Heeeeeey there buddies! So, I cannot cohesively describe how grateful I am for your reviews and follows and favorites and hopefully this update makes all the angst worthwhile. Seriously, reading your reviews and PMs just - like, you know that weird happy dance thing you do sometimes where you're arms flail around and you grin like an idiot? Yeah, that's what I do.
Kudos to Nicole, the person who reads through these monsters and has the energy to calm my hysterical-chihuahua-esque meltdowns over whether I'm doing these two idiots the justice they deserve.
*Sigh* I hope this is everything you guys wanted.
Left hook, right hook, kick, jab, kick, jab, dodge. Repeat.
A thin sheen of sweat cooled her burning skin. Her muscles ached, knuckles stinging from the incessant abuse. Yet, for all the pain it was causing, she felt no different than she had when she'd entered the gym that morning; the need to expel the excess energy coursing through her system going painfully unquenched, regardless of her desperate attempts to exorcise it. Apparently, even though they were suspended, they still had access to the facilities – including the bureau's in-house gymnasium (luckily).
Gritting her teeth, Emma continued to lay into the dummy (Fred, a small voice in the back of her head reminded her, a harmless morning conversation replaying in her mind so half of her wanted to smile at the reminiscence while the other half wanted to throw something at the wall). If she couldn't find a way to rid herself of the superfluous emotion, she would at least find a way to exhaust herself enough physically that contemplation was impossible.
She continued to move at a brutal pace, ignoring the way her body protested. That is, until the sound of the heavy-set doors at the front of the room interrupted her. Jerking her head up, she paused in her ministrations to identify the stranger. The doors closed with a dense thud and she took a deep breath.
"Thought I'd find you here," Killian called from across the room, already crossing the distance between them.
Rolling her eyes, she returned her attention to the dummy – she really was not in the mood to placate him, not with the trial looming over her head like a guillotine ready to drop (and especially since she still wasn't ready to confront the irrefutable shift between them)
"Jones," she sighed exasperatedly when he didn't pick up on the silent hint, "How did you know I'd be here?" He stopped a couple of feet away from her, standing with his arms crossed as he watched her fall back into a systematic rhythm of combat manoeuvres.
"Call it intuition," he replied, a hesitant smirk drawing her unwillingly into their banter. She was almost tempted to respond in the same quick-witted fashion, before a particularly ill-placed hit sent rivulets of pain lacing up her hand. Hissing and jolting her hand back, Emma lurched away from the training tool. Instantly, he was moving towards her, concern weaving into his jaw as he noted the way she cradled her wrist.
But Emma took another step back, glancing up to meet his eyes once, her walls still firmly raised.
"Whatever you call it, can you take it somewhere else?" she bit back, rolling her hand experimentally. It didn't hurt – she must have just hit a nerve or something (oddly symbolic when she thought about the person standing a stone's throw from her at that moment). She didn't wait to see his reaction to her barbed words, stepping around him and recovering her previous position.
There was a scoff and a mirthless chuckle behind her.
"Quite hostile, aren't we?" he said and she didn't have to turn around to feel him manoeuvre so he was standing just behind her. His gaze practically burned a hole in her back.
"Not in the mood, Jones," was her answer through clenched teeth. Her concentration was all but non-existent as she vainly attempted to re-establish a rhythm. But with him standing so close, their ambiguous relationship held between them like a rope being pulled taut (ready to snap at any moment), it was an impossible task.
"I can't imagine why," he replied sarcastically.
Whirring on him before her thoughts could fully process the action, Emma could feel her nostrils flaring angrily as the passive-aggressive energy she'd been trying to banish pushed its way to the surface, rising until it was overflowing. Taking a firm step towards him, she glared up at him, the emotion forming itself into words, spilling out of her so each syllable left her feeling marginally lighter.
"How about because our team is on the verge of being dismissed and the only thing standing between us and being unemployed is a woman who hates my guts and, to top it off, I'm the reason we're looking at disbandment!" Emma seethed, gulping down a breath as she finished. The thoughts had been plaguing her for days; the self-engineered taunts and jeers about how it was her, it was always because of her, replaying like a broken record she couldn't seem to oust.
She never thought she'd appreciate her goddamned job so much. For all the time it took out of her non-existent personal life, it gave her purpose and, against her better judgement, a surrogate family (because, really, what else could her team be called?). Being forced away from them, being left to stew and over-contemplate the trial with no release, Emma was at boiling point.
It was a strange sort of withdrawal.
Swallowing down the need to continue, she watched as Killian shook his head admonishingly. A frown creased her face and he studied her carefully, "You're really into this aren't you?"
Confused, Emma shook her head, "Excuse me?"
"Blaming yourself," he said simply, stealing the breath from her lungs with the two words, "It's like you're conditioned to think everything is somehow your fault." There was a sliver of understanding in his gaze and it did nothing to assuage the way her nerves tingled, bristling at the underlying pity she sensed there. Emma Swan was many things, but not pathetic and certainly not a creature thirsty for sympathy. She disregarded the way his words resonated in her, singing of truth and a childhood best left untouched.
Jaw clenching, she shook her head again, more fervently this time, "When it's my fault I do –"
This time it was his turn to get hostile, words sharpening to reflect his exasperation, "What Ruby and Henry and David and Phillip did was by their own decision. As were my choices – you didn't force us to do anything."
Emma rolled her eyes and pivoted on her heel to face the dummy, "Whatever."
But before she could rotate fully, he was tugging her back around to look at him, "Okay, stop." Her eyebrows lifted in an expression that questioned whether he wanted to keep the hand wrapped around her elbow and he quickly dropped it. The wordless demand to know what he was doing was left for him to interpret on her face.
"If you're going to let off steam, it's not going to happen beating a bloody dummy into oblivion." It took her a moment to register his actions as he shucked off his jacket.
She caught onto his meaning in a heartbeat and shot him an incredulous look.
"I'm not going to fight you, Jones."
Grinning lecherously, he leaned into her personal space, "Afraid you can't hack it, Swan?"
Her competitive streak yearned to rear its head and bite back, but she wouldn't allow it. Letting her gaze drop to the area of his abdomen where he'd been stabbed all those weeks ago, the skin covered by the simple grey cotton shirt he was wearing, Emma cocked one eyebrow and placed her hands on her hips. Her voice was slightly acidic when she said, "No, I don't want to fight someone handicapped."
Killian was unfazed by the not-so-thinly veiled insult, already stretching his arms, "Well then it's a good thing I'm not handicapped."
"And if your stitches rip?"
He smiled, big and broad and goofy enough to ease some of the tension in her shoulders, "I'll consider it a worthy cost for keeping you sane." Shrugging his shoulders a couple of times, he got into a fighting stance. Emma simply watched and shook her head, readying herself to leave – she was not going to fight him; for multiple reasons, mind you.
