I love you all immensely and thank you so much for sticking with this story even though my updates have been sparse (thank you, education and life problems, you two ass holes). But I feel like the time it took for this chapter is off-set by the fact that this chapter is freaking huge.
Special shout out to my beta, Nicole, who deserves a million Disney stickers for always answering my emails/freak-outs and editing through these big ass chapters.
There was an incessant beeping: it drilled into his head and left a jagged hole in its wake, rattling around his skull as though jackhammers were pressed firmly to his temples. As the seconds extended, it only worsened and there was an inconceivable pain in his abdomen that gnashed at his insides and tore at his feeble skin like tissue paper. His muscles flared, fire burning behind his eyes, down to his fingertips, in the nadirs of his bone marrow. Everything had been doused and set alight, scratched raw, shaved off and saturated in acid.
He wanted to scream but the guttural raw got lodged in his throat. Teeth grinding together, fists clenching until his knuckles surely whitened, the agony intensified. Like a volcano threatening to erupt, he could sense the way it teetered on the precipice of spilling over before it abruptly waned. Suddenly, frighteningly, his entire being numbed.
A sensation like floating on water consumed him at the same time his extremities began to lose feeling. Ice tendrils stretched over the margins of his being and it unnerved him to no end the way they were accompanied by whispers. A familiar voice wafted towards him, carried on a cloud of stupor and the cruel sense of humour of his subconscious.
"Let go, Killian," it said, soothing and feminine and achingly familiar.
It was getting colder and the beeping wasn't incessant anymore; it was just a constant monotonous ringing. The noise sent alarm bells ringing but they were drowned out by her voice again, and he could just imagine the way her pale blue eyes would soften at him as she spoke, the way her lips would twitch up at the sides, the way her hand would reach towards him and beckon him forward, dark curls cascading over her shoulders.
"Let go," her voice repeated tenderly.
A large part of him was already unclenching his furious hold on the world when he felt it; a jolt of a memory, too quick to really catch. He wanted to be with her, wanted to drift off and have the pain ebb completely away – it still bit vaguely at him, chewing on his insides like a thousand mosquito bites. But there was something keeping him from that release, an invisible grip, an indescribable command that made him hesitate before he could fully slacken his grasp.
Frigid air was beginning to encapsulate him, its coolness disturbing and welcoming all at once. It chased the throbbing away and replaced it with nothingness. The cadence of her voice reached him clearly once more, louder this time, and he edged ever closer to a bright, white crevasse that seemed to yawn before him.
But he just couldn't let go: not even with his dead lover begging him to do so from where she appeared to reside behind the light.
Slowly, an image formed before him: a memory.
He was in a car and it was dark, stars twinkling in the sky like firelights scattered across a sweeping, never-ending blackness. A street stretched out before him. It was deserted, the dampness illuminated by the moon in a ribbon of white that contrasted starkly with the dark asphalt. On either side of the road there were houses with golden-hued windows and streetlamps that threw beams of yellow down onto the dilapidated grey sidewalk.
Turning to his right, he was unsurprised when he saw Emma – his mind finally placing the location so he could recall the night in all its vividness.
It was a stake-out and it had been awful; the car's heater had failed so they had to resort to broiling condiments and excessive layers to ward off the frosty air throughout the day and especially in the night. She had a beanie on, hands gloved, jacket zipped tight as she blew on the takeaway cup of coffee in her hands.
He'd been staring at her when she'd turned to him and smirked.
Snorting a giggle, she'd managed to inform him he had froth on his upper lip before promptly adding on that he looked like Santa's rugged younger brother. He hadn't exactly been sure why she was so jovial that night but he liked it. Perhaps it was because they'd reached that stage of exhaustion where all boundaries disappeared and often provoked the likes of nightbloggers – but he didn't care.
Caught by her light-heartedness, enraptured by the simple idea of her pleasure, he'd leaned forward to dip his whole nose in the steaming froth without thought, pretending to take a long sip as he did. When he had pulled back to look at her she'd pursed her lips together in the tell-tale expression of withholding laughter.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he'd answered in a deadly serious tone, facial expression similarly grave. A low rumble had escaped past her tightly clamped lips but the floodgates fell open quickly and, before he could really absorb the suspended moment in all its perfection, she was laughing – great heaving cackles that made her rock back and forth with her Styrofoam cup. The sound glowed in the air around them, warming it until he barely felt the cold.
"Let go."
Her voice interrupted the memory and it slowed down as it began to fade, his partner blurring until it was all black again except for a white, purifying light in front of him, getting closer and harsher at an oddly alarming pace.
"Let go, Killian."
Her voice continued to whisper as he approached the light but he could feel something surging up in him. It was a ball of energy, a ball of emotions and desires and dreams and everything he distantly knew he would lose if he kept moving towards whatever awaited him behind the glare. The drawn out ringing was still echoing in his ears, threatening to overcome him and negate his choice.
He had to make a choice.
There was such little time and so much to consider. Could he really turn his back on the woman he'd spent so much time mourning? Was it even possible for him to reject the opportunity to be with her again, despite the obvious implications of what that would mean for him? Years prior, he would have welcomed this, leapt eagerly at the chance to join her and forget the cruel life he'd unwillingly endured.
But now…
His gut clenched just thinking about Emma and her crumpled expression if he chose this route. Disturbingly accurate images flooded him and he cringed. As much as she might like to deny it, she relied on him in the same way he relied on her – and he wasn't done mending her yet. There were still parts of her, broken and fractured and altogether lost, that he'd promised himself he would help her fix or at least come to terms with.
Sealing his fate, the faces of his team appeared one by one: Ruby, Phillip, David, Henry. They would suffer the ramifications of this decision if he made the wrong choice.
He had to choose.
So he did.
The light vanished the moment he made it. The cold retreated, the numbness disappeared, he tightened his grip and held on for all he was worth.
The beeping returned louder for about three seconds before abruptly cutting out and with it, the pain resumed in tenfold, so intense he wanted to curl over and change his mind. But the moment passed swiftly and then there was a feeling like swimming through tar. His limbs were unbearably heavy and the atmosphere around him thick and heady. The world threatened to close in and he struggled against it, monsoonal winds pressing him down so surfacing was almost impossible. Almost.
It was relentless and powerful, and the longer it extended, the less his abdomen burned.
Blackness parted to reveal colours, swirling in a pattern of light and dark and he heard the beeping again, loud and clear somewhere beside him. Specific feeling came back to his limbs all at once and he groaned because holy shit he must have been run over by a truck or maybe a fucking freight train. Eyelids fluttering, Killian watched the world flit in and out of focus for a couple of seconds as the uninviting smell of antibacterial steriliser filled his nostrils, mixed with the aroma of clean cotton sheets and a hint of vanilla.
Blinking, he took a short breath and looked down from the ceiling.
