Chapter 1

Holding Breath Over Pre-Conceived Ideas

A bond had most definitely been made; secured deep inside the both of them, but Killian was staunch in keeping the truth of its translucency a tightly held secret. Better all-around that everyone believed Emma was his and he was hers; especially Emma. It wasn't an outright lie so much as a fogging of perception; the bond was no less real due to its fragility, but Killian couldn't (wouldn't) lose her to some wanker that would press his/her suit. Killian pressing his already laid claim on Emma to solidify the damned thing wasn't an option either. Not after Walsh. Not after the creature Killian had become to make her safe. His pride wouldn't have anything less than Emma choosing him free and clear, without some ancient magic twisting her mind. But to be perfectly blunt –if at least with himself– without total consummation or a formal binding ceremony, the bond would remain as weak as when he found her managing her own escape all those months ago. If he ignored his pride, Killian loved her and couldn't fathom choosing either of his options so soon after Emma's turmoil.

The first few nights after he had returned to her were etched in horrific memory, when she had attempted to sleep within the same bed as him and triggered her nightmares in violent ways.

(His own nightmares came to life the nights she spent away from him.)

As it was, it was fortuitous that Killian came to manhood in a different era that boasted more chaste ideas of courtship; he could keep the bond thriving in its infantile state until she was ready, without having his own desires choke him.

As it was, his efforts to be what Emma needed were met with a few obstacles outside his own base nature… her nature, to be exact.

As it was, they had been "dating" for months and matters were becoming… difficult and pressing.

Killian didn't date, per se. In his youth as a human, the rules and rituals were a different species altogether than the modern editions, and couldn't be used as anything other than defensive maneuvers to negating his libido. In his youth as a werewolf, he avoided attachments first from grief, then from obligation to a memory. After his self-loathing ebbed and his heart felt more numb than pained, well it seemed pointless to try to forge a connection that lasted longer than a night given his line of work. Cultural standards changed very little as time wore on, and it seemed the space of an ocean didn't alter them either. However, he wasn't ignorant of the sexual liberation the human race began back during the 1970's, nor was he oblivious to the steady pulse of the liberation of women from the puritanical foundations most civilized society sat on. He had most certainly taken advantage of women openly enjoying sex in all its formats… it had been such liberties that had introduced Killian to his Rubles. He was also aware of the current standard of a "three-date" rule; another advantage he had taken up on when he had more than a passing thought to a particular female. What he hadn't counted on was Emma being psychologically ready for such intimacies even six months' postmortem of Walsh Singe. Which she wasn't, not truly. But his beautiful Swan was a stubborn creature who believed that if she pretended to be fine long enough, it would simply happen all on its own. A tactic Killian himself had employed more than his fair share of times. He knew that however eager her body tried to be, her mind and heart were not in concurrence. His counter measure as to slow burn the courtship, to allow her mind to accept him and others once again. Words before glances. Glances before touches. He'd be Wesley-the-bloody-farmboy posing as her very own Mr. Knightley until she wasn't blacking out on anyone. Even if it took him the rest of her days to do so.

Emma wasn't his only obstacle; simply for picking her up from Brookside Manor hadn't become any easier as time wore on either. Not that such reception wasn't to be expected, David was notorious for being a laid back and easygoing man –unless he or his wolf felt its territory was encroached upon. Then he became this thing that was as stubborn as a creature born a love child between a jackass and bull; grunting and glaring at the person imposing on his general good nature. To be fair, Killian hadn't actually seen the man fight in such circumstances, David's dominance being high enough that most wolves just fell in line. But there were stories from the early days after David's Change; a former boxing champ on the rise turned hired muscle for a witch, running her liquor routes during days of prohibition as part of a truce between the woman and the local Alpha. Then there were a handful of stories from his early days at Brookside under Alpha Leopold Blanchard. Fighting in either case was to be expected –simple matters of illegal work and basic tussles of settling into a new pack. What hadn't been expected from such a young wolf was the quick severity that these fights not only began, but ended. Nor was the rumor that a fair amount of fights were handled man to wolf –David retaining his human-skin while his opponent shifted for more strength and power– and David repeatedly emerged the victor. With Emma set up as (more or less) an impromptu adoption into David's pack and family, Killian had fully braced himself for the growling and posturing and perhaps even a scuffle or two.

