Well readers, it's been longer than I'd wish to update this one. But I'm leaving the country in a week, so am assuming it'll be at least another month before the next installment. And, sorry: art imitates life, and this is one angsty segment! Hate to leave it like this for awhile, but you like semi-cliffhangers...right? :)

After slipping into her pumps, Emma tottered to her vanity mirror, patting at her hairdo dazedly, trying to at least make it neat. The last thing she cared about right now was her appearance, but it would raise the jackals' senses if she didn't go around at least looking as though she wasn't affected by recent events. She re-applied another coat of bright red to her lips; she'd been sick again just moments before. God, she hoped her nerves settled soon, this was really getting to be inconveni—

She stopped, mid-stroke. Getting to be inconvenient? Well, she'd been sick three times, but surely it had to do with—no, the first time had happened before Elsa's murder, and each time, she hadn't felt any other symptoms of illness afterwards. And each time had happened shortly after she'd woken up from a nap or all-night slumber. No, no, it's not possible, I've been so careful…. Haven't I? Emma pressed a palm lightly to her abdomen, trying to recollect. Without a doubt she'd slipped in her diaphragm, unbeknownst to Baelthazar, every time he took her to bed. Could it have failed? I suppose—all at once, Emma dropped her lipstick with a noisy clatter on the countertop as a vivid memory flooded her: the day—or rather, the night—of Bae's proposal to her, when she'd gone to Killian's, certainly not expecting anything like…well, like what had happened. And foolishly thinking that something like accepting another man's marriage proposal, no matter the reason, would be enough to stop the current of need that always seemed to flourish when it was just the two of them. And she most definitely had not been prepared. Even so…wasn't just over three weeks a bit early? Remembrances of the last time she'd been in such a predicament, ten years ago now, began to filter into her tired mind—it had shown early then, too. Perhaps not quite as early, but it was certainly possible.

Heat started to prickle along her scalp; Emma dropped her face into her hands. "Fuck," she whimpered, smacking the heel of her palm painfully into her forehead. "Emma, you infernal dolt!" How could she have gotten so careless? This was truly the cherry on top of an already catastrophic sundae.

"Why so down, pet?" A pair of heavy hands dropped onto her shoulders, making Emma shriek. Ugh, that clod of a faux-husband had crept in on cats' feet. When her head jerked up to meet Bae's eyes in the mirror, he let out an idiotic chuckle at her half-applied makeup.

"Good God, don't you look a fright!" He snorted again, and started back for the door. "Planning on finishing that before you go out in public, I hope."

"Yes," she gritted out, curling her fingertips into the vanity's edges. "I'm going to the downtown shops shortly."

"Dames and shopping," he sniggered, then suddenly turned back when he reached the doorway. "I'd suggest picking up more face powder. You're looking a bit sallow, and you don't want Father to think you're still blubbering over Elsa, do you?"

Emma smiled distractedly at him, trying to imagine Elsa's mortal exit wound between his eyes, until he finally left.

She turned back and started to stroke the color on over her trembling lips, breathing in and out in a slow, measured rhythm . Think of the meeting, think of the locket. Best to focus on one plight at a time—she couldn't have come this far only to break down now.

Killian had maneuvered himself closest to the door, so he could greet Emma first. It never went well when Mills tried to get her goat right off the bat. Things between them would devolve regardless, but he could at least postpone it, plus sit near her for the meeting's duration. Neither Humbert nor Mills had slunk in from their respective corners of the office, so Killian posted himself at the window, raising one of the blinds to watch for the Swan.

Prompt as usual, she came up the walkway only a few minutes later. He still waited for the signaled knock on the door, just to tease her. But all thoughts of teasing left him as she stumbled inside and met his gaze.

"I know you saw me coming, you spook—couldn't have just let me in for once?"

Even though things had been tense between them lately, Killian couldn't help his hand gliding towards her cheek. "Swan, what's happened? You've got dark circles under your eyes."