Pale blue walls, grey blinds filtering the morning sunlight on one window, distinctive privacy shutters drawn closed on the others, an electric blue chair that looked about as comfortable as a metal spike positioned in the corner of the room. His eyes drifted from his surroundings to himself, to the pastel coloured paper gown. A drip connected to his forearm linked up with a bag of fluids to his left, the tall metal stand residing besides the machine that recorded his steady heartbeat, the wires and patches connected to various parts of his body.
He swallowed down the dryness in his throat and turned back to his bed, letting his eyes drop slowly from the white blanket cast over his lower half to the source of warmth radiating into his right hand. The sensation of skin against skin registered to him at the exact same moment he recognized the blonde curls tumbling over the edge of the hospital bed and tickling his forearm. She was facing his feet, but he could feel her cheek in his palm, the way her fingers curled around his wrist.
With every rise and fall of her shoulders, a soft puff of air heated the skin of his hand.
Studying her, he found that she was sitting hunched over in the chair. It was a twin with the one in the other corner of the room and he could only assume she'd pulled it up to the side of his bed. Regardless of the aches coursing through his muscles, there was an underlining of something else that took his attention from the discomfort and focused it on her entirely.
She was there.
She was alive.
She was stirring.
He noticed because she sighed a deep breath and lifted her cheek ever so slightly. Her eyelashes brushed his palm in a butterfly kiss as she blinked and swallowed, loosening her vice-like purchase on his hand and wrist to brace on the edge of the hospital bed. With another breath, Emma pushed herself back into the chair and tilted her head to look at him.
Needless to say, she stilled when she registered he was awake.
Mouth hanging slightly ajar, she studied his face long and hard for a couple of moments, like she couldn't believe her eyes. He wasn't sure what his expression was broadcasting but he was pretty sure it was something affectionate. There were dark bags under her half-lidded eyes and the archetypal redness tinting her left cheek from where she'd been leaning on it, clothes creased from wear – he wasn't afraid to admit she looked as bad as he felt.
Gathering herself, she managed a raspy, "Hey."
"Hey yourself," he returned groggily, his lilting voice cracking as though to remind him that his throat was drier than the Sahara desert. She didn't even hesitate, just mindlessly reached for the cup of water on the stand beside him. Shakily, he took it from her and lifted it to his lips.
"How are you feeling?"
Killian set down the water and squinted, a dry smirk lifting his lips as he replied, "Like I've been through a wood chipper." When he opened his eyes, she was half-smiling at him and he took it as a small victory. There was a long pause as his mind played catch-up with his emotions and he realized the last thing he remembered was settling down into her lap to the soothing ministrations of the car rocking from side to side, darkness overriding everything as he had assured himself she would be okay.
Holding her gaze, he spoke again, "What happened?"
Emma sighed and pushed herself to her feet, rolling her shoulders as she did so and looking anywhere but him, "You passed out while we were driving away, lost a lot of blood but – uh," she finally met his gaze again and appeared to sag a little with relief, "you're alright. They had to give you a blood transfusion and you were in the ICU for a moment there but you pulled through so they downgraded you to normal status."
Another smile graced her lips and she turned to perch herself on the edge of the bed near his legs.
"The doctor's reckon you were just too stubborn to die."
"Ha – fuck, ow," he grunted as his attempt at laughter was cut short by a searing pain in his chest.
Emma's eyes honed in on his chest and she nodded at each of the ailments as she listed them, "Yeah, you've got some fractured ribs and a hell of a lot of bruising to go with that stab wound so," she made a gesture with her hand and shrugged. He groaned and stared down at his chest, hand absently smoothing over the sore area and completely avoiding his left side.
"That must be why it hurts when I laugh."
"It appears not even injury can keep you from making stunning deductions," she retorted with a faint simper, green eyes glittering dimly with the familiar underlining of amusement that framed the majority of their banter. It made him grin despite the way he was now hyperactively aware of the way his ribs seared every time he took a breath that was too deep.
"I'm a regular Sherlock."
Another pause. Another smile like they weren't in a hospital room in the aftermath of an absolute shit-storm. It was just like in the office, a give and take that they'd perfected like it was a delicate art and only they understood the parameters.
"How long was I out?" he eventually asked, trying to shuffle up the bed so he could sit up more and hissing when his abdomen rewarded him with a less than amicable stabbing pain (he had, after all, been stabbed).
"A couple of days – they needed to make sure you didn't get an infection from that wooden stake," Emma said, sights trailing down to the source of the offending topic, lingering on the spot where he'd been wounded. His eyes widened and he blew out a breathy exhale; it was certainly longer than he'd expected to have been. She appeared to lose herself in her thoughts for a moment, eyes glazing over while she chewed on her bottom lip. Unwilling to draw her from her considerations, he began looking around the room again.
Somehow, he hadn't noticed the flowers piled up on the small table beside the other chair. Three bunches were wilted or in the process of dying, two were just partially sagging but mostly vibrant while the last appeared fairly fresh. Staring at the interesting carnations and colours, his lips tugged up at the sides and he nodded to them as he asked, "Are those from Ruby?"
"Yeah, she came in every day," Emma said with a matching expression of fondness, tipping her head over her shoulder to glance the floral arrangements the tech analyst had apparently carried in with every visit.
"I'll have to thank her for that," he said, turning his attention back to his partner and letting his head fall back into the pillow still moulded to the back of his head. His thoughts rolled on from the brunette to his last conversation with her and, ultimately, a question that would plague him if he didn't get an answer soon, "Speaking of the lovely Red, how did –"
"They find us?"
He nodded, unperturbed by her ability to sense the direction of his thoughts, "Yeah."
Emma began picking at the white blanket they had thrown over him, "She told David and the others what was going on when the phone dropped out. Then she just used the GPS track she still had on Neal's convoy to trace us to the mansion – it wasn't hard to figure out with Neal and my history at the place," she shrugged and he pretended not to notice the way her voice caught towards the end, her shoulders hunching ever so slightly at the mention of the man who'd wrought havoc.
He nodded and swallowed, trying to divert the subject for both their sakes – his side was prickling a little more fervently just thinking about the way the splinter of wood had been thrust in and all but twisted by the man in question.
"Did they say anything about Tate's case?"
Nodding, she raised her eyes to meet his again, "Yeah, they got Cora. She was trying to get on a plane to Cuba when they apprehended her."
Satisfaction made the tension laced through his body loosen a little – if that woman had have escaped, he probably would ripped the chords out of his arms just to go and find her himself. There was something about the woman that just rubbed him completely the wrong way. It might have been that she was instrumental in helping Neal find Emma; not only giving the go-ahead for Prince to pass along the information but sourcing it herself.
The more he thought about it, the more he detested her. Especially when he found himself tracing the lines of his partner's face with his eyes, the haggardness that lingered from her deadly dance with him, the bruises and scratches that marred her jaw and collarbone. And, studying her further, his insides only twisted tighter when he saw the bandage around her upper right arm, complemented by the bruises that were starting to yellow.
