She wasn't sure what was more annoying.

The very loud alarm she could hear a few inches away from her head, whatever David was shouting on the other side of the door or the horn honking just outside the window of her room. It wasn't her room.

It wasn't even really a room, per se.

It was a...corner.

And David wasn't really on the other side of the door, he was on the other side of a partition that Mary Margaret ordered off Amazon for nineteen bucks a week before Emma had descended on their apartment with one suitcase in her hand and the hope that, maybe, this could work.

This had to work.

They'd find out in a few hours if it could.

A few hours from now, Emma would walk back into the apartment with one of two options in front of her – either she was as much of a complete failure as that tiny, nagging voice in the back corner of her brain promised her she was and even the idea of playing video games professionally was absolutely insane or, and this is where the hope came into play, she was the quasi-captain of the only all-female pro Overwatch team in the league and they were well on their way to splitting a four-million-dollar championship check with their names plastered across the internet and a string of feature stories written about them on The Daily Caller and and a national spotlight that would, maybe, lead to more money.

God, those feature stories.

God.

Killian Jones.

She was going to see Killian Jones that afternoon. And that didn't terrify her. Absolutely not. She was worried about the game. And four million dollars. She couldn't even imagine four-million-dollars, let alone imagine winning an inaugural tournament that promised just historic. Probably with a comically large check.

It had nothing to do with Killian Jones or how blue his eyes were or how she kept replaying that slightly awkward, slightly strained, undeniably sweet conversation they'd had the week before.

"Shit," Emma mumbled, slamming her hand on her phone and promptly knocking it onto the floor. She could barely make out David's laughter a few feet away and what sounded like cabinets slamming shut and she hadn't actually turned her alarm off.

"You know," David shouted, throwing what sounded like a pillow full of bricks at the partition. The whole thing shook, nearly falling on Emma and her air mattress and it would almost figure that she'd get taken down by nineteen dollars worth of plastic before she even stood up.

She needed to be more positive.

She needed to find her super cheesy team-branded t-shirt. That cost more than the plastic partition.

"Were you ever going to finish that sentence?" Emma called back, finally pushing herself off the air mattress and half of it had deflated during the night. That wasn't a sign. God, her phone was still making noise.

David chuckled again, kicking at another cabinet and drawing the mumbled reprimand of Mary Margaret – who was absolutely going to be late for work so she could see Emma off or something equally maternal. "Yeah," he said, padding across the apartment and leaning around the still-wobbling partition. "You need to learn how to control your electronics. And work on your hand-eye coordination. It sounded like you nearly knocked off your whole little compound over here."

Emma scowled, but that was as good a word for it as any. She didn't bring much with her to New York – didn't have much to bring to New York – but David and Mary Margaret had offered up, at least, three quarters of their living room without question, pulling an ancient air mattress out of the closet and buying an entirely new bed-set, with a questionable amount of flowers on the sheets, and pushing the coffee table against the wall so Emma had somewhere to keep her phone and her laptop.

It was, exactly, what they'd always done.

And Emma would never get used to it.

"Compound Godzilla," David continued, eyes bright and wide and far too confident. In her. He was confident in her. Even when he was insulting her and comparing her to lizard monsters.

"Yeah, but you're the one who's going to have to deal with the damages," Emma reasoned. "So you know, in the grand scheme…."

"Of?

"Of whatever joke you're trying to make. Very badly I might add."

"That's rude, Em," David said, but there was a laugh just on the edge of his voice and Mary Margaret was already humming under her breath. It was so goddamn domestic Emma couldn't quite believe it was real.

She shrugged. "You need to work on your jokes. These are getting stale. And you're the only who nearly knocked over the partition. I just almost cracked my phone."

"Whatever," he grumbled and Mary Margaret's humming had turned into open laughter, far too well-acquainted with whatever early-morning war of words Emma and David were staging in the corner. "I'm not going to provide you with any caffeine or the vast array of breakfast pastries I've procured from the place down the block."

"Did you just swallow a dictionary?"

"Thesaurus," Mary Margaret corrected, flashing a smile over her shoulder and she'd already taken a shower. Emma hadn't even heard her wake up.

There was probably a reason for that. That stupid voice in the back corner of her mind did jumping jacks, bouncing off the sides of her brain as it tried to grab Emma's attention and provide an explanation she didn't really want to her – because the kids in the foster homes always cried, quiet sniffles and even louder wails, wondering what they'd done wrong and when someone would decide they were enough and they could leave and, maybe, get just a bit warmer.

It always seemed to be freezing in those houses.

And, somewhere in between Hartford and Minnesota and a few weeks on the street in Boston, Emma had developed the ability to sleep through anything – crying or wailing or chattering teeth or, apparently, Mary Margaret taking a shower a few feet away.

"Em," David said, tugging on the edge of her sleeve and jerking her out of the past. "You went all glossy for a second there. Was it because I totally impressed you with my vast and detailed vocabulary?"

She rolled her eyes, taking a step towards the kitchen and accepting the mug Mary Margaret offered her. "I promise," she said. "It had absolutely nothing to do with that."

David's smile wavered for half a moment and he shot Mary Margaret a nervous look, meaning flitting between them and nearly becoming another sentient being right there in their kitchen. Emma sighed. "Ok," she mumbled, taking a sip of hot chocolate-coffee hybrid and they'd bought her cinnamon. She shouldn't have been surprised. "That's not what I meant it like."

"Are you nervous?" Mary Margaret asked softly, a picture of support and belief and something that felt like certainty. Emma clearly hadn't gotten enough sleep.

