Written for Captain Swan Secret Santa! Have a very Merry Christmas trueloveinneverland! I've had a lot of fun being your secret santa, and I hope you enjoy. :)
(I apologize in advance for my inevitable grammar/spelling mistakes, feel free to point them out)
Regina's office was pristine. The sort of office you would expect of someone heading a top CIA unit, all elegant mahogany furniture, blue grey walls, and spotless hardwood floors that made it impossible to come in unheard. Regina's smile is frosty at best when Emma strides in, purposely late and after everyone has gone home.
An impressive beige file folder hit the desk with a smack, and Regina waved a hand towards a chair. Emma took the file and sat.
"Killian Jones."
Emma narrows her eyes.
"Isn't he the one that sold the AKs to Robert Gold? A pirate of sorts?"
"Yes," Regina purses her lips in distaste, clearly thinking of last month's fiasco where weaponry the CIA was supposed to intercept, blew a New Jersey doc to hell leaving a contact presumed dead, and an agent still in a coma. Emma suppresses a shudder. Aurora's boyfriend of less than a year hadn't a clue what she really did for a living till after the accident. What a fantastic way to find out. Worse still, Aurora's closest friend was still in deep cover, and no one wanted to be the one to break the news.
"He's generally a con man for hire, wanted in numerous countries; stolen everything from rare paintings to machine guns. But we don't care if he's stolen the Mona Lisa. What we care about is the weaponry. I want suppliers, buyers, shipping routes, everything you can squeeze out of him." Regina placed both hands securely on the desk and leaned forward.
"More importantly, I want to know why he decided to blow Gold to smithereens."
"Deep cover?." Regina shrugs, and Emma feels bitterness burst like a pomegranate seed in her mouth.
"Only for however long it takes to convince him. I'm not picky with what method you choose. Graham and Ruby will also be working with you."
Now that was interesting. For a brief moment Emma remembers how happy she'd been that one night, buoyed by a few too many beers and finally unloaded to Graham a secret she hadn't known he could use against her till he did. Not that he did, truly, but he told someone who could, and did.
Regina frowns at Emma, those hawk like eyes skilled at spotting specs of dust and fingerprints on walls and reading the animosity simmering under her agent's skin.
"We might have something about your son. You'll be allowed to pursue the lead once you've wrapped things up with Jones."
Emma looks up darkly into Regina's eyes, Green challenging dark, dark brown. There are no windows in her office for security reasons, and everyone else has long since gone home, causing the lamplight to cast sinister shadows around the room.
"I want my son, Regina. Not just a lead, that you'll allow me maybe a week to look into."
It was past thanksgiving and Christmas was rapidly approaching and she should at least know her son's name by now. Regina cocks her head and gazes at Emma as if she's a puppy who's just just performed an unexpected trick.
"His name is Henry," she finally sighs, as if she was a parent indulging in the whim of her unruly teenager, "Give me Killian Jones, and I will give you the three potential locations I've found for him."
Well then, Emma thought, and Regina gave one of those chilled smiles.
"Don't doubt that I will come to collect."
"How could I ever. Your flight leaves at eleven."
. . .
"What are you thinking?"
The heal of Emma's palm pressed into her cheek, as she reviewed the Jones' file again. An impressive and varied resume of stolen items, attractive, nice blue eyes and a proclivity for danger. Someone who reminded her vaguely of the classic James Bond movies, and that one character on White Collar that Ruby would always to giggle over, then lament once it came out the actor who played him was gay.
"I'm thinking," she sighs and flips the file closed, "that I get to be a honey trap. I hate being a honey trap."
Emma slumps over on the desk in the the abandoned apartment building they're hiding out in and blows away a patch dust with a puff of air. The particles and the gold tints in Graham's curls catch and shimmer in the late afternoon light. Across from her, Graham pulls up a corner of his mouth. It really was a pity Regina had him squashed under her thumb.
Not for the first time, she wonders how.
"You said Ruby had sent in a report?"
"Yeah," Graham nods, and hands over the file Ruby had been compiling the past week. Pictures of Jones' enjoying all that Paris had to offer, smiling at attractive Parisian women and them smiling back, ducking into expensive and hole in the wall restaurants, him talking to pudgy man with a red beanie; A transcript of all of his activities, punctuated by Ruby's colorful humor. All seemingly innocent. He was staying in a hotel room above a club that he'd visited almost every night of his stay. Ruby had noted she was sure he'd be there again tonight.
