Chapter I: Swan Maiden

. . .

Considering how often this hero business seemed to boil down to sheer dumb luck – being in the right place at the right time, or more importantly, not being in the wrong place at the wrong time – and the fact that bad luck seemed to be the only kind of luck she ever had, Emma Swan decided to take a moment to regret her life choices.

That moment was rudely interrupted when the wall above her head exploded in a shower of plaster and splinters as she threw herself flat against the ground to dodge a burst of semi-automatic gunfire. The bullets whizzing overhead sent a familiar chill running through her veins, which could only mean one thing - cold iron bullets. Where she could stop a copper or steel bullet dead in its tracks, cold iron cut through her magic barriers like tissue paper. The entire set-up had been a trap from the very beginning, but they had gone in anyways that because there was no other option; it wasn't like they could just leave all those people to die. She could only hope that her partner made it out with the hostages before these goons turned her into Swiss cheese.

'Come on, Snow, what's taking so long?' Emma wondered as she narrowly rolled out of the way of another burst of gunfire and lobbed a few fireballs over her shoulder in return. She couldn't keep this up for much longer.

As if on cue, she felt her phone buzz. Once…twice…three times – the signal for 'hostages clear', thank god.

It was long past time to get the hell out of dodge. Emma didn't bother with a heroic parting quip or a taunting pose. Those kinds of theatrics would only get her killed like an amateur. She didn't bother to make a run for the obvious emergency exit down the hall either, because they would be expecting that.

The fastest exit route was through the giant glass windows that lined the walls of the abandoned skyscraper. Her enemies had already helpfully riddled the glass with bullet holes; it didn't put up any resistance before shattering as she threw herself through it. She vaguely heard shouts of shock and disbelief behind her, because how often do you see someone voluntarily choose to exit a building from a thirty-fifth story window?

'Take that, Gold,' Emma thought to herself as she fell, fighting back a vicious grin. They'd won this round, even with the deck stacked against them. She could only imagine how furious the criminal mastermind would be once he heard that they had slipped through his fingers yet again. Wrapping that happy thought around her like a cape, Emma reached for her magic and felt it flare underneath her skin. Gravity lost its grip on her as she pulled out of her swan dive into a corkscrew swerve. Now all she had to do was find a discreet alleyway to land in before meeting up —

Suddenly, pain. Searing, white hot pain speared through her shoulder and her waist. Her magic sputtered, then began to fail as the chill spread from her wounds; dimly, Emma realized she'd been shot. Worse, she'd been hit by the hollow-point rounds, and the cold iron bullets were still inside her.

Seriously? What were the chances that the one random grunt with a revolver had managed to hit her by firing blindly into the night?

She really had no luck at all.

The ground was coming up alarmingly fast, so she did the only thing she could. With the last flickers of her magic, Emma threw herself sideways, aiming vaguely for what looked like the top of an apartment building.

She missed. She was falling too fast, and she hadn't been able to propel herself quickly enough to reach the roof in time. Instead, she barely soared over the railing of a balcony of the next floor down and proceeded to smash straight through the glass balcony doors in a terrific shower of glass. She bounced over the carpet of a bedroom floor, knocked over several unidentified pieces of furniture, and finally rolled to a stop after skidding across the tile of a kitchen.

Ow. Ow. Everything was pain. Emma let out a strangled moan as she tried her best to stay conscious.

The dark apartment suddenly flooded with yellow light that left her dazed and blinded. Someone had flipped a light switch.

"...Bloody hell." Wait. That wasn't her voice. It was male, and apparently, British. She heard the tentative crunching of slippers on glass, and then the distinct metallic click of the safety going back on a gun followed by the sound of someone setting that gun down on a countertop. Oh. Good. Getting shot even more was the last thing she needed right now, even if the owner of the apartment was probably justified in shooting the random masked vigilante who had crashed landed on his balcony.

'I broke his windows. And ruined his carpet,' was her first disjointed thought, because her mind refused to process the fact that she was probably going to die on some stranger's kitchen floor.

"Lass? If you're still alive, stay calm, stay awake, and try not to move, alright?"

Huh, for someone who had probably woken up to the sound of shattering glass and crashing furniture, his voice was surprisingly calm. Maybe he was a cop? Or an emergency room surgeon? At any rate, he had a rather pleasant voice - a nice, soft tenor with a delicious accent.

And if she was thinking these kinds of thoughts, then she had probably already lost too much blood. She tried to look up at the bleary figure who was now crouching over her, but her eyes refused to focus properly.

The pleasant voice kept talking, "I'm going to call an ambulance."

"No," Emma gasped, adrenaline surging through her and giving her a boost of strength. Her words came out in a strangled wheeze, "No ambulance." Gold would be watching all of the hospitals. And if he found her now, in her disabled state...well, she'd be better off dying in a stranger's kitchen. She could only hope that she sounded desperate enough to convey that an ambulance was a Bad Idea, capital letters and all. To emphasize her point, she thrashed feebly, her fingers digging weakly into the hem of what appeared to be flannel pajama pants to stop him from walking towards the phone.

