A/N: So basically, this is not going to be your atypical linear story where each chapter picks up where the last left off - it's really just a bunch of one-shots strung together in order of occurrence so they're shorter than my other ones but they'll also be updated a lot quicker. I really hope you guys all like it, and feel free to send prompts to my tumblr for these two idiots. Voila!
1. even angels sin: Killian Jones comes across a very interesting blonde.
The first time their paths cross, it happens in the heart of a brothel (of all places). He sits in a booth, leaning languidly against the plush red cushions as prospective women swirl around the room in delicate lace lingerie that leaves little to the imagination.
His disreputable peers claw at them with greedy paws and open pockets, scurrying after them like dogs desperate for a rub.
Though he does not make a move to purchase his pleasure (god knows he can get that for free), he nevertheless peruses the room. To the untrained eye he is searching for a companion; his focus, however, is on someone else completely.
His target enters the establishment shortly after Killian arrives. A regular at this particular club, the stout man leers at the crowd of courtesans that fawn over his entrance. There are two burly guards stationed behind him, but they are quickly preoccupied by the more lavish attractions of the enterprise, trailing behind several women beckoning them with sultry smirks and crooked fingers.
Killian's fingers drift across the blade he has strapped to his wrist, masked by his blazer and the shadows concealing him in the back corner of the large room.
Smirking to himself, he contemplates the new arms he will purchase with his pay cheque. There is nothing that makes Killian Jones happier than a shiny new gun in his ever-expanding repertoire of weaponry.
He watches his target idly as the robust man draws away from the crowd of ambitious ladies. His eye has been caught by someone else, and Killian follows the man's line of sight to where a blonde is perched atop a plush chaise on the opposite side of the room.
And really, he cannot fault the man's taste.
Her pallid skin glows in the low light, hair like spun gold falling in curls down her back as she returns his hungry gaze with a simper and stands at his approach.
She looks like an angel with all the unbridled lust of a vixen.
There is no trace of shame to the heat that stirs in his lower abdomen. After all, it's been a while (the mercenary business is surprisingly thriving of late – leaving little time for the more lascivious pleasures of life).
And she really is something else.
Taking his heavy hand in hers, she begins to lead the target towards one of the curtained rooms that line the east wall of the joint - heavy burgundy fabric shuttering off the private sections where the high-paying clientele can enjoy their purchases for the evening.
It is then that Killian stands, reaffirming his grip on the knife hidden in his sleeve and sifting through the crowds of writhing men and women. This is the window of opportunity he's been waiting for: seclusion makes for a clean death.
The crowds are not dense enough to completely obscure his view of his mark and he sees the blonde gesture for him to go first into the small room. His stubby hand drifts deliberately over her ass as he obliges, strutting past her into the private chamber – and though she simpers at the action, the dark shadow that crosses her features denotes something dangerous.
The way she scans the immediate vicinity before drawing the curtains closed piques his interest as well.
For a split second, her sultry facade drops to reveal something far colder, far more calculating: he's tempted to call it lethal.
It is another three minutes at most before he finally reaches the other side of the room, the flailing masses of customers and courtesans impeding his direct path. And as he walks calmly toward the target's location, he watches the blonde woman slip inconspicuously out, closing the curtains behind her.
A weight settles in his gut. Not fear – there are only so few things that can induce terror in him and suspicious women is not among them.
She strides by him, a smile on her lips and a minuscule red stain on her previously pristine garter.
When her eye catches his, recognition glitters in the emerald green depths of her gaze. It's not reciprocal – he has no idea who she is (he'd remember a face like hers).
As she passes, she definitely winks. He almost doesn't catch the way her expression screams, 'better luck next time' because he hurries his pace, alarm morphing into irritation at the overriding thought that dawns on him: she knows what he is.
Killian curses the moment he enters the private room. The man sits spread eagle across the leather couch, dark red blood seeping from the precise abrasion that runs the length of his neck.
As much as he wanted the money this rather lucrative job offered, he cannot help his begrudging admiration for the woman's gall.
By the time he sprints outside, she is already dressed head-to-toe in black, straddling a motorbike that roars to life before it thunders past him, disappearing into the night in a thick cloud of exhaust and cigarette smoke. Distantly, he acknowledges a horrified scream emanating from the brick edifice behind him, and starts to walk towards his hired sedan.
And for some godforsaken reason, he laughs. Low and deep and genuine.
Later, he asks Jefferson what alias she runs under in their circles.
He cannot think of a name more fitting than Swan.