A festive interlude before things get messy.
25. 'tis the season: this might just be the first Christmas Killian has spent at home.
Christmas. A mercenary's least favorite time of year.
Something about the inherent joy of the holiday season tends to put people's hearts at ease, and people with eased hearts are, on average, far less likely to commission murder. It must be something to do with the general merriment, generous libations and liberal gift giving.
Whatever it is, for this reason December is considered 'slow season' for assassins. Typically, that is.
If you're particularly good at your job, December is no different to any other month.
For example: the past two years have seen Killian spending the holidays chasing down intel before a big hit. It's really too bad that people in his line of work don't have a union. If there were, he'd have already penned a very strongly worded formal request for penalty rates. As there is no regulation agency for mercenaries, Killian can do nothing but cross his fingers and hope the holiday season this year will stave off any jobs.
He's actually fairly optimistic this year.
His last job was fulfilled two weeks ago (Swan is still salty about it), and since then Gold has had nothing for him. It seems like he's actually going to have the time to settle into a hotel for the long weekend.
Thursday rolls around and, walking through the snow-dusted streets of Manhattan, he feels something like anticipation. Not that he has any gifts, or really anything of importance to do, but it will be nice to just sit in his room, eggnog in hand, and watch the seasonal programming. He makes his way to Fairytale Refreshments out of habit.
The doorbell rings as he enters and his eyes zero in on a familiar blonde head.
She glances over at the sound and catches sight of him. She's at the front of the line, midway through ordering, and he makes his way over to her (much to the irritation of the line of customers behind her).
"Can I add a chai latte to that order?" she asks, just as he sidles up to her.
The barista smiles and nods. Killian follows Emma to the waiting area at the other end of the counter.
"Buying me drinks now, Swan?"
She comes to a stop and turns to give him an incredulous look, "You think I'm paying for it?" She holds out a hand, "I did that for convenience – cough it up."
The indignant expression he pulls is half-arsed and he knows it, rooting around in his pocket for the change. When he finds it, he slaps it in her hand, "Convenience?"
"You're telling me you wouldn't have gotten shitty if I'd made you wait in that line?" she asks, gesturing to the steadily growing line of people waiting patiently for their turn to order. He trails it with his eyes: it appears that his favorite coffee house is no longer his 'little secret.'
His feigned annoyance disappears quickly and by the time he turns back to face her again, he's wearing a smile.
"In that case, I owe you great thanks."
"You're welcome."
He doesn't think he should mention that she remembered his drink order.
Killian looks to the empty booth they occupy whenever they manage to cross paths here and taps her shoulder; "I can wait for our beverages if you would like to reserve our spot." She follows his gaze and hums her approval, whirring on the spot to maneuver her way across the room and into the cushioned side of the booth. When he has both takeaway cups, he starts for their corner.
He lifts his cup to his mouth and – it's not his cup.
But it's not coffee either.
Killian licks his lips and considers the sweet flavor. He reaches their table and hands her the cup of questionable liquid, sitting opposite her as he washes it down with his own drink. That's when he recognizes the cinnamon edge to what he thinks was a hot chocolate.
"You didn't get your usual order of watered coal?" he asks.
Emma narrows her eyes, "You tried some of my drink?"
He lifts both hands in supplication, "Not intentionally."
That doesn't change the look on her face and she tilts the cup back for a long moment.
She licks her lips when she finally pulls it away and shakes her head, "I don't drink coffee at Christmas. Not without reason, anyway."
Killian smirks, "Getting into the holiday spirit with a warm cocoa and was that cinnamon?"
"Gives it a nice kick, don't you think?"
He nods, sips at his drink.
"Thought you didn't like sweet drinks."
"It's the only concession I make to all of this," she gestures vaguely to the garlands decorating the shop, an undercurrent of disdain in the way she does. He frowns and quirks his head to one side, studying. When she catches him, she gives him the universal expression for 'what' and he smiles.
"I should have pegged you as a Grinch."