A warm, rough hand pressed down on her uninjured shoulder, steadying her. "Understood. No ambulance, lass. I'll fetch my first aid kit, so calm down love. It's alright. You'll be alright. You're not in any…shape...to…n…it…"

The last of his words petered out as Emma slipped into unconsciousness.

. . .

The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the piercingly bright light that stabbed straight through her eyelids and into the back of her skull. She groaned, and then tried to roll over and bury her face into her pillow, but her entire left side burst into agony as soon as she shifted position.

The flood of pain washed away the bleariness of sleep, and Emma nearly bolted upright as the memories of the previous night came rushing back. The bullet wounds in her shoulder and her waist immediately protested, and patches of black swam across her vision, so Emma quickly settled back down on the bed with a hiss of pain. That's right, she had been shot. Worse, she had crash landed in a stranger's apartment. Panic rose like bile in her throat as she cracked open an eye to take stock of her surroundings. Unfamiliar bed. Unfamiliar room. Her wounds had been bandaged by someone who clearly knew what they were doing. Her costume had been replaced by a man's cotton t-shirt and sweatpants. When her hand instinctively flew to her face and met nothing but her own skin, her heart nearly stopped dead in her chest.

Her mask was gone. Whoever had patched her up had also seen her face, and for all she knew, Gold could be closing in on her right now. She needed to get out of here hours ago.

She instinctively reached for her magic, and to her surprise, her magic responded. It felt a bit sluggish and slow, like it had just woken up, but the fact that she could tap into it again meant that her unknown savior had managed to get the cold iron bullets out of her without the aid of a hospital. She shuddered to think of the state she'd be in if he had left the bullets in. Drawing on what little power she could, she mentally channeled them towards the wounds to make them heal faster and steeled herself through the stinging pain as her flesh knit itself back together.

As soon as she could move around without the danger of passing out, Emma sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her knees nearly buckled under her as she tried to put weight on her own two feet, and only an ungainly grab for the nightstand kept her from sprawling all over the floor. The lamp on the nightstand wobbled and tipped onto the ground with a harsh thud, but thankfully remained in one piece. Taking a deep breath, Emma carefully shifted her other hand to brace against the wall and began limping her way towards the door. She was weak from blood loss and cold iron, but it didn't lessen her determination to get the hell out before Gold could find her.

"Some might consider it rude, love, to spend a night in a man's bed and sneak off in the morning before he can even ask your name," came a vaguely familiar voice, and Emma's eyes snapped to the exit she had been making her way towards.

There was a man leaning one hand casually against the doorframe. Tall. Dark-haired. Scruffy. And the owner of the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen. His hair was still sticking up in the back and his eyes were still half-lidded with sleep; the loose t-shirt and flannel pants only confirmed that he had probably just rolled out of bed to check on the racket she had been making.

"Especially not when my neighbors came knocking and I had to explain that our midnight romp got a little out of hand," he added, scratching awkwardly at the back of his ear. "I may have invented a few lurid details in hopes of embarrassing them out of any further inquiries."

Emma opened her mouth, and then, after a few moments, closed it again with a click of her teeth when no words came out. How, exactly, was she supposed to respond to that? How did she even get herself into this situation, where the stranger who had probably saved her life then confessed that he told his neighbors stories embarrassing lies in order to protect her privacy?

"I'll fix your windows," she finally blurted out. Then mentally groaned and slapped herself for the non sequitur.

"No, no need," he replied, waving a hand dismissively. "After all you've done for this city, it'd be bad form to make you pay for something as paltry as a broken window, Savior."

The sound of her moniker falling from his lips sent her straight back into panic mode. She had been hoping that her costume had been too messed up to be recognizable, or that he simply didn't pay any attention to the news, or something, anything, to keep him from realizing who she was. It had been a long shot, but she had hoped all the same, because now that he did recognize her, it left her with only one choice.

"You saved my life," she said slowly, dropping her gaze to the ground. "Thank you."

He let out a short laugh and said, "Well, I was hardly going to let such a beautiful woman die on my kitchen floor. Though perhaps gratitude is in order now." She heard him take a step towards her, and all the warning bells in her head went off as her gaze snapped back up to his face. She was suddenly all too aware of her proximity to the bed, to him, and the fact that she was currently wearing his clothes.

He must have seen her bristle, because he stopped in his tracks and help up his hands disarmingly.

"Take it easy, lass. All I want is your name," he said, though his lips gained a more lascivious tilt as he added, "For now, at least."

Emma bit her lip. It was, in a way, worse than what she thought he was going to ask her for. Even if he had already seen her unmasked – and probably unclothed, by medical necessity, but she was determined not to think about that – telling him her name was a sign of trust. Trust that she couldn't afford to give. She already knew what she had to do.