"About the game?" Mary Margaret nodded. "No, no, I am absolutely not nervous about the game. We're good and we've practiced a shit ton, enough to drive Granny absolutely insane and we don't even have to win. Technically."

"You're totally going to win."

Emma bit back her immediate response – a string of practicality and low expectations that absolutely did not belong in the same room as Mary Margaret Nolan.

She'd been part of the package deal that came with arriving in Storybrooke and life with the Nolans and enough love to almost make up for everything else.

Actually, arrived was generous. Emma had kind of stumbled into Storybrooke, nothing more than a few dollar bills stuffed into the back pocket of her ripped jeans and a blanket clutched tightly in her hands and she just needed somewhere to sleep. She didn't expect to find a barn and a corner that was almost, nearly, sort of warm.

David found her the next morning, legs tucked up underneath her with her blanket under her head and hay stuck in her hair. Honest to God hay.

She'd run away. The house had closed a week before and there just wasn't enough money to support a run-down building and a dozen orphans that no one wanted. Including the national government. Or maybe just Maine. Emma never could remember who was in charge of that.

It didn't matter.

The only thing she'd known was they were going to move her again and she was just supposed to agree to Florida and anotherfresh start and she'd started running before she'd even really considered any other option.

She was going to run again as soon as David found her, hand balled up into a fist and halfway through the air when he held up his hands in surrender and asked what she was doing here and promised a hot meal and maybe a shower if she'd just follow him inside.

Mary Margaret was sitting at the kitchen table with Ruth when the door slammed shut behind Emma. She gave her a new set of clothes and, it seemed, Emma had found a family.

Even when she didn't want it.

Especially when she didn't want it.

"I know, I know," Mary Margaret said, nudging her elbow into Emma's side with a familiarity that made her stomach clench. "You only have to be in the top eight. Doesn't mean I totally don't think you're going to absolutely wreck."

David nearly dropped his coffee. "Absolutely wreck," Emma repeated slowly, eyes flashing up towards a determined Mary Margaret.

"Yes. Absolutely. And completely. C'mon. That's a gaming term!"

"You're just digging yourself into an even deeper hole here, M's. You are painfully uncool."

Mary Margaret stuck her tongue out, rolling her eyes dramatically and jumping onto the edge of the counter next to Emma. She rested her arm on Emma's shoulder, elbow pushing into the side of her neck and it probably would have been uncomfortable it weren't so normal and, not for the first time, Emma was glad she'd stumbled back into this life.

"She looked it up," David whispered conspiratorially before taking a far-too-large bite of bagel and, somehow, smiling at Emma. Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in disapproval, but it wasn't a disagreement either and Emma wondered when she'd had the time.

Probably in between attacking major website editors with plans and making sure Killian Jones wasn't actually trying to kidnap two kids from a summer program with the promise of ice cream on his lips.

Shit.

Killian Jones.

Emma needed to drink more coffee and get some food in her and a slightly more professional mindset. There were rules about that, right? Ethics or something. A reporter wasn't supposed to date whoever he was writing about.

No, probably not. Definitely not. And she wasn't thinking about dating Killian Jones or or a sentence that included both Killian Jones and lips or even really talking to Killian Jones – far too focused on the game and winning and keeping her personal life, decidedly, personal.

She could be a good story without the depressing history and vaguely troubled past.

Definitely not.

Primary fire, secondary fire, obliterate every enemy – and that stupid, annoying, asshole voice in the back of her brain. It would be fine. She probably wouldn't really even notice him. For the entire goddamn day.

"I think she's playing the game," David muttered, pouring another cup of coffee and, God, he'd showered too. How had she slept through all of that?

"I'm thinking what the best way would be to take you out," Emma lied and David didn't look like he believed a single letter of it.

"I bought you baked goods. A plethora of baked goods."

"That was actually kind of nice," she conceded. Her drink had gone cold. "God damn. Although there are a questionable number of cinnamon-raisin in there. What time did you have to get up to make that happen?"

David shrugged. Painfully early, then. "It's an important day, Em," he reasoned. "And maybe I just wanted cinnamon-raisin for the week."

"Yuh huh."

"How come you don't have to actually win to win?"

"We've been over this twenty times already," she sighed, but she kind of appreciated too. If Emma kept running the plan, the one that decidedly ignored Killian Jones and his far-too-blue eyes and nicknames and on-the-record questions, then she could stay focused on the goal. She could absolutely wreck – as Mary Margaret would say.

"Humor me."

She took a deep breath and Mary Margaret reached over her shoulder, tugging the mug out of her hand to fill it with scalding hot liquid. God, it was like being fifteen again. Emma was a better video game player now.

"It's a qualifying tournament," Emma started. "So there are sixteen teams today, from all over the world, who didn't get the automatic bid. It's because none of us have fancy, corporate sponsors and we're some kind of Overwatch plebs in the eyes of the league, so, they put us in a different bracket and make us play each other.

The seeds coming into this were a total joke though. They, literally, just put our team names into a hat and that Zelena lady who's in charge of everything picked out pieces of paper and that's where we ended up."

David snorted over the top of his mug and he'd mixed peanut butter and cream cheese on his cinnamon raisin bagel. Emma tried not to actually gag. "Ruby's very mad about that," he said. "She's brought it up every single time I've talked to her in the last forty-eight hours."

"How many times are you talking to her in the last forty-eight hours?"

"A couple," he mumbled and it sounded a bit like an admission. Emma's pulse accelerated and she was positive she was missing something. David's nervous glance towards Mary Margaret all but confirmed it and they were talking about her. God.

