Ahoy! I'm on limited time so I can't say much except ENJOY!
The rain hammered an unforgiving beat against the plane's exterior, heavy, torrential sheets of icy water pouring down the metal surface, obscuring the already negligible view provided by the small circular windows. Dark clouds had taken shape in the early hours of the morning, wasting no time before dousing the metropolitan Quantico area. Leaning back in his seat, David's fingers thrummed a methodical rhythm against the table's surface, blowing out a sigh as he heard footsteps approaching from the back of the plane.
Phillip plummeted into the leather chair opposite a moment later, dropping his wet bag into the seat next to him with a noticeably fatigued sigh. Haughty smirk adorning his features, the Unit Chief studied the dark bags under the other man's soft brown eyes, his hair in chaotic disarray atop his head as he rubbed his forehead with a husky groan of exhaustion.
David canted his head to the side, "What time did you leave the office?"
Lifting his gaze to his superior's, his expression deadpanned, "Same time as you, you rotten sod. Same time we all went to the Mad Hatter – and how the bloody hell are you not just as debilitated as me? We drank exactly the same amount," he replied, soft irritation lacing his gravelly timbre as he glared. With an amused chuckle, David grinned, folding his arms across his chest as he shook his head in faux reprimand.
"Oh, Phillip – I've got a decade of age and drinking wisdom on you. That, and Mary Margaret makes a mean hangover-cure," he replied, involuntarily smiling wider at the mention of his wife.
Phillip was less than amused, letting his head fall into his arms crossed on the table separating them, "I hate you."
"Why does he hate you?" Henry asked, surprising both men with his presences, depositing his laptop bag neatly in the seating booth on the opposite side of the aisle and sinking into the seat beside David. He, of course, was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (save for the rain droplets still clinging to his cheeks and hair where his umbrella had clearly failed in its purpose). The kid had isolated himself to the fizzy allure of soft drink the previous night (smart bugger). He eyed Phillip for a long moment, frown pulling at his youthful features.
David answered his question with a nod in the enervated agent's direction, "He's reliving his college days – forgetting the ramifications of too much alcohol and-"
"I didn't forget," Phillip hissed from his position, face-down on the table, "I just... assumed we might have a day off after the shit-storm we just passed through. And I figured I would at least be in the same boat as this one," he lifted a hand to point slackly at his superior and dropped it after two seconds, resuming his position with a groan that vibrated through the table and sent ripples of laughter through his two colleagues.
"Since when does Regina ever slow down for anyone or anything?" David commented on a snort.
"We even worked Christmas last year," Henry added admonishingly.
Phillip's only response was a crude hand gesture that resulted in another bout of chuckling which died down when the youngest of the trio tilted in his seat to scrutinize the plane. Facing his colleagues again, he frowned.
"Where's Emma and Killian? They're usually the first ones here," he inquired, a fresh wave of realization washing over him as he recalled the previous night – deciding to go to the Mad Hatter, watching David and Phillip throw back the shots in celebration, Ruby taking the bets and laughing boisterously on every stumbled sip, Mary Margaret and Aurora leading their respective partners stumbling out. He couldn't recall having once seen Emma or Killian bantering over beers in their usual manner. Looking between the two men again, "They didn't even come to the celebration drinks last night."
Shrugging, the Unit Chief pursed his lips and answered, "I guess they were both pretty damn exhausted – I spoke to Emma this morning and she said she was just really tired so she left as soon as she could. As for Killian, I don't know – he left shortly after her, probably for the same reason… Although, he pretty much sprinted out of there like his shoes were on fire."
Phillip finally forced himself into an upright position, blinking away the haziness as he swallowed and absorbed the topic of conversation. Facing David with considerably less mingled venom and envy than earlier, he spoke.
"Are you sure they got the message about the new case? It's really not like either of them to be late – especially since I'm almost certain they both would have been going stir crazy over the past couple weeks without all this to keep them busy. If anything, they should have been here early," he speculated, looking between the two agents opposite him, the older of whom shook his head in reassurance.
"I'm sure. I called Emma to check up on her and she told me she'd be down here as soon as possible," David said, the conversation replaying in his head. She'd sounded strange, if he had to comment – the only descriptor that came to mind was 'distracted.' Her answers had been succinct and distant, voice marginally louder like she was balancing the phone between her head and her shoulder.
At one point, he could have sworn he'd heard another voice in the background, but he shirked that up to her television. It never even crossed his mind that it might have been an actual living human being in her apartment – not when she'd clearly only just awoken. Emma Swan didn't do one-night-stands, of that he was sure. Regardless, there was no way she wasn't aware of the impending case and her required presence on the plane. Looking down at his watch, David chewed his lip and looked out the window (in vain, of course, he couldn't see a damn thing). They had about ten minutes to arrive before the plane would have to pull into taxi so they could arrive in Pennsylvania on time.
"What about Killian?" Phillip asked after a beat of silence.
David shook his head, "I have no clue – I assume he did. If not, I guess he'll just have to catch his own flight."
There was a quiet commotion behind him and Phillip leaned out of the booth, eyes landing on something at the door that made both eyebrows ascend to his hairline. Shooting the other two agents a wry look, he said, "Speak of the devil," and then to the source of the noise, "We were wondering if you two were going to show up."
"Sorry - traffic," Emma's distinctly feminine voice explained lamely, shaking herself in a poor attempt to remove the rain water clinging to her jacket and skin. Less than a second later, Killian's lilting cadence filled the space with an almost identical response. Peeling off her leather, the blonde folded the jacket over the back of one of the other chairs as she walked briskly down the small plane corridor, folding herself into the warmth of a leather seat in the booth opposite.
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She made a swift path down the plane corridor to where Phillip was craning his neck to observe them, eyebrows lifting in artificial reprimand. Distantly, Killian heard the British agent admonish Emma, his tone lacking any serious form of reproach as he tutted at their tardiness. Preoccupied with shrugging off his coat and throwing it on a vacant lounge chair, he didn't hear her response but, based on the laughs it drew from their colleagues, he guessed it was a hand gesture of obscene nature. Smirk fixed firmly on his face, he followed the same path his partner had, seating himself across from her as he ran a hand through his damp hair.
