A/N: Here's chapter two to finally answer those questions of how Emma is going to handle this very inconvenient situation. Though I do have to say that if this cliffhanger was already difficult to handle (looking at you sambethe 😉) then oooooh boy have I got some things in store for you.

Eternal gratitude to my two favorite internet people in the world: my betas acourtoftruelove and ofshipsandswans who turned this jumble of sometimes incoherent words into an actual fic.

Also major thanks to shady-swan-jones for her banner and all of the cool art that she is posting and will post on Tumblr!

Shit, shit, shit.

There went her cover.

Way to go. She definitely deserved the Private Investigator of the Year award. Stellar work.

Emma opened her mouth and filled her chest with air, only to release it again without an answer.

"Can I help you, lass?"

The question still hung in the air. What should she—could she—even answer?

Jones lowered his eyebrows, not content with the lack of response, of explanation.

The heat of his hand on her felt like it was two hundred degrees, his touch burning through her clothes and onto her skin. It was almost painful for how long it remained there, not moving, not leaving, just comfortably—for him at least—wrapped around her upper arm.

Emma shook her head, trying to shake the feeling of fumbling clumsiness. She smiled, flashing her teeth. "I'm sorry for bumping into you. I don't know where my head is today."

He tilted his head and Emma internally berated herself for not being more convincing. For not being more prepared. He was not buying it and that put her in big trouble.

His head remained cocked, his messy eyebrows moving into a frown.

"You've been walking behind me for a while, I feel."

She needed to get out of here, to run as fast and as far as she could. But his hands were still on her, locking her into place, preventing her from dashing away. Running would also completely blow her cover; if he saw her following him again, his suspicion would not only grow but be confirmed and she'd be compromised. How on earth was she going to explain that to her boss?

It was out of the question, for both her own pride and reputation, and for the clause she'd signed as part of her contract. There was no room for failure, only for success, which left one option.

She had to lie. Had no other choice than to think of a plausible cover that would explain it all and maybe take Jones' wary look away. But what would do the trick?

"I'm sorry?" she said, apologizing for the second time in the span of a minute. Emma grimaced as she realized that too. "It's just that— I—" Anything, just think of anything. "I have this feeling like I know you and I know that doesn't condone the stalking but I was trying to figure out why I'm having this feeling. You aren't a movie star, are you? A famous rock star?"

She was about to continue her list of possible—very impossible—professions he could have but it seemed the two options she'd given him had done their job.

He looked at her dazed.

"I'm guessing that's a no. I don't know where I could know you from, if that's the case. I mean, this is my first time in London and I doubt you spent a lot of time in Boston."

Take the bait, take the bait.

"I did actually." Every word came out more surprised than the last. Jones seemed surprised himself. If only he knew.

She was acting and it felt like the fakest thing ever, it felt like she was being obvious, like the over-expressive, melodramatic actors in daytime soaps the moment they discovered their wife had had an affair with their twin brother and she was now pregnant with no idea who the real father was. Shocked.

"What?"

He interpreted the question wrong and completed his own statement.

"Spend a lot of time in Boston."

"You did? Really?"

Of course, she knew this. She'd memorized his biography, up to every trivial fact like which Bostonian coffeehouse he frequented and what his order consisted of. She even knew where he lived. Close to where she used to. An odd thing their paths never crossed.

"Aye." Killian slowly nodded. "I lived in Boston up until last year. I moved back a couple of months ago."

"Huh." She let her lips form a smile that read something in the lines of this person is currently pleasantly surprised. "Guess it's not that far-fetched I actually know you from somewhere."

"I suppose not," he was forced to agree. "But you don't seem familiar, if I'm being entirely honest," he then said apologetically, his lips somewhere between a grimace and a smile.

"I don't really try to stand out."

