A/N: Thank you for your patience whilst I have been a) writing other things, b) listening to all of Cabin Pressure, c) turning 27, d) ruminating on the nature of the universe, and e) actually sleeping. But real life isn't cutting it today, so you are in luck! It's back to these two idiots for me.

6. First Days Are The Worst Days

She took the job.

Like she really had a choice in the matter, what with the crippling poverty, and all.

And it sure did beat being a department store Christmas elf.

Jones Investigations wasn't all that much to look at from the outside. A faded sign was all that revealed its location above a laundromat on a particularly sketchy stretch of Massachusetts Avenue, a laundromat which no doubt doubled as a refuge for the city's homeless after dark, being both open 24 hours, and thanks to a bank of dryers constantly on the go, always a balmy 90 degrees no matter the time of year. That and the telling fact there had been someone sleeping in the stairwell leading up to Killian's office when Emma arrived bright and early for her first day of work.

It was a stark reminder that though her fortunes had taken a recent tumble, she hadn't hit rock bottom just yet. Not this time.

There had been times, especially during those troubled teen years, on the run from a string of awful foster homes, that Emma had been reduced to sleeping rough, on benches in train stations and in vacant motel rooms she'd managed to break into during the middle of the day. She'd always been wary of heading to a shelter, knowing that was a one way ticket back into the clutches of Child Protective Services.

She'd made it all the way to Oregon before August had finally caught up with her, where she had embarked on a career of petty theft with some idiot she'd met trying to steal the car he had already stolen. She hadn't been all that happy with August when he'd dragged her back to Boston, where he'd been living since getting out of the system, and forced her to go back to school. She'd yelled and raged and cried and run away a handful of times, trying to get back to that guy and the little Bonnie and Clyde thing they had going, confusing that rush of first love and adrenaline of living life outside the law with something far more meaningful. But August always found her. Brought her back home. Got her right.

She'd just been a stupid kid.

If it weren't for August, she'd probably be the one sleeping in stairwells. Or in jail. Or worse.

Emma inched her way up the stairs, careful not to wake the sleeping stranger, who was thankfully snoring softly into the sleeve of his threadbare sweater, so she didn't feel the need to check for a pulse. Pausing to consider for a moment, she pulled the sandwich she'd just bought from the deli around the corner out of her bag and left it on the step above him. Maybe he'd take it, or maybe he wouldn't, but Emma thought the guy could do with it more than her.

Killian had beaten her upstairs, having skipped the detour to the deli on the way, and was already in the middle of some kind of altercation with his photocopier, Smee cheering him on with a series of small yips delivered from his designated mat in the corner. The office comprised of one large room lit by a single tungsten globe suspended from the ceiling, casting the room in an unflattering yellow sheen that made everything look even more aged and shabby than it already did.

"Problem?" Emma asked, dropping her messenger bag down onto what she supposed was her new desk, if the ancient telephone with the honest-to-god rotary dial was any indication.

Killian paused mid-expletive, foot raised to kick the machine again, looking up to see Emma regarding him with a trace of amusement, arms crossed over her chest.

"Oh," he said, lowering his foot and reaching a hand out to lean oh-so-casually on the machine he'd been hell-bent on bashing the crap out of not five seconds previously. "No. No problem," he said quickly, brushing his hair from where it had fallen in front of his eyes with his other hand.

"Right," said Emma, letting the word stretch so he knew she didn't buy it for a second. She strode over to stand beside him, giving the machine a good once-over. Apart from the smudge of a boot print imprinted on the side, it looked like any other copier that had been at the height of sophistication twenty years ago. Where the hell did Killian find all of this crap? His entire office looked like it had been swiped off the set of a Meg Ryan romantic comedy circa 1993. "So what's the problem?"

A pause, as if he didn't want to admit that he'd been bested by a humble Epson.

"Still thinks it's out of paper," he grunted finally. "Even when it isn't. Ariel could always get it to work, but the bloody contraption has taken against me in the worst way."

"And after you were so gentle with it?" Emma teased, nudging him out of the way with her elbow. "Alright," she said, trailing her hands over the plastic cover and she knelt down beside it. "Time to watch and learn, Jones. All they need is a little finesse. They smell fear, you know?" Killian snorted, but stepped away his arms raised in surrender.

"It's all yours, Swan. Knock yourself out," he said, letting himself fall into his desk chair with a sigh.

And she did, taking a moment to consider her approach. She opened up the paper tray, straightening the ream she found there, and slipped the tray back into place carefully with practiced ease. Cooing soft encouragements, she straightened again, reaching out a finger to tap the Go button, letting out a whoop when the machine hummed into life. Killian looked up, blinking disbelievingly.

"I told you," Emma chided, unable to prevent the smug grin stretching across her face. "Finesse." Killian just rolled his eyes, getting up to stand by the paper output, snatching up the copied pages as the machine spat them out.

"What's that?" Emma asked, craning her neck to see over his shoulder.

"Bloody nosy, aren't you?" Killian said, holding the paper to his chest, obstructing her view.

Emma just rose a single eyebrow, pointing at herself. "Uh, investigative reporter. Kind of comes with the territory?"