"Fuck off."
"What's not to like about Christmas?"
"What's to like?"
Killian barks a short laugh.
"You mean other than the idea of curling up with a good book and some eggnog in front of a roaring fire?" he says incredulously.
She just keeps staring at him, waiting for an answer. It would be unsettling if he didn't know her so well; the curves and edges that make up the enigma that is Emma Swan, deadly mercenary. Instead, he feels sad for her. Maybe it's because he knows she never rhymes without reason. Maybe it's because he wonders what could possibly have happened to make her hate this time of year. Maybe it's because he thinks it has something to do with her life-long isolation. After all, it's hard to enjoy a family holiday when you have no family.
He would too, he supposes, if he didn't still remember his time with Liam fondly.
His amused expression dies a bit and she opens her mouth to say something when there are two sharp beeps. His pocket vibrates and he reaches for his phone, pulling it out and praying it isn't what he thinks (knows) it is. Glaring at the table top, he waits for the message to load as he unlocks his phone and registers Emma working on her phone as well.
She has a similarly begrudging look on her face.
As the screen finally loads, he takes in the picture and accompanying information followed by the reward sum. He sighs, looks up and meets her gaze.
"Jordan Meiers?" he says soberly.
Emma nods, "Yup."
"From Indianapolis?"
"The very same."
They both sigh and empty the last of their drinks. At the same time, they set them down on the table and lock eyes again.
They must look like children when they finally move, a flurry of limbs as they slide out of their seats and shove their way towards the door in an unspoken race. They part ways once they're out, but he definitely looks over his shoulder to check her progress jogging down the street.
8888
Twelve hours later, they're fighting a path towards their target: a mafia magnate with some sour customers on the higher end of the socio-economic spectrum. The bastard should have known better than to make enemies of rich people.
Really, in the mafia you would figure that kind of thing was a given.
That doesn't concern Killian or Emma though, as the two ultimately corner him. He has the first shot but "misses". It's his last bullet and she looks at him suspiciously. In response, he shrugs and grins.
"Merry Christmas," he says nonchalantly, walking away before she's even finished the job.
She catches up to him in the escape, walking fast down a corridor they don't belong in. At some point, he feels her nudge him in the ribs. He looks down and she's side-eyeing him with a smirk.
"You're welcome," he says.
8888
They find a warehouse several miles from the target's home. Far enough away that the authorities won't find them, and Killian finds a break room on the second floor: it is stocked with a microwave, coffee satchels, and an abandoned box of butterscotch fingers. The biscuits aren't past their expiry date and so, with a sense of satisfaction, he eventually makes his way back to Emma with two cups of black coffee and a plate of biscuits. It's not quite what he'd usually drink but it's warm and for her he'll make do.
She looks up from where she is wiping down her gun, picking at the handle grip, and beams.
Taking a seat on the opposite foldout chair, Killian hands her the second cup and sets the plate on the wooden box between them.
Steam rises off the coffee and his breath comes out in white wisps, but he's not that cold.
"Where'd you find this?" she asks around a butterscotch finger.
He gestures up, "Break room. Don't worry, I used my gloves."
Emma rolls her eyes, "Of course you did."
"Well you can never be too careful."
He watches her look around the large storage room, smiling gently to herself. In the distance, he can hear the fireworks begin to crack. The flashing lights don't reach them here but he feels a wave of something warm wash over him nonetheless.
"Sorry you didn't get your tree and eggnog," Emma says, staring at her cup.
He shrugs, "This is fine."
She looks up at him, a question in her eyes, and he grins. The one where he feels his eyes crinkle and he feels somewhat goofy. Strangely enough, she returns the expression. His heart squeezes, gentle warmth blooming in its absence.
"Good," is all she says.
He takes a sip of coffee to distract himself.
As the hour grows late and Emma falls asleep in her chair, Killian ponders the notion that home is a person and not a place.
He thinks there is some merit to the idea.
Reviews are Christmas gifts