He had to close his eyes and take a deep breath, look away from the physical reminders of what had happened. Staring ahead he swallowed down the desire to maim and slowly unclenched his fists, unsure when he'd clenched them in the first place.
"Good… so I guess everyone's at work doing the processing or paperwork or something," he said.
Silence greeted him, the kind of silence that fills up a room and clouds it. When she said nothing still, he turned to look at her and a dumbbell dropped into his gut at the expression there. Her eyes were downcast again, but this time her mouth was pulled in a tight line. He recognized that face, the grave one she adopted whenever she needed to say something she didn't want to for whatever reason.
He tilted his head down and eyes her warily, an odd rush of anxiety settling deep in his chest when she still said nothing.
"Emma? What's wrong?"
Emma finally met his gaze and took a deep breath, "They're not at work, Killian."
He canted his head, genuine confusion rattling away his prior assumptions of far dire fates, "Why?" He'd been imagining the worst; perhaps he'd missed something on the drive back and that could range anywhere between David getting fatally shot in his valiant rescue mission and Ruby being fired on the spot for breaking a plethora of government laws to do what she'd done for him.
As it turned out, the answer to his question fell somewhere in between.
"The Bureau had to be informed about Neal and everything when they found out about Ruby tracking him…" the rest of the sentence died on her lips and he could feel his mind slowing down as the truth was slowly administered to him like a drug through a needle. The fact that the FBI knew about their actions, and therefore the protocol they'd carelessly broken to achieve their goals, could only mean one thing: trouble. Heart starting to race, he held her gaze.
She was hesitant to continue, guilt draining all prior relief from her features to replace it with blatant self-loathing.
So he prompted her, "And?"
"They've launched an investigation into our team, Killian," she said, voice heavy, "We've all been suspended."
Shit.
8888
It took several more days for the doctors to give him the all clear to go home, and even then it still hurt to tense his abdomen muscles let alone straighten to his full height without pain in his lower half. The bruises on his face and arms and chest were essentially non-existent though and the perforations were healing nicely. When Henry had visited, he'd made a comment about the ruggedly attractive connotations the wounds introduced, recycling the light-hearted joke they'd made not too long ago regarding the younger agent himself. Killian had responded easily with a chuckle (which he regretted; his ribs really did not agree with him laughing) and a smirk, saying something about learning from the best.
It was strange how the team had danced expertly around the topic of their suspension and the impending trial designed to scrutinize both their success and obedience. The former notion didn't have him batting an eyelash: their team was the most fruitful of the entire bloody Bureau. It was the latter, their ability to abide by protocol and authority, that had his skin prickling with anxiety whenever he thought about it.
Apprehension sweeping in as his mind traitorously recalled every time they'd ever shunned their superiors in favour of what they called the moral high-ground.
Running a hand through his mussed hair, he stared up at the ceiling from his bed and let out a deep breath – which made his ribs flare up so he hissed. As much as he often complained about his job and the way it frequently impeded on his downtime, he found himself at a loose end with nothing to fill the void his days left until the trial in three weeks' time. He found himself wondering what Swan was doing, whether she was clawing at the walls yet.
The two of them were both suspended from the Bureau until further notice, the remainder of their team permitted to at least complete menial tasks in the office since they weren't being reprimanded nearly as harshly for their actions which, from what he could glean, were at the very least being translated as the desperate, perhaps unorthodox, actions of a team distraught at the prospect of two agents' death.
Sitting up, he was about to extract himself fully from the bed when he heard the familiar buzzing of his phone vibrating on his bedside table. He leaned over and plucked it before it could travel over the edge of the surface, bringing it back to look at the caller.
Swan.
Brows pulling together, his finger hovered uncertainly over the answer button, its green shine casting an eerie glow over the pad of his thumb.
He hadn't seen her since the hospital, since he'd woken up with her cheek in his palm and her smell on his skin. It was as though, now with the knowledge that he was alive, she hadn't thought it necessary to stay as he was discharged. He was unsure whether her absence was prompted by the guilt that surely haunted her soul and safeguarded her emotional walls or her reciprocal understanding that something had shifted between them at the mansion.
Knowing her, it could have been any number of reasons – she was a complex person, for him not to know that by now could have only been ignorance on his part. So he didn't hassle her, didn't text, didn't call, didn't even really feel any inkling of resentment that she wasn't there to see his recovery. All he really felt was curiosity, compelled to know why she hadn't spoken to him since that day; an especially prevalent sensation since his rather befuddling conversation with Ruby when the tech analyst had first seen him in the hospital.
Several Days Earlier
"You Irish ass hole!"
He smirked as the brunette bustled into the small room, brown eyes locking on him. Taking a detour by the table at the opposite wall to deposit the ostentatious flower bunch in her hands, she wasted little time before hurdling over to him. Her slender arms were instantly enveloping him, her dark hair curtaining his head as she pressed her cheek against his forehead.
"Don't you ever do that again, do you hear me?" she muttered, faux angrily, still squeezing him against her.
"Has anyone ever told you how tender your bedside manner is?" he retorted as she pulled away and hauled her legs up so she was lying down beside him. Shuffling over slightly, wincing when it sent a rod of pain straight for his abdomen, he made room for her so they could reside comfortably side-by-side.
"Seriously though, don't ever do that again," she repeated, tilting her head to the side to look at him. Her knuckles brushed his before she took a hold of his hand, face still lacking in any form of mirth. It didn't look right on her, the solemnity, and he smiled half-heartedly in an attempt to alleviate the weight he sensed in her expression, hiding just beneath her bright and bubbly exterior. He squeezed her hand lightly and nodded.
"I'll try not to make a habit of dying."
She stared at him long and hard for a moment before, apparently, deciding it was all the affirmation she needed. A sliver of trepidation eased its way out of her features and she smiled, red lips parting to reveal a set of bright white teeth that rivalled the brightness of the sterile room he was in. They both turned their heads back to look forwards, except she let her head drop onto his shoulder and he savoured the familiar feeling of fondness curling around him as he sat with her.
It was silent for a long time until, eventually, he felt a topic rising from the recesses of his mind. Still staring ahead, he said, "Emma told me about the investigation."
Ruby sighed, "Yeah," she said breathily, "That's probably my fault."
"What do you mean?"
He didn't have to look at her to know her lips were pursed, twitching from side to side so her nose crinkled and wiggled. It was one of her mannerisms and it reminded him oddly of a small forest critter; like a squirrel or a rabbit.
"I told the Bureau about everything," she admitted guiltily.
Killian pulled away to look at her, brows furrowing slightly, "And if you hadn't, Emma and I would be God-knows-where. You did the right thing, Red," he reassured, adding the old pet name for emphasis. She glanced at him once, face still ridden with culpability so he maneuvred his arm so it settled around her shoulders.
