A/N: This is the Captain Swan section of the story (although it's still mostly just Killian). If you are on Tumblr, I have a graphic of what both Killian and David look like in their chef uniforms ( .com). There will also be links to his head wrap and the recipe for what he makes for Mr. Gold. Thanks to those of you reading this. I really so appreciate the feedback/favorites/follows!

Killian...

The voice called to him softly but without urgency. It made him feel warm and golden like honey being drizzled over ripe grilled figs...

Must remember to check the produce order for the figs...his thoughts interrupted his sleep, popping the bubble of nothingness he was happily surrendered to at the moment.

"Killian... ... Kill-ee-an..." the voice kept calling to him as he resisted surfacing from his slumber. "It's time to get up. Opening's in a few hours," the sleep-laden, female voice to his right reminded him as she gave him a nudge with her elbow, finally pushing him the rest of the way out of sleep.

Emma Swan inched closer to run her fingers lazily across his back in random curves and lines. He was having his usual response to the warmth of her body so close to his, but the effect of the extra hours he put in the night before was overpowering his ability to do much besides vaguely fantasize about acting on it. Right now he just wanted to be in that space between weightlessness and oblivion.

"Smee can open. I'm knackered," Killian mumbled into his pillow, refusing to open his eyes.

"Maybe you shouldn't come by so late at night then, Romeo," Emma chided, pinching his ass to emphasize her point. "Not showing up on time to work is—how you like to say—'bad form.'"

Hmph. Insulted, injured, and awake now, Killian rolled over onto his back, pulling Emma on top of his chest, her breasts pushed up against him, emphasizing her cleavage. He ran his hand over the curve of one breast and then down her side to caress the rise of her hip. Then he tucked a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear with his other hand, and kissed her lazily, blatantly ignoring her warning.

Letting his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh, he said, "Such is the life of a restaurateur during the height of tourist season, darling. Perhaps if you weren't so bloody alluring I wouldn't feel the strong desire to be with you every waking minute I'm not slaving over a hot stove."

Emma rolled her eyes and snorted softly, resting her head over his heart and carding her fingers through his chest hair.

"Well, if you don't get out of here, my boss is going to be pissed at me for showing up late," she reminded him with a sharp tug to the patch of hair she was playing with, making him hiss and still her hand with his.

"Aye, well, can't have that, can we? Maybe I ought to have a chat with the rigid bastard," Killian threatened.

Emma shifted to rise, gathering the sheet up around her, and slid from the bed, leaving the disheveled Killian very naked and...fully roused. He put his hands behind his head and winked at her.

"Rigid's right," she said archly as she gave him the once-over, a smug grin on her face. "You go ahead and have that chat. I'm going to shower. You can see yourself out," she said pointing at the door with her thumb as she trailed the sheet behind her, unwrapping it over the three steps it took to get to the bathroom, leaving him with one final glimpse of her looking like Lady Godiva sans horse. Her wavy blonde hair trailed mid-way down her back pointing the way to her shapely behind and long, lean legs, as she stepped into the little room with a final sidelong glance at him before leaving the sheet in a heap on the floor.

Killian leapt out of bed and reached the bathroom door just as she shut and locked it.

"Sure you don't need someone to scrub your back, love?" he asked loudly over the sound of the shower being turned on through the flimsy door. Not like he didn't need a shower himself, after all.

"Go open your restaurant, Killian. You know it's going to be nuts today," she yelled back.

Emma was right. Today was the alleged day one Mr. Gold, Michelin Guide Inspector, would be gracing The Ship's Galley with his presence (according to Smee's tip), and Killian would be making his award-winning specialty, lobster bisque. He didn't trust any of his kitchen staff to make the soup for him, so he wanted to be there early enough to get it made and help with the rest of the day's menu. It wasn't just the soup that needed to be perfect, all the other dishes would need to be of the highest quality and his wait staff needed to be on their toes as well.

