A/N: You guys are such absolute cuties, thank you for such a lovely response to the first chapter! I definitely did not tear up at some of your comments, nope definitely not. The good news is I've got bits and pieces of various chapters written already. The bad news is my masters thesis is due in three weeks so I won't have much time until that's done so I don't know when I'll next be able to update. Hope this tides you over! I tend to be better at updating on tumblr though (as is evidenced by this chapter being up there a few days ago oops) so if you want to follow the story there you can. My url is also shoedonym :)

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The Breach

2. Tyche - luck

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Checking her watch Emma decided that five more minutes and she'd definitely get back to her work.

She'd been trying to do just that for the last twenty minutes, but she was sure that in five minutes time she'd be ready.

Emma collapsed her head into the nook of her elbow, arms crossed upon her desk, and shut her eyes.

There were some days that Emma loved her new job. Days where the biggest problems she had to deal with were disinterested children skipping classes. She'd only been living the counselling life for - what was it, five weeks? Five years ago she had been a bail bondsperson and while she had decided to move on from it, it had also been a satisfying career move. She had loved chasing down creeps and fools, and being paid reasonably to do so. She was not blind though – she knew the whole exercise had been somewhat self-serving. Bail bondsing had scattered some earth in a certain emotional trench.

But that was a whole other story.

The bail bonds exercise had left her rather isolated from other people, and she did regret that. It had been a deliberate choice that she hadn't necessarily intended to change, but there was some regret there. She was nearly twenty-nine and while she had no illusions about settling down and having a family, a case had persuaded her that she could live a different kind of life. The case had brought her to the small town of- nope the name was lost. It was somewhere. Somewhere where a small child, eleven years of age, had been caught up in the mess of her father and was expected to carry on with her life without the rest of her family as though a good night's sleep could erase the past.

Emma knew better than anyone that that would never work.

The case had only taken her three days but the impact it had on her had prompted her to go to college, attain a psychology degree and all the qualifications attached to it.

Here she was. A counsellor.

Some days she loved it. Other days, like today, she just needed the week to end.

She had had three crying, traumatised teenage girls in earlier after a rather out of control party from the weekend. It had lead to a lot of alcohol, a lot of boys, and a lot of conflict.

Her mind was numb, her heart ached, and her ears throbbed with the shrill shrieking of teenage girls. The high pitch of their voices had been irritating, but there was still an uncomfortable clench in her heart for the girls and their behaviour. She made a mental note to bring them in again next week to check on them.

"Good afternoon staff," - Emma started slightly at the page that came across the phone speaker - "Just a reminder that the senior versus staff soccer game will be played on the oval at lunch time today. Please, come along and cheer us on. Some of us may have accidentally bet money on this thing and could use all the encouragement we can get."

One of the few things that Emma hadn't been prepared for with this new job was the feeling that she was now a part of a community. Sure, it had been something she was aware of, but being aware of it and coping with the reality of it were very separate things. Childhood trauma and dealing with difficult children was not foreign to Emma, but being part of something? Well, that was taking some getting used to.

She sat up, groaning and whining a bit in an attempt at waking herself up, opened her top left draw and snatched a sachet of instant chocolate powder.

She was clearly not going to get much done this afternoon though. It took her ten minutes to drag her way to the staff kitchen upstairs, and then she spent another five minutes trying to choose a mug. After deciding that next week she would bring in her own mug, she settled on a particularly large one with blue illustrations of boats and terraces.

She nearly dropped the damn thing when a husky voice spoke right behind her.

"Thief."

Spinning around, she nearly knocked him with the mug he was standing so close.

"Huh?"

His only reply was the absurd raise of his left eyebrow before glancing down at the mug she had clutched.

"Oh, sorry, here – you can have it –"

"Wouldn't dream of it, love. Honestly, I'll grab another."

He leant over her shoulder, intentionally occupying her space within the small galley kitchen, and Emma simpered – this Killian Jones was shameless.

She didn't know quite what to make of him.

After meeting him in his classroom two weeks ago he had grinned at her whenever he'd seen her. And he'd grinned often. Emma used the word grin because that's precisely what it was – a cheerful smirk that danced on the border of impropriety. It was never an innocent grin. He seemed pleasant enough, but there was this cavalier happy-go-lucky-scamp nature about him that in combination with his flirty smirks was a little disarming. Emma had absolutely no intentions of encouraging the grinning. At first, she had returned them with a polite smile hoping that it would seem as though she was simply trying to fit into the place.