Her clock reads 4:47. Time to get ready.
. . .
The club was a jumbled mass of sequined, scantily clad bodies and pulsing strobe lights with the scent of alcohol, sweat and smoke thick in the air. Music thumped and Emma could feel the base reverberate through her heels. Her necklace and switchblade were reassuring weights against her clavicle and thigh; the knife for immediate protection, and the necklace for back up if needed. Graham had essentially created miniscule a panic button the shape of a sterling circle.
Ruby sat on a bar stool from across the room, prettily sipping her white russian and smiling at the bartender. So much for not drinking while on duty. Emma caught her eye and threw a knowing smirk and Ruby glowered before suddenly perking up and glancing towards one of the darkened booths in the back where the richer clients could separate themselves from the commoners.
Emma gave a slight nod. She glanced towards the booth and found Jones with difficulty. He seemed to blend naturally into the shadows; black leather jacket, dark wash jeans and dark hair and eyes. She pushed back her shoulders and searched for an opening in the crowd. He was talking to another man with the same red beanie, grinning bemusedly. When it appeared he was about to look up, Emma made her way into the opening, "pardon. excuse-moi," flicked her blond curls over her shoulder and glanced up under heavily mascaraed lashes just in time to meet his eyes, lingering, then turned away and take a seat at the bar. Ruby smoothly pushed a crystalline glass of whiskey on the rocks over to Emma, who smiled.
"Hook, line and sinker. Have you been practicing Swan?" Ruby breathed before heading off to watch from afar. Not even a minute later, he slides up next to her, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I have to say, red certainly is your color."
Emma turns. Maybe it's a good thing she's spent as much time around Graham as she has; Perhaps it's made her more desensitized to attractive men with European accents.
"Oh, thanks," she says. Crosses her legs, straightens her back, takes a mouthful of her whiskey. The whiskey is smooth, the burn reassuring and with the way Jones is smiling at her, she can almost pretend that they're just attractive strangers meeting for the first time.
"So what brings you to the city of lights?"
"You first, Irishman."
Jones' gives her an appreciative smile and waves a hand at the bartender who promptly brings him two fingers of rum without him having to ask.
"Some business, mostly pleasure." He smiles again at her, downs his rum.
"It was supposed to be all business."
She smiles widely at him, burgundy lips seductive against ivory teeth, and takes another sip of her whiskey without taking her eyes off his, reveling in the warm burn that slides down her throat. Jones' blue eyes darken.
"I challenge you to let me remedy that Love," he says and oh, this feels way too easy. He slides off the bar stool and offers her his hand. Smiles roguishly, promise burning in his eyes.
Emma lets herself hesitate. There is something all too predatory in his eyes that doesn't sit right with her. But when a flicker of hot pink sequins catches her eye, she calms, knowing that Ruby (and Graham, despite his mysterious loyalties) won't let her be ravaged by Jones' burning eyes and wolfish smiles.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
The music is bouncy and, while not what Emma enjoys, serves its purpose well. His hands are have a solid purchase on her hips and she can feel them ignite a simmer of something between them. She closes her eyes and smiles when she feels Jones place a rum laced on her bare shoulder. "Lovely," he whispers against her skin, and Emma almost thinks he sounds surprised. When he moves behind her that heat begins to boil, his chest lean and almost insufferably hot against her back in the soupy air of the club.
"Let's make tonight memorable, shall we?" he whispers into the delicate shell of her ear, one hand splayed hot against her stomach. With any luck he'll think that all she wants is a one night stand, then she'll reel him back in.
This time she doesn't bother to hesitate, and follows him out of the club, and up into the darkening stairwell.
His room was on the second to the top, and Ruby had noted, had a fire escape, handy for a quick getaway. The room was nice enough, clean but sparse and it appeared housecleaning had recently gone through. She had barely managed to look around, when Jones pulled her against him, hands gripping her hips, and begins to place hot kiss after hot kiss up the column of her neck. There was a familiar tightening sensation in her stomach, a pooling of heat between her legs, and Emma lets herself sigh and her hands grip his shoulder and thread through his hair.
"Name?"
"You first," she says feeling uncharacteristically breathless, and tugs his lips to hers. He tastes faintly of chocolate and rum, and the smell cotton and the leather of his jacket gently tickle her nose. Her hands crush the collar of his jacket, and his own tangle in her hair and slip inside the cut out back of her dress to caress the silky skin of her rib cage. He's a good kisser, better then she's had for a while now, all hot lips, burning hands and shivers that shoot down her spine.
