15. The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up
Killian
The Rabbit Hole wasn't far, situated as it was half way between Killian's work and his apartment, convenient stumbling distance from both. It was just your everyday dingy-looking neighborhood dive really, wherein lay the appeal. He and August had discovered it about a month after they'd first moved in together, two very different men with vastly different ideas as to what exactly constituted good housekeeping. Had it not been for his ability to nip down to the pub for a quick pint on the regular, Killian doubted very much the arrangement would have lasted another month. As it was, The Rabbit Hole was an undiscovered gem, set in a gentrified wasteland of trendy cocktail bars and gin places. The Rabbit Hole didn't really do trendy. It wouldn't have known trendy had it rode in out of the cold on vintage roller-skates with a flashmob song-and-dance number.
It wasn't much to look at. The brickwork outside was slowly but surely losing the war against the graffiti insurgency, the windows long ago boarded up and newspapered over, a yellowing account of the later Reagan years. Inside, things weren't much better. There was the usual meager selection of generic beer on tap, the dusty jukebox in the corner which only played hits from The Best of Queen, no matter which selection you made. And then there was Will, the perpetually downcast barman, a fellow Brit with a penchant for bitching out his ex-wife, or whoever dared approach him when his team was playing. For a fellow expat who'd grown weary of fake-smiling Americans with their dentist-white smiles, Will's scowl had felt like a little bit of home. He'd never quite forgiven Killian for being a Spurs man, but the two had fashioned a friendship of sorts, based on lighthearted insults and a shared aversion to all things gridiron.
There wasn't much of a lunchtime crowd when Killian steered August inside, just the usual lot of daytime drunks holding court, most too busy staring into the bottom of their glasses to notice them as they came in, stamping their feet on the mat and brushing the snow from their hair. Will stood leaning against the bar, his attention fixed on the muted television in the corner, on which some quiz show was playing. It wasn't until the door slammed shut behind them that he registered their presence, straightening where he stood, some life returning to his eyes.
"Oi, look what the blizzard brought in!" He called, giving August a cheerful wave. But Killian just shoved August into the nearest booth before the two could get caught reminiscing, approaching the bar himself.
"Bit early for the usual, innit?" Will asked, eyes glancing across to the bottle of Captain Morgan sat on the shelf behind him. "And why didn't you bring Emma with you? She's a damn sight better for sore eyes than you two tossers."
You couldn't get that kind of customer service on Newbury Street.
"I wouldn't say no to some ice. Got a few empty peanut bowls laying about?" Killian ask casually, holding up his bruised knuckles for Will's inspection. He saw the young man's eyes travel from the hand, back to where August sat slumped in the booth, an angry red bruise blooming on his jaw, back to Killian, nodding slowly as it all fell into place.
"Trouble in paradise?" he asked, tutting, placing two wooden bowls on the bar in front of them, and scooping a generous amount of ice into each. "You know, I half expected you to be the one with the busted up jaw, what with you shacking up with his sister behind his back and everything..."
"Oh, piss off! We didn't-" He saw Will's grin widen as he took the bait, and he broke off with a frustrated groan. "Never mind. Two of the usual. And don't lecture me on how early it is. It's not been the best day."
"I think it's going to get a hell of a lot worse," Will murmured, chin lifting slightly to indicate back towards August's booth, Killian turning to follow his gaze. A man had approached the booth, and he wasn't one of The Rabbit Hole's resident alcoholics. Killian had never seen this one before, a hulking mass of a man in a dark jacket tailored to accentuate his rather impressive arms. But he seemed to know August, alright. And by the set of his jaw, he wasn't happy. When he moved to take the seat opposite August, Killian caught the flash of metal which gave away the piece tucked into his waistband.
So he was a heavy. And he was armed. Perfect.
"Bloody hell," Killian sighed, slapping a twenty down on the bar. Will didn't move, didn't even pretend he was going to make change with it.
"It'll be double if there's blood," he warned in a low voice, placing two glasses of rum on the bar, and stuffing the note into his pocket. Killian merely grumbled his acknowledgement, picking up one of the glasses and knocking it back, until the contents burned a delicious path down his throat. He pulled out his phone a moment, tapped a few times, then replaced it in his pocket. Then taking one last deep breath, he grabbed his second glass and pushed himself away from the bar, sauntering over to where the two men were locked in quiet, tense discussion.
"Can I help you, mate?" Killian asked, swinging in to the booth to sit beside August, squarely meeting the eyes of the man opposite. As expected, the conversation dried up rather quickly, as the man took in this newcomer with the same kind of expression most reserve for when they've stepped in something nasty.
"Kill-" August began in warning, but the other man cut him off.
"This is a private conversation," the man said carefully, in a way that didn't allow room for interpretation. "And it doesn't concern you, mate."
"Sounds ominous," Killian shrugged nonchalantly, taking a sip of his rum. "I'd love to hear more. And so would my friend, Detective Humbert from Major Crimes. I have him on speaker."