She gave that up quickly though.

Now she rolled her eyes at him. It was the only sensible response. She had never really discouraged his silly smiles. Nothing beyond a really? kind of message. She wasn't really sure why. She'd never stopped to think about it.

Of course, the whole dark, scruffy, English thing he had going for him was attractive, but Emma had learnt years ago that good looks and banter did not a good man make.

He grabbed a polka dotted mug, before moving away to grab a tea bag. She observed him for a moment. Watched as he pressed the hot water tap until the water had almost reached the brim, watched as he bent a little to smell the tea, and watched as an expression of what can only be described as disgruntled resignation flickered across his otherwise handsome face.

Who could blame him – the tea at work was terrible.

"So, tell me Miss Swan, how are you settling in?"

"Yeah, well, thanks. It's taking a while to get some of the kids to open up to me, but I expected that. Others never seem to stop talking. There are those around the school who just stare at me from a distance, and that's just the history staff."

He grinned at her – again - and Emma had to bite the inside of the cheek to rein in her own. Emma, if you asked her about it, would refuse to admit that she was flirting with him. In her mind she had simply been trying to alert him to his grins and his glances.

Emma was only half right.

"Am I to assume you're coming along to the football match? The soccer game, I mean. I must admit – I'm a little disappointed you're not playing. Bad form."

"I am planning on watching, there's a lot of work I need to do for next week, but I wouldn't miss the opportunity to see the students thrash you."

"Let's hope so – they're a little too young to suffer blows to their egos. Besides, I'll need you there to be my good luck charm."

"What, like I give you a favour and you wear it while charging into battle like some medieval knight?"

"Ah, so you do have a sense of romanticism? Note to self: the Greeks do not interest Miss Swan, but the romanticism of the Middle Ages? As you wish, milady," swaying towards her as he dunked his teabag a few more times and throwing it in the bin under the counter beside them, Killian invading her space once more with a smirk.

"You are such a shameless flirt," she shot him her best 'I'm tired of your bullshit this is hardly the time or the place and I'm so not in the mood' glare.

It didn't work. If anything the angle of his lips grew. His body was still uncomfortably close to her own, and he reached behind her again to grab something off the tea shelf.

"Can't feel shame for something I don't regret, love. But you're so cautious, Emma. Never mind, I'm sure we'll spar again soon," before she could register, he was shoving something into her hand and turning away from her. "Now, enjoy your hot chocolate, Swan. See you at the match."

Emma looked down to see that a small jar of cinnamon sugar had been thrust into her hand. She was weirdly touched by the sentiment. How had he guessed she had wanted it? She put the cinnamon back on the shelf without using it, and took her chocolate back to her office.

She instantly regretting her stubbornness in going without.

It took her an hour to shake the feeling of irritability from her fingers.

...

The teachers were down by three goals, three of the players' faces were covered in mud, and Emma was loving every minute of it.

The hill on the side of the school oval was crowded with children of all ages, and teachers from all departments. The shouts and cheers from the students were getting arrogant, and the desperate noises from the members of staff were making Emma chuckle contentedly.

She was standing by the side line with Mary Margaret. The two women had met on Emma's first day as Mary Margaret had been keen to talk to her about Henry Mills. She was a gentle sort of woman, with a pixie hair cut and fierce eyes who had taken a particular shine to the boy's creative writing skills and in doing so seemed to have opened herself up to the boy's welfare issues. Mary Margaret was married to David Nolan, the fair-haired, well built, head of physical education and sport. Under normal circumstances David was a light-hearted guy who consistently gave off a fatherly kind of vibe.

However, today he was staff captain and was running about the field shouting hysterically at his team mates and arguing with Marco the ref. If Emma was being honest with herself, she was largely laughing at how heartbroken David seemed at being beaten by a bunch of teenagers.

"Tink, what was that?! You're flying around the place and achieving nothing," shouted David, attempting to drill some tough love into the chemistry teacher. Well, Emma knew it was tough love – she just wasn't sure David knew it, as the man had seemed to take the whole thing rather personally.