"What did we miss?" Emma asked as he made himself comfortable, tone landing haphazardly between genuine curiosity and a sort of forced nonchalance, green eyes flitting between the three men in the booth opposite. If they noticed something amiss, nothing was said and for that Killian was grateful.
Henry grinned, nodding to the two agents behind him, "We were just discussing Phillip's inability to hold his liquor."
"Shut up, Henry!" the man in mention hissed.
"Mate, I thought we established that at last year's Labour Day barbecue," Killian chuckled, taking a moment to study his friend's haggard appearance, coming to the same conclusion as the kid. He really should have learned from the aforementioned holiday that he wasn't designed to withstand the effects of alcohol. They'd had an argument about it at the Nolan's annual Labour Day celebrations – the memory was clear in his mind; a warm afternoon, the enticing aroma of Mary Margaret's famous kebabs, slurred words after one too many beers, soaking up the relaxed atmosphere while they could.
Phillip had awoken the next morning in Killian's apartment, curled around his toilet, having been dragged there by the apartment's owner himself. Never again, he had sworn, never again would he drink with David or Killian – the bastards were immune to the symptoms of inebriation.
"Well, if you had have been there to remind me about that, I mightn't have acted like a bloody sorority girl," Phillip complained, pointing an accusing finger in his direction as though to emphasise the point.
Henry's brows furrowed at that, focusing his attention on Killian and effectively drawing the rest of the team's eyes in his direction as he said, "He's got a point. Where were you last night?"
Heat travelled from his neck to his face, and he was certain a rosy colour followed the same path as he thought about just what he had been doing the night prior – vivid recollections replaying in his mind, his eyes darting in Emma's direction for a split-second before he collected himself (he could swear he saw her lips twitch in amusement). Again though, if they noticed, they didn't say a thing.
"I was buggered, so I went home to, uh, sleep it off," he managed between a grin, scratching the spot behind his ear as he shimmied further into the booth so he could prop his legs up on the adjoining seat. He couldn't help but risk another glance at his partner, his smile widening when he saw the way she was chewing her lip.
The expression sent his memory into over-drive, recollections of the morning rising up before he could stop them.
Several Hours Earlier
The smell of vanilla was the first thing he registered as his consciousness ebbed slowly back into his body, the sound of a storm thundering outside the next to be chronicled in his hazy mind. For a moment, as recently awoken individuals so often do, he forgot where he was. Blissful ignorance consumed him, and a short second extended where he burrowed deeper into the heady smell of vanilla and inviting warmth, something soft tickling his nose.
But, as his brain flickered to life, he was brought back to himself, the momentous events of the night prior flashing in his mind's eye like a brief motion picture: the case, watching the back of her head with an intensity befitting the situation as Maurice drowned her with accusations, gripping the bench in a vice-like hold as Regina delivered her opinions in a voice like cursive handwriting, holding his breath as the verdict was announced and releasing it when it breached the room.
He remembered going back to the office under the guise of a new case, reacting to the collection of co-workers gathered to congratulate them, glancing at Emma who instantly froze, sidling up to her later, being pushed out again as she walked away. The details were clearer from the second he snapped to attention, chasing her down upon the decision to live by his edict (the decision to fight), arriving at her door, the chaotic shuffle of limbs and lips and clothes that followed in the aftermath of their collision. And then, more muddled, he could recall the way they eventually settled into sleep, wrapped in each other, around each other, over each other in a way that could only be described as protective.
Blowing out a slow breath, he finally opened his eyes; gaze locking on the blonde curls an inch away from his face. A feeling of contentedness swelled in his chest as he took in the way her bare back was pressed against his chest, their legs tangled under the sheets. Trailing his eyes down the curve of her body, he used the arm around her waist to tug her slightly closer, relishing in the way a small sigh escaped her lips as he did so.
She stirred and, with lax limbs, rotated slowly in his arms to face him.
"Hey," she mumbled, eyes still closed as her warm hands smoothed over his sides, arms enveloping him so she could shuffle closer. A lazy smile tugged up the corners of his lips and he used his free arm to brush back some of the hair from her face.
"Hey yourself," he answered, nudging her nose with his.
Silence followed and he filled the time by studying her face, finding himself enamoured with the way her features were vastly softer in the early hours of the morning. It lasted several minutes until, opening bleary leaf-green eyes; she took stock of their positions and met his gaze again.
"So last night really happened," she slurred in a matter-of-fact tone.
Her expression was unreadable and apprehension pooled in his abdomen as he watched her, careful to keep his expression neutral when he replied, "It most certainly did. Either that, or I didn't actually survive that gunshot wound and this is heaven?" To his immense relief, his comment evoked a ghost of a smirk to cross her lips before she shook her head at him.
"Of course your idea of heaven would have to do with sex," she said with a roll of her eyes.
His hand made a path down her back, navigating the nobs of her spine where it curved towards him, heavy eyes falling on her as he licked his lips. Leaning marginally closer, savouring the way her eyelashes fluttered at his proximity, he replied, "Only sex with you, darling."
"I bet you say that to all the girls," her voice was breathy, the attempt at an unimpressed tone failing as her gaze dipped from his eyes to his lips and back again, "Didn't anyone ever tell you that flattery gets you nowhere?"
Grinning, he didn't respond verbally – closing the last slip of distance between them to mould his lips to hers. His fingertips halted in their course down her back, palm opening so he could drag her more securely against him so they were pressed tightly together. Emma responded in kind, dragging her calf along his before hooking her leg over his hip. He could just feel the beginnings of fresh fervour swimming in his blood, pulling him to a different brand of alertness, when a buzzing sound pulled them both to a stop.
Pulling away from his lips, still bodily entwined, she frowned and they both stilled in an effort to better identify the sound. The muffled noise came again and their heads simultaneously snapped to the corner of the room at the same time – to where their jeans were sitting in a pile of denim. Locking gazes, they sighed.
Emma was the one to drag herself out of the comfort of her bed, walking quickly to the other side of the room where she found that it was her phone making the commotion.
Picking up the offending device, she looked at the screen once, turning to him before she answered it, "It's David."