"That was then," Killian replied, reaching one hand up to land on her shoulder, steering her around. "Now, you're my assistant. And it would assist me greatly if you stopped asking so many bloody questions and tried to familiarize yourself with the chaos Ariel left behind as best you can." He gave her a small shove in the direction of her new desk.

"You're welcome," Emma sniped back. Killian merely offered a huff of acknowledgement, returning to his seat to read his papers in privacy.

Whatever Ariel's strengths had been, Emma doubted very much they extended to such mundane things as filing, or organization. A pity really, considering that had kind of been the extent of her job description. Her desk drawers were crammed with take-out menus, half completed crossword puzzles clipped from the newspaper, from The Boston Sentinel, in particular, Emma noted, as well as a series of books that gave Emma pause.

The Art of War by Sun Tzu.

The Prince by Nicholo Machiavelli.

Not the kind of light reading Emma would have expected from a dippy, new-agey type. She'd been more expecting to encounter the collected works of Deepak Chopra, maybe a few back issues of The Oprah Magazine. Not, this.

What she didn't find in any of the drawers was anything approaching paperwork. No invoices. No case files. No appointment book. Not so much as a goddamn Rolodex. A glaring omission that, combined with her choice of reading material, made Emma's heart plummet into her stomach, as she drew the obvious conclusion.

"Uh," Emma began tentatively, waiting for Killian's gaze to lazily travel from his laptop screen to her. "Please tell me your assistant didn't skip town with all of your client contact information, and case files." She tried to tamp down the note of mild panic that was beginning to cut into her words, failing miserably.

"What?" He blinked, as if he hadn't heard her right, but Emma could see the vein on his forehead begin to throb.

"There isn't anything here but crossword puzzles and fucking Machiavelli!" She said, slamming the last drawer back into the desk. "So either you had the world's most inefficient secretary, or she's taken some pointers from dear old Nicolo and fucked off with your client list!"

He was on his feet in seconds, motioning for Emma to get out of the way so that he could search through the drawers himself.

In minutes the office was covered in torn up scraps of newspaper, Smee happily rolling around in the debris, with Killian knelt by the desk, seething, his eyes glinting with a fury Emma had never seen in them before.

"It's all gone," he snarled, rising to his feet. "All of it."

She didn't see Killian for the rest of the day.

Not while she cleared away the last of the newspaper. Not while she alphabetized the remaining case files, the ones Killian had kept locked in a separate filing cabinet, safe from thieving underlings. Not while she took Smee for an afternoon walk down to the nearest park, orange leaves crunching under her boots.

It wasn't until she eventually gave up and headed back to his place that she found him, sitting at his kitchen table with a half empty bottle of Captain Morgan in front of him, looking positively morose. It wasn't a word she often used, but that was about the size of it. Morose.

He barely looked up as she came in, content to continue his staring contest with his refrigerator, his anger from earlier seeming to have evolved into something less explosive, but altogether heavier, pulling his shoulders down with the weight of it. Even Smee's excitable tugs at his bootlaces with his teeth did little to stir him. So Emma figured that if she couldn't beat 'em, she'd join 'em. She took a seat beside him, and slid the bottle towards herself, taking a generous swig. That he noticed.

"I guess you didn't find her," Emma said in a small voice, once the pervasive silence had gotten a little too loud for her.

"She's in the wind," he replied finally, voice eerily flat, making a fluttering motion with the hand that hadn't snatched back the bottle.

"And your clients?"

"I made some calls. Seems rather a lot of them have found themselves a new go-to investigator. Not Ariel. The person she sold them to."

"Ouch. I'm sorry." She felt stupid saying it, but it was the only thing she could think of to say.

He lifted his head back to take a long pull. "So am I, love. So am I."

A pause.

"I guess this means I'm fired?" She asked tentatively, even though she already knew the answer.

Thanks to some on-the-down-low conversations with August in the past, Emma already suspected Jones Investigations wasn't doing so hot. But with a ransacked client list, they might as well have been circling the drain.

He pulled himself out of his stupor long enough to look at her, properly this time, his brow furrowing the longer he considered her. "On the contrary, Swan. I think I need assistance now more than ever."

They weren't the words Emma was expecting. She had already been mentally preparing herself for the easy letdown. Her head snapped up.

"Seriously?" She couldn't quite dial back the surprise. "How can you even afford to pay me? She took everything!"

"Yes and no," he replied, pushing his chair back until he was out of reach of the bottle on the table, his eyes losing some of that glazed look. "She took most of the clients. She didn't take all of them." A pause. "And I have a feeling that having an assistant around who isn't deliberately trying to tank the operation may prove quite helpful, going forward."

He fixed her with a look that bordered on earnest. "If you wish to stay, that is," he continued, letting a hint of vulnerability flash across his face, one hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. A nervous tell.

"I do." And then thinking how much that sounded like a vow, Emma hurriedly added, "Want to stay, that is."

The trace of a smile curved his lips, but faded before it reached his eyes. "I won't lie. Things won't be easy. Building up a new client list. Stealing a few back. It's like starting from scratch, without dumb beginner's luck."

"Starting from scratch sounds good." Emma met his eyes, reaching a hand forward to squeeze his forearm reassuringly. "We'll make our own luck."