A/N: Hello. You're rad. Yes. You there. Very rad. Have a good day.
8. Boston's Finest
Okay, so maybe it wasn't a complete surprise when Jefferson Dodgson was a little less than thrilled when the dossier he received back on his ex-wife's new fiancee revealed him to be just as sparkling clean as the custom leather interiors of his Audi Coupe, legally purchased, and well within the budget of a man who had won Massachusetts Independent Insurer's Top Life Insurance Salesperson of the Year, three times running.
What they hadn't expected, was for him to storm out of the office with his bill unpaid, slamming the door so hard behind him that the abstract art print on the wall opposite clattered to the floor, the glass frame busting on impact.
"We're adding that to your invoice, fuckface!" Emma called after him, the only reply to her words the echo of the exterior door to the street slamming shut behind him. She slumped down in her chair, watching as Killian got up to retrieve the pieces of broken glass off the floor, and the scattered sheets of paper from the dossier they'd just spent the last week compiling.
"He's not gonna pay us, is he?" Emma's eyes narrowed, taking in Killian's hunched shoulders and all-round defeated air, as he dropped everything straight into the trash.
"I very much doubt it, Swan," he affirmed with a sigh. "This is why I don't do ex-husbands."
Emma felt another comment on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. It wasn't the time. In fact, it might never be the time. She put the thought out of her mind, returning to the problem at hand. "Know any brawny types who look like they could break a few kneecaps over an unpaid bill?"
"Are you implying I'm not brawny, lass?" Killian raised an eyebrow, leaning against his desk so that he could roll up the cuffs of his dress shirt, accentuating the taut muscles in his forearms, and the handful of tattoos underneath.
It was a nice little display, but it didn't exactly leave her quaking in her boots. Not from fear, anyway. Emma rolled her eyes. "I'm saying we might want to outsource this one." He clutched at his heart dramatically, as though his pride had taken a fatal blow. Emma kept her face as impassive as possible.
"Alright, alright," he agreed. "I may have a line on one or two brawny types. God knows, it might save me from the circle of hell that is small claims court," he muttered. "They drink at a place not too far from here, and it's..." He consulted his wristwatch. "Just about happy hour. Shall we go?" He was already by the door, shrugging on his jacket by the time the question came.
"You want me to... come with you?" Emma asked uncertainly.
Killian just gave a vague wave of his hand which seemed to mean, of course.
"You already work with me, and live with me," Emma pointed out. "And now you want to go drinking with me too?"
He shrugged, his mouth contorting into a thoughtful frown. "It's a kind of a... working drink. A workplace outing, if you will. With rum. " His eyebrows rose meaningfully, but when she remained unmoved, there was a final, pregnant pause. "And... I'm buying."
And with those magic words, the grin on Emma's face snapped into place immediately. "I will take you up on that."
"Naturally," Killian drawled, holding her own jacket out for her to take, which she did, reaching up to pat his cheek in mocking consolation as she walked out ahead of him.
Finnegan's Tavern was a dive bar just a few blocks away, an easy walk despite the beginnings of what seemed to be the first snow flurry of the season falling around them, leaving flakes tangled in Emma's hair, and the streets gnarled in traffic chaos, as the city drivers found themselves caught unprepared by slippery roads. It would be back to beanies and gloves tomorrow, Emma thought, as she kept her hands jammed in the pockets of her jacket, wishing, not for the first time, that she would just once pick a jacket for its ability to keep her warm, rather than make her look cool. Beside her, Killian seemed to be faring no better, leather collar turned up against the wind, his cheeks pink in the cold.
It was a relief when they stepped into the warm confines of the bar, stamping their feet clean on the mat. Not that it made much difference really, the linoleum floor was filthy already with all the mud and melted snow tracked in by the 5pm crowd, a tripping hazard just waiting to happen. They fell upon the only spare table in the place, by the restrooms, of course, and Killian shrugged off his jacket.
"The usual, Swan?" he asked, placing his jacket down on the tabletop in a proprietary way. Emma elected to keep her jacket on, as she combed the last of the snowflakes from her hair with her fingers.
"A double," she replied, rubbing her hands over her frozen cheeks. "Something to warm me up." He bit his lip then, his eyes flashing mischievously, and she could tell he was swallowing down the double entendre. It was a credit to him, that he said no more, just set off for the bar with nothing but a small, over-dramatic bow in her direction.
The idiot.