For one, he was still injured (although, his wound would have been pretty much healed by now), and she was not about to be responsible for putting him back in hospital. For another thing, she was most certainly not prepared to get into close proximity with him again after everything that had happened. Emotions had always run high in their relationship, the air always crackling with something foreign yet familiar. Now, it felt dangerous to be so close to him – like at any moment things would explode and it would either cause destruction or salvation. And she just wasn't willing to risk that.
Emma shook her head again, "Killian –"
She almost didn't block his hit as he lunged at her before she could finish, leaving her no room to speak as he levelled her with blow after blow – all of which, she blocked. He wasn't fighting for the upper hand, it was more of a routine and one they both knew was almost too easy for her. Distantly, she was impressed by his dexterity considering the fact he hadn't been able to strain himself physically for the past couple of weeks.
They traded blows for several minutes and then, like he sensed her need for greater challenge if she was ever going to find a semblance of peace before the trial, he increased the pace. The drives became swifter, quicker, sharper, so she was working harder to concentrate on throwing off his every move, careful not to attack. She could tell he wanted her to push back, to fight him. But she wouldn't, she refused to while he wasn't at what she considered his full strength.
Glancing to his eyes, she caught a shimmering of determination before he started moving forward, forcing her backwards until her back hit the dummy. With the constricted personal space and his relentless style of fighting, Emma growled in irritation. And it was like a trigger.
Suddenly, she forgot the situation, the context, everything but the familiar push and pull of combat. For the first time in weeks, everything else seemed to drain away – everything but the fight and the underlying emotions driving her forward. Like a whip being cracked, her back straightened so she was standing a little taller, her deflections becoming harsher until she was pushing him back.
A smirk twitched on his lips until it was erased by concentration.
Completely consumed by the need to banish the unwanted energy, Emma lost herself in the moment. So, when he unknowingly presented an opening, she expanded on it without a second thought. He landed on the foam matt with a dull thud and she was quickly straddling him, pinning him to the ground.
Chests heaving, bodies pressed tightly together, breath mingling in the space between their faces, she found herself searching his eyes as he appeared to do the same. It was only when he winced that she broke out of her trance, a wave of realization rippling through her as she registered their position and his predicament.
Scrambling off him, Emma pushed some loose hairs away from her face and kneeled beside him.
"Shit, sorry," she said as he moved into an upright position on the ground, "shit."
Killian shook his head dismissively, "It's fine, Swan. Really –"
He jumped in surprise when she slapped him on the shoulder. "You're an idiot and if you've ripped your stitches I'm going to hit you so hard you'll see stars," she threatened, hands already reaching for the hem of his shirt. She tried not to pay too much attention to the way his eyes followed her every movement with an attentiveness that shouldn't have affected her the way it did.
"Consider me warned," he murmured, the smirk clear in his voice.
Glancing up at him one more to shoot him a deadpan look, Emma gently pulled his shirt up just enough to assess the wound on his side. The white patch was still there, so she had to tug it away to get a look at the scar itself. He hissed when she did it (if only because the patch was taped down firm enough to pull at his skin) but, dragging it back to look at it, other than that – he was fine.
Sighing, Emma put the patch back in place and shook her head, "You're lucky. Stupid, but lucky."
Pulling away to sit back, her fingertips grazed the skin of his abdomen, sending electric sparks up her arm. Their eyes snapped up to lock and she swallowed, retracting it completely as he let the shirt drop. She was the first to release his gaze, leaning back to sit down comfortably.
She could still feel his eyes on her when he replied quietly, "I've never much believed in luck."
Gathering up her courage, Emma tilted her head towards him and caught his eyes. The air around them was getting thicker by the minute, a tightness surrounding them and building like a bow about to be plucked. Her voice was almost inaudible when she eventually spoke.
"What do you believe in, then?"
His crystalline eyes burned into her, an intensity lurking behind them that threatened to destroy her. Gaze never slipping; he gave his answer with a sureness that permeated the air and left her slightly off-kilter, "Fighting for what you want… I'd never rely on something as temperamental as luck."
Every ounce of breath disappeared from her lungs in a swift whoosh at the underlining to his simple mantra. Without context, it was a harmless thing to say – something she would have felt herself agreeing with. Luck was indeed an unreliable enigma and undoubtedly not something to be entrusted with a person's fate. If you wanted something badly enough, you had to fight for it; she knew that more than anything after the life she'd been dealt.
But with everything the way it was, with everything still hanging between them – untouched, unspoken, unaddressed – his words only served to send red flags waving in her head. Her built-in protection system flashing, the natural response to any level of intimacy came quick and strong, like a tidal wave.
Her words were softly spoken, hesitant even.
"And what if that's not enough?"
He shrugged lightly, eyes locked on hers.
"I don't give up easily."
Emma could feel her mouth drying, her heart racing as they simply stared at each other for a moment. It wasn't lost on her just what was lying dormant beneath the outwardly innocuous conversation.
Dropping his gaze and scrambling up, she started to pull off the tape around her hands. She heard more than saw him push himself into a standing position as she kept her own eyes downcast, unable to look at him again as she packed up her belongings. Unsurprisingly, he waited until she had her bag slung over her shoulder – honestly, she wouldn't have minded if he'd just left.
Sucking in a breath, Emma said, after no small amount of hesitation, "So, I guess I'll see you at the trial."
He nodded and she finally let her eyes flit up to his, "See you at the trial."
She didn't bother waiting for the room to become unbearably tense, stepping around him and hurrying for the gym doors without glancing back once. Some things were best left untouched.
8888
"Emma Swan," Maurice began once she was seated and sworn in the next morning, his thin lips curling distastefully around her name as he stared down through his wiry frames. His inspection of her was reminiscent of the same expression a child wore when scrutinizing a bug, a mixture of idle curiosity and disdain. Curling her fingers under her chair, she ignored the urge to scowl, schooling her features into a façade of calm indifference.
The questions were monotonous at first, the same things they had all been asked up until that point. About their work as a unit, their insolence, their inability to follow protocol. He went through the motions like it was a chore, clearly looking to question her about something else entirely. When she'd finished giving him the stock answers they'd all spouted, he let out a breath and refocused himself.
"What was your history with Mr Cassidy that made him… seek you out?" he asked, canting his head slightly as though trying to get a better look at her.
Swallowing, Emma shoved down the overwhelming urge to run in the face of confronting her past and spoke. "Mr Cassidy was the subject of an undercover operative I conducted when I worked for Interpol along with a team of five other agents. I was partly responsible for his incarceration."
"And what happened earlier this year?"
