Rumpelsteiger Mansion

"The audacity—the idiocy—" Rumpelsteiger quit pacing, coming to a stop behind the leather smoking chair in his study, gripping the back of it until his hands went white.

"Papa, please," Bae said glumly, rubbing at the cheek his father had just hit. "She's from good breeding, good status. She's a wonderful girl, and—and face facts, at this rate we're never going to make it back to Europe. I'll never meet some upstanding pillar of the Aryan ideal, and settle down in Munich like you always wanted for me."

Rumpelsteiger stood, arms folded tightly, glaring down at his son. "I thank God that everyone who escaped through the goodwill of our allies weren't faithless cowards like my own child. Barely three years, and you've given up our objective? Decided just to live off my money and play house with your little American doxy? She's not to be trusted."

"Don't call her that, Papa. And I'll admit, she's a silly socialite in many ways, but what's not to trust?"

His father glared daggers at him. "How you survived to your current age with this ignominious level of gullibility, I'll never understand. Why no mention of the rest of her family? Down here alone, without even another lady? Women travel in pairs, m'boy. It's as though she appeared out of thin air!" He punched his palm for emphasis.

"Don't be dramatic, Father. She said—" Bae began, but Rumpelsteiger waved him silent. "Never mind an answer, I don't care what lie she's fed you." He drew himself up as tall as possible, fixing his son with a steely gaze. "Well, have your fun now, boy. But mark my words, you'll come crawling back to me, begging my forgiveness and telling me how right I was this whole time. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but you will. And as a father should, I'll forgive you—for a price."

Bae jumped up, relieved only that his father seemed to be relenting. "Thank you, Papa. But get to know her; she'll grow on you. And just think, soon you'll have plenty of our children running about this estate—your grandchildren!" He gave his father a good-natured clap on the shoulder, and strutted out of the room, whistling.

Rumpelsteiger pushed the door firmly shut behind him, and strode over to the rolltop desk in the corner, taking out his large keyring and unlocking the left bottom drawer. He breathed a sigh of relief, picking up the small vial of clear liquid and turning it over in his hand. Of course it was still here, there was no reason it shouldn't be.

"No grandchildren of mine," he muttered lowly, delicately placing the vial back in its place, and relocking the drawer.


Five and a half months ago, Washington D.C.

"I can't even remember the last time I had the luxury of pizza," Emma said, taking a bite that almost halved her slice.

Killian grinned across Ciro's small front patio table at her. "Should have told me sooner, love, I'd have—uh-uh!" He reached over, cupping his prosthesis over Emma's wrist before she could lick a glob of tomato sauce off her forearm. "A cosmopolitan woman would use a napkin, darling."

"Well then, they're a wasteful bunch, aren't they?" she snapped, but dutifully snatched her napkin, petulantly swiping at the spot.

"Best you get into the habit. It'll be second nature by the time you touch down in Buenos Aires."

"Do you really think they'll accept me as—as someone like them?"

"Like I've said, you've taken well to the instruction, and I'll be nearby—"

"But what about when you're not? Don't I have anybody else to rely on?"

Killian focused on a point over her shoulder. "Hmm?"

"Killian. Be straight with me, like we promised one other."

"Too right, lass." His real fingers beat agitatedly on the tabletop. "The thing of it is, you will have a—a guardian angel, of sorts. Only…."

"Only what? Out with it, you—you utterly irksome man!" She was sure she sounded beyond uncouth, raising her voice to a neatly-tailored man at a public restaurant table, but she wasn't about to let anyone in this situation start to think they could have Emma Blanchard play the fool. "I swear, Killian, if you want—"

"Love, I can't tell you who they are!" he finally burst out, tone clipped. "There may be other people in your orbit that're loyal to our cause, but for your own protection and theirs, Emma, we won't be revealing them to you. Much safer for you to view everyone you meet as the enemy. Treat all you encounter as a friend, but think of them as your foe."

Emma glared across the table at him. "I thought you said you were going to place your trust in me. Having qualms about picking me after all?"

"I do trust you, darling, but I don't run the whole shebang here. Despite your inexperience, you're a clever lass, or you wouldn't have lasted as long as you have in your…previous lifestyle." He took her hand. "I'm sorry it has to be like this, but it's absolutely necessary. And don't doubt the complete faith I have in you."

She pulled out of his grip, folded her hands in front of her. "I believe you wanted to discuss some business?"

"Ah…right, right." He opened his thin leather briefcase, pulled out a crisp manila envelope. "We've received instructions for initial contact."

Emma quirked a brow at him. "In English, please."

He smirked. "What I mean is, we know the particulars for your first, "accidental" meeting with Baelthazar Rumpelsteiger."

Emma felt a little thrill zing through her stomach; training was one thing, but to have a date, a place, a plan? It was really happening.

