When his car stopped short in the middle of the dingy town, engine clanking pitifully before giving up on its life with a dismal hiss and huff, Killian Jones swore under his breath. Quite colorfully. He cursed the very second he had passed the town limits, bloody country fields and forests surrounding him all the bloody way.
It was because of her ― all because of her.
She was the reason he was currently job-less, car-less, and walking down what was probably the only main street in all of Storybrooke.
That damn, bloody shrew of a woman.
Milah had literally picked his bones apart after that article. And goddamn it, something deep in the marrow of his bones ― perhaps a writer's natural instinct? ― had ticked out in warning, cautioning him not to rely on some mad, wearing-a-hat-in-the-middle-of-summer drunk in a bar. Well, at least not for a reliable source for an article in the New York Times.
But, like a bloody damn fool, he had. The hurt lodged deep in his blood and bile, biting back at the atrocities he had suffered at the hands of the fickle female kind, had decided for him. Seeing Milah so happy with Robert Gold again, their nauseatingly perfect relationship thrust in front of his face every time he strode into the office to report daily for work...
Absolutely nauseating.
It stank vilely to still hold a torch for your ex-wife ― who also happened to be your boss and a hell of an editor.
Still, reading glasses fixed on the bridge of his nose, pen in hand, typewriter by his side, tablet in its case inside his messenger bag, Killian Jones would quietly simmer inside his cubicle, typing or scribbling away (depending on his mood), growling under his breath when interrupted untimely during a certain spark of inspiration.
Bloody hell, who was he kidding? He hadn't been truly inspired by anything since before Liam died. Hah, if only dear Mom and Dad could see him now, writing nonsense for a boring column in the world's most intrepid newspaper.
They would have mutual heart attacks on the spot. Or at the very least, casual strokes.
Liam, on the other hand, would have been proud of Killian no matter what he had published. That was his best, older brother ( only brother), always looking out for him.
But he was gone. Buried. And decayed, if nature had anything to say about it. For someone who had spent most of his life at sea, Liam had requested he be put in a land grave, so their grieving parents ― and little brother ― could always find him.
Finishing journalism school, getting his degree in English, landing a gig at the New York Times...those all were dreams come true for Killian. He still had the first two, but the last one had been flushed down the toilet just because an annoying blonde with striking commitment issues, a flair for defiance, and the tongue of a harpy had to contact the bloody editor of the entire paper and submit a formal complaint.
Even if her reply was pretty damn snippy, it was also pretty damn good, even by his standards. Though he'd never admit that to anyone. Emma Swan emitted sparks through her words, caustic and sarcastic and bitter and bloody brilliant .
It had made him even more depressed, lonely and alone in his empty apartment with only his cat as a companion, that someone so inexperienced had more talent and life than he did, a veteran of the art of writing with years of practice under his belt.
Milah had said her cause for a retraction was utterly justified, legally and morally, and that Miss Swan was within her rights to sue both Jones and the company. So, in accordance, the company had fired him, sent a letter of apology to the lass, and cleaned up their shoddy mess within a fortnight.
Oh, the glory of typeset print. Journalism rule #1: When you fabricate your facts, you get fired.
Killian had tried blaming Jefferson for his tipsy story, where the man blamed humanity and Emma Swan for his latent splurge in alcohol and a sparse bed. A bit of an idiot, really, and a typical wanker when he spoke despairingly of his failures.
But of course, Killian Jones himself was fully responsible for the misogynistic approach of his column, not some flailing low-life who knew nothing about women.
Aye, Jones knew everything about that treacherous species.
Perhaps the monotony of his assignment had been his channel for revenge, his way of getting even with the one woman he had fallen in love with, married, and then divorced ― only to see her marry her former boyfriend and live happily ever after with him and his son.
Bloody fucking perfect, it was.
Ah, Robert wasn't that bad of a man. In fact, in another life, they could have been friends, both clever and cunning and having a way with words. The man was a bloody genius at times, calming the storm that was Milah while producing enough vibrant imagery and style in the imagination department to keep the juices running in the multi -story high skyscraper.
This was all Gold's damn idea. Seek out the truth, document it, write a real article based on first-hand and second-hand knowledge, and then publish it. And get his job back.
Vindication.
Such a thrilling four-syllable word.
Killian hadn't signed up for this crap when he had glanced at the faded photograph in Jefferson's hand, a stunning blonde siren grinning at him with mischief and seduction in her stare at the camera. He hadn't signed up for chasing one ridiculous story about a village-like town, when some of the roads were still dirt.
He must have been drunk when he thought that the notion of a runaway bride was appealing material for a rant about women's infidelity and caprice. His mistake, as Milah had so charmingly pointed out, was putting that diatribe on the secondary pages of one of the world's most respected publications.
