A/N: for bellamyfraserjones on Tumblr
She wakes to the sound of screams. Emma Swan opens her eyes with a start, her bones vibrating with the force of the rattling ship she finds herself confined in. As her vision clears, she sees she is surrounded by dozens of companions no older than herself, all equally as terrified and frantic as they jostle in their seats, secured by harnesses of questionable durability.
There are smoke fumes erupting to her left and Emma shuts her eyes tight against the heated vapor. She tries to focus on something, anything, to get her heart rate down, righting herself against her chair and taking calculated breaths intermittently through her nose and her mouth. It's a technique her mother taught her, back on the Ark, and it's with thoughts of her that the hazy moments before this perilous one come into focus: locked in her holding cell, drawing landscapes and ocean horizons on the floor on which she sat, forcibly removed and taken down the railed aisle of the Sky Box by guards, her mother's tearful goodbye and assurances that she was giving Emma "her best chance" before being pricked with a needle and knocked unconscious.
The Drop Ship rattles violently as it passes through the Earth's atmosphere (although she can rationalize this sequence of events, the stories from her father have failed to adequately describe the brutality of the effects) and Emma's knuckles blanch as she grips the armrests and braces herself for impact.
Miraculously, they land in one piece. The engines die down and there is an unfamiliar quietness, eerie in it's entirety. There is absolutely no sound with the exception of the grunts and groans from her fellow passengers. "There's no humming," one of them points out. It is the first time Emma's felt this deafening silence. It is her first glimpse at what life on Earth would entail.
After the shock wears off and her legs no longer feel like jelly, Emma unbuckles herself and heads to the main floor, following the crowd of dazed teenagers. They're mostly strangers to her, fellow detainees guilty of crimes ranging from trivial disobedience to first degree murder. Life on the Ark was one of no tolerance policies, restrictive in its rules as well as it's habitation. While she feared the unknown — of what Earth had become since mankind's departure from it — her desire to be free from her current prison is far stronger.
She's at the base of the ladder, on a mezzanine level of the ship, when she sees him: tall and dark-haired with stubble thick enough to take note of even from a distance. His strong brow is furrowed, as if weighing his next move. The people at the front all stare at him expectantly, waiting until he finally takes hold of the latch and turns it.
"Stop!" Emma commands, stepping forward. "We don't know if it's safe." He looks up at her immediately, initial bewilderment quickly replaced with indignation and a hint of recognition.
"Apologies," he barbs, his accent pronounced and sharp. "But I don't take orders from you, princess."
There's a pregnant pause that follows, an unspoken challenge between them as she descends the second, rusted staircase. Eventually he turns around and opens the door, a loud hiss preceding it as fresh (and possibly toxic) air rushes in as it ejects.
Before them, light streams through the trees of the forest onto which they've touched down, the leaves translucent in the blinding daylight. He steps forward, Emma closely behind as others follow suit in exiting the ship. He leaps confidently onto the plush soil, breathing in deeply before returning his attentions back to the group. His smile is infectious, wide and unreserved, and seemingly directed straight at her.
"Welcome home, love."
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If he looks at her any harder, he's sure he'd drill a hole into her head.
Killian hangs at the back of the impromptu search party gathered for the purpose of finding a missing member of The 100 (or so they've taken to calling themselves). The Swan girl, for all her tough exterior, had been shaken by the Grounders' first attack — natives to the land who viewed their sudden arrival as nothing short of a threat — and had insisted on departing their makeshift camp, by herself if she had to, the stubborn lass, and was adamant about leaving no one behind.
It had turned out she didn't have to go by herself. She had been offered the immediate company of a fellow named August, and another boy named Neal, and had only accepted when the argument was broached that there was safety in numbers. However kind the gestures, Killian noted, the blonde-haired force of nature was the furthest thing from happy about it.
His motivations for joining them were far more selfish. The bracelet on her wrist — one of the only few left among their band of juveniles that still remained intact after his campaign to be rid of them entirely in the spirit of rebellion — was the true target. End it's transmission and the Ark ceases its interest in returning to the Earth, for he is sure Emma is the only valued member among them. It's destruction means their freedom. His interest in her does not go beyond that, or so he convinces himself.
