This chapter falls on the short side and it might give the feeling of a filler, but it's more like a transitional one. There was a huge time jump in the season that the show never addressed, so I'm trying to make up for it the best I can :) (think of it as the end of 1A before 1B begins-)
Chapter X
"What in the blazes are you doing here, August?"
"Killian Jones… of all the places in the world we could have run into each other…" August trailed off, and it was as if he wasn't even shocked to find Killian there. It made Killian's skin crawl and all his senses went on full mode alert. A big part of him wanted to tower over August and unleash the feelings he'd been harboring over a decade, allowing himself to finally let out his frustrations about the events that led him to be separated from Emma.
But right now, with Henry standing beside him, was not the time. He was not the same man he'd been a decade ago. He was not even the same man he'd been a few months ago. Revenge was no longer a priority in his life. His ten year old son was.
"You know what August? Save it for another night. Now is not the time."
"Killian wait!"
Killian didn't even stay to listen to August explanations, tugging his son by his sleeve, his only concern at that moment keeping Henry away from the man. He'd have time to track him down later and demand what the bloody hell he was doing in town.
He was still mulling over his August problem at breakfast the next morning, when Mary Margaret barged into the kitchen, half shrugging on her winter coat whilst rushing to pull on her boots, her toothbrush still dangling between her teeth.
"I can't believe I overslept!" she said after she'd washed her mouth out, and discarded the toothbrush on the sink.
Her entire demeanor was so unlike her that Killian hesitated to ask. "It's only seven ten. You have time to get to school. Mary Margaret, is everything okay?"
"Oh yes," she said as she headed for the door, but she seemed anything but okay. "I just have to be at school at seven fifteen. Science fair. I'm helping some kids with their project before school."
"Five minutes won't make a difference, lass," he tried to assure her.
"We're making a volcano," she retorted halfway outside the door, leaving Killian with that tingly sensation that he'd been lied to.
Never one to just let things alone, he finished his breakfast quickly and rinsed the bowl, grabbed his keys and stepped out to trace Mary Margaret's steps. It didn't take him long to track her down. To Granny's, of all places. Killian squeezed into the diner through the back door, arriving just in time to see her exchange a few words with David before the man left with two coffees, handing one to the wife that was waiting for him out in the car.
Mary Margaret's look of longing as the station wagon disappeared from view nearly broke his heart, and he wanted to punch himself for not seeing the signs sooner.
He took a few tentative steps towards the table where she sat, looking dejected. "This is making a volcano?"
Mary Margaret's expression quickly turned from shock to guilt. "I was-"
"I get it," he sighed as he took a seat opposite her.
"He comes here every morning at seven fifteen a.m. to get coffee," Mary Margaret deadpanned, her hands interlaced with each other as she rest them on the table.
"For him and his wife." He hated to be the one to point that out, but he needed her to understand that this was not going to end well for her.
She shook her head as if he were stating the obvious - which in a way he was - and she didn't need the lecture. "I know, I know, I know. I just like to…come here to see him."
That was the understatement of the morning. "So you're stalking him?" He couldn't help himself, and if he didn't feel so guilty for putting her through this in the first place, he might have found her shocked expression endearing.
"No, not really…" she tried to justify herself. "Maybe a little bit. I mean, it's not like I'm following him. I just know that he spends his mornings with Kathryn, gets coffee, then drives to the animal shelter to start work at seven thirty and then he's home around five."
Well, she was thorough, Killian could give her that. "And that would be all?" he prodded.
Mary Margaret sighed in defeat. "Thursdays they pick up Chinese for dinner."
"One thing is certain, you'd be great in bailbonds." Maybe he could convince her to ditch this town and her job and come work with him in Boston if things went south in here. She'd make a great honeytrap, he was sure of it. Those huge, innocent eyes of hers? What man wouldn't fall under her spell?
She sagged against the table with a defeated sigh. "I can't get him out of my head."
He could relate. How many countless hours had he spent retracing all of his and Emma's old hideouts and hangouts in the hopes he might run into her again? "I know, trust me, I know." But even he had eventually put a stop to that. "Maybe the first step is not showing up here tomorrow. You can't do this to yourself. You deserve better."
She banged her forehead softly against the table. "Love's the worst. I wish there was a magic cure."
Sometimes, he'd wished for that too. Only it would probably meant taking the good with the bad, and he wouldn't have traded one single minute of his time with Emma for his peace of mind.
/-/
The storm warning came out over the radio a little after he left the diner, and Killian entertained himself with gathering all the supplies he needed before it hit, following the procedures he'd read time and again over the past few weeks. The wind had picked up, so he donned one of the jackets the department kept at the station. He was in the process of loading up the patrol car with essential supplies when he noticed Regina approaching him with a stern face.
