I cannot express in adequate words how much I love you guys - but, just a warning, if you thought last chapter was a cliffhanger (oh, hon)...
July 2005
Laughter, the bright chuckling of content individuals tinkled through the ornate living room. It bounced around the high, elaborately carved ceiling, reverberating in the deep mahogany furniture and baroque fireplace. Purifying sunlight filtered in through the white rimmed-arching windows, casting an appealing glow about the room. Looking around it, Emma could almost forget just how much blood and broken bodies the Utopia was built on.
A part of her, a dark, selfish part of her, wanted her to do it – to forget and bask in the bliss that surrounded her. It was almost on the precipice of winning out, a fact that frightened her so much it gave her the courage to resist. So she did but forced herself to smile anyway as she fell back into the comfortable chair. Beside her, Neal was grinning as he sipped at a small glass of scotch.
His younger brother Charlie, a sixteen year-old tree with lanky limbs and a toothy grin, was folded into the armchair on Emma's other side. Opposite them, some business associates were seated, the woman's gaudy jewellery clinking together as she raised her glass to her painted lips. Nursing her own cup, Emma simply watched the exchange unfold.
"The funny thing is, it's true," Neal finished, his joke having run its course.
The male business associate shrugged as if to say 'what are you going to do?' and grinned, "If your goods are half as good as your jokes, we're going to get along quite well, Mr Cassidy."
"That's about as good as his jokes get," Charlie retorted, eliciting a snort of amusement from Emma. Neal sent her a dirty, albeit good-natured, look and she had to restrain a genuine smirk. Turning back to the male and female opposite them, he nodded.
"Well, I very much look forward to business with the two of you. If you don't mind, Jennifer and I have some business to attend to so," he lifted his hand in a polite signal to the door. A moment later, one of his guards was escorting them out as they wished him and his partner well. The blonde raised her eyebrows at him as they left, but Neal was turning to his little brother with a fond smile.
"You too, buddy. Jennifer and I have places to be and things to do."
Charlie rolled his eyes but nonetheless proceeded to extract himself from the comfort of the armchair, "That's just your euphemism for 'Jennifer and I are going to go have sex now.'"
Emma's eyes widened as a blush began to creep up her neck and ears, blooming on her cheeks as she stared abysmally at the floor. There was a groan from her left and she watched from her peripheral vision as Neal picked up a pillow and threw it at the teenager, who deftly caught it with a smug smile.
"Get out, Charlie," he growled and the boy tossed the pillow back at him.
"I'll see you two at dinner when you're finished. Try not to laugh too hard, Jennifer, he has a fragile self-esteem," Charlie said haughtily as he swaggered out of the room, winking at the mortified blonde as he left. And yet, despite her utter embarrassment, she felt a chuckle bubble up through her chest as he exited the room, leaving her alone with Neal.
From the moment they met, Emma and Charlie had hit it off – their mutual dry humour combining for some truly exquisite conversations. She'd been introduced to him a month or two earlier, an accident really. It had been her first night 'sleeping over' and she'd run into him in the hall on her way to the bathroom, wearing only Neal's white shirt (her mind screaming at her for what she'd just done).
Speaking to Charlie had actually calmed her down. He'd asked what she was doing there and gone on to joke with her about Neal and the wonders of the twenty-first century bathrooms. Taking an instant like to him, the kid's presence had been a constant source of normality and comfort amongst the shit-storm of the mission.
On her left, Neal groaned and buried his face in the pillow.
"I'm going to kill him one day."
Emma tilted her head to look at him and lifted an incredulous eyebrow, "Oh really?"
He pulled his face out of the cushion, forehead crinkling as a smile started to curl the edges of his mouth, "Yes, really."
She shook her head and steadied her hands on either side of her to get up when she felt his arm slip around her waist and pull her back down so she was sitting on his lap. A grunt escaped her as she landed squarely on his legs.
"I'm really not sure I can do anything knowing your brother's probably in the next room listening in," Emma said, turning her head around to look at him.
He simply grinned, a goofy sort of smile that pulled her closer to a ledge she couldn't afford to fall off, "He wouldn't do that." At the challenging look she shot him, he closed the distance between them and kissed her. For a second she was almost able to lose herself in the utter domesticity of it all – spending time with him and his brother, working with him, fooling around when they were finally alone.
But, her brain had other ideas.
A voice made of ice crept up her spine, whispering the truth: that he was an arms dealer, that she was on one side of the law and he the other, that his profession resulted in death and destruction every day, that she was gradually beginning to fall in love with a monster dressed as a man. And that last thought brought her to a halting stop.
She actually stiffened in his grip, pulling away from the kiss so he levelled her with a confused expression.
"What's wrong, babe?" he asked, adjusting his grip on her waist.
Emma stammered momentarily, his vice-like purchase on her middle suddenly claustrophobic.
"Nothing, I – I just," her eyes flickered between his and she was abruptly pulling at his clasped hands to release her, "I just need to go to the bathroom. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"
Concern wavered briefly on his face but he let her go and she could feel his eyes on her back as she left the room, hurrying down the hall to the bathroom. The second she entered, swinging the polished white door shut behind her, Emma sat down on the marble floor. Head in her hands, it slowly dawned on her just how deep she'd gotten herself, just how disgustingly complex she'd woven this web.
And, with that thought in mind, she also began to realize what she would have to do.
8888
The first thing she registered was the smell of wood burning and she quickly placed the feint crackling sound as that of a small fire. It was warm too, but not hot – in fact, it would have been pleasant if she hadn't felt so sore. Her brain was fuzzy and it felt like there was a drill being pressed against her right temple, the throbbing intensifying as she slowly woke up and the dust of sleep was brushed away from her mind.
At first, when she blinked, it was nothing but blurry shapes, a feint golden glow to the right somewhere. The walls appeared to be some shade of faded yellow and there was a large white door directly before her. It was closed and she had a feeling that was why the room was so warm.
The shapes came into focus slowly, and eventually she could make out that the room she was in was ornate with a high-ceiling, a fireplace somewhere to her right. And, with one last blink, she recognized it – the living room. Neal's mansion: The Manor. Memories flooded her, old and new, and she stiffened. The movement drawing her gaze down as she realized with a wince that she was bound to a chair, her wrists tied down to the two arms rests, her ankles bound similarly to the wooden legs.
