Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading; it's wonderful to see so many people interested in this (not so?) little story! Just a quick note that new chapters will be posted weekly straight on 'til completion, for those who were wondering. Enjoy!
Guilty, Your Honor
Chapter 2
So she avoids him.
Well, avoids would be the wrong word for it, and as a lawyer, Emma prides herself on her specificity. She simply doesn't go out of her way to see him, and if that happens to lead to zero contact from (and, perhaps more importantly, with) the partner with whom she is supposed to work her cases, she certainly won't be one to complain.
To be fair, in the beginning, she had tried. The day after she'd officially started working for Killian Jones, she'd stridden down the corridor between her cubicle and the partners wing, case file in hand, and paused in front of his office, only to spot him deep in conversation with a short, sniffling gentleman she could only assume was a client. She'd stilled, though he hadn't noticed her, watching his mouth move noiselessly through the glass wall, before drawing a deep breath and marching over to Smee's desk instead.
"The background check and financials for the Crocodile case," she'd said shortly, plopping a manila folder down next to his keyboard, and made her escape before he could react. Killian's secretary is quite possibly the most incompetent legal assistant she's ever met – she's very glad she hadn't let him take care of her transfer paperwork, however unsuccessful the attempt may have been, because she does not enjoy the idea of being stuck in limbo for the next month – but she assumes he has enough sense to pass it on to their shared boss, as she hasn't heard a single grievance about overdue work since. In fact, William Smee's capacity as a conduit soon becomes her most valuable asset: between that and the mountain of cases she'd asked for in anticipation of this situation, she finds that she doesn't need to interact with Killian at all to work with him, and as far as things go, she's not too upset about that.
But she's not naïve enough to think she'd be able to get away with this arrangement forever – at the latest, she'll have to face the music once she runs out of things to do – and so it happens that, nearly a week after she begins working for the one man in the entire city with the capacity to cause her strife, Emma almost swipes her highlighter across an entire sheet of paper when she feels the sudden warmth of a hand on her shoulder.
"You are a remarkably difficult woman to pin down."
Of course, she thinks wearily, yanking her earbuds out with a sigh, because she really does not need him giving her a lecture about proper collaborative conduct right now.
"And, apparently, your attention is equally hard-won," Killian continues, sliding into the seat opposite hers with a casual unbuttoning of his suit jacket.
She chooses to ignore that, if only because there's something suspiciously impish in his careful smile. "It's the library, not a secret hideout."
"And yet you appear to have settled in as if it were a bunker," he says, though she doesn't see anything wrong with taking up an entire table when, prior to his unwelcome intrusion, she'd been the only one there. But before she has a chance to tell him that to his face, emphasis on the unwelcome, he cocks his head to read the pile of papers closest to him, brow furrowing. "Are these—?"
"Medical records for the Oz Maternity suit? Yeah."
He frowns. "Those depositions are tomorrow. I was just coming to get these from you."
"And I would have had them ready if I hadn't just gotten them an hour ago," she says shortly.
A low whistle escapes his lips. "They stonewalled us?"
"Apparently." She shakes her head; this is the reason she hates fighting big companies. "So unless there's anything else you needed, I have to make sure… fourteen more of our plaintiffs have no medical issues that Oz might use to say their care had nothing to do with the problems they're having now."
He picks up the sheet at the top of the stack, eyes darting back and forth across the page. "Don't we have a medical consultant for this?"
"You mean the one getting drunk at the company happy hour right about now?" Victor Whale is a lot of things, especially according to Ruby's unsolicited account, but reliable is, regrettably, not one of them.
"The Rabbit Hole is only a few blocks away, isn't it? I could drag him back in here if needed."
"And have him work while tipsy? I'd rather take my chances." She narrows her eyes at him. "Are you sure you're not trying to make an excuse to escape to the happy hour yourself?"
"I'm not quite fond of this week's locale, to be perfectly honest," he says, smiling crookedly. "I much prefer quiet, secluded bars, so I can be by myself, for fu—"
"Do you actually have anything important to tell me so I can get back to work?"