"I was informed of his escape from Kaechon Prison in Korea and he made me aware of his presence in Boston one month ago. I made the decision to detach from the bureau so as not to endanger any more of my teammates –"
"How were you certain that he was going to target them?" he asked speculatively, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands together over his robust midsection. Instantly, flashes of Graham's pallid face and heavy limbs gathered in her mind. Blinking back the urge to curl into herself, but sure that her shoulders had shifted forwards marginally, Emma grit her teeth.
"Because he confronted me and informed me as much," she said, memories of that night outside the gala chilling her to the bone: his light-hearted words, the darkness of his threat hidden like a dagger wrapped in silk.
Maurice narrowed his eyes, "And you didn't think to try to apprehend him at that time or inform the authorities?"
Her gaze was just as steely when she replied, "If I was capable of doing so at that time, I would have but I was in no position to physically overpower him and as for the authorities, telling them I'd spoken to him would have changed nothing."
He paused, considering her for a second, sharing a look with one of his companions before sifting through papers again and sighing, "Okay, and would you please explain what happened four weeks ago?"
"As you know, while I was attempting to apprehend him on my own, Mr Jones found me. Unfortunately, Mr Cassidy located us and abducted us. While in his custody, I was able to escape and, during the struggle – which Mr Jones interrupted – Mr Cassidy managed to apprehend Mr Jones and was threatening to kill him… so I shot him. The team arrived soon after."
There was a long beat of silence as Maurice and some of his peers took notes before, with a laboured breath, the former leaned forward in his seat and shuffled through some more notes. Rolling his shoulders, he appeared to be reading something in particular several times. She could see the clogs turning in his head.
He spoke before she could ponder it anymore, "Is it a requirement at the BAU that agents be trained with a firearm?"
Taken off guard, Emma nodded, "Um… yes."
"And are you a good shot?"
She shrugged, still unsure but a feeling of dead weight settling low in her gut, "I don't know –"
"Your files say you are what is colloquially termed a dead-shot."
"Okay… so?"
Another pause stretched out where she felt her heart begin to squeeze uncomfortably. It was akin to having her chest compressed between two walls – an uncomfortable claustrophobic sensation that left her feeling strained.
Maurice set his glasses down on the surface in front of him, folding his hands. The way his voice enveloped the words made it sound like he was leading to something, the questions disconnected like a connect-the-dots and she was only just starting to draw in the lines.
"When you shot him was your life in immediate danger?" he asked simply.
"…No," Emma enunciated slowly, "My partner's life was in danger –"
"So you're saying you killed Mr Cassidy with justifiable cause?" he asked, the incredulity thick in his deep voice. Emma felt the last reserves of her control beginning to waiver and she narrowed her eyes, looking up at him with a heat that hadn't been present before.
"You don't believe me?"
His expression became disbelieving and then he was talking, voice rumbling as he went on the tangent he'd clearly been itching to go on for a while now if his conviction was anything to judge by.
"I want to know why you really shot him. Twice, if I'm looking at the correct coroner's report. If you're a decent shot as your files support, why did you shoot again? Unless the kill wasn't about stopping a fugitive, or your partner, or your life, but about you seeking revenge over the deaths of your colleagues. In which case, why did you really take your leave of absence? Was it to apprehend Mr Cassidy, or was it to seek out and kill Mr Cassidy?"
"He kidnapped me!" Emma growled back, fury rising in her fast.
Maurice's eyes widened, not in shock at her tone, but in skepticism.
"Miss Swan, you shot Mr Cassidy twice –"
"I didn't know if the first bullet was accurate after the beating I'd had and I wasn't going to risk that I hadn't hit my mark!" Frustration was biting at her nerves and she could feel her team behind her, half of them bristling as she was mercilessly interrogated and the other half wordlessly begging her to calm down. They had done well not to break yet and if she was the weakest link for them to exploit, the whole house of cards could come tumbling down in a matter of seconds.
Biting down hard on her tongue, she didn't say anything else, settling for glowering up at the board.
"Do you know why you are here today, Miss Swan?" Maurice asked after a long pause, positively thrumming with satisfaction.
"Because you can't comprehend the fact that I managed to track down an international fugitive and you couldn't?" she bit back, tone sharp and clipped as the slight reverberated around the room.
She never had been good at stifling her temper.
Maurice's cheeks flamed red and he levelled her with a glare (not half as heated as hers was but a glare nonetheless). Top lip curling upwards just barely, he spoke in a clear cut voice.
"Careful, Miss Swan. You are here, along with your team, because it has come to our attention that regulations are not being abided. We have rules for a reason, and in the case of our national safety, that is a very important concept. One that you especially seem to have trouble grasping," he shook his head derisively; "You can't go rogue and expect not to be held accountable for your actions."
"I never said I shouldn't be held accountable," she countered belligerently.
He shrugged uncaringly, "Maybe not vocally but your actions suggest otherwise."
"So what are we actually doing here? You seem to have made up your mind," Emma snapped. Everything, from his tone to his questions to the way he stared down his nose at her, screamed a level of disdain that stunk of a decision made long before she'd taken the stand. They wanted to use her as their sacrificial lamb, a scapegoat they could hold up to the public just so they could proudly claim 'we plugged the problem.'
Maurice looked to be chewing the inside of his cheek for a second, considering her cautiously, until he spoke.
"We are here to assess whether your team is still an asset to the bureau and that means investigating every possible avenue. So, I want to know why you really killed Mr Cassidy – because if you are no longer in the frame of mind to be delivering justice so much as recompense…" he let his sentence drift off, the insinuated consequence settling over the large room. He continued to stare down at her and Emma's teeth ground painfully together.
Initially, when she had been searching for Neal, it had been for lethal purposes. She'd never intended to capture him only to hand him over to the appropriate organization. Yet, every time she replayed the moment the gun went off, she knew in the depths of her being that it wasn't petty vengeance that had pulled her finger back towards the trigger. That second, that decision, that moment, wasn't tinted so much by a feeling of retribution (although that had certainly followed, accompanied by a tsunami of other less comforting emotions).
Rather, it was saturated by desperation, by a lack of alternatives and clarity. That decision to kill him had, ultimately, come hand in hand with the decision to save Killian. And it was one she would stand by to her dying breath.
Swallowing down the dryness in her throat, Emma spoke firmly, "I shot him to save Mr Jones' life. That was my reason."
Quiet followed in the wake of her words as Maurice and the rest of the board scrutinized her, apparently undecided as to whether she was telling the truth or just covering her ass. The room stayed suspended for a long moment, pulled tight like a bow and arrow ready to be released, until, taking a deep breath and leaning back, Maurice said, "You may return to your seat, Miss Swan."
She could feel his eyes burning through her skull on her short journey back to the pews beside her teammates.
