General Reminder/Disclaimers: I know astoundingly little about Greenland, art museums, and security systems. Therefore, much of this fic is definitely fantastical in nature. Think of the show Leverage but with even less research. Also, so, so little about French government. Please suspend your disbelief okay I'm so sorry
Technically, they all agreed to lay low for a while after George's threats. Two months is a long time to be stagnant, though, and Emma is beginning to feel the itch. Killian dangling the prospect of a job in front of her is hard to resist.
"The Louvre?" She asks, not bothering to hold back the disbelief in her voice. "Seriously?"
Killian raises an eyebrow, the smirk on his face unaffected. "It's French."
"I," Emma starts before sighing and electing to ignore him. "It's one of the most well secured museums in the world. How exactly are we supposed to get in?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong, love," Killian says, a frown replacing his ever present smirk as he scrubs his hand over his jaw. "But, aren't you the self-proclaimed Best Thief in the world?"
Emma raises her eyebrows. She knows a challenge when she hears one. Unfortunately, it's a tactic that usually works on her and this time is no different.
"What's on display that's so special, anyway?"
If she's going to risk breaking into the Louvre, it needs to at least be worth it. Killian pivots, disappearing below deck and returning almost immediately with a laptop. It's balancing on his bad arm while his fingers glide over the mousepad. He stops, turning the laptop to face Emma.
She just barely keeps her jaw from falling open.
"Are you crazy?" She asks, louder than she intends. Emma glances around the dock, but there's no one else around to overhear. Regardless, she deliberately drops her voice. "The Crown of Louis XV? It's been on display forever. You do know the jewels were all replaced by glass in the 1800s, right?"
"It doesn't lessen the score," Killian insists. "I think it's worth the risk."
"Worth the risk? For some half-rate king's crown with almost no monetary value?" Emma questions. Anything from the Louvre can't really be resold without trouble, but at least if the crown still had jewels it would be worth something. The only thing that makes it worth anything at the moment is it's placard at the museum.
"It's about the challenge, Swan," Killian argues.
"The challenge?" Emma echoes, shaking her head and truly trying to understand. Killian huffs, setting the laptop on one of the bench seats bolted to the sides of the boat. He pushes his hand through his hair and avoids her eyes for a moment.
"Look, Emma," he starts, suddenly serious. There's a hesitation in the way he turns back towards her, the softness of his voice. "We got played for fools. We're supposed to be the best and we acted like amateurs."
"You want to break into one of the most difficult museums to break into just to prove you can," Emma summarizes. Killian raises his eyes to hers, desperate for her to understand. She can't exactly blame him for the thought. Most of her time spent in Greenland has been her trying not to think about what happened in New York. George had screwed them all, that was one thing, but he'd made them doubt themselves.
Killian's right. They're supposed to be the best. Now, they have to wonder if that's still true.
"If you need some time to think about it, I understand," he says eventually, fingers rubbing the skin behind his ear raw. "If you'd prefer to stay here with your foster mother…"
Ingrid has told Emma time and time again she's more than welcome to stay in Greenland as long as she wants to, whether it be a few months or forever. The thought of leaving the people she's come to know here does make her chest tighten up a bit. But, at the end of the day, can she really deny Killian or herself this? After all…
"I assume you have a plan for getting inside," she says and that blinding grin returns to Killian's face.
They're the same, aren't they?
-/-
They decide to wait a week before they leave the country. The crown isn't going anywhere (unfortunately - Emma has always found it easier to steal something when it's set to be moved between exhibits) and she needs time to get her things together and say her goodbyes.
She has a suspicion Killian is also giving her time to backout.
"So, what's the real reason you're leaving?" Anna asks. Emma is in the laundry room trying to sort through clothes from her hamper. Some of it is hers, brought with her in her hasty packing, but a lot of it is borrowed from Anna and Elsa. Anna is sitting on the dryer, her legs swinging in front of it, her heels creating a dull thud every time they strike against the metal of the machine.
"Anna," Elsa scolds with a frown from where she folds a stack of towels across the room.
"What?" Anna responds, a light shrug accompanying the false innocence in her tone. She returns her attentions to Emma. "I'm just curious! You're a good liar, like, scary good. But, it's pretty obvious you haven't just picked up and decided to leave after one trip to the market. Something happened, right?"
Emma hesitates, her hands clasped around a sweater she's trying to identify as her own or Elsa's. "I, uh, I ran into someone I knew. From New York."
Elsa has given up on her folding and come to join them, leaning against the dryer next to Anna. She raises one perfectly shaped brow at Emma.
"Are you, like, running from this person?" Anna asks, a little more hesitant this time. "Because if it's something bad, we can help."
"No, guys, it's nothing like that," Emma insists, shaking her head and tossing the sweater into the washer.
