Boston, 1942
The sun had begun to set and its warm light began filtering in through the blinds onto the mahogany desk. The warm, late summer air fell stagnant in the room and the steel fan in the corner blew particles of dust across fractals of prismatic light.
Emma was beyond tired.
She kicked off her heels and dropped in the chair, listening to the music of the air blowing between the fan blades and the honks of new Chevys in the street below. Her door was closed so she lost all sense of propriety, or rather the little she had left of it. She propped both her feet onto the edge of the desk, releasing and stretching her toes from the weary day. After a few quiet moments, she released an exhausted breath and opened her purse, aching for a cigarette. She found her lighter and clicked until a small bit of welcoming flame erupted in front of her eyes. She paused before she lit it, contemplating the past few hours. She didn't have the patience to deal with many more. She watched the flame dance in front of her, swaying back and forth. The light changed from a deep orange, to yellow, to a hint of blue before reverting back to the citrus glow. She was reminded of when she was a child and the few birthday candles she had the pleasure of blowing out. Such a small token to hold onto, so much hope in a small flicker of fire. Nevertheless, she closed her eyes and let the warmth go from the front of her mind, to her chest down to the tips of her toes before she lit the cigarette and closed the lighter shut. She inhaled the nasty concoction, filled up her lungs and blew out a cloud of smoke and stress.
She hadn't been getting many cases and she knew why. Word spread around Boston with sharp tongues. A female detective? Ridiculous. Doing the work of men? Handling men? Getting tough and relinquishing lady-like rules? Inexcusable. Emma wanted to sock each one of them in the nose. And the sad thing was, she could. She could box with the best of them. The adopted daughter of an army general and a stubborn, independent mother raising her amongst other boys surely had its influence. Emma took another long drag to cease the memory before putting it out completely in the ashtray.
Emma opened the drawer to the desk and pulled out her compact mirror and lipstick. She applied a fresh shade of coral onto her lips and fixed some flyaways from her curls before she realized that it was a lost cause. She put the mirror away and pulled out her gun instead. Now that made her just a little bit happy. She found her kerchief in her satchel and rubbed the pistol of any dust it may have gathered. It had been her father's gun and most trusted friend. After a careful inspection, she placed it carefully in her purse and pressed her finger on the intercom right next to it.
"Ruby?"
"Yes, ma'am?" a voice buzzed back.
"Feel free to leave a little early. I'm about to head home myself."
"Oh, thank you ma'am, but I was just about to ring you. It appears that you have a last minute visitor. No appointment."
Emma's first instinct was to look at her gun. She never took appointments, never had enough clientele to need appointments. The phrase was simply code to Emma that the person waiting was of suspicious character and one must be careful of their presence.
But business was business and she needed the money. She buzzed Ruby again. "No problem, Ruby. Please show them in."
"Will do, ma'am...but I'll stay until you finish." Emma smiled, glad to have someone to protect her. Ruby too could beat a man senseless, if only with just her coat and bag. Emma swept the dust off her desk with her hand and kept the gun in her line of sight. She straightened out her blouse and sat up in her seat.
A dark silhouette grew larger in the frosted glass of the doorway, a shadow so dark that it blended with the lettering of her name on the door. It dissolved in her sight like black, wisped smoke. A heavy knock came and reverberated throughout the room. "Come in," she said, her hands on the armrests of her chair. The door creaked open and a tall man came in through the smoke and glass. He had dark hair, gelled all to the side but with a lock of stubborn hair leaning over his forehead. A couple of weeks' worth of stubble sat on his long face. The angles of his cheekbones were sharper than daggers and probably killed many a woman's innocence with them alone.
"Detective Swan?" He was a foreigner from overseas, that much she could tell from the way he spoke her name on his lips. "My apologies for the short notice. I have been searching for you for a long time and the matter was one of urgency." He walked in, shutting the door behind him and stepped into the twilight of the room. He wore a blue, long sleeved shirt and dark slacks with suspenders. His coat was draped across his left arm, his left hand holding a fedora that he had surely taken off in Ruby's presence. He walked closer and he looked at her with intent. Her hand twitched and rested on the desk close to the pistol. She stuck out her other hand for a polite shake. He was quick to oblige and smiled as he did so. "Killian, Killian Jones."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones," she said, her confidence flowing back into her body. He continued to watch her, his eyes darting back and forth with anticipation, almost as if he had expected a much more cordial welcoming. Emma could feel a spark of curiosity in the air and she held onto the string of it. "Now, how can I help you?"
Her words broke his trance and he waited until she sat in order to sit in the chair opposite hers. She took out her cigarettes and offered him one. "No thank you," he muttered nervously. She flicked her eyebrows up in surprise. Rare to find a man who kept his lungs clean, especially in this town.
"Do you mind?" she asked as she took out one for herself.
"Not at all." He half smiled. It did bother him and Emma read it like an open page, so she proceeded with keeping his comfort level at a necessary minimum. As soon as she puffed out a delicate cloud from her mouth, he opened his own to speak. "Forgive me, I don't quite know where to start."
She leaned back in her chair. "The beginning is always nice."
"Well, I don't know about that. Beginnings are not as important as endings. It's better to start with where things stand now, I suppose." He was hiding something. Emma could read lies on a person's face like no other and her intuition was almost always spot on; a necessary gift for any gumshoe. But there weren't any lies yet. "Detective Swan, I've traveled a long way and waited what seems like ages to find you. I had a plan in my head of what to do and say but none of it matters now. The fact remains that your family is in trouble."
Emma leaned forward in her chair and hung the cigarette loosely between two fingers over the ashtray. "What are you talking about?"
"Your mother and father, your friends, they need your help. I'll tell you more on the way, but you must come with me."
Emma watched his movements. His fingers were shaking and his knee fidgeted up and down in a cynical rhythm. There were faint laugh lines from youth on the corners of his lips, ones that hadn't been creased for quite sometime. His eyes were locked on hers and were swimming with something other than the last rays of daylight. There was memory in those eyes, things Emma couldn't see but had a strong connection to. Emma rose up quickly and grabbed the pistol from her purse, aiming it directly at his face. He stood up immediately, urgency filling in his chest. He closed his eyes and sighed as if he had anticipated the reaction. Fear was something rare in his line of work, whatever it was. "Get. out," she spoke, her words enunciated with the ice in her tone.
"Detective, you must believe me-"
"Out," she said again, cocking the pistol. He rose his hand up, resigning to her tenacity, but did not move. Emma's other hand pressed the intercom button, her eyes never leaving his. "Ruby, Mr. Jones will be leaving now. If he isn't out of the building in two minutes, please call the police as I will surely put a hole in his chest."
The intercom buzzed immediately. "Shit, yes ma'am."
"Your last warning, Jones." She motioned to the direction of the door with a slight movement of her pistol. "Time is wasting."
He took a deep breath. "Emma, please."
She furrowed her eyebrows, swallowing down the lump in her throat at the sound of her name. She had heard that sound of her first name coming from his voice before. She heard it far away, in a dream or nightmare she wasn't sure. It was a memory left alone and forgotten in the dark begging for an open door. "Who are you? What do you want?"
A half smile came and went on his face but it was one of relief and not malice. "All I want is to save your family and take you home back to Storybrooke."
Emma felt her chest constrict and she snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray, the ash hissing in the tense silence between their words. This man was not hiding anything trivial, but he surely was a lunatic. The connection remained and the only resolution was to either follow it or sever it. Emma looked in his eyes one last time and saw a hint of magic looking back at her. She pulled the trigger, releasing thunder and metal into the air without remorse.
