Happy Valentine's Day!
11. never deal with the devil: Killian breaks the golden rule.
It is, to say the least, an absolute shitstorm.
He's not even in the goddamn thick of it but he can see that her skin is coated in a thick mixture of blood and sweat and ash, debris caught in her gold hair. Her eyes are bloodshot, no doubt stinging with the dirt and dust that hangs in the air. Prague is usually nice this time of year, but trying to kill someone can bring out the worst in a country. Especially when that person possesses enough to wealth to hire out a whole convoy for travelling purposes.
Crouched behind an SUV with blown out tyres, Emma visibly swallows and pivots on her foot, rising up from the makeshift shelter and unloading a packet of bullets. With no shortage of pride, he watches several men fall as a result. The target, unfortunately for her, is not among those bodies now strewn across the road. That man is tucked comfortably away behind his paid protection.
Even Killian, from his vantage point several hundred feet away, cannot get a clean shot just yet.
As clear as day, he hears her curse.
Jefferson must have finally hacked her comms. The soundtrack where she stands is thunderous and grossly out of time, the clicking of ammo packets coming several seconds after she has reloaded her gun only to empty it in another collection of men. It should put him off, to hear the cacophony of her world while he's trying to line up his crosshairs with the precision of a needle and thread. But it doesn't; he's trained for these situations. He's actually trained for much more difficult scenarios.
"Emma," he tests as she crouches behind the car again.
In his crosshairs, he sees her jolt at the sound of his voice.
"Did you hack my comms again?" she demands irately, still reloading with all the efficiency of a well-trained soldier.
"Obviously," he says, perusing her general vicinity as he answers, "You're ridiculously outmanned down there, love, stop wasting your ammo."
Emma rolls her eyes (she does that a lot in his company) and shakes her head, "So what's your suggestion?"
"Stay down."
"So you can take the kill?" She barks a mirthless laugh, "I think I'll pass."
A heavy sigh, and then he's aiming for the guards closest to her.
"You're going to get yourself killed," he mutters under his breath. His bullets hit their mark and he smirks, satisfied. The blood pumps and hums happily in his veins at the reverberation of the gun beneath his deft fingers as it fires once, twice, three times, rumbling and jolting through his entire body. Returning his attention to their target, he grins when he sees that the guards have dispersed enough to provide a rapidly closing window of opportunity.
"And this one is mine anyway."
In his mind's eye, he can just see the way her gaze widens in realisation as she growls, "Don't you fucking dare. I set this bitch up -"
There's a resounding boom across the deserted street, and then the target drops in a lifeless heap, a bullet lodged in his brain. Killian instantly pulls his sights back around to where Emma stands behind her vehicle.
Her gun bounces off the ground when she throws it in frustration, glaring in his general direction.
"Lucky shot," she hisses, striding across to the SUV that still works and wrenching open the door. The snicker that escapes his mouth is completely unintentional and she glares murderously to no one in particular (he knows it's directed at him). Lifting her middle finger in the air (all for him) she rips the comms from her ear and stuffs them in her pocket.
It only makes him grin wider.
Her petulance always has a way of warming something inside of him.
His amusement evaporates as she leans into the still-operational vehicle, head ducking behind the wheel as she tries to hot-wire it. Compromised and unaware, her back is completely exposed to the stumbling bodyguard approaching her from behind, handgun clutched desperately in one blood soaked hand.
He cannot warn her, the comms are resting comfortably in her pocket. And she's too consumed by her aggravation to pick up on the silent footsteps of her impending aggressor.
Killian buries a round in the injured bodyguard before he can even lift the weapon in her direction. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't think about it – just moves with the unerring swiftness of a jungle cat as he takes down her threat. It is different to the time at the hotel when he chose not to abandon her. In that lobby, all that time ago, she still had at least a semblance of a chance: this time her death would have been all but certain.
Not only that, but this time she will know without a doubt that he saved her.
The thick gunshot that rings out is enough to make Emma snap out of the front seat and whip around.
When she turns, she is met with the sight of her would-be attacker falling in a lifeless heap. She stands frozen for a second and Killian takes the transitory moment to catch his breath (he doesn't know when he started breathing heavily). When she rotates to face his general direction, her expression is hard, unreadable. Something has shifted between them, he can feel it from miles away.
She deftly retrieves the comms from her pocket and pulls the microphone roughly to her lips.
"Meet me at Granny's in four hours."
(The quaint coffee shop he passed on the drive up here flashes in his mind's eye).
Unwilling to wait for an answer, she throws the comms device on the ground and jumps into the now-humming vehicle. He watches her as she tears away from the deserted road in a cloud of dust and debris. And he knows he is completely, utterly, totally and royally screwed.
8888
"What's all this for?"
He stares at the heavy bag on the linoleum table in Granny's, the same one she dumped in front of him only seconds earlier.
"I don't like unpaid debts. This is for saving my life," she responds coldly. His eyes widen when he hesitantly pulls back the zipper to reveal several large wads of cash.
His eyes dart up to meet hers. She is still covered in ash and blood and the few people scattered around the establishment are staring.
"And this is how much you think your life is worth?" he asks, incredulity woven carefully into his tone. She picks up on it, the recognition making her eyes twitch and narrow.
Emma nods curtly.
He surveys the money once more before sliding the bag back in her direction and shaking his head.
"I didn't save your life so you could pay me."
"Well I'm sure as fuck not sleeping with you as gratitude, so what do you want?"
He grins lasciviously but otherwise considers her question with idle curiosity. While the idea of sleeping with Emma definitely has crossed his mind once or twice (or perhaps several times), it would be bad form to extort it out if her. Besides, he wants that particular occasion to be a conscious decision on her part: not some convoluted symbol of gratitude.
Eventually, he shrugs and stands from the cafe booth.
"I don't want anything."
But Emma catches his elbow, her iron grip firm enough that it holds him in place. He looks up to meet her stormy gaze. She drops her hand immediately and glares, "I don't like unfinished business."
Killian shrugs.
"Maybe I'm just a philanthropist."
"If that's true, you're in the wrong line of work."
"Perhaps I am."
He notes the stubborn set to her jaw as she holds his gaze. He also notes the feint desperation there: like this is gnawing at her bones the same way it is gnawing at his. Though certainly for different reasons. Things are different now, and she clearly doesn't like that. There is a heavy, bone-weary sigh and then he mutters, "Fine. I'll take the money."
The bag is looped over his shoulder in one swift movement.
8888
He dumps the money in a trash can outside.
He knows why he saved her.
And it wasn't because he wanted something from her.
You know there's always that defining moment where things really begin to shift in a story? That just there was it.