"Yuh huh," Emma repeated, eyebrows pulled low and frustration brewing in the pit of her stomach and she was fairly positive they were talking about that phone call she'd made on the other side of the plastic partition on Friday night.

She was going to kill her whole goddamn team.

"And what seed are you guys?" Mary Margaret asked quickly, trying to refocus the conversation and keep Emma from throwing things in the middle of her kitchen.

"We are fifth," Emma answered and maybe she was as upset as Ruby was about this whole seeding debacle. Maybe Killian Jones, award-winning reporter with a history Emma was positive was also a story, should write about that.

That, however, would require her to talk to him long enough to suggest story ideas.

What a mess.

"And playing?" David prompted. Emma rolled her eyes. They'd really gone over this twenty times already, had discussed it in detail in the back corner of Granny's on Saturday night, Ruby's voice rising with every sip of alcohol until she and Anna seemed to be having some kind of joint screaming match over seeding.

"Vivi's Adventure," Emma responded, dropping her head against Mary Margaret's side and sighing softly when she felt fingers working their way through her hair. "It's the dumbest name in the history of dumb names and that's coming from someone who might actually have a lawsuit on her hands if we actually make it out of qualifying rounds."

"You can't change your name," Mary Margaret said. She was braiding Emma's hair. And Emma didn't move her head.

"I'd rather not get sued for four million dollars before I even get the chance to try and win four million dollars. That's impractical."

"But you made shirts," David pointed out.

"Ruby made shirts. Or ordered shirts. No one asked her to do that."

"Are you even remotely surprised that she did that?"

"About as surprised as you getting up insanely early to go get me bear claws from a bagel place that makes the best bear claws in the city."

David grinned at her, ducking his head to press a kiss on Emma's temple and maybe being fifteen again wasn't the worst thing in the entire world. "It's only because we live a few blocks away," he promised. "Any more than five blocks and I totally wouldn't have done it."

"No, then he would have called an Uber and woken up even earlier," Mary Margaret mumbled.

Emma's pulse sped up again, heart hammering against her ribs with something that felt like emotion and maybe sentiment and she couldn't just start crying on Mary Margaret's actual shoulder. That would have been weird.

Probably.

Mary Margaret wouldn't have blinked.

She was, after all, used to that sort of thing. And David would have woken up at dawn to get Emma bear claws if he had to, if only to prove that she had people behind her and support in her corner and a slew of other athletic-based clichés that made her vision swim just a bit.

David hadn't just gotten her to come into the house all those years ago. He'd gotten his mom to agree to Emma and everything that she came with – a mess of legal battles and paperwork and enrolling her in Storybrooke High that fall.

And she'd had her own room, across the hall from David, and Mary Margaret had helped her fill out a closet, the very first she'd ever owned, and the three of them spent the entire year together, the memories of those days still hanging in frames on the walls in Ruth's house.

It had been good. It had been perfect – some kind of storybook lifestyle for a town with an absurd name and Emma could never quite believe her luck.

So, naturally, she'd gone and ruined the whole thing.

She had a tendency to do that. And David graduated, got into the University of Maine and that was hours away and Mary Margaret was gone as well, that perpetual smile and positivity that Emma had allowed herself to depend on in just a few, short months, limited to phone calls and text messages.

They promised they'd come back. They'd drive back down for weekends and Emma could come up and sleep on Mary Margaret's floor, but Emma was sure – it was all over. So she ran. Again.

She was an idiot.

Only David and Mary Margaret found her. Again. And again. Over and over, every single team she absolutely fucked it all up, there they were, encouraging smiles on their faces and certainty in their stare and, usually, baked goods in their hands.

Shit, she'd totally started crying on Mary Margaret's shoulder.

"Em," David said slowly, eyes wide and hand falling on her forearm. "Are you crying? God, you're totally crying. What's the matter?"

Emma shook her head, some of the braid Mary Margaret had already finished falling apart in the process, but the evidence was on her cheeks and her slightly puffy eyes and she could hear her phone buzzing from her compound a few feet away.

"That'd be totally lame," she mumbled, dragging her knuckles across her face.

"The lamest. Is it because I put peanut butter and cream cheese on my bagel?"

"That's totally it," Emma agreed and her voice was still shaky and just a bit scratchy, but David didn't push, just tugged her away from the edge of the counter and wrapped his arms around her tightly. His hand found the back of her head, cupping her hair as he mumbled something that might have been encouragements in her ear, but Emma couldn't really think when he did that, the actual feel of self confidence enveloping her as soon as she pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck.

"Five seed's a good underdog story," David continued, leaving another kiss on the crown of her head. "Tell your reporter guy to lede with that."

"Not my guy," Emma mumbled. There it was. She was, almost, surprised it had taken them that long to get there. David had absolutely been gossiping with Ruby. "And," she added. "He's the one who's won awards, doesn't seem like it's my place to tell him how to write his story."

"Yeah, but it's about you. He should take that into account."

"Are you trying to protect me from the big world of journalism, Detective?"

David pulled back, face turning serious quicker than Emma expected and that shouldn't have surprised her either. "Yes," he said simply and Mary Margaret made some kind of noise of agreement in the back of her throat.

"M's, this was your idea," Emma said, glancing over her shoulder.

Mary Margaret shrugged. "And I still think it's a good idea. He really did seem excited about it when I saw him on Friday. Even if he was being kicked in the side."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He was holding Roland. Or trying to, at least. I'll tell you something though, Roland Locksley has never been more excited to have someone pick him up from summer camp than he was when Killian Jones showed up. He's not nearly that enthusiastic about the assistant."

"You've lost me. And how old is this kid?"