They were granted a short recess before Regina was to be questioned. The vacant time filled only by idle loitering in the foyer, their usually vociferous team struggling to exchange even the most banal of pleasantries. They were all wound far too tight, nervous and strained from the trials that, despite all their self-made assurances that it wouldn't happen, could still spell the end for the meek home they'd all made at the bureau.
Emma's eyes drifted around their small circle as she leaned against the wall beside the double doors, arms folded neatly across her chest. Looking around, her eyes eventually (naturally) caught Killian's. He looked like he was about to move towards her when David interrupted, addressing the group.
"I think we should start heading back in, Regina's here and it's been half an hour."
Nodding, Emma dropped her partner's eyes and moved alongside Henry towards the courtroom. She, too, could see their Section Chief as she glided in through the double doors, ebony hair sashaying around her face as she kept her face neutral. Their fate rested with this lone woman, this singular individual who now possessed the power to define or destroy their future – it sent shivers skittering down Emma's spine. Regina had never appeared to have a particular affinity for her or even really their team, even if she reaped the benefits of their frequent success.
The idea that the strongly ambitious woman might actually compromise the board's stellar perceptions of her in order to vouch for their actions was laughable at best. And even if she did decide that it would be in her best interest to support their unit; Emma had no doubts that if anyone was going to be offered up as a sacrificial lamb, it would be her neck on the chopping block.
Regina had always hated her.
It was only when they were all finally seated and silent that Regina was called to the stand, trademark heels snapping against the solid surface of the floor like a drumroll. Her movements were systematic as she took her place behind the desk – and Emma could clearly picture the way the woman would sit with her manicured hands clasped in front of her on the desk, brown eyes scanning the length of the board as though they were the ones on trial.
"Good Afternoon Mrs Mills," Maurice opened, his tone farm warmer than it had been with any of them thus far.
"Good Afternoon," she replied politely.
Lips tilted up, he followed the same line of questioning he had with the rest of their team – modifying where necessary: what had happened in the weeks prior, the degree of authorization she had given with regards to their actions over Emma and Killian's retrieval (a topic she'd been careful with since she had indeed given them permission to act, even if she hadn't approved their methods), what her input had been towards the past months of insolence, and so it went on. Every answer she gave, unsurprisingly, placed her in a respectable light. But, surprisingly, every answer seemed also to subtly deflect tangible blame from the team.
When the standard questioning ended, Maurice straightened in his seat as he asked, in a curious tone, "Mrs Mills, what is your opinion on this matter?"
Regina replied curtly, "Of the team?"
He nodded, waving a hand dismissively, "Yes, for now, just the team."
The Section Chief's deep breath was loud against the ominous quiet of the room – everyone's breath caught in their lungs, waiting for her to reply and sway the verdict in or out of their favour. Emma's knuckles were white where she clenched the edge of the bench on which she sat, eyes fastened to the back of Regina's head.
Pausing, she seemed to consider her answer, before saying, "They possess the highest success rate, they work effectively and efficiently and it does need to be considered that their actions, though unorthodox, resulted in the safe retrieval of two agents and the dispatch of a known international fugitive and several of his immediate associates." Regina shrugged and continued on in a pointedly flippant tone, "Without this team, I would have to say the FBI would be sorely lacking."
But that wasn't the end of it, and though she felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders. Knowing that this woman had, at the very least, taken the heat from their collective team, was enough for her disdain to ease. Her testimony would be considered the most valuable in this case.
Maurice nodded thoughtfully, "And what is your opinion of Mr Jones?"
His name had her glancing in his direction and she could see him physically tense, awaiting his fate. And, like clockwork, Emma simultaneously stiffened – fingers clenching once again while his neck hung precariously in the middle of an untied noose. Regina took less time to answer this question and spoke in a distantly stoic tone.
"Though uncontrollable and insolent at times," she said sourly, "Mr Jones has continuously proven that he is of vital importance to the team through both his analytical and physical skills. I would like to remind the board that, while his responses may have been somewhat impolite before, that does not reflect his ability as an agent and I would ask for you to take that into consideration when making your decisions." Looking towards her partner, Emma saw him release a breath of relief as a slight smirk twitched around the corners of his mouth.
Their section chief had, evidently, been made aware of his less than civil answers to their questioning during his time on the stand. It made Emma wonder how she would have come across such information, unless she had just made an assumption based on her prior dealings with the naturally jaunty agent. In which case, she was unnervingly accurate.
Maurice nodded, his pen making a small note across the papers in front of him. A moment of quiet followed and then he was meeting her gaze again, eyes flitting behind Regina to their team seated along the pew, landing deliberately on Emma for a split second before he held the Section Chief's calm stare once more.
"And what about Miss Swan?"
Heartbeat hammering, palms dampening, she could hear Regina clear her throat as she leaned into the microphone.
"What about her?"
"Is she still an asset to the bureau?" he clarified.
The sound of needle and thread would have carried through the room at that point while they waited.
Regina swallowed, measuring the question against her ingrained self-preservation instinct. Defending the collective and even Jones hadn't been a risk now that Emma thought about it. They had justifiable motive in the eyes of the board – from what she could garner; all she had (from their perspective) was a vendetta and a bad habit of drawing gunfire.
When the Section Chief finally answered, it was to a room holding its breath, "Miss Swan is hostile, she often breaks protocol and she has a blatant difficulty with authority figures. Usually in this sort of situation, I would suggest immediate termination."
A solid weight slipped into Emma's chest, anchoring it down. Everything slowed to a stop and she felt more than heard the air evaporate from the room as their team gasped. For all the lack of cohesion between the two women, somehow she'd still held an iota of hope that she wouldn't be thrown atop the pyre as firewood. And for that ill-conceived trust in her superior's greater sense of morality, she was now burning away.
Maurice's answering smile was barely subdued and he coughed to cover it, arm shifting as he prepared to write something down.
Regina's cool voice held it still as she continued to speak, "However, her unique skill set is very rare. Additionally, she is incredibly dedicated, hard-working and an integral member to this unit," the woman sighed, her tone deepening slightly to bely the deceptive authority she clearly possessed, "In my personal opinion, dismissing Miss Swan would, in fact, be a monumental mistake. I recommend she be put on probation for the next three months along with Mr Jones."
There was a long second where no one in the room knew how to react – Emma had just been doused in lighter fluid only to be handed a towel by the same woman who'd held the match in the first place. Wound tight, she didn't move for several moments even as Henry squeezed her hand lightly, the rest of their team smiling under their breaths as Regina was permitted to exit the stand.
As the Section Chief left in an unbroken glide towards the doors, she caught Emma's eye – dark brown clashing with green. And, for a fleeting instant, Emma could finally see the beginnings of something bordering on a treaty as Regina sent her a stiff nod that she reciprocated with equal severity. They weren't friends by any measure, but they were allies and that was enough.