"If you're here to blame me for the storm, I think you're taking things a bit far now," he bit out as he placed the portable battery and cables down on the backseat.
Regina ignored his quip. "I need you to look into something, Sheriff. Someone's in town – someone new."
"That would be one August Booth." Killian felt a momentary stab of satisfaction at Regina's dumbfounded expression. "Dark haired fellow on a motorcycle?"
She nodded, her eyes narrowing suspiciously "Do you know him?"
"Trust me, you want to stay far away from that man, Madam Mayor," he advised, closing the car trunk with a definitive thunk. "And keep Henry away from him, as well."
"That seems to be the problem, Sheriff. He was in front of my house. Taking a particular interest in the one thing we both care about."
Henry. Bloody hell.
His anguish must have been written all over his face because Regina gave him a pointed look. "Where do you know this man from? And why is he here?"
"I know him from back in the day, before I went to jail," he admitted. He wasn't sure Regina wouldn't use that against him, but he couldn't take the chance of Henry getting hurt because he wasn't completely forthcoming with his mother.
"Is he following you?" He could hear the accusations loud and clear.
"I haven't seen him in a decade." He ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know why he's here, but I will talk to him and find out."
He took two steps towards her. "And he won't get near Henry again. I'll see to it."
"You'd better, Sheriff. Because he seemed oddly familiar with my son."
"Maybe was one of the thousands you cursed," he quipped as he turned away from her.
/-/
The storm was in full swing with driving rain, thunder and gale force winds by the time Killian found August, sitting at a booth at Granny's. Killian shook the rain from his hair and cracked his neck to one side to the other before he made his way towards August, sitting opposite him without ceremony.
"And now we talk, mate." His tone was almost ruthless, but the idea of August nearby Henry was giving Killian goosebumps. He wasn't sure of the extent of August's involvement in the events that led to his little stint in jail, but August and Neal had been part of the same group back in the day. Whether or not August was in with Neal to frame him for the watches, it wasn't the time to delve into it. He wasn't going to open this chapter of his life back in front of all Storybrooke to see - and for Regina to hear. But even if August hadn't been involved, he was shady enough for Killian to want him far, far away from his son.
August seemed to wait for him to say something else, so Killian cleared his throat, his hand tracing a pattern on the surface of the table. "I've gotten complaints of your suspicious behavior."
"You've gotten complaints." August had raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't quite give Killian's words credence.
He enjoyed the way August's eyes widened as he placed his badge on the table, tapping it with the tip of his finger. "Sheriff Jones, at this town's service."
"Would you look at that" August picked up the badge and examined it carefully before placing it back on the table. "You've come a long way since the last time I saw you, Killian."
When Killian didn't reply, August sighed. "Suspicious behavior? I'm sitting here, out in the open, drinking coffee."
Killian cocked an eyebrow at him, not letting August follow with the nice-boy act. "You were talking to Henry."
"The little kid who came up to me asking me questions? Is that unusual for him? Being curious and precocious?"
If he weren't Sheriff and risking a complaint over police brutality, he'd be punching the bloody ponce right now. "What were you doing outside his house?" He tried to keep his tone calm and collected, with only a hint of a warning in it.
August shrugged. "My bike broke down. It happens. Is it illegal in this town to talk to strangers?"
"It's dangerous for people to talk to the likes of you." Killian's eyes came to rest on the old wooden box August still carried. "What's in the box?"
August's eye twinkled with smugness. "All this time, and you still want to know what's inside it, don't you?"
"I can get a search warrant," Killian said, in a way that let August know he wasn't entirely kidding.
"On what basis?" August asked casually, leaning back in the booth. "Has it eaten you alive all these years, Killian? Wanting to know my secrets?"
He didn't have time for this. A storm was unfolding, Mary Margaret hadn't returned his texts and he needed to ensure everyone was safe. Killian stood up, glancing at the other man with a hint of condescension. "That was interesting a decade ago, mate, but I'm over your bloody nonsense now."
"Well, you can promise me you'll come with me one day, and I can show you…"
Emma had been right all along in hating the bastard and his theatrics.
"I'm not eighteen anymore, August. I don't fall for that," Killian warned, pointing a finger at him. "And stop talking to my son."
August looked at him, his mouth forming a shocked 'O'. "Henry? He's your son? Yours and Emma's?"
That act might have fooled any other, but not him. He could spot a lie a mile away and he didn't buy it. "I'm done here."