"Regina Mills' assistant," Mary Margaret explained. "She's usually the one who gets the kids. Although Robin comes sometimes too. He's nice. Better with the kids than the assistant. She always looks kind of stressed out."

"And did anyone mention why Killian Jones was picking up these kids? Or how he knows them enough to offer them ice cream?"

"I don't think you need to be well acquainted with kids to offer them ice cream," David reasoned, one arm still slung over Emma's shoulders as she tried to twist around and stare at Mary Margaret.

"That's true," Mary Margaret agreed. "But I don't think that's what was happening. He knew those kids. Like in a part of the family kind of way. They had nicknames and everything. It was painfully adorable."

"Jeez, that's just like a thing for him isn't it?" Emma asked, the words flying out of her mouth before she could even really consider them. Mary Margaret's eyebrows practically jumped off her face.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Emma Swan."

She growled or groaned or maybe wondered if she could get out of the conversation without having to talk about any of this. No such luck. "He's just got this nickname thing," Emma muttered. "When he talk."

"Right," Mary Margaret said, smile tugging on the sides of her mouth. Emma's phone was still buzzing. "And you know this because…"

"I've had two conversations with him."

"No, of course. Two conversations. You talk to him since that second conversation?"

Emma narrowed her eyes, pressing her lips together and ducking out from underneath David's arm. "I've got to shower," she said, already halfway towards the bathroom. "Ruby's going to murder me if we're late."

It didn't matter – Emma walked out of the bathroom ten minutes later, damp hair still wrapped in a towel, to find Ruby sitting cross-legged on the couch with a controller in her hand and a disgruntled David a few feet away from her.

"Why are you so bad at this?" she laughed, not moving her eyes away from the screen and David made some kind of impossible noise, trying to elbow her in the thigh.

"Why are you so good at this? And how do you keep getting all these bananas? Oh, shit, shit, fuck, God, stop laughing, Lucas."

"I'm sorry, this is just hysterical. It's like the game got better and suddenly you're complete shit at MarioKart." She dropped another banana behind her and David let out another string of curses as he skidded off the course again, throwing his head back towards the ceiling and damning Ruby to several different afterlives, including, what sounded like, the seventh circle of Hell.

"For betrayers and mutineers," Emma intoned, not quite able to keep the laughter out of her voice when David actually chucked his controller at the ground. Mary Margaret didn't even look surprised.

"Stop quoting things at me, Em," he hissed. Ruby lapped him. "God, Lucas, seriously. Stop showing off. It's just embarrassing."

"For you or me?" Ruby asked, swinging her legs back onto the floor and she'd already won. She took a step towards Emma, eyeing the shirt she'd begrudgingly put on, and grinning, confidence practically rolling off her in waves. "I told you the shirts were worth the money," she said pointedly, tapping on the emblem they'd gotten Anna to draw nearly a month before. "And it's absolutely embarrassing for you, Nolan. I know I'm good."

David sighed again, dropping down onto the floor and pulling one leg up until he looked like a Renaissance painting – of MarioKart 8 defeat. "We shouldn't have bought the new one," he mumbled. "I was better at the classic version."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Hey, did you get Emma bear claws for good luck this morning? I'm starving."

"Stop stealing my baked goods," Emma said, but Ruby was already in the kitchen and Mary Margaret was already pouring another cup of coffee and they were going to be, at least, twenty minutes late. It was going to take forever to get crosstown.

"Too late," Ruby said, mumbling through a mouthful of bear claw. "Have we complained about the seeding for this qualifying thing yet this morning because I'd really like to complain about that again."

"Too late," Emma repeated. Ruby sighed. "How come you're here? I didn't think you were coming here. Are the rest of them coming here?"

Ruby shook her head, confusion flashing across her expression when she glanced towards Mary Margaret. Emma tried not to groan. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"There's a car outside."

"What?"

"Automobile. Vehicle. Motor car. A sweet set of wheels."

Mary Margaret laughed loudly, the sound working its way across the entire apartment as Emma practically sprinted towards the window. Ruby was right. There was a car outside and a uniformed man leaning against the passenger's side door, feet crossed at the ankles and a hat in his hand like he'd wandered straight off a movie set.

"What the hell is that?" Emma asked sharply, not sure why she was, suddenly, terrified by the answer.

"Did you not hear my sweet set of wheels explanation?" Ruby asked. "I can't really come up with another synonym. You can ask your reporter when we get to the Theater. He's probably got more. That's his job, right?"

Emma shook her head, mind muddled and thoughts moving slowly and she needed to dry her hair. And look at her phone. Oh fuck, her phone. She moved again, actually running across the several hundred square feet of apartment and nearly knocking over the partition while Ruby mumbled something her breath at Mary Margaret.

She had six text messages and she'd never actually programed his number in her phone, but she recognized the 718 area code and her heart might have actually been in her throat.

Good luck today, Swan.

Not that I think you'll need it. You're absolutely going to wreck the competition. God, that's the lamest way to say that isn't it?

Definitely lame.

True though. Even if that five-seed seems kind of absurd since your team actually has a pretty impressive win-loss record.

How did you end up a five seed? It doesn't make any sense. This Vivi's team hasn't even won a competitive game yet. And they're a four. This is just basic math. Even Singularity is garbage. And they're the No. 1? You've got more wins than them. This is absurd.

Emma bit her lip, suddenly aware of the smile on her face and the way her breath had caught in her throat, knees not quite as straight as they'd been a few minutes before. He might be more upset about the five-seed debacle than Ruby and David combined.

And Emma could nearly imagine what his voice sounded like, the way he tried to rush over the words when he started talking about something he cared about and there was a sudden and distinct lack of oxygen in her compound at even the passing idea that he cared about her.