She didn't like to stand out because it made her job easier, a shadow in the night, a flash of movement during the day; it left her subject unsuspecting, unguarded and it was the easiest way to gain information and to get the job done. She didn't like to stand out because that's what led to problems back in the foster system. Standing out led to being singled out, being ostracized from the group. It led to bigger kids stealing her dinner, taking away the few dollar bills she managed to save. In short, it led to heartbreak and hurt. Laying low was a tactic, something ingrained into her being, perhaps that's why she excelled at doing what she did. Maybe that was why she spent most of her life alone. Not lonely, per se, but alone.

And it was finally something that did not taste bitter in her mouth, that resembled the actual truth. This lying to his face, after the short amount of time she'd done it, was a whole different thing from spying on him from afar. She signed up for the latter, the former wasn't how she liked to do things, how she liked to handle her work.

Jones' eyes reflected the rays of light emitted by the sun, flecks of grey standing out in the sea of blue.

In an instant, a moment as fast as a fingersnap, she became aware of their unfortunate placement; it was as badly chosen as the place where the tween had picked out to take her selfie earlier. The irritation Emma had then experienced was now endured by other people, people trying to pass but they could not because of the blockage the two of them were creating. Jones seemed to come to the same realization as he apologetically smiled at some angry-looking people, his right hand delving into his hair to scratch the back of his scalp. Emma mentally added it to her list of information. Killian Jones had a tic, a tic which was quite adorable. She wouldn't add that last bit to her folder, though.

They looked at each other and the clumsiness of the people swerving left and right, the slight embarrassment due to the angry glares caused them both to hesitantly snicker, a connection forming through the shared amusement.

With resolution and completely in sync, they stepped out of the way, much to the content of the passersby. As soon as they did, the cacophony of the city fell away; only a subdued buzz remained as they fled away towards a small alcove of sorts. It wasn't more than a glorified dirty corner hidden from view, graffiti sprayed on the otherwise grimy walls, puddles of suspicious substances covering the floor. Not that she was paying attention to those, Killian wasn't either.

They were only watching each other in almost silence.

It brought a kind of intimacy, let the calm slowly descend onto the two of them. Two new lovers might search it, two experienced ones might treasure it, but Emma and Killian were neither. Far from it even.

They barely knew each other.

He barely knew her, they hadn't even talked for more than a minute.

So the intimacy was odd. Unsought.

"This is going to sound a bit forward of me," Killian finally broke the silence, "but would you like to continue this conversation in a place that's slightly more suitable and reeks slightly less of piss?"

There was no other acceptable answer but yes. Declining would mean she'd rather stay in a shady alley than go somewhere with him. Even though she didn't really owe him anything and she had every right to say no, it was quite an offensive thing to say. And nothing in his conduct or words had warranted such an insult.

"Yes. To the 'no piss' thing," she specified after a beat.

It may have sounded as a joke, a jest to add amusement but in reality, to Emma there was nothing humorous about it. It was Emma trying to backtrack, recede to a place where it was safe and where she could blend into the shadows again.

Killian perceived it as a joke. He rumbled a laugh before looking over his shoulder, scanning the street for any oncoming groups of tourists or traffic, and, after the briefest brush of his fingers against the edge of her hand, he led the way.

It was accidental, nothing more.

It was just to signal that he was leaving, nothing more.

All things she told herself but failed to convince her, did not manage to omit the tingle in her flesh his touch had generated.

There was no use to think about the reasons behind his actions. She didn't need to think about it, all she needed to do was follow him, continue and maintain a shallow conversation, end it with a friendly smile and an insincere "I hope we see each other again", and disappear; never to be seen again, never to encounter each other again. It would require a moment to collect her thoughts and strategize, come up with a new tactic to bring this assignment to a fruitful end but those were worries for later.

The thing she needed to worry about now was how to converse with someone she already knew everything about, someone who wasn't allowed to know anything about her. It didn't exactly leave a lot of room for a topic of conversation.