Angry father figures were creatures he was well acquainted with.

While David certainly created a fair blockade, the problem still wasn't David directly. Killian's true problem lay in resisting and rejecting Emma's advances when their outings gave opportunity for getting closer. Which, because of Emma's persistence, was every outing. A woman can only be told "no" so many times before she succumbed to the notion that she was undesirable, and Emma already had more than enough fuel of her own to give light to that ridiculous idea. It was a balancing act Philippe Petit would be impressed with. He wanted her, gods how he wanted her; the carpal tunnel threatening his right hand every few days was proof. (Killian was positive that without his supernatural abilities for rapid healing, the internal workings of his bollocks would have been cummed out of his cock three times over by now.) He simply couldn't rectify taking that step with Emma, knowing it would solidify their bond into something irreversible. She had been forced into this life, nearly forced into a bond that would have been devoid of love for the sake of keeping her quiet. Killian wouldn't be the one to force her into anything more until she could look at him without the shadows of dank rooms hiding her green eyes and she could lay an entire night in his arms without a panic attack clouding her mind from him.

The problem lay in keeping her happy and content enough so his interactions with David remained limited to glares and grunts of general disapproval instead of golden eyes promising a swift dismemberment.

As it was, an outing with Emma was usually precluded with a mental workup done in his truck so a sit down with David – who staunchly grumbled his way through the conversations – went smoothly.

All necessary trials to help keep the carnal urges locked away for another night.

Killian being Killian, there were the traditional dates of dinners and movies and whatnot. He used the word "wooing" more than once as explanation, even when Emma reminded him that she was a sure thing, so she simply stopped resisting and let him "woo" away when he kept insisting on doing it. She liked dressing up for reasons other than honey trapping a bail jumper anyway. But it wasn't uncommon for Killian to take his truck out onto some barely cleared dirt road for their dates, follow it to some random clearing in the woods for a picnic or an activity of some sort. Not the kind of activities Emma was more than willing (she mentally shouted in Killian's general direction) to take part in mind you, but other things that would likely both thrill and horrify Mary Margaret. There were trips where he would take her to a wide-open field, a large denim blanket spread and a telescope set up; stargazing was something he was hell bent on teaching her, regardless of the fact that all she saw when she looked up was bright round things stuck in the big black thing. (Timon had it right; Neil deGrasse Tyson could suck it.) More of his wooing, but less formal. There were excursions where Killian would teach her how to track outdoors, instructing when to listen to the clues left behind and when to ignore them. He even shifted to wolf a handful of times in extreme games of hide and seek where she was always the one hiding. That game scared her the first couple rounds –memories and all such things, but Zuul was always there shuffling forward, belly to the ground, to nestle into her when her panic tried to rise up. He'd roll over and be playful, or he's slowly inch up on her until he was on top of her (usually occupying her entire lap and legs), breathing deeply and loudly, guiding her back to calm spaces. Emma insisted they keep playing the game though; she trusted him, wolf and man. It wasn't long until her brain took her to the idea that the better she got at hiding or evading Killian, the better she would be with other wolves. All the same, it was those outings to some empty clearing that Emma enjoyed the most. Not for the activities –or lack of, but for the end of it. When they were growing quiet and tired, stretched out on the blanket or curled around each other in the back of the truck. He was always warm with a comforting hand moving up and down her arms or back. Sometimes on her better days he would manage a hand in her hair gently petting her scalp. He accused her of being too much like a cat with her purring once; Emma meowed and he laughed open and free. Emma liked that sound. The world –and everything that made her jump or tense throughout the day– faded to his smell and his touch. And for those few moments, she was nothing. Not a girlfriend, not a friend. Not a new responsibility and not a charity case.

Not a victim.

She just was.

And with all the close or exciting moments, they still had to get out the front door to get to them. So it wasn't uncommon either for Killian to remain in said truck, staring at nothing from what Emma could tell, just prior to picking her up. He would sit there for roughly fifteen minutes before he'd finally stride to the front door for his escort to David's study. Then it was another twenty minutes of posturing and small talk between the males… or that's what Mary Margaret confessed it was. Emma knew these folks were old fashioned, but this was ridiculous given how long it had been happening.

:I swear one of these dates, I'm just going to crash the man cave.

:Be thankful it's David. It could be a lot worse.