Oh god, she thought, shaking her arms in an effort to loosen the tight ropes.
And then, like being struck by lightning, she remembered something else.
Killian.
The last she'd seen of him, before blackness consumed her and she fell into the abyss of unconsciousness, was at the Paix Helvezia. Her lips were still tingling from their kiss, from the moment she'd thrown caution to the wind and given into her instincts for a split second. She'd turned around to pace the room as he answered Ruby's call, an anxiety already beginning to creep up on her as she had realized that it put them one step closer to finding Neal.
As she'd turned around to face him, she'd heard footsteps on the portico surrounding the hotel, but thought nothing of it. Not until Killian had turned to her with wide eyes, his voice hoarse as he told her, 'We have to go.' She'd been about to question him when her brain connected the steadily growing noise outside to the panicked look in his eyes.
And then the door had broken down.
Men had swarmed the small room, but she hadn't seen Neal. She figured he probably wouldn't risk coming out on the off chance she actually got her hands on him, but all she could think as they surged through the door was: How did he find us?
She hadn't had used her phone since her initial attempt.
She hadn't used her credit card either.
How did he find her?
Emma had tried to ignore the way the question bombarded her brain as she attempted to fight off the men that crowded her, throwing punches in every which direction. That is until she heard a grunt of pain and, despite all logic and reason, turned to see if he was okay. It was an automatic response, something that (in the back of her mind) shocked her a little bit. Killian's crystalline blue eyes had locked with hers, a split second where the sea met the storm before he'd been forced to re-immerse himself in fending off the men.
But that had been her big mistake, consuming her attention for the short second needed to place a deliberate blow to her temple.
And then there was pain rocketing through her head.
Everything had gone black.
And now she was there… in the same mansion she hadn't visited for nearly a decade. Eyes darting around the room, Emma looked for something, anything, that might help her. She needed to escape, she needed to find Killian, and she needed to get out of here.
Oh god, Killian.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door in front of her opening, light spilling into the room as an unidentifiable silhouette entered. The light switch beside the door was flicked, the chandelier blinking twice before it illuminated the room. As soon as she saw him, her vision stained red.
"You're awake," Neal crowed delightfully, clapping his hands together as he walked into the room. He closed the door behind him, moving deliberately closer until he stood a foot away from her. Silence answered his greeting and she was proud of her ability to stay quiet as rage boiled hotly in her bones, so potent it was like her skin crawled with the urge to stand up and drive a dull knife through his heart. He considered her quietly, cocking his head to the side as they just stared at each other for a long moment.
Eventually though, he shrugged and started to circle the chair, "You don't have to talk – I didn't bring you hear to talk. That's what I brought your partner here for." His face darkened at the mention of Killian and she couldn't quite place why, the thought evaporating as the glaringly obvious fact came to mind.
Killian was still alive.
But for how long?
"Then why am I here?" she finally asked, her voice coming out rough even to her own ears.
His eyebrows ascended his forehead fractionally when he heard her voice, before returning to their normal state as he replied, "I was sick of waiting for you to come find me."
She narrowed her eyes at him, "What made you so sure I was coming to find you?"
An infuriating bout of laughter took him for a second and he sent her a condescending leer, regaining his composure as he pulled back around to stand in front of her, eyes intent on her face.
"Babe, I knew the second I got here you would come for me. It was just a matter of time, time I wasn't willing to give," he paused, indecision playing out briefly on his face before, with a self-satisfied smirk, he continued, "When you took too long, I just had to give you incentive."
Graham.
He'd killed Graham because he was impatient?
"But even then, you took too long so," he shrugged, as though it meant nothing that he'd kidnapped a federal officer, "I had to put on my big boy pants and get you myself."
She kept her features schooled into an apathetic expression as he circled the chair, his eyes raking over her bound form languidly, almost appreciatively. As he moved around to stand in front of the chair she looked up, her eyes zeroing in on his and narrowing with something cooler and entirely more avid than fury.
"I saw you, you know," Emma started, drawing his attention so he returned her gaze, "In the car... when you killed Graham."
She hated the way her voice cracked on his name, the way her heart clenched as images of a red stained shirt and starry sky flashed behind her lids. Neal looked down at his shoes, not out of shame, more like mild amusement, like there was something on his boot he found vaguely intriguing. Raising his eyebrows fractionally and pursing his lips, he shrugged as he replied.
"Yes well… he was a part of the team so I kind of had to anyway," he explained remorselessly, looking up and giving her a faux apologetic smile as if he'd just remembered something, "Sorry about that by the way, I'm sure it was very difficult to find another boy toy." His lips curled cruelly around the latter comment, his eyes glinting with virulent distaste.
Emma's eyes flashed, his comment hitting her like a slap to the face, guilt pooling in her chest as she was forced to remember Graham's soft smile, the special way he regarded her in comparison to everyone else. Everything inside of her burned, flames licking her spine as the fire forced itself to be felt in every cell of her body.
"We weren't like that," she snapped.
Neal paid her no attention though, walking around the chair again and cocking his head to the side in thought, "But judging by your partner's inclination towards you, I'd say you already had one waiting in the wings," he hissed disdainfully. Suddenly, his face was beside hers, hovering over her shoulder as he whispered lasciviously in her ear, "Tell me, was I better?" His voice sent ice through her veins and she struggled in vain against the ropes.
"Get away from me," she spat, uncaring as to whether or not she was showing emotion anymore.
She hated him.
She'd never hated anyone more in her goddamn life.
He merely chuckled but withdrew from her shoulder, instead tracing a finger delicately along her shoulders as he moved around the chair, "So fierce… I've missed that." Neal spoke as though discussing a fond memory, reminiscing on times gone by as he looked down at her and stopped beside the chair. Crouching down on her left and rubbing his chin, he studied her before sighing and dropping his hand, the action resigned.
"Oh well, it's probably best you get out all of your frustrations now. After all, he won't be alive much longer – I'd pity the poor bastard if he was."