To his credit, in the face of her exasperation, the humor dims from his. "It's nearly seven now. What time were you planning on finishing?"
"I don't know." She exhales through her nose, rubbing her temple with the back of her highlighter. "It took me the last hour to get through two plaintiffs, so…"
When his mouth contorts into a grimace, she knows he's run through the math in his head, though there's nothing to be done when the facts are what they are. She's about to tell him as much, too, but before she so much as opens her mouth, he's getting to his feet, slipping his suit jacket off of his shoulders and onto the back of his chair, before sliding back into his seat.
"Um. What are you doing?" She very deliberately diverts her line of sight from where his tie loosens and the top button of his shirt becomes undone, but at that point, fortunately, he's too distracted in rolling up his sleeves to notice.
"What does it look like?" he says readily. "I'm helping."
A faint prick of panic jolts through her system. "What? Why?" At the look he throws her, complete with raised eyebrow, she amends, "I don't need your help."
"And yet here I am, helping," he replies, reaching for the nearest closed folder.
"What, are you worried I'll make a mistake?"
"I think you made it quite clear that your skills are more than impressive, love." He makes to open the file, but she slams it closed with the flat of her palm, probably with slightly more force than needed. That, at least, gets him to look up.
"Why else would a partner stay late doing grunt work?" she demands. Under her scrutiny, his expression morphs from cheeky to defiant and, finally, to resigned, and it's only after he sighs that he releases the folder.
"Truthfully, love? I know this situation is less than ideal, but if we're going to make this work, we're going to have to learn how to be around each other."
"I don't have a problem with being around you," she snaps, but she knows she's lost as soon as the words leave her mouth.
"Then why have you been avoiding me?"
There's that insufferable, infuriating smirk on his face, which is, more than anything, what prompts her to even try. "I… I haven't."
"Really, darling?" He leans forward, hand splayed on the folder next to hers. "Because if you truly haven't, and if you truly don't hold issue with my presence, then you shouldn't have any problem with my helping, should you?"
He's got her caught – outplayed so shamefully she can't even come up with a response. She has half a mind to simply gather all of the files in her arms, rise to her feet, and march right out of the building, possibly down the street to The Rabbit Hole, if only to keep him from following her – but her stubborn pride keeps her stuck in her seat, unable to pry the glower from her face.
Still, it takes a good five seconds for her to release the folder trapped under her hand.
"Don't forget to check family history for conditions," she tells him balefully.
"Honestly, Swan," he says, taking the folder with a satisfied flourish. "One evening in my company won't kill you."
She sighs as she reaches for her discarded earbuds, more than ready to drown out the sound of his voice with the loudest music her playlist will offer. "You know, sometimes, I really wish it had."
"You're an idiot."
"I'm not the one trying to interpret tone from an email."
"I'm not the one lacking basic reading comprehension skills. You don't need tone to know these emails are derogatory."
"All right, Swan," Killian says, crossing his arms on the table between them. "Even if that were the case, which it isn't, there's no way to say whether they were a direct consequence of the advertising incident."
"The time stamps all match up to the day after Queen Jewelry ran that faulty ad."
"Circumstantial."
She drops the stack of print-outs in her hands with a noisy thud, thoroughly missing when he would just keep quiet on his side of the table. "Really? All of these people just happened to start ragging on their CEO right after a marketing campaign used her likeness for their defective bracelets?"
"This isn't a defamation trial, love," he replies, jabbing at the pile with one finger. "The private opinion of a few judgmental employees is irrelevant."
"It is relevant when the damages we get depend on the injury to Ursula Mare's reputation," she exclaims.
She can tell he has a comeback to that, because of course he does, but he's barely lifted a hand in what is sure to be one of his elaborate gestures before a different one claps down on his shoulder, sending a visible jolt of surprise through his frame. She can't blame him, though, because the sandy haired man who suddenly appears at his side seems to have materialized out of nowhere for her, too.
"Is this why you never work in the library?" the man asks with a grin down at Killian, who merely fixes him with a scowl. "You bring the commotion with you?"