:How Ruby? How could this "get daddy's permission" get any worse?

:Have you thought even once what Graham would have been like if things developed while you were still a New Yorker?

:Graham might have gotten touchy, but that's because of the whole turf thing.

:Try again Emma. He was threatening Killian before you two had been formally introduced.

:That's because Killian is a flirt and Graham thought he had a crush on me.

:Or it was because Graham loves you and he knew how someone like Killian could affect you. Good or bad.

:Overbearing brother type is still easier to deal with than this.

:It would have gone way past 'overbearing brother type' and you know it. Besides, all this? This is just the first step. After David calms down –if he calms down– Killian still has Graham to deal with. Then me. Then Granny.

:Are you fucking joking?

:Not remotely. You may belong to that pack, but the wolves that introduce you to the life are always responsible for you. Which would be the three of us you left behind.

:Technically, he was the one to introduce me. Then Killian. And since Killian ate him…

:Nice try. Look, I get it. You see it like its old world "women are property" deal. But it's more like a whole big family stepping in and making sure you're ok, which after everything, you have to give us. We need to heal too you know.

:I get it… I just didn't think this would be like being in the mob.

:You wouldn't even begin to know what mob life is like Lemur.

:And you would?

:Granny and I are Russians in New York… what do you think?

:Oh my god…

:For the FBI's record, I can confirm nor deny anything.

:Lol and yet you openly admit the wolf thing?

:Mob life vs. Werewolves. Which would you believe?

:Fine.

: I bet you two haven't slept together yet have you?

:RUBY!

:Just saying… might be why you're so wound up. But I get it, traumatic event and all. You hold out as long as you like.

:Except I'm not the one holding out.

:Oh? Well isn't that interesting…

:I hate it when you say that.

:I love it when you give me reason to. Tell me what this late night date ends up being.

:Yeah. Love you.

:Love you.

Emma slipped her phone back in her pocket. Bitching to Ruby had become a bit of her own ritual prior to finally wandering down the stairs to meet Killian. It helped ease the anxiety… and well… tension had to give somewhere and verbally venting off a bit of steam to her friend was better than a tactile solo mission. Emma had a very vivid memory of Killian's reaction the one time she handled that issue like a normal person; him scenting the air repeatedly wearing dilated white eyes. It was a memory that helped now and then. What wasn't helping was that tonight's outing was a scheduled overnighter; the anticipation had Emma's skin humming for what little extra contact she could wrangle from him. Even if Emma's ego was getting bruised waiting for him to get on with things, in spite of Killian's very obvious inclination otherwise.

She was half-ready to beg tonight and she hadn't even said "hi" to him yet.

It could have been any number of things really, but the longer Emma Swan stayed in her family home, the more Mary Margaret lingered in her lost daughter's nursery. Easy answers pointed at the fact of both the girls bared the same name; it wasn't as if Emma was something uncommon to name a little girl. They also pointed to the resemblance Emma Swan had to Mary Margaret herself, one that hadn't been so easy to see under the wrinkled layers of age, though now it was slightly alarming as Mary Margaret relearned her own young face. The easy answers pointed out that Emma held David's coloring, and bore Ruth's shrewd skills of reading people.

Christ, she was even around the proper age.

But it was all circumstantial flights of fancy. Mary Margaret held onto hope for so long that her little girl was safe somewhere, loved and happy. Emma being around was forcing Mary Margaret to deal with actual outcomes to her family's tragedy, when all she wanted to do was maintain reality as it was. On long nights when she couldn't sleep, Mary Margaret blamed her wolf; wolves don't dwell on the past for very long and it wanted to move on. There could be tests done… DNA would certainly fix this whole puzzle, but to what end? Emma Swan had to grow up alone, remained alone, until Ruby and Granny had decided to keep her. Not the life Mary Margaret wanted for her first born, how could she cope with the knowledge of the tests returning back positive? And Emma, she was thrown into her new reality; the new pressure of family –this kind of family– could break all the progress she had already made towards healing the damage recently done. Lord knows what it would do to Leo to find out he wasn't only a brother, but a little brother.