She looked down, busying herself with removing her gloves as she lowered into an easy chair opposite his. "I've never been married before, but isn't it customary for newlyweds to be suffering from a lack of sleep?"

She was trying to goad him, he knew it, but it still stung. He clenched his jaw, while his good hand squeezed the false one tightly. "Don't play with me, darling. Something's troubling you. Why, I—"

"Started without us, Hook?" Regina waltzed in, banging the door open behind her, swinging it into Graham's face. Sitting down behind the desk, she flipped open a folder. "Well, we've got a lot to fill you in on today, Mrs. Gold, so let's get—"

Emma's fists clenched over the chair arms. "That's not my name. And I think you lot need to hear what I've got to say first."

Regina turned, open-mouthed, to Graham. "Of all the nerve—"

"Proceed then, Miss Blanchard," Graham said peaceably, settling back.

In a steady voice, she proceeded to describe the days leading up to Elsa's death, including her misstep with the key. At the end, Regina still had her arms folded in an unimpressed gesture (though her customary cigarette dangled from her parted lips), Graham furiously rubbed at his creased brow, and Killian leaned as close as he could get without falling out of his chair, forehead knitted with worry.

No wonder she looked like she'd been dragged through a hellish mire; she truly had. Despite his warning, Killian could tell Emma had stubbornly gone about her business and become close with the slain woman. No wonder she had purplish crescents under her eyes that makeup couldn't hide, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, and was trying and failing to control the shaking of her hands by entwining them together. He wished the other two weren't there; despite all their difficulty—and his jealousy—recently, he wanted her to know she'd always be safe. He wanted to curl himself around her like a protective cloak, feel all that visible brittleness melt away as she relaxed into him. From the minute Killian Jones had had Emma Blanchard's file thrust under his nose, she'd had a protector for life—whether the bloody headstrong lass liked it or not. He snapped back to the current situation as Emma clapped her hands sharply onto her thighs.

"So," Emma breathed out, sounding confident. "I don't think I'm going out on a limb here in thinking this has finally cooked Rumpelsteiger's goose? You've got a firsthand account of blood on his hands. He can be arrested, and—"

Regina made an exasperated tsk, slid a new cigarette between her wine-hued lips. "On the contrary, Mrs. Gold. You were negligent, but the woman in question was never formally aligned with either the CIA or MI6. Her sister was put in place as a pair of extra eyes and ears, for as long as she was able, but Miss—"

"W-what? But you knew about her!" Emma turned a beseeching look on Graham. "Agent Humbert, you had to've known—"

He looked down, ruffling his hair nervously. "We—Agent Mills and I—knew what Elsa was about, yes. But Agent Mills is correct: she was never properly engaged as a mole."

"What the hell does that matter?!" Emma exploded. "She was helping us!"

"What lay people choose to do with their own time is of no concern to this mission," Regina said, leaning back and blowing out a perfect smoke ring. "Perhaps he suspects you, perhaps not. Either way, I get the impression he wants to keep you around."

"I really don't see how you could conclude that! If he's willing to kill a member of his own family, then he's more than capable of—"

"Capable, yes. But he knows your death will arouse more notice, and possible retribution, than a woman who was little known outside their Nazi circle."

Emma thumped her head against the back of the chair, frustrated at the nonchalance coming off the others. "I wouldn't take all this lightly; Mills, he's an incredibly dangerous man! He killed an innocent woman right in front of me!"

"Innocent?" Regina snorted incredulously. "I think we have very different definitions of the word, Mrs. Gold. Then again, you probably left the world of education behind before you got to that chap—"

Killian cleared his throat warningly. "Get on with it, Mills."

She narrowed her eyes, flicking her ash into the tray on the desk. "He killed one of his own, Mrs. Gold, one of his own who just happened to agree to turn on him. It's of no concern to this organization."

"Stop calling me that, goddamnit. And you know that's not true—she only went back into the family fold to dig up more dirt on them. She was a fucking Resistance fighter!"

