Going camping is something Killian does out of grief. It's not like sailing, when he feels his brother there with him, nor it's like reading, when sometimes he can hear his mother's voice pronouncing the words his eyes devour.
He does it because of the other member of his family he's lost.
His father.
Killian remembers him well, he remembers how much he loved his father and how he instilled the first drop of wisdom in him. He also remembers how much it hurt when he woke up in the middle of the night, screaming because of a nightmare, but his father never came running through the door, ready to comfort him.
It's a step he took when his anger issues threatened to have him remove from duty: he can't very well be a good cop if he exceeds his power, can he?
So he made a list of things he did with Brennan, things he started to hate because of his abandonment, and relived them again. And again, until it stopped hurting so much and he could admit to himself that he may despise his father, but that he also missed him.
Camping is something they used to do together, just like sailing. The latter, however, is not as haunted by the dark shadow of his father as camping is, Liam being the one to help Killian with the pain of loss through more sailing lessons, coping with that pain himself.
The night is pretty humid, something that irks him, meaning he'll find insects abounding and, ugh, mosquitoes. He sighs, taking a swig of his spiked hot chocolate – cutting off the alcohol has been pretty easy, to his surprise.
He loses himself in the night, its sounds and scents, the air musky opposite to the sea's salty one, the breeze ruffling his hair. It'll rain soon, if he has to guess, he'd say in about an hour, enough to gather his belongings, extinguish the fire and get cosy in his sleeping bag.
Looking up at the sky, what little patch of sky visible through the leaves, Killian sighs again. Usually, he feels at peace, or, well, as much as he can when shadows of the past torment him, but lately, lately he feels lonely.
For him, it's not something new, he's felt like that many times. Now, though, it's different: he feels as if he's wasting away, rotting like an apple. He knows love isn't the answer, and he does have people who love him, but his heart knows it's not enough.
He chuckles dryly at that. His heart should be considered as hard as a rock, unloving after what happened with Milah, just like he's unlovable. What little friends he has would probably differ, because they, somehow, love him. Killian just… Killian wants more.
When he sees a shooting star fall from the sky, his eyes widen in wonder, and he wishes, he wishes for that kind of love people can only dream of very few find.
As they say, however, be careful what you wish for.
He wakes up writhing in pain, not knowing why he feels like that and- is that a bloody bite on his side? A whirlwind of emotions sweeps through him: confusion, fear, anxiety, shock only few of them as he looks at the slash in the tent's fabric, spread wide open like an open wound.
It hurts, it bloody hurts and the pain doesn't stop, only fades a little. Rapidly, in the middle of the night with his sweat-soaked clothes aiding the cold of the night to sink deep into his bones. His teeth chatter a bit, even.
The drive home seems like a drug-induced trip, every detail so enhanced they appear to not belong to this world.
Killian needs to sleep. And to see a doctor. Whale would probably kill him as he pretends to cure him only because he woke him in the dead of the night.
In the morning, after he collapses on the bed, the wound tended as best as he could without needing stitches or anything more than an unholy amount of disinfectant, the realization that he doesn't even need to see Victor leaves Killian astonished.
On his fair skin, not even a scar could be seen. He couldn't have dreamt it, he just… couldn't. But he knows, however, that he can't tell anybody what he saw. Or, at least, what he thinks he saw. What did he see, exactly? He's never seen whatever beast bit him. It makes the hair at the base of his neck rise in apprehension.
Trying to forget all about it, Killian goes on with his life, never mentioning it to any of his friends. He goes out for drinks after work, he investigates cases that make is stomach churn in disgust, like the one about an abusive husband. The whole affair is a messy thing, one he can't quite explain.
Killian is a good cop, a brilliant one, some would say, but one thing is connecting clues and being able to see evidence not many can see, another is hearing the woman's panicked heartbeat as she convincingly tries to protect the monster she's naively married.
Of course, Killian just brushes it off, hoping it would be an isolated case.
