A/N: And now for something completely different... (at the urging of one illustrious Anni, and one fantastical lenfaz,) I humbly present to you...*drum roll*... Killian POV!
P.S. Find the banana.
14. Three's A Crowd
Killian
Maybe he should have expected her to bolt.
After all, he knew enough to know Emma Swan was hardly the type to stick around after an unguarded moment. There was a reason all of her romantic entanglements to date had been doomed to fail from the start. The ponce from the furniture store? They all knew that was never going to last, even before it transpired he was still married. And Graham? He was a mate, and Killian could admit the man had his good points, but a cop and a journalist never made for a good combination. They were too often at cross-purposes. Surely Emma knew that, going in. She was a smart lass. Too smart, sometimes. Emma was many things, actually, but none of them were emotionally available.
He knew this. And yet, he couldn't quite mask his keen disappointment at finding the apartment empty, her window left wide open, curtains billowing inwards with the frigid wind, revealing her hasty method of exit.
The bloody fire escape.
He couldn't deny, that smarted a little. She could have at least used the front bloody door.
Risking hypothermia in her rush to get away from him, sans seasonally appropriate attire? It seemed a tad on the dramatic side. He knew it was a habit of hers to just freeze someone out until they gave up on her, but there was no need for her to literally freeze to fucking death in the process.
He reached forward to slide the window closed, a sudden gust of icy wind biting uncomfortably at his fingertips as he struggled to get a purchase on the wooden frame. With one last desperate tug, the window finally came unstuck, crashing down into the sill with no small amount of force, a small crack forming in the glass. Blasted window. He really should have sprung for a place with double glazing. Cursing under his breath, he returned to the kitchen, where sat two rapidly cooling plates piled high with bacon, eggs and sausages, and Smee eyeing off both from his place on the linoleum, tail wagging in earnest at the expectation of leftovers.
Stepping over him, Killian picked his phone up off the table, dialing Emma's number. He was so busy trying to figure out exactly what he was going to say to her, he didn't notice the commotion in the living room. Not until Smee gave a sharp series of barks, and then, over the sound of the call trying to connect, he heard it. A John Williams score, emanating from the device still buzzing along the surface of his coffee table.
"Really, Swan?" he sighed to himself, ending the call with the press of his thumb. "The Jaws theme?" He slid his device back into his pocket, turning around to consider his ruined breakfast plans. He was pathetic. As if he could have expected a better outcome, given everything that had happened. No matter which way you looked at it, things were going to be awkward. Last night had been... last night had been unexpected. It had been an unguarded moment, and even the memory of it left him feeling a little off-kilter. Like he'd glimpsed something in Emma he ought not to have seen. Something she kept hidden beneath the surface, something she hadn't even known she was letting him see. But that was neither here no there. No matter what he'd thought he'd seen, or what he'd found himself feeling, he had no reason to expect anything to come of it. Emma's sleepy, doped-up confession that she "gave a fuck about him, too," notwithstanding, she'd given no indication that their shared moment had meant anything to her beyond the obvious. And it was hardly an ideal situation.
She was still his employee. His only employee, come to that. She was still living under his roof. And though he was loathe to admit it, it wasn't exactly like she'd chosen either of those things. She'd been desperate, and he'd been in a position to help. But he could hardly ignore that given half a chance, she'd be back in her apartment in Mission Hill, working as a real journalist again.
He sighed again, rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand, before looking down at his carefully prepared breakfast, the whipped cream from her hot chocolate already completely melted into her mug, the drink overflowing onto the coaster. He was pathetic. What had he been trying to accomplish anyway? This was Emma Swan, after all. Cold, clever, emotionally distant Emma Swan. The only person she'd ever really truly cared about was August. And August... well, that was a whole other kettle of fish, wasn't it? He was sure there was some arbitrary Bro Code violation in there somewhere. He'd have to ask Victor to confirm. Although, on second thought, maybe he was not the best person to be confiding all his secrets to. The man tended to shoot his mouth off when he'd had a few.
Of course, there was always Tink. But hadn't it been her bloody fault to begin with? She'd planted the seed, after all, hadn't she? Interrogating him about the true nature of his living situation with Emma, over ludicrously priced banana daiquiris.