"Are you sure?" Elsa persists. The sisters share a look, the look of siblings sharing in a silent conversation, the kind that makes Emma feel suddenly left out, before turning back to her. "If they're dangerous, you should let us help you."
Emma sighs, pouring the detergent into the washer before closing the lid. It begins to rumble and she leans back against it, facing the other two women. They're watching her expectantly, worriedly, and it pulls a chuckle from her.
"I promise, it's nothing like that," Emma assures them. "He just has something he needs my help with and we have to head back to New York for it."
Almost none of that statement is true. Killian probably doesn't need her help so much as just want it - something she's trying not to examine - and she has no intentions of heading back to New York any time soon. It's a nice enough lie, though, that it works.
Anna's face lights up for an entirely different reason. "He? So, it's a boy?"
Elsa rolls her eyes, but there's a fondness there that comes from growing up with a boy crazy sister. Which is probably a feat when you're gay. Emma shrugs her shoulders and decides that it's probably a good thing if they think her hurried departure is about a man anyway.
"Yes," Emma says slowly, nodding. She tilts her face away, as if hiding a blush. Anna claps her hands excitedly and Elsa covers a laugh behind her hand.
"And what is his name?" Anna singsongs. Emma freezes for a moment, unsure about just handing out a known art thief's name in relation to herself.
She thinks of Killian on his boat, short hair tousled by the wind and dimples in his flushed cheeks. The image is sudden, not unexpected since they're talking about him, but it makes Emma's chest feel as though something within her ribcage has taken flight, soaring around in the space. Her cheeks heat with a real blush, which only serves to confuse her more, and this time she turns fully away from Elsa and Anna.
"Charles," she offers eventually, the first name that comes to her head. Anna coos and Elsa's laugh is a quiet tinkling behind her palm. Emma returns her attention to sorting through the rest of her clothes.
-/-
She decides to tell Ingrid the same story, mostly because she's extremely doubtful of Anna's ability to keep a secret. Emma doesn't want Ingrid to think she'd lied because she didn't want to be around her anymore or anything like that. Ingrid takes it in stride, a similar twinkle in her eye to the one Anna had. Emma doesn't even mention Killian's name this time, though, so she's beginning to wonder if she's telling the story differently than she means to.
Over the week, she meets with Killian a few times downtown, but spends most of the time packing up her things, spending time with Ingrid, and researching the crown. It's not really necessary to know its history, but she's not going to find anything about the Louvre's security system online.
Faster than she realizes, the week passes by and Emma needs to meet Killian at the docks. Ingrid insists on coming with her to say goodbye, that she needs to head downtown to open the ice cream shop anyway. Emma says goodbye to Elsa and Anna at the house, though, promising to keep in touch and return for Anna's wedding. They'd tried to insist on accompanying her as well, but Emma had refused. She wasn't a kid going off to camp for the first time, she didn't need the whole family to come and wave her off.
And, family, how weird of a word was that?
The realization makes the goodbyes hard, but saying goodbye to Ingrid at the docks is nearly impossible. Emma holds onto her tightly, reminded of the last time she'd had to say goodbye to the woman. Ingrid, gripping Emma just as tightly, must be thinking of the same thing because she says, "No decade long gap between visits this time, hm?"
Emma nods against her shoulder, not trusting her own voice. Her eyes burn with tears, but the cold wind whipping around them gives her an excuse. She clears her throat when she pulls away finally, swiping her wool sleeve over her eyes.
Ingrid grabs both of Emma's hands, sandwiching them between her own. "I love you, Emma, you know that, don't you?"
Emma can't do anything but nod, pulling the woman into one last hug. She murmurs a goodbye against her shoulder and finally convinces herself to turn towards where Killian's ship waits. He's standing on the dock in front of it, watching the exchange with interest. He doesn't bother to pretend not to be watching when Emma notices him, instead offering her a gentle smile as she heads in his direction.
"You alright, Swan?" He asks once she's stopped in front of him, close enough that she can feel the warmth from his chest against her shoulder as she stares at the sea in front of her.
"Yeah," she nods. "You ready to go?"
He sweeps an arm out towards his ship, towards the horizon, towards France.
"Paris awaits."
-/-
Flying between Greenland and France would take them a little over a day, with a few connecting flights between the two countries. Taking the trip by boat is much trickier. Emma spends the majority of the time trying not to be sick and familiarizing herself with the layout of the museum. Killian takes them on an odd path that leads them between the United Kingdom and Ireland before landing them in a coastal town in France.
"We're just leaving your ship?" Emma asks, raising an eyebrow as she glances back at the unaccompanied mode of transport. She and Killian each have a bag and his hand on the small of her back ushers her towards the city.
The boat has always been a part of Killian's whole schtick. He can move and retrieve merchandise on his own without the need to pass hands or deal with typical customs. He flies under the radar and it allows for him to work in a timely manner. Now that she's actually seen him on the ship, though, Emma gets it. He's in his element on the deck, steering the boat along the coast of Northern Ireland, like he's done it all his life.