"You can call me Captain, if you want" he breathes against her lips, and Emma almost bursts out giggling.
"Is that a fetish of yours?"
Jones smiles at that and again goes to whisper in her ear. But then he also slips his hand out from her dress, and Emma feels herself shiver from something very different from lust. It shouldn't be this easy. Her necklace feels heavy against her chest, and she can feel panic begin to rise, what gave me away? His hand drifts slowly to his back pocket, and Emma decides she's not taking any chances, and shoves him back, hard. He stumbles, and his hand fists her blond hair viciously tight, then uses that leverage to slam her onto the carpet . Emma's eyes water. He's back on her in a flash, again grabbing her hair, and Emma throws her elbow back, left then right nailing him in the stomach both times. Jones doubles over, snarls and Emma considers going for the switchblade, but decides against it. She's at least cracked two of his ribs, and they still need his cooperation, unlikely as that seems now. Jones throws a sloppy punch at her. and Emma catches it, kicks his knee and sends him tumbling to the floor like a stack of cards. The trouble comes when she waits a moment too long to hold him down, and he flips Emma over and together they tumble onto the rough carpet floor. One arm is twisted uncomfortably under her back, hand crumpled beneath her tail bone, the other pinned to the ground by his hand, and his knee a suffocating pressure on her chest. The panic necklace had gotten tangled in her hair and is infuriatingly out of reach.
They are both breathing hard, and she almost thinks there is a gleam of respect in his eyes.
"This isn't what I thought you meant when you said memorable," Emma wheezes out. He chuckles coldly, but it sounds more like coughing. It's getting harder and harder to breathe, to think clearly, and Jones only seems to be digging his knee harder and harder into her only thing she can think clearly about right now, is her son, the squabbling, crimson cheeked, perfect little boy she hadn't been able to raise. That she would never be able to apologize for missing out on every Christmas, every birthday, because this bastard thinks he could just take her out. And that makes her furious.
"Now," Jones says, something very ugly on his face and takes a wickedly sharp knife out of his pocket and pressing it insistently against the hollow of her throat, "You are going to tell me everything you know about Robert Fucking Gold."
. . .
Robert Gold, broker of Faustian deals and a seller of high grade weaponry. Now he had stirred up Regina's fury like Emma had never seen. The Fiasco was supposed to be a simple matter of intercepting Gold's order of stolen (by Killian Jones) AK57s that had gone sour. But Emma would have to save her questions for Jones till later.
The switchblade had stayed secure to the back of her thigh and the dress had ridden up enough so that if Emma could just get enough room, the tips of her nails would just be able grip the top of the handle.
Regina was going to be furious if she died. Or maybe pleased, Emma was never quite sure how much her boss actually disliked her.
"And you are going to tell me, or I will slit your throat, carve out your heart and deliver it with a bow to your boss."
He pressed the knife to emphasize the point, and Emma could feel a thin trail of blood trickle down her throat. She shifted her hips and the bitter, cold sting of his knife increased. Emma's fingers just grasped the top of her switchblades handle
Oh she was going to make him pay for that. But first thing first, get his knee off her chest.
"If… Icoul..d...brea..th"
Jones scowled at that and lessens the pressure on her lungs just enough for her to get a half lung of air.
"If only I," pant, "actually worked for Gold?"
"But you know who he is?"
"Only what was in his file."
That snags Jones' interest. He takes the knife off her neck and lessens his knee enough for Emma to breathe with only minimal hindrance. The switchblade came free from its hold and Emma fisted it tightly
Show time, Emma thinks with a grin, bucked her hips and threw her arm out from under her body.
Her fist hit Jones hard and split his cheek open. With a yell, Jones found himself being thrown back and Emma scrambled out from under him, and threw a kick at his nether regions. He folded like an accordion, and Emma flipped open her switchblade with a satisfying swoosh.
"What was that about cutting out my heart?" Emma snarled and held the blade out towards him like a shiv. Again there is challenge burning in his eyes, this time loathsome and cold.
"Now, I the most I know about Gold is that the CIA doesn't like him very much. And they'll like you even less if unless you can persuade me otherwise."
Whatever Jones' was expecting her to say, it wasn't that. Blood was trickling down his chin like a red tear, and his eye was going to be a lovely shade of purple tomorrow, but there was a spark of life in his eyes, an excitement (interest?) there, like a newly lit fire.
"I'm listening Love."
Stay tuned for part 2 of what I think will be 5!