It's almost as if his prayers are answered since he doesn't experience anything like that,
Until, two weeks or so later, everything changes.
He wakes up in the middle of the forest, stark naked and soaked to the bone, his skin so cold it could turn water to ice at the contact.
How the bloody hell did he end up in middle of the middle of the bloody forest with no clothes on?
But Killian doesn't have time to search for a plausible answer – if there even is one – because he hears an even breath, slow and deep, the complete opposite to his own, heavy and laboured.
Then he ears something else, something he can't catalogue, as if something is being pulled, like-
An arrow flies right next to his head, nicking his right cheek, blood copiously pouring out of the wound. It's a fortune the arrow only hit his cheek, is somehow enhanced senses allowing him to shy away enough to not be hit straight between his eyes.
Seething, Killian doesn't yell, he stands up, not caring about his nudity, and runs towards the origin of the noise.
She's fast, really fast, even with a bouncy quiver full of arrows around her hips, just like her hair does, not tied in a ponytail like someone would expect, but down in loose curls. But Killian, Killian is faster. He's always been fit, not too much, but enough to move swiftly when needed. This time, however, he's way faster than usual, the trees an indistinguishable green blur out of the corners of his eyes.
Soon, when is breath is inexplicably still long and low and not ragged, he catches up with her, pushing her to the ground, the fact that he's naked not deterring him in the least. He straddles her hips, pinning her wrist to the ground, forcing her to release her grip on the bow.
She trashes under him, and he would perhaps think of it as foreplay if he only knew who the bloody hell she is.
«Don't. Move.» he hisses through gritted teeth, blood dripping on her hair from the open wound on his cheek.
Of course, she does not listen to him.
Although thin, the woman is strong, and she almost manages to roll them over and best him. It's all in vain.
In the end, knowing she can't keep going on like that, his hands forcefully bending her arms behind her back, she stops moving.
«Alright, alright, alright, get off of me!»
In a deep, secret corner of his mind, Killian feels like he wants to… purr at the sound of her voice or obey in some twisted way. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts, needing to focus.
«Sorry, love,» he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, «can't do that.»
«If-» she starts, grunting in pain as Killian tightens his grips, cutting off her circulation, «if I promise not to do anything, will you let me go?»
«Bit to late for that, isn't it?» There is something in him that wants to tie her down, although in a more enjoyable way. What the bloody fuck?, he scolds himself, shaking his head, more blood running down his cheek. He hopes he won't need stitches. «Why did you do that? Did you want to kill me?»
«No!» she roars, twisting her neck to look at him, and his breath catches in his throat. Deep green meets blue, and he's enraptured. For a moment, Killian's mind empties, but the moment she speaks again he gains focus once again. «Well, yes, okay? I thought you killed the wolf!»
Now he's utterly confused. «Wolf? What wolf? What the bloody hell are you talking about?»
«The black wolf, the one-» she cuts herself off, groaning and resting her head on the wet ground. «Ah, fuck, I should've understood.»
If possible, Killian is even more confused. And pissed. Not to mention, the lack of clothes and the fact that he's slowly realizing tat he is indeed pressed against very luscious forms are getting to him. «Understood what?»
«Don't play dumb, you idiot!» she spits, looking at him angrily out of the corner of her eye. «Understood that you are a werewolf.»
Killian's eyes widen in disbelief. It can't be, werewolves do not exist. Nothing like that does. Yet… No, it can be.
The woman under him sighs. «If you let me go – and please, put some clothes on – I'll explain.»
Reluctantly, Killian does as she says, perhaps too confused and shocked by her words to actually still be listening to reason. All he can come up with is: «I don't know where my clothes are.»
She rolls her eyes, or he thinks she does, since she's now standing up, quietly brushing leaves from her clothes – pretty fitting clothes, now that he focuses on them, hugging her curves and- bloody hell, he's naked. Gulping, he tries to think about something else, something awful, something like his colleague's pranks.