"And how're you arranging for me to meet this twat?"

Killian gave a short laugh. "Well, for one thing, you ought to refrain from saying things like 'twat' in front of men of his ilk. Right from the start, they'll need to buy you as a woman from a privileged background—with the underlying anger of the reason for that privilege being torn from you."

Emma looked down, pulled at a hangnail. "Understood."

"You'll happen to meet at the horse races. Your target is a betting man. The elder accompanies him, I believe mainly to make sure Baelthazar doesn't lose the entirety of their misbegotten fortune. So, unfortunately, you may have him to contend with as well."

Even though it was all strictly business, Emma couldn't help but be fascinated by this new world she was about to enter. Of course, she knew such people existed, but to be in such close quarters with those that didn't give a second thought to laying out a sum that, a short time ago, could have fed her bountifully for a month, and on horses—she was, abashedly, somewhat enthralled by the façade.

"What's the name of the joint?"

Killian took a photo out of the briefcase's inside pocket, slid it across to her. "The Hipódromo de Palermo. Attracts the elite of the city, and is quite the spot for idle expatriates—such as you'll be—to meet other rich sods."

Emma studied the black-and-white photo of the racetrack, the stands—and then Killian slid another one over it of two men. They were obviously unaware of the photographer—the younger one had more of an intent expression, ticket clenched in his hand, mouth slack as he fixated on the race activity unfolding in front of him. The older man, though his gaze was focused frontward, seemed to have his ears pricked up, taking in the entertainment, while being hyper-conscious of his general surroundings. Emma recognized that look; it was the look of a criminal who wasn't sure if the law was still on their tail and was ready for flight at the first sign of unrest. That, or put an end to the source of the unrest.

She looked up, straight into Killian's clear blue eyes that were trained intently on her instead of the images. "He—" Emma cleared her throat nervously, staving off ruminating on what that heated look meant. "He knows—the father, that is— that he's being watched. Not the specifics, but he can tell. He's an alert man…his guard won't be let down easily, if at all."

"You're a natural," Killian said, sitting back and giving her a proud smile. "Really, I think you could have gone through this training regimen in half the time the CIA and MI6 decreed. Observant…cautious…plus, you'll have these blokes eating out of your hand, with your womanly charms and wiles."

She gave a dubious snigger. "I don't know about that. I've never—never really had to exercise any 'wiles' to do…to do what I did before. Didn't deal in picky eaters, so to speak, Agent—er, Killian."

"Well, you'll never have to deal with such riffraff again, love," he replied, jaw ticking. "If and when—I've got to be blunt here—you come through this ordeal unscathed, and by that I mean 'alive'…well, you'll be set up."

"Set up?"

"Your own apartment, city of your choosing—though I'm guessing you'll be restricted to the States. Nothing fancy, of course, but you'll be comfortable and…and off the streets."

Emma quirked a brow at him; it didn't quite add up in her mind. "That's strangely generous of the powers that be. Especially with the reception I've had so far; I think other than you, reactions towards me have spanned the range from 'frostily cordial' to 'downright hostility'."

"Yes, well," Killian mumbled, scraping at a spot on the checkered tablecloth. "I may have insisted you be taken care of in the aftermath." He looked up, surveying her reaction. "Governments tend to forget they're working with living, breathing people and not chess pieces. I demanded that you weren't to be treated like some scrap of refuse when all this is over, or your cooperation in the matter was over. It's the least the buggers can do for you."

Her initial reaction was a quick flare of anger that all this had been decided on behind her back; being independent for so long didn't have her take kindly to her life suddenly being treated like property by others. But something else made her curiosity overcome her outrage. Emma wasn't really sure she should ask her next question, but she pressed on. "Why, Killian? Why me? I assume you've worked with others in the past? Other, well…lay people? Women?"

"Aye," he said, somewhat guardedly.

"And? Ever done something like this for one of them?"

"No," he admitted.

Emma didn't really have the patience for succinctness. "So what do you see in me? Why am I so…special?" She cut herself off before she could blurt out what she really thought: that it seemed the type of gesture one would do for an individual that meant something to them. Of course, Killian could read what she left unspoken, and she regretted pressing the issue when he glanced down, closing off their line of communication.

His fingertips thrummed an impatient rhythm on the table, while he chewed on his inside cheek. "Lass, if you think…if you think I expect anything of you for this that you've…had to do for other, smaller favors before, believe me, I—I meant nothing untoward by it." He looked up then, an unreadable look on his face. "Do you really think me capable of asking for something like illicit repayment? I know we haven't known each other long, but I—"

Dammit, he was construing it as though she'd misread things and offended him over a completely innocuous gesture of goodwill. Though she really wasn't taking that at face value, Emma decided to play it safe, reaching out and linking her fingers through his. Killian startled like he'd just received an electric shock. "Killian, I'm sorry. That was a preposterous assumption to jump to. I know why I'm "special" to the government, and for a minute I thought…but no respectable person would ever think I'm special on my own. You felt touched by my circumstances, and I—" She stopped, gave him a timid smile. "I figure what I'm trying to say is…thank you."