Panic mixed with the disgust and hatred and anger so she felt an overwhelming urge to just curl up into a ball and cry. But Emma Swan never cried, even when the people she loved most were in danger. So, swallowing back the lump in her throat that formed at the mere thought of Killian's limp body, excruciating memories of Graham splintering the blackness beneath her lids whenever she blinked, Emma raised her eyes to Neal's.
"When I get out of this chair, I'm going to kill you."
His hand reached out to brush some of her hair behind her shoulder, and she jerked away from his touch so violently the chair vibrated. Meeting her gaze, an emotion that looked unusually like regret glimmering in the reflective brown surfaces, Neal answered, "I believe you'll try. But eventually, you'll give up."
He stood up and looked at his watch, a bored expression sucking up the last of his genuine emotion as the mask fell into place and he started to walk backwards towards the door.
"Sorry, babe, I've got an errand to run – I can't make any exceptions just for you," he said mockingly, backing away until he reached the door, at which point he winked at her, turned around and left. The second the door closed behind him, a soft screech reverberating through the room as the rusty surface of the lock was forced together, Emma's eyes snapped down to her restraints.
She struggled with them for a moment, her mind plainly refusing to ponder anything other than escape, escape, escape, escape. But eventually, she couldn't push it away and, as the facts settled over her and she looked around the room, wetness pooling in her eyes. Her breathing became ragged, gasping for air as she tried to alleviate the pressure on her chest that spawned from the memories crushing her alive.
She hated how one tear blazed humiliatingly down her cheek.
8888
August 2005
The garden before her was beautiful, even in the night. The iceberg roses stood proud, the moonlight casting a glow about them that was almost otherworldly in its splendour. She could see the garden stretching out before her in all its evening glory from her perch on the window sill. But, despite the cool façade she had somehow managed to retain for the duration of the day, Emma felt the sweat that dampened her palms, the way her ears perked at even the slightest noise.
Tonight was the night.
There was no going back now.
Subconsciously, Emma kept her eyes peeled – scrutinizing the area visible to her for any signs of movement. Every shadow that morphed made her start and every flicker of light added a stone to the pile of weight sitting on her chest. Soon, she wouldn't be able to breathe.
Minutes passed, perhaps hours, before she heard footsteps coming down the hall. They were quick and loud, and she felt herself stiffen because it wasn't who she was expecting. Relaxing her features, Emma continued to look (what she hoped was) wistfully out the window. The door opened and she turned reflexively, eyes locking onto Neal as he entered the room, his face a mask of panic.
"Jen, we need to go."
Emma stood up and frowned at him, "What?"
"The feds are here – I don't know how they found us but," he explained, striding forward and grasping her wrist, "We need to go now."
He proceeded to urgently pull her towards the door, and so she followed him, ignoring the very cruel voice taunting her that she was the very reason the law was now hot on his heels. Guilt was not within the repertoire of emotions she felt – he was going to be tried and convicted and justice would be achieved for all the heinous things he allowed to happen by selling weapons of mass destruction to people with deplorable agendas.
But there was most definitely something nagging on her as they walked for the door.
She didn't really know what to do – she couldn't run away with him. As much as the idea appealed to the lost girl inside, singing words like family, belong, and love; she knew it was all just an elaborate trick of her design. None of it would ever be real and she'd made her decision. And yet, pulling her hand away and revealing her involvement in it all felt so wrong. She couldn't do it; she couldn't bear to watch him as she let that bombshell detonate in his face.
However, as they reached the door, she felt a small pin drop of relief that she didn't have to worry about it. The door swang violently back to reveal an armada of black-clad men, storming through the halls with sleek rifles and masked faces. Beside her, Neal gasped and tried futilely to shut the door again.
When the soldiers shoved their way through, regardless, Emma swallowed as she felt Neal push her protectively behind him. He backed quickly away from the door as they surged in, surrounding them both in the chandelier-lit room.
"Put your hands up," a familiar accented voice commanded firmly.
Neal was still holding onto her wrist and let it go to raise his hands. He looked over his shoulder at Emma and nodded in what was supposed to be a reassuring gesture. It just made everything hurt more. The hot stares of the familiar officers around her singed her back and, under their judgemental gaze, her breathing picked up in pace.
Neal mistook it for something else though, and squeezed her hand.
"Just put your hands up – they won't have anything on you," he said and then smiled wanly, sadly, "I love you."
And, for some reason, it was then that she pulled away. An overwhelming feeling of sadness crashing over her.
His eyes followed her every movement as she took two calculated steps back, falling into line with the soldiers enveloping them. Realization dawned in his brown eyes as he noted the way their guns didn't follow her – nor did their sights waver from him. His mouth clamped shut, betrayal and hurt flickering brightly in the brown orbs that burned into her.
With his attention otherwise consumed and his arms above his head, two of the officers stepped forward to handcuff him. The metal shackles fastened around his wrists with a click of finality, and still he wouldn't stop staring at her.
"I'm sorry," she croaked, unable to tear her gaze away. Even as they manhandled him.
"Why?" he asked, and clearly didn't care that there were probably a dozen other people in the room watching their conversation carefully. His question wasn't asking why she was doing all this – why she'd turned him in after their fragilely constructed life together. No, the emotion that sparkled in his eyes asked a completely different question.
He wanted to know why she'd made him fall in love with her.
She felt tears already beginning to spring to her eyes and she shook her head, willing her expression into indifference. Pretending she didn't understand the true root of his question, Emma answered, "Because it shouldn't have been like this."
He stared her down intensely, his lips twitching with frustration.
"You know that's not what I mean."
There was a pause and she felt something inside of her crack and splinter – it felt oddly like the shift of rocks down a valley, descending to the unsuspecting village that lay at the foot. It would take eight years for those broken pieces to reach the bottom and inflict their carnage.
The air was charged as she moved closer to him and endeavoured to keep her voice as steady as she could manage.
"It doesn't matter," she said, letting a slight tremble creep into her lip as he continued to fix her with a look of potent perfidy, "Goodbye."
She dropped his gaze and started walking towards the entrance to the room. Graham was standing there, his face familiar amongst the see of black, bug-like masks. He watched her approach with a look of concern and she couldn't quite bring herself to raise her eyes to his. So she padded quietly towards the door as the other agents bustled around her, restraining Neal.