"Don't jab at the deceased for using the methods necessary, Regina," Graham said evenly, cutting off whatever retort she'd been about to bark out.

Regina's eyes glittered angrily, no doubt from being chastised in front of Emma. "Yes, I've heard all about the 'necessary methods' these field agents utilize, claiming they have no choice," she finally replied, lips quirking into a mean little smirk.

Emma leaned forward. "And just what the fuck is that supposed to mean—what did you think would have to happen when I married—"

"My, my, I do hope you aren't spouting off that plebian vocabulary of yours in front of Junior and Senior; they might start getting the wrong idea." She half-turned towards Killian. "Jones, didn't you spank that out of her during training?"

Killian barred his arm across the arms of Emma's chair, just as she started to stand. Though completely justified in his mind, no good would come of the mess that would ensue if Emma tried to lunge over the desk and wrap her hands around Regina's scrawny neck. Regina gave Emma a wary glance, but kept her mouth closed.

Emma let out a huff then, and her hand rose to her throat. "If straight murder isn't enough against Rumpelsteiger, maybe this will interest you blockheads. I've—I've got some kind of evidence," she continued, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her blouse, and sliding her hand beneath the fabric while Regina and Killian stared in confusion, and Graham glanced down, respectfully, at his folded hands. She rooted around her brassiere obliviously for a moment, before withdrawing again with her fist closed around something. "I'm sure it's important. Elsa had me hide it."

She flipped the extracted small, round disc quickly at Regina, who caught it instinctively. Then, seeming to remember where it'd been, stared down at it in her palm, lip curling disgustedly. Killian and Emma mirrored each others' smirks at that.

Regina cracked open the clasp, and snatched the little slip of paper out unceremoniously, unfolding it. "Well, that helps," she snapped, waving it in the air. "It's in Danish, or Finnish, or—"

"I'd guess Norwegian," Emma said with controlled calm, cupping her hands in exaggerated prissiness over her knee. "As that's what Elsa…was."

Before Regina could shoot a retaliatory quip at her, Graham had tugged it from her grasp. "Correct, Miss—Missus—er, Emma. And it says"—his eyes roved over the small print several times—"It says "The copies are viable"."

Emma's brows rose towards her hairline. "Copies of what? What in tarnation is that supposed to mean?" When she noticed the unsurprised expressions surrounding her, she turned to Killian. "You know what's afoot here?"

Again, he wanted to hold her hand, touch her in any way so badly, because he knew the whole explanation would sound positively looney tunes. By the end of Graham's story about the Führer clones most likely being cooked up right under her nose, and potential reasons for it, Emma's face was a stony mask. Killian's hand raised a few inches of its own accord before he remembered himself, and let it drop slowly back to his chair arm before it could drift over towards her.

"He's going to kill me," Emma stated, the words coming out sluggishly. "He's batshit insane, and he's going to kill me before this is over. What more do you people need before raiding the joint? Me staggering out the front door with one of Whale's vials in my fist and my throat cut?"

A guttural growl rumbled in Killian's throat, and Graham held up his hands placatingly. "Now, Miss Blanchard, that isn't—"

"I want a gun."

Regina snorted loudly. "Impossible. Everything would be lost if that was discovered on your person. Not to mention I don't trust you any further than I could spit."

"I couldn't care less about your untalented tongue—though more's the pity for any lover of yours." Killian coughed violently into his jacket sleeve.

Graham took the opportunity while Regina's mouth hung open like a gasping trout to explain the course of action the three of them had been contemplating. "Now, Emma, this actually segues into something I needed to bring up. You see, you have a choice here."

Emma leaned forward, intrigued. She couldn't recall having any kind of choice—other than her initial agreement to be bait—since this whole carnival ride had started.

"Do I, now?"

"You see," Graham said with a tremulous, kind smile, "I realize you were briefed on the kind of perilous undertaking you were getting into. However, this level of utter…derangement was never even a consideration. Though what you've gone through thus far is commendable, it may be prudent for both governments to start considering…other methods of task completion."