Lost in her own thoughts searching for a subject other than how hot the weather was today, she was too busy to pay attention to her surroundings or Jones. Emma's absent-mindedness resulted in her not seeing he had stopped moving in front of her and almost running into him again. Jeez, a second time would not only be embarrassing but also a testimony of pure clumsiness.

And she didn't require any additional unnecessary touches and even more tension, she'd had quite enough of that for one day.

He didn't speak or explain the sudden emergency brake situation that had just taken place, but twisted to face her. He stared at her. Only stared, his gaze scanning her face. It felt like a judgment, as if he was trying to figure out something but Emma hadn't the slightest idea what that might be.

"What?" she eventually settled for plain out asking, her curiosity and impatience getting the better of her.

It jostled Jones back to reality, his eyelids moving to blink away the hitch.

"Killian," he said. "That's my name." His head softly shook. "I realized I hadn't introduced myself yet."

"Oh!" Yeah, she hadn't thought about asking his name because she already knew. "Nice to meet you." Lifting her hand, she extended it towards him but as she did, the urge to retract came instantaneously. What if the feeling she'd tried to shake off earlier returned? This time, she couldn't hold static energy accountable or pretend it was just an itch. It was too late, however, as Killian's hand enveloped hers, a flood of warmth following.

She could attribute that to body heat, she supposed.

"I'm Emma."

She stopped there to retain a kind of simplicity, of mystery. It was better for him not to know a lot about her, but Killian thought differently as he raised his eyebrow and nodded at her to continue.

"Emma Swan," she completed begrudgingly.

The name—her name—brought a smile upon his face and Emma wanted to ask why, wanted to smile along before she remembered. No attachments.

"Swan?" he questioned. "Really?

An affirmative nod.

"What's yours?" she asked, perfectly aware of how she shouldn't already know it. But it was the normal thing to do when two strangers met for the first time.

"Jones," he replied. "Couldn't be more generic than that. Although, I could be named Killian Smith, but that wouldn't ring quite as good, I think." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Killian Jones is a good name."

"So is Emma Swan."

"Thank you."

They began walking again, a slow pace and now next to each other instead of Emma letting him leading the way.

"I once knew a chap called BJ Dickerson, that wasn't a good name."

"No way," she said in disbelief and when Killian nodded, she frowned. "Whatever his initials stood for, it could not have been worse than BJ Dickerson."

"I beg to differ," he said, trying to suppress his smile. "His parents called him Bachelor-Januarius. He wasn't even born in January. I don't think his parents were too fond of him, poor lad."

Emma couldn't help herself as she burst into laughter, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Killian stopped attempting to not laugh, his chuckle joining her giggle, the two sounds blending perfectly. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, she wiped them away with the pad of her thumb as she tried to compose herself and catch her breath.

Once she did and once they focused on walking again instead of laughing, she came to the pathetic conclusion that this was the first time she'd laughed—really genuinely laughed without any inhibitions—in quite some time. Long enough for her not to remember when or where or why. She should've expected that to happen seeing that she left all her friends back in the States.

Coming to a halt before a Pret A Manger establishment, Killian gestured with his head to propose entering to which Emma agreed. It was the afternoon, the peak hours of coffee-craving businessmen and women already gone so they were able to sit in a relatively calm environment. A young man greeted them and they both smiled in return.

The table they chose to sit at carried remnants of its previous occupants, some drops and crumbs scattered across its surface. Before sitting down, Killian reached for the napkin dispenser, grabbing two and swiping them across the table, getting rid of the traces and clearing it for them. His prosthetic motioned towards the chair opposite of him, inviting her to take a seat. Before he did too, he searched for a trashcan and disposed of the napkins.

It gave her some time to prepare, to take a calming breath and wipe her sweaty palms across her jeans as she went over the battle strategy again. It was one she was familiar with but it had been some time since she had utilized it, since she needed to. This resembled one of her bailbonds dates. The ones where she had to drag her words through a process of hemming and hawing, giving an altered, watered-down version of the truth while keeping it believable. The purpose now, however, wasn't to expose the target but to prevent herself from being outed by them.