"This is hardly a commotion," Killian retorts.
"You're the loudest people here right now," the man says, to Emma's mild chagrin. Sure enough, when she glances around, the woman at the far table is reading with her fingers in her ears, and over by the front desk, the librarian who keeps enthusiastically reintroducing herself (Belle, and please let me know if you need help finding anything!) quickly looks away when she realizes she's being watched. Reluctantly, Emma returns her gaze to the man's placating smile and, apparently, the wide hand he's extended towards her.
"David Nolan," he says warmly as she reaches across the table.
"Dav… You're Mary Margaret's husband?"
"The one and only, I hope," David says with a grin, releasing her. "I hope she hasn't been dishing too much dirt about me."
More like the complete opposite, Emma thinks wearily. Sometimes she feels like there might be such a thing as being too in love. What she says instead, though, is, "Emma Swan. And likewise."
"I'll never tell," David says, at the same time as Killian snorts, "As if Mary Margaret would ever say anything bad about anyone." Emma remembers her hurried attempts to bolster Killian's character in the lunchroom on the day they'd met; while Mary Margaret hadn't been entirely wrong, she keeps her mouth firmly shut.
"So what has the two of you so worked up?"
Emma exchanges a glance with Killian, who eventually responds. "Appropriation of likeness. Some jewelry store made it look like this big shot CEO endorsed some of their products, which turned out to be faulty."
"That doesn't seem like enough reason to be shouting at each other in Belle's personal sanctuary," David chuckles.
"We wouldn't be shouting if this guy would just okay my strategy so we can go home already."
"We wouldn't be shouting if your strategy had any legal merit."
"All right, got it," David cuts in, which is probably a smart move given the trajectory of the conversation. He curls his fingers, bumps Killian on the shoulder with his fist. "It looks like you're not going to be making drinks tonight, so—"
"Bloody hell," Killian sighs, rubbing his temples. "It completely slipped my mind. Apologies, mate."
"Have you guys even eaten dinner?"
Emma frowns – apparently he's not the only one with memory issues. At Killian's noncommittal shrug, David shakes his head. "Do you want me to pick something up nearby? There's supposed to be a new Thai restaurant a couple blocks down—"
"No," she says, perhaps with a touch too much vehemence such that even David looks mildly startled. "It's okay," she continues hastily. "We're good."
"You sure? Mary Margaret has a work dinner, so I wouldn't mind the excuse to order out for myself, too." Across the table, Killian's arched eyebrow is pointed at best, but she firmly ignores him.
"Thanks though."
"If you're positive," David says. He pats Killian on the shoulder one last time and makes as if to leave, but he turns back around at the last second. "By the way, Emma, you're welcome to join us for drinks next time, if you want. If what this guy is saying is true, it'd be nice to see someone drink him under the table."
She feels her entire body stiffen, her mouth suddenly going dry. "Oh," she says. "Um."
"Stop trying to find people to compensate for your piss-poor liver," Killian says dryly, shoving an elbow into the leg behind him.
David laughs. "Maybe if you weren't so married to your job, I wouldn't have to keep trying to find ways to bring the work along with you."
Absurdly, for absolutely no good reason, that has the blush creeping up her neck. "I'll keep the offer in mind," she says tightly, and returns David's easy parting smile as best she can manage. She watches him until he reaches the doorway, well out of earshot, before she hits the table with her palms, leaning as far forward as it will allow.
"You told him?" she hisses. It seems to take Killian a second to realize her meaning, though in her book, that doesn't make him any less guilty.
"I did no such thing."
"Then how does he know I can outdrink you?"
He holds up his hands in the universal sign of defense. "He may have inferred it from how stubborn I told him you are. Also," he throws her a skeptical look, "I don't think the circumstances of that night were quite ideal for a valid drinking competition, what with all of the underhanded tactics."
"It's not my fault you can't hold your rum," she snorts before she can help herself, though when the first part of his comment clicks in her head, she narrows her eyes. "What else have you been telling people about me?"
"I suppose you'll have to ask David yourself when you go out for drinks with us," Killian says with a wry smile.
