"Well, Miss Swan, there must be something in your admittedly small range of talents that can be done. This cannot continue!"
Emma raises one eyebrow at the fuming woman in front of her. Regina Mills, hotelier extraordinaire, has been ranting and raving for a solid twenty minutes about acts of vandalism of the highest sort – trampled rose bushes on her property – and demanding Emma do something about it.
She sighs, taking great pleasure in the bristling the action results in from her foe. "Regina, it was probably someone's dog. I can't go locking up people's pets. Put up a fence."
"A fence will destroy the views! People pay good money for those views, Miss Swan, not that I expect you to know anything about running a business." Her glare sweeps Emma over from head to toe, taking in the scuffed boots, worn jeans and leather jacket. She sniffs, as though Emma's attire offends her. "How fortunate you were able to secure yourself a position where there's no need to turn a profit."
It should offend her; it should make her livid to be treated with such an utter lack of respect, but Emma has been in Seabrooke long enough to know there is nothing she's done to cause this sort of behavior. Regina Mills is the town cranky old biddy – except she isn't that old.
She's just cranky.
It's come to the point where rather than get upset, Emma struggles to hold in her laughter. She doesn't exactly have a great life, but she much prefers her stable if boring existence to the circus that surrounds people like Regina.
"Listen, if I hear anything, or find anything out, I'll let you know." Emma isn't going to waste her time searching for the responsible party. It's Maine. The likelihood of the roses being trampled by an animal is much higher than someone intentionally harming the roses on Regina's property.
"Why don't you go ask that damn pirate? He's practically living on top of me."
Emma can't stop the eye roll this time, throwing her hands up and sinking down into her desk chair. "He lives on his boat. The marina is close to your property. He's not a pirate – he's a businessman, same as you."
"He's a drunk!" Regina snaps back, shaking her finger in Emma's direction. "He probably did it himself!"
Emma can't argue with the drunk accusation – she's had Killian Jones sleep it off in a cell on more than one occasion – but she's seen him well into his cups enough to know all he does is stumble back to his boat and narrowly avoid drowning.
That is, if he hasn't gotten into a fight with one of the tourists at a bar that she's had to break up.
"I'll stop by and ask him if he saw anything," Emma finally says, hoping those are the magic words to remove Regina from her presence. The tourist season is finally winding down – all Emma wants to do is catch up on her mountain of paperwork in the quiet office.
"See that you do." Regina turns on her heel after spitting the words at Emma, disappearing in a cloud of perfume and animosity.
Emma doesn't bother holding in her groan once the woman is gone, dropping her face into her palms. Sometimes, she wonders how she ended up here in Seabrooke, a tourist trap town not far from Bar Harbor.
From Memorial Day to Labor Day, the town is overrun with tourists from across the country, with a late September weekend or two spurt of leaf-peepers – she hates that term almost as much as she hates the people who fit it – but once the tourists pack up back home, Seabrooke is a sleepy Maine town on the coast. Most of the residents spend the summers working like fiends, but the winters are spent with friends and family.
Not that Emma is in heavy supply of the family bit.
Friends have come slowly over the years since she came to Seabrooke on a job and decided to stay. Ruby, the bartender at Granny's bed and breakfast, is the only one she would probably call a true friend. There's a few other acquaintances around town, and enough people like her that she was easily voted in as Sheriff six months ago, but when the snows come, Emma is alone in front of her fire.
She's not sure what possessed her to go for it in the first place. Chasing down criminals as a bounty hunter was something she was good at, and something she made a decent living at. Trouble was, there weren't many criminals to catch all the way up the Maine coast, and she grew tired of traveling far and wide.
Something about Seabrooke feels like home, has felt like home since the first night she spent at Granny's. It's why she stayed, if she's having an honest day. Emma's never had a home before, so giving up this feeling isn't something she's willing to do.
The town grew on her, the extremes of packed summers and lonely winters. The ebb and flow of the tide grounded her, and she can always find comfort in the gentle rush of the waves.
It's also a hell of a lot cheaper to have a spacious loft in Seabrooke, Maine, than it is to have a shoebox apartment in Boston.
The flip side of her decision to stay in this teeny tiny town is that the people who get on her nerves – Regina Mills tops the list – are never far. Between Mr. Gold, souvenir shop owner with questionable business practices, and Regina, Emma can usually count on some form of nonsense landing on her desk.
And then there's Killian Jones. He's devastatingly handsome, with eyes to match a warm summer sky, but he is a thorn in her side and has been since the moment she pinned on her badge. He owns a beautiful pair of sailboats, one named Jolly and the other named Roger, that he keeps at the marina. The Jolly is his very own tourist trap – he takes the families and couples and kids out on the boat during the summer months, charging an exorbitant fee the silly tourists gobble up. They seem to especially enjoy his pirate tour, where he dresses up somewhere between Captain Hook and Jack Sparrow, and leads them around the bay telling vastly embellished tales of the local history.
Emma isn't sure if he draws more kids with that one or teenage girls, but his tours are the least of her concerns.
No, what makes Killian Jones such a pain in her ass is his tendency to get himself into trouble – the sort of trouble she's responsible for cleaning up. He drinks like a fish, and in the summer, when the humidity hangs heavy in the air and the tourists pack the bars, his short temper often finds itself an outlet in the form of broken noses and smashed knuckles.
It's not that he's awful to her – quite the opposite. The man is unfailingly polite, when he isn't being lewd or making suggestions he knows damn well Emma will never take. He's apologized to her more times than she can count for her trouble as she's deposited his rum-soaked self into one of the two holding cells.
If she let him, he could break her heart with the sadness she sees in his eyes. He's a man trying to forget, but his memories always seem to be waiting for him at the bottom of the bottle.