Oh God Leo…

But the worst of it wouldn't even be the stress and in-fighting over who would have legal rights over Emma or the estate. It wouldn't be the struggle to reshape their families around the new information; it wouldn't even be trying to connect with each other as family. It was if the tests proved negative… if a legacy could continue without the tarnish of one psychotic Fusion... if everyone got their hopes up… if a lost little girl finally thought she found her family. If everything they thought they could ever have…

Wasn't even there to start with. It would destroy them all.

The other choice was to remain ignorant, to protect everyone from the fallout of knowing. But the idea had struck her heart so hard that some days Mary Margaret couldn't breathe with not knowing. So Mary Margaret took to hiding away in the charred remains of her daughter's bedroom; desperately trying to connect with the memory of what was instead of hoping for what could be. It had taken so much just to live on after; Mary Margaret couldn't bring herself to risk all they had for what she lost. She clung to old stuffed toys, or sheets and blankets that carried fragments of scent. Something appreciated so much more now that she could actually detect the finer points of what had been her baby girl. Eventually, Snow planned on smacking her husband for not telling her the scent their daughter had been born with. Most people smelt of what their daily life took them through, something common to their lifestyle. But the lost child of Brookside had something different.

Of course she did…

Her little girl, once upon a time, had smelled like the hot of summer. Of warmth and light. It was almost gone under the taint of burnt synthetic fibers; Mary Margaret had broken down and wept the first time her new senses had picked it up, spending the next two weeks driving her nose into everything in the room just to find it again. It was a bit masochistic, etching the scent of her first born into her mind at this point of it all. Ingraining it into herself to the result of scenting it all over the manor. But if she had the choice of having this little remnant over nothing at all, Mary Margaret would rather smell ghosts around every corner.

Killian wasn't necessarily against Earl Grey tea, it simply felt as if they both should have been drinking something much stronger than the liquid chosen. Brandy or Bourbon if they were stick to the aesthetic adopted; rum and scotch if they were stick to their personal preferences. And it wasn't as if either of them could achieve even a moderate hum in their blood –let alone get drunk. It had been the second date when David showed himself to be vehemently against the idea of letting Emma out the front doors if a drop of alcohol was present. (Scarlet had been spiking the contents of the fridge again.) Killian –in lieu of amber courage– would have resorted to a simple cup of coffee, something bracing in its bitter flavor; not the soothing nature of… tea. He had to fight against the calm that the warm liquid gave to better withstand the barrage of need he would feel once Emma arrived. In his agitation to remain alert, poor David was triggered into his own sense of unease resulting in further pouring of tea to counteract the emotion in both of them.

It was a vicious cycle. Rum would never do this to him.

Killian wasn't even left with the option to explain his heightened senses without risking a temporary ban from the manor. He could control himself; he could control his wolf. He had been doing well these last months, keeping his promise to David of courting Emma and giving her a solid relationship to rely on. He pressed her for nothing other than the occasional snogging on the couch. (Or counter… table… wall… tree…) But his resolve wasn't fairing so well today. Be it the sheer amount of time since he had last lain with a woman (more than a year is long for any creature), or the fact that his instincts were driving him to make final claim to the woman he had fallen so hard for. It certainly wasn't helped by the fragile connection he did have to Emma; knowing the naughty things that cycled through her head from time to time made his resistance down right painful.

"I know these sit downs bore you Killian, but you could at least keep your head in this room when I'm talking to you?" David's tone –thankfully– was of only annoyance.

Properly so, Killian grinned sheepishly. "Sorry mate. Emma is on her way down; you remember how it was when your connection was first established…"

David switched from being annoyed to looking like he might vomit. "Not that I want any of those details, thank you."

Killian sighed. "For the record Alpha, Swan and I haven't crossed that particular bridge. Despite her attempts for an all-out sprint across it. Repeatedly."

David's eyebrow cocked high, with a flash of gold burning in his eyes. "You said you two bonded Killian Jones. While I appreciate the courtship, I cannot allow Emma to remain unmated given the situation."

It was a slip, Killian hadn't intended to whine the truth. A lesser wolf just wasn't prone to maintaining deceptions among trusted betters. Killian was nothing if not silver tongued however. "We are. I assure you. But we've… I've abstained since then."

Not an outright lie, not the entire truth…

David leaned forward. "Oh? Ok… maybe a few details… didn't see you as one to hold back on…" His hands waved circles through the air. "…that."