"That man has impeccable timing as always," he grumbled, folding his arms behind his head and watching her face. Her brows furrowed together and she stilled, listening intently before nodding. Striding over to him, she slapped his arm and gestured sharply for him to get up, an order which he responded to with a stumbling sort of coherency, still numbed by the earliness of the hour. When he shot her a confused look, she mouthed 'new case.'
He sighed. Bloody hell, America – could you not get your shit together for one measly morning? he thought in disgruntled exasperation.
"Yeah, we'll be right there, um…" she said, grabbing a new pair of underwear from her drawers and sliding them on, balancing the phone on her shoulder as she did so. Standing straight so she could clasp her bra properly, Emma looked in Killian's direction, watching him as he pulled on his boxers and jeans, voice distant as she asked David, "What – uh – what time did you say, sorry?"
He couldn't help the satisfied smirk that erupted on his face at her reaction to his state of undress. Collecting herself, and ignoring his smug expression, she turned on her heel to grab a shirt from her dresser. It humoured him ever so slightly to watch her struggle to pull the article of clothing over her shoulders, juggling the phone and her task with an abundant lack of finesse (something that he found oddly endearing).
Trailing after her as she left the room, still on the phone to David, he brushed past her on his way to the door where he could distinctly remember losing his shirt.
"Yeah, yeah, no I was just really tired after the case and…" she padded quietly across the room to where her shirt had been thrown, picking it up and folding it over her arm, "…so I came home."
Killian smiled tenderly at the simple phrase, a small part of him illuminating at the offhand statement even if she likely had no clue the double entendre it held for him; coming home. Leaning down, still somewhat lost in his thoughts, he picked up his shirt – and promptly caught sight of the buttons scattered across the floor. Stiffening, he remembered her tearing the fabric apart.
Whipping around to face her, he held the crumpled white shirt up, catching her gaze as she maintained some level of conversation with David.
"Oi!" he hissed under his breath, walking towards her, "You ripped it."
Under any other circumstances, he'd be gloating. But, he didn't like the idea of walking into work with a shredded shirt. A simper crawled subtly over her face and she shrugged, still talking to David; "I'm fine, really. I want to come in…"
Killian shook his head, using both hands to spread the shirt out for her so she could see the damage she'd inflicted, "How am I supposed to wear this?"
Emma pursed her lips, pulling the phone away from her ear to whisper, "Don't be such a drama queen."
With an indignant harrumph, Killian crossed his arms (every inch the drama queen), sitting on the edge of her couch and holding her gaze as the conversation with David finally wound up. She nodded several more times, humming in agreement every so often and even snickering once. Eventually, she did end the call.
"New case in Pennsylvania," she explained, turning on her heel and walking back into her bedroom, picking up their jackets as she passed by the front door. Handing him his jacket, she continued, "We need to be at the airport by eight."
Eyebrows ascending to his hairline, he balked, "Well there goes my opportunity to swing by my apartment and grab a new shirt."
"I'm sure David will have no problem with you showing up shirtless – God knows Ruby will love it," Emma countered over her shoulder.
Luckily, of course, they had managed to outsource a men's shirt from her dresser – one she claimed to sleep in occasionally. He would never admit that the idea of Emma Swan sleeping in a men's shirt sent heat running through his veins like a hormone-addled schoolboy. Jesus Christ, he was already screwed.
"The trial took it out of all of us," Henry added, nodding in understanding as he pulled Killian abruptly from his reverie, completely oblivious to the exchange occurring just three feet away from him. In a similar fashion, David and Phillip hummed their agreement before they were all interrupted by the chirping of someone's phone.
"That would be mine," the kid said, grabbing the device from his pocket and reading the message with a speed that should have been unnatural (if, of course, it was anyone but him). He was reaching for his laptop at the same time he said, "It's Ruby – she wants us to, and I quote, 'stop sucking up oxygen for no reason and get on Skype so she can give us the lowdown.'"
In a flurry of movements, the laptop was open and loading, a steady beep sounding as they waited for Ruby to respond to the Skype call. With a click, the blackness dissipated to reveal a clearly impatient Ruby tapping her pen rapidly against her desk. With a focusing blink of her brown eyes, she threw her arms up.
"About freaking time – you know, as much as I love you all, I don't come in here to ferment waiting for you to answer my calls," she huffed, setting the fluffy-tip pen aside and folding her arms across her chest.
David rubbed his eyebrows with a sigh, "Yes Ruby, sorry Ruby, we won't waste your time again Ruby –"
"Don't sass me, Nolan. I still have that photo from your senior rodeo."
The Unit Chief visibly blanched as Killian exchanged a bemused look with Phillip who simply shrugged. A short second of silence followed before Emma was asking, "Okay, what are we in for this time?"
The tech analyst held a steely glare for a beat longer, and then she was typing rapidly, her voice returning to its usual bouncy cadence as she relayed the information of their latest case. "Northumberland field office in Pennsylvania has reported 4 murders in the past four weeks. Victims were shot in various areas of the chest with a 19mm and left in various State Parks."
Henry distributed the manila folders as she spoke, one for each victim and one additional file for the police investigation so far.
Phillip held up a picture from his folder, studying the macabre image with a level of intrigue that would have been unsettling on any other person. "Judging by gunshot wound, the un-sub was about six feet away. That makes it impersonal, executional – but their eyes have been deliberately closed in some of these, which almost indicates… remorse."
"And there's no sexual assault according to the M.E." Ruby chimed in, still typing up a storm.
Henry's head perked up, his eyebrows crunching together as he verbalized his thoughts (he had a habit of doing so – a habit which, in some cases, was indeed less than helpful). "That's unusual – around 80% of murders involving women contain some kind of sexual component."
"And people wonder why we're so anxious about accepting kindness from strangers," Emma muttered into her respective folder.
Studying the notes, Killian canted his head to one side, "Okay, so this guy is clearly not trained – he's shooting all over the place. One victim was shot in the stomach, another in the lung. Some of them were even shot multiple times so he's either got terrible aim or a desire to watch these women suffer."
"That would mean we've got a masochist on our hands – but that doesn't explain the guilt embodied by the closing of the eyes," Phillip said.
Emma shrugged, "Maybe shame?"