"Like hell."
His smile broadens, his lips curling over a row of perfect white teeth. "What, are you afraid it's going to feel like a date?" he asks, looking like the cat that ate the canary. "Like you're afraid eating dinner together in this thoroughly unromantic library is going to feel like a date?"
Emma exhales violently through her nose. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I am hungry," he says simply. "If you want to sit there and watch me eat, that's your prerogative." He drags his laptop towards him, the screen flaring to life with a hum, and begins clacking at the keys with gusto, though a trace of smugness still lingers on his face. It's only when she swallows, her stomach protesting the reminder of the late hour with a thin growl, that she finally relents.
"Order from that new Thai place. And I'm paying for my part of the bill."
"Don't be ridiculous," he says without looking up. "This one is on the firm."
She's not entirely sure if he's joking, but the thought that he might be serious has her rolling her eyes, the corner of her mouth itching as she gets back to work.
"Jones?"
The light knock at the door feels rather pointless to Emma when the person behind it has already cracked it open, though she supposes it's all moot when everything is made of glass anyway. In any case, it gets her to stop wrestling for the phone, springing back from the desk to see none other than Regina Mills standing at the doorway, looking more disdainful than usual. Emma straightens her blouse instinctively.
"What is it?" Killian says, one hand over the receiver of the phone he's just unfairly won. She doesn't dare even a glance – really, with the glass walls and all, she shouldn't be feeling like they've just been caught red-handed, but still – but she knows without looking that his tie is probably crooked. She doesn't feel an ounce of shame for it, either.
"Tamara Mendell is in the lobby."
"Tell her I'll be but a minute."
"She looks angry," Regina says with a thin frown. "And she has her lawyer with her."
"Shit." If he wasn't currently using both hands to retain custody of the phone, she figures he'd be running one through his hair. "I have Neverland Financial on the line."
"Which is why I'm here," Emma says pointedly, as though they haven't just spent the last ten minutes arguing the issue. "If you would just stop trying to answer the phone and listen to me—"
"No." He throws her a firm glare. "I can't let you walk in there with a strategy based on intuition."
"It's not intuition when it's obvious she couldn't care less about her husband."
"Going to define love for the court then, darling?"
"Going to define a black eye and a broken nose when a couple is obviously fighting over secret impending divorce proceedings, yeah."
"Is someone going to be there to depose Mendell or not?" Regina snaps from the door. Killian's head swivels to face her, his mouth twisted in frustration.
"I can't keep Neverland on hold," he tells her. "They've been trying to get in touch with me for the last week."
"I hope I don't need to remind you that the fate of the Mendell office has corporate all tied up until you fix this mess," Regina says in a clipped voice.
"I know, I know." He looks beyond irritated, one hand rocking the phone, one foot tapping impatiently as though he's halfway to flying out the door. She's never seen him lose his cool before – he's always a bit disheveled, rough around the edges like he doesn't know the function of a damn razor, but at a probably deliberate level that toes the line between clean-cut and roguishly charming (his words, not hers) – and though it doesn't look like she'll be treated to the sight of that now, it does seem like his slick lawyer façade too does not enjoy being stuck between a rock and a hard place.
It's dirty, charitable pity, then, and nothing else, that has her taking a deep breath, counting to five in her head before she speaks again.
"Killian," she says, as calmly as she can, though his name feels stiff and unnatural on her tongue from purposeful disuse (she finds simply walking into his office and announcing her business is as good an introduction as any). Her steady tone seems to take the edge out of his posture, hackles lowering as he turns back to look at her. "Let me do this," she says firmly. "I'm right."
His brow furrows, lips clearly twitching in anticipation of another sharp response, but he catches his tongue between his teeth instead, pressing a dimple into his cheek in an excellent show of self-restraint. He regards her with careful focus, blue eyes darting between hers for a time that feels a smidge too long, and she shoves the familiar sensation of having been here before – only where the lighting had been softer, the corner of his mouth curled more with delight than hesitation – straight down into the far recesses of her mind where she keeps that very specific memory locked away.