Smee was supposed to be handling the run this morning to the fish market at the docks to pick up their order, so even though Killian would have preferred a lazy...well active...morning in bed with the lovely Emma Swan to burn off some of the nervous energy he was starting to feel, he needed to get to the restaurant and make sure someone was there to receive the produce order in Smee's place.

Killian made a short stop at home for a shower and fresh change of clothes before speeding through the back roads, avoiding early morning tourist traffic on his way to work. Parking in his reserved spot close to the back entrance, he unlocked the door and stepped into the narrow hallway that lead to the kitchen and the back office.

He made a detour to the staff locker room to change into his uniform only to find both sets he kept there gone from their usual spot. He couldn't remember sending either off to the laundry service, but yesterday—well the past few days—had been pretty busy; it could have slipped his mind. Still, he preferred his own black uniforms to the generic white ones he provided for his staff who couldn't afford or didn't want something better. His were perfectly tailored and broken in like a second skin. And they hid the stains pretty damn well, too. He could have sworn he'd left one right there at the end of the night though... Killian hunted around for another clean uniform, but could only scavenge a pair of trousers that were a couple inches too short, and a jacket with sleeves that went beyond his fingertips and hung from his shoulders like a sack. Lovely. It was too late to chase a proper uniform down. The produce order would be delivered any minute, and as soon as Smee returned with the lobsters, he'd need to get right to work.

Killian slung the pants low on his hips until the legs were just brushing the top of his foot and then rolled up the sleeves of the jacket up enough to be out of his way. He looked like he was wearing a Mario Batali cast-off. He'd have to just hope the damn pants wouldn't fall down and that the coat would cover him if they did. There was nothing else for it. Just as he was slipping on his shoes again and tying on his black and white pinstripe head-wrap, Killian heard someone in the kitchen banging around.

He was glad to see it was Smee back from picking up the fish delivery. The portly, bearded man with his ever-present, red, knit cap (that was was his off-duty substitute for his red, puffy chef hat) huffing away as he pushed one of the boxes toward the walk-in cooler.

"Smee!" Killian yelled from across the kitchen.

The startled Smee grabbed onto his cap and gripped his chest, standing upright like a shot. The relief was evident when he saw it was Killian standing there in the kitchen with him.

"Morning, sir. I wasn't expecting you quite so early. I've just returned from the fish market."

"So I see, Smee. Well, let's have a look at the lobsters. I need to get them cooking here shortly if we are to have lobster bisque for our lunch special. Come along, bring the cooler over," he commanded, gesturing Smee over to the stainless steel prep area in the middle of the kitchen.

Hefting one of two identical styrofoam coolers with a grunt, Smee trundled over and deposited it as gently as he could onto the surface of the table. With an excited grin, Killian lifted the lid of the box expecting to see a dozen lobsters shifting about, their large claws bound shut to keep them from making a break for it or snapping at their captor.

What he saw instead were several bags of frozen "sea legs:" imitation crab meat used by many establishments—the kind whose names included the words "joint" or "shack"—to make bulk amounts of seafood salad. But not him. It was most definitely not the kind of cuisine he served at the Galley. How a morning barely an hour old could become so vexing was beyond him. First his uniform and now this. He knew today would be stressful, but this...substitution was both suspect and infuriating. And a bad omen to boot.

"What the bloody hell is this Smee?!" he cried, poking roughly at the travesty jammed in the squeaky white cooler.

"Well, sir, it looks like...like sea legs," he stated, peering over the edge of the cooler.

"What, pray tell, Mr. Smee, are sea legs doing in my kitchen? Tell me this is some sort of jest."

"Uh...I really don't know, sir. I just picked up the order, I didn't place it," Smee reminded him. "I didn't even load it in the truck."

Killian moved into Smee's space, forcing the shorter man take half a step back. "Smee, I'm only going to say this once. Get back to the docks and don't return until you have my lobsters! Understood?" Killian ground out between clenched teeth.