He refers to the damn thing with feminine pronouns. So, needless to say, she's a little shocked he'd just leave it at some port in France.
"Not to worry, love," he assures her. "I have a friend coming to pick her up and move her to a private port until we return."
"You have a friend in France willing to stow your ship?" Emma asks, disbelief coloring her words. "How?"
"It's not my first rodeo," he reminds her, offering what she's sure is supposed to be a smug wink. It's hampered slightly by his inability to wink properly, which only makes Emma smile in surprising fondness.
They take a train into Paris and check into a hotel under one of Killian's lesser used aliases.
"I have certain ones I only use for travel arrangements," he explains, a murmur into her ear as he keeps one arm wrapped around Emma's waist to really drive home the act of being a couple. "Never can be too careful."
Emma nods, ignoring the sudden heat settling through her skin at his closeness. One room with one bed is inconspicuous. No one really looks twice at the tourist couple taking a romantic holiday, especially in Paris. Emma doesn't have as many aliases as Killian, her skillset making her blend into a crowd or a shadow more easily, so he checks them in while Emma lays the "doting lover" act on thick. She curls her fingers into the lapel of his suit - he'd made the switch from his usual leather jacket on the train - and dropping her head onto his shoulder.
"Your room key, Mr. Errol," the grinning man says in perfect English, sliding a small folder across the desk towards Killian. Two gold key cards stick out from within and the silver plastic of Killian's credit card contrasts them. Emma frowns, just a tic before she remembers herself, and snags the envelope before Killian can. The man behind the desk doesn't seem to notice any change as he continues, "Will you be needing any help with your bags?"
Killian dismisses the offer and reaches down to grab his bag from where he'd placed it on the floor. The hard plastic of his prosthetic digs slightly into Emma's hip with the movement and startles her out of where she'd been studying his bank card. She hikes her own duffle bag further up her shoulder and allows Killian to guide her towards the elevator bank.
She waits until they reach the room before she asks, "Flynn Errol?"
"Hm?" Killian hums, looking up from where he'd been bouncing slightly on the bed, testing out the mattress. "That's a fine name, I'll have you know."
"What, was Han Solo not available?" She asks, crossing the room to drop her bag next to the bed. Killian raises an eyebrow at her, but moves his own bag to the couch on the opposite wall. It's a nice hotel and the couch looks nearly as comfortable as the bed. Emma doesn't feel bad exiling him there, if she's honest.
"Why, Swan," he starts once he's draped dramatically over the couch. He's grinning broadly at her, but it's not the same delighted grin from the dock in Greenland. It's smug and makes Emma turn away from him. "Are you a nerd?"
Emma huffs. "I'm gonna take a shower and then we should go sightseeing."
Killian chuckles, but doesn't disagree as she grabs her bag and takes it to the bathroom with her. She hears him call the front desk and ask for extra blankets and pillows.
-/-
Sightseeing, of course, doesn't actually mean sightseeing. Emma changes into a long, white summer dress and calls for a cab to meet them outside the hotel. Killian divulges himself of his suit jacket and Emma thinks they could easily pass for two tourists. Just chic enough to be trying too hard as they stare starry-eyed at the Parisian sights.
They cross a bridge over the river Seine and Emma actually doubts it'll be too hard to pretend to be wonderstruck by the city. It's not that she's never been to France before, she's done her traveling, of course. She hasn't had much reason to stick around Paris for very long, when she bothered to enter the city at all, let alone actually take in the typical sights.
It's nice to know what everyone is always talking about.
Outside the museum, Emma waits until she's out of the cab at least to stare.
"A beauty isn't it, love?" Killian asks, suddenly standing close enough the words are nearly murmured into her ear. She nods.
"It's huge," she offers and he chuckles. He holds his hand out for her and she laces her fingers through his, tucking herself close to him. She notices, as they buy their tickets, he's suddenly keeping his left arm tucked close to himself, as though suddenly self conscious.
Once inside, their tickets taken at the door, Emma casually switches side and loops her arm through his, pulling it from where it's pressed tightly to his side. Killian raises an eyebrow at the movement and Emma reaches over with her other arm, linking her fingers together around his bicep. She sees some sort of softness flash in his eyes and knows it's not for the sake of the act, his shoulders loosening as he leads her into the exhibits.
Emma knows exactly where the crown is located within the museum, but they stroll along the other corridors. This isn't a snatch and grab, they need to have patience and be sure of what they're doing. They move slowly around the building, murmuring notes about specific security details into each other's ear.
"Camera in each corner," Emma breathes at one point, her chin propped up on Killian's shoulder. He nods, nearly imperceptible, in acknowledgement.