8888
"Based on the evidence we have received and the statements given, we believe it is in the best interests of the nation that this unit be kept in service. However, there are repercussions for the disregard of protocol," Maurice announced, steepling his fingers in front of him. Ever since they'd re-entered the room, following a twenty-four hour period of consideration by the board (in which Emma had drowned herself in 'Game of Thrones,' a show she'd used as a time filler for the majority of this ordeal), Maurice's face had been drawn in irritation.
Whatever decision the board had collectively made, he visibly wasn't pleased with it. Which, for Emma, was a relief since his desired outcomes had included: their team's permanent disbandment and her head on a silver platter.
He cleared his throat and continued, reading from the page and pointedly refusing to make eye contact with any of them, "Killian Jones and Emma Swan; you will both be on probation for the next three months during which time, if you breach protocol, you will come before the board again – and we may not be so lenient." The last word was bitten out as he set the piece of paper down – the deliverance of the verdict now complete.
Her chest was still vibrating even after she processed Maurice's words. Taking several deep breaths, Emma internally repeated the two key phrases from his declaration: kept in service, three months' probation, kept in service, three months' probation, kept in service, three months' probation. The bottom line didn't completely register to her until the bulbous man was sounding his hammer, their team standing all at once at the conclusion of the trial. It took Henry pulling her into a hug for the facts to reverberate in her head and she exhaled deeply, tightening her hold around him.
Arm in arm with the kid, they walked quickly from the courtroom. Halfway to the exit, David's voice carried loudly from behind them, "Sidney just texted me, he says we're needed at the office."
"Already?" Ruby squeaked from somewhere to Emma's right, "Jesus, can we get a single minute to bask in our glorious victory without some sociopathic shit stain ruining it?"
The tech analyst's comment sent a ripple of laughter through their group but, nonetheless, they wasted little time in driving back to the Bureau. Standing in the elevator as it ascended the tall building, it felt like coming home – until the doors slid open to reveal that their entire floor had decided to call in.
"Congratulations!" was the harmonious yell that greeted them as they stepped out of the lift. Evidently, as Sidney would later confirm, their co-workers had decided that their actions at the mansion were deserving of praise and – now that they weren't being kicked out of the bureau – it wasn't inconsiderate to highlight it with drinks and handshakes. There was no new case – it was a ruse to draw them in for the merriments.
Whoever made that decision was someone Emma abruptly felt the urge to use as her training dummy.
At least fifty handshakes later, she managed to extract herself from the festivities – making her way inconspicuously to the raised level where she settled for watching the crowd of agents. Her cheeks hurt from the smile she'd forced herself to adorn for the pleasantries, and, rubbing the aching area with her fingertips, she shook her head.
She didn't even hear him sidle up to her and yet she knew he was there before he spoke. They were unmoving for a long second as they both observed the office stretched out on the main floor of the room. The other members of their unit were still mingling, meekly accepting congratulations as they spoke to everyone.
Honestly, Emma didn't know how to handle the praise – especially since her actions didn't resonate as terribly heroic in her mind. They were forged out of a cruel past and fresh panic, carved in the heat of the moment. She hadn't been acting on behalf of the greater good; she hadn't saved any multitude of people.
She was the problem, the storm that had been duly weathered.
Movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention as Killian nodded towards the masses of people in front of them and tilted his head to look at her as he spoke with self-deprecation, "So, apparently, we're the heroes of the office now."
A small incredulous smirk pulled at the edges of her lips. Of course he would vocalize the source of her disquiet without so much as realizing it.
"Apparently," Emma replied, eyebrows ascending her forehead as she turned the preposterous concept over in her head again.
What she'd done had been selfish. It had resulted in casualties, both years ago and days ago. Her decisions had hung a guillotine over the lives of her friends, had nearly torn apart her team from the seams in the aftermath. She failed to see how anything she'd done had been heroic. Shooting Neal had been to save Killian – and while she valued his life above all else, especially in hindsight – it hadn't been some great show of morality. Pulling that trigger had been an act of salvation, both for herself and for her partner.
Her journey to the mansion in the first place was one decorated by death and destruction, her personal ledger saturated with blood, both innocent and guilty. There was even a part of her that hated the blissfully ignorant colleagues who chose to congratulate her; either they didn't understand true heroism or they were completely oblivious to what she'd done, how her team had ended up under scrutiny in the first place.
And somewhere, seated deep in her marrow, was the truth that, though relieved about their acquittal, Emma despised that the automatic response in light of their success was to take the approach that they were, by default, champions –
"Things feel different now," Killian said, drawing her abruptly from her reverie.
Something in the cadence of his voice made her turn to him. She found his eyes locked onto the commotion on the main floor and yet, the way his dulcet tones had curled around the words belied something completely foreign to the office and their changing work status within the precinct.
Emma eyed him carefully, prior thoughts dissolving, "What makes you say that?"
Killian turned to catch her eyes, and she could swear she could hear his mind whirring indecisively. He opened his mouth to speak but swallowed the words and returned his attention to their peers with a half-hearted smile of amusement.
"Well, for one, we now have explicit proof that Regina doesn't hate you."
That hadn't been what he wanted to say and she knew it. They both knew it – but neither said a word about it. There was a timorous game of cloak and dagger being played within their words, an obvious undercurrent that she didn't want to extricate.
So, instead, Emma nodded, her eyes still caught inattentively on his face.
"Yeah," she said quietly, "Yeah, I guess you're right about that."
"Yeah…"
Blood thrummed in her ears, drowning out the dull roar of her colleagues talking, the soft sound making her chew her lip in noiseless frustration. Without a shadow of thought to what she was even going to say, Emma turned to face him – determined to clear the air. But, when her eyes landed on his face, she lost her nerve.
She felt like a floundering fish as she opened her mouth and closed it again, swallowing the words. But he'd noticed her movement and was twisting to face her, gaze intent on hers. It took her a second to school her features into something resembling mild interest.
"How's your – uh – wound?" Emma eventually managed to stutter, motioning to his side nonchalantly. Killian glanced at his side and shrugged, hand brushing the spot where he'd been stabbed.
"It's nearly healed. Not completely, but I don't have to worry about pulling stitches anymore. Not painful anymore either."
"That's good."
"It is," he murmured back, his gaze wandering over her face. Undefinable emotion crackled in the crystalline depths of his ice blue eyes and her brows drew together marginally. She couldn't help but study him back as they stayed facing each other. Staring up at him, a proverb she couldn't place the root of whistled through her head.
The eyes are the window to the soul.
It was a notion she always firmly believed: that the soul was somehow interwoven between the strange strings of colour that stretched from the edge of the iris to the perimeter of the pupil, each hue tinged by light and dark, happiness and sadness, good and bad.