The door was a foot away when she heard his voice from behind her.
"I'll never forget you."
Four words that, in any other context, might have been endearing, sorrowful or romantic. But the inflection of his voice carried a different promise. It promised the same thing, but there was no lightness – it wasn't a vow to remember her. It was a vow to remember what she'd done, how deep her duplicity went.
Emma couldn't help the way her step fumbled after he said it, walking down the hall.
They were all meeting out front where the sedans were surely parked by now.
8888
It felt like hours before he came back, but then, she couldn't be sure since she didn't have a watch and there wasn't a clock in her line of vision. The chandelier flickered occasionally; allowing her at least marginal solace since it permitted her to see the sunlight that crept in through the shuttered windows every time the light disappeared. Every time the room was submitted to darkness, she watched as just a little more light vanished, meaning it was late afternoon.
She didn't stop trying to get out of her restraints, wriggling her arms until her muscles were on fire, burning as bright as the flames in the hearth on her right.
The wood sounded like it was just starting to splinter when there were footsteps down the hall outside the door – a beautiful long room that she remembered running down vividly. Emma stopped shaking her arms about, schooling her expression into impassivity as the door opened and Neal entered again. His cool smile sent shivers up her spine and he closed the door behind him, walking carefully to stand in front of her before he crouched so he was basically on her level.
"Sorry about that – I had other things to do," he said and Emma took the chance to look over him. There was a barely-present spatter of red on the hem of his shirt that made her blanch when she paired it with the ravaged state of his right hand knuckles. He'd been beating someone.
And she knew instantly who. Especially when he gave her a self-satisfied expression that screamed he saw her once-over and subsequent realization.
Emma's nostrils flared with uninhibited rage and he simply chuckled.
"Angry I've been doing some combat training?" he asked mockingly, "The punching bag was quite fun to play with." Neal's eyes sparked with a string of madness when he spoke and Emma could see that underneath the calm and sarcastic façade, he was boiling with nearly as much as wrath as she was. It only made her wonder what must have happened for him to be so riled up.
She almost wanted to smile because of course Killian would provoke a man already intent on beating him to…
Thoughts stopping dead in their tracks, she locked onto Neal's gaze, "Did you kill him?"
She didn't even care that her voice was trembling slightly; that it was obvious how much her partner's life meant to her by the simple tone of her question. Again, there was that almost unidentifiable flash in the muddy brown depths but this time she caught it and grasped it tightly in her mind. Standing, Neal shrugged, an enjoyment seeping from him that her apparent vow of unresponsiveness had slipped again.
But she was too busy opening up her mental palms to dissect the emotion she'd seen in him. And, looking at it, a feeling of shock emanated within her.
"He should be so lucky," he said.
Her mind didn't even register the words though. Because Neal was jealous of Killian.
His fervent disdain for her partner suddenly made more sense.
"I will say I'm impressed you took so long to trip up," Neal complimented as he walked around the room, scratching his stubbled chin thoughtfully. Pulling her thoughts away from the latest revelation, she narrowed her eyes at him.
"Thanks," Emma spat sarcastically, staring him down until he looked away with a small amused smirk. Chuckling wistfully, he pointed a mildly accusing finger at her.
"Aren't you at least wondering how I found you?" he inquired, and she truly loathed how spot on he was. An arrogant grin broke across his face so she didn't have to answer; he could see how badly she needed to know where they'd tripped up. Everything had been so artfully controlled: no mobile phone, no credit card, no names. She had gone completely off the grid – so how had he tracked them down?
Neal's tone was faux fascinated when he announced his apparent confusion, "It strikes me as odd that you went to so much trouble just to get me on that deserted road, only to take out my tyres with a spike strip and leave... And I have this strange… unfathomable hunch that you had more planned – judging by the gun I found and your discarded phone."
She didn't answer him, even as his eyes pierced knowingly into her.
"I was planning to let you have at your little revenge scheme and then I was going to intercept you – I was waiting around the corner. But then, well – then you just disappeared before I had a chance." He crouched so he was down on her level again and tapped his chin thoughtfully, "And so, I asked myself; who would have figured out my tracking bug and had the nerve to save you in such a risky situation?"
Emma raised her eyes to meet his, the answer already sliding off his tongue as it occurred to her who he was referring to.
"You partner," he spat scathingly, the jealousy sparking in his face again. His mocking smile made her clench her fists as he informed her condescendingly, "It wasn't hard to get a GPS track uploaded to his phone."
It all fell into place in a matter of seconds.
All the precaution had been taken around her – around keeping her off the grid.
But Killian? They hadn't for one second even considered the idea that Neal might figure out she had new help. It had never once occurred to them that the man understood the depth of their relationship. Even she was still coming to terms with the lengths her partner was willing to go for her, his actions in and leading up to the alleyway resounding loudly in her mind whenever she spared them thought.
And knowing that Neal, a man who had only ever gotten the chance to observe them, had sensed their unexplainable relationship stole the breath from her lungs.
Killian's phone had been left on for Ruby to contact them.
They hadn't thought to scan his for tracking bugs.
He'd used his credit card for the hotel.
Of course it wouldn't have been hard to track them down once Neal had deduced she was working with him. And that in and of itself wouldn't have been a difficult hypothesis to come to; a review of Killian's attendance and interactions at work would have reinforced Neal's theory within seconds.
It was the one thing neither of them, nor Ruby, had anticipated.
"Best me once – shame on you. Best me twice? Now that would have been shame on me," he said, shaking his head jovially. As the shock slowly wore off, it was replaced by anger, the heat of it washing over her as he stood and moved at a leisurely pace around the room.
"You never were the type to feel shame so either way, you're good," she retorted after a moment, venom tangible on every roll of her tongue.
"I have nothing to feel ashamed of," he levelled her with a reprimanding expression, the sort of thing adults used on incorrigible children, "you on the other hand…"
"Oh yeah," Emma began sarcastically, "because providing terrorists with weapons is nothing to feel ashamed about."
He shrugged, "Someone has to do it – and if I recall correctly, you helped me for a while there."