"Guard rotation seems to be every ten minutes," he comments later, his lips warm as the press against her earlobe. Emma represses a shiver, tilts her head towards him in confirmation.
The seemingly obvious displays of affection keep most people's eyes off of them. Being in the open is often the easiest way to fly under the radar. They duck into a cafe inside the museum to order lattes and discuss what they've got so far. Killian pays with an entirely different bank card and Emma doesn't bother to learn the name on this one.
A few hours later, the museum closes and Killian calls for a taxi in flawless French. Emma tries to log everything she'd learned about the museum's security in her mind, but it's incomplete. They don't know what measures might go into place when the building actually closes.
"Dinner?" Killian asks, as they wait for their cab.
"I know we're in France, but I was honestly thinking we'd just get room service at the hotel," Emma shrugs, pressing a yawn into the back of her hand. Killian gives her one of those soft smiles. "Is that, like, blasphemy?"
"We'll be here for a few more days," he shrugs, his words colored with amusement. "I think it's alright to order chicken fingers off a hotel menu just for the night."
Their cab pulls up to the curb and Killian tugs the door open for her. Emma steps past him to slide into the cab, but stops for a moment and looks at him.
"Chicken fingers," she scoffs. "Please, I'm getting grilled cheese."
The door closes on the sound of Killian's laugh.
-/-
They spend the next four days at the museum. Killian switches between different payment methods, eventually using cash exclusively. Emma pays for the taxis and Killian pays for the museum and, after they finish, Emma intends to workout paying him for half of the hotel bill.
"We should find records for the building," Emma suggests one morning. The long, summer dresses are tiring her out, so she picks out tank top and a pair of jeans. They won't need to play tourists today, anyway. "We've got the layout of the museum down as best we can, but we're only guessing about the security measures at this point."
"What do you suggest?" Killian responds over the sound of running water and a mouthful of toothpaste. Emma crosses the hotel room to lean on the doorjamb leading into the bathroom.
"We should try and get the building records," she explains. "We've seen what's open to visitors, but we need to know if there's anything underneath or locked away. Even if it's just the possibility of an entry point."
Killian seems to consider this, swishing water between his cheeks as he stares at her. Emma raises an eyebrow at him as he drags the motion out and pivots out of the doorway, returning to sit on the bed. She hears the sound of him spitting the gargle into the sink before his head pokes through the doorway.
"The city probably pays for the museum," he adds. "They might keep records of any security updates."
Emma shrugs, it's not a bad thought. If they can get their hands on the type of security system inside the museum, it'll make coming up with a plan much easier. They know where the merchandise is, but it's useless unless they have an entry point and an idea of the security they'll be facing.
Killian grins. "Sur l'hôtel de ville."
-/-
Killian dressed in a suit similar to the one from New York and Emma, begrudgingly, pulled a blazer on over her tank top. At City Hall, they enter separately, losing one another in the crowd of workers and tourists within the front hall. Emma hones in on a blonde woman in a pantsuit with curls similar to her own and her nose buried in a binder. She angles her path and elbow checks the woman, getting squeezed in by the crowd. Her ID badge dangles from the waist of her blazer and Emma swipes it easily. She ducks into a corner and clips the badge to her own lapel.
She follows the signs for the hall of records and trusts Killian will do the same, if he hasn't already. Her French is just as good as his, but she's worried her accent will give her away so she avoids speaking. The phone in her hands provides a distraction as she keeps her eyes turned towards it, constantly refreshing one of her decoy e-mails. The only thing that pops up is an offer for a timeshare in Monaco. She thinks Snow pulls a scam like that sometimes.
Outside the records room, a small brunette sits at a large round desk. Her head is ducked as she reads a book laid flat on the desk and Emma thinks she might be able to drift right past her. At the last moment, the woman looks up, as if instinctually.
"Bonjour," she chirps, a bright smile on her face as darkly painted nails press down the spot in her book. Emma forces her mind to adjust to French as the woman continues. "Do you mind if I see your badge?"
Emma unclips it and holds it up for the woman, close enough to identify, but far enough to keep the details of the woman's face hidden. As she scans the ID, Emma takes in the desk. There are three books piled off to the side, plus the one she was reading, and a few figurines decorate the space around her computer monitor. A nameplate reads Belle French and Emma thinks Flynn Errol is suddenly a terribly realistic name.
"Great," the woman - Belle - says, typing the name on the badge into her log and pressing a button that unlocks the door to the room, creating a quiet buzzing. "Let me know if there's anything I can help you find."
Emma grins and nods, happy to not actually have to speak. Killian's accent is surprisingly well hidden when he switches between languages. His livelihood depends on it, his character work falling apart if he can't convince a mark he is exactly who he says. Emma doesn't usually have the same concern.
Inside the room, about a dozen computers sit upon desks before it branches back into paper records. It smells like old books and stale air, but the silence comforts Emma. If there's no one else inside, she doesn't need to play a part. The tension in her shoulders loosens.