There were people whose windows were open, clear and free for observation by all. They were brave. Because they bared their soul without restrain. They were not afraid of intimacy, or if they were, they left their windows open anyway – which could be considered imprudent, but Emma thought it showed some level of courage.
It might have been because she was surrounded by people with open eyes; open windows.
Henry. Phillip. David. Ruby. Mary Margaret.
There were also, however, people whose windows were shut tight; locked, bordered up, dusted and rusted from lack of use. There were usually cracks in their windows, in their hearts; rocks of betrayal creating irreversible fractures that could be fortified but not repaired, veins of pain evident in their eyes when their windows unwittingly, and briefly, became transparent.
Closed windows were common in Emma's line of work.
She met them regularly, on such a frequent basis that she sometimes forgot how heavily guarded her own were. Thankfully, Emma knew how to unlock windows, was an expert at jimmying locks (both literally and figuratively) and clearing away the cobwebs to look inside.
She knew how to ignore it too. The ability to read people transversely gave her the ability to ignore what she might not want to see. It was actually quite easy for Emma to leave windows untouched, and an especially helpful skill considering that she did indeed know people with closed windows.
Nevertheless, it was safe to say Emma understood the concept of eyes and souls and windows. She could spot a broken one from a mile away and admire a clear one without so much as effort.
But she had never been able to grasp the concept of keys and locks.
Emma Swan had only ever been a thief at heart – employment in law enforcement or not. She'd never had a precious thing to her name in her life – at least, not one that wasn't eventually ruined. All of the people she'd met throughout her life had either let her in or locked her out. And she could respect that.
But she'd never been given exclusive entrance.
Because, in between the eyes that were open and the eyes that were guarded, were the ones who were wary. Who kept their windows secure but not untouchable. Who, sometimes, fleetingly, let others see inside; good, bad or (usually) broken.
They were the most tragic: fragmented but still willing to let people in. They were the ones who Emma could never quite comprehend and they were the ones who terrified her the most because, above all else, the wary eyes were the ones who were resilient.
And she'd never been given the key to one, never once received private permission to enter, to see past facades and walls to whatever shrivelled, raw person lay inside, beneath the coating of pride and smokescreens.
But, as she stared up into Killian's eyes, studying his face in the bright light of the office where they'd met and bonded, she could feel as a small key, dusty and faded, was placed gently into her unsteady hands. Her heart clenched at the thought, as she watched his defences crumble away without a word.
Killian's eyes were indeed the window to his soul.
And she was unsurprised when she could finally appreciate the utter clarity there. Darkness edged his irises; residual hate, self-loathing that she understood all too well, anger that tided him on in the dead of night, regret that haunted him when no one was looking. It was a place where she could see shadows of pain and a dark past that, even with a key in hand, she couldn't yet reach.
There was also purity there, though; the morals, the honour, the sense of duty and desire, above all, to abide by good form. It brightened the blues, cerulean standing out against the deeper hues of indigo. She could see it when he smiled, really smiled.
Shrouding it all, dimming the azure surface when others were looking, was a cloud of charm and innuendo. It was his own personal emotional wall, and one she'd taken a while to catch onto. Whenever someone would get too close, the words would spill from his lips like unfiltered waste in a relentless attempt to repulse.
Suddenly, haltingly, she realized just how important it was. The figurative key in her hand burned like heated steel as a quiver of shock resonated in her bones, uncertainty drying her mouth and clouding her mind in a soft haze of hesitation.
She didn't know what to do.
Why her?
She didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve what this meant, what he was offering. The part of her that had reined dominant for years reared its head, goading on the feelings of doubt and self-loathing. Her windows were creeping open, cracks appearing in the fortress that surrounded her heart. But she couldn't let herself go, not yet.
So, she did the only thing she knew how.
She pulled her windows closed, shrouding herself from him as much as she could. A futile effort, really – she'd never been entirely successful in rebuffing him when he scrutinized her but she could try. And turning to the people still laughing, she sighed heavily, deliberately catching his attention with the harmless sound of her exhalation.
"At least now things will go back to normal," she said.
Emma felt his eyes hot on the side of her face as she tried to grapple with the situation. But, even without looking at him, Emma knew what she would find and she couldn't bring herself to look at what she had inflicted.
Coward, a cruel voice hissed.
His words were soft and heavy with subtext when they eventually reached her ears, an unconvinced inquiry that pulled at her heartstrings like plucking the long-dormant strings on a guitar, "Will they, though?"
No.
No, they wouldn't.
Her lips tingled whenever she looked at him, her heart stammering any time he came too close. The idea of a world without him sent shockwaves of pain through her. Now, painfully aware of the void the mere thought of his unceasing absence brought, she knew just vital he was to her. Somehow, impossibly, he'd weaselled his way into her life, securing himself as a necessity to survival.
Things had shifted irrevocably. To say even that was a gross understatement.
But, regardless of the way her entire being gravitated towards him, like she was irrevocably caught in his orbit, she couldn't afford to bear her battered and bruised heart. Especially to someone she was sure would damage her beyond repair should the day ever come. Survival instincts were ingrained in her, conditioned into the very essence of her soul. So warning bells shrilling furiously at the prospect of letting him in: because if she did, and he disappeared like his predecessors, she was certain she would be completely obliterated.
She couldn't risk it. Not with him.
And really, he deserved so much better. He deserved someone who was good and open and whole.
Emma inhaled deeply to steady herself (and failed miserably) before facing him as she answered in what she hoped sounded honest (as she lied through her teeth), "I hope so."
Her words made their path through the air quickly, dousing them both coldly with what they entailed. And she felt the strangest urge to sob when he frowned down at her, the light unceremoniously extinguished from his crystalline eyes as he replied tonelessly, "Then I suppose they will."
She needed to leave.
She needed to leave now.
Emma barked a cough to cover the catch in her voice and shoved her hands in her pockets, checking she still had her keys and wallet as she backed away two steps, "I – uh… I'm really tired. I need to get home – rest up. It's been a… big week."
Killian turned around to face her and folded his arms across his chest, clearing his throat and looking down as he responded with an empathetic nod, "Yeah, I'll see you on Monday."
Her feet felt rooted to the spot and it was because he wouldn't look at her. She chewed her bottom lip ravenously, waiting for him to raise his eyes and, when a couple of seconds passed without change, she decided to try.
"In the gym?" she asked thickly, unable to prevent the undiluted hope from seeping into her question.
They needed this; they needed something to hold onto.
He finally met her eyes. He smiled tightly (unconvincingly), "Yeah," he sighed, "In the gym."
She still couldn't move – or rather, she didn't want to move. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things he needed to know. So many things she couldn't say, so many things he just couldn't know without jeopardizing her.
"Well," she paused and took another reluctant step back, "…bye."
"Goodnight Emma," he returned with a stunted nod.