"Aye, sir. But..."

"But what, Smee?"

"Well, there are no more lobsters. At least there were no more around when I was at the market. And all the lobstermen are back out in their boats for the day. It's too late for anything fresh for now. I could...try some other avenues..." Smee suggested a little too eagerly for Killian's taste.

Killian rubbed his hands over his face. Sonofabitch. He supposed this counted as desperate times, but no amount of desperation could stop the inherent risk in letting Smee fix this problem. One day he suspected there would be jail time involved and he wanted no part of it. Killian was going to have to rethink this whole plan now, as well as figure out how this happened. He pulled out his phone, getting ready to call his supplier, but first he needed to give Smee an answer.

Shoving his phone back in his pocket, and waving his hand before his face in exasperation, he said, "No, no, no. Head back to the fish market and see what's left. Only pick what looks good, Smee. I'll figure out what we'll do after that."

"Very well, sir. Shall I return the sea legs?"

"There's no time to lose wrestling with those coolers around that girth of yours. I'll have one of the others deal with it later. Just get down to the fish market and make it quick! Tick, tock, Mr. Smee," he warned, tapping his wrist.

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," Smee blurted as he headed for the door only to crash into the produce delivery guy who was holding onto a box of vegetables fresh from a local farm. The impact forced the box to tip and send potatoes and onions rolling in every direction.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Killian yelled, throwing his arms in the air and glaring at the ceiling, completely at the end of his patience. It wasn't even 9am.

Smee began to scramble around chasing potatoes as they tumbled under work tables and sinks and lodging under the stoves. He had a couple of spuds tucked into the crook of his elbow when Killian yelled at him again.

"Smee! Leave them be. I'll take care of them. Just get to the market before all that's left are bloody quahogs!"

With a nod, Smee tossed the potatoes to Killian who caught them easily and tried not to smash them down on the work table in frustration. Smee high-tailed it out of the restaurant leaving Killian with the bearded and pony-tailed veggie guy. When the two of them had finally gathered up the errant potatoes and onions, Killian did a quick inventory against his purchase order and found, after one more large box had been brought in from the truck that everything (figs included) was there (halle-fucking-lujah). Killian sent the man on his way and began running through possible recipes he could try to salvage this day as he separated all the vegetables out of the boxes and into the fridge or prep stations.

He called Eric, his fish supplier, and angrily threw around words like "bad form" and "faux fish," and possibly a not-so-veiled threat to take his business to Triton's, Eric's main competitor, before finding out that the bait and switch happened somewhere between the fishmonger's hands and the back of Smee's truck. Eric was as horrified as Killian was, having checked the order himself before releasing it, and promised to get to the bottom of the issue and make sure that Smee returned with the best of what he had left at no extra charge.

Satisfied there would be no further issues with supplies, Killian rummaged through the walk-in cooler as he put the other seafood away to get some ideas for another main dish, when his kitchen staff began trickling in, looking bleary-eyed and worse for wear. Summers were chaotic at The Ship's Galley with it being a favorite among the regular summer residents, on top of whatever day-trippers and weekenders happened to be in town. Being right on the water and at the heart of the seaport's downtown, Killian's restaurant was in a prime location for boat and foot traffic. He looked at his watch and hoped that Smee would return soon so he could pin down what the special of the day was going to be and get started on it.

Shortly before Killian was going to call everyone in for his usual morning meeting/pep talk, his floor manager strolled in.

"You're late," he said, blocking her way to the office.

"Yeah, well, my boyfriend was complete shit this morning and wouldn't leave on time," she said, pushing past him into the small, cluttered room, tossing her keys and phone onto the highest pile of papers on the desk. "Plus, I had an errand to run before I came in, and got caught in traffic. Sorry."

Killian followed her in and shut the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. "Hmm. Well, Swan, maybe I should have a chat with this boyfriend of yours. Sounds like a real git. I can't have my manager late. Bad form and all that, or so I've heard."