"Seriously," he said, pulling her tight into his side for a moment, "Without you, I'd probably be dead."
"Without me, you'd have been dead from the first case you took," she muttered, humour seeping into her tone and a small burst of satisfaction dissipated some of the tension that muffled the air and stifled them with what was to come. He tried not to chuckle but grinned down at her instead – knowing the reflex reaction would have earned him an intensifying of the ache in his side. Sighing, Ruby relaxed and rolled her eyes.
"So you brought in all those flowers?" he asked, changing the subject, nodding to the table at the end of the bed where floral arrangements covered nearly the entire surface. She frowned up at him, canting her head to the side.
"Not all of them," she huffed, "just most of them. I came in every day."
He smirked, "Did you text the team giving updates on my condition? I bet Swan probably blocked your number because you flooded her inbox."
A strange look crossed her face, eyes narrowing slightly as the edges of her mouth tugged infinitesimally upwards. Gaze flitting over his face, taking stock of his expression, she took a breath and shook her head. The dulcet tones of her words reached him slowly, thin as smoke as she relayed to him, "I didn't need to. She was here every day. Never left your bed side."
Killian shook his head, trying to shrug off the memory as he let his thumb drop to the answer button and pulled the phone up to his ear. Falling back against the headboard of his bed, he scratched the spot behind his ear somewhat anxiously.
"Swan?"
"Hey," she answered quietly.
A beat of silence passed between them and he picked at the seams of the sheets.
"…How are you?" he eventually asked when the silence became too stifling.
He could hear her deep inhale and exhale as it fluttered against the receiver, before she replied, "I'm okay. How are you?" Nodding, he gave a likewise answer and waited – she wouldn't have called for nothing and, if the tentative note in her voice was anything to go by, she was clearly nervous about whatever it was. Finally, she took another deep breath before speaking.
"Are you doing anything next Friday?"
8888
Purifying sunlight filtered down through the Cyprus trees, forming a golden lattice pattern on the dewy grass as he walked alongside her. Overhead, grey clouds were beginning to gather and it wouldn't be long before the warm radiance was blocked out by their ill-omened darkness. It was a shame, but then again, the day was one destined to be morose even if Killian had no place to be upset. He had never even met the man, let alone known him well enough to feel grief over his demise.
Yet there was still hollowness below his breastbone, a fissure that wasn't of his own making and widened every time he tilted his head towards her face. Dropping his gaze from the sky, he turned to watch Emma again as they padded quietly across the cropped lawn, her were eyes downcast, hands stuffed neatly into her coat pockets. He could tell she was deep in thought – the pinched brow he often teased her for appearing as they walked side by side in amicable silence.
The headstones formed a path for them to follow and he let his gaze linger on the names, not really reading them. Just looking for something else to do as the silence continued to wrap around them, swirling and thickening like it was a living, breathing thing.
Rain was slowly beginning to trickle down the air as the sky became a blotched mass of clouds posing as smoke. A feint fog was beginning to roll in at a sluggish pace and he turned to watch her wrap her arms tighter around herself, the flowers still clutched in her trembling fingers. A part of him yearned to pull her into his embrace, but he knew it wasn't appropriate – not yet, not with everything still so complicated and especially not as they traversed a graveyard to pay their respects to her fallen friend.
Droplet after droplet thudded steadily onto each of the rose petals, the familiar and soothing sound of rain drumming a beat against the leaves of the trees almost soothing as they persisted through the wetness. Unwittingly, he found himself walking closer to her so their shoulders brushed and he could feel her warmth radiating towards him, drawing him to her like a magnet.
Emma stopped walking abruptly, and it took him a moment to realize they'd reached their destination. Swallowing thickly, he pulled to a halt beside her and let his gaze trail down to the innocuous headstone nestled into the grass, the name etched in simple font; "Graham James Humbert, 1987 – 2014."
There were no words of comfort on his tombstone, no proverbs outlining how much of a good man he was. And there was a moment where Killian felt as though he did know the man because he an overwhelming wave of sadness crashed over him. He was dead and he was surrounded by men and women whose deaths were marked by grieving words and tearful goodbyes. Though unsure whether Emma had gotten a proper goodbye (they hadn't exactly discussed it), he did know that his death had been of the unceremonious sort.
An image fluttered into his mind; a coffin descending into the dirt to a crowd of three people and an over-abundance of Cyprus trees. A priest and two diggers all he would have had at his funeral. It was so abysmally depressing to think of. His thoughts were punctured and began to bleed out into emotion as Emma crouched down and delicately placed the flower arrangement at the foot of the cement block.
She paused for a long moment, fingers loitering where she traced the name she knew so well, but she stood eventually, brushing off her hands and sniffling against the brisk cold air. The rain was still light but the atmosphere felt icy enough that their breath escaped their mouths in stark white wisps. He turned to look at her, drinking in her glassy eyes and hard-set face. She was holding it in. And as much as he yearned to say something, his hand itching to wind its way around her shoulder and hold her close until everything resumed its normal pace, he knew that wasn't why she'd asked him to come with her. The reason she'd desired his presence was purely for support; not comfort – in its emotional or physical manifestations (not yet) – and definitely not to grieve with her – she wasn't stupid enough to assume him the type to share second-hand grief.
It was all but a requirement in their job to be able to separate your emotions from others, to not get caught by the feelings of third parties, to remain objective at all times. Not doing so in their profession would only result in being crushed by grief and guilt and sadness and hatred and denial and a plethora of other destructive emotions. So he didn't suffer the ailments of others (unless he cared deeply for them; which was why it was unsurprising that he felt uncharacteristically dejected as he stared at the grave).
Regardless, Emma wanted him to be there. She merely wanted support incarnate, she needed him to just be, his presence enough of a buoy in the choppy waves of mixed grief and guilt she was wading through over the man's murder. She didn't want words or actions; she didn't need sympathy or pity – that would have only served to aggravate her.
No, all she craved was a person to accompany her, unwittingly take on some of the heavy weight of the day, carry her burden with her like a conjoined cross to bear.
Killian's ears perked at the sound of someone approaching behind them, multiple pairs of feet padding gently across the damp grass. There was a long moment where he assumed it was another procession; another congregation of mourners ready to farewell a loved one. But the closer they got, the more that theory seemed to dwindle, until he heard a familiar voice mutter something unintelligible.
Emma turned around at the same time he did, frown etched on her face. Both agents found no words as they saw David, Mary Margaret, Ruby, Henry, Phillip and Aurora making their way towards the pair. They were all dressed in black, even the tech analyst who was notorious for her disdain of the morbid colour. She had, of course, compensated the colour with a multitude of fabrics varying from velvet to lace, but she was wearing it respectfully nonetheless.
"What are you all doing here?" Emma asked quietly.