"I was earning your trust – it was a part of the job," she deadpanned in response, all business even as everything about the situation she was in screamed personal. The leaden feeling in her gut doubled when the brown orbs locked on her softened, his voice incredulous as he questioned her.
"Was it all a part of the job, Jennifer?"
"Yes."
She didn't even bother correcting him when he used her old cover name, her emotional defences on overdrive as he attempted to scurry beneath her walls and pick at what remained of the broken girl. He cocked his head to the side and shook his head, gaze still penetrating and earnest.
"See, I don't believe that. I think you really loved me for a minute there," he said, stepping closer to her.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," she replied monotonously.
At her blatant indifference towards him and the subject that was clearly still touching on his heartstrings, Neal's face contorted into a scowl. He leaned forward so his face was but an inch from hers, his breath fanning out against her face. She didn't let him see just how on edge his proximity put her, holding his gaze like a buoy in choppy waves.
"And, pray tell, what helps you sleep at night?"
"Excuse me?"
Emma tried not to flinch when he pulled back abruptly, fire-lit eyes fixed on her as he numbered his words off on his fingers, "Well, there's Charlie and you did give me up to the Koreans – and let me tell you, they aren't the most hospitable folk around."
She wanted to tell him she didn't know about Korea – that she had thought he would be tried on familiar soil. But he ploughed on, voice rising as and turning in on itself with palpable pain as he lifted up his shirt to point at a long, raised, angry red line that ran across his sternum, "See this scar? I got that for crying when they electrocuted me."
Like a tidal wave, shock and guilt crashed into her, a contradictory mix of emotions in her head that pulled her closer and closer to insanity the more he talked. It was the first time she had seen him so tormented, dark shadows of a horrific past dance behind his eyes as he pointed to another spattering of puckered skin that dusted his lower abdomen.
"How about this one? Well, it turns out that even if you don't do anything, they'll still slam you into a fucking glass window."
Her voice erupted from her chest in a strangled cry, "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing, Emma. I want nothing from you," he snapped instantly, striding forward and dropping the hem of his shirt. Everything about the moment felt raw, like an exposed nerve. There was no longer a pretence of intimidation, the mind games vanishing in the heat of their past. It evaporated everything else in the room so all that was left was her and him.
A broken bird and a tortured villain.
"Then why am I here?" she asked desperately, leaning as forward as she could with her arms and legs restrained.
"Because I told you I would never forget you," he replied and his words echoed in her head momentarily, replaying the vivid memory of exiting the same room they were in as he was handcuffed. There was a pause and she dropped his gaze, falling back into the chair and letting her chin fall against her chest.
His voice was rough when he added, "Or what you did."
It was like a punch to the gut. Images flash in her mind's eye: watching Charlie as though in slow motion as he grabbed the gun, shouting for him to put it down as she pulled out her own, pulling the trigger, his body falling, falling, falling…
"I never wanted to hurt him," she whispered in a breathy husk.
"But you still did."
Her gaze darted up to meet his and she snapped, voice mounting in volume again and she couldn't help but feel like she was on a rollercoaster with the constantly jarring change from one emotion to the next, "Because I had to!"
"You had other options!" he roared back, voice breaking as she was sure he pictured his lanky brother in a pale heap on the ground, surrounded by an obscenely wide pool of blood.
"No I didn't!" Emma returned, tears springing to her eyes so fast she couldn't even blink them away before one blazed a path down her cheek, "He pulled a gun, Neal! I told him to put it down, more times than was necessary! And he was going to fire! Even if I hadn't pulled the trigger, the men behind me would have!"
"You could have shot him in the leg!"
"I tried! But I was pushed off balance and I missed!"
"He was sixteen!"
"I know!" Emma's voice reverberated in the large empty room, and she let her eyes convey every bit of grief she'd felt in the aftermath of Charlie's death; the sleepless nights, the nightmares, the crying, the constant leaning on Graham until she had decided enough was enough and moved to Quantico. "You don't think I know that?"
A long silence stretched out between them.
Neal continued to stare at her, the emotion waning slowly from his eyes. She watched as he rebuilt the walls around his heart brick by brick, feeling strangely like she was watching a mirror as she did the same. It was a long time before he gathered himself, an unreadable expression morphing his face as he looked down at her.
"It doesn't matter. You still killed him. You still left me to some of the most bloodthirsty people on Earth," he eventually said, jaw set.
Emma shook her head, wishing she could wipe the single line of wetness from her cheek. But she couldn't, so she settled for keeping her face and voice as fixed as she could, "I didn't know you would be sent to Korea… and I'm sorry about your brother – but just how many brothers do you think have been killed in terrorist attacks using weapons you sold."
He laughed mirthlessly, almost menacingly, and shook his head, "Do I look like I care about anyone else's brother?"
She shook her head, disgust making itself known in her features, "No," she said, "No, people like you don't care."
Before either of them could speak again, the door behind Neal opened and he turned on his heel, questions perched on the tip of his tongue as a woman with slanted eyes and caramel skin entered the room. She strode forward and breathed something inaudible in Neal's ear, something that made his fists clench. He sighed and nodded, replying with something else Emma couldn't hear.
The woman nodded and turned around, leaving the room at a hurried pace.
When Neal turned to face her again he sent her a smile that looked more like he was baring his teeth, "It seems I have some loose ends to tie. Sit tight." A second later he was pivoting on his heel and following the same path his brunette acquaintance had followed, out the door, leaving Emma alone in the large room once more.
In the dank solitude, she couldn't prevent the tears from finally trailing down her cheeks as her mind traitorously forced her to relive the source of her greatest regret.
8888
August 2005
The walk to the front gardens was silent, but Emma could feel Neal's gaze hot on the back of her head. She moved fluidly through the house, painfully aware of the exact floor plan of the mansion she had inhabited with the man behind her for months. With a controlled expression, she finally stepped out onto the portico, jogging down the steps and towards her team, where Jefferson and the others were standing beside one of the black sedans.
As she reached them, August's hand landed on her upper arm and he gave her a reassuring squeeze – which meant she clearly hadn't schooled her features as much as she'd have liked. Her returning nod was stoic and she turned away from the other agents and their prejudiced glances, facing the black men that spilt from the great house like ants from a burning nest. In a way, it was; a burning nest, a home destroyed. One by one, every person was pulled out.