"Where's your gumption, Dave? What is it you're always saying? 'There's hope yet'," Killian shouted back at him.

"Shut up, brit."

Tink brushed off the aggression easily and laughed heartily while Killian patted her on the back before turning once more to look at Emma. He had been doing it all match, and his position on the field brought him annoyingly close to her. He was striker – at least that's what Emma thought, soccer had never really been her thing – but as they were losing quite a lot he seemed to spend most of the match running up and down the side line, metres from where Emma stood.

Not that she bothered to move.

Another raucous cheer and stampede of feet, somewhat muffled by the grass, erupted as the seniors scored another goal.

12 – 8

"Oi Mr Nolan, do you want a few pointers?"

Ah the heckling. Emma liked the heckling too.

"You didn't bring much luck with you, love," of course, trudging back up the field, while his team mates attempted to come back from their shame, he had loitered to flirt with her.

"I never promised I would," she was desperately trying to downplay whatever this might look like because Mary Margaret was side eyeing the two of them.

"Perhaps it's because you never offered me a favour. Not too late to rectify you know. That red scarf around your neck would do."

The physical exercise, though it had not dampened his mischievous nature, had somewhat exhausted the smirk from his face into a more natural smile. Although, it may have had something to do with being in front of all the students. She had noticed that in front of them he had always worn a far more… open expression.

Emma decided she didn't like it – it suited him far too well.

"Get your own, Jones, I need this for warmth."

It was barely a cold day.

He trotted backwards down the field and gave her a silly little bow.

"I see you've made a friend," Mary Margaret piped up beside her, a mischievous tone of her own betraying the serious look on her face.

"Maybe. I'm not sure what he thinks he's doing though."

"Oh, I think Killian knows exactly what he's doing."

Emma turned to look at Mary Margaret, a confused look on her own face. Mary Margaret looked away slowly, a knowing and almost disapproving look settling upon it as she followed the game again. Emma couldn't decide if perhaps Mary Margaret had been casting aspersions upon Killian's motives, or Emma's.

Emma decided she didn't want to know, and promptly turned back to follow the bounce of the ball.

She barely saw it happen. One of the strikers whom Emma noticed as having scored two of the previous goals, and whose ego had grown a little with the chanting crowd, had been a little too eager to score again and had slipped in the mud. Which in itself should not have been cause for alarm, but the loud cracking sound of bone that echoed across the field was.

Out of pure instinct Emma ran onto the field with a handful of other teachers while everyone rushed over to the boy. He had landed on his elbow at a funny angle and the whole thing appeared disconnected, or at least a mess. David met Ruby, one of the office ladies, half way on the field before collecting the first aid kit and racing back to the boy, who, to his credit, had not panicked or starting whimpering but merely wore a bewildered look on his face.

"Bae, Bae, are you okay? How much pain are you in?" It was Killian. He began flurrying about the boy as David dug through the first aid kit and attempted to determine what exactly the damage was.

"Um, it hurts," the boy stuttered a bit clearly biting back the pain now as the realisation of what was happening dawned on him. He kept glancing dazedly between Killian and David as though waiting for the worst.

"Easy, son," David began, "I think you've just dislocated it, but I'd rather not attempt to move it."

Emma didn't quite know what to do. One of the other girls from the team was holding the ball, and sitting down beside Bae, grabbed his uninjured hand. The others milled about not knowing what to do, all wearing concerned looks on their faces. The children on the hill had started talking amongst themselves, the bell indicating the end of lunch was minutes away, and the sense of curiosity and interest in the matter was waning.

"Someone get Robert out of his meeting, his son's been injured," Killian had said it without looking at anyone and when nobody moved, the woman who Emma vaguely recognised as the librarian trotted up the hill and towards his office.

Hating that she felt useless as everything else had been covered by all the teachers fussing about, she remembered the pile of water bottles that had been lying over where she and Mary Margaret had been standing previously. Quickly, she jogged over and fortunately found a large white bottle with the word BAE written across it. She picked it up, and made her way back, crouching down before offering it to Bae with an apologetic smile.

"Here, kid, some water will help you feel better."

"Thanks, Miss."

Without realising, she had bent down right next to Killian. He turned to her with a look on his face that she had no idea how to read. She returned the look with a sad smile.

"Perhaps, I'm worse luck than we thought."