Finally, he huffs out a weary sigh.
"Okay."
"Okay," she repeats cautiously.
"Okay, you can handle the deposition."
It's petty, the thrill of victory that runs through her – petty, and maybe a little exaggerated given the relative insignificance of the circumstances – but it isn't too hard to keep the grin from breaking out across her face when Regina speaks up again.
"Are you sure you want to trust an associate with this?"
"Yes," Killian says, sending a glance back in her direction, a tiny flash of a curve to his lips that feels like a tentative olive branch. "She'll be fine."
Regina shakes her head from the doorway. "If this goes badly, you're fired, Jones." And she steps back out of the office, purposely propping the glass pane open behind her for what she probably expects is the speedy exit of another.
There's something Emma needs to do first, though, before she can follow their managing partner out. "I'm right," she repeats, half a reassurance for what she knows was an empty threat. The other half, begrudgingly, is a thank you she feels like she shouldn't need to say – if anyone asks, it isn't for letting her manage the case, but for defending her abilities in front of the biggest fish in the firm.
"If you aren't, then you're fired," he tells her, settling back into his chair as she heads to the door.
"You won't fire me," she says brightly, turning to grab the handle behind her. "Who else would carry your ass through all of these cases?"
And she fixes him with the most cheerfully fake smile she can muster, noting, with satisfaction, the way he shakes his head in disbelief as she slams the door in his face.
Emma buries her head in the nest of her arms, trying to drown out the headache blooming in her temple and the once-delicious smell of grease with the sleeve at the crook of her elbow.
Needless to say, as soon as he opens his mouth, it doesn't work.
"Let's go over the facts again."
"We've gone over the facts a million times," she groans, aware that he probably doesn't understand a single muffled word. "The only fact we need to know is that Anton fucking Bean is going to lose his case unless he lets us go after the right people."
"Those people being his best friends," Killian says skeptically, a reminder of everything making her life so complicated right now.
"Best friends don't keep screwing each other over."
"We can't prove that they ever did."
Emma sits up, looking him straight in the eye in a maneuver that feels too much like a glare. "This is the third time Midas Incorporated has stolen one of Anton's ideas. That isn't a coincidence."
"All we know is that they happened to have strikingly similar ideas in software development multiple times, and Anton simply wasn't quick enough," he says, infuriating as ever. "And besides, why would his friends sell his designs to an outside corporation when they all run their business together?"
"I don't know," Emma huffs. Before he has the chance to remind her, again, that they don't have a paper trail to prove anything anyway, she continues, "But it's obvious that they've been taking advantage of him. Anton is clearly the only member of their team with any talent – he's the one churning out their product, all by himself."
"Business and marketing are just as important components of a company, especially one with only three people to begin with," he says, raising an eyebrow.
"Come on," she rolls her eyes, "we both know James and Jacqueline Spriggins wouldn't even have jobs if it wasn't for Anton. I've shown you their records – they're completely incompetent."
He appears on the verge of speech, but in the end he merely closes his eyes with a slight shake of his head. "Why are you so convinced they're the bad guys here?"
"You were there when we talked to them," she says impatiently. "Anton talks about them like they hang the sun in the sky, but they couldn't give less of a shit about him. You know it." She exhales through her nose. "You saw it, too."
If there's one thing she learned from her years as a lawyer, it's to keep yourself as far away from your cases as possible – and yet there's an edge to her tone, one that she doesn't know if she can chalk up entirely to aggravation, one that she shoves down her throat with a swallow before she has the chance to dwell on anything ridiculous. To make matters worse, with the way he considers her when he opens his eyes again, his blue gaze piercing, she also suddenly has to deal with the worry that she wasn't quick enough, that he'd seen it, too: the tiny sliver of herself she'd unwillingly wedged in a place it does not belong.
Ultimately, she has no idea what his resigned sigh means. "All right," he says. "Ignoring the fact that this has nothing to do with the medical malpractice suit Anton actually wants us to pursue, let's pretend you're right. Let's go over this from the beginning, step-by-step."