Neal stood off to the side, surrounded by agents, his eyes still penetrating Emma's face. Ignoring him, she focused her attention on the continuous stream of officers that filed through the front door.
She heard him before she saw him, the deep voice of an adolescent boy as he was pushed out the door. Charlie was furious, his usually soft brown eyes that so resembled Neal's sparkling with disdain. His arms weren't restrained by handcuffs – he was only a kid, after all, and wasn't deemed a risk – but the men on either side of him had firm purchases on his upper arms.
"Don't touch me," he hissed at them as they led him down the steps and pulled him to a stop in the line of people already extracted from the house. They were mainly cleaners, but there were also several of Neal's guards and even one 'business partner' who had decided to stay for the week. It was a line of people, interspersed and surrounded by gun-wielding men in black masks.
Charlie's eyes scanned the line and he frowned, his gaze moving outwards until it landed on Emma. This time it was worse. Betraying Neal, while painful, had been bearable – she knew what he'd done throughout his life and the consequences of his actions. But his younger brother was innocent for all intents and purposes. So, when a flame of hatred sparked to life in his eyes as he considered her, Emma winced.
Dropping his gaze promptly, she looked instead at Neal, who was staring at his brother for once. There was palpable concern in his face and it was plain to see just how important his little brother was to him. It wasn't hard to deduce what he was thinking either, the words all but printed on his forehead as he followed Charlie's every movement.
'Don't let him get in trouble for this.'
And Emma was thinking the same thing. Neal was going to jail; there was no doubt about it. But Charlie? He could move on from this life, this world of crime and shady deals and duplicity. He could lead a normal life if he tried.
She didn't realize she was walking forwards until she registered Graham's voice beside her. He was walking alongside her, his eyes on her face as he asked, "You alright?"
Her response came in the form of an unconvincing nod and his eyes darted to her trajectory if she kept moving the direction she was going, "What are you doing?"
Emma stumbled but didn't stop until she was nearly in front of Charlie, "I just need to say goodbye."
The aforementioned teenager was docile now, enough so that the soldiers on either side of him had relinquished their grip on his arms. He looked up from the ground, eyes snapping onto hers. She hated how his face contorted in indignation but ploughed forward anyway. If she could just say good bye, say sorry, maybe she would have a chance at moving on.
But fate was as unforgiving as it was inexorable.
Everything from that moment forward happened in slow motion.
Charlie looked to his side and noted the preoccupation of the men on either side of him. His eyes dipped to their holsters where their handguns were secured. Emma could see the decision pass over his features like a switch being flicked and started reaching for her gun.
The kid had already grabbed the pistol from the guard on his right and shot three rounds by the time she had hers out and aimed. The two men on either side of him dropped, groaning as they hit the damp grass – he'd hit them in the chest where their bullet-proof vests protected them from fatal damage.
He stepped backwards several steps as everyone else in the garden seemed to still. The black-clad men around him formed a semicircle with Emma at the apex. She had her gun trained on his leg as she bellowed, "Put the gun down, Charlie!"
Panicked brown eyes flickered around the people surrounding him, his gun following each movement as he tried to shuffle back towards the house, his only source of protection with his brother already captured. Distantly, Emma was aware of Neal's voice, calling out and telling him to do what he was told. Charlie glanced at his brother before his eyes landed on the blonde again and his finger flexed around the handle.
"Please put the gun down, Charlie," she repeated, uncaring that her voice was starting to crack.
"You betrayed us! We trusted you! I trusted you!" he yelled at her, the gun shaking timorously with every syllable.
The men on either side of her were shuffling, clearly antsy as he continued to hold the gun aloft. She tried again, eyes pleading as she locked gazes with him.
"Please, Charlie, just put down the gun."
His eyes flicked between everyone, from one person to the other until they were locked on Emma again. Neal's voice was a dull roar in the background as determination cemented his younger brother's jaw. He held the gun up ever so slightly higher, finger itching towards the trigger.
Grimacing, she started to pull back her right index finger, but was put off balance when one of the men beside her started to surge forward. With no warning, her muscles had already executed the action her brain regretfully demanded – the trigger springing forwards as the gun went off. Emma watched, horrified, as her aim was irrevocably altered.
And, instead of shooting him in the leg as she'd intended – the shot was thrown upwards, in the region of his pelvis. A deep red stain bloomed on his shirt and Charlie looked up at Emma with a mixture of shock and pain before he fell. Neal's anguished cry in the background punctuated the sound of him hitting the ground, his body falling like a marionette doll whose strings had been cut.
"No!"
Emma rushed forward, shoving away the officers with their guns until she hovered over the teen. Kneeling down beside him, she blanched, blood pumping at an alarming rate from the wound on the right side of his pelvis, his band t-shirt soaking with the scarlet substance. She pulled her jacket off instantly, pressing it to his wound as she heard muffled words behind her:
"Back up… ambulance… shooting… hit a major artery or something…"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated, attempting to swallow the painfully constricting knot in her throat as she dragged her eyes to meet his soft brown ones. He was frowning at her, his body jerking upwards with each heaving breath.
"No!" Neal cried out in the background and she couldn't bear to look over her shoulder, to where he was kneeling on the ground, eyes glued to his brother whose life was quickly draining away onto the damp grass.
"Come on, Charlie, you can get out of this – you can live a normal life," she begged, tears escaping her eyes and dribbling down the sides of her face as she maintained the pressure on his wound. But her hands were already damp and his face was deathly white. Charlie stared at her for several seconds; every emotion broadcasted in his eyes as he wordlessly reproached her. He only let it go to tilt his head in the direction of his brother, gaze landing apologetically on the hysterical man thrashing around in his restraints.
With one last glance, Charlie let his head relax back into the grass, eyes trained on the twinkling sky of stars. He ignored Emma completely as she pleaded with him, "Please don't, Charlie. Please, please don't die."