"And I'm all ears," came the voice, tinny but clear enough from Killian's pocket. He resisted the urge to sigh with relief, glad the bastard had actually picked up the phone. Instead he offered the muscle-bound goon a toothy grin.
"So, what do you say? Everybody up for a friendly chat?" he asked brightly, clasping his hands together in anticipation.
Knowing he was out-maneuvered, the stranger's face darkened, a purple vein on his forehead getting more prominent by the second. He turned to August, his voice cool. "Remember what I said." And then with that, he stood up from the booth and made his way out of the bar, the door slamming shut behind him.
As soon as the stranger was out of view, August seemed to visibly crumble, his rigid posture giving way to something altogether more fragile, his hands shaking as they snaked across the table to claim the rest of Killian's drink.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said, between gulps. "You shouldn't have mentioned the cops. It's not your-"
Killian quietened him with a look, and pulled out his phone, placing it on the table in front of them. "Thanks for that, mate. I owe you one."
"More than one," came Graham's unamused reply. "Are you going to tell me what that was about?"
"Just a small misunderstanding between friends. Nothing to concern yourself with. I'll see you in the New Year, yeah?" And then he terminated the call with a tap of his finger before the detective could get another word in, his eyes returning to August.
"You didn't need to-" he began, but Killian didn't let him finish, grabbing him by the scruff of the collar and dragging him close.
"Look," he said gravely, fingers tightening their hold on August's shirt. "We're getting out of here. Someone has clearly been watching the place, and they could come back. We're going to find you a nice place to hole up, and keep your nose clean. And then you are going to tell me exactly what the bloody hell you've found yourself caught up in. Otherwise I'm going to march Emma down here to pull it out of you. And I'm guessing there is a good reason you've kept her at arm's length for all these months." He loosened his grip on the shirt a little. "So, what do you say? Want to take a little drive?"
Killian made a few calls from the apartment in Mission Hill, as August got some clothes together. Emma didn't pick up when he tried her, but that wasn't unusual, so he left a short message, telling her to more or less keep her head down. He had more luck with his other calls. Killian wasn't going to say he was being paranoid, but he may have taken a rather serpentine route to their final destination, a few unnecessary detours, checking his rear-view mirror all the while to ensure they weren't followed as they made their way down recently cleared suburban streets.
"Where on God's Green Earth are you taking me?" August asked from the passenger seat, watching out the window as the city fell away, replaced by snow-covered lawns with swing-sets and trampolines. "Stepford?"
"Close," Killian admitted, pulling into the freshly shoveled driveway of a two storey Victorian. "You remember my mate Dave, right?"
"The firefighter?" August asked, glancing suspiciously up at the house.
"Arson Squad Investigator," Killian corrected, unbuckling his seat belt.
The change in August was almost immediate. "No way!" he said, clicking his own seat belt back in. "I am not staying with cops. That little stunt of yours back in the bar was bad enough. But this?" He motioned to the offending house, lit up like a wedding cake in a Winter Wonderland. "No fucking way."
Killian just shrugged. "Safest place I know, short of bundling you off to London to stay with my brother. And if I thought running away was the answer, I'd already have you on the plane. But I'm guessing that it'll just delay the inevitable. Like your little sojourn to South-East Asia? I'm assuming you were running from something?"
August didn't deny this theory, just fixed him with an unforgiving look.
"Look, mate. Dave is a good man. Trustworthy. And after his rather unspectacular showing at the last Poker Night, he owes me one. They've agreed to put you up for a couple of days, no questions asked."
August still looked uncertain, so he added the requisite guilt trip, just to nudge him in the right direction. "And his wife is lovely. She's already got the spare bedroom made up, and a pot roast waiting." He cracked his door open, pushing it wide. "You wouldn't want her going to all that trouble for nothing, would you?" he said with a wink, stepping from the car.
With an exaggerated groan, August followed him up the path to the house, his backpack slung over one shoulder.
When the door opened it was David himself who was the one to greet them, his smile jovial, but a hint of suspicion in his eyes cooling their usual warmth. "Appreciate it, mate," Killian murmured low, as he pulled him into a black-slapping hug. Dave just rose a single eyebrow, which seemed to convey all he needed to say. I'd better not regret this, said the look. Then he turned to August, taking the backpack from him, and ushering them into the kitchen, where an early dinner awaited.
Mary Margaret Nolan was playing the consummate hostess, pressing multiple helpings on everyone, and keeping up a constant stream of friendly chatter, nothing too serious. It went a long way towards removing that look in August's eye that said he was going to make a break for it as soon as he could excuse himself for a bathroom break. Killian knew the look well enough. Emma had it too, after all. They might not have been actual blood relations, but they still shared some innate qualities. A childhood like theirs would do that to a person. Too many years spent always on the defensive, always waiting for the next shoe to drop. They both never talked about it, what it had been like for them growing up. But an orphan's an orphan. Killian had some experience in that arena. And fleeing down fire escapes or jetting off to hide away in remote jungles? Maybe not so unexpected, considering. In any case, he was glad to see that look go, as August shoveled down a second helping of blueberry pie, lost in regaling them all with tales from his travels between bites.