Gathering up all her willpower, Emma forced herself to give him a strained smile before turning on her heel and heading towards the exit, focusing on the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other as she slithered through the throngs of people on the main floor. Slipping by her colleagues before tears could brand her cheeks.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
She could feel his eyes on her the entire time as she moved towards the glass doors, and even still as she pushed them open and strode inelegantly towards the elevator.
8888
Her door crashed open as she walked inside, throwing her keys and wallet at her couch harshly. She shrugged off her jacket without preamble, hanging it over the same couch that had just been pelted by her smaller belongings. With a groan and a curse, Emma began to pace a furious track into the living room floor, stopping only once to kick off her boots.
"You're an idiot," she muttered heatedly, running her hand viciously through her hair, "You're an idiot."
She should have said something else, anything else. The decision to shut him out, while a successful strategy at protecting her heart, was serving to be one she was already regretting not twenty minutes later. You'll thank me when you're not broken again, the domineering, broken voice soothed in her head.
But after everything, do you really think he'd hurt you? a smaller voice whispered.
She groaned again and shook her head, returning to her verbal self-scolding, as she threw her fist into the back of the lounge chair, "You're a fucking idiot, Emma!"
Your walls might keep out pain, but they'll also keep out love.
Mary Margaret's words, spoken such a long time ago she barely remembered them, echoed in her brain. It had been in the earlier days, and as she concentrated on the young woman's smooth voice she could picture the scene vividly: the office, her desk, a bunch of flowers perched atop a mountain of folders; a gift from a guy she'd actually agreed to go on a date with – if only to win a bet with Jones. The ass hole had deigned to challenge her.
Mary Margaret had inquired as to the origin of the floral arrangement and after a blasé excuse; the woman had eyed her speculatively and asked why she was so unwilling to pursue it.
Surprisingly, Emma hadn't told Mary Margaret to piss off – quite the opposite in fact, a concept that was still quite strange to the blonde since she'd only known the other woman briefly at the time in question. But, rather than rebuff her gentle attempts at friendship, she'd explained her dislike for attachments and, Mary Margaret had simply smiled gently and said those exact, unabashed words.
Your walls might keep out pain, but they'll also keep out love.
And oh, how their truth rang clear now.
"What are you doing?" Emma mumbled to herself, striding into her kitchen so she could lean on the counter as she calmed her breathing, fingers splayed over the cool marble. She stared at her hands, counting each digit one by one in a lame attempt to calm herself.
What was she doing?
Emma jumped violently when there was sudden and insistent banging on her door. She looked at the time and then at the door, eyes wide with confusion before a frown marred her face. The door rapped against the wooden frame again with far more force than necessary and she pushed up from the kitchen counter, padding tentatively towards the source of the noise. Her heart was beating a painful staccato against her chest and she felt something like anticipation swell inside of her.
She pulled the door open.
His fist was raised to knock again, and he was breathless, leaning against the wall beside her door as though he'd been sapped of energy. The second the door swang back, their eyes locked; ice blue latching onto leaf green like the sky meeting the earth in the horizon.
Killian straightened in front of her, and she drew herself up to her full height as well, scanning over his form as he appeared to do the same. She should have asked why he was breathless, why he needed to see her so badly, why he was at her door. But she didn't.
(Distantly, she knew why.)
They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension so potent it clogged the air between them, so thick it could be cut with a dull knife. A fuse sparked in the air when their eyes met again, she felt her walls crumbling in front of him and she couldn't even muster enough care to resurrect them.
His voice came out breathless and hoarse, saturated with meaning as he held her gaze intensely.
"I don't want things to go back to normal."
His words fell through the air like dust, settling gently on the floor, covering them both in a film of something she would never have the vocabulary to accurately describe let alone comprehend. There was an extended beat of silence, filled only by the sound of their breathing, where she felt the last of her defences fall flat.
And then everything went to hell.
She didn't know who moved first, but his rough hands were cupping her face, a tender act that so heavily juxtaposed the way his lips pressed insistently against hers, bruising with desperation. Her shaky hands settled to clutch his shoulders, pulling him inside her apartment. Clearly acknowledging her intent, Killian followed her forward without hesitation, hands sliding from her cheeks to run over her back and neck.
There was a firm click as he kicked the door closed with his foot, never once releasing his hold on her or the kiss as he shuffled them further into her apartment until her back hit the wall with a soft thud. She gasped at the satisfying feeling of him pressed against her, especially when his hands moved to cup her backside and lift. She complied without thought; wrapping her legs around his waist, locking her arms around his neck so he could hold her more firmly against the wall.
Heat erupted under her skin as he began to trail his lips across the line of her jaw and down to her collarbones. Letting her arms slide from around his neck, Emma pulled back so she could card her fingers in his hair, revelling in the groan it elicited when she tugged lightly. The gesture proved enough to lure him back to her lips, his mouth engulfing hers so it was barely a second before she let the kiss deepen.
Unlike their first kiss, which was an explosion in and of itself, this time her body was an inferno, flames caressing the skin he touched. Molten heat pooled low in her belly as her nerves were singed after every caress, a special kind of spark running through her when his hands found their way under her shirt, rubbing absent-minded circles into the skin of her hips as he continued to claim her mouth.
When she did finally pull away to come up for air, Emma's hands moved seemingly of their own accord, gliding down over his shoulders and chest to his buttons where she began to jerk them open, fingers fumbling with the tiny plastic pieces. Her hands stopped in their movements when his hips jerked tersely against hers, eliciting a moan from them both.
Dropping her legs from around his waist and with a light shove backwards, Emma found she had enough room to relieve the buttons – but not the patience, ripping the shirt open so they skittered across her wooden floor.
She helped him ease the fabric off, letting it fall in a pool somewhere behind him before he was bringing his arms back around. His hands moved instantly to the hem of her shirt and they had to pull apart long enough for him to drag the fabric over her head and toss it away before they were chest to chest again, his skin warm against hers.
Pushing off from the wall and manoeuvring around Killian, Emma began dragging him away from the front door and towards her bedroom. It was as though they were fused together, stumbling through her apartment, occasionally pausing as they got lost in each other, unwillingly to let the other go, mutually afraid doing so would break whatever was unfolding clumsily before them.
They fell onto her bed in a tangled heap.
Her hands smoothed over his chest as she leaned down to kiss him, devouring every sound he made as her nails dragged over the smooth skin of his abdomen and the dark hair that disappeared below the waistband of his jeans. She could feel him straining against the denim material there and ground her hips down harshly, her breath catching at the shot of heat the friction sent racing up her spine.
A growl rumbled in his chest and he sat up, holding her flush against him as their hips rocked together again. She only broke away to unclasp her bra and, when she did, he wasted no time in dipping his head to her chest so she moaned and pulled jaggedly at his hair. His hands wandered up and down her back, fingers tracing illegible patterns that had aching pleasure coiling within her.