But it was to no avail. Nearly a minute later he was still, his now-dim brown eyes forever locked into position on some far off thing. Her hands shook as she pulled them away from Charlie's limp form and Neal cried out again, a deep guttural sob that pierced the air like a knife. All of the air escaped her lungs, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. She felt as Graham's warm hands wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her up and away, leading her towards one of the sedans. All the while, Neal could be heard, struggling and crying and yelling.
In the beauty of a garden of white roses, a young man died. And Emma nearly lost her mind.
8888
Opening her eyes, Emma heard more than felt her shallow intakes of breath, the sharp gasps that filled the silent room. Holding on to the arms of the chair, she used the slow ebbing of soreness in her knuckles to focus, to draw her mind away from the image of Charlie falling. The air felt like it was being vacuumed from her lungs though, and she struggled to hold onto a breath for more than two seconds.
Leaning back in the chair, Emma felt the need to clutch at her chest; to use the physical movement as an aid as she tried to calm her breathing, bits and pieces flooding her mind. But she couldn't, her hand clenching into a tight fist so her nails dug crescent moons into the skin of her palm. She closed her eyes in an effort to concentrate, but it only served to make the disturbing images in her head burn brighter.
Henry; injured and abused, at the mercy of a psychotic killer. Your fault.
Graham's dead body. It's your fault.
A gun, an explosion of sound, Graham's motionless figure, Charlie's motionless figure, the stunning mirror they formed in her head as they fell in nearly the exact same fashion, first to their knees, followed swiftly by the rest of them. Kneeling over them, begging for another chance, tears mixing with blood as anguished cries rang in the air.
Killian. Killian. Killian. His eyes, ice blue and sharp with hurt and betrayal before she turned to leave the Gala, an image of his face contorted in pain as Neal beat him to a pulp, the blood spattered on Neal's shirt, his blood. It's your fault.
It's all your fault.
Her first foster parents: the Swans. Their smiling faces when she arrived, their apologetic expressions when she left, a pregnancy test the proverbial kick out the door. Her second foster family, a small circular scar on her hand, a smouldering cigarette and a cruel leer as she learned for the first time that she meant nothing to no one. Every other family after that, spinning by her in a myriad of haunting images and words: useless, worthless, unwanted, unloved.
Every moment of pain in her life chose that moment to rise up, to wash over her in a painful combination of emotions that left her gulping down air but feeling no relief. She could feel her heart beating, thumping as though it would erupt from her ribcage onto the dust-laden floor.
If you don't stop this, you'll hyperventilate and run the risk of doing yourself damage, a firm voice reprimanded her in her mind, its lilt familiar and male, calm down. She tried again to extend every inhale and exhale, gripping the chair tightly for support as she pulled herself back.
That's a girl, the voice praised quietly as her breathing returned to a relatively normal rate, the shallowness deepening so she finally felt respite with each expansion of her lungs.
Never one to waste time and blowing out one last shaky breath, Emma closed her eyes again to think. She needed to get out of there – pronto. And obviously just shaking the arms and legs of the chair and hoping for success was about as likely to reward her with escape as waiting for Neal to waltz in with a knife to cut her free.
She needed something that would at least provide a fissure she could work on expanding.
It took less than a second for her to decide that the appropriate course of action was to topple the chair over and cross her fingers that doing so would at least give her a chance at freeing her arms and legs. And really, it couldn't put her in any worse of a situation.
Pressing herself further into the back of the chair and grasping the arms, Emma used her body weight to tip it from side to side until she felt her heart shoot through her chest as the familiar feeling of momentary weightlessness took hold.
Pain rocketed through her fast, starting on her left side and curling upwards as she fell to the cold wooden floor. The chair clattered somewhere in the back of her mind but she couldn't afford to pay it any consideration. Far more pressing matters were afoot and she instantly set her attention to trying to snap one of the now-damaged armrests. The rope that kept her in place had previously chafed at the fragile skin of her wrists from when Neal's hissed words had prompted her to strain against them.
A low hiss escaped her as she tried to wriggle the already splintered wood from its hold. A budding feeling of satisfaction edged on every fruitful movement, a new feeling of rigour making a path through her fast as the wood creaked in assurance.
The burn of the restraints as she aggravated the already torn skin kept her focused and she moved more frantically when there was a distinct crack. She was so close, she could taste it.
There was another crack and, testing the waters, she found mobility was possible in her right arm.
The armrest snapped off with one final – painful – jerk of her arm, her bicep muscles protesting the suddenness vehemently. The jagged-ended piece of wood was still attached to her arm by her wrist, a nuisance in and of itself. Groaning as the thick rough material of the rope rubbed against the raw flesh of her wrists, Emma used her free hand to begin working on relieving her other arm.
Now with greater leverage, she took a tenth of the time to snap the other arm of the chair, taking the opportunity to slide her bound wrists out of the arms rests so only the thick chain remained wrapped around her arm. She had to bite down on her lip when a cry of pain threatened to spill from her mouth at the sharp sting any wrist movement elicited.
With her hands loose, she curled over so she could reach her feet. Her discomfort was only aided by the awkward angle the overturned chair provided. One leg was free when she heard the faint, nearly inaudible, sound of footsteps.
They contrasted starkly with the quiet that had seemed to envelope her with concentration. At the growing volume of the footfalls, she snapped her head up briefly, a fresh shot of adrenaline helping to steady her fumbling fingers. She scrambled more frantically with the rope encasing her left foot as the person approached.
The sound of muffled gunshots made her jump ever so slightly in her spot on the ground.
The footsteps grew louder, echoed mockingly in her ears as panic finally began to mix with her adrenaline.
More cracks sounded, the crack of a gun being fired somewhere in the mansion not too far away. It was closer than the previous time though, and she frowned as a (completely) absurd thought occurred to her.
It did, after all, sound as though a commotion had erupted.
Killian?
She squashed the flame of hope that bridled itself inside of her at the thought. Neal was unforgiving at best – if Killian was alive, he was in no shape to be running around shooting people.
Furthermore, time was naturally a cruel mistress and she had none to spare with naïve postulations. The rope had only just fallen from around her left ankle, leaving her completely mobile, when the heavy door swung open. In less than a second she shoved herself away from the broken remains of the chair and tried to stand. A chuckle of amusement rang through the decrepit room and she finally looked up to meet his gaze.