It was with a heavy heart that Killian put on his shades, abandoned his car, and searched for a local car shop, praying that word of his humiliation wouldn't travel "down the grapevine" and reach the ears of Miss I-Almost-Got-Married-Three-Times before he had caught a glimpse of her.
Damn wench.
Those anger management classes had been such a good choice when he'd had weeks of vacation and nothing to do. Such helpful backup.
Because his introduction to the infamous Emma Swan had been not quite up to his expectations, and he was currently having a spot of trouble handling the aftermath, though he'd never pictured a warm reception.
Scratch that. It had been a bloody catastrophe.
Though the car mechanic had been downright affable ― giving Killian an affordable estimate, pointing out the local attractions, recommending the only hotel in town, mentioning the names of the folk in high places just so Killian would know exactly whom to complain to if he ended up murdered in his bed ― the most interesting tidbit Killian had gleaned from the man was that he, of all people, was Emma's first groom-to-be. Delightful bloke, that Neal Cassidy. He even told Killian which shop Emma worked in and what kind of vehicle she drove.
That was how he had found himself staring at a hardware store, which looked decent enough, hours posted in black and white and a second-grade exterior. Then the sign "I'll be back soon ― in It's a Fairy Tale Salon" registered in his mind's eye, and he had to hold back more than one snigger at the thought of Emma the man-eater being a "handyman" and a beauty queen to boot.
When he'd entered the salon, her best friend Mary Margaret had taken charge of the conversation, a sort of regal air about her as she'd had the nerve to interrogate him for asking about Swan, even deducing that he was a reporter from one look at his shoes. Thank God he'd packed two other, different pairs that didn't sport tassels. With a pixie haircut and pale complexion, Mary could be the spitting image of Snow White, loyal to a fault and as fierce as a warrior under that dainty, semi-polite attitude when she'd nicknamed Killian Jones "an asshole" without realizing it was he who was responsible for Swan's national popularity right now. At the time, he'd withheld his name, hoping it would work well enough to serve his purpose.
And no one had recognized him at first, which was surprising. He'd imagined they'd have a poster cut-out of him with his cardboard head fixed on a spike.
Of course, before the woman had gotten around to saying anything important, the rest of Emma's girly group just had to flock over to him and pass their names and information: Ruby Red Lucas, a regular flirt of a girl who was eyeing him the way children gaped at candy as she held onto his hand for quite too long, and Widow Lucas, who seemed utterly bored with her granddaughter's wolfish antics. They were both getting manicures and pedicures ― which they'd described in great detail ― and as soon as he'd worked up enough courage to state that he was writing an article about Emma Swan, they'd all started throwing facts and dates and "how the New York Times had screwed up" at him.
Emma Swan was currently engaged to groom number four, the high school sports teacher. He had tried hard not to laugh aloud at that. The wedding was in two weeks, and she was―
Beautiful was all he could think when she'd risen up from underneath the swivel chair she'd been fixing, silently listening to her social circle gabble on and on about her as if she weren't there, until she was ready to interrupt them. Or perhaps that had been the point. Nevertheless, he'd been quite cross with himself, hating his body's stupid reaction to the vision before him. Golden curls askew and grease on her shirt, she still was just as fatally attractive as Jefferson had said, green eyes glaring at him for a moment before the brightness faded and dulled. A pity ― he did so love a challenge.
Oh, how he would miss his naïve, primitive appreciation of her appearance minutes later after the little spitfire had tricked him into allowing Mary Margaret to dye his hair lurid rainbow colors, revealing her deception at the very end of the process ― that she had known who he really was all along, fed him an interview full of false answers, and deliberately destroyed his dark locks so he could be the laughingstock of the town. Bloody, bloody hell.
He hadn't been the least bit ashamed to duck his tail between his legs and walk out the door, buying a hat from a kid named Henry for five bucks and then searching for the nearest drugstore, thoroughly livid and more convinced that ever that Emma Swan was a goddamned, man-hating viper.
"The drugstore's that way, Mr. Jones," advised a very familiar voice. Smirking at him, Emma Swan slowly put on her sunglasses while smugly crossing her arms over her chest. Oh, so she thought she'd won the bloody war, did she?
Fuming inside, Killian spat out, "Good for you ― I can count the number of people who've bested me on one hand."
Her eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips. "Did you come here with the sole intention of ruining my life more? Because you already accomplished that with your damn flipping article, so you'd be wasting your time."
He rolled his eyes, his arms dropping at his sides. "God, woman ― I came here for vindication , not to fulfill your self-centered fantasies." Daring to approach her at a closer range, he sneered, "You may have gotten me fired, lass, but I know that I'm right about you. You're a true androgynist, chewing up your many admirers and then spitting them out, aye?" He leaned into her personal space until he was certain he was making her uncomfortable. "Driving men crazy and then tossing them to the side is your cup of tea, love. And I aim to prove that. The right way. You're going to do that to this poor schmuck number four ― you're going to run again ― and I'm going to be here when you do."