That was insane.

Impossible.

That was impossible. There were ethics involved. And one more text message.

The car's for you, by the way. Courtesy of Mills Media. And how shitty the MTA is this summer. Just figured it'd be easier.

Was she still standing? She was. She might not have been breathing, but she was definitely still standing and somewhere in the realm of swooning until she suddenly and quickly got very, very frustrated.

She didn't need a car. She didn't need text messages from a phone number she, admittedly, probably should have saved on Friday night. She could walk crosstown quicker than the car could drive there.

Ethics.

And a deep-rooted stubborn streak that was probably her undoing. Or something less dramatic.

"Em," Ruby said, approaching cautiously and that might have been the strangest thing that had happened all day. "M's wants to know if you want her to braid your hair so we can get out of here. We probably shouldn't keep that fancy driver guy waiting. Seems like a dick move."

Emma hummed noncommittally in the back of her throat, stuffing her phone in her pocket. "We're not taking the car," she said and Ruby's eyes widened. "That's...how did he even get Mary Margaret's address?"

"I have no idea. But, like, that's a thing, right? Investigative journalism or whatever?"

"Are we the investigation?"

"Eh," Ruby wavered, teeth bared as she tilted her head slightly. "Maybe not we."

Emma sighed, any sense of swooning as deflated as the air mattress at her feet. "That was almost kind of heavy-handed, don't you think?"

"I almost don't care. You should have heard David's must protect Emma speech on Saturday night. You want to talk about heavy-handed, that was, like, the single most awkward conversation I've ever had and, once, Anna tried to tell me about how she nearly got engaged to a Tindr date the same night she met him."

"What? God, I can't imagine Elsa would be very into that idea."

"She wasn't. There was, apparently, a fight if you can believe those two actually fought about anything in their lives and, just, trust me, it was weird and David is worried about you and these stories and he hasn't told Mary Margaret about that and I'm not supposed to tell you either and Killian Jones blushed while holding a painfully adorable kid as soon as someone mentioned your name on Friday night."

"Were you not supposed to tell me that part either?" Emma asked archly, tugging her hair out of the towel.

"No, that's painfully obvious. Everyone knows that."

"Jeez. You are on a roll."

Ruby shrugged, but there was a tinge of disappointment in her gaze and Emma licked her lips. "We're really not going to take the car?"

"We're really not going to take the car," Emma said, the weight of her phone practically dragging her through the entire apartment building. "C'mon. Let's go over strategy while M's fixes my hair."

She did feel kind of bad about blowing off the driver – fancy hat clutched tightly in his right hand when Emma promised they were fine with walking and Ruby grumbled under her breath about it for the entire thirteen block walk to the Playstation Theater.

Emma ate another bear claw.

And tried not to drop the two cups of coffee gripped tightly in her hands.

She heard her name on the other side of the block, Anna's hair obvious even in a sea of professional video game players and spectators and frantic-looking league reps who, clearly, had no idea what they'd gotten themselves into. Emma waved, hoping that would, somehow, stop the screeching from the other side of 44th Street, but it only seemed to drive Anna forward even more and, suddenly, she was nearly a foot taller, held up by a pair of hands that looked vaguely familiar.

She was clinging to Will Scarlet's side, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her waist while she balanced herself on his shoulder and waved at Emma like she was trying direct several planes. And Killian Jones was very obviously staring at his feet a few inches away, a pen stuck behind his ear and something that might have been a credential around his neck and two cameras hanging off his left arm.

Emma bit her lip. And tried not to focus on the obscene amount of sugar she'd already ingested that morning.

"We should have taken the car," Ruby muttered again, dragging Emma with her across the street as soon as the light changed.

"Emma, Emma, Emma," Anna chanted, pulling herself away from Will and grabbing Emma by both her shoulders. Killian's eyes darted up, one side of his mouth ticking up when he saw she was holding coffee. "You are missing everything. There has already been trash talking and people screaming into NY1 cameras and Tink totally dated the guy who's Singularity's captain and she said…"

Anna paused for half a moment to take a breath and Emma allowed herself one, quick glance towards Killian Jones. God, he was unfairly attractive. That was making this far more difficult than it should have been. Anna was still talking, detailing how Tink knew some guy named Greg and how shitty he was at playing Overwatch and how they were totally going to wreck and Emma barely heard any of it, lips dry again and both of her hands were burning from the somehow-still hot coffee.

Killian smiled at her, soft and maybe just a bit nervous and Emma tried to keep her expression neutral. It probably didn't work if Anna's continued exclamations were any indication. "Emma, are you ok?" she asked and Emma's head darted up at the concern in her voice.

Elsa narrowed her eyes knowingly and Emma was struck with the rather sudden realization that they'd all talked about this. God, there was probably a group text. David had probably started it.

"I'm fine," Emma promised. "NY1 is really here?"

"It's apparently an event," Elsa said, a smile on her face as she waved a hand at the scene in front of her.

That was, definitely, one word for it. There were people everywhere, some of them already lined up in front of the doors to the Theatre and even more pushing their way down the block, cups of Starbucks clutched tightly in their hands and they weren't the only team with matching t-shirts. That didn't make Emma feel any better about the matching t-shirts.

Killian still hadn't said anything, but Will was taking pictures and Emma tried not to be completely overwhelmed by everything around her. So, naturally, her eyes darted towards Killian again and that stupid, confident smile on his face. "You didn't take the car," he said slowly, muttering the words quietly enough that it was a conversational miracle Emma even heard him.