"Would you like something?" Killian asked with a friendly smile when he returned.

"Umm," she thought for a second before answering, "A hot chocolate would be fine."

"Great, I'll be right back," he told her.

Another big difference with her past as a bail bondsperson; back then she acted as seductive as possible, bending her body the right way to sit and show off some cleavage, watching her date the right way by batting her eyelashes, pretending to get tipsy after two glasses of red wine (her alcohol tolerance was better than that). But nothing like that now, a hot chocolate was as far from being seductive as it could be.

When the steaming cups—hers the aforementioned hot chocolate, and his a plain cup of coffee—were placed on their table, Emma wondered for a moment why exactly she chose a warm beverage when it was sweltering hot outside. But she had never been the healthy juice cleanse kind of girl and, once she took a hesitant sip and the chocolaty taste coated her tongue, she forgot all about the outside temperatures and could only think of her tastebuds reveling in the taste. It was okay at best but she couldn't remember the last time she had taken the time to enjoy some.

God, why was she getting emotional about a cup of mediocre hot chocolate.

Killian drank from his cup as well, flinching. It would appear his cup was mediocre at best too. He grabbed the container of sugar that stood on the table and poured some into the black liquid.

"So what did you do back in Boston, if you don't mind me asking?" Emma asked, the comfortable silence not sitting well with her. It was too comfortable when it should be anything but.

He looked up from his cup of coffee, his expression open and kind, before he answered, "I did technical writing for an engineering firm."

"Sounds interesting."

He took a sip, the sugar clearly helping, before he shook his head with a tiny smile.

"It wasn't," Killian said, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. "I quit. I got sick of it all and I needed something new."

An idea formed in Emma's thoughts, a lightbulb in the center of her mind that gradually became brighter and brighter until it glowed ever so powerful and made everything so clear. How to respond, what to say, how to proceed.

"What company did you work for?"

She just met the man, some curiosity was allowed, was even expected. Conveniently, that granted her the opportunity to steer the conversation to where she wanted it to go, to subtly guide Killian to a place where her act was believable and unsuspicious. Innocent.

Emma let her head rest on her hand, her chin propped up on her palm and her fingers spreading across the apple of her cheek.

"It was called Spencer Mechanics," Killian answered.

"Really?" Her eyebrows rose. "I think I just figured out why you seem so familiar."

Well, she just came up with a story to explain why he seemed so familiar, but semantics. More or less.

"You have? Do share," he encouraged, slightly leaning closer in intrigue.

"A friend of mine once had a shitty temp job there and I came to her rescue with lunch sometimes. I probably saw you in passing a couple of times. I have a weird memory like that. Don't ask me what I ate for lunch two days ago, but faces often stick."

She could see him considering it—her story—for a moment, most likely wondering if it wasn't too much of a coincidence, but dismissed the matter after having thought about it for a moment of silence.

"I apologize for not remembering yours," he spoke again. "It's a face worth remembering."

Emma suddenly wished she hadn't ordered a hot beverage but a cool one instead so she could cool her body down, rub the cold condensation against her heated, red cheeks. Why is she getting so flustered over small things and comments? Jesus. She had been flirted with before, so why was Jones different?

The answer wasn't difficult to find, all she had to do was look up and there it was, visible in the way his eyes exuded sincerity and authenticity and the small smile that followed, as if the comments weren't made to get something but simply to tell her, to make her aware of how things were from his point of view. A genuine compliment without any ulterior motives. She had to admit that had been rare in her previous experiences.

She didn't want to be flustered, but she definitely was right this minute and Killian saw it too, a little cocky smirk appearing on his lips and then immediately disappearing again as he widened the distance between them again by leaning against the back of his chair.

"Do you like living in London?"

"I'd say so. Moving here was pretty hectic, however, I've been here barely three weeks and there are so many things to take care of."