"Oh, c'mon!" she had said, draining another glass. "She's totally your type!"
"And what type is that, exactly? Blonde? Annoying? Partial to dark spirits? Or are you talking about yourself again?" he had teased, leaning forward to brush a stray strand of said blonde hair behind her ear. "I told you already, lass. If you are thinking of starting things up again, you need to learn to be much more subtle about it. A man likes to be wooed."
She didn't want to start things up again. That ship, as they say, had sailed. Nor was he so willing to try to recapture that previous spark. They'd had it, once upon a time, but he knew better than to think the answer to his problems lay in the past. They weren't the same people they had been, and though she was still one of his favorite people, he knew they'd never make each other happy. But he did like to tease her, especially if he could distract her from her next great project. Sadly, she hadn't been so easily dissuaded from the subject of Emma Swan, and she had continued making her case. As if it was impossible to live in close quarters with a sarcastic, knock-out blonde for any length of time, without succumbing to adolescent urges.
Bloody Tink.
It was she that he blamed for his state when he'd arrived home that night, his cheeks numb with cold, but his veins still thrumming with the lingering warmth of rum. Emma had been laid on the couch with a DVD playing, when he'd crept up next to her on wobbly feet. She'd been dozing. Not something he'd realized until his greeting had already woken her, her head nuzzling adorably into the cushion, blanket tightening around her.
She was softer when she was sleepy, the sharp edges that usually kept people at a distance dulled by the effects of her endearingly discombobulated state, even as she fought her way back to consciousness. And in that moment, he truly did curse Tink, because though he'd always realized in an objective kind of way that Swan was an attractive enough lass, it hadn't been until that moment on the couch, watching her fight back a yawn with sleepy determination, her hair fanned out around her in untidy golden waves, that he felt that long forgotten swoop, low in his gut.
He hadn't been expecting it. That jolt of sudden attraction. It had been some time since Milah, and he hadn't exactly been itching to get back out there after everything that had happened. He knew what he'd felt in her absence couldn't be healed by the bevy of barflies who'd offered to warm his bed. But Emma? Well, she wasn't just anyone.
It was a bad idea, of course. A terrible idea. But the rum had made him bold, and as he took his place down on the couch cushion beside her, he couldn't quite deny himself the warmth of her company. So they bantered, as they always did, her comebacks a little slower than usual, a little friendlier. And when she gave him a playful kick with her foot, he didn't let go of it once he'd caught it. A smarter man would have realized the idiocy of the situation and retired to bed, but Killian had never really managed to stay on the smart path for too long. More so, her gentle ribbing over his evening plans with Tink fanned a tiny flame of hope in him, which grew stronger with each tiny smile. He'd reveled in the feel of her foot in his hands. Even through the thin material of her very fetching BB-8 novelty socks, she was so warm, and so very alive against his fingers. When he'd begun his ministrations with his thumb, he'd half expected her to pull away, to feign ticklishness, and break their connection. But when she'd responded to his first tentative touches with a stifled moan, and a curse which bordered the realms of decency, he knew he was done for.
It had just been a foot massage between friends. Payment rendered for a favor owed. They had each trotted back to their own separate rooms afterwards, and there had been no awkwardness over scrambled eggs the next morning. But in Killian's mind, it was also the unlocking of a door he'd kept barred for a long time. One which led to somewhere like maybe.
But now that he'd kicked that door in, only to have it slam back in his face, he wondered if he should regret the turn things had taken.
Smee looked like all his Christmases had come at once when Killian finally admitted defeat, spooning the sausage links into his bowl, before taking a seat at the table, and stuffing in forkfuls of his now cold breakfast. While he ate, he considered a future where Emma never actually came back. One where her things simply disappeared from the apartment one day whilst she knew he was at work. Like Milah had done.
Though at least she had left a forwarding address, so he could post the little things she'd forgotten. Not that he'd managed to work up the courage to part with that last box, exactly, in the end. It had just been a few hair ties, lip glosses, a few trashy paperbacks. Nothing really. Just a few odds and ends. She wouldn't miss them. He'd tucked the box in the back of his closet and mostly forgotten about it until the day he saw the announcement in the paper.