They tighten again, at the sound of the door buzzing behind her. When she turns, Killian is stepping through, clipping his pilfered badge to his breast pocket. He smirks at her.
"Relax, Swan, it's only me."
"Let's just find the building records, alright?" She sighs, turning back to look at the expanse of shelves. "There has to be some sort of system. You check the shelves, I'll try to find security records in the computer."
"And why do I get the task of a thousand paper cuts?" Killian questions as Emma takes a seat at one of the computers.
She offers him a grin. "I have dust allergies."
-/-
Killian sneezes and falls back into the mattress. The comforter puffs up around him as he groans and Emma presses a laugh into her palm.
"I used to like books," he pouts. "The libraries in Italy are a sight to behold. Now, I'll be lucky if I ever get all the dust out of my sinuses."
Emma sits on the bed next to him and strokes her fingers over his forehead consolingly, a smirk on her face as she stares down at him. "Poor thing."
Killian hums, his eyes drifting shut as Emma's fingers drag over his forehead and back through his hair. She keeps the movement up for a few moments before realizing that it's stopped being sarcastic at some point and pulling her hand away as if it's been burned. Killian's eyes reopen and Emma clears her throat.
"Let's discuss what we know," she says, shoulders stiff. Killian sniffs, wipes his nose with the sleeve of his shirt and recites what they'd learned about security.
"Faucon security. High grade."
"Motion sensors," Emma sighs. "Heat sensors as backup. Security cameras."
"Guard shift is at twenty-three hundred," Killian adds. "That gives us about a five minute window between shifts to spoof the feed."
"The crown is on the first floor, security is on the ground floor. It'd be easiest to go in from the roof, drop down the side of the building, and enter that way."
Killian sniffs again and Emma figures he's remembering the last time they'd jumped off a roof. She's already trying to decide if her rig will hold both of them. Logically, she could get inside, deal with the heat sensors, and grab the crown by herself. Killian's talents could be better used to give her more time by distracting security. She says as much.
"Aye," he nods, his hair sticking up at odd ends where it moves against the bed. He sits up suddenly, bumping his arm against Emma's. "You know, love, I can't help but think-"
"This would be easier with Red?" Emma finishes and Killian chuckles in agreement. She sighs and frowns down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. They're painted a frosty blue that Elsa had picked out for her. "Nah, I work better on my own."
The words taste like ash even as she says them, but Killian stays quiet, his arm a comforting pressure against her side. Emma's beginning to think they understand each other more than she'd realized.
-/-
With or without Red, they formulate a plan.
Emma sneaks through the roof access door during visiting hours and waits on the roof while Killian steals a guard's uniform from the employee lockers. She sets her rig up and sits at the edge of the building, watching the Parisian skyline come to life as the sun sets over the horizon. Killian murmurs glib commentary into her ear as he follows the other guards around the building for last walk through.
"You know, they're going to begin to think you're crazy if you keep talking to yourself," Emma comments, watching lights blink into life across the Seine.
"I've been called worse things," he hums, the sound low and rough across the earbuds. Emma grins.
"I bet you have."
At 10:55, the sound of sirens breaks the silence settled over the museum. Emma flattens herself against the roof and searches for the flashing lights pulling up to the museum. Over the comms, she hears Killian insist he can watch the feeds while the other guards deal with it. Admittedly, Emma feels a little bad for calling in a false emergency. Technically, Killian had done it from one of the museum lines which meant there'd probably be an investigation into it. It'll be easy for them to make the new guy who never shows up for work again the fall guy.
Plus, by then, the crown will be gone and it'll give them a whole new crisis to worry about.
"I've looped the video feed for room sixty-six," he says, the words directed at Emma now. "Motion sensors are disabled, but the heat sensors are the back up security. They're on a set rotation to turn off during the day, I don't know how to unlock them."
"We planned for this," Emma reminds him, tugging on her rig to double check it. She picks a cooler up off the roof and loops the strap over her chest. Security and the ambulance techs are grouped at the front of the building, bickering over whether they can come inside or not.
"Good luck, Swan," Killian murmurs, almost as if Emma isn't actually meant to hear it. She steps up to the edge of the roof on the side of the building where the crown is.
Emma grins, toes of her lightweight boots just reaching into the open air. "Who needs luck?"
And then she leaps. Her curls whip in the wind, the rig makes a satisfying sound as it moves along the cord, and she closes her eyes for a half a second. Few things in the world are better than this.
She clenches her fist and the rig slows before coming to a stop in front of the window leading to the first floor.
"Am I gonna trigger any alarms by cutting through the window?" She asks. At Killian's assurance, she pulls a tool from her belt and cuts four clean lines, using a sticky glove to lower the cut square gently to the floor as she follows it inside. She picks her way along the walls, trying to keep track of her time. She's got about thirty seconds before the sensor will pick up her heat signature.