David, one arm wrapped firmly around his wife's waist, replied, "Henry told us and… we didn't know him, but we know you. He knew you and… well, he must have been a pretty good guy so we figured he deserved a decent send-off."
The 'and we wanted to make sure you were okay' was implicit, held in the air simply by the softness of his eyes and the timber of his voice.
Killian watched his partner's face warily, very much aware of the delicacy of the moment. She wasn't an open person, wasn't the sort to ask or receive support gracefully. So, she would either accept their team's gesture for what it was; a harmless attempt to show her they cared and that the loss of her friend wouldn't go unnoticed. Or she could reject them; throw her walls up in a desperate bid to distance them in such an emotion-fuelled time in her life. Especially with the trial looming closer, she was in a precarious state at best.
He was still reeling from the fact that she'd asked him to accompany her if he was honest. But, he guessed after everything that had happened, perhaps she also wanted to remind herself, standing over the grave of her best friend, that she hadn't come out of it completely broken, that there were things she hadn't lost (some might say, she'd even gained a few things).
Either way, whether they all said it or not, they all knew that her response was pivotal to how this played out. The hopeful expressions were unceasing across the line of their friends and co-workers - Ruby's gloved fingers digging anxiously into Henry's arm where they were linked.
Taking a deep breath, the tension uncoiled like a spring as Emma nodded and gave them all a watery smile. She didn't say anything, just turned back to Graham's grave and folded her arms shakily across her torso.
The team wasted little time in sidling up to her, each setting down an individual flower (all except Ruby, who had purchased a bloody bouquet of blue roses). When they finished, David, who was standing on Emma's other side, let go of his wife so he could throw an arm around the shoulders of the younger woman.
Killian didn't hear what he said, but he saw from his peripheral vision as the man leaned down to whisper something in her ear. The blonde nodded, a sad smile forming on her lips as she nodded and turned to him with an expression bordering on grateful. When she looked back down at the tombstone, she dropped her head onto the Unit Chief's shoulder, resting there as the rain continued to patter around them, the air growing colder.
The simple gesture, innocuous as it was, sent a jolt of longing through Killian.
He wasn't a stranger to envy when it came to his partner, particularly when it came to the way she treated other men in comparison to himself. He had experience in controlling the urge to ask her why, to make her explain why he was so different – why she couldn't hug him, couldn't engage in purely affectionate physical interactions like she did with Henry or David or Phillip.
But it still stung.
A chiding voice reminded him that this day wasn't about him, scolding him for his selfishness in her time of need. There were so many more things that needed his thought and attention – the upcoming trial, for one – but, watching her interact with David, his greatest desire became a thing of simplicity.
Before he keeled over completely and his soul left his body, he wanted Emma Swan to treat him without restraint. Innocently enough, the longing had no sexual connotations. He didn't expect her to kiss him again or even sleep with him. If he could just get her to hug him of her own free will, or hold his hand, or caress his cheek – and not because he was dying or he nearly died or there was a likely chance he was going to die. Not because she was grateful or relieved.
He wanted her to want to do it simply because she wanted to.
Swallowing, Killian set aside the thought as their team began to turn and walk away. Today wasn't about him; today was about her, making sure she was okay, that she would cope. Eventually, as each member of their team drifted off, only he, Emma and David remained. Until the latter said something to her, kissing her temple briefly as he unwound his arm and followed his wife back across the lawn, leaving the two partners alone again.
She turned to look at him, eyes still watery, but said nothing for a long while.
Taking a step towards her, he asked hesitantly, "You alright?"
Emma nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, "Yeah," she rasped, looking in the direction of their team, "Yeah, I think um… David and the others were going to the Mad Hatter for some drinks." Looking back at him, she chewed her lower lip.
"Are you going?"
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, "I don't know."
Pausing, he studied her, trying to get a read on her as they stood in the damp graveyard. Her hand dropped from her face and they simply stared at each other, separated only by the cold damp air and their own brand of demons and walls.
"Do you want to be alone?" he asked.
Emma's eyes drifted down to Graham's gravestone momentarily before she looked back up to him, and shook her head gently, "No. Not really." Nodding, Killian sidled up to her so they could walk back towards the cars where their team were assembling. They all filed into the cars, the two of them retreating back to hers. The drive was silent, yet not uncomfortably so. For some reason, nothing really needed to be said – not on a day like today.
When they pulled up at the Mad Hatter, the rain was beginning to fall in earnest, icy sheets that threatened to thunder down on them so they were forced to run to the warm glow of the bar. Water droplets clung to their skin and jackets, her hair soaked so it clung to her face and he felt his own dark mop falling down over his forehead. Opening the door for her, they both tumbled in, a solid wall of heat hitting them both, swirling with the comforting sound of voices and boisterous laughter that they typically associated with their team's favourite watering hole.
Killian spotted them almost immediately, for once curled around a booth in the shadowy recesses of the establishment. Placing a light hand on her back, he began nodded to where their team was and led her there, hyperaware of the way her body heat burned through to his outstretched hand.
David looked up on their approach and scooted around to make room for the two, dragging his beer with him. They were all nursing one brand or other, even Ruby who was notorious for her taste in martinis. Emma sat down in the booth first before sliding over so he could move in next to her. The dull roar of the bar didn't do nearly enough to drown out the deafening silence that swirled like a thick cloud over their team, snatching their voices from their throats, words left stale, perched on the tips of their tongue unspoken.
It lasted for a long time, the only intermission of voices coming when Killian ordered two beers for Emma and himself. After that though, they say and sipped their beverages quietly. Until Phillip finally spoke up, the agent looking around at each of them.
"You don't really think they'll dismiss us all, do you?"
Henry shook his head lightly, finger trailing patterns in the condensation on his bottle, "I don't think they would. Psychology studies would suggest this is simply a façade designed to deter everyone else at the BAU from future insubordination. Sort of like they're using us as an example to set a standard for everyone else."
David frowned, "They would have had to do this anyway. Too much has gone on in our cases in the past couple of months for them to ignore it."
"Yeah, but comparing our noncompliance with our success rate? I'd like to think the bureau isn't so foolish that they'd rather compromise national safety than their precious protocol," Henry replied, tone slightly off-kilter with a silent seething quality. It threw Killian off to hear the sharp edges of the young man's voice; the soft edges rounded out and hardened under obvious irritation.
David and Phillip nodded.
8888
It was around eleven when they finally arrived at his house, her car pulling up to the rain-dampened curb as the torrent above pelted their world with icy sheets, blurring everything into a sad, dark watercolour. The methodical thrumming of the droplets on the roof of the vehicle had lulled them into a state of calm so that the lack of discussion wasn't so glaringly obvious between them. For all the memories they'd shared in the front seats of her car, he felt this night being branded into him purely for the way the air nearly choked him.
Tilting around in his seat, he turned to face her as she turned the car off. She was still facing forward, looking out like she could see past the mass of water sliding down her windshield. He was about to say something when Emma spoke.