Their Unit Chief didn't seem convinced as he considered the files laid out before him. Regardless, he conceded weakly, "Maybe." Tilting his head up to look at the laptop, he addressed Ruby, "What about their location? This guy's obviously mobile – I mean, the victims have been found in parks scattered around the area. Do we have a possible home-base for him?" The brunette on the screen nodded once, double clicking something before the monitor of her face was replaced with a large map bearing a red circle. Several scarlet dots were dispersed randomly over the page, representing the locations of the victims – or so Killian assumed.
"There's a town in the middle of that lovely little circle, I'm already drawing up all the records I can – including any citizens who own a 19mm," she announced proudly, "and that map has been sent with love to all of you."
David sent her a short nod, "Good work Ruby."
"He's clearly got a type," Emma interrupted, placing her folder on the table and gesturing for them to hand her the photos from each file. Arranging them in a neat line; the pattern was obvious – brunettes with pointed chins and long hair. Staring at each of the unassuming generic photos, most likely derived from some license of other identification card, Killian felt the familiar pull of resentment in the depths of his chest.
He doubted there would ever come a day when he didn't feel a twinge of anger that lives had been cut short, their threads severed before they'd ever had the chance to weave a path in the tapestry of time. Distancing himself from cases was a necessity – and one he was adept at – but he'd always had a soft spot for cases where young women had been murdered (especially brunettes who had been shot).
Milah.
Killian's fists clenched beneath the table, jaw tightening as he reigned in the knee-jerk reaction whenever her name so much as surfaced in his thoughts. Swallowing thickly, he refocused on the conversation, eyes flitting up to land on Emma's face. She was, to his infinite lack of surprise, already looking at him – having picked up on his abrupt shift in demeanour.
Dropping her all-too-knowing gaze and leaning back (away from the taunting photos), he fell seamlessly into the discussion bouncing between the three men in the booth beside them.
Phillip was talking, "…manifested in these murders. He's using these women as a substitute for the real root of his rage."
"Could they represent a woman who rejected him romantically?" Henry inquired.
The British agent shook his head, "Then why has he shown remorse? And why not use a method more suited to an issue so personal?"
"What about a mother?" Killian suggested, interest piquing as he sent a cursory glance around the team.
"That might explain the remorse after the kill – but not the M.O. The impersonal nature of the kill… it doesn't fit," David explained, flitting through papers. He was tilting his head up to face them when the sound of the plane door opening alerted them all to a new presence. Confusion crossed each of their faces as they turned towards the back of the plane where they could hear someone shuffling in.
Killian turned briefly towards Emma, lifting one eyebrow in curiosity, before returning his attention to the newcomer – it couldn't have been Ruby who was still secure in her cozy little office, and it most certainly couldn't be Regina (she wouldn't risk water-logging her red-soled pumps in this weather just to reach the jet) and their team was all accounted for. So, it wasn't so much surprise as lack of understanding that pervaded the air when an unfamiliar face appeared.
A column shaped woman with black-brown hair, olive skin and slanted eyes was holding a sleek laptop bag over one thin shoulder. She drank in the intimidating image they likely presented, all staring at the unannounced newcomer on the plane. Yet, she didn't appear the least bit perturbed. Maintaining an air of indifference, she met each of their gazes.
"Judging by your faces I'm going to bet Regina didn't tell you about me."
Emma was the first to speak up, eyes narrowing distrustfully (there was a reason she'd never been on welcome-wagon patrol whenever they had newbies at the precinct). "Sorry, who are you?"
The woman looked faintly put-out, although not in response to the blonde's apathetic tone. She appeared exasperated at the fact she had to explain herself which, in Killian's eyes, wasn't necessarily something she could be blamed for. Regina was notoriously hypocritical when it came to matters such as this. She was allowed to forget her duties from time to time but god forbid you leave her waiting more than three minutes (tight ass that she was).
"I'm Mulan – I've been assigned to this unit for the foreseeable future," she answered briskly. Killian turned to Emma the moment she said it, seeking the validation her ability to distinguish lies provided. The dumbfounded look on her face told him everything he needed to know and he stared down at the opalescent surface of the table.
A blanket of silence fell over them. It was absurd; really, this was their job not a bloody after-school posse. Yet he couldn't help but feel the sense of intrusion on their space, the trust they all shared being disturbed by this new presence without warning. Mulan looked between them all, the air swirling thick enough that Killian could swear the awkwardness was almost a tangible thing.
"Well, uh…" David began lamely, "Take a seat – we were just going through the latest case." He gestured to the plush leather around them. Killian moved his feet from where they were propped on the seat beside him, sitting straighter and watching as she arranged herself in the recently vacated space.
Folding her legs precisely beneath her, Mulan placed her laptop bag neatly beneath the table.
With her head down and attention occupied, the team seized the opportunity it presented to exchange a myriad of reactions and silent questions. All of which disappeared as she straightened in the seat, eyeing them all expectantly as she waited for the details of the case.
For whatever reason, Regina had decided they were in need of an addition to the team. And, in the light of their most recent escapade, Killian had a feeling Mulan's presence was prompted by something more than just a bout of their Section Chief's spontaneity.
It was a sentiment Emma shared; the blonde's expression of subtle disdain seemingly fixed on her features later in the flight, leaf green eyes occasionally shifting in the other woman's direction as the two of them occupied seats in the back corner of the plane. There didn't seem to be anything outwardly wrong with Mulan, in fact, judging by the concentration on Phillip's face as they conversed, she'd already managed to stir up some feelings of amicability among their colleagues. But that didn't negate the question circling Killian's mind (and apparently also Emma's).
Why would Regina reassign an agent to their team, knowing full well the efficient dynamic they'd painstakingly developed?
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"I don't like this," Emma huffed as they drove through the unfamiliar streets of Pennsylvania, following the line of black sedans making a swift path for the local police precinct. From his position in the driver's side, he levelled her with an amused grin but said nothing, maintaining his focus on the road. She was slouching heavily in her seat, feet propped on the dashboard with her arms folded across her chest (every inch the melodramatic adolescent).
"Don't laugh – you agree with me. I can see it," she added a second later, narrowing her eyes at him.