She actually had the nerve to blow raspberry at him, snorting loudly. "Good luck with that. Anyway, I'd love to stay and chat, but unlike you, I still have my job..." Gracing him with a fuck you smile, she lazily strolled down the street, her lithe figure outlined even in the baggy pants and t-shirt she was wearing. One guy on a bike nearly collided into the nearest post when she mockingly swayed her hips.
Killian groaned, pulling the bucket hat even further down on his head. First stop: strong shampoo ― and a long shower in that damn hotel. Second stop...
A grin struck his lips, widening until it became quite infectious, following his train of thought with malicious intent.
Oh, Swan may have won this battle, but as for the next one...
She wouldn't know what had hit her. Bulls-eye.
"You invited him to stay for dinner? " Emma shrieked in a half-whisper.
Graham grabbed her shoulders and rubbed them soothingly. "It was the polite thing to do, sweetheart ― the man truly wants to make amends by understanding the full story ― your story." Then he ducked his head, his cheeks reddening. "Besides, your dad's really taken a shine to him."
From his hiding place behind the kitchen wall, Killian smirked, tiptoeing as inconspicuously as possible back into the living room, where Emma Swan's father was sampling a second glass of the wine he'd thought to bring along with his rife apologies.
George had bought it all, hook, line, and sinker. He'd invited Killian into his home, introduced him to Cora, Emma's adoptive grandmother, and even made fun of his own daughter, loud and clear.
Well, adopted daughter. Turned out he and his late wife never could have children, and they'd taken in Emma Swan when she was ten. Ever since then, Emma's boy troubles had manifested themselves early...starting with her high school sweetheart and "partner-in-crime," Neal. After she graduated with top honors, she'd been accepted into a high profile college of interior design. What Killian couldn't figure out was why she came back to some bumbling village in the middle of Maine to work in her father's store when her post-secondary education had been, according to her family, thriving and exemplary.
As for Graham Humbert, "poor schmuck number four"... He didn't sound like that bad of a man ― when he didn't sound like such a clueless idiot. "I'm taking Emma trekking up Kilimanjaro for our honeymoon," he announced proudly, pounding with the rest of them in unison at the crabs they were eating.
When Killian's mallet flew out of his grasp, it nearly hit Graham's dog, Wolf. Such a creative bloke , he'd told himself as he bent down to retrieve the small wooden tool. "How romantic," he drawled out instead, letting his tone be purposely sarcastic.
Emma heard it immediately, giving him a look of reproach. "I think it is," she snapped, giving Graham a sweet, loving smile before leaning in to kiss him on the mouth.
Internally, Killian gagged. "Oh yes ― nothing more romantic than fending off lions, trudging up ice, and dealing with hoards of mosquitoes, not to mention sharing your wedding bed with a bunch of natives in the same tent."
George was guffawing so hard, he nearly spit out everything he was chewing. Cora, on the other hand, just gave him a cold, assessing smile before returning to her slow consumption of her meal. Graham acted like he didn't hear Killian's retort at all, kissing his fiancé back with too much vigor for the dinner table. Coward.
Recovering, Emma's father commented, "It's a wonder I've been able to pay for so many weddings, actually. Emma may not be Storybrooke's longest running joke, but she is certainly the fastest." No one joined in when he chuckled at his own jest. "I even still have the last wedding cake in the freezer."
"Well, you're not paying for this one," Emma interrupted, her hands clenched into fists. Graham squeezed one of them sympathetically, but she didn't relax her stance. "This one's on me."
The glimmer of tension Killian noticed between the two was enough reason for him to make his excuses while he got up from his seat, retreating to the living room. And he thought his family had had problems.
Fortunately, he recalled a remark George had made when he was asking for details about all three weddings. You can see them for yourself ― she's got the whole train wreck on tape, the man had revealed, indicating one videocassette hidden on the side of the television.
Bingo, Killian whispered to himself, adeptly slipping the tape into his messenger bag. Now we're bloody getting somewhere. There was nothing Killian loved more than the thrill of a story.
After staying up half the night to watch each short video of the bloody weddings again and again, amusing as they were, his compass for putting this shoddy piece together finally had a definite direction. So when he woke up with the dawn, it was to the bakery he went, eager for some classic breakfast.
No more dawdling and moaning and sitting around. He had real work to do today.
Emma Swan really hated Killian Jones. Really, really hated him. Seriously, if she could impale him on the end of a sword right now with the promise of not going to jail afterward, she would do it. Then Ruby had eviscerated that lovely dream by slyly suggesting that a real woman ought to reverse that situation by impaling herself on what that "damn sexy bite of man" had to offer.
