Chapter 12 - Run

"I'm going to try to start running," Emma announces as she and August sit in his room, the only light coming from the glow of his computer screen as he writes something he'll probably delete in twenty minutes. Emma's legs are crossed on his bed and there's a plate of crackers sitting on her lap.

"I thought you were already a pro at that," he remarks.

"Very funny," she sneers, catapulting the last cracker she had in her hand in August's general direction. It lands gently and unobtrusively on his desk and he only chuckles before brushing it into his wastebasket. "I'm serious," she insists. "I think it's important for me, now more than ever."

"Emma." There's a stony undertone to his voice. He doesn't turn away from his computer to face her.

"August," she retorts.

He shakes his head and sighs. "This is getting ridiculous. You know that."

Emma feels herself bristle at his words. Her mind races for a minute. What's getting ridiculous? What does he know? He hadn't mentioned anything about the bandages that covered the wound on her jaw or wrapped around her ankle. He didn't even know she wasn't home last night. Or did he?

August Boothe has been the only solid foster brother she's ever had. She recalls group homes she'd been in as a kid, remembers the harsh words of older, equally lonely girls and eager-to-prove-themselves boys who would steal from her and never expected her to fight back. She always would spew equally stony words or throw an equally forceful punch. But never with August.

She hadn't trusted him at first and honestly, he never really gave her a reason to. They fell into each other's patterns as naturally as any real brother-sister pair. Their relationship included petty fights and meaningful hugs.

Recently that mood has changed. Emma has no one to blame but herself.

All she found herself thinking about all day was the way Killian Jones had played knight in shining armor. She was angry, she was relieved, and quite honestly she was totally smitten.

Damn his accent, damn his timing, damn the way his five o'clock shadow had brushed against her check and the way his fingertips fluttered against her skin.

She settles for asking, "What are you talking about?"

He finally turns away from his computer. Their voices are hushed considering the time of night, but August has a now familiar edge to his words. "Every time that pair comes around my father loses another year off his life. I guarantee it. Every time they knock on this door or enter his shop, they have nothing to find! There's literally nothing there, no sign of domestic abuse no violence, nothing. He's a good man, Emma. I keep thinking about this plan and it's stupid."

Emma flinches away, but understands the feeling in her foster brother's voice. "August, I want to help you guys stay safe. I want to make sure that my time here is worth something before I have to leave."

"I keep thinking about this plan," he repeats. "We're jeopardizing my father's entire damn existence. Why did I ever agree to this? Why did I listen to you?"

Her cheeks are on fire and Emma finds herself clutching fistfuls of the sheets on August's bed to tame the pulsing in her palms. "You're being ungrateful," she hisses.

"You continue to be impulsive, so pardon my –"

"I'm being impulsive? Your impulsivity got us in this mess in the first place!"

"I didn't have a choice. My mother was dying."

"You did have a choice and you chose –"

"Don't you act like you understand what it's like to see your mother in that condition, Emma. You have no idea."

She stares at him. Everything in the room is sharp angles and edges, the corner of his desk, the clench in his jaw, the rigidity of Emma's spine. She can feel impending tears as they swell up behind her eyes, never making way to the surface. She can feel this all to familiar feeling of being unwelcome in a home. She can feel the urge to run start to surface with more rapidity than the swelling of the sea during high tide.

They don't break their stand-off, this staring contest they've engaged in. Emma gives August a nod of finality. It screams I'll leave, I understand.

And she does.


The door closes with a click behind her as Emma steps out onto the stoop.

August had told his dad he was sleeping at a friend's last night. Emma had overheard the conversation from the room she was staying in. It was muffled through the walls but she could pick up on the hurried tones nonetheless.

I'm going to stay there tonight.

That's fine.

I'm sorry, Dad.

I don't understand, August. I don't think I ever will.

I'm going to fix it.

She stopped listening after that.

Now she stands with a bandaged ankle and an unwavering determination to run herself into exhaustion. Her earbuds are in and some random song comes up on an uninspiring playlist she chose while she mindlessly got herself ready.

