then, the Count knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Killian Jones was indeed dead. He had watched in delight as the man's blood spilled from his chest. He had watched in joy as the light left his eyes. Hell, he had even giggled like a young lad in breeches as his men buried the body in the mud of the Thames. A burial fitting a pirate and a thief.
Rumple sneered and withdrew his blade from its sheath, checking his reflection in its smooth, polished edge. The countless years had not changed either his true visage or the new one he was given when he was made a reaper, although he had come to rather prefer the new face he had been given. It was handsome enough to assure access to many a woman's spread legs, and yet unremarkable enough that he didn't often need to move from place to place in order to not draw attention to his unchanging nature. His cold, dark eyes winked back at him, a glimmer of true elation taking shape.
He hadn't felt this excited about a job in forever. God help this Killian Jones when he found him. It would be far too satisfying to get to kill a man with the same name as the bastard who had stolen his wife. This job called for finesse. This was a job he wanted to take his time and really savor.
Rumple's lips curled up in a smile, teeth sharp as razors. Oh, he was definitely going to enjoy this.
Storybrooke. What a stupidly quaint sounding name. They'll never see him coming.
Turning, he cashed out his till, switching off the lights in the display cases as he went. When he reached the front door, he flipped the sign over to CLOSED before securely locking it up behind him. As he exited, his mind was already fixed upon all the numerous ways he could end this man's life. Therefore, he failed to notice the way the neon sign in the window flickered and went out, the word's 'Gold's Pawn Shop' blinking out of existence, almost as if they had never been there at all.
….
Reviews?