"This has everything to do with his medical malpractice suit, because that suit is a load of bullshit."
"Because you think his doctor didn't mess up the prescription, and that Anton didn't accidentally overdose. You think James and Jacqueline drugged him."
"Yes," she says emphatically, ignoring how bad it sounds out loud. "We have no proof that his doctor did anything wrong." The words seem bleaker now that she's spoken them out loud, after hours of fiddling with hopeless ways to spin their evidence, or lack thereof. "The prescription Anton has doesn't even match up with the one at the hospital. And there's no way that he accidentally took twice as many sleeping pills he'd been taking every day before."
"So his friends knocked him out, accessed his computer, and leaked his Compass software to Midas for profit."
"Yes."
"Despite the fact that they were weeks away from launching, and the fact that they knew they could put him in the hospital – and they did."
"Yes," she repeats, thoroughly done with his placating tone. "And they forged him a new prescription to make it look like it was his doctor's fault."
"I don't know, Swan," he says. He picks up a stray charred French fry and taps it against the delivery container, as though needing something to occupy his hands; she doubts he has any intention of actually finishing the remnants of their long-forgotten meal. "It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through just for a few quick bucks that they probably would have made anyway, once their sales picked up – and an awfully big risk if they got caught."
"They may not have made that money selling the software on their own, what with them being such a small company. Not to mention their mediocre marketing," she adds distastefully, "courtesy of Lady Spriggins."
"So instead they decided to plot this elaborate scheme that could land them in jail?"
"It makes sense when you think about it," she insists, aware that she probably sounds like a psychopath, but persisting anyway. "I mean, apparently Anton's always been glued to his screen. And with the launch coming up, he would have been working especially hard, and he'd have taken precautions to make sure no one else could access his projects."
"Right," he says slowly. "So they'd have to be physically in front of his computer without his knowledge, after he'd already bypassed all of his security – which he probably only does when he's actually working on the code itself."
"Exactly," she says. "That's the only way they'd have gotten a way... in…" She trails off, her entire body freezing, and she watches his eyes widen on the other side of the table, gradually, as through the force of her realization has suddenly leeched the function from every other area of her brain.
"A way in," he repeats, barely a whisper. She stares at him for a beat, unable to close her mouth, and then time launches forward at what feels like double speed.
"Those files from Midas–"
"Here, they're over here." An hour ago, she'd been cursing all of the extra paperwork she'd had to sift through, searching for even a hint of unscrupulous behavior that could be connected to the Sprigginses, but now she couldn't be gladder that Storybrooke had worked an employment case against Midas a few years back, and that their file room is always kept impeccable order. As Killian digs through the cardboard box perched atop the empty seat next to him, she can't keep her mouth from running, her mind zipping between the dots faster than she can speak.
"It all makes sense. They didn't have the ability to get in on their own merit – they couldn't get in anywhere but with someone who considered them a friend, but that gave them a perfect way to access information that would be valuable to big companies, the companies where they wanted to move up—"
"Here, this is it," he says, plopping a thick folder onto the table with a thud. She scrambles to take part of the pile inside, but she barely skims through a page before he's got her beat. "Look, they're here." He shoves a piece of paper under her nose, and, sure enough, there they are, listen in tiny font under his fingertip: James and Jacqueline Spriggins, halfway down what appears to be a list of prospective applicants to Midas Incorporated. Never mind the fact that the document in his hand is outdated – she knows off the top of her head that it's more recent than when the two of them had started working with Anton, and she lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
When she looks up, he's shaking his head, and she suspects the incredulous smile spreading across his face is an exact match for hers. "You were right."
"Does that surprise you?" she asks.
"We can't use this in court – this won't be admissible, but—"
"But it's enough to get Anton to let us go after James and Jacqueline."
"Are you sure?" It's not meant to be argumentative, she can tell – merely a genuine question. "He didn't seem too keen on your accusations the last time you brought them up."
"He will be after we show him this," she says with confidence. "If there's one thing no one likes, especially a loner like him, it's being left behind."