The very image had made Emma sick to her stomach, and she had abruptly hung up the phone on her friend without another word. Instead, worried about what steps he would take next to blacken her reputation, she had barely managed to shower in the morning and put on some clothes before she was racing out the door to track him down.
And track him down she did. God, it was ten times worse than she thought.
The manipulative bastard was laying down his charm (whatever the hell that really was) thickly and surely, winning hearts and smiles wherever he went. It didn't matter if he was moderately good-looking ― moderately ― or that he had a talent for twisting words to his own benefit. In less than eight hours, he'd visited the bakery, where Ruby was waiting for him on bated breath with cinnamon rolls and extra fresh coffee and a mega-watt smile that screamed "call me". He'd made snide comments about the decorations for Emma's wedding cake, smirked in her face, and vowed that he wasn't about to follow her about town. With one raised eyebrow as he'd breezed out the door, it was obvious he had plans.
She made it her business to find out what he was up to.
Next was the school grounds, where Graham had not only given him a team t-shirt and a full-blown discussion of her virtues ― he'd also invited her mortal enemy to her wedding. Great going, she'd groaned inwardly when her fiancé had drawn her into a hug before giving her a ride atop his shoulders. Killian was already long gone by then, no doubt laughing his heart out at her mortification and embarrassment.
The idea of Walsh finding his vocation in God after swapping saliva with her was the most ridiculous thing ever, in Emma's eyes. Jones was nowhere to be seen when she stopped by the only Catholic Church in town, sneaking into the confessional in an attempt to get some much-needed counsel from her second fiancé about her dreams of vengeance concerning one roguish ex-reporter. Instead, he had patronized her, as all priests and minsters and "men of God" were apt to do, and she'd called him out on it. The result wasn't so pleasant, and it had taken some effort to get the red-faced pastor to calm down. However, after squeezing as much information from him as she could, they'd managed to make peace again, and she'd caught a glimpse of the kind-hearted, quiet man she once was supposed to marry. Then the feeling was gone. Well, that is, after he had managed to wrangle an apology and a promise out of her that she'd never do something like this ― taking advantage of his religious services ― again.
However, watching Killian have buddy-to-buddy time with Neal in person, chortling and joking around as if they'd known each other for years... Emma had finally seen red. Especially on viewing the photo Killian was waving about gleefully, admiring what he called "tantamount to public indecency." Hey, she had been young and drunk and stupid when she'd stripped in front of a traffic jam of people on the highway, all wanting to go to the same rock concert as she and her friends had. It wasn't the world's greatest sin.
But worse yet, Jones had made a mountain out of a molehill and refused to return the evidence to her unless she revealed whether or not she still had her rose tattoo ― the one Neal had practically forced her to get when they were dating. Neal bet she still had it, of course ― because he did.
The look on his face when she revealed it was a stick-on and not the real thing, muttering some lame excuse about a fear of needles, tore her into pieces. Killian Jones, however, had acted like a kid on Christmas Day, happily dropping the photo down to her while he reveled in the mournful tune her first lover was playing on his electric guitar. She had argued with Neal, pleading with him that he was happy with Tamara now and that was all in the past. He hadn't listened. To add insult to injury, Killian had stroked the poor guy's ego by commiserating with him on the "fickleness of women."
In the end, unable to cheer Neal up, she had left in a huff, going back to the store in defeat.
Though Mary Margaret had insisted she not take all of this so seriously, soothing her frustration with rational arguments, Emma had been very bothered that Killian was literally befriending everyone in town, even going so far to give a light concert with Mayor Regina Mills and Sheriff David Nolan (Mary Margaret's husband) outside the hotel. When she had passed by in her old Ford pickup, scrutinizing the devil himself with unspeakable fury, he'd only smirked mischievously at her as he kept on strumming his guitar, not faltering once as the beat of the trio's song went on without fail, entertaining the countless number of residents who stopped by to have a listen. It hurt even more when her best friend herself said how amazing it was that Killian was such a great people person, making friends so easily ― and that he played pretty well, too.
The whole niggling experience had made her realize that maybe she needed to rethink her strategy for this. There had to be something she could use to her advantage, some ploy she could try that would break the asshole's determination completely by negating his confidence. Who the hell was he to judge her, some city boy who'd never really worked a day in his life, some pampered moron who had nothing better to do than to nitpick at her mistakes and not analyze his own?
Well, she still had the upper hand yet. Killian Jones could believe himself to be the greatest smart aleck of them all, classy and cool when he put on his reading glasses and trapped people with their own words, but she was Emma Swan.
No good-for-nothing pirate who stole information, discredited his sources, scribbled out some fucking tirade, and then turned her own family against her was going to win this fight.
He was going to hell. And she was going to be the one to drag him down.