And he can tell she suspects the worst from him; that his expertise with firearms was his only selling point. Killian fully accepts her skepticism, and respects her all the more for it.
Birds chirp and dried grass crunches beneath them as they trek through the woods, eyes peeled and ears alert to any sudden movement. Between the ever-present danger of an impending strike, and the hazardous acid fog and mutated wildlife, Earth is not the paradise he had envisioned. But if there was one thing Killian Jones was good at, it was surviving.
"We're not talking about this now," he hears Emma whisper, her voice harsh and clipped. "Or ever." She speeds up, past Neal and much further ahead than Killian is comfortable with. He sprints in an attempt to catch up with her, but she only hastens her pace. She does love to run.
"Swan!" He calls out when she disappears from view, into a thick bush off the narrow trail.
"Over here!" she shouts back. When he reaches her, she is overlooking a field, at the precipice of a towering structure made from bark and tree branches. The missing boy is tied at the middle of it, the wound in his chest covered in a green paste, his breathing shallow and pained. It is a gruesome sight, leaving the four of them with mouths agape in shock. Bloody hell.
With her eyes so firmly fixed on the scene above, it's no wonder she doesn't notice the purposely arranged twigs and foliage scattered just at the structure's base, and Emma's next step sends her falling through the Grounders' trap.
Within seconds, Killian swivels his rifle across his torso, freeing his hands to grab her arm and haul her upward. She clutches at him with both hands, feet scraping against the dirt to gain proper footing. He chances a glance down and sees sharpened sticks protruding in rows from the hole in ground. When he looks back at Emma, he sees her features are contorted with fear and disbelief.
He says nothing, simply holds her steady as his thumb brushes against the metal of her bracelet. But it never occurs to him to let go, to let her be impaled and leave her. It is this, he thinks, that is the source of her confusion. He pulls her up with the help of Neal and August, but Emma's attention is solely on him. Her green eyes are wide and still a bit frenzied as she becomes aware of herself and struggles free from his embrace.
"You're welcome," Killian says bitingly, turning his weapon back around, their moment disrupted.
Emma rolls her eyes. "So what, you're going to be a gentleman now?" Her question, while lacking in gratitude, is not unfounded. Their first few days after landing had been filled with shouting matches and passionate disagreements, each the ostensibly elected leaders of their own factions within the camp. He cannot fault her for her rudeness but the sting of her tone remains.
"I'm always a gentleman." She scoffs at that before pulling out her knife and continuing the mission, her steps more cautious this time.
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Weeks into their return to Earth, they find they are lacking in sufficient supplies. Between Grounder raids, food shortages and precarious weather, their settlement is struggling to retain its order. Or, more specifically, she and Killian are struggling to maintain order.
Communication between the camp and the Ark station had been reestablished, and with it new orders and stricter rules that needed to be carried out (although, considering the distance between them and the commanding adults, the rules are more like strong suggestions that Emma more often than not disregards). When her mother — Councilwoman Blanchard to everyone else — had informed them of a bomb shelter a few miles from their settlement that could serve as a possible home for the impending winter, Emma had volunteered to check it out, and selected Killian to join her.
(When asked why, Emma had coolly responded: "I didn't feel like being around anyone I actually liked," to which Killian only huffed with a smirk.)
Except now, as she exits the old (and ultimately useless) aid depot, her partner is nowhere to be found.
It's dark outside, the previously cloudy grey of the sky now a murky sapphire color. It isn't long before she hears the echoing of Killian's voice through the woodland. His pitch is strained and words jumbled, like his mouth is swollen or muffled somehow. When she gets to where he is — kneeling and with a gun pointed directly at him — Emma breaks into a run to get to him as fast as she can. Fear rises in her stomach and suddenly the thought of anything happening to him propels her into action.
She strikes Killian's assailant with the butt of her rifle and he goes down momentarily, just enough for Killian to lift himself off the ground (and he does so on quivering legs) and for her to get a better look at his face. It's bloodied and bruised almost beyond recognition, the blue of his eyes contrasting with the red smears across his cheeks and mandible. But the physical damage is not what's burdening him, she notes. There is a dullness in his gaze, his usually (and irritably) vibrant countenance has been infected with something pensive and somber.