"I didn't laugh and I never said I didn't agree with you. I just find you adorable when you're being petulant," he retorted with a shrug.
He could see through his peripheral vision as she reacted to the offhand comment, an indignant shadow ghosting across her face so her mouth opened in offense. Sitting up straighter and withdrawing her legs from their elevated position, his partner twisted in her seat to face him.
"I'm not being petulant. I just think there's something fishy about Regina adding another member to the team," Emma complained, voice rising a decibel in self-defence.
"You do realize the only reason we're even here is that Regina saved our arses back in court? Why in the hell would she do that only to send someone in to sabotage us? Besides, Mulan seems nice –"
"We've known her for a whole of one hour –"
"Point taken," he interrupted, turning into a parking lot after their entourage of vehicles. Pulling the car to a stop, he turned to face her, "But that doesn't explain why Regina would salvage us only to damn us herself." Emma's eyes burned into his, her face carefully devoid of emotion as she measured his words carefully in her head. He could almost hear the whirring of her brain trying to process his comment, absorbing the question and desperately seeking an answer that suited her hypothesis. When she came up with nothing, she groaned and fell back into her seat with a sigh.
Killian's eyebrows pulled together and he canted his head to the side, "Besides, I thought the two of you had buried the proverbial hatchet after she pretty much personally ensured your continued employment with the FBI."
Again, she was silent, sights drawn down to her hands where she picked at her nails ravenously.
"I don't know," she muttered, defeated, "I know she kind of… you know, saved my ass, but I still don't trust her and I don't… I don't know. Why else would she add someone to our team? I just think something's going on under our noses. Just because we didn't get dismissed by the board, doesn't mean she's suddenly on our side. It's complicated."
Outside, their colleagues were already entering the building and he realized they didn't have the leisure of exchanging deep and meaningful conversations when there was a murderer probably selecting a new victim as they spoke. Staring at her, he could see the way she functioned – the inherent distrust hunching her shoulders and clipping her voice. It was something that he'd been forced to trial through (and, if he was honest with himself, it was something he still had to endure). So he knew, without a doubt, that there was nothing he could say to change her mind. It troubled him; the notion that he couldn't do a single damned thing about it. Letting the quiet moment stretch out for another second, Killian placed his hand on her shoulder.
"Come on," he sighed and, when she looked at him, "we've got work to do."
Emma nodded and he was about to open the car door when he heard her mumble resentfully under her breath, "And I am not adorable."
Chuckling quietly, the tense mood dissipating, they both moved quickly towards the large brick building that would act as their headquarters. He didn't point out the way her lips quirked up ever so slightly at the jovial sound he made, her expression softening ever so slightly as they walked. And if she noticed the way he placed his hand delicately on her lower back as they manoeuvred the steps up to the entrance, she didn't say a word.
As they entered the room, it was a simple task to locate the other half of their unit, and Killian led the way through the neatly arranged desks scattered across the space. A tall woman with deep skin and a French accent was talking to their colleagues as they gathered in a separate area, bordered on all sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. She stood statuesque in front of a white board covered in grisly images and scribbled notes, with a rigid posture and sharp eyes, explaining what they knew.
When she finished, David stepped forward to shake her hand and the two of them drifted out of the room deep in conversation.
"Where should we start?" Mulan asked, already walking towards the covered board.
"Well, David's seeing about speaking to the families of the victims, so how about Phillip and I go to the coroner's office and you guys can stay here and work on profiling?" Henry suggested, looking around at all of them as he placed his laptop case on the table in the centre of the room. When no one objected, it was unanimously decided that the kid's course of action was to be undertaken. So, without any further comment, the two men left, taking a pair of keys with them.
That left Killian alone in the room, standing directly between Mulan and Emma. He turned to the latter with a look that silently ordered 'play nice.' A look which she, of course, disregarded with a roll of her eyes, pushing past him to scrutinize the board herself.
"Okay," he said, clapping his hands together and taking a seat at the table, "so we've got four victims, all similar in appearance, being taken to various park locations and murdered via shooting. Two of the victims were shot in an executional style and two were very clearly used as an outlet for the un-sub's rage." He took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead in thought as Emma continued where he left off.
"We also know that it wasn't a simple case of the un-sub evolving because the two styles alternated. Additionally, the un-sub is feeling remorse in the aftermath of these kills because the eyes are being deliberately shut."
"Are we sure that it is remorse making the un-sub close the victims' eyes?" Mulan challenged politely, taking a step back and away so she could look at Killian.
He shrugged, opening his mouth to answer when Emma cut him off, "Why else would the un-sub close the victims' eyes?"
"It could be symbolic of something; the White River killer used to close the eyes of his victims as a manifestation of his belief that they were blind to the true nature of the world," Mulan countered, transferring her attention to the blonde who pivoted slowly on the spot to face her.
"Yes, but closing the eyes of the victim has been cited in more cases to bely a notion of remorse or guilt since it is considered an intimate and gentle action," she replied, tone landing somewhere between sarcastic and forced civility.
The other woman lifted an eyebrow, "That might be so, but until we get a better idea of the un-sub's motivation, isn't it more prudent to keep the interpretation open so we aren't manipulating facts to suit theories as opposed to theories to suit facts?"
A heavy feeling was slowly seeping into Killian's abdominal area as he took stock of the interaction between the two women like a tennis match – their voices propelling the topical tennis ball from one to the other. The quickened pace had him uneasy and, standing up, he moved so that he was standing intentionally between them. Catching Emma's gaze, he widened his eyes in silent warning, speaking in a voice that lacked any convincing note of authenticity, "Either way, it doesn't make sense."
"And why's that?" Mulan asked from his other side.
He held his partner's stare for another beat, watching her retreat towards the table to claim the seat he had previously occupied. Pleased that he had diffused the situation, Killian eyed the words annotating each of the victims' headshots: rage, indifference, masochist, sociopath – each one followed by a question mark.
"Because even if we've got masochist or a sociopath on our hands, given the M.O., he would never make the effort. The delicacy of the action doesn't correlate with a wrath-fuelled murder but then a symbol is far too thoughtful for a sociopath who doesn't give two shits about anything, let alone if his murders are sending a message," he explained, earning himself a nod of agreement from both women. A swell of smug satisfaction tilted his lips up, and Emma shook her head marginally in exasperation.