«I can do something about that,» she says, keeping her back to him, before waving a hand.
A cloud of white-grey smoke envelopes him and, suddenly, he's fully clothed. He wants to ask himself what the bloody hell this is, but he thinks he's made hell impossibly bloody already.
Finally, she turns around, and it's like the sunlight penetrating through a cloud bank after dark days of continue rain. Her face is the most beautiful he's ever seen, pale heated skin with a few smudges of mud on her cheek she's now polishing off with her hand. Freckles cover her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, high cheekbones below green eyes. Finally seeing both, losing himself in those irises, is not justice to being glared at by only one of them.
She hums, bending to pick her bow and checking for any damage. When she finds none, she brings back her eyes on him. «I assume you don't know what I'm talking about.»
Killian rolls his eyes. He wants to retort with some snarky remark, but he doesn't, a spark of good form flaring deep inside of him. «Tell me what you know.» He glances around, suddenly uncomfortable. «Please.»
One of her blonde eyebrows arches, but she nods, waving her hand one more time. Again, he's enveloped by a thick cloud of smoke, the ground disappearing from under his feet but he's not falling, in fact, it's just a flash and then a much harder kind of floor is beneath him.
Looking around, Killian feels as if he's in a cage until he realizes he actually is in a loft and the woman, bow and quiver abandoned on the couch, is pulling out a box of cereals from a cupboard. He almost smiles at the scene.
«You want something?» she asks, glancing at him for a second before focusing on the bowl she's filling with cereals and milk. «You must be famished after the shift.»
As if on cue, his stomach growls. «I'll have what you're having,» he replies, not above eating like a child himself, though he does try to stay healthy. The woman shrugs and indicates the table with a nod of her head. Killian sits down in one chair, looking around.
It's a nice loft, exposed brick walls painted in some vintage way behind him. It looks like he's in some 80s house, old but nice decorations orderly arranged. Somehow, he doesn't think it fits her. She's more… messy. It doesn't exactly bother him, but he wouldn't be surprised if she leaves piles of clothes all around or one too many dishes in the sink.
«By the way,» she tells him, placing a purple bowl and a glass of orange juice in front of him, «my name is Emma Swan.»
«Killian Jones,» he automatically responds, watching carefully as she sits down in front of him. No, she doesn't sit, not like people usually do, she sits with her legs crossed, much like a child. He's amazed. Perhaps, he's even a bit in love, too.
«So,» she starts, not caring that she's munching on cereals as she speaks, «you know nothing about werewolves, do you? I imagine you still think of them as legendary slash supernatural beings. Long story short, they're not. Like many things. Vampires, mermaids, sirens – big difference – shapeshifters, centaurs, elves, dwarves, fairies, all of them exist. And, well, gods too.»
He's glad he's yet to start eating because he would've spit it all out. This is impossible. As it should be impossible the fact that he's been dressed up with a flick of her hand and now he's sitting in front of her in a loft that could be on the other side of the world. Or perhaps not, since it's still day outside, the sun telling him they've not changed time zone. It's going to rain soon.
«I am, in fact, Artemis. Or, well, a reincarnation of sorts. Big war that ended all the Olympians and their essence was transferred into human beings, to keep them – us – alive. I actually never know who to introduce myself as, but I'm equal part Emma and Artemis, both souls intertwined.»
Killian tilts his head, trying to wrap his mind around that madness. «So you're… what, more than two thousand years old? I apologize, I shouldn't ask your age, but-»
«But you still don't understand, I know.» Her kind, shy smile makes his heart flutter. «To answer your question, I am. But I won't share how many years have been, a woman likes to keep her secrets, even if she's a goddess.»
He can't help but smile at that. «Are you still a virgin?» So much for good form.
Heat rises to Emma's cheeks, eyes so wide he thinks she'll get stuck like that. «W-well, t-t-that's not what I-I… I don't want to talk about this.»