Emma extends a hand to him to help him move but his attacker returns and holds her by the throat, his arms locking around her throat, restraining her. She tries to fight him off but when he increases the pressure, she stops. And that's when she sees it: Killian's eyes seem to ignite, life returning to him as he stares the other man down. "Let her go," he growls.
"Nothing personal," his opponent taunts as he makes to twist Emma's head. And then she hears a gunshot followed by the man's grunts before he collapses. She jolts away from his lifeless body to where Killian is standing, firearm still elevated and his posture rigid.
"Are you… are you okay?" she stutters, wanting to examine him (an impulse she gets from her medically-trained mother, she's sure) but he waves her off and they stumble together towards a nearby tree, deflating against it's thick trunk.
Emma asks him what happened, where he had wandered off to and why that man — no, boy; he was just a boy, same as the rest of them — had wanted to kill him. Killian answers her with short sentences and fatigued breaths: that he had been ordered to execute him by someone from the Ark, by the same person who had given Killian the means to "exact his revenge," as he puts it.
"Chancellor Gold," she says in sudden realization. "You're here because of him. What…?"
"He floated her." Emma doesn't need to ask to whom he's referring; the emotion behind his statement tells her all she needs to know. That this woman was loved and is sorely missed. That his grief was such that he needed retribution. "Right in front of me," he mutters as an afterthought.
"I'm sorry." It's a pathetic response, she knows. Her condolences fail to match the magnitude of his trauma, but Emma can think of nothing else to say. And what else can she say really? The pain of loss is something profound and fathomless. She knows this from experience.
He's quiet for a minute before he turns to look at her. "You know, I expected you yell at me." The corners of her mouth turn up at his words and the gentleness with which he speaks. "To tell me nothing could excuse what I did."
Emma shakes her head, the action making her dizzy. "I understand you, Killian." He gasps almost imperceptibly. "We… understand each other," she clarifies.
"Have you ever been in love?"
Her first instinct is to lie. To tell him no, she's never been in love. But it would seem like a betrayal now, in this moment, to not be forthright with him. She rests her head against the rough bark and inhales deeply. "Maybe I was, once."
Killian takes in her words, then regresses into his own inner conflict. "He'll not pardon me," he says as he slumps further down. She knows he doesn't want Gold's forgiveness (nor does she think he needs to be forgiven, if she's being honest), but the thought weighs heavily on him nonetheless. "When they come down, they'll lock me up, or worse. I can't stay."
"We'll figure something out. You can't go," she asserts, her quick delivery revealing too much of her own insecurities. But instead of calling them out as she expects he might feel tempted to, Killian gives her his full attention, apparently moved by her vulnerability. "You could be part of something. You may be a total ass half the time, but I—we all need you. None of us would've survived this place if it wasn't for you."
"You're a tough lass. You would've done just fine without me, Swan."
"You have to come back with me," she implores, her voice and resolve getting stronger the more she talks. "You can't just run. You have to face it."
"Like you faced your mother?" He's hit the nail on the head. Emma had hoped their strained relationship hadn't been so obvious — the curt conference calls, Emma's refusal to speak with her privately — but Killian is more perceptive that she has given him credit for. "Open book," he adds in explanation.
"You're right," she admits and wants to just leave it at that. But he presses her about it and its unnerving how much he just wants to know her. Why does he even care? "She sent me down here just like everyone else. That's it."
"No, it's not. There's more to it than that."
She sighs, flexing her knees and stretching her arms as a form of distraction. But Killian's gaze is steady (and encouraging), and if he's willing to trust her with his past, it has to go both ways.
"My mom wanted to save me. And she wanted me to be a part of this mission, to lead everybody. She wants me to this savior, and it's just — I wish we could have stayed together." I wish someone would have chosen me over the greater good. "Sounds petty, I know."