With the feeling returning to her extremities, Emma took her seat at the table and began to scan her surroundings. It had all the hallmarks of a working-class Irish pub in a traditionally working-class Irish neighborhood. The Guinness on tap. The familiar strains of "With or Without You" playing on the jukebox. The predominately green walls covered in generations' worth of framed memorabilia. Emma paused to examine a framed photograph in her vicinity, when the faded figure in the next picture over caught her attention. The man was in uniform. A police uniform. She scanned the next picture. More uniforms. Medals. Her skin began to prickle uncomfortably as her attention shifted back to her fellow patrons.
There were a handful of big guys in un-ironed office attire, ties loose around their necks. A group of aging jock types in Bruin jerseys camped out by the TV, gearing up for the early game. A smattering of grey haired guys in golf shirts, staring listlessly into their beer glasses. Nearly everyone was strapped.
Fuck.
Killian barely made it back to the table with their drinks before Emma had grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him out into the hallway and out of sight of the rest of the customers. "Are you crazy?!" she hissed, releasing her hold on his jacket so that he could fall back against the wooden paneling with a none-too-gentle thud. "I can't be in a cop bar!"
"Why ever not, Swan? You've paid your debt to society," he said breezily with a flash of a smile, and Emma resisted the urge to put her fist through those perfect teeth.
"Are you kidding me right now? Do you know how many cops have been suspended because of me? Lost their pensions because of me? They sure as hell deserved it, but do you think they'll see it that way?" She waved her arm to encompass the other drinkers. "You know what cops are like. They're tight knit, they look after their own, and they hate people like me." She took one of the glasses out of Killian's grasp, kind of impressed he hadn't managed to spill a drop, and knocked it back. "We have to go," she said, giving a slight shudder as it burned its way down her oesophagus. "Like, right now."
But before she could coax him into moving towards the exit, the door to the men's room opened, and a figure stumbled into the hall with them. And when he saw Emma standing there, he froze in place, his shirt half tucked back into his trousers. "Emma?"
She couldn't see his face clearly yet in the dim of the hallway, but she recognized the accent sure enough. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath, too late to take the coward's way out and make a mad dash for the ladies room.
"Graham," she nodded, and the figure drew nearer, his features coming into better view. Just as she remembered. The beard. The jawline. The unnecessarily stylish vest.
"It is you." He let his eyes travel over her, assess her. "You're the last person I'd expect to be skulking around the men's room at Finnegan's." He paused then, head cocking to the side as he considered those words. "On the other hand, now I think about it, it kind of suits you."
And there it was. Emma felt the sting as keenly as she would have if he'd stabbed her with a rusty blade.
"And who is Emma Swan's lucky mark tonight?" he wondered aloud, letting his attention shift at last to Killian, who'd been watching the proceedings with rapt fascination. Graham's eyes widened as he took in the familiar figure. "Jones?"
Emma couldn't take any more. "You know each other?!" Emma could feel the rush of blood to her head as her worlds collided.
"Well..." Killian began, rubbing his thumb over his right earlobe. "You remember that poker game we spoke of, Swan?"
She jerked her thumb at Graham. "This is the dupe you wanted me to bankrupt? You're poker buddies?!"
"Dupe?" Graham repeated, but both Emma and Killian ignored him.
"I'm going to go with unhappy former source?" Killian asked with a raised brow.
"That would be wishful thinking," Emma muttered.
"With a side helping of vengeful ex!" He looked like he couldn't believe his luck. "Christ, Swan," he said, shaking his head. "I really shouldn't have brought you here."
"You think?!" She was prepared to expand on that thought, when they were both brought back into the here and now by a pointed cough.
"So," Graham began, "Interesting company you are keeping these days, Jones."
"Never a dull moment, Humbert," Killian shrugged, flattening himself against his side of the hallway to let the other man pass by. But he didn't, still rooted to the spot in front of Emma, frown set as if she was a particularly difficult puzzle he just couldn't figure out.
"I don't get it," he said after a few moments of awkward silence. "Are you a PI now? Or are you just trying to suck a story out through his dick too?"
Killian lunged forward, but she caught him in time, grasping him tightly around the wrist with a surprising amount of strength, and hauling him backwards before he could do anything too stupid, like start a fight in a cop bar. With a cop. Their gazes caught for a moment, and when she was reasonably sure he wasn't going to try it again, she turned her attention back to Graham, who was still standing there, for lack of a better term, seething.
"I didn't use your name," she began, but even to her own ears it sounded pitiful. "I didn't use your sources. It was just background."
Graham scoffed. "I know you know the difference between background and off-the-record, Emma. You just didn't care enough about me to keep your fucking mouth shut."
Emma could feel Killian twitch behind her, since she still had a grip on his arm, but he didn't say anything, leaving the way clear for Emma to say the words she should have said long before.