Emma shook her head as she closed in on him and gave him a kiss. "You go have that chat," she said smiling into his lips. Taking a closer look at him, she tilted her head and asked, "What's going on? You look like a deflated Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man."

"Aye, quite the perceptive lass. It's been a morning," he said, sighing. "My favorite uniforms've gone missing as have the lobsters I required for the bisque," he confided.

Emma's jaw dropped. "No way! Someone stole your lobsters? That's just—"

"Daft, I know."

"I was thinking more like 'fucked up.' What are you going to do now?" she asked as she ran her hand down his arm and twined her fingers through his, giving them a gentle squeeze. She adjusted the flopping neckline of his jacket with her other hand, smoothing the material out over his shoulder.

"Dunno. Waiting for Smee to return from the—" The back door slammed shut, interrupting Killian. "Fish market," he finished.

Flinging open the office door, Killian and Emma peered down the cramped hall as Smee squeezed through it with another cooler in his grip and sweat starting to dampen the hair curling out from under his hat.

"Well, Smee, what did you bring me?" Killian asked, moving around Emma into the hall.

"Sorry to say, sir, there wasn't much left. I was able to get some decent white fish and some prawns. That was it though," he said.

Killian sighed. "Looks like it's back to basics. Fisherman's pie it is. I think we've got enough potatoes."

Emma's face lit up. "Oh, I love your fisherman's pie! Will you make extra for me?"

"And me, sir! It's my favorite dish of yours."

"Get used to it because if we don't get that three-star review, that's all I'll be able to afford from here on out," Killian warned.

"I'm good with that," Emma said with a satisfied nod as she and Killian moved out of Smee's way and into the kitchen.

The doors from the dining room swung open and the entire wait staff came barreling in, holding their noses and covering their mouths as if the room behind them was on fire, pained expressions on every face. A couple of them were retching under their hands.

"What now?!" Killian cried. He glanced over at Emma who was rushing forward, looking at her crew with concern.

Their head waiter, Victor, his face the picture of disgust, shivered and pointed to the dining room. "It smells like a kettle of dead fish in there."

Emma and Killian moved closer to the doors but didn't get far before the pungent odor of spoiled fish hit them. The both blanched and took a step back.

"Bloody hell!" Killian shouted. "Bloody fucking hell!" He stomped through the doorway, slamming open the swinging doors with both hands like he was bursting through the gates of hell with Emma close on his heels. The smelly backdraft caused everyone in the kitchen to groan as they covered their noses and mouths again.

The smell was overpowering — briny and sharp and everywhere. Emma coughed and looked at him with a frown and a tinge of green in her pallor he was sure mirrored his own. Taking a moment to adjust to the smell (if that were even possible—his stomach was roiling), Killian began walking around the room sniffing to find the source. It didn't take him long to suss out that the few mounted fish he had on the walls had been replaced with real ones and left overnight to rot. Killian shook his head and laughed bitterly. There were obviously forces at play he should have prepared for better. All he could do was hope he was going to be able to deal with whatever came at him with some dignity and cleverness. It was going to be a long fucking day.

"Henry! Felix! Rufio! Get out here now!" Killian hollered toward the kitchen, calling out his busboys.

Three heads popped up in the windows of the doors, each looking more crestfallen than the boy before at hearing his name. The left-hand door slowly swung open and the boys filed out, obviously holding their breath.

"Good lads," Killian said with a nod. "Right then, Henry, you go down to the basement and bring up the chafing dishes. The big pans we use for buffets. Don't forget the sterno. Rufio and Felix, you get a couple of buckets and get these fish off the walls straightaway. Just cover your noses with a towel and get them down quick as you can." He turned to Emma, "Get a bunch of lemons cut and bring them in. Oh, and some cloves. Give Victor and Tink some money and send them out for some smaller vanilla scented candles to light up and place on the tables until we open. Hopefully we can dispel this reeking mess enough to get people in the door without vomiting."