"She shouldn't have sent you away," he says resolutely, apparently letting her off the hook. "When you care for someone, you fight to be with them, no matter what." And just like it, it's decided. He's not going to abandon them. Abandon her. When he says he'll stay, she believes him. Emma doesn't think that's ever happened before.
Before the day is over, Emma makes good on her word. She pleads his case, and in the end Gold and the other council members agree to absolve Killian and the rest of The 100 of their past transgressions. Herself included.
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The night is winding down, the Unity Day festivities coming to a close. The camp has been celebrating since that morning, having kicked things off when the Chancellor gave his annually televised speech for the honored tradition, and continuing on even after the transmission had been inexplicably interrupted.
Killian swirls the contents of his mug around, the "Unity Juice" packing a powerful punch. Two days remain until the Exodus ship is to be deployed, harboring within it a selection of delegates and guardsmen who will surely take charge of everything they have built. As much as he knows his people desperately need the Ark's aid, Killian still balks at the prospect of their occupation.
A few feet away, he sees Emma exiting from her tent, her long locks illuminated by the surrounding torches. She spots him and walks straight in his direction, her smile matching his own.
"The comms are still dead," she says by way of greeting.
"Don't worry, Swan, we'll fix it in due time." Killian has no doubt she'll figure it out. He has yet to see her fail.
She shifts her weight and leans forward, her hands tucked into her back pockets. "You really think now is a good time to be having a party? The Grounders are still out there."
"Relax," he chides lightheartedly. "I've got security covered." He takes a step closer to her and to his surprise she doesn't back away. "You look like you could use a drink, love."
"I could use more than one," she jokes.
"Then have more than one." Killian takes an empty cup, leans over the pot of their homemade hooch and fills it generously before offering it to her. "Have some fun while you still can. You deserve it."
Emma relents, accepting it hesitantly and with arched eyebrows. "Is getting drunk your solution for everything?"
"Certainly doesn't hurt." They clink their mugs before each taking a sip, both cringing slightly at the harsh taste and bitter burn.
They stay like this for awhile, partaking in the comfortable silence and simply enjoying the other's company. It's odd how well they can get on, how words are so rarely needed between them. He quite likes it, and he knows he'll yearn for these peaceful moments in the coming days.
Eventually, however, the spell is broken and Emma decides she needs to get back to work. The Savior's job is never done, as she would say.
Emma sets her cup down beside his, brushing back loose strands of hair from her face. "Good night, Killian."
"Good night, princess."
She's halfway to her tent when she turns around and calls out to him. "You deserve it, too." And then she's gone, and Killian already misses her. Best Unity Day ever.
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They attack just before dawn.
Without the help of the adults who were meant protect them — the memory of the Exodus ship's crash still fresh in her mind — and with depleted resources, Emma's not sure how they managed to fend off the Grounders for as long as they did. It's a testament to their strategic planning and the success of the ammunition rationing Killian had implemented (they don't call him The Captain for nothing, she thinks), but even their usually triumphant teamwork couldn't stop the infiltration of the camp.
But Emma has a back-up plan, and commands the surviving members of the 100 to shuttle back into the Drop Ship as quickly as possible. Regina's managed to repair the ship's engine, it's fuel sure to incinerate anyone within several feet of their sanctuary. When enough Grounders make it to the center of the camp, Emma will hold nothing back.
"Everyone inside!" She yells as she fends off a combatant who nearly spears her through the chest. "Now!"
Emma walks backwards, up the ramp and into the main entrance. She wipes at her sweaty forehead, smearing the dirt and blood along her sleeve. She stands in the doorway with her gun pointed out, scanning for any missing people or advancing attackers.
"I'm closing the door," Regina announces from behind, her face pale but irate.
"No," she contends. "We've still got people out there. And Killian's not back yet." Regina cants her head and purses her lips, as though she's disappointed by her answer. Emma pays her no mind and instead instructs her to get the grenades and start utilizing them.
As the bombs go off, Emma can make out two figures battling in the distance. One's armed with a hefty ax, the other blocking the blows with their firearm. "Killian!" Emma screams, waving her hand in the air. She wants to help him, to take down his assaulter, but she doesn't trust her aim or field of vision.