Emma rocked on her heels, not sure how to respond to a statement and Ruby elbowed her in the side – hard. "Ow," Emma hissed, but Ruby just glared at her. "What the hell?"

"Here," Ruby said, ignoring Emma completely and pushing something into Killian's chest. He didn't move, didn't even flinch, just glanced down and the smile turned just a bit more genuine.

"I didn't think you'd remember," he said. Ruby shrugged. Oh, God, it was a matching t-shirt.

"Please. Although seeing as we are an all-female team, this is absolutely not going to fit you and is now a gift for Henry wherever he is."

Emma nearly dropped the coffee again, stammering slightly and growling at Will when he pushed a camera lens in her face. "Wait, what? Henry like the one in Mary Margaret's class?" Killian nodded. "What is going on right now?"

As if on cue, a kid who couldn't have possibly been more than twelve years old, skidded to a stop in front of them – both Will and Killian reaching out an arm to brace him. "Hook," he shouted, head snapping up towards Killian. "You've got to come inside. There's this whole table of merch and you can get a credit for download bundles to get new skins for characters and…"

His shoulders heaved when he ran out of oxygen, eyes wide when he realized there were two other people around now, but he smiled when he noticed Ruby. And Emma felt incredibly out of place. "Hey, Rubes," Henry said brightly, ducking underneath Killian's arm and only muttering slightly when she pulled him against her side.

"Hey, kid," Ruby grinned. "You know you don't need to get credits for that bundle. We'll get you that in, like, a couple hours tops."

"Really?"

Ruby nodded seriously, holding one hand out and Henry wrapped his pinky around her outstretched finger. "Let us wreck this qualifying tournament and then for sure."

"God, will everyone stop using the phrase wreck in regards to this tournament," Emma groaned, feeling half a dozen curious eyes land on her. Killian grinned.

"Who else is using that?" Ruby asked and Emma tried to brush her off, nodding towards Henry instead. "Oh, right, right, Henry, this is Emma Swan. She's our team captain and the best goddamn Overwatch player in the country. She could get you your codes in a couple minutes."

Henry's eyes lit up and Emma bit her lip tightly, hoping the blush she could feel on her cheeks wasn't too obvious. "It's really nice to meet you," Emma said honestly. "You were in Mary Margaret, uh, Mrs. Nolan's class last year, right?"

"Yeah," Henry nodded. "She used to ask me about the game all the time last year. She, uh, she knew I played and I told her about my mom."

It was some kind of miracle Emma hadn't dropped the coffee. She glanced back at Killian – as struck as she was, with wide eyes and a half-open mouth and Will was still taking pictures.

"Thanks," Emma mumbled, not sure what else to say. Henry's smile got even bigger.

"We should probably go inside," Elsa said. The line outside the door was starting to move and they were definitely running late already, but there was some semblance of a schedule and Emma really just wanted this first match to be over.

She nodded, more than willing to let Elsa direct them into the main room and a check-in table and, of course, she'd just fallen into step with Killian. She could nearly feel him next to her, something that felt a bit like heat and almost like electricity radiating off him and he took a deep breath before she interrupted him completely.

"This is for you," Emma said brusquely, holding her hand up expectantly and his lips twitched again. That was distracting. "I...I should have started with that. Buried the lede or whatever."

He laughed softly, taking short, measured steps so he didn't move in front of her and his fingers were warm when they brushed over Emma's. "Was that a journalism joke, Swan?"

"A pretty good one, I think. Mostly because I don't know any other journalism terms to make jokes with."

"Nothing?" Killian asked skeptically. He needed to stop looking at her. And talking to her. And asking questions. There was already an Overwatch game happening on the main screen. "Byline? Deadline? Something about quotes?"

Emma rolled her eyes, taking a sip of coffee. "Congratulations on proving your ability to just shout out keywords regarding your job. Although I'm not accepting something about quotes."

"Too broad, huh?"

"Exactly that."

"Noted," he grinned and he hummed softly when he gulped his own coffee. "This is good."

"I'm not trying to poison you."

"Noted, again. And appreciated. If I ask you an actual question are you going to try and turn me to stone again?"

Emma stopped walking, whoever was behind her nearly colliding with her back and she did drop the coffee. It was about time. "Oh, shit," she mumbled, dropping down and one of her knees landed directly in a puddle of caffeine and two-percent milk.

Maybe this event wasn't quite as much a disaster as Emma assumed – a person with a League Official t-shirt on appearing beside her quickly and there was a mop and promises that it was fine and Emma found herself being pulled back up before she even realized Killian had moved.

God, his hand was warm.

"Come here, love," he said softly, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and tugging her away from the crowd. She followed him before she could come up with an argument, ducking behind the merch table Henry had been so excited about and it was, almost, quiet there.

"I'm fine," Emma snapped, pulling her hand away quickly and wincing when it collided painfully with her side. He hadn't even asked a question yet.

Killian nodded. "I'm not questioning that. Here," he added, pushing his half-finished cup towards her. "You need the caffeine more than I do."

"Are you trying to tell me I look tired?"

"No. I'm telling you that you're the one who has to win an entire qualifying tournament today and that it only seems fair you to get at least some coffee out of the equation when, I'm assuming, you paid for it."

Oh. She really was an asshole. And far too certain things were just going to go wrong by default. Mary Margaret would have some kind of hope speech perfectly prepared for this moment. Emma kind of wished she'd come with them.

"Not everything is some kind of calculated attack, Swan," Killian added, ducking back into her eye line and smiling when she took the cup.

"What was your question?" she asked. His coffee didn't have cinnamon in it. Damn.

"Why didn't you take the car?"