"I am sorry, Graham. Really sorry. " Her apology was genuine, but Graham just rolled his eyes.
"No you're not, Emma," he muttered, his words steeped in bitterness. "If you were sorry you would have called." And after fixing her with one last look which came dangerously close to loathing, he slid past them back out into the bar.
Once Graham was out of sight, Emma let go of Killian's arm. Free from her grasp, he shook out the limb to get his circulation back, letting out a low whistle through his teeth. "Christ, Swan. You really screwed him over."
"Fuck off," Emma deadpanned, taking the second glass from his other hand and downing the contents with an undignified cough.
"Better?" he asked.
"Not even a little bit," she admitted, handing him back the glass.
"Well, the worst is over now!" he said brightly. "Might as well stay for another round." Emma just shot him her most withering look.
"I'll grant you, that was uncomfortable..." he began, and Emma scoffed. Uncomfortable was walking ten blocks home in new shoes. Standing by as a guy you used to really care about calls you out for being the worst ex-girlfriend ever, in front of your new boss? Whole different ball park.
Still, they made their way back to their table, still mercifully unclaimed thanks to the presence of Killian's jacket draped across it, and Emma collapsed onto her stool.
"Thanks for not punching him," Emma blurted. "He's not a bad guy. He's just..."
"Hurt," Killian supplied.
"Yeah," Emma's gaze went to the floor. "I really screwed the pooch on that one."
"Such a delightful American phrase," Killian winced. "But don't forget. I know him. Well enough to know he's usually much more respectful in his dealings with the fairer sex..." There was an edge creeping into his voice.
"You know I don't need you protecting my virtue, right?" Emma glanced back up, to make sure he understood. "It's nice that you'd be willing to punch someone on my behalf... maybe. But you're not my brother. And even he isn't allowed to go around hitting people just for saying hurtful yet true things about me. No matter how much I wish he could sometimes."
"As you can see, Swan," Killian said, opening his arms wide, indicating his uninjured knuckles. "My better nature prevailed."
"Good," Emma smiled at last. "So..." she said, taking another glance around the place, being careful to avoid the area by the TV where Graham and his buddies were stationed, "You're looking for muscle... in a cop bar?"
It didn't seem like the ideal place to look for people set on fear and intimidation. Not the unlawful kind, anyway.
"Nooooo," Killian corrected. "I'm looking for a pitbull of a man with a license to carried concealed, in a cop bar. How do you rate my chances?" he asked, flashing a grin. Emma poked her tongue out at him.
"I do, in fact, have a candidate in mind. And when I get back from the bar, I shall introduce you," he said slipping from his stool. "Another rum?" Emma held up two fingers, and he nodded, took a step away, then paused. "And do try to remain as inconspicuous as possible," he advised with a wink.
When Killian returned, he didn't return alone, a tall, handsome guy with Bullitt style gun holsters and a bad case of cop face, beside him.
"Emma Swan, this is David Nolan. David, Emma." he said by way of introduction, and Emma reached across to shake the new arrival's hand, his grip firm and warm in her own. Killian turned to Emma. "David's part of the poker group," he explained. Then he covered his mouth with his hand so David couldn't see and mouthed the word "dupe". Then he turned to David with a grin. "And Emma here is the viper who ripped out poor Graham's hear-" He faltered at the end, when Emma's boot crunched down on his instep, but he recovered quickly, painting his smile back on. "And my lovely assistant," he managed, with only a hint of wheezing.
David Nolan just looked between the two of them, amusement evident on his face. "And you want me to do... what exactly, Jones?"
"How do you feel about issuing some low grade threats?" Killian hedged.
David just blinked at him, unmoved.
"Yeah, okay, that was a long shot," Killian admitted. "How about just knocking on a door and handing over an envelope whilst pulling that exact face?" he asked hopefully, holding his fingers out to capture said expression in a framed shot like he was a try-hard Hollywood director.
"And what exactly makes you think I'd be willing to put my career on the line, to play your hired thug for the day?"
"Thug is such a strong word..." Killian sighed, and Emma snorted. "But there is the small matter of what the man did to that art print your lovely wife gave me last Christmas..."
That got David's attention, if the way his whole posture changed was any indication.
"Ruined!" Killian decried. "And after she'd had it especially mounted, at no small expense." He let that sink in, and Emma caught herself holding her breath.
"And what would I have to say?" David sighed in resignation.
Killian's victorious smile was practically blinding in its intensity, as he turned back to Emma. "What did I tell you, Swan?" he said, leaning close to whisper in her ear. "Dupe."