"Right," Emma said and turned without being prompted to head back into the kitchen and delegate the chores to her staff. He'd never seen her look so relieved to be leaving his side and he couldn't blame her. He was sure the smell of rotten fish would forever be lodged in his sinuses.

The boys scattered to carry out their assignments, and breathe again, and Killian returned to the kitchen and started filling pots with water to bring back into the dining room for the chafing dishes. They had about two hours, maybe a touch more if no one showed up right at opening, to get rid of the stench. He had learned an old trick years ago to boil lemons and cloves to help dissipate the odor of fish from a room. He might be able to pull it off if everyone moved quickly. He moved around the dining room opening windows until Henry returned with the chafing dishes and another lungful of clean air. They set one up on each table, filled it with water, lemons and cloves then set the sterno aflame. When the other boys had gotten rid of the rotten fish, he had them wipe down the walls with vinegar and lemon juice to cut the fish oil that was running down the walls. The fish smell was bad enough, but he didn't want to risk mixing the smell of chemical cleaners with rancid fish until the dining room closed for the night.

With the dining room fiasco mostly under control, Killian quickly called the staff together and filled them in on the day's menu and the possibility of a special customer, reminding them to deliver their best service to everyone. He made sure to look pointedly at his bartender, Regina, when he said that knowing how she had a bad habit of sending over whatever drink she felt a customer deserved rather than what they asked for. Not that all her drinks weren't delicious, but her reputation preceded her, and not necessarily in a good way, and he'd comped many a drink because of her stubbornness. If he could have scheduled another bartender today he would have, but his sub was on vacation. He was just going to have to hope for the best. At this point, she was the least of his worries. He dismissed everyone to Emma's capable hands and turned back to his own staff.

Next he set about assigning jobs to everyone, giving Peter the task of making 10 pounds of seafood salad using the sea legs and dropping it off at the local soup kitchen as an unexpected donation. Then he had Smee cut up the fish and potatoes to get them cooked for the fisherman's pie. It wasn't remotely what he wanted to present to a Michelin Inspector, but it was a failsafe recipe of his and a favorite of his staff. It was the first dish he ever mastered well enough to give it his own signature flare (a dash of smoked paprika in the sauce). He made it regularly when they had leftover fish but rarely served it to customers deeming it too common. There was no choice today though. It would have to do because he wasn't wasting any time coming up with something new that could possibly fall flat.

Finally the day seemed to be moving forward without further incidents. The fisherman's pie was made and in the oven, all the other food was prepped and ready to be ordered and finished cooking, and the dining room was, well...not nearly as brackish, but certainly not summer fresh either. Being so close to the docks and serving seafood, there was always a bit of residual fish smell, but that little prank was too much even for Killian. Emma and her crew did a bang up job cleaning up the room and getting it ready for the afternoon and evening crowd, and he was going to have to do something special for everyone if they made it through this day without the walls collapsing on top of them.

Sometime around 12:30, when the kitchen was bustling and Killian had just about forgotten that the day was anything beyond a normal summer day, Emma slipped into the kitchen and whispered in his ear that Mr. Gold had arrived. Wiping his hands on the towel he had stashed on his shoulder, Killian walked over to the dining room doors and peered out the window into the busy room. Emma pointed in the direction of the only person sitting alone in the far corner by a window (away from any concentrated fish smell). The man's salt-and-pepper hair was a bit longish, and his features sharp, impish. His navy blue suit was offset by a deep purple shirt and matching tie, and his eyes shrewdly scanned the dining room and the other diners. Killian's stomach tightened at the thought that one person could potentially make or break his business. It didn't sit well with him at all.

Victor, drink tray in hand, stopped at Mr. Gold's table and was met with a very confused look and a quick shake of his head. Smiling anyway, Victor held up the bright lime green and candy apple red martini, then placed it in front of Mr. Gold with an overly cheerful smile.