Rent, for one; money, her dollars wouldn't get her far here; transport, she felt the loss of her beloved bug.

"It's a big transition, isn't it?" He nodded sympathetically. "I'm from here and it was still quite an adjustment for me."

"Did you live in the States for long?" she asked before drinking the last of her beverage and placing the cup back on the table.

Seven years.

"About seven years," he confirmed her information.

"That is a long time." Her eyebrows shot upwards in something fluctuating between agreement and appreciation.

Killian shrugged before shifting the focus back onto Emma. "How long are you in London for?"

"A couple of months. It all depends on how much my boss likes the work I do." That was true, Jones just didn't need to know what exactly it was she did.

"What do you do?"

She should've seen that one coming, fuck.

"Oh, I don't want to bore you with it."

She waved it away, a fearful smile appearing on her face. It wasn't more than a slight arch to hide the way she was clenching her jaw.

"You wouldn't," he assured her, lowering his head to meet her eyes, a sign he was a good listener, a kind one at that. For once, she wished her date—he wasn't that but for lack of a better term he was—would only think about himself, talk about himself without asking about her, self-centered and selfish. Killian wasn't, however. "I'm interested."

Which was what she needed least, interest. In her and what she did.

"I'm um… what you would call a bail bonds person."

Killian blinked and shook his head simultaneously, both obvious signs of how he was taken aback by her profession—even though it was her previous one and not her current, but he didn't need to know that.

"Really?" he asked, yet again confirming his surprise.

Emma couldn't help that her answer sounded just that little bit prickly. "You sound surprised."

Her prickliness was justified, though. Because it was getting tedious and monotonous, the misogynistic air that hung around the oh's and really's and the you must be joking's.

Because everyone sounded surprised. Men especially. They thought women weren't powerful enough, were too emotional to succeed. It was why she was a bailbondsperson and not man. She was a woman. And a damn powerful one.

"Only because I've never met a bail bonds person before. How on earth could that ever bore me?"

"It all sounds really exciting but in the end it's more paperwork and boring stake outs than anything else."

She toyed with the empty cardboard cup of her hot chocolate, her fingernail denting the ridge before letting her hand compress it, until the cup was completely flat.

His eyes fell on the camera now safely stored in its bag and hung across the chair Emma sat on.

"I hope I didn't interrupt you during one." His features turned worrisome.

"You didn't," she reassured.

Lie.

"I was simply exploring a bit."

Lie.

"I haven't had the time yet."

Truth.

"You'd never come to London before moving here?"

"No," she admitted, shaking her head. "Sometimes it feels like I have absolutely no idea where I'm going. I'm just following the masses."

Emma assumed that they knew where they were going—at least vaguely. She just let the stream carry her, calmly floating along and she'd see where she would end up. Killian, however, clearly disagreed.

"You shouldn't! London is better than the masses make it out to be."

"If you feel inclined to be my personal tour guide, feel free to," Emma joked.

"Well, there's an idea." Killian smirked.

"I was joking," she explained, the panic rising inside. She was already regretting her words. Why did she have to say that and give him ideas? "I don't want to claim any more of your time."

"It's fine," he reassured and Emma wished he didn't. "I was going to go to the library but I wouldn't mind taking a stroll about the town."

A creature of extreme habit and he was altering his routine. Changing something almost set in stone. For her.

She didn't want to think about what that meant.

They stood up, their chairs scraping against the floor. Killian took Emma's crushed cup and his own, still in its original state, and threw them into the trash. She smiled to thank him while attempting to get that lightbulb in her head to work again, for it to provide another story she could use to her advantage and get out of this situation. But it stayed completely dark and so she followed him outside.

"Welcome to the real London, Emma Swan."

In the masses of the crowd, they disappeared together.

Fun fact: I actually know someone who is called Januarius and he wasn't born in January either. I hope you liked it! See you next Thursday!