And even though granting his request wouldn't matter one way or another afterwards, her name still felt like a lie as it left her lips.

"Emma Swan," she said hollowly.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Swan, albeit under rather unpleasant circumstances," he said, his accent curling around her name with a soft lilt. He made a small mimicry of a gentleman's bow and reciprocated, "Killian Jones, at your service."

Killian. It suited him, somehow, but knowing his name only made her feel worse about what she was about to do to him.

"Do you still have my costume?" she asked. The sooner she knew, the sooner she could get it over with.

He raised an eyebrow at her second non sequitur in as many minutes, but he still answered amicably, "It was in rather rough shape, but I left it soaking in the sink. Don't know how much it'll help with getting the blood out though – you may want to rethink wearing all that white."

Emma closed her eyes and nodded. That was all she needed to know.

"Thank you, again. And I'm sorry," she said.

A quizzical look crossed his face, but before he could even ask what she was sorry for, Emma nailed him smack dab in the middle of his chest with a sleeping spell. Immediately, his blue eyes slid shut and he toppled like a house of cards, asleep before he even hit the ground. Emma caught him with a cushioning spell before he could slam his head into the carpet, and then gently levitated him into his own bed.

"I'm really, really sorry about this," she whispered sadly, brushing a few wayward strands of dark hair out of his eyes and placing her palm gently over his forehead. "But you can't remember this, for your own safety as well as mine."

The memory spell glowed under her hands, and she siphoned away all of his memories of the previous night and the morning after. His brain would compensate for the missing time with vague memories of a one night stand to corroborate the story he had told his neighbors. He'd wake up a little confused and disoriented by the small discrepancies, but people had a way of explaining away little things like that. He'd be no worse for the wear, and more importantly, he'd be safe from all the chaos and destruction that followed her around like a curse.

It still didn't make her feel like any less of a bitch.

Wincing, she limped out of the bedroom and into the living room, which despite Killian's obvious attempts to clean up, was still a bit of a mess. There were bits of shattered glass strewn over the carpet, and smears of blood along the balcony railing that he hadn't gotten around to wiping away. Her costume, as promised, was floating in the sink while a bottle of some kind of bleach sat on the counter next to it. Her cellphone was sitting on the kitchen counter next to a small handgun.

Emma took in the whole room with a sweep of her eyes before following her gaze with a sweep of her hand. Magic flared to life, and immediately, the room started to right itself. All of the shattered pieces of glass picked themselves out of the carpet and the garbage bin to reassemble into a single pane of unbroken glass, which then fitted itself back into the metal balcony doorframe. The traces of blood wiped themselves out of existence. The overturned turned furniture righted itself. Her costume floated out of the sink and wrung itself dry before floating over to her and draping itself over her arm, while her cellphone tucked itself snugly in the pocket of her sweatpants. Emma gave the room one last cursory look to make sure nothing was looked too out of place before lowering her hand.

It was exhausting. She had always been better at breaking things rather than fixing them. She sat down on Killian's couch to rest for a moment, and then realized she was sitting on top of a rumpled throw blanket – this must have been where he spent the night, since she had been occupying his bed. There were still a lot of oddities about Killian Jones – such as his relatively composed reaction to a costumed vigilante crashing through his balcony, knowing how to surgically remove bullets, and also having the supplies on hand to do so – but he was a good man, and she would be dead if he hadn't been.

It only made the guilt twist even more uncomfortably in her chest.

But bearing the guilt was better than taking the risk. She had learned her lesson with Graham. The last thing she needed was a repeat performance with Killian.

With that resolve firmly in mind, Emma Swan got to her feet and straightened. Her body ached and groaned even at the simple motions of stripping off the clothes Killian had lent her and putting her torn-up costume back on. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and all she wanted to do was to crawl back into her own bed and sleep for another week.

But she still folded up his clothes and left them in a neat pile on top of the throw blanket and gave one last regretful look over her shoulder at the bedroom door before she disappeared in a puff of faint silver smoke, leaving no trace that Emma Swan had ever set foot there.

. . .

The swan became a maiden fair of snow white skin and golden hair
She shed a cloak of feathers white and bathed in pools of silver light
But she was seen by mortal man, who fell in love as mortals can
He hid her cloak and gave her his, he took her home in wedded bliss
But he saw longing in her eyes for rising winds and distant skies
He kissed her once more tenderly, took her hand and set her free
Return her cloak and watched her fly, away, away, without goodbye

. . .

Author's Note:

This is was originally a one-shot. Actually, it was originally just a scribble in the margins of my class notes, but one thing led to another, and this trainwreck got out of hand pretty quickly. Now it's a multi-chaptered fic with terrible cover art.

...I regret nothing.

Please review and let me know what you think!