"Are you shitting me?" Emma gasped. "She didn't..."

"She did, the witch! She made him a 'Poison Apple.' I hope he'll be able to taste what he orders," Killian lamented.

"I hope he has a ride home," Emma added.

Killian caught Regina's eye through the round window and she gave him a thumb's up and a dazzling smile and all Killian could do was close his eyes and picture his chances of a three-star rating fading away.

They moved out of the way of the swinging door as Victor approached, ready to place Mr. Gold's order of the day's special.

Killian got to work on Mr. Gold's meal, moving the fisherman's pie from the large pan it had been cooked in, to a smaller, white, individual-sized ceramic pie plate to heat for just a bit longer. When it was hot enough, he wiped the edges of the dish before drizzling some of the smoked paprika sauce over the top of the fluffy golden potatoes and garnished with a sprig of fresh dill weed. He placed it on serving dish and sent it out with Victor. He only watched for a moment to see Gold's reaction to the dish, which was thoughtful, but neither good nor bad. The man had obviously learned to school his expression while eating in restaurants all the time and Killian was not going to sit and watch the man for signs of what to expect in his review. It was out of his control at this point.

Turning back to the kitchen, Killian felt some sense of relief that this ordeal was almost over. He could stop thinking about this inspector's visit and what it could mean for him. The Ship's Galley was already doing very well and had a loyal following and he couldn't decide if the publicity that comes with a three-star rating would be a blessing or a curse. The clanging of utensils against the pans, the predictable, rhythmic motion of the men and women who cooked with him as they practically danced around each other to create a dish worth serving, along with the sizzle of fish and vegetables as they grilled and sautéed, lulled him into a sense of calm he could only find in the eye of the hurricane that was running a restaurant kitchen. That was, at least until the next crisis.

Emma stuck her head in the door of the kitchen yet again and got Killian's attention with a short whistle.

"You better get out here," she said with an uncertainty that gave Killian pause.

What now? What else could possibly go wrong?

With a silent plea for strength and an angry huff, Killian stabbed his knife into the cutting board with a thud followed by the twang of the vibrating blade, and untied the apron from around his waist, tossing it to the side. He followed Emma out into the dining room, where he hoped it wasn't for a dressing down by a customer. He could still smell a hint of the rotting fish from earlier and let out a breath to steady his stomach and his mind. What greeted him was not an angry customer, but several angry protesters picketing outside his restaurant. What the hell...

Killian and Emma strode out the front door and into a small group of people dressed like mermaids of all things, holding picket signs that said "Fish are our friends, not food!" and "Don't find Nemo in your stomach" along with "Fish Killers!" and "Jaws is coming for you and he's pissed!" They were chanting, "What do we want? Fish! Where do we want 'em? The ocean!"

The absurdity of it all, paired with every ridiculous obstacle thrown his way caused Killian to finally break down with laughter. This was really too much. Fish protesters? Seriously?

Collecting himself, Killian took a step toward the red-headed woman who looked to be the ringleader of the band of fish advocates, and said as he reached out to touch her shoulder, "This has to be a joke of some sort. Who put you up to—" When his hand made contact, the woman whirled around and caught him across the bridge of his nose with the edge of her sign that read, "Fish are people, too!"

As the sign made contact with his face, Killian staggered back into Emma who tried to steady him but almost toppled over herself. Everyone's eyes grew wide and the crowd hushed, including anyone near a window — like the very observant Mr. Gold. Both Killian's hands flew to his nose as the pain radiated out under his eyes and up into his hairline. For a moment he couldn't see anything, his vision was so blurred from the impact. But as everything came into focus: the protester's shocked and familiar face, Emma's look of terror, and the blood covering his hands, he felt very light-headed. There was a reason Killian never wanted to be a doctor; he couldn't stand the sight of blood.

The last thing he said—before his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out with a ghost of a smile on his face—was, "That son of a bitch…."