"Swan," Killian says in warning. She ignores him, coming to a stop beneath the sensor. Unzipping the cooler, she pulls out a brick-shaped block of tin foil, ice packed tightly within, and a roll of duct tape. Gently, she places the brick over the sensor and duct tapes it to the wall.
Spotting the crown, Emma smiles. "Tell me, Killian, did you ever dream of being royalty?"
Killian hums and Emma can just imagine the smirk on his face. "Haven't you ever heard of a pirate king, darling?"
-/-
Emma leaves her summer dresses in the hotel room to make room for the crown in her duffle bag. She rolls it up inside of her blazer and tries not to grin smugly the entire way back to the docks. They take a cab from Paris back to the coastal town and Killian's boat is waiting for them at the dock.
Killian gets them shoved off and into international waters before he liberates the audacious bit of history from her bag. Emma doesn't bother to temper her delight as he places it gently onto her head. He wiggles his eyebrows at her, dropping into a dramatic bow.
"You're a natural royal, Princess Swan," he compliments. Emma raises an eyebrow.
"Queen," she asserts, earning a surprised grin from Killian. He nods in agreement.
After a while, the crown sitting on a table between them, Killian leans back and tilts his head at her. Emma waits, knowing he's gone serious, disappearing into his own mind.
"So, fun's over, then," he says quietly. Emma nods, slowly. "Where shall I drop you?"
Emma considers that. She did say she works better on her own. It's always been the case, it's how she's survived all these years. She's a solo thief and, while her time in Greenland was nice and the feeling of family was somewhat overwhelming in a wonderful way, she's not ready to give that up.
And yet.
"You know, there's this bank in England I've always wanted to hit," she says.
"Is that so?" Killian asks, an eyebrow quirked and something like hope dancing in his eyes.
"Yeah, but it's more of a two-man job."
She doesn't analyze the way her chest warms at his smile.
-/-
They go on like this. It becomes surprisingly easy, the way they work together. Normally the first few days of research and surveillance are grating and tedious, but Killian makes them fun. Emma doesn't know if it's him, per say, or just having another person. Sometimes he leans in and makes a sarcastic comment in her ear, though, and Emma is inclined to think it's Killian that makes it all so easy.
"You know, George Spencer wasn't lying about me," Killian starts. They're off the shores of Barcelona, high on the victory of a well-pulled off heist. Side by side on the floor below deck, their backs pressed against the frame of the bed, they drink celebratory champagne. "But, it isn't as simple as he made it sound."
In all honesty, Emma doesn't remember much of what George Spencer had said about them. Her own reopened wounds had distracted her pretty heartily, a fact Spencer apparently hadn't considered when he'd attempted to turn them against each other. Still, she keeps her gaze forwards and tips her champagne flute to her lips before responding.
"It isn't?" She asks.
"My mother passed away when I was very young," Killian explains, shifting against the bed. Emma doesn't know if it's out of discomfort from the wooden bed frame or the topic. "My father was a bastard who left my brother and I not long after. My brother, Liam, he was all I had growing up. He kept us clothed and fed, kept me out of trouble."
"Well, that couldn't have been difficult," Emma comments, her tone deceptively light. "You're hardly the troublesome type."
She glances over and the comment has pulled a smile, a sad one, from Killian. She'll call it a win.
"When he was old enough, he joined the Royal Navy," he continues, swirling the champagne around his glass as if the memories are playing in the golden liquid. "He sent his wages to me and, once I was of age, convinced me to join up as well."
Emma reaches for him on instinct, her hand landing on his wrist just above the straps of his prosthetic.
Killian's voice has gone thick, but he presses forward. "A few years later, my brother's fleet was sent on a special mission. Their commanding officer didn't join them, choosing to send them in alone. Do you know how rare it is for a captain not to accompany his shipmates?"
"A suicide mission," Emma realizes, her chest aching for the man next to her, for the people she never knew.
"Less than half the crew came back," he says, nodding at her. His voice is rough in a new way, now, anger and bitterness coloring the tone. "Do you know what they did to Liam's captain? They gave him a medal. Called it the best success they could hope for. I defected, but not without causing a bit of ruckus, which they did not appreciate."
Emma's fingers tighten around his wrist unconsciously. He sets his glass on the floor and scratches behind his ear with his empty fingers.
"I've kind of been running from that ever since," he finishes.
"I guess we all have shitty pasts," Emma sighs, tilting her glass once more to her lips. There's a fresh sum of money in her bank account, enough that splitting it with Killian barely made it seem like less, but the high is gone. She can feel his eyes on her, but he doesn't press.
Someday, maybe she'll tell him.
-/-
They're in a hotel in Greece when she does.