"Do you mind if I come in?" she asked hesitantly, "Just until the rain dies down." Her façade of normalcy was failing so he could see right through to her desperation for human interaction. She wasn't ready to be alone just yet and this was her way of reaching out to him, because if she was going to be around someone – it was going to be him. And that, for all it was, warmed a part of him.
He nodded instantly, "Yeah, uh – sure."
Her returning nod was stilted, like she was still second-guessing herself. Trying not to seem too unbalanced, Killian jumped out of the car and heard her door slam in tandem with his, the both of them running towards the front entrance of his apartment building in a vain attempt to stay as dry as possible.
Opening the door for her, he let her go through first before leading her to the elevators. When they eventually reached his apartment, they were both shivering, clothes soaked so it took him a couple of fumbling moments to actually unlock his front door. Finally though, they staggered over his threshold, shucking their coats and shrugging their shoulders as they walked towards his small kitchen.
"Do you want a night-cap?" he asked automatically, already fiddling around through his cupboards for two tumblers and an old bottle of scotch. She breathed out a 'yes,' moving around to lean on the kitchen island opposite him, arms folded on the granite surface.
He'd just put the glasses down with a small clink, fishing around for the alcohol when he asked, "How are you – really?"
Emma's eyes moved down to the bench top, her forehead crinkling in deep thought as she momentarily appeared to toss up whether she actually wanted to tell him or not. The pause stretched out for what felt like forever but her decision ultimately came in the form of her answer, exhausted and husky, "I'm managing. It doesn't help that I have nothing to keep me busy." Glancing up at him, she returned the favour, "What about you?"
The auburn liquid poured seamlessly into their glasses, his attention preoccupied so he answered a simple, "Ditto."
She didn't say anything else on it and Killian handed her the drink.
"Thanks."
For the thousandth time that day, they found nothing to say. It was as though for the past twenty-four hours, a vacuum had been placed into their bubble of reality and all they could do was stand helpless as their vocal chords were figuratively severed. He stared into his drink for a second before taking a long swig. The familiar sensation burned his throat as it slid down and he hissed, licking his lips and setting it down as he swallowed the aftertaste.
Coughing under his breath, he caught her attention, "Amidst the chaos… I never got to say thank you for – for saving me."
She took a sip from her drink, "What else would I do?"
Awkwardly scratching the spot behind his ear with one finger, he said, "I just mean," he paused and tried to gather his thoughts, tried to organize them into a coherent line that wouldn't prod at her emotional walls in their oversensitive state. "I know… You and Neal had history and…" his voice drifted off, a warning flashing in his brain as the words came out jumbled.
Their eyes locked and she just stared at him, transitorily lost for words until she said, still holding his eyes with hers, face completely serious, "He made me choose between my past and my fut-" she cut herself off, swallowing whatever she was going to say (he thought he knew what it was but shoved the assumption down, using it to muffle the heavy beating of his heart against his ribcage). She took a quick breath and resumed, "-and you... I picked you."
Studying her, something shifted around them. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it, the unidentifiable notion falling through his fingers like sand.
"Well, regardless… thank you."
She nodded a silent salute and took a sip from the tumbler at the same time he did.
"I should probably thank you too," Emma said, clearly struggling with herself, and he frowned in confusion, which she saw and elucidated, "For coming today. I – uh – I appreciate it."
"It was no hassle, love."
Shooting him a tight smile, they fell back into the routine of drinking and independently pondering. It was Emma that broke the silence once again (thrice in one night - that was a surprise to say the least, and maybe a new record). She watched him like she was searching for a lie even before she asked, "Did you know they were coming today?"
"No," he replied honestly, and she nodded, sensing the same thing.
"It isn't the first time they've showed up unexpectedly," she murmured into her glass, swallowing the last of it when she was finished. He nodded his agreement and swirled his scotch absent-mindedly.
"Yeah, I haven't properly thanked them for coming when they did yet," he said with a cant of his head, swallowing some of the alcohol. Emma reached across the bench to grab the bottle and poured some more into her glass as she spoke, eyes focused on the stream of auburn flowing into her glass.
"You'll see them again at the trial, you can thank them then."
The morose undertones in her voice did nothing to assuage the concern he felt every time he looked at her. She hadn't broken down yet – she'd suffered through the death of several old friends, isolated herself from the world, killed her ex-lover and the perpetrator of many of the emotional scars that congealed over her heart. But she was yet to let herself fall, the cracks spreading wider so she was somehow still taped together despite the great yawning crevasses that covered her soul.
Eyes attentive on her face, he frowned and lowered his voice, trying to think of anything that might reduce the weight on her shoulders. He'd already done as much as he could with regards to Graham's death and couldn't risk asking her about Neal without putting their relationship in jeopardy (more so than it already was with everything that had happened and her tendency to flee from anything remotely resembling intimacy). So, really, the only thing he could help her with, at that moment as they stood in the kitchen sharing a drink, was the team and the upcoming trial.
He waited until she'd finished pouring her drink, catching her gaze and holding it firmly like his voice.
"They won't dismiss the team, Swan."
A beat passed.
"You don't know that," she said, a hint of frustration wrapped around the syllables.
Shooting her an incredulous look, he tilted his head and asked in a skeptical voice, "Do you really think they'll let the unsolved crime rate skyrocket just to make an example of a slightly rebellious team?"
But if he ever really thought his words would do anything to ease her into something remotely resembling relaxed, he'd be acting ignorant. That didn't mean he wouldn't try, but he wasn't exactly surprised when she shook her head and traced the rim of the glass, the clogs visibly turning in her head as she over-processed every minute detail of the murky situation they were in.
"It's not just that though," she muttered, still looking anywhere but his face and shaking her head sporadically as though to herself, "I… I didn't just break the rules I shat all over them when I decided to go off on my own to find Neal. And so did you and the team when you all decided to ignore protocol to sort out my mess –"
"Swan."
She looked up, green eyes melting into his icy blue ones. It was like looking into the eyes of a cornered animal, the fear that existed beneath the hard exterior she let everyone believe – everyone but him (even if that wasn't so much her choice as his ability to draw back her walls and peek beneath). Scrutinizing her in the harsh light of his kitchen, she just looked scared. Scared of what might happen, what was to come, the last stretch of hell she had to trek through to reach something close to a break.
Every iota of his being wanted to reach out and grab her, crush her to him, hold her there and reassure her until she wasn't so broken anymore. Her walls snapped back in place before he could think twice about doing just that, setting the glass down gently as she stood to her full height and readjusted her shirt.
Looking to the windows that sat past his lounge-room she murmured, "I should go – the rain's stopped."
He nodded, watching and following silently as she moved to the front door and pulled her leather jacket back on. His hands were in his pockets, back leaning against the wall, as she opened his front door and stepped out. The jingling of her keys gave him a moment to hold the door open, his voice reaching out of its own volition to call her back.