And again, there's a touch too much truth in her words that rings in the conviction in her voice, but if he notices, he's too much of a gentleman to bring it up. Instead, his grin melts into something, unexpectedly, resembling pride, though there's a touch of smugness in his expression that doesn't allow her to lower her guard just yet.
"I don't mean to upset you, love," he says brightly, "but we make quite the team."
"Please." It comes out as a scoff, but she still can't will the pleased smile from her face. "It was my idea. You didn't do anything."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Swan," he tells her, and it's then that she forces herself to look away, down at the mess of papers and dinner remains scattered across their table. Despite everything, she's sure her cheeks are tinged pink, though, to her relief, at least this time she can attribute it to the rush of adrenaline beating a triumphant, giddy rhythm through her veins.
"Whoa, whoa!"
Emma's hands fly up, partially to save her hot chocolate (and peacoat) from any potential disaster, but also partially because she's forced into a sharp curve around the human-shaped obstacle that comes within an inch of colliding with her head-on.
"Watch where you're going, buddy," she snaps, despite the fact that she'd been the one who'd been too busy with her scarf to pay attention to her trajectory. As is the case for most people, Mondays are decidedly not her best days, especially ones that have her running late to work.
"Apologies, la—Swan?" Her head snaps up from her worried inspection of her to-go cup only to be met with – of course, because who else would it be? – Killian's bewildered stare, frozen in the coffee shop doorway.
"Kil—what are you doing here?" It comes out like an accusation, but her glare softens when she realizes he looks as harried as she feels.
"Acquiring my morning fix," he says, stepping fully into the store to allow the people behind him to do the same. "Just as you are, I presume."
She purses her lips – naturally this would happen on the one day she doesn't have time to make breakfast at home. Of all the coffee shops around Storybrooke's office building, she just had to choose the one with the most foreign-sounding name (so she's a hot chocolate snob – sue her). "Guilty as charged," she says, indicating her cup with a shake of her wrist.
"Do you come here often?"
"It's a little early in the morning for pick-up lines, isn't it?" she asks, but he only smiles.
"I'll take that as a no."
"This is my first time," she admits, though she's still in no mood for his attempts to be charming, including with that goddamn grin.
"Ah," he says sagely. "You're in for a treat, then, darling. You never forget your first."
"I don't know if you noticed, but we're kind of both running late," she says bluntly. Her hand moves to check her scarf again, mostly on instinct. "I'll see you at the office, all right?"
"No need to hurry off on my account, Swan." In a seemingly practiced maneuver, he turns to gesture at the barista with one hand. The (very pretty, not that Emma hadn't noticed it before, obviously) redhead smiles, then produces a to-go cup matching hers from behind the counter, which he takes with a wink that she pretends she doesn't see. It all takes less than five seconds, so she can't even complain about her lost time. "See, love? The perks of fidelity."
"We're not divorce lawyers," she tells him with an eye-roll. "You don't have to remind me."
"Just trying to save the bloke who wins your heart some anguish." He grins cheekily, apparently even more obnoxious than usual without his morning hit of caffeine. And with that, he strides to the door, holding it open for her while using his cup to gesture outside, but she only shakes her head as she follows him out into the brisk Boston air. Not only has it gotten cold enough for her to actually wear a scarf without pretense (her attempts at discretion that one morning were, sadly, misguided, what with the humidity), but the temperature has of late started slowly sinking towards annoyingly bitter, and so it is barely a step from the coffee shop that she finds herself burrowing into the warmth of her drink with an unintentional hum of relief.
"Hot chocolate?" he says, and when she turns to him, he's staring incredulously at her cup. When she twists it, she can see the scribbled H.C. just on the edge of her gloved hand. "I thought you said it was too early for sweets."
"Sugar is as valid a stimulant as caffeine," she replies with a touch of defense, even as she bites back a reaction to his double entendre. She sets a brisk pace down the sidewalk, Storybrooke looming in the distance only a few blocks away, though he keeps up easily with his long legs and enviable stride, unhindered by neither skirt nor heels. "And it tastes better."
He snorts. "I pity your dentist."
"I've never gotten a cavity."