It's been exactly eleven years since she pressed her face into a pillow in that women's prison to hide her tears. Eleven years since she listened to her son cry as she refused to look at him, to hold him, before they took him away. She's tried to forget the date, can't remember the exact date when her team had left her to the wolves, or the day she'd been released from that prison, but some things are etched into her mind.
Killian makes an offhand comment about the date as they're making a plan for breaking into the museum they've been surveying. Emma tenses up, her fingers clenching around the edges of the copy of the blueprints they'd gotten their hands on. He continues, oblivious to her discomfort for another thirty seconds, before he notices.
Immediately he's kneeling next to the desk chair she's sitting in, his knuckles swiping over the moisture she hadn't realized had accumulated in her eyes.
"Emma," he says softly, breaking through the haze of memory clouding her senses. "Love, what's wrong?"
She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, tries to remind herself she'd done the right thing. The day usually doesn't affect her quite so immediately and heavily, but it's been a rocky few months emotionally. Changes have been constant, along with travelling so much as she and Killian pick out targets. Not to mention the way being played by Spencer had affected her.
Emma knows she could push him away, insist it's nothing, and he'd let her. It's a dance they're both becoming very good at. Killian is much more open than she is, Emma isn't unaware of his feelings for her. They skirt around them, moths dancing dangerously close to a flame they dare not touch.
Instead, she takes a deep breath and tells him the truth.
-/-
In Italy, she kisses him for the first time.
They don't even have a mark in mind, Emma had just grown weary of the constant movement of being on a boat and insisted they dock and sleep in stationary beds for a few nights. She pays in cash for a room with two beds and plush sheets and sleeps like a baby the first night.
The second night, they go out for authentic Italian cuisine - which Emma is learning means something entirely different in Italy than it does in New York - and return to the hotel with small bowls of shaved ice. With full stomachs, they lay sideways on Emma's bed, their legs dangling off the side, and stare at the ceiling.
They've spent so much time in close quarters, between Killian's ship and shared hotel rooms, that they're used to sharing personal space by now. The heat of Killian pressed into her side barely affects her anymore. Barely.
"Have you ever thought about quitting?" Emma asks, breaking the companionable silence of the room. She's not sure where the question comes from, but she continues anyway. "Just taking your money and retiring to some island?"
Killian shrugs, his shoulder rubbing against hers and creating a rustling where his leather jacket scrapes against hers. "I haven't thought about it, no. But, I suppose, I could. Depending on the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"Well," he drawls and Emma can feel his eyes on the side of her face now. She takes the risk and turns her head to meet his gaze. "If you asked, for example."
She's momentarily stunned into silence. Killian isn't smirking at her, or wiggling his eyebrows, or attempting to wink unsuccessfully. He's just watching her, eyes a soft blue in the yellow light of the hotel room.
Emma finds her voice. "You'd give it all up for me?"
"Aye," he confirms softly.
It's not exactly news. Killian isn't subtle about most things, but he hasn't really bothered to be about his feelings for her. She's never felt pressured by him to return those feelings. Rather, that he prefers to be honest about them than to pretend they don't exist. It's ironic considering everything else in his life is a lie, but Emma can respect it nonetheless.
This feels new, though. It feels like something more than him finding her attractive or liking her because they work well together. Even just considering changing your entire life at the hypothetical thought of someone asking, that's- well, it's stupid, for one thing. The pragmatic side of Emma's brain thinks it's dumb to give it all up for a relationship.
Regardless, something warm stirs in her chest.
Killian's lips are warm when she kisses him, his beard rough against her skin and his fingers calloused as they drag across her jaw. He tastes like raspberry ice and the rum he'd had at dinner. Emma lets herself be overcome by the sensations, rolling over on top of him, her legs settled on either side of his hips. Killian leans up to meet her, fingers dragging through her hair while his prosthetic rests at her waist, steadying her.
"Swan," he mumbles against her lips, pulling back just a ways. Emma frowns down at him, suddenly afraid she'd completely been misreading the situation. "You're drunk."
She scoffs. A few glasses of wine at dinner does not a drunken stupor make. She knows exactly what she's doing, has total control of her faculties. Still, Killian's fingers push her hair back from her face, holding it there when gravity attempts to take it once again.
"It was just wine," she insists. The soft smile Killian gives her, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he stares up at her, washes away most of her fears, though. His brow pinches, though, and Emma can tell he's trying to find the words.
"I just want to make sure that you don't regret anything that might happen between us," he explains. "It's been quite a few months we've had, but perhaps you should sleep on it."
Emma raises an eyebrow. "You're advocating for patience? What, you choose now to become a gentleman?"
"I'm always a gentleman," he frowns, but there's amusement dancing in his eyes. Emma huffs and falls sideways off of him, the mattress bouncing with the movement. Killian chuckles as his hand falls away from her face.