It was a boy. Born to Milah and Robert Spinner, a miracle child for his parents, blissfully reunited after a decade apart.
That night, he'd taken the box out into the alley behind the apartment, doused it in petrol, and set it on fire. There was something oddly calming about watching those flames obliterate those last few traces of their life together. Something cleansing.
He went back upstairs afterwards smelling of gasoline and smoke, but if Emma noticed, she didn't say anything, just tossed him the remote as he came in the door, telling him it was his turn to pick their next Jimmy Stewart movie. They'd watched Rear Window, and Emma had fallen asleep even before the part where the neighbor's dog is killed.
He wished she hadn't left her phone behind. Even if she was intent on ignoring him for the rest of time, he wanted to at least know she was alright. To make sure she definitely hadn't lost any toes to frostbite on her way down the fire escape.
When she showed up again, two hours later, Killian did wonder for a moment if she was just a figment of his sleep-deprived mind.
He should have been at work. But what with his schedule oddly clear without Zelena Beck on the books, and his assistant on the lam, he didn't much feel up to it. He was calling it a mental health day. And he couldn't deny, at least a tiny part of him wanted to see if Emma would sneak back in to pick up her phone and her wallet. He'd cleaned up from breakfast, and had returned to his same seat at the kitchen table, Smee curled in his lap, a coffee untouched on the table beside him. He'd been tempted to make it Irish, but he purposefully hadn't replenished his rum supply since the Ariel incident, knowing he'd made a foolish spectacle of himself. He'd settled instead for absently scratching Smee behind his ears, when he heard the key in the lock.
If Emma was surprised to find him there, she didn't show it. Nor did she show immediate signs of wanting to make another break for it, if the way she stepped forward in front of his chair was any indication. Not willing to spook her, should she disappear again, he waited for her to make the first move.
"Hi," she said in greeting, her voice softer and more girlish than he would have expected. His eyes snapped up at last to meet hers.
Sometime in the last two hours she'd acquired shoes, a jacket, and a weary glaze over her eyes. Though he never would have said it aloud, she looked like hell. Her left eye had swollen up something fierce overnight, and the bruise had taken on a lovely purple color. He really should have made her ice it for longer, instead of letting himself get carried away.
"The fire escape, Swan? Really?" He'd been planning on taking it easy on her, but he couldn't entirely resist the jab.
She looked chastened, and he was almost attempted to apologize, when she followed up with a trademark Emma response, no sign of embarrassment despite the circumstances.
He almost believed it, as they fell back into small-talk. But she was still quiet, too apologetic. Emma didn't usually do apologetic.
"Are you alright, Emma?" he asked, slowly rising from his chair. "Because you don't seem alright. And if that's about last night, we can-"
"August is back," she said out of nowhere, interrupting the words he'd been silently rehearsing for hours.
And then he realized what she had said. "Oh."
August was back. After damn near half a year, he'd finally shown his face. And if the tiny tremble to Emma's lips was any clue, or the fact that August hadn't immediately trailed in after her, it hadn't been a smooth homecoming.
"I almost accosted him with a fire extinguisher, and I think he sprained his ankle." He resisted the urge to snort. "And I might have said some things." All of them justly deserved, he was sure. He had a few choice words prepared for the man himself.
But Emma didn't seem to wear the strain well. Instead of letting herself be fueled by righteous fury, as was her right in this scenario, she just looked upset, and it pained him to see her like that. He'd promised himself he'd tread carefully where Emma's boundaries were concerned, but even so, he found himself trying to comfort her, rubbing his hands up and down her arms in a way he hoped she would find soothing.
She excused herself to go have a shower, but not before pausing in the entrance to the hallway and offering up another apology, this time for bolting. She alluded to being sorry for more than just that, but before he could ask her what she had meant by that, she'd already disappeared down the hall, the bathroom door closing firmly behind her.
It hadn't been a proper conversation. Not the kind they needed. But it could wait until Emma was up to it. At least she was back. That was enough for now.
His phone rang whilst she was still in the shower. He'd been tempted to let it go to voicemail, but the Blocked Number which came up on Caller ID was too tantalizing a prospect.