Shoving him back, Emma moved down to kiss him but he held her firmly to his chest, spinning them around so her back was pressed into the mattress. Balanced over her, he took the opportunity to kiss her fiercely once more, one hand coming up to pull hers down from around his neck and press it into the pillows beside her head.
Their finger intertwined at nearly the exact moment his voice fanned out across her lips in a breathless whisper, "Emma."
Their eyes locked, and she felt her breath hitch at the melting pot of emotion that existed within the ice of his irises. His lips were parted, swollen, rubbed raw from overuse and she could only imagine how she looked, probably sporting some mean stubble rash along the column of her neck, one hand still tangled with his beside her head, the other cradling the back of his neck like her life depended on it.
He searched her eyes and apparently came to some decision, his voice ragged as it came out in between pants, "Are you sure?"
She swallowed, nodding as she kept a firm purchase on him. His eyes drifted over to her bedside table, and she read the intent there. "Pill," she said simply, answering his wordless inquiry and lifting her head to capture his lips in a soft kiss.
And then he was moving down, disentangling their fingers, eyes never leaving her body, his free hands drifting seamlessly over her torso down to her jeans, tugging them and her underwear off none too gently before removing his own so they were both divested of everything, physical and emotional armour scattered around her apartment in nondescript piles of cotton and leather and denim.
He crawled back up the bed until he was hovering over her and she could feel his arousal against her thigh. His lips descended to hers, softer than before, gentle and almost pained and she could feel how long they'd both been waiting for this. How inevitable it had been from the very beginning.
There was something more to all of it though, a feeling of relief that she couldn't repress as the kiss grew in heat and intensity, his mouth more adamant. She gasped suddenly when she felt him drift across the apex of her thighs and he pulled back to look at her again.
His eyes demanded her reassurance, guaranteeing that this was what she wanted, that she understood there was no turning back from this. Emma's gaze flashed in the darkness of the room and she gave him a simple and wordless nod, pulling his head down to press her lips to his as her other hand guided him to her.
She felt him push his hips forward just barely, his teeth biting down on her bottom lip as he lowered himself between her legs before pulling back so she groaned into his mouth, writhing under him. He thrust forward again, easing himself down until he was buried to the hilt and their breathing was deep and ragged and loud in the deafening silence of her room.
Neither moved for a long moment, basking in the satisfying stretch and pull of their muscles, the way the shadows curled over their coupled silhouette, darkness bathing them both in its opacity. And then she shifted her hips up, silently urging him to move. It was all the encouragement he needed, drawing himself out before sliding back in with a roll of his hips, repeating the motion over and over so pleasure spiralled low in her belly, making her toes curl.
"Fuck," he hissed when she closed her mouth over a spot on his shoulder, rocking upwards in time with him. His hand came up to her jaw, tilting her chin up and quietening the sounds she made as he worked over her, lines drawn by the hands of concentration appearing between his brow when he pressed his forehead to hers.
Eyes closed, Emma anchored her hands over his shoulders. His ministrations were deliberate and fluid, purposefully building them both up and she felt her eyes roll back, mewls and moans escaping her, each sound interspersed by a grunt or groan on his part with each slow and torturous drive forward.
"Killian," she gasped, breath puffing out across his face.
The whispered call made him stutter in his movements and he shifted his angle, the next thrust hitting somewhere deep so she whimpered in surprise at the electricity it sparked. He noticed, repeating the approach, one hand skimming down her leg to hitch it over his hip.
And all too soon she felt herself approaching the edge, his hips moving more erratically, pistoning faster and faster against hers until her nails were dragging angry lines down his back. His head was buried in her neck when she finally came undone with a raucous cry, followed quickly by his own release as he let himself topple into oblivion after her, hips rocking against hers for a minute longer before he stilled and collapsed on top of her.
Their cavernous breaths echoed in the silence of her room, her eyes closed as she revelled in the burn and tremble of her muscles, the unfamiliar and oddly comforting solidness of his weight, the dampness that gathered where his lips were inches away from the crook of her neck.
She'd never done tender, never savoured the placid after-glow of sex. But with him, she found herself trailing her fingers down his back, trailing lines down his spine and dreading the moment when he would move away. And he didn't for a long time, a second passing where she thought he might have fallen asleep; until he propped himself up on his elbows, forearms resting on either side of her face.
There was a heavy silence as they came down from their high and she knew one of them would have to speak eventually. But what could they say? There wasn't exactly a manual for this sort of thing. It definitely wasn't helped by the way he was looking at her, eyes soaking up her flushed cheeks and mussed hair like she was responsible for the freaking sun and stars.
She swallowed, fingers tracing up to his jaw where she touched him gingerly, still unable to vocalise any of her thoughts that were conglomerated into one massive, inseparable heap.
"So," he began, voice rough, "I guess things are most definitely not going back to normal."
She chuckled lightly, and realized it was a strange sound that she hadn't made in a very long time. It sparked something in his expression, illuminating it from the inside out so his face twisted into something devastatingly happy, a lopsided grin tugging the corners of his lips apart.
"You could say that," she whispered.
Easing himself onto his side, he dropped an arm to her waist. His grip on her tightened and she shuffled forward to accommodate him, automatically tangling her legs with his as she faced him.
"Do you want me to stay?" he asked after a long moment, so quiet it was almost inaudible.
Emma's eyes flickered up to his and she felt her internal walls starting to rise up, the warning bells tolling, telling her to run, to get him as far away as possible. But, as her eyes refused to leave his, seemingly of their own accord, she realized that he was already nestled behind her walls. And, though she wasn't sure she was ready to let go of everything that made her the stubborn, broken bint she was, she also wasn't sure she wanted him to go.
Her nod was almost imperceptible, but he caught it.
His hand moved up slowly to push some hair away from her face before leisurely draping around to cup the back of her neck. She raised her eyebrows at him when he smirked and leaned forward, letting them shutter closed when he finally caught her lips with his.
With less than a little effort, Killian used his other hand to wind around her waist and pull her swiftly on top of him, never once breaking the kiss as it stretched out sinuously between them. He wound his hand deeper through her hair, and the way he kissed her – the way his lips coaxed her to follow him down into the pillow, the way his mouth caressed her – it made something warm and foreign bloom in her chest. His smile when they pulled away so she was resting on his chest sending waves of profound warmth through her – a feeling she hadn't had in an obscenely long time.
Her heart was still bruised, the scars still present.
For the time being though, she settled for enjoying the earnest gratification that being close to him brought.
I just realized maybe my first author's note left you thinking this is the end - IT'S NOT! We got a long way to go. I might as well tell you now - there's going to be a sequel which will center around Killian's past (get ready for mayhem).
Do I dare beg for a review?