Admittedly, Emma is usually the first to run as far and as fast from her feelings as possible. She considers that this might just be one of those things Killian has picked up about her. He's trying to save himself the pain of a changed mind, the regret of doing something she comes to wish they hadn't.
They don't really talk as they take turns changing for bed. Emma goes first, pushing herself off the bed and stripping out of her leather jacket. She changes in the bathroom and, when she comes back, Killian is already stretched out on his own mattress in a thin t-shirt and dark sweats.
Emma leans against the wall and considers him for a moment. His right arm is draped over his eyes, the left resting on his stomach, sans prosthetic. It's not something Emma's never seen before, another in the list of things that come along with months of traveling together. Shaking her head, she crosses the room and tugs his hand away from his face. Killian's eyes go wide as he looks up at her and Emma links their fingers together, tugging gently until he gives in and lets her lead him from his own bed to hers.
He settles in behind her on the bed, left arm bent and pillowed under head while the fingers on his right hand stroke gently at her hip.
"If I change my mind," she murmurs, taking a shaky breath as his nose presses into the back of her neck. "You'll be the first to know."
He chuckles and says, "I appreciate the consideration."
In the morning, she kisses him as a means of waking him up. Just so he knows where she stands.
-/-
They manage for a few weeks, drifting between an endless vacation and an endless crime spree. It's nice, Emma thinks, because they worked well as partners before they started making out in the corners of museums and sharing plush hotel beds. Nothing really changes, other than the making out and the bed sharing. Killian doesn't suddenly go all chauvinist protector when Emma takes a swan dive off a building with only a thin cord and faith to keep her from splattering on the pavement.
She keeps up a near constant e-mail stream with Ingrid, Elsa, and Anna. Kristoff had returned just after Emma had left and was apparently dying to meet her. They'd finally set a date for the following summer and made her promise to come back to Greenland for the ceremony. Leaving hadn't made her lose that feeling of family, something Emma finds herself grateful for every time an e-mail pops up from them.
She feels like it's the calm before the storm.
Of course, the downside to this philosophy is that always, inevitably, the storm must hit. Which is exactly when Red shows up at their hotel room.
They're in Malta, mostly for a hotel room and local cuisine, but they've also been trying to find something worth stealing. They've become very good at mixing business with pleasure. Tourist activities give them the opportunity to see what is of value, but they can be draining ventures. Emma is, unnecessarily, making a pitch for hotel room pizza for dinner as they stumble through the door to their room.
She fails to notice that the lights are on, despite having been turned off when she left, or the distinct scent of a Manhattan in the air.
"Enjoying your vacation?"
Emma twist suddenly, nearly toppling over in surprise. Killian steadies her, but just barely judging by the way he seems ruffled as well. Red's laugh isn't mean, but it's definitely mocking them as she lifts her glass to her red lips and finishes off the cocktail. The cherry topper sits, soggy and dimpled, at the bottom of the glass.
"Jesus, Red, what the fuck?" Emma bites, hand pressed firmly to her chest over top of where her heart beats out an erratic rhythm. The woman only laughs again, fishing the abandoned cherry from the glass. "How did you find us?"
"Please," Red scoffs, uncrossing her legs and standing up from her seat on the mattress. "Like I don't know all of your aliases. I've been tracking you guys for months."
"Months?" Emma echoes. Red gives out a haried sigh, like they're the ones who just showed up unannounced inside of a locked hotel room. She pulls her phone from her pocket, the case a thick rubber one that makes the phone appear to be the shape of a wolf. A few finger strokes and she twists the phone for Emma to see.
"Look familiar?"
The screen lights up with an e-mail draft. Emma frowns at it.
"You're looking for a timeshare in Monaco?" Killian questions, raising an eyebrow at Red. She shakes her head, pulling the phone back and tucking it into her pocket. Emma is amazed that the giant case manages to fit in the pocket of her skinny jeans.
"I got that e-mail a few months ago, back in Paris," Emma explains. Red looks surprisingly smug.
"One of Snow's scams, actually," she grins. "I just added a nice little detail that allowed me to get a track on your phone. I was surprised you didn't have some, like, overt cache of burners, honestly. You seem the type."
Emma frowns because that does not sound like a compliment. "Okay, so, what are you doing here now?"
"You two have become quite the world travelers," Red comments, suddenly much more grim than she'd been before. "But, we need to go back to New York now."
"For what?" Killian asks.
"To finish what we started."
A note to readers: The Author (does talking in third person make this any better? No? Got it.) is going through some rough stuff right now. Things are about to get busy. It had been my hope that posting the start of this story before finishing it (which I almost never do) would motivate me to write the last two parts. Emotionally, I've just been having a rough go of it and my writing has gotten pushed to the back burner. My hope is to buckle down and get the next part finished by next Thursday, but if I don't, I hope you readers will understand and perhaps not give up on this story.
Thanks!