Just then, David returned from his conversation with the local detective.
"Where's Henry and Phillip?" he asked, looking around at all of them.
Emma answered, "They went to the medical examiner's office to see if they could get anything else. We were just trying some profiling." The last part held the barest hint of sarcasm, her words barbed and obviously intended. Killian shot her another look, glancing once in Mulan's direction – but their new colleague apparently hadn't noticed (either that or she just didn't care).
The Unit Chief nodded, "Oh. Okay – well, I was just talking to the local deputy, Georgia, and she said the most recent crime scene is still pretty much in tact if you guys wanted to take a look?"
Killian stood quickly, "Swan and I will handle that." David lifted his eyebrows in confusion, noiselessly questioning his eagerness at the seemingly menial task and narrowing his eyes when the agent simply shook his head in answer. Taking a pair of keys, he left their designated room, hyperaware of Emma's footsteps behind him, and moved for the exit.
8888
The midday sun coated the underbrush in bright golden light, filtering through the dense congregation of trees that surrounded them to decorate the ground with a sporadic sort of pattern. Trekking through the uncharted terrain, following behind the local park ranger, Killian found himself with an abundance of two things: silence and contemplations.
It was as they navigated a particularly large fallen tree, and the two agents accidentally stumbled into each other, that he became undeniably aware of the thick cloud of conversations to be had. They hadn't actually discussed… what had happened. So preoccupied with getting to the airport in time, after they'd dressed and left in their respective cars, the two of them had taken no time to speak of it.
It wasn't as though they were going to discuss the night prior with their colleagues seated mere feet away and, besides, they'd been too preoccupied with the newest addition to their team to think about it since. So it was hardly surprising that, now that they were alone and isolated from the case for all intents and purposes, he found himself pondering the lack of discussion over such a momentous development in their dynamic (he didn't really know what else to call it).
Contemplating the morning, he found no evidence to suggest she felt regret – he certainly didn't. In fact, a part of him was still bitter about David's interruption. Had they continued in the direction they'd been headed, a second round may not have been far off – and from there, he could only imagine what revelations might have sprouted. She'd seemed genuinely happy, or as close to it as he'd ever seen her; her lips tilted up, her voice lighter, her laugh more easily elicited.
But they hadn't talked about it yet. And, knowing Emma, he had a feeling that now, out of their little bubble of seclusion beneath her sheets; she wouldn't be as willing to acknowledge what he knew to exist. With the sun beating down and a new case in their nimble fingers, he knew without a doubt that she would be hesitant – in denial, even. Sex or no – this was Emma, and the ball was in her court.
He'd made himself crystal clear the previous night. Whether he'd misinterpreted her was yet to be decided; but if the glow in her smile just hours ago when he traced her spine with his thumb was anything to go by, he wasn't misreading.
Tripping over a root protruding from the ground, a result of his internal fixation, Killian unintentionally caught Emma's attention. She turned on the spot, smirking slightly as he recomposed himself, "You right there, trippy?"
The words spilled from his lips before he could reign them in, eyes locking on to hers, "Are we going to talk about-"
"Nope."
Feeling a bit like a gaping fish, he took a moment to process her abrupt response. Her face was carefully devoid of any significant emotion as she considered him, the only tangible thing he recognized landing somewhere between determination and faux indifference.
He shook his head, walking closer, "You didn't even let me finish."
The look she gave him was the equivalent of an eye-roll; because what else could he possibly be so self-conscious about that he'd stammer to question her about it? Sighing, he nodded, and the two continued to walk through the greenery, now a good distance behind the guide but they maintained low tones anyway. Manoeuvring around some bushes and holding back a branch for her, he took stock of her expression and (for the first time in a long time) felt insecure.
Their shoulders brushed as he sidled up to her and he managed in a hushed tenor, "Look, you can act like nothing happened all you want but –"
"I'm not," she whispered back, side-eyeing him meaningfully (making him forget about his need to admonish her for interrupting him again). Emma chewed her lip, eyes following their feet, "I'm just trying to do our job."
Levelling her with a dubious expression, he studied her face, "And us talking about having sex is going to inhibit our ability to reach the location where the victim was killed?" It didn't go amiss to him the way she swallowed at the mention of their amorous activities, an unidentifiable reaction crossing her features transitorily.
Glancing at him, she scratched her shoulder in a nervous mannerism, "Can we talk about this later?" She shrugged as she posed the suggestion, stopping so he moved slightly past her and had to turn around to face her, "I mean, we can't really do this right now." Her tone made it clear that 'this' referred to the rapidly evolving relationship between them. And he would have backed off (should have backed off if his brother's words about good form and all that had actually sunken in) but he knew what she was doing.
He knew her too well for her own good and so now, when she was trying to shy away because of some convoluted excuse; he couldn't help but push back. There may have been a sliver of chance that he was wrong but the look in her eyes just moments ago told him otherwise.
"What do you mean, 'we can't do this right now?'" he challenged.
Emma's green eyes dropped to the underbrush, her mouth opening and closing as she stammered in an attempt to form a coherent stream of words that he might source meaning from. Gulping down a breath of air, she finally managed to say, "We… we shouldn't – we can't do this. The timing's wrong, we're on a case and we can't be jeopardizing that by screwing around and –"
He stopped her before she could keep going, striding forward so their shoes touched and she had no choice but to look at him. He held her chin gently between his fingers, "Emma, stop. There's never going to be a good time for this, not in our line of work."
"I know!" she hissed in frustration, eyes darting over his shoulder to check their guide wasn't overhearing any of this. He tilted her head towards him again, successfully earning her full attention so he could speak at the same time he shrugged.
"But I don't care," she appeared somewhat affronted by the revelation and he shook his head and shrugged again to drive home his point, "I don't care if there's never going to be a good time." His words struck something in her because there was an extended second where she said nothing, simply stared at him like she was trying to figure out how best to respond to him without laying any permanent claims.
Emma kept her face neutral as she asked, "So what do you suggest we do?"