She stretches, grabs her ankle to lengthen her quads, pushes her palms into the brick railing of the stoop to stretch out the back of her calves. Her ankle tugs in an uncomfortable way, but she disregards it. It'll be fine.

She trots down the steps with as much conviction as she can manage. The song in her ears doesn't reach her thoughts, it just distracts her from her surroundings. It's a rookie mistake but she makes it anyway. It's an intentional ploy at distracting herself from her actual stupidity.

It's so distracting that she doesn't notice the car following her. She doesn't hear her name as Killian yells out the window, and it's why her heart jumps out of her chest when she feels a hand come down on her shoulder.

With a shriek, she whips around with a clenched fist. Her punch is thwarted by his defenses. His forearm comes up to block her punch and it sends her staggering back a few steps. One hand flies to her heart and the other tugs her headphones out of her ears.

"What the hell?" she gasps.

He just stares at her.

"Can I help you?" she manages.

He inclines his head towards the cop car a block behind them. "David's trusting me to come out here and get who knows what kind of information out of you. I need to put on the show for him, but honestly I just wanted to see you."

Her heart is still racing beneath her palm and she's not sure it'll slow down in the presence of Killian Jones. "Let's put on a show, then." She takes a step backward in a display of mistrust. It's not hard for her to fake considering the fact that she hasn't actually trusted anybody in a long time.

Except for August, but that's damned to hell now anyway.

Killian looks visibly hurt by her distance, but she takes another step back.

"What do you want, anyway?" she asks. Her question is genuine. She's not sure what the hell is going on in her life anymore.

"I don't know," he admits.

Another step back. "I can't give you answers for this case, Killian. I don't have any answers myself."

He starts to advance towards her, hands out in surrender. "Listen, Emma. I want to help you, I genuinely do. I'm not sure where this stands, I'm not sure where we stand –"

"We don't stand anywhere." Her voice is so toneless even she can hear how empty the statement is. It seems to take him aback and something changes in his gaze. He shakes his head slightly and frowns. The displeasure reaches his crystal blue eyes and clouds them with an emotion she hasn't seen from him before. It almost looks like betrayal. He continues to advance toward her and she continues backing away.

"Is this the way you want to play this?" he seethes, genuine anger lacing his normally honeyed accent. "Do you want to play this game?"

"I'm tired of playing," she admits. The adrenaline that started to race through her veins at his initial contact has started to speed up into a sprint. She can feel her heart as it pounds in her chest and it's fueling her stupidity more than ever.

Sprained ankle aside, she decides to turn around and run.

She runs through the pain. Her ankle is screaming at her as she pounds against the pavement in sneakers that haven't been replaced for years, as her ponytail smacks against the exposed skin on her back, as the late August sun pounds against her skin and causes her external temperature to match her internal one.

Everything feels on fire. Her emotions, her thoughts, her shoulder where Killian had touched her.

All she can hear now is the blood as it rushes through her ears. It's like everything is building up inside her and she can't control it. Her lies are a skyline of a ruined cityscape. Everything is crumbling in the setting sun and there's no strong foundation beneath to hold up the scraps.

When Killian reaches her and tackles her to the ground it barely breaks her daze. She feels the concrete scrape against the exposed skin of the entire right side of her body. Her shoulder is first, her elbow, her hip where her shirt has ridden up, her thigh, her anklebone. He turns her onto her back and his knees are on either side of her hips. She doesn't meet his gaze and chooses to stare at the clouds above her instead. She feels the tears stream down her cheeks and a sob builds up in her chest. Killian's hands have wrapped themselves around her wrists and he holds her against the sidewalk. She tries to hold the sound in but it bubbles to her lips regardless.

"Swan, what the bloody hell is happening?"

She shakes her head, her gaze trained on the sky. The sirens get louder as David pulls the squad car up next to them.

Next thing she knows she's handcuffed and in the back of the car. David is driving and Killian is in the passenger seat. Her shoulder is bleeding and the metal of the handcuffs is cold against her skin. Her heart still races and her mind still spins. Emma can't make sense of up from down as a new plan forms in her head.

She feels Killian's gaze the most, though, as he throws daggers at her from the rearview mirror.

She won't look at him.