He seems to hear her, however, and lands a hit that knocks the Grounder out. They make eye contact and Emma's shoulders sag in relief. But then he's blocked by another warrior and he's struck square in the jaw.
"He's never gonna make it," she hears someone comment. "There's not enough time."
And she knows they're right. More and more Grounders are surging ahead and she needs to take action. But she cannot leave him behind. Not without a fight. "Killian, run!"
He tries to get back on his feet but he's wounded and weary, his movements sluggish but not without intensity. Slowly but surely he wrestles his way closer to the Drop Ship and manages to get within earshot before he's brought to his knees once more. "Go!" he shouts, his voice hoarse but certain. "Save yourself!"
Emma rocks her head back and forth, then breaks into a sprint back down the ramp when she feels a pull on her arm. "You can't save everybody," Neal says before taking her rifle from her and joining the skirmish below. She protests his decision, but one last look from Killian as he fends off a tall and hulking Grounder gives her the courage to do what is necessary.
"Let's go!" Regina hollers, and once she's back inside the Drop Ship, Emma pulls on the lever and locks the door for good. She nods to Regina who brings the engines roaring to life.
Flames shoot from the base of the ship and Emma can make out the anguished cries of those outside even through the metal barrier. Tears stream down her face and her heart aches at the choice she's been forced to make. I'm so sorry, Killian.
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The air is cold and crisp, the overcast white of the sky a constant backdrop for the forest canopy. Killian vaguely remembers the formation of trees and the distinct hue of the undergrowth, signifying that he is at the furthermost section of woods. They're almost there.
The rest of his troop trail behind him, members of his crew who survived the Grounder onslaught and the events that followed. He is proud to lead them and is even more protective after everything they've faced. They are his responsibility and he will not lead them astray.
It's been a day since Neal departed, taking a few guns and fare along with him. He thinks on the feverish look in his eyes before they parted ways, bordering on hysterical. But Killian cannot fault Neal for his frenetic state, his concern for him mixed with sympathy and compassion. They have all been altered by their time here on Earth, some more than others.
He contemplates his decision to leave the Ark's base camp as he now attempts to return to it. They had fled, with the assistance of Councilwoman Blanchard, in the hopes of finding and rescuing any of their missing comrades. The council's apparent indifference towards those who paved the way for their arrival had incensed him and he knows in his gut it was the right thing to do, but there's a voice in his head that he cannot stifle. It's her voice, telling him to calm down and think before he acts. To be pragmatic. But she's the one he longs to see the most. She is the one who inspires him.
Killian had sworn to bring Emma to her family, and he is despondent in his failure.
"Over there." Tink points up ahead, shaking Killian from his musings. He sees the barbed wire of the electric fence that circumvents the encampment, the jagged remnants of the Ark station resting at the center of it.
They trek up the hillside, already anticipating the guards drawn weapons and demands to identify themselves. Arms held high above their heads, they are escorted past the main gate where they are pated down and greeted by Mary Margaret with her myriad questions.
As the group disperses, Killian hears brisk footfalls and panting breaths before he's enveloped by lean arms and cascading tresses.
Emma tightens her hold around him, arms slung around his shoulders and face buried in the crook of his neck. It takes him a moment to respond, but then he feels her cheekbones stretch against his skin and he immediately returns the hug with equal force, his arms intersecting across her back and his hands clinging to her sides as they sway in place.
Her chest is pressed against his and he can feel her strained wheezing, a result of her dash to reach him and the excitement at being reunited. He takes a whiff of her hair and feels her nails scape against his scalp. Killian's heart beats loudly against his ribs and his eyes shut as happiness washes over him.
"Now there's something I thought I'd never see," Tink remarks with a sly grin.
At that, they disentangle themselves from one another, still maintaing some physical contact: Emma's palms on his biceps, Killian's fingers touching her waist. Her face is cut up, with scabbed scratches and cuts along her nose and a busted lip. He imagines he doesn't look any better, but they're both alive and together, finally.
Emma heaves out a laugh — which borders on a giggle but she's evidently too elated to suppress it — and squeezes his arm in a comforting gesture.
"Welcome home."
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