He took a few steps away, only to the stopped by August's words. "Killian, wait. I'll show you… as a token of goodwill."
Killian turned around and waited, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, as August placed the box on the table and made a show of opening it. And then August opened the lid and Killian finally learned August's long-held secret. In the box sat an old typewriter, nothing more. He looked from it, back to its owner.
August shrugged. "I'm a writer, mate."
Killian simply turned around without another word. He really hated the bloody fool.
/-/
The storm came and went, stretching into the night but leaving a bright morning as a gift. Killian sat down with his breakfast the next morning, quick to notice the way Mary Margaret fidgeted as she looked at the clock.
He could understand her agitation. It had been hard for him to let Emma go all those years ago. He still wasn't sure he'd completely let go of her - alright, that was a lie, he knew he hadn't - but he'd stopped looking for her frantically, only to be disheartened at every dead end. He'd stopped his constant lurking at all the spots they used to hang out together - and a few of hers she'd told him about - in hopes that she might materialize out of thin air. It took him years, but he'd stop turning around after each blonde that passed him on the street, hoping it was her. He'd finally given up - or simply convinced himself he'd given up - and buried her memory deep into his heart. What hurt the most was not the memories of what they had, but the aching pain of the memories they could have built together and were ripped away from him.
That was the worst kind of loss. The loss of the dreams your mind had conjured and life decided you couldn't get. The loss of hope.
His hand reached for Mary Margaret's, and her eyes focused on him. He gave her a soft smile and a light squeeze of her hand.
"It'll be okay, darling."
He wasn't sure if it would be, but he was damn sure he'd try for it to be.
/-/
It turned out the storm had damaged Henry's castle beyond repair and the bulldozing of the area had taken the hidden storybook along with the debris, Henry's frantic search of the spot turning back nothing.
It was in these most dreary of conditions that the holiday season crept upon them and Killian did his best to be there for Mary Margaret as much as he could. And if he was putting on a suspicious amount of extra cheer while they were at it, in an attempt to distract himself from the things he was missing this holiday season, neither he nor she mentioned it.
His attempts to have Regina let him spend at least part of Christmas' Eve or Day with Henry had gone awry from the first moment he had even dared to broach the subject. She'd snuffed out all his hopes with a condescending smile and a stark reminder that he had no rights over Henry, no matter how much he tried to weasel his way into his life and the town. He was no one, and he'd never be more than that.
The words had cut deep into him, making yet another dent into this heart, threatening to bring him down in a way like little else had in last decade. It was the first Christmas he'd dared to hope for something more than loneliness and a bottle of rum. And once again, he'd been reminded that hope was for other people. Happy family endings were not on the cards for him.
Nevertheless, he did his best to find what he thought would be the perfect gift for Henry. It had required a trip to the nearest town - as he didn't find any decent bookstores in Storybrooke and he refused to go into Gold's shop - but he finally got his hands on another fairytales and adventures book that he thought Henry might enjoy and perhaps it might help him ease the pain of losing his old one. He considered getting Mary Margaret a few novels, but chose to purchase a new cookbook for her, not wanting to bring her any heartache over love stories that might remind her of what she couldn't have.
And thus, it was the day before Christmas when Killian snuck into a booth in Granny's in time to share a hot chocolate and exchange gifts with his son. His eyes filled with tears at Henry's handcrafted holiday card, and the sight of the black leather gloves and woolen beanie the lad had gifted him. He leaned in, holding his son in his arms as he let the words leave his mouth. Merry Christmas, Henry.
Mary Margaret's knitted black scarf was the perfect addition to his rapidly expanding winter wardrobe and they both toasted to rum-spiked eggnog and shared a Christmas' meal together before he headed to the Sheriff's station to be on call.
New Year's Eve was a different ordeal. Mary Margaret hinted about a friend's gathering at Granny's, but Killian was simply not in the mood to celebrate. Not that night. So he met her eyes - eyes that were able to read him with uncanny accuracy by now - and thanked her for the thoughts, wishing her a new year before she left the loft.
Shortly before midnight, the night found him at the docks, his new winter attire keeping him warm as he sipped rum from his father's old flask. Another year without finding Emma. Another year spent alone, chasing the memory of her in each lonely night and trying to forget about her - even if just for a few hours - in each one night stand. Another year gone and his heart still beating for her.
He heard the first strike of the clock tolling midnight and stood up, heading for the rail. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Happy New Year, Swan. This was the year our son found me. I wish you could see him, Emma, and see how wonderful he is. Wherever you are, know that I miss you, my love.
He took a final gulp of the rum before pouring the rest of the liquor out into the sea, hoping the toast would reach her, wherever she was.