"Emma?"
She turned on the spot, head turning up towards him as she answered, "Hm?"
Leaving himself no room to question his actions, or his sanity for that matter, he took two strides forward so he could cup her face. He could feel her freeze up; stiffen in his gentle grasp as he lowered his lips to her forehead. Pressing them there once, he pulled back, looking into her eyes for a second longer before stepping back. She was unnaturally still and he could see the way she tried to compute a suitable response – would have been amused by it were he not so worried about her. Taking another step away, he looked down at her feet instead and said, "I'll see you at the trial," before slowly closing the door.
8888
The main part of the trial was conducted over a week. Sitting in the pews, fiddling with his cuffs, he stared at the large room the moment they entered – mahogany everything, several long rows of seating split by an aisle that led to a desk and chair at the front of the room which faced a long sitting booth where their superiors would reside for the duration of the case: five chairs to be headed by a man named Maurice French.
He was a bulbous fellow, with a receding hairline tinted grey and small bug eyes that swept over the room like it was about to detonate, his thin glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Maurice was running the proceedings and had no qualms about being a downright ass hole – as they quickly found out. However, it wasn't exactly hard to return the disdain for their team he so clearly displayed.
If anything, Henry – who was, somehow, the first to be interrogated, proved very early that they weren't about to lie down and die or point fingers at each other. He smirked to himself where he sat just thinking about the first day when the young agent had been placed at the desk before a line of supposedly domineering higher-ups staring down their noses at him.
"Were you ever under the impression that Miss Swan used her job for her own personal missions?" Maurice asked, leaning forward in his chair so it squeaked in protest at the shift of weight. His voice carried down to Henry like an anvil, his dulcet tones deep and rumbling.
"No."
His next question was succinct in its following, completely ignoring the way Henry's face was beginning to twist contemptuously at the man who continued to fire questions at him. Tilting his head down to he could look over the thin rim of his spectacles he asked, "Has it ever come to your attention before that she prioritizes her personal life above her job?" The implications of that particular question made Henry grind his teeth together, jaw tightening at the way they tried to dig their nails into her character and tear it to shreds.
"She doesn't," he managed between grit teeth.
Killian didn't think he'd ever seen the kid so damned angry.
Maurice looked down at some papers, stubby fingers tracing over some lines before he took a moist breath, swallowed and looked up at him with tangible condescension, "Did it ever occur to you, or your colleagues, that what you were doing was against protocol?"
Henry was quick to respond, voice hardening and demeanour turning rigid so even Killian shrunk slightly into his seat – it was a strange sight to say the least after years sidled up to the gentle but obscenely intelligent youth. For a young man who prided himself on his calm demeanour and profound brain, he could sure as hell strike the fear of god into people if he wanted. Leaning back in his chair, Henry looked each of the board member's in the eye and said, clearly irate, "Yes, but we also saved two lives and took down an international fugitive who, if it weren't for those same two agents, would still be weaponizing our enemies. So, really, you should be thanking them and honestly? Questioning seems redundant at this point."
Maurice looked about as taken aback as everyone else in the room, "You need to calm down, Mr Simmons."
Henry leaned forward in his seat, speaking directly into the microphone with a half-mocking, half-passive-aggressive, "This is calm, and it's Doctor."
Other than that, though, the trial was a blur – everyone was questioned in almost exactly the same fashion over the week, halfway between indicting Emma of malpractice and inferring a lack of harmonization between their team and the decorum of the bureau. Although they were all there for the team's trial, the undertones were strong and none of them were ignorant to the real target of this entire debacle: Emma.
That, really, only served to antagonize Killian to their superiors even further, glaring at them whenever they tried to arraign his partner for some wrongdoing or another. She was the last to be interrogated, after Regina. But before either of them could be questioned –
"Killian Jones," Maurice summoned impatiently, watching with tedium as the agent stood up and moved over to the desk. He could feel the gazes of his team on his back, their eyes glued to him as he took the same stand they all had. Lowering himself into the leather chair, Killian pulled into the desk and folded his hands over the wooden surface, leaning on it and looking up across the board with the more infuriating shit-stirring smirk he could muster.
"Mr French," he greeted, nodding once at him and then the rest of his colleagues.
"Deputy," Maurice said in response, watching as the aforementioned court clerk trudged over to Killian where he was sworn in. Leaning back in his seat when it was finished, he folded his arms across his chest and waited. Silence descended on the courtroom for a long moment as Maurice seemed to decide where to begin, shuffling through the papers scattering the desk in front of him before finally picking up one and smiling.
He looked up to meet Killian's gaze, pushing his glasses further up his nose.
"This isn't the first time your actions have been called into question, Mr Jones," he stated wryly, canting his head to the side to study the man.
"Your point?" Killian returned drolly with a cocked eyebrow.
He smiled tightly and looked back down at the sheet between his beefy hands, "We have it on file that you received a warning not too long ago for using unnecessary force on a perpetrator – a one, Mr Reed?" He looked back up, probably to gauge the reaction his words earned. Unfortunately, he was trying to earn a response out of someone trained to withhold them and so was disappointed to only be gifted with a nod and a word.
"Yes."
Nodding slightly, he continued in a condescending tone, "So you're familiar enough with the rules to break them?"
"I don't go out of my way to if that's what you're inferring."
Maurice shuffled through his notes once more and his gaze caught on something, a long pause stretching out so the only sound was the buzz of conversation outside and the thumping roar of his blood in his ears as he waited for another question. As indifferent as he appeared, his nerves were oversensitive, mind on overdrive as he tried to stay ahead of the questioning.
The man before him looked up and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he appeared to clasp his hands in front of him, "But even that wasn't the first time your actions have been called into question, was it?"
Killian's fists clenched tight, eyes flashing angrily at the past Mr French was clearly hinting at – and quite deliberately too if his pleased expression indicated anything. Behind him, he could sense the way his colleagues frowned and exchanged unsure glances. He'd been called into Regina's office a multitude of times to question his motivations but this was the first time he'd been brought before the board – that they knew of.
Swallowing hard, he composed himself and allowed the shutters to his emotions open marginally, just enough to shoot a hot glare at Maurice who, thankfully, flinched under the inspection. Enunciating every word carefully, Killian said, "I was under the impression our team was being investigated for what happened at the Manor?"
They stared at each other for a prolonged couple of seconds until, eventually, Maurice retreated in his seat, leaning back and placing the papers down in front of him. With his hands free, he instead folded them over his protruding stomach, pursing his lips and seeming to contemplate transitorily.
"You're right," he said briskly, "Can you tell us, in your own words, what happened, Mr Jones?"