"Why did you send a car?"

Killian shook his head, tongue pressed against the edge of his lip and Emma didn't think she imagined the way he rocked towards her. "I asked first," he said. "There are rules."

"I think you're just making them up as you go along."

"And I think you're doing a very bad job of avoiding the question."

She flashed her eyes up, but he didn't back down, just lifted his eyebrows and stared straight at her, like he could read her mind or maybe like she was the open book he promised she was. Emma sighed. "I'm perfectly capable of walking a couple of blocks."

"I'm not questioning that."

"You really need to be more specific then."

Killian tilted his head – and Emma tried to keep her shoulders straight and her spine in line and she couldn't remember having ever been looked at like that, like he was interested and intrigued and like he wanted to know everything, on the record, with absolutely no intention of putting it on the internet.

"I'm not one to just...accept things," Emma said slowly. Killian didn't respond, just moved his eyebrows again and kept staring at her. No, she thought, waited. He was waiting for her. "Especially from people I don't really know. Who should have no idea where to send town cars."

"Ah," he laughed, running a hand through his hair and twisting slightly so his left arm was pulled behind his back. "Yeah, that was bordering somewhere on stalking wasn't it?"

"How did you do it?"

"The receptionist at Mills is actually some kind of secret coding and internet expert. And she was very willing to do me a favor if I got Gina to get her and her boyfriend a reservation at TAO on Saturday night."

"The receptionist?" Emma repeated and Killian made a significant face. "You got a receptionist to...what, hack into some sort of record and find M's address?"

"She's not trying to be the receptionist apparently. It's a very involved story. But she saved the website on Friday and kept Robin from actually pulling his hair out or having some kind of episode in the middle of Broadway. So, you know, Gina owed her."

"You keep saying all these names and I have no idea who you're talking about," Emma admitted, appreciating his smile a lot more than she should have. "Gina is Regina Mills, right?" Killian nodded. "And Robin is…"

"Her husband."

"Which makes Henry…"

"Their kid. One of two. Roland is seven and obsessed with chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream and being Henry."

Emma nodded in understanding, pieces of the puzzle, almost, starting to fit together. "And you know both of these kids well enough to pick them up from school, offer them ice cream in a not-creepy kind of way and then bring one of them with you on an assignment?"

"Yes, yes and yes," Killian answered. "Although Gina wasn't happy about that last one. It's apparently not very education-focused."

"It's summer."

"My argument exactly, Swan."

She'd finished her coffee. Or his coffee. Emma wasn't sure of the specifics anymore, trying not to linger on the fact that they'd somehow managed to share one cup of coffee that morning.

It felt like something important.

Emma turned her head, staring straight at him and maybe that was a mistake. Shit, his eyes were blue. He still had his arm twisted around behind him. "And you wanted to send me a town car to go thirteen blocks because…"

"It was a gesture of goodwill," he grinned. "So you could get here easier."

"There wouldn't be anywhere to park on 44th Street. How did Ruby know about it?"

"I have no idea."

He wasn't lying – eyebrows pulled low and gaze intent and he wanted her to believe him. She didn't. Jeez.

"I feel like we're both missing a pretty big part of this game," Emma muttered, taking a step towards him and she was close enough that her toes nearly brushed up against his sneakers. She could have moved, could have pulled her hands up and rested them flat against his chest like she wanted to and pressed her lips against his and maybe she'd thought of that a questionable amount since she'd swallowed some of her pride on Friday night and called him.

She didn't do any of that.

Because Emma Swan never got in the car – metaphorically or otherwise. Not anymore.

"How did this happen, Swan?" Killian asked suddenly and she realized they'd been standing in silence, staring at each other like they were taking inventory for far too long.

Emma licked her lips quickly, tugging them back behind her teeth as she tried to regain her bearings. She could make out the sounds of the game behind her, catchphrases that had been playing on an endless loop in her brain since they'd decided to do this, and she tugged self consciously on her t-shirt.

"What?" she asked a bit breathlessly. Killian's gaze shifted, dropping away from her eyes and, maybe, down towards her mouth, but then he blinked and it was gone as soon as it came, features stoic and professional and good, she could deal with that.

"On the record," Killian said, a recorder held loosely in his right hand.

Oh. Well, yeah, no, that was ok. They had to do that, right? He had to ask questions and write stories and that was the deal. That was what Emma had begrudgingly agreed to when Mary Margaret announced the plan and Ruby promised it was good for business like that even made sense in context, but they'd taken a team vote and Emma had been overruled and now she needed to answer questions.

On the record.

"Ask me an actual question," Emma hissed, frustration back in her voice and there went flirting. If flirting had ever been on the table. Jeez.

"How did Emma Swan become the team captain of the only all-female pro Overwatch team in the league?" Killian asked. "Or, rather, how did you start playing video games?"

"That's a long story."

"I've got some time. And so do you. Your shitty five-seed matchup isn't for another hour."

"Why do you know that?"

"I can read, Swan. There was a schedule on the league site and something about streaming. You're still not answering my question."

He shook the recorder slightly and Emma's stomach flipped. She swallowed back the bundle of nerves in her throat, chewing on her lip as she tried to figure out the best way to answer. Killian nodded once, like he was agreeing to an idea he hadn't voiced, and leaned towards Emma, half an inch away from her face and what was personal space when she could barely think?

"I'll tell you what, love," Killian said, low and intent and Emma could feel it. "We'll go one-for-one, huh? On the record back and forth. You answer my questions and I'll answer yours. No matter what."

She hadn't been expecting that. "Why?" Emma asked sharply. It was an accusation. And Killian knew it.