Killian frowned. "Normally no. She still has nightmares, still can't eat chicken without needing a few moments to come back to reality. I pretend sleep when she leaves the bed to sleep on the couch –though I'm happy to report that has begun to happen less and less. What kind of man or wolf would I be to push for something she isn't ready to give? Certainly wouldn't be any kind of proper mate to her, and given her track record with the males I'm aware of, I refuse to have any comparisons between me and them."

David nodded. "I see what you mean, I do. And don't take this as me allowing… that… to happen. But the rules of companionship have dramatically altered since either one of us were human. That activity happens fairly early on these days. If your goal is to give her something stable, why not let her have what she would see as normal?"

Killian leered a moment, running his tongue along his bottom lip. "It's called sex Dave."

The word worked and David flinched. "Seriously Killian. I'm trying to help here."

Killian breathed a chuckle. "I know, my apologies; Gods know I can't resist such low hanging fruit. She may want to, but as I've learned, Emma has a propensity to steamroll over the problems and issues at hand without regard to the outcome. And a large part of her willingness could be attributed to the connection and her feeling my reactions to her. Regardless, until I can hold her through the night without her having an issue, sexual intimacy –beyond what we have managed– won't help anything."

David flinched again. "And I agree. But you could let things progress until she asks for them to stop. At least then it's her choice, and she might relax a bit. One less choice for her to worry about for a while."

Killian tilted his head, "Just why are you so helpful? From what I can tell, you're happier with her and I never going near that particular choice. Ever."

David sighed. "Because Emma is… it's becoming obvious she's… fuck…"

Killian's eyebrows shot up. "Oh do tell mate."

David ran his hands over his face. "Let's just say… that the tension between you and Emma is getting harder to deal with for the rest of us. I assumed it was just a high frequency, not total lack of. Either way, some of my wolves have taken notice of the tension between you two in a way that could only end badly for everyone. Something needs to give. And soon."

Killian paused. "Is that why you've been giving me tea these last few months? To calm my libido?"

David looked contrite just before he looked offended. "I like Earl Grey thank you." Killian stared as both eyebrows shot up on his forehead. "And yes."

Tonight's date had Killian escorting Emma from Brookside during the late evening. The August sun lingered in the sky like an unwelcome second cousin set up in the guestroom. Hovering and irritating and just when it seemed the bastard had gone to bed, all too soon he's back up to torment another day. The humidity that filtered through the trees had to be the cousin's oversized, longhaired dog set to chew up and drool over the furniture. For a creature like a werewolf, either houseguest was a push towards a cross attitude. Werewolves ran hotter than the average human with their increased metabolism, making summer seasons and "southern living" virtually impossible. In general, Killian Jones during this time of year wasn't in the best of moods. His only saving grace in tolerating the ventures out of his home –a place of blessed central-air– was the excuse that later nights with Emma usually meant her staying the night with him. It was a sweet torture as nothing final would take place as he'd like, but every moment was justified when she smiled or found comfort at his side. Selfishly, he viewed every chance to bring her through a break down –as horrible as they was to endure– as proving his fidelity to her… to them. Selfishly he thrilled at every chance to press a kiss to her lips as a tangible promise of his presence; to her temple, to the soft skin under her jaw… He clamped down his mind a little tighter when his thoughts drifted towards his physical needs. He didn't enjoy to, it closed off what little connection to Emma he could allow. But Emma had been terrorized and brutalized by a blight-infested piss pot; Killian rather suffer the loss of her presence inside his being than press that aspect of their relationship. Until they could spend a night in the same bed (platonically) without her nightmares pressing dark circles under her eyes at the very least. A first for Killian honestly, turning down basic pleasures for the sake of rest.

With his heightened temper and her darker moments, even with Killian feeling greedy with her, Killian had been prepared and insistent during the summer to escort Emma home when the day was particularly rough. Emma's stubborn nature won out more often than not and she remained in his bed –when he couldn't convince her to her own– with him a room away. His wolf would take point from him a few times each month, laying with her like an oversized stuffed animal for her to snuggle into. He wasn't sure if he should feel slighted that she could sleep soundly with him in wolf-skin instead of with him as a man, or if he should feel luckier than Margaret Brown that she took to that part of him as if he wasn't anything abnormal. His wolf certainly preened with the knowledge that Emma trusted it, that they could still provide for their Would-Be-Mate even when her mind fought against them, that he and his wolf had abilities to get around the damage inflicted and still be able to ease her heart.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the only thing she was fighting against. The wretched truth was the mate bond that had begun forming almost from that fateful night in the park, and was fortifying itself as it should regardless of Killian's attempts to slow it down to nearly a stop. The magic of it encouraged the need to be with each other, influencing in small ways until it was formed; only to choose then to remain a mere conduit. It was nearly a thing of its own mind now, having waited so long to be made whole or to be let go.