"Jones Investigations," he answered, with his standard business tone.
There was silence over the line, and then a young lass's voice broke through, with a distinctive South Boston accent. "Hello, this is Jenna calling from Albert Spencer's office. Would you be available now to take his call?"
Albert Spencer. The name was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He racked his brains, trying to shake something loose.
"Sir?" the girl prompted. And then, he remembered. Albert Spencer. Regina Mills's attorney. He was basically the Johnnie Cochran of the North-East. The same man Killian had been up last night composing an email to in the small hours, when his mind had been stubbornly fixed on other things.
"Now's fine."
"Please hold," she said, the end of words cut off by a spirited Tchaikovsky rendition. Followed shortly thereafter by a click, and the gravelly voice of a man who commanded an hourly rate which could have paid off Killian's student loans in a week.
"Killian Jones," Spencer began. "I've heard good things about you."
He resisted the urge to laugh out loud. There was no way that was true. His silence may have said the words for him, however, because Spencer continued, undeterred. "We have a mutual friend, I believe. A Ms. Bell?" Tink? He knew Tink?
"She's a good friend," Killian managed, finding his voice at last.
"Indeed," Spencer agreed. "She certainly sings your praises. Says you're quite the skilled investigator. So naturally, the news that you were under the employ of one Zelena Beck gave me pause."
"You're..." He tried to absorb this. "You're already familiar with Zelena Beck, then?"
"Quite," the man agreed. "I've been handling the Mills family's legal concerns for many years. And though I expect this to stay between us, I was made aware early on as to the circumstances of her adoption. Moreover, I was tasked with ensuring that Ms. Beck would never come to present a threat to the family."
"Even if she is family?" Killian challenged.
"Zelena Beck has a family. A lovely, yet childless couple from Wichita who took her in, and raised her as their own. But we both know that wasn't enough for her. I did an investigation of my own. Zelena has been in and out of psychiatric wards since she was a teenager. She's documented as being unbalanced. She needs proper care. So you can imagine my concern on finding out that, not only had she relocated to Boston, but that she was considered a suspect in the recent fire which claimed Ms. Mills's home."
Killian had done his own digging into Zelena's life. He'd had to, to verify her claims on who her mother was. But somehow, he'd missed the psychiatric ward admissions. Hadn't thought to look for them. He was quickly coming to realize that had been his mistake.
"Look, I know you have your own ethical bounds. Client confidentiality, and whatnot," Spencer continued, laying on the charm. "But I'd implore you to share the fruits of your investigation with me. Forewarned is forearmed, and I'd like to know exactly what information Zelena has in her possession, so I can limit the damage."
He was good, appealing to Killian's rational mind. Including him in his confidences. But Killian didn't miss the implications of bringing up Tink's name. This was a man with connections, and powerful friends. He was too smart to issue threats. He didn't need to. Spencer had the ability to make Tink's life much harder, or much easier, depending on which side of the fence Killian landed on.
"Ordinarily, I'd balk at handing over client files... Especially to the person I'd been tasked with investigating," Killian began. "As you say, it's a breach of confidentiality..." He let that hang for a few moments. He couldn't deny, a tiny, dark part of him enjoyed having this man, with his enviably win-rate, and millions in retainers, at his mercy, if only momentarily. "But as it happens, Zelena Beck is no longer my client. And the circumstances where we parted ways were... less than favorable. So I can give you anything you need."
He heard the interference over the line as Albert Spencer let out a relieved breath. "I can have a courier come by your office to pick up the relevant documents. Shall we say noon?" he said smoothly.
"Uh," Killian turned to glance up at the clock above the stove. It was nearing half ten. It was tight, but he could make it if he hurried. "That's fine. You have the address?"
"Jenna has it on file. I thank you for your assistance with this matter, Mr Jones."
"Happy to help," he said, unsure if he wanted to imply he'd be reachable in the future.
Ratting out Zelena Beck was one thing. Any professional courtesy he'd shown her in the past was forfeit the moment she'd gone after Emma. But it would be bad for business if word got around that Killian Jones gave up his clients. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.
The line went dead then, Albert Spencer having gotten what he needed, and Killian slid his phone back into his pocket.