"We both need this to work, Swan. You asked me about Boston and what led me back to New York, well, this is it. A story. A good one. So I need this to work and your team needs the publicity. It's a win-win for both of us, we might as well be honest with each other."

"You have a very high opinion of this whole situation don't you?"

Killian shrugged. "I think we could make a very good team, Swan. It's up to you whether or not that works."

Emma considered that for a few moments, scowling when she realized he was absolutely and infuriatingly right. Damn. On the record. "My brother," she said. "He's the reason I'm here."

"Give a guy a second to get his recorder out, Swan," Killian grinned, hitting a button on the square of plastic in his hand. She rolled her eyes. "Ok, brother. I'm going to guess he's the reason behind the NYPD shirt before?"

"Why do you remember that?"

"Perceptive. And a journalist. It's the details, love. So you and your cop brother started playing video games when you were kids?"

"No," Emma said and Killian did something absurd with his eyebrows. "Ruth bought him a knockoff XBox for Christmas one year and we spent the entire break playing. Turns out I've got pretty good hand-eye coordination."

"Did you wreck him, Swan?"

Her eyes were going to get stuck that way if she kept rolling them, but Emma was smiling again and they kept bouncing through moods in this conversation. It felt like playing the game. She'd clearly lost her mind.

"You were right before, you know, that's totally lame," Emma said. "But, yeah. Every single time. And even now. Between David and Mary Margaret I was fairly convinced I was the greatest player to ever walk the Earth, but they were just both painfully bad at Halo."

"And that sparked the interest as a career?"

Emma shook her head and that was what she'd been dreading. There wasn't any way to explain a year in jail and no high school degree and what talent did she have except the innate ability to kill her virtual enemies? Killian seemed to pick up on her concern, hand falling back on her arm and she shuddered at the touch.

When she'd gotten out of jail, she didn't know where to go – didn't have much more than a blanket with her name on it and the memories of everything blowing up in her face and Emma was barely making ends meet in Providence when David showed up at her apartment and told her enough was enough.

He found her. Again. And Emma had gone with him. Again.

So he took her to that sleepy little college town and got her a job at the coffee shop on campus and Emma kept playing, nights on the couch with David and Mary Margaret and, eventually, she came up with a plan.

She started making money. She almost forgot about him and a time when she wasn't certain and confident and ready and the League just seemed like the next logical step.

Only that step had landed her in front of Killian Jones and his recorder and blue eyes and Emma needed a plausible story.

"I've always wanted to kind of control my own life, I guess," Emma started, mumbling over the words while she tried to keep her lip in between her teeth. "And I've been lucky that my brother and M's have been super supportive of that. So they helped and played against me so I could get better and there were competitions all over the country that had big prize pools, bigger every year as games got more and more popular and less and less weird and, well, you know the rest. I'm camping out in their living room while I try to find my own place and win this whole, stupid League."

Killian hummed, hitting another button on the recorder and starting at her. Still. He kept doing that. She wished he wouldn't. "Was that ok?" Emma asked. "On the record?"

"Of course, Swan. It's a good start."

"A start?"

"Ah, well, that's my angle I guess," he explained. "We'd background everyone on the team, maybe highlight how shitty this whole seeding thing was and talk a little bit about what comes next. Oh and maybe the thing in Philadelphia."

"You know about that too?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her, smirk settling onto his face with practiced ease and they definitely had to play soon. It felt like they'd been standing in that corner for several lifetimes. "You're very surprised by reading comprehension, love," Killian laughed.

"Just impressed by your dedication to research."

"Maybe not such a bad journalist, after all. I almost understand the game."

"Color me impressed," Emma smiled, eyes wide and that smirk was stupid. She wanted to kiss it off. She wanted to absolutelywreck Vivi's Adventure in the first round. "You know, maybe, we could try and build on that knowledge today? If you've got...questions or something."

"Are you offering to explain the video game to me, Swan? Henry's been trying to do that for two weeks already."

"And how that's going for you?"

"Eh, he's very frustrated. Far more preoccupied with getting that credit than anything I could offer him today."

"Ah, well, there's no ice cream involved."

Killian smiled and Emma's heart dropped into her stomach or maybe into her feet or possibly exploded out of her chest. "Always a disappointment, of course," he muttered, stuffing his recorder back into his pocket and leaning towards her again.

He didn't touch her arm.

He did, however, move his left hand and Emma's eyes caught on a flash of color and a name and the question hung in the minimal amount of air between them as soon as she closed her mouth. "Who's Milah?" she asked. "On the tattoo."

And just like that, it was over. The whole scene changed and Emma'd been absolutely wrecked by an assailant she didn't see and wasn't prepared for, thrown back to the start of some metaphorical level without a single weapon to her name.

The corner suddenly felt very small and Killian couldn't seem to back up quick enough, eyes dark and lips pressed together tightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Someone from a long time ago," he bit out, venom in every single letter. "On the record."

Emma nodded, quick jerks of her neck that sent a shockwave of pain and frustration down her spine. That's what she got for asking questions.

"Hey, uh, guys," Elsa said, appearing in the corner with a nervous look on her face. "We've got to go play the game. Ruby's half a second away from shutting down the whole tournament to try and find you, Em."

"Of course she is," Emma mumbled. She tried to plaster a smile on her face, certain it hadn't worked as soon as she looked at Elsa. "Ok, we're coming."

She turned back to Killian – shoulders tight with the tension he was holding and his thumb pressed into his left forearm. "You, uh, want to watch a game in action?" Emma asked and he hummed softly, gaze still heavy on her face.

"Yeah, Swan," he said. "Let's go."