But Killian bites back a grin: he has his answer, albeit not one he was actually seeking. «I beg your pardon, love, I shouldn't have asked you anything like that. Please forgive me.»
She nods slowly, but her skin is still flushed. «A-alright, I, uh… werewolves. I, well, Artemis… ah, fuck, this is easier with the other Olympians. Okay, I am their guardian, but of course I can't keep an eye on each one of them. However, I always feel when a werewolf shifts for the first time. I'm not involved with families of wolves, not when the parents raise them teaching them the limits and the rules. You need to stay safe, you don't want hunters to kill you.»
He nods along, her words, somehow, making sense. «And you thought I was a hunter.»
Emma nods, chewing another mouthful of cereals. «I saw the wolf strolling around and wanted to wait until you shifted back to human form. But when I came across you, I got the wrong idea.» She quiets down for a few seconds, lost in memories. «I already lost various wolves because of hunters, I didn't want to lose another. I'm usually there when they shift, never looking but still present. I was late to your shift. The fact that you were naked should've been a giveaway but…»
«You could've asked before shooting at me,» Killian says, clenching his jaw. He's starting to get angry, probably because he's forgotten all about the cut, the dry blood on his face not a good sensation at all.
She bows her head, nodding. Before he can ask her whys she was running away from him, however, Emma lifts her hand, a white glow emanating from it and, suddenly, Killian feels his cheek clean and the cut cicatrized.
«Thank you,» he mumbles, finally digging his spoon in the bowl and eating the now-squishy cereals. «Why did you run away?»
A laugh escapes from her lips, something halfway through a sarcastic and an amused one. «Trust me, you don't want to face a pissed off werewolf. You all are a bit always too ready to snap, let's put it this way.»
With a finger, he traces the rim of the bowl. «If you're some kind of werewolves guardian, why don't you control the wolves biting innocent people unwilling to become part of this supernatural world?»
Hurt flashes in her eyes as she sets her lips into a thin line. He's not being fair, he knows that, as much as he knows what has been done to him isn't fair either.
«All I can do, if you really want some sort of closure, is tracking down the wolf who changed you. I cannot give you your life back. I'm sorry.» As much as he'd like to, he knows he can't get into a fit of rage right now. Emma doesn't deserve this.
It's strange, and it should be impossible, but Killian slowly accepts his role in this new supernatural world, Emma helping him with the shifts and to control his impulses, almost better than the anger management meetings.
They develop a friendship that borders something else, something neither of them want to name for the same reason: if she's also the goddess of virginity, how can he sully her? She's been true to her nature for thousands of years, he can't believe he's enough to let her go of that.
It happens anyway, and it's fitting that it happens in the forest right before he shifts months after their meeting, her body pressed against a tree as he devours her mouth.
After being truthfully ravished, before the moon makes it way to the sky claiming Killian for the night, Emma whispers her love to him, and Killian knows he's found his true mate. Apparently, things for werewolves are quite different than for normal humans. Yet, he wouldn't change a thing.
Killian feels that tingle in his body, the one signalling the shift. After one last, passionate kiss and a love bite on her neck, Killian stands up, looking down at her with ravenous eyes. She stands, wearing a white dress, an old one – because of course she's kept every dress she ever wore during her life – and pushes up on her bare tiptoes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispers: «catch me.»
With a laugh, she takes off, Killian grinning like a true predator as he shifts. It's rapid and not exactly painless but still not very much enjoyable, though way better than the first few times. He's glad he's blacked out during his very first shift and doesn't remember it.
The wolf blends in with the night, the only noticeable thing his glowing bright blue eyes. Killian lifts his head, sniffing at the air to catch trace of her scent, an indistinguishable flavour of cinnamon and sunlight. When he finds what he's looking for, he smiles a wolfish smile before sprinting after Emma.
The huntress is now the prey, and now, Killian's hunt begins.