To those of you clambering for a hasty fuck: patience is a virtue. And really, did you think you would get off that easily?

(Plus, I'm a glutton for punishment - which translates to more sexual tension)

10. all's fair in death and war: Killian is a firm believer in recompense, stealing her mark only seems fair.

"I hate you."

He is lounging in an armchair, crystal tumbler balanced carefully between nimble fingers, when she sweeps into the room unannounced, the fury practically radiating off of her in waves of unmitigated heat. But then, he expected her to seek him out from the second he plunged his knife into the ambassador's plump chest. Even if he hadn't heard her profuse swearing through his comms, he would have just known. Emma Swan is possessive at best, and when it comes to kills that she's been working on for days: she's practically obsessive.

"I hate you so much," she repeats acrimoniously.

If he grins victoriously at the knife-edge of her vowels, it's completely out of his control.

"You son of a bitch," she snarls, "You motherfucking cheat –"

Emma slaps the glass out of his hand in her rampage so it smashes against the floor, glass debris scattering across the wooden panels. With her free hand she reaches roughly for his head – he stops her before she can make contact. She responds by trying to attack him with her other arm. He deflects. It continues like that for some time, brawling, moves and countermoves, until they are a tangled mess of limbs sitting in the too small armchair, hopelessly intertwined, in closer proximity than they have been since he last threatened her.

At least this time, they haven't done any serious damage to the room.

She is straddled atop him, and he can't say he despairs at the welcome feeling of her hips flush with his. Even the glare fixed upon her face is indubitably appealing. He has always had a thing for fire, and this woman is a goddamn inferno.

"Turnabout's fair play, love," he simpers, glancing at her mouth, licking his lips like a cat who caught the mouse.

"The pay on that job was very different and you barely had to make a fucking effort on the senator –"

"Please refrain from swearing so much. It's really not becoming on a pillar of morality and feminine fragility such as yourself."

He says it deliberately – to rile her up.

He succeeds.

Rage glitters in her eyes, wordlessly vowing redemption for his commentary. It promises him a world of agonising pain. He thinks maybe he's a masochist because he's eager for her to deliver on the silent threat.

"Fuck you," Emma growls.

Killian leans even closer to her face, using his grip on her back to pull them closer together so her chest aligns perfectly with his, unintentionally rocking their hips together.

"You know you're always welcome to."

Her eyes flit down to his lips for the shortest of seconds, jaw dropping in barely concealed stupor before she scowls vehemently. Probably in an effort to disguise her momentary lack in judgement. Triumph blooms pleasantly in his chest.

"You're disgusting," she spits.

He flourishes his hand, "And yet, here you are."

Bracing two hands on his chest, she wrenches herself violently away from him and stands up. Hands balanced on her hips, eyes bearing down on him, mouth twisted in anger; she should be intimidating. The thinly veiled awe in his features is clearly not the reaction she is looking for because she kicks out the dainty leg of the armchair so he stumbles forward off it, landing on his knees in front of her.

Yet again, he can't find it in himself to be angry.

Kneeling before her is merely a far better vantage point from which to observe her. And yes, there is a spot reserved in hell for him and his lecherous mind. But really, he thinks, could anyone blame him for staring when she's standing there with the ceiling light haloing her head like an avenging angel?

She glowers and shakes her head.

"I put a lot of thought into this one, ass hole."

Killian chuckles, "I'm sure you did, love, but I don't give a damn."

Emma narrows her eyes and moves to kick him in the stomach. It's a rookie move, a testament to her vexation, and one he catches easily, holding her leg and twisting so she tumbles down in front of him. As she lands with a thump, only one thought dredges itself out of the depths of his swamp of a mind: if looks could kill.

So of course she physicalizes it, grabbing a piece of the broken glass to her right and lunging at him.

It is a move reminiscent to the one she used on that Korean twit, Jon, when everything had gone to shit. They'd spent the entire bloody evening sabotaging each other's subtle attempts to kill the bastard: he spilled the glass of wine containing her poison, she convinced Jon not to eat the cyanide-laced salad Killian had served up.

In the end, she had practically dragged Jon out onto the roof under the guise of wanting to see the view. Naturally, Killian had followed and a three-way fight had ensued (after he dispatched of the guards).

Emma wanted to kill Jon. Jon wanted to escape. Killian wanted to stop Emma from killing Jon so he could kill the stout man himself. In retrospect, it was a hilarious sight to have beheld: two assassins shoving each other out of the way like petulant toddlers in the sandbox as they each scrambled to end the miserable sod's life. In reality, it probably looked quite intense. But for two people who were well acquainted with the ways of hand-to-hand combat, it was child's play.

In the end, she'd managed to stick him with a broken glass bottle before Killian could kick her legs out from beneath her. And he'd pretty much wasted a perfectly functional explosive device.

He is brought back to the present when, in his distraction, Emma shallowly cuts his hand but otherwise misses its mark. He dodges her subsequent swipe just barely and tuts at her.

Securing her arm, he presses two fingers to the hollow of her throat and pushes, forcing her back.

He's always firmly believed she has an unfair advantage with those long lean limbs, something that occurs to him yet again as she enlists those pesky legs of hers. He drops to the floor like a leaden weight, his sense of equilibrium vanishing so swiftly that his head misses the pile of broken glass by a slender inch. Throwing away her makeshift weapon, she scrambles on top of him.

There's a definitively satisfying edge to the sensation of her weight pinning him down.

Especially when they're both still breathing heavily and her eyes are burning with an untampered ferocity he's come to admire.

Emma tilts closer, "You're a prick."

He leans up as much as he can so his nose nudges at hers, "And you're a bitch. We're just meant to be."

Again, her eyes dart to his lips for a split second and he thinks she might kiss him the longer they linger there. Except she doesn't, she meets his gaze, daggers him with it, and pulls up. Kicking him once in the side (lightly compared to her usual dealings – he's seen her break bones with those damned boots), she strides from the room in a whirlwind, leaving him a heaving and wheezing mess on the floor.

Even through the pain blossoming in his ribs, he feels no regret. Or animosity for that matter.

In their line of work, violence isn't exactly uncommon. Nor is it a symbol of hatred, just business. They deal in blood and sweat and broken bones. It's a socially acceptable currency of sorts.

If anything, beating each other up is a sign of affection and trust. Because she's clearly not afraid he'll feel personally victimised over the fact that she lunged at him with a jagged strip of broken glass. Just as she doesn't take it to heart when he (rarely) manages to kick her ass.

They've got a good thing going.

(All good things must come to an end.)

(He's too busy thinking about the way his skin is still tingling to ponder that.)

Review in the hopes of that sexual tension spilling over?