Killian shuffled marginally closer, holding her chin steadily between his fingers so she could do nothing but watch him tell the truth. Tone deepening, he responded, "I'm suggesting we just… I don't know, let the chips fall where they may, as the old idiom goes. Because there's never going to be a good time, so I'm going to make damn sure that the moments we do manage to pilfer are bloody worth it. So, if you please, stop overthinking this." His thumb swiped a gentle path across her cheek, "Please."
A torn expression flitted across her features, indecision clearly wreaking havoc on her mind to such an extent he could almost see the smoke billowing out of her ears. He let go of her chin so he could brush his knuckles along her jaw, the tender act eliciting a small shiver.
"Emma –"
"We're here."
The voice of their guide interrupted him and he groaned, looking to the sky in frustration as she sent him an apologetic look and moved past him to the crime scene. Taking a moment to curse, Killian felt fairly certain that if one more person decided to intercede when he was sharing a moment with his partner, he would spontaneously combust. Swearing creatively at the roof of leaves once more, the agent turned and made a path towards Emma's crouched form, passing under some yellow tape sectioning off the area as he did so.
"This is where the victim was shot," she said, pointing to an ominous dark stain in the hard-packed dirt, "According to reports, this was one of the ones where the victim had a single wound to the chest. She bled out in minutes…"
A sharp tingle in Killian's side made him reach for the skin there, memories flashing in his mind's eye of his own near-death experience. As poetic as people always made it seem – constructing beautiful metaphors about a flow of blood and a fading of life – he knew the truth was far more disconcerting. There was something to be said for feeling the life drain from your limbs, the energy sapped from you even as you continue to remain hyperaware of the need to keep moving, keep trying. Having your body betray your brain's orders wasn't nearly as romantic as he'd always assumed – or been told, for that matter.
Bleeding out hurt – inflicting damage physically and psychologically.
When he said nothing, Emma looked up over her shoulder at him. Her eyes instantly landed on his hand resting against the predominantly-healed wound, remaining there for a long second before flitting up to his eyes. Suddenly uncomfortable, he forced his hand to drop and shuffled around to survey the area.
He could feel her gaze hot on his back. Nether spoke of it. They could both see the lines in the sand.
"How did they get her to come out here – it's not like it's an easy trip," he commented in a note so subtle attempt to change the subject.
"Well, it's a big park and there are no easy trails in this portion of the park – our un-sub's got to be pretty comfortable with the area to come out here, especially at dark," his partner returned, and he could hear her stand up and move around behind him.
"So we're looking for someone with a lot of brute force?" he suggested, pivoting on the spot so he could see as she shook her head lightly, eyes tracing the ground as she examined her surroundings for any missed trace evidence.
"I don't think so," she said, "there weren't any overt signs of a struggle and the murder method is more suited to someone compensating for their lack of power." The blonde stopped in her tracks, unfocused eyes narrowing in thought as she continued in a somewhat detached voice, "He brings them to his comfort zone, makes them kneel in front of him, and then shoots them."
"Before closing their eyes in remorse," Killian added, sidling up to her and folding his arms across his chest.
Emma frowned, "That's the part that doesn't make sense. I mean – the fluctuating between rage and detachment might just be that he's on some kind of emotional pendulum. But nothing about this suggests someone who would feel bad about it; it's too planned, too thought-out."
She had a point – it didn't fit. It was the same dilemma that had been plaguing them since they'd initially sifted through the files in the hours travelling here. It was almost as though there were two separate M.O.s and…
"What if it's a team?" he blurted out just as her phone started buzzing, the familiar vibrating sound echoing in the quiet woodland. Emma's eyes widened in realization, pieces falling into place as she absent-mindedly answered her phone. Waiting for her to finish, he took a moment to consider the evidence.
It would explain the different personality types and how they were able to bring a girl this deep into the woods without her even attempting to escape.
"You're right," Emma said, tucking her phone back in her pocket.
"What?"
"It's more than one – Henry and Phillip were at the M.E.'s office and they found bruises on the victim's arms from where they'd been held, only the angles and sizes of the hands are wrong for one person," she responded, taking a brief look around them before meeting his stare with a morbid sort of annoyance. He couldn't blame her.
8888
Drumming his fingers on the hard wooden surface of the table, Killian watched as the rest of their team took a seat. Georgia, the local deputy, was leaning on the wall beside the whiteboard – watching silently as they began their dissection of the un-sub. David initiated the discussion, folding his hands together on the table and leaning forward with his head tipped down.
"We've definitely got more than one person," he said, "which makes sense with the two separate ."
"So we've got a duo made up of a rage-shackled masochist and a sociopathic executioner. So who is the one closing the eyelids?" Phillip asked, an expression of deep consternation marking his regal features.
"What if it's a trio?"
Everyone turned to face Mulan, the newcomer to the team sitting indiscreetly with her nose buried in some case notes. Looking up, she closed the folder and shrugged noncommittally as though the answer was obvious (it was a striking resemblance of Henry's nonchalance about case breakthroughs that were derived from his genius). She gestured to the folders spread across the table and the whiteboard littered with notes, "We know it's a group but what if it's three guys and not two? The masochist, the sociopath and the mourner; don't trios always have an alpha, loyal lieutenant and middle man?"
It made sense and, looking around, everyone at the table seemed to be in agreement. David stood from his position and moved to the whiteboard, spinning the surface so the clear side was facing them. Then, retrieving a marker, he wrote the three titles and proceeded to list off the attributes, vocalizing them as he did so and recording the occasional contribution from the team.
"I'd have to agree with Mulan and that correlates with a lot of the evidence. So we know for sure that the mourner is the middle man, the reluctant participant who feels remorse at the end but helps nevertheless. Whether this is because he fears the other two un-subs or he has some deeper association with the alpha is yet to be determined."
"The enraged killer is my guess for the alpha," Phillip said thoughtfully, "I can't imagine someone that impassioned serving under anyone else."
"Which would make the indifferent un-sub our middle man and unswerving groupie – he's probably in it purely for the sake of being a member of a team. His shots are the precise ones so it's not wrong to assume he's had training with a gun and was exposed to violence young since he's been relatively unflinching with these murders," Henry added, leaning on the side of his chair. David continued to write at a rapid pace and Killian frowned in thought, rubbing the back of his neck and tilting forward in the chair so he could lean on the table.