Neal glanced down at the wooden splinters with something close to fascination and she took the brief chance to shuffle further backwards, crouched down low on her legs like a trapped animal, eyes darting wildly around the room for a weapon, anything she could use against him.
Because she wasn't cornered.
Not yet.
And she would be damned if she didn't fight Neal to her dying breath.
"I'm impressed, Jen. Didn't think you'd get out that fast."
Her lip curled hatefully at the nickname, a look like daggers landing squarely on his face.
"My name isn't Jennifer," she corrected venomously, "and you've always had a bad habit of underestimating me." Slowly, he took a step forward, his leer shining brightly as the chandelier flickered again. Emma shifted her weight subtly from foot to foot, testing her balance as she tried to remember anything about Neal's fighting traits. But it had been so long, she could barely remember what it looked like when he genuinely smiled, let alone the way he fought.
"I know," he replied, sending chills down her spine, stilling as his calculating gaze scanned her form before locking back onto her eyes, "Emma."
With the word out, he surged forward. She stepped back, avoiding the full force of the blow he sent towards her side, but stumbled – her balance still adjusting after being seated for so long – and he seized the opening it provided. His foot shot forwards, into her abdomen so she keeled over momentarily before straightening as her legs hit the back of the dusty couch behind her.
He was coming at her again but this time she dodged, jumping over the couch so his arm slapped against the cracked leather. Never one to waste time, Emma kicked the edge of the loveseat hard, so when he tried to move over it as she had; he fell onto the couch and rolled promptly onto the floor with a grunt. Curled over on the floor, Neal coughed as she started running towards the door.
But he caught her leg, arm snaking out to purchase her ankle and drag her down.
Her arms shot out of their own accord to keep her from kissing the floor. She could hear him pushing himself up and used that knowledge as motivation, throwing aside the fervent protest of her muscles and shoving herself into a standing position as well, turning around in the process.
As they both hoisted themselves up, he feigned a hook so she shuffled to the right, putting her straight in the trajectory of his next jab. It landed squarely in her chest and Emma barked out a cough of pain before she felt his hands on either side of her shoulders. So physically debilitated, she couldn't stop him from all but throwing her into the wall. Her forehead rapped against the plaster with a painful thud.
"Do you want to know what they did to me in Korea?" he hissed menacingly in her ear, moving up close so she was pressed against the peeling paint. She bit her lip so she wouldn't cry out as he grabbed a fistful of her hair.
"Have you got any idea what happened to me because of you?"
Thrusting her elbow back, it connected with Neal's chest and he grunted and stumbled back, giving her enough room to turn around. But she'd barely pivoted when he was there again, forearm against her throat as he pushed her into the wall so the flaking paint scratched her scalp. Emma's eyes darted between his manic ones as he growled.
"You destroyed my life."
His hands were on her shoulders again but this time he threw her to the floor. Hitting the wooden boards with a loud smack, her skin stung from where it clung to the cool surface.
The gunshots outside were getting louder now, closer to the room. She could swear she heard them in the hall outside.
Her mind was drawn abruptly back to the present when Neal's footsteps sounded beside her head as he walked around to stand over her.
"How could you live with yourself after you killed Charlie?" he sneered.
And for a short second Emma wanted to whimper, to flip onto her back and apologize, to explain just how deeply she'd been damaged by him and the domestic life she'd denied herself in exchange for the law. A broken voice inside of her begged her to do it, so exhausted, so mentally and emotionally and physically sore.
But then she remembered that was utter bullshit.
Emma Swan could admit her failings, she wouldn't deny that her poorly-thought actions had resulted in heinous suffering for him, had resulted in the death of his brother; a kid who'd been caught up in a mess that he'd never been equipped to deal with. But Neal had no claim to virtue and he certainly had no right to reprimand her. He had killed a fair share of innocents in his time, directly or indirectly. And there were at least three she could explicitly name.
Miranda.
Gus.
Graham.
She used their names as a mantra, running through her head as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Clenching her fists, Emma pushed herself up and thrust her arm out in the direction of his knees. There was a satisfying crack as she used all her strength to punch the sensitive area and he howled in blazing pain.
Without wasting a moment, she ordered herself up and threw a fist into his lower abdomen.
He keeled over and she elbowed him in the back. For a moment he looked like he was going to give way, his legs stumbling as she thrust downwards on his spine, but he ran forward, tackling her to the ground. The air escaped her lungs in a loud whoosh as he hit her hard in the chest with the full force of his body before they both toppled over. There was the sound of wood breaking apart, and along with the thunderous agony that coated her back, she quickly realised they'd landed on the coffee table. Unable to soften the fall, the back of her head hit the hard surface with an audible and disturbingly loud clap.
The room was suddenly blurry and Emma gasped for air like a fish out of water.
She sensed as the weight on her chest disappeared, as Neal vanished from on top of her, so she was left splayed out in the ruins of the coffee table. Emma struggled for several seconds to make the world stop spinning like a roulette wheel, to regain enough focus to pull away from the overwhelming urge to let her eyes drop closed and succumb to exhaustion.
When she eventually managed to keep her eyes open long enough to concentrate, her thoughts were still foggy and a feeling of urgency tugged at her, demanding she at least sit up. So she did, her hand shooting to her head to hold it as she righted herself. Her eyes had just adjusted to the room, the image before her clear as day and thankfully stagnant, when the door opened and she felt her heart stop, eyes flicking between the shadow behind the door and the person standing in the archway.
"Emma!" Killian gasped as his eyes landed on her surely battered form.
He dropped his bruised arms, lowering the gun he held as he stared at her with tangible shock and concern. His cheek was bleeding, a deep purple bruise blossoming nicely on the left side of his face and his lip was split. He was stepping towards her before she could warn him.
"No Killian!" she cried out, reaching towards him as if she could physically prevent the next few seconds as they unfolded before her like the apex of a living nightmare.
His ice blue eyes flashed with confusion, just before they contorted with acute pain as Neal moved in behind him, stepping out from where he'd been hiding behind the door. The gun clattered to the floor as Emma's gaze fixed on the sharp splinter of wood Neal had buried deep into Killian's side.
*evil cackling*
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