Emma tapped her heel impatiently on the linoleum. "What're you getting at, Agent Humbert?"

"What I mean is, due to the nature of Rumpelsteiger's…long term plans, I've thought—well, Agent Jones and I—that perhaps this is all too much to toss you back into the middle of. The objective's changed—this isn't merely about bringing a war criminal to justice. Now it's about stopping a whole new threat. We have to proceed delicately. You can be removed without a trace—maybe arrange it to look like a kidnapping—"

"Now wait one hot minute there, Humbert," Emma broke in. "That's it? "The objective's changed"? What about all those people back in Europe that died because of the Rumpelsteigers? What about Elsa? This could all end quickly with—"

"That's not the order we have, Miss Blanchard."

"Emma," Killian said. "I know 'delicate' isn't exactly your style, but this isn't as black-and-white situation as it once was. The CIA and MI6 want to know exactly what his future plans are—"

"Who cares?" Emma snarled, fully aware she was getting a whine in her tone. "He's—they're—pure evil." She glared at them all when she got no response. "So that's it, then? I haven't got a choice except to—"

"Of course you do," Killian interrupted. "But we—"

"You gentlemen," Regina interjected.

"—just assumed you'd—"

"Never mind your peabrained assumptions!" Regina barked. "As I've said, it would be a massive waste of resources and money at this point to pull even a flunkey like her out, after all the training she's been provided and her wealth of inside knowledge on the Rumpelsteiger clique. If she stays…."

Emma began to tune out. So that was that; it was all about saving a lousy buck and some morbid fascination by the upper echelon to—what? Steal Whale's intelligence on these corrupt biological matters? See what else Rumpelsteiger was capable of? If she had felt disillusioned before, the façade was completely shattered now. There wouldn't be any dramatic storming of the estate, ending with the Rumpelsteigers cursing loudly as they were dragged off by vigilante justice, or a short 'n sweet shot to the heart like the crime flicks she'd snuck in to watch. Somewhere in her daydreams, hers and Killian's faces had started to replace those of the actors, an arm wrapped around each other's waist while their other hand intertwined on the butt of the gun, watching with relish as Rumpelsteiger, Bae, and their cronies pleaded for unearned mercy.

Emma bit the inside of her lip until she tasted copper. Hadn't he proven at this point that she'd been nothing but a fleeting amusement and useful instrument to be bandied about? Well, she was the foolish one, reviving her long-dead hopes like that. But even now, she could still try and bring about some kind of comeuppance, with or without these peons' blessing. Apparently no one else was going to stand up for the atrocities of the past. She'd always had the possibility of personal sacrifice in the back of her mind, and a couple days ago, she wouldn't have cared how things ended—as long as she took those stains against humanity down, too. But now there was also the possible matter of…her hovering hand stopped just short of cupping her still flat abdomen. No, it was too much to dwell on altogether. She would first do right by the dead—and her conscience. The future after that blurred; she needed to take on a single dilemma at a time.

"Put a cork in it, Mills," Emma declared suddenly, ending the other woman's still-ongoing tirade. "If I've got a choice, I'm staying on."

"What?!" Killian and Graham spluttered.

The cigarette fell right out of Regina's mouth. "You…want to continue your mission?"

An almost eerie calm had descended over Emma, and she took out her compact and lipstick for an unnecessary touch-up, hoping she was pulling off a casual manner. "Naturally. I'm a professional on the up-and-up, and I want to see this through to the end."

"So you're a businesswoman now?" Regina sneered.

Emma shrugged. "I take pride in my work, whatever the field. And even you practically said it—you need me in there."

Killian slammed his fist down on the chair arm, making them all jump. "No! I refuse—I forbid this."

Regina rolled her eyes. "On whose authority, Jones? She's made her choice, nobody's forcing her."

"It's nothing but a death sentence, going back in there," he hissed.

"That's her prerogative."

Emma stared daggers at him. "Doubting my abilities now, too, Agent Jones?"