It was one step to take, just one.

Either direction really.

One step could even be satisfied with words alone, as many mated couples had opted to do. Though many bonds manifested in more carnal agreements as was the original way; a joining of the bodies as the minds and hearts sealed themselves together. Their bond was all but grabbing him by the bollocks at this point any time she so much as flicked her hair. But Killian stalled it as best he could. You see, it wasn't the mate bond Emma was fighting, if anything, she was trying to follow along the gilded path the bond had laid out for her. After four months of dating, Emma was following current dating trends (as David so helpfully pointed out) of progressing the relationship sexually, not fully aware of what such actions would result for herself… for them.

Emma was fighting against Killian's hesitations.

Killian couldn't fathom letting her fall into the bond unknowingly, not after Walsh the Wanker. She technically knew of the risks, it had been laid out for her. But knowing and experiencing are separate demons. If she chose this, chose him, it would be after he showed her everything they could be. The comfort, the fights, the mundane every day. He would wait and give her every chance to walk away; a concept his wolf wasn't on board with. But she needed the wide-open eyes one only got from seeing the worst of things, only then would her choice be truly hers. She may have experienced something truly horrible of her new world, but she had missed the worst of him.

So the instincts and demands of his wolf warred with the instincts and cautions of the man.

This wasn't exactly new behavior, he's sure he heard Ruby mention his contradictive nature before, but Emma uncannily brought it all to the forefront. Waiting for her to make that final call would be a taxing torture indeed, but one endured nonetheless.

Another breath as he drove them out to a clearing, and another, until he was certain that his urges weren't going to be an issue for their night.

(Emma chose then to stretch next to him with her arms high above, her breast straining against the fabric of her shirt. Killian bit his cheek enough to nearly chew through it; his wolf howled in laughing pleasure.)

Malcolm Aran was never so pleased as to see Killian Jones find himself a mate; he dare say he was more pleased than Killian himself. Games were only fun if all the players arrived to the board after all, and Malcolm was all too eager for these players to set up their pieces and join in. His game had been long in its run, players set up and lost to his table many times over at this point. The game was nearly his. Just a few more turns around the board and a handful of gambles he was sure to gain from. But patience wasn't a virtue he had ever obtained. Ironic, considering how long he has lived and how long he had been setting up and playing with his toys. No, Malcolm would grow restless rather quickly waiting for the living around him to get on with things. Little vermin crawling about the world thinking what they did was of their own choosing. Every now and then, Malcolm would forget himself and cause minor traumatic events to spur his games along. Tricky business that, as the outcome became exponentially random. The whole byplay at Brookside seventy some odd years ago nearly cost him the whole game before he could let anyone know they were playing. And being so very close to the end now, it was most difficult to rein in his compulsions to push everyone over the finish line and down at his feet.

Now, for instance, as he waited for his wayward companion to show his cowardly face. Rumpelstiltskin was playing games too, and it was a problem. They had a deal set nearly in stone an age ago, and now the Imp's meddling's had pushed Malcolm's carefully laid plans nearly to ruin. Again. Malcolm ended up burning through far too many resources to set things back to rights. Rumple delaying this meeting now was either proof of guilt, or proof of disregard to consequence; or both. High odds to both. Although Rumpelstiltskin's reasons for interfering were really of no concern, Malcolm simply wanted to see where the Imp's mind was at, where his intentions lay, and if their deal could still be kept quiet if not intact. The Imp was aware of entirely too much of Malcolm's non-Council dealings. And entirely too capable of derailing centuries of work with very little effort.

These things wouldn't put an end to Malcolm's game; they would only delay it until more players could be found. More circumstances that pushed patience to breaking.

Diplomacy was required here, not force of power.

So Malcolm waited while the Shadows licked at his heels, upset, but not overly worried. Things would play his way; Malcolm Aran never failed.