He debated waiting for Emma to emerge from her shower, but another glance at the clock made his mind up for him. Even if she did make an appearance, there wasn't time to say all he wanted to say. Instead he scribbled her a note and left it by the coffee pot, urging her to take the rest of the day off, that he'd be back in a few hours. He left Smee in her care, even with the pup giving him major dose of pity-me eyes on his way to the door.
"Oh, don't give me that look!" he told him, kneeling down to give him a final bit of fuss. "You love staying with Emma! She lets you sit on the couch, and I know she's been giving you extra treats when I'm not around." Smee remained unmoved, though his pleading look softened a little with a well-placed scratch behind the ears. And then, reluctantly, with his new deadline pressing at the back of his mind, Killian stood up again, straightened his messenger bag across his shoulder, and with one last stay command, left the apartment.
When he'd arrived back at the office the day before, he'd been a little too preoccupied with Emma, who'd sat on the landing outside, hand still clutched to her rapidly swelling face, to bother taking in the condition of his work space. To say it had seen better days was putting it mildly.
His desk chair had been overturned in the scuffle. Papers were scattered everywhere. Stationary supplies lay strewn on the carpet on the opposite side of the room than they'd started, as if at one point they'd been used as projectiles. It must been a hell of a dust-up. Not for the first time, he regretted being too cheap to install security cameras. If nothing else, he was sure the ensuing video would have garnered quite the online following. Not that he'd be so unkind. But it was definitely a thought.
He didn't have much time to tidy up before the courier arrived, resplendent in his blue overalls, grumpy and slightly winded from climbing the stairs. He took the proffered manila envelope with a bare modicum of civility, jamming it into his dedicated plastic pouch, and holding his clipboard out for Killian to sign. When he did, he merely grunted his thanks, before returning back down the stairs he'd so despised.
When the door opened again not two minutes later, Killian looked up from his desk expecting a return of the ill-tempered courier, chasing another signature. What he hadn't expected, was to see August saunter in, casually folding himself into one of the visitor's chairs, looking up at him expectantly. Like he'd been gone all of five minutes, and not near half a bloody year.
He looked different. A little shaggier, a little more unkempt than when he'd left. He had a touch of that back-to-nature vibe about him now. Killian was sure at least one article of clothing was made from hemp. He still had that same amused half-smile though, visible even under the makings of his new hipster beard. And if he wasn't mistaken, something of a limp, supporting Emma's claims of an ankle injury.
"The prodigal son returns, I see," Killian muttered, glancing down to finish the sentence he'd been writing. If August was expecting a warm reception, he'd come to the wrong place.
"So that's how it is?" August asked, swiveling in his seat to throw his legs over the arm of his chair, making himself more comfortable.
"That's how it is," Killian agreed flatly.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw August dip his head to the side, as if considering that. "I suppose that's fair. Drink?"
Killian wanted to laugh. Surely he didn't think it would be that easy? One drink at The Rabbit Hole and all would be forgiven. "Not with you," he said, not looking up from his notes.
"Oh c'mon! One drink! My shout. Aren't you the least bit curious to know where I've been?"
He was curious. Deadly curious. But it wasn't August's tall tales of far-fetched places that interested him. It was the why of it. Why had it taken him so long to come home? Why hadn't he called? Emailed? Sent word via a bloody carrier pigeon? And, perhaps more importantly, why had he left Emma to fend for herself?
"Alright," he said, putting his pen down with a sigh, and standing up from his chair. "One drink. And you'll tell me where you've bloody well been for the last five months."
August's grin was victorious as he rose from his own chair. "Scout's honor!" he said, curling his right hand into a three-fingered salute, as Killian shifted around the desk to stand beside him.
"One more thing, before we depart," Killian said, waiting for August to lift his head in question. Then, when he knew he had his attention, he pulled his fist back and cracked August in the jaw, hard enough to have him stumbling backwards.
"That was for Emma. Don't you ever fucking do that again."
Then with a new spring in his step, he walked over the coat rack, pulling on his warmest jacket. "You coming?" He asked brightly, turning back to August, who was still rubbing his jaw. Gingerly, the other man gave a solemn nod, before following him out the door.