Killian ignored that, turned his furious glare on Graham. "Humbert?"

Graham studiously rubbed at a spot on his trousers, not meeting Killian's gaze. "You know how I feel about this, Killian. But Reg—Agent Mills is correct: the way things lie now, it's Miss Blanchard's right to go or stay."

"And I'm staying!" Emma reiterated.

"Swan, be reasonable," he said. "This is all still new to you, and the—"

"Don't speak to me as though I'm a child, Hook," Emma said coldly. "I know what I'm agreeing to."

Regina gave a fake-sounding cough. "Though you're complying with how I've wanted all this to play out"—she flashed a triumphant smile to Killian and Graham—"I am curious." She gave her cigarette a flick. "Why do you even care, Miss Blanchard?" she asked in a bored tone. "You're not a Jew, Slav, or gypsy, you didn't have any family killed in the War—none you know of, anyway. Well?"

"Why?" Emma stared back at Regina, feeling her fury mount epically fast. "Because despite what your organizations thinks of me as—a whore, a handy tool—I'm in this now for all the innocent people these—these lunatics exterminated back during the war. The ones caught and killed in the crosshairs, like Elsa, whom no one else seems to give a flying fig about! I'm doing this so a hullabaloo like that won't happen again, anywhere! I don't give a fuck what else they've planned for the world or if both American and British governments simultaneously explode tomorrow! I may not be the kind of savior they show in the pictures, Agent Mills, but a real savior doesn't do something with profit in mind—I was young once, I know all the fairytales. So I'm sticking with it, but damn your reasons."

She stood up a little straighter, pulled at the bottom of her suit jacket. Regina was stunned silent and looking sufficiently shocked enough for Emma to exit on a high note. "Now, if you'll excuse me—the lot of you wretches—I ought to get back to hindering the plans of a resurging Third Reich and"—she glanced quickly at Killian—"spreading my legs for my Nazi husband." Killian and Graham stood automatically as she did. She gave a sharp nod to Regina, and brushed past an open-mouthed Killian without looking at him. "Good day to you all."

"Don't be getting a hero complex now," Regina snapped. "You muck this up, and I'll kill you myself."

"Regina—" Graham began warningly, but Emma had already flung herself out of that cloying atmosphere, stumbling into the street.

Emma didn't know where she was headed—certainly not back to the mansion—only knew that she needed to be alone for a quick second. She'd only made it a few buildings down from headquarters before a rough yank on her elbow found her with her back pressed against an alley's brick wall, facing an incensed-looking Killian.

She pushed at his unyielding chest. "Scram, will you!"

He kept a firm grip on her shoulders. "Just what the bloody hell d'you think you're up to, Swan?"

"I could ask you the same! Why—why didn't you stand up for my decision in there? I thought—"

"You mean support you offering yourself, essentially, as a lamb to the slaughter? Afraid I can't do that, lass."

Her hands tightened into fists; Emma waited until she was sure her voice wouldn't shake. "I thought you were on my side," she gritted out. "But it seems I was wrong, like I've been before." She tried for a casual shrug, though it came out like a forward slump. "Even if I survive only to be tossed back into the streets after the smoke clears, I've got a chance to make a difference. I suppose I shouldn't have expected any different—you're just like all the rest."

"The devil is that supposed to mean?" He fisted a hand in his hair. "Emma, you truly—"

"You don't believe I can help! Be honest, Jones, you were given an assignment and simply made the best out of the circumstances. You never took me seriously—I just happened to fit the attributes the government wanted, and you saw a skirt you could win over. You always knew what I was, Killian, but when you saw me for the first time after I married…well, I saw it in your eyes. Your toy was ruined. Whether I come through this or not, I'm going to be discarded—by the CIA, MI6, and you."

His touch gentled swiftly, enough that she could shove him off if she wanted to, but Emma kept her stance still and her indignant gaze firmly on him. He couldn't have looked more shocked than if she'd socked him in his pretty face.