"As opposed to using someone else's words?" Killian countered, an edge of indignation and mocking woven expertly into the retort. David's voice filtered into his head as though the two were telepathically linked, don't aggravate him. Licking his lips and resuming a casual demeanour, the agent watched as Maurice's face stiffened in obvious annoyance.
"Now is not the time to be smart, Mr Jones."
Killian sighed.
"I was visiting Miss Swan because, as you know, she was evading death at the hands of Mr Cassidy –"
"Visiting? That's a bit naïve, don't you think?" Maurice interrupted, frowning down at him, "You used government resources to track her down after you broke Mr Prince's hand."
A miniscule smile threatened to play around the corners of Killian's lips at the vague memory. He was not a narcissist by any means but he wouldn't deny it had been beyond satisfying to wipe the smile off that smug bastard's face as he'd been yearning to do since the day they met – violent or not. Maintaining a neutral façade, he answered with practiced disinterest, "Mr Prince evaded arrest and I accidently slipped when I was subduing him."
Maurice hummed, and lifted both eyebrows in speculation, "And your unauthorized use of government resources?"
"I made a judgement based on the safety of one of my teammates. If I hadn't, she very well may have been killed by Mr Cassidy."
Another pause, and then "So what happened after you visited Miss Swan?"
"We were devising a strategy to capture the fugitive when he kidnapped both of us."
"Why didn't you come to the authorities?"
Killian barked a derisive laugh, ignoring the glower some of the board members sent him as he straightened in his seat again and let himself fall forward so he was leaning on the table, "Because the authorities were already supposedly 'on the case' and coming forward with what we knew would only have put Miss Swan in more danger by exposing her." Maurice exchanged a look with the woman beside him, a miniscule shake of his head that ignited fires beneath the nerves of the agent. He suddenly had an unexplainable urge to punch the man sitting at the centre of the board (or maybe not so unexplainable).
"Would you say all of your actions were purely in the interest of Miss Swan?" he asked when he returned his attention to him.
Killian ground his teeth, holding his tone at a steady pitch as he gritted out, "What I did benefitted this country, and frankly, I think it may have benefitted the world."
"What you did?" Maurice asked incredulously.
He nodded honestly, "Aid in the dispatch of an influential arms dealer with a vendetta for several government agents, many of whom he had already killed, thereby making him a murderer too."
Maurice's voice was partially sharp when he bit back, "Perhaps, but you also employed valuable government resources and put your team in jeopardy."
"I didn't realize I forced them to act."
"You believe they are to blame for this?" the older man inquired with a mirthless smile that resembled something closer to a leer than a grin, eyes flitting to the pews behind him in amusement. He was attempting to switch tactics, force them into a compromising situation or something like that by driving a wedge between them (honestly, he'd tried with each member of the team by now). Killian just shook his head, returning the same flat smile.
"What I believe is that this trial is pointless. What you seem to forgetting is that Mr Cassidy was a criminal, a highly volatile criminal with international connections and seemingly endless resources. If it weren't for the actions of my team and me, which were actually prompted in the first place by Mr Cassidy kidnapping me and my partner, you would still have an international fugitive on your hands and a whole lot more blood. I would be thanking us if I were you," he said, pleased when he watched the smug look vanish from Maurice's face.
Another look was exchanged, this time either side of him, and then he was shuffling forward, picking up some papers and sifting through them. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger – they'd fallen down in the past couple of exchanges – and read something.
Looking up, he asked "What happened at the manor where you were held hostage?"
"He interrogated us separately. I escaped and located Miss Swan, he stabbed me," he winced internally, the area at his side tingling somewhat at the memory of the stake being shoved into his muscle and twisted ever so slightly with malicious intent. Unwilling to let it show on his face, he remained stoic as he continued without missing a beat, "Emma shot him in self-defence and our team arrived in the nick of time so I didn't bleed out." He punctuated the end of the sentence with a tight smile, lacking in his distinctive joviality.
"When Miss Swan shot him, were either of your lives in express and immediate danger?" Maurice asked, both eyebrows ascending his forehead.
Memories of the small knife pressing against the sensitive skin of his neck replayed in his mind: Emma's shocked face, the way he'd been sure for a terrifying moment that their entire relationship had been in his head, all the complexities and flaws and piques. There had indeed been a second where he'd thought it was completely one-sided, that perhaps every laugh and smile was conjured by his own mind – that she was actually going to let him die.
Then, of course, the gunshots had come.
"Yes," he nodded once.
"In what way?"
Rolling his eyes, Killian replied in an impatient cadence, "He had me at knife point and was preparing to slit my throat."
"So Miss Swan shot him?" Maurice clarified – for what purpose, nobody was sure. But it made the agent's stomach turn over uncomfortably as he responded in the affirmative, the syllable drawn out by hesitation.
"Yes."
"How many times?"
Frustration boiled up in him, swift and unforgiving as he frowned and exhaled deeply – exasperatedly. Leaning forward so he could speak clearly into the microphone, he caught the gazes of each member of the board, voice fluctuating with barely concealed irritation, "I don't know, I was slightly disoriented – you know, bleeding out after receiving a beating tends to do that to you so forgive me if I wasn't at my most attentive." The 'you ignorant ass hole' was all but implied at the end of his answer.
Silence again as they all seemed to consider him. Maurice looked to each of his colleagues, silently asking if they desired any other information that they thought needed to be answered for the purposes of their inquisition. However, when they all nodded – a wordless confirmation to the conclusion of his questioning – Maurice rotated in his chair to face forward once more.
Taking off his spectacles and placing them on the desk, he said, "That is all, Mr Jones. You may return to your seat."
Killian bowed his head in a mocking salute, "Thank you."
Standing up, he moved quickly to his seat beside his team and watched as the trial for the day was brought to a close. They would pick up on the following Monday since it was Friday and the board was unwilling to give up their weekend. As the board exited their seating, the rest of their team was allowed to leave, each filing out of their pews. It was only as they were departing that Killian noticed Victor's presence – a clear show of support since he'd already been questioned three days prior (and, thankfully, had done all that he could to support their case).
Regardless, it was interesting to observe the way, as soon as they were out in the main hallway, he gravitated towards Ruby. The two tech analysts engaged in conversation almost immediately and, within moments, the dimness that had plagued his brunette friend since the commencement of the trial dissipated and she smiled at him.
It made him smile.
Pivoting slowly on his heel, his eyes landed on a blonde head walking briskly for the exit. His expression instantaneously diminished, staring after Emma as she reached the double doors. She only looked back once, when her palm was already wrapped around the handle.
Their eyes locked through the throngs of people that crowded the hallway.
He recognized the subtle fear, the undeniable guilt, the tangible dread – everything he wasn't supposed to see.
And then she was gone, disappearing behind the door (and behind her emotional walls).
Is it good to have them all back, or is it good to have them all back? Thank you to One Republic and Coldplay for being my temporary muse.
Reviews are to me what sneak peeks are to a fandom - LIFEBLOOD!