Killian felt guilty; he knew damn well that Emma hadn't thought he was asking for…comfort in reparation for making sure she was tended to post-mission. In truth, he was far more unsettled by what he'd seen unspoken—the young girl she must have looked like once, before the cruelty of the everyday overran her expectations. Right in the moment she'd asked 'why me?', she might as well have asked: 'So, you like me? But…why ?'

Emma stood abruptly, feeling embarrassed if the flush creeping up her neck was anything to go by. "I really didn't mean to—you know, I think I'll just walk back to Headquarters on my own." She started off at a brisk pace.

Killian got up as well, chasing after her. "Lass, there's no need—"

"Please don't feel obligated to come with me out of some sense of—of gentlemanly duty." She spun around, looking down and opening her pocketbook, fiddling with something inside. "I think it's best if—"

"Emma, listen. I should be the one apologizing…I wasn't being honest with you just now." He grabbed her arm, spun her around. "I went above and beyond for you because…well, because I like you."

She glowered at him. "I don't need your pity payoffs, Jones. I know you feel sorry for me, but—"

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I wish mercy upon anyone who feels sorry for you. You don't need it; you've gotten by on your smarts and common sense, and I've got—I've got nothing but admiration for you."

Her eyes widened in genuine bafflement. "Are you—I mean to say—really?"

"Aye. I like you, Emma, since before we even met in person. More than I've liked bloody anyone in a long time. I want the best for you—you're beautiful, and brash, and brave, and you don't deserve any of this bloody nonsense—" He broke off, rubbing furiously between his eyes. "I shouldn't be saying any of this." Killian's hand closed in a fist around his hat, crushing it, though he seemed to take no notice. He turned away. "Bloody fuck!" he growled as he started storming away down the street, making some poor au pair pushing a stroller jump about a mile high.

Emma stood watching him go, sucking her bottom lip in to keep from grinning like someone affected in the head. The warmth blooming in the center of her chest hadn't been felt since her orphanage days, when one of the little boys had always insisted on pouring half his morning porridge into her bowl. Of course, she hadn't even been able to enjoy that for long; he was farmed out to a seminary in upstate New York after only a few months. That was how things went: the world was full of beastly types, with a smattering of good ones who never stuck around for long. How long would Killian Jones be around for? Emma stared down at the scuffed toes of her spectator pumps.

"I like you, too, Killian," she almost whispered. "I like you, too."


CIA Headquarters, Buenos Aires

"Have a seat, Miss Blanchard," Regina ordered, as soon as Emma walked into her office two days after her dinner at the Rumpelsteigers. Killian was already present, foot jiggling restlessly against his opposite knee. "I have to say, the CIA and MI6 are very intrigued by this opportunity you're presenting us with."

Emma's brow furrowed; she glanced at Killian, who was also giving Regina a puzzled look. "I wouldn't say it's so much an opportunity, Agent Mills, as a predicament. You see, the younger Rumpel—"

Regina waved a hand at her face. "Agent Jones has briefed us on the facts, Miss Blanchard. However, I still view the question that's been put to you as an opportunity."

Emma folded her arms defensively across her chest, not sure she liked where this was headed. "How so? The man's asked me to marry him, Mills! Surely, you all can't expect me to—I mean, that's taking things a bit far, don'tcha think?"

Emma felt further unsettled when Regina simply stubbed out her current cig placidly, before fixing an unworried gaze on Emma again.

"I could sit here, and wax poetic about what an unparalleled stroke of luck it is, to be offered a first-class ticket into the heart of the operation—something a seasoned agent would give their right arm for. Or perhaps you'd prefer I beg you, get down on my knees, try and impart to you the virtues of giving oneself up for the good of many."

"That's not necess—"

"But I won't, Miss Blanchard. Flowery words and groveling are unquestionably not my style. So I'll give you the gritty on what currently affects you. I heard the oh-so-generous offer Agent Jones informed you about. Quite nice of him to think about your well-being, considering you survive, wasn't it? Went right over my head about it, too. Unfortunately, in our respective organizations, we have the greater good to think of—not the individual. While Agent Humbert originally agreed to Jones' little set-up for you, he's come around. If you thought you were getting any sort of prize merely for going through the motions here, ma'am, you're sorely mistaken."

Emma's eyes were full of unshed tears as she turned them on Killian. "You lied to me."