Emma knows that look, because she's seen it in the mirror one too many times.
But Killian Jones also lives on his boat within sight of Regina's stupid roses, so she supposes she better at least make a show of following up like she's promised Regina. It's easier to just go down to the dock, ask Jones if he trampled the roses, and report back that he had nothing to do with it.
Regina will be watching, she's sure of it.
Early October has yet to shift into the truly frigid grip of winter, so Emma leaves her leather jacket on her chair, grabbing her keys to lock the door behind her for the short duration of her trip. If anything is truly wrong, someone will find her.
They always do.
The sunshine is warm on her back as she strolls down toward the water, waving to the few friendly faces she sees along the way. It's nice to be known, to have people welcome her into their paths even if she has no desire to get much closer. It's why she stays.
It's why she agrees to do stupid things like go ask Killian Jones if he perhaps wandered across the water to Regina's property and stamped her roses into the dirt.
Her boots hit the wooden dock with a thud, and she pauses for a moment, the view spectacular on such a clear day. There are a few islands off the coast, but they're only visible if the humidity is low and the skies are clear. It's one of those days, and she lets her eyes slide closed, breathing in the salt air and the peace of Seabrooke settling back into itself for the winter.
She could stand there in the sunshine, soaking up the quiet and the warmth, all afternoon, but it's easier to just get it over with. She hopes it's early enough in the day that he hasn't gotten into the liquor yet. The man is marginally easier to deal with when he's sober.
A glance at either boat reveals him nowhere to be found, so with a shrug she climbs about the Roger, figuring he's below decks. Seabrooke is the sort of town where people just walk into each other's homes all the time, and Killian's boat is no exception.
Only this time, she's barely set foot in the cabin below when a muscled arm comes up around her throat, one hand covering her mouth. Against her temple, she feels the cool touch of metal and wonders just what in the hell she's walked in to.
She's released almost as fast as she was grabbed, and she's spinning to face her attacker, gun drawn. She's baffled to see Killian Jones staring back at her, his eyes wild and his face flushed. A gun hangs limply from his fingers, and he drops it almost immediately when their eyes meet.
"What the fuck, Jones?" Emma demands, holstering her gun and straightening her shoulders. She rubs one hand against her throat, surprised by the strength of the man. "Since when do you attack people for no good reason?"
"Apologies, Swan." The low burr of his accent is more pronounced than usual, but the words are clear. He isn't drunk, which is usually what makes the accent stronger. "Thought you were someone else."
"Someone you intend to great with a gun? Do you even have a permit for that?"
"Aye. In the desk, if you must have proof."
She regards him suspiciously for a moment, but nods after a careful once over. He's definitely not drunk, but something is going on, and Emma is going to get to the bottom of it.
"I believe you. You're many things, but you've never lied to me." She pauses, her eyes settling back on the gun at his feet. He's tense, coiled paranoia by the looks of it, and that worries her more than him mouthing off to tourists. "What's going on, Jones?"
"No concern of yours, sweetheart." She hates the nicknames, hates the way they simply roll off his tongue like he has some right to call her anything other than her name. But she hates being dismissed more, and she knows when there's something more going on than meets the eye.
"I'm the sheriff. It can be my concern now, or it can be my concern when you accidentally shoot someone." Emma isn't leaving until she gets answers, no matter how stubborn the man wishes to be. Let him. Emma is stubborn too.
"Didn't know you cared, Swan." He smirks, his eyes roaming over her but with none of the malice Regina's onceover contained. No, his inspection is of a much different nature, and Emma ignores the tug in her stomach she feels every time he does it.
"Cut the crap. Who are you expecting that requires a loaded gun by the door? You in some sort of trouble, Jones?"
It's there, a flicker of fear, but he masks it quickly. "Nothing of the sort. Just practicing. Can never be too prepared." He bends to scoop up the gun, depositing it on the nearby table. He straightens, his grinning mask firmly back in place and holds up his hands in innocence. "I swear, Sheriff, I won't be shooting anyone who doesn't deserve it."
She narrows her eyes, because it's the tiniest hint of the source of the trouble, but it's not enough for her to go on. The silence begins to grow between them as she thinks, watching him for a clue. Her gut is telling her there's something actually wrong here, that this isn't another of his ridiculous pranks or drunken imaginings.
"You could spend the night, love, keep an eye on me, if you're worried."
If he's trying to get rid of her, it works, because Emma throws up her hands and rolls her eyes. "I came over here to ask you if you trampled Regina's roses. Did you?" she demands, hands on her hips and irritation on full display. First she has to get lectured by Regina, then she gets attacked by the town drunk, and now she has to ask a grown man if he ruined a woman's flower bed.
It's not even three o'clock yet.
He seems just as puzzled by her question, and only laughs loudly when she remains silently waiting an answer. "You can't be serious. I would not venture near that wretched woman unless required to. No, Swan, I did not trample Regina's roses."
"Great." She stomps toward the stairs, pausing to glare at him over her shoulder. "Don't shoot yourself with that thing. I really don't want to have to deal with that."
"Yes, m'lady," he cheerfully replies, giving her a soldier's salute. It's infuriating, his behavior, and Emma really wants to give him a salute of the one-fingered variety, but she can't spend another minute in his presence without losing her temper.
But hours later, her temper long cooled, there's the nagging feeling that Killian Jones is in serious trouble.
I told myself I was going to wait until the weekend to start writing this new fic, but the idea wouldn't leave me be. Besides, who needs to study for grad school?
Hope you guys enjoy this new project! Big thanks to CocoFandicoot for prompting this idea with some of her own.