"We should get Ruby to pull up all citizens with licensed gun training as well as all those who have a history of violence in their family," he suggested with a shrug, just as the laptop in the center of the table began to ring – announcing the imminent technological arrival of the woman in question. Emma leaned over the table to hit the answer button before falling back in her seat, the black screen fading into an image of Ruby sitting comfortably at her desk, fluffy pen laced between her perfectly manicured nails.
"Good Evening my darling Guardians of the American Galaxy and all that it entails – how are you this fine evening?" she greeted, unperturbed by the newbie's presence. Ruby would be muffled for no one – it was something Killian admired about her. There was a moment where Mulan appeared slightly befuddled by the affectionate opening but she ran with it, the expression dying out as she concentrated on what the tech analyst was saying.
"We're good, Ruby," David said, "Have you found anything on possible gun owners?"
She sighed dramatically, "Indeed, my liege. I did and unfortunately, everyone here has one. Okay, not everyone – that was exaggeration – but there are too many for me to narrow down the list so you're going to have to give me something else to use as a filter."
"Could you pull it down to all those with firearm training of some form?" Killian asked.
"Of course, sugar. Anything for you," she returned in a sultry voice that sent a ripple of bewilderment through both Mulan and the local deputy, Georgia. Their reactions made the rest of their team smirk knowingly; it was common for people unfamiliar with the brunette tech master to be slightly unprepared for her unfiltered pet names and indiscriminate use of affection. It was almost a running gag by now.
The sound of clicking keys followed and then she was looking into the webcam again, "Yeah, that only narrows it down slightly so you're going to have to give me more."
"Throw history of family violence into the search engine," he said.
More clicking and then she sighed, "Sorry, baby, but no dice. Either the people here are peaceful or really good at hiding family disputes of the physical kind. You guys got anything else for me?"
"Could you look into previous cases in this area where women of the same appearance have been murdered?" Phillip interceded without preamble, and when everyone sent him curious glances, "If the alpha has that much rage, I doubt he decided to start killing spontaneously – especially not in such an organized fashion. He's probably done this before and if he has, it was a spur of the moment kill."
"Good," David praised, pointing an applauding finger at the British agent before striding towards the table and tilting the laptop screen towards him, "How long do you think it will take to bring that up, Ruby?"
She hummed for a moment, "Give me tonight and I'll have you a list of possibilities by the morning. I'll try to narrow it down as much as possible given the prerequisites."
The Unit Chief smiled, and nodded at the monitor, "Beautiful. Thanks Ruby."
"Save your gratitude for when I present you the fruits of my labour," she returned before the screen went black and he closed the laptop. Standing straighter, David looked at his wrist watch and then the clock on the wall, pulling the computer towards him as he spoke.
"I think we'll pick this up tomorrow," he said, "get some rest, all of you." The last part was punctuated by a warning glance around the table, as though daring them not to unwind for the short hours they received as downtime on cases. Tucking the laptop in its case, he handed it to Henry and turned to speak with Georgia as the rest of his colleagues packed up. Killian gathered his things quickly before taking a pair of keys and moving towards the door and waiting until his partner passed him to follow.
8888
The car drive was just as silent, and Killian was almost positive you could have heard a pin drop. Speechlessness was not a term commonly applied to the relationship he shared with Emma, it was one of the only descriptive words he'd never thought to coin. From the moment they met, both had been forthcoming with their opinions if not so much their background. It was a common source of conflict between them, but it also kept them on the same page at all times.
But, it seemed neither knew what to say just yet – and that was something he was unfamiliar with to say the least. Even the night prior they'd exchanged words after the act; sweet nothings and breathy laughs barely audible under the blanket of the night. Hell, even that morning they'd functioned more normally than now.
Killian clutched the wheel in frustration, annoyed at his own pathetic inability to string some simple bloody words together. But then, would they ever have really known what to say in the aftermath of this? She was staring out the window, clearly deep in thought; a cleft forming between her brows as she brooded, so deep it could have been carved with a knife. His fingers itched to reach across the seat and tangle with hers, just to bridge some of the distance separating them.
But he knew she needed time – time to figure out if this was all a mistake. Time to decide what she wanted from him. In the meantime, there was nothing he could do but remain her loyal partner. And, thinking about that, Killian felt his self-admonishment lessen, the pressure to speak dissipating as he wove in and out of the streets towards the team's designated hotel for the evening.
When they arrived at their destination, he pulled the car to a stop in the parking lot. It was empty; they had been the first to leave so their team probably wouldn't be arriving for another ten minutes. She exited first, walking around to his side as he opened his door and removed himself from the vehicle. Locking the door, he found himself surprised and at least a little flattered that she'd waited for him. They walked together in silence to the reception; each received a bulky set of keys for their respective rooms and made their way up the dilapidated stairs to the long yellow-tinted hall dotted by numbered doors.
Killian led her quietly to her door, feeling oddly like an adolescent escorting his date home, and waited for her to unlock it. As it clicked and turned the handle, she rotated to face him as she pushed the door open. Their eyes locked, and she smiled lightly. And he very much wanted to kiss her.
"I guess I'll see you in the morning," she said quietly, even though they were alone in the hallway.
He nodded, swallowing thickly, "Yeah. I guess so."
She pivoted slowly on her heel, took a step into her room, took a deep breath and turned around, "Night."
He still really wanted to kiss her.
Killian forced himself to take a step back and nodded, lips tilting up of their own accord, "Night Swan."
With a wry smile still on her lips, she closed the door.
8888
Mulan's phone beeped the second she entered her hotel room, throwing her bags down on the generic bed-spread and pulling the device from her pocket. Pacing the room, she opened the text and took a deep, steadying breath. As she waited for the message to load, her thoughts strayed to the team to which she had been assigned.
Generally speaking, they were all quite amicable. All except Emma of course, whose hostility was palpable – no doubt a result of some kind of internal drama and residual trust issues. Killian seemed the only person able to tame that part of her and even he did a shoddy job.
She took a seat on the bed and read the question on her phone's screen, all the while thinking that perhaps Emma Swan was right not to trust her. The message glared up at her: Has the infiltration been successful?
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