"Really?" He peers at her as though attempting to inspect her teeth with x-ray vision. "You must have remarkably good genes."
"Probably, I guess." In her mind, the faceless, featureless images of her parents suddenly acquire two full sets of perfect teeth – but then she narrows her eyes. "Oh, wow. That was smooth."
"I aim to please, love," he says cheerfully, and, to her relief, he doesn't pursue the immediate topic. "Are you sure you're giving coffee a fair shot, though?"
"It's bitter and disgusting. What's there to like?"
"You've clearly never had good coffee before. Here." He takes the opportunity while they've stopped to wait for the light to change to offer her his cup, which she regards with what she's sure is a distasteful look. "Come on, Swan," he nudges her, "I don't have cooties, I swear."
If you had cooties, I'm pretty sure I'd already be in trouble, she thinks, but instead she takes the drink, glove brushing against his. Reluctantly, she brings it to her lips for the tiniest of tiny sips, pulling away as soon as the shot of warmth touches her tongue – but her subsequent frown is born from surprise rather than revulsion.
"It's good," she confesses, stealing another quick sip before handing the cup back to him, just as their walk light gives them the go. "It's… sweet."
"It's not real coffee," he tells her with a chuckle. "This is mostly sugar, with maybe a dash of caffeine. Or maybe the caffeine isn't even in there." At her accusing look, he merely shrugs. "Can you blame me? It's what helps me get through my Monday mornings."
"Definitely better for your teeth than hot chocolate," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"You should try their black coffee, though, if you get the chance. It's actually rather good." At this point, their conversation is stilled by the revolving glass doors heralding their arrival at their building, and beyond those, the lifts seem to have just arrived, bringing things to an awkward lull in the tradition of stuffed elevators. It's only when they reach their floor, stepping out into the firm's lobby with a smattering of other people, that she feels as though she can speak again.
"You must be joking if you think someone with a sweet tooth will like black coffee."
"It's the quality that makes it taste good," he insists. There's a hypocritical reply to that on the tip of her tongue, in which she criticizes him for his elitist taste buds, but her opportunity to jab at his ego wanes as soon as they slow their pace into the associates wing. In her periphery, the clock on the wall reads 8:30 on the dot, so she's not as late as she thought she'd be, though she figures it doesn't matter anyway since she'd arrived at the same time as the person with the most authority to reprimand her. The office is just beginning to come to life, and something about the sight of her colleagues bustling about has her shuffling on the balls of her feet, reluctantly switching into her thought process into business mode instead.
"I, uh." She glances up to where he's still standing beside her, perhaps also basking in the atmosphere of ramping productivity. "I'll get those transcripts we talked about to you in the next hour." His answering smile makes her suspect his mind is still somewhere outside.
"Don't burn your sugar high all at once," he tells her, eyes cheerful in a way that finally forces a grin from her own mouth, and then he's heading off down the hall to where the partners in their department reside.
It's only long after her paper cup has been tossed in her trash bin that the thought crosses her mind – the one where she realizes that they've had their first entirely civil conversation, and one outside of the context of their work to boot. It isn't as though she'd thought they lacked the capacity – of course, she knows all too well that they've done it before; rather, her discomfort stems from the fact that she hadn't even realized what had happened until so much later. Except now, with the memory of that time they'd shared their last real conversation, comes a very sudden, vivid reimagining of her struggle to arrive for her first day of work the following morning in a vastly different fashion, one that involves hot beverages and company from the bed to the revolving door downstairs.
As soon as she thinks it, though, the dull task of proofing briefs suddenly seems massively more appealing, and after burying her empty to-go cup in as many crumpled paper balls as possible, she delves into it with more enthusiasm than she can remember having for her work in a long time.
(A few weeks later, when her faulty alarm clock leads to another hurried visit to that same foreign-sounding coffee shop, she spends nearly four dollars on a plain black coffee that she can't imagine is worth the extra cost. Not much later that morning, the nearly full cup ends up standing in the middle of Killian's vacant desk, the words FUCK YOU written across the side in tall, disgusted letters.)