"Lass, I swear, I didn't—"

"Not that I give a damn what odd little thing you two have going on, Miss Blanchard, but Agent Jones had no knowledge of this. I had a concern, which I discussed with Agent Humbert, my supervisor. Namely, that the CIA shouldn't get into the habit of setting up every flunkey that throws us a bone." She paused, blew a ringlet of smoke into Emma's face. "We've just established a solid infrastructure, and our funds are better utilized elsewhere. However, I'm sure I could persuade Humbert to put you up at least somewhere better than that drafty flophouse you were in when we found—"

"If?" Emma spat. "Don't yank my chain, Mills, I'm losing patience. Honestly, going back to what I had before is starting to sound infinitely better than listening to you for one more second."

Regina just arched an eyebrow. "Well, I should think it would be obvious. After all, you presented the dilemma yourself."

A cold weight dropped into the pit of Emma's stomach. "You're going to make me accept his proposal."

"Now, wait one moment—," Killian got up from his seat.

"This doesn't concern you, Jones," Regina said calmly. "The decision is up to her."

"Decision," Emma snorted, tapping her index finger against her temple in mock-deep thought. "Let's see here, Mills: get married to some lowdown Nazi on the lam, and live under the watch of his suspicious father, too; or, refuse and get sent back to the slums of New York to forage, until the day I'm murdered by a john or starve to death?" She saw Killian's knuckles whiten on the chair arm.

Regina gave her a wide, phony grin. "For an uneducated panhandler, you certainly catch on quickly."

"Fuck yourself with a broomstick, Mills," Emma replied. "That's what you rode in on anyways, correct?"

Despite everything, Killian bit back a grin at Regina's rapid blinks, her slackjaw—he doubted anyone had dared speak like that to her in her whole miserable existence.

Emma continued. "I need to think on this."

Regina recovered from her shock, lit up another of her cigarettes. "You have 24 hours. Call the office within that time frame, or I'll have you forcibly put on a plane back to the States."

Emma pushed herself to her feet unsteadily, headed towards the door. Killian started to get up again.

"Don't bother," Emma said, holding up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. Her voice was flat, eyes dull. "I'd rather be alone right now. I'll get a taxi."

Killian slumped back into the chair as the door slammed, rattling the knickknacks on Regina's desk. She met his glowering scowl indifferently, leaning back and exhaling a puff of smoke.

"Nothing to get pinched at me for, Jones, the ultimate ruling wasn't mine."

"Don't play the fool with me, you ghastly shrew," Killian bit out, reveling in her sputtering. "You may have Humbert wrapped around your little finger—or should I say he's got you wrapped around his waist, most nights? But you haven't got the wool pulled over my eyes. "

Regina's nostrils flared, her wrist stopped midway to her mouth for another drag. "How—how dare you speak to me like that?! Do you know what I can—"

"Yes, yes, you'll ruin me, get me tossed out of MI6 without warning—you don't alarm me in the slightest. I suspect that's why you loathe me, and why you loathe Emma, too. She's wise to your tricks, and for the record, Mills, she's worth a million of you."

She let out a snort. "That bottom-dwelling, dirty—"

"Think of her however you like; it makes no difference to me. But," Killian got up, having had enough of the icy battle-ax, "think on this. You hate Emma because she's strong in spite of her upbringing, because she's had to do what you only do for fun. You've both been on your backs to get what you needed, only she's done it to survive, and you do it to play people against each other, have a gas at others' expenses. I'd defer to Emma anyday over a bloody hypocrite like you."

And with that, Killian let himself out, not even bothering to look back and take pleasure in Regina's fury this time.


Once she'd arrived home and made her excuses to Anna for forgoing dinner—headache—Emma retired to her bedroom, curling up in the center of her comforter, mind a chaotic whirlpool. God, she thought she'd been in some dire circumstances before, but this…. For all Killian's talk of making sure she wasn't going to be a part of some government chess game, she was certainly a pawn now. The "choice" was fairly cut 'n dry, but was she truly a tough enough customer to plunge into the deep end? Surely Killian would think so, but Emma wasn't feeling too confident in his opinion at the moment.

She rolled over on her back, feeling guilty—there was no cause to get angry at Killian over the turmoil his originally thoughtful gift to her had devolved into, he'd obviously had nothing to do with the CIA reneging on their offer. Never in her whole life would she have thought this was where she'd end up. It was all just bonkers, that's what it was.

For the first time since she'd agreed to the undercover sting, and had her life turned topsy-turvy, Emma felt a glimmer of apprehension. If she did this, no longer would she be on the outskirts, venturing into the thick of things at requested intervals. No, now she'd be delivering herself straight into the heart of the lion's den—and she couldn't foresee the outcome, no matter how she tried.


A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading-this was kind of a build-up chapter, but I hope you liked it anyways!