"That's…that's not fair, Swan," he finally croaked out. "You can't really think that of me."

"Do I look like I'm funning you?"

Killian shook his head. "If I don't want you going back into that nest of vipers, don't you think I'd want you taken care of? I'm nothing if not—"

"A gentleman? Right, always a gentleman—I gathered that. I've also already told you I don't want your damn charity, or guilt, or what-have-you."

"I'll speak to Graham again, about post-operative arrangem—"

Now she did step away, moving towards the street again. "Do what you want. I'm not expecting anything except drawing the short straw in life, once again." She started walking, and turned when he remained silent. He practically had a stormcloud hovering over his head; his brow furrowed deeply and his eyes had gone the shade of cobalt.

She gave a haughty toss of her head, more flippant than she felt. In truth, her stomach sank. "Guess I'll see you next week. If I'm still alive."

Emma bent her head as she hurried along the pavement in a random direction. When she felt the tears start to run, she lowered her head to avoid strange looks from passersby. Once it became clear from a lack of mirroring footsteps that Killian hadn't followed her, she ducked into the next alleyway she came across, pressing her forehead to the stones.

What to do? She chanced a slide of her hand against her stomach. If luck was on her side for once, she would be free and clear before she started to show. Then maybe…maybe she could go straight to Graham and appeal to the obviously tenderhearted agent, and pass off the baby as Baelthazar's. Surely he would take pity on her, would probably be horrified that she'd been left in such a state from the mission and in wanting to keep things quiet, set her up in some nondescript suburbia to roost. Just her…her and Killian's child. A reminder of how it had felt, however briefly, to be in love. Good god, now wasn't the time to start getting sentimental. She could handle this, had handled worse. She didn't need a man, especially some international man-about-town like Killian, staying with her out of pity.

She pushed that niggling little voice in the corner of her brain away, the one that kept echoing a variation of Killian's words: "That's not fair. You're not being fair."

He trudged back to Headquarters, dragging his feet as though they each weighed a ton. It was a small comfort to swing the door open and find Regina gone. Graham was hunched over the desk, re-filing the findings they'd discussed that afternoon. He looked up.

"Killian? What's happened, man? You look as though you aged as much in ten minutes as the 70 year Glenlivet in my hidden drawer."

Killian ran his good hand down his face. "She's the most bullheaded wench I've ever known."

Graham attempted a pursed-face disapproval befitting a senior agent. "You got involved, and it's gone south. Well, you knew—"

Killian held up a warning finger. "Don't, mate. I'm warning you. I haven't said a word about your liaison with the she-demon; don't rub my face in this."

His co-agent dropped into the chair across from him. "I'm sorry, Killian. Really, you got on so well for months. I s'pose a situation like this is enough for any—"

"She hates me," Killian burst out. "Believes I think her an imbecile, incompetent, and a disposable piece of arse." He stopped until the prickling in his throat subsided. "Nothing—nothing could be further from the truth."

Graham placed his chin on his palm, giving Killian a keen stare.

Killian scowled back. "What's your bloody problem now?"

"Do you love her?"

The other man let out a low sigh, fiddled with the left metal thumb. It was probably such a simple thing for any other two people, but he and Emma…he tried to explain as best he could.

"Humbert, I've…I've been alone a long time. Seen things and done things I'm not proud of. Risked my life without a care, because I'd already lost everything."

Graham nodded in understanding. The men had worked together almost since Killian had begun at MI6. Graham had learned most of Killian's backstory through the years and with plenty of patience and benevolence on his part.

"I haven't been living for anything, Humbert. Not for the job, not for extracurriculars, and especially not for any other person. But since I've known Emma…." He trailed off, was silent for so long Graham thought he was having a stroke of some sort.

"Killian? Since you've known Emma…what?"

"I've realized I haven't gone and become some completely empty, shriveled vessel. Because I couldn't feel…what I do for her if that was the case."

A/N: Hopefully this is somewhat cohesive & makes sense; been feeling off my game lately, but finally thought this part was ready.