"So," said David at last, pushing his chair out from the table. "Mary Margaret and I thought we might head to the megaplex. Catch the new Nicholas Sparks." No one missed the pained look in his eyes as he said it, least of all his wife, who'd, judging by his wince, kicked him under the table. "Anyway," he said again, voice a little more strangled, "We thought we might give you some time to... get settled. Leave the dishes. We'll take care of them." And then he rose from the table, giving Killian a small nod as he left.
"And you're welcome to stay too, Killian," his wife piped up, just before she left the room. "There's only the couch free, but it's not that bad, and we have plenty of spare blankets. They say there's going to be another foot of snow tonight. I don't like the idea of you driving back to the city in that." He nodded, to show that he would consider it, and then they were alone, at last.
"Well, that was subtle," August said, leaning back in his chair, a small grin playing on his lips.
"Not their strong suit," Killian agreed, reaching over to take August's plate and stack it on top of his own. "But as I said, they're decent people."
"Yeah, I think I'm beginning to pick up on that," August admitted, passing over the other empty dishes. He let an awkward silence fall between the two, and eventually it grew to be too much.
"So, are you going to tell me why you have armed men with steroid problems hassling you? Or am I going to have to keep assuming the worst?" Killian asked at last, getting up to place the stack of dishes in the sink.
"It's not-" August faltered, tried again. "This isn't your problem, Kill."
"Like fuck it's not my problem! Despite all evidence to the contrary, you're still my best mate. I sure didn't spend all those years living with you because you were so bloody dependable with the rent!" He felt the warm anger travel down his arms, radiating in his clenched fists, and he took a moment to compose himself, taking his seat again at the table.
"And you and I both know that it isn't just you," he said, his voice more controlled. "Anything that affects you, also affects Emma. And I've made that my concern. So don't pretend this is just your problem. She was five seconds away from the bloody bread line when she showed up at my door. All because you ran out on her when she needed you. I need you to tell me why."
August's head was in his hands now, obscuring most of his face from Killian's view. "I really fucked up, Kill."
"Tell me," he prompted.
"You have to know I wouldn't leave her if I didn't have a choice," he said, hands falling back down to the table, his look beseeching. "I really thought I was doing the best thing for everyone." He was still stalling, and Killian wasn't going to be in a forgiving mood for a while, so he made a go on gesture with his hands.
"I started working for this guy. Just here and there, to help cover the rent. You know the whole writing thing doesn't really pay all that great." Killian had assumed as much, but he just nodded for him to continue. "Well, about a year ago, I found myself getting in a little deeper. Purely small-time. But I'd get a package, and I had a few dealers under me. About six months ago, one of them skimmed off the top and gave himself a fucking overdose. I came up short, and they weren't happy. I was down a dealer, and a few grand. But with the interest, it wasn't just going away. I couldn't ask Emma to help. Her job didn't pay that well, and it would kill her career if anyone found out. And you and Milah were in the middle of... all that shit. I just figured the best thing would be to leave town, wait for everything to die down. Wait until I had a plan to get the money back."
My best friend, the drug dealer, Killian thought grimly. Emma would have a cow if she found out. When she found out.
"And do you? Have a plan?"
"No. But the guy I owed the cash to? I found out he died. Some boating accident, a few weeks ago. I thought I'd come back free and clear. Turns out his son inherited all his debts, and he's got a better memory than I would have given him credit for."
"Someone at the bar probably called it in when they saw you," Killian said, considering the angles. "So this guy has clearly gone to some pains to find you. How much do you owe him?"
"You won't like it," August warned him.
"Fucking spit it out."
"Twenty grand."
"Twenty?!" Killian winced at how sharp his voice sounded, and tried to swallow it down. A few thousand, he could cover. He'd pawn a few things, max out his credit cards. But twenty thousand dollars? He didn't have that kind of money just lying around. He didn't know anyone that did. Except... and he sure as hell wasn't going hat in hand to them. "Fuck."
"You see how living in a tree house in Laos was the more attractive option, right?" August said, with just a trace of humor.
"And that's the reason for your radio silence? You were up a bloody tree!?"
August shrugged. "For a month or two. I got a lot of writing done. Not much else to do, really. But I thought it would be best. Emma and I don't have the same last name. I thought that if she seemed like just a girl I used to live with, no one would go after her when I disappeared. And if anyone was watching her, they'd know I hadn't been in contact."
"You should have come to me before," Killian said, holding up a hand when August went to open his mouth. "Milah shit or no Milah shit."
"Yeah," August breathed, letting his forehead fall onto the table, the rest of his words muffled. "I know."
"And you left Emma completely out to dry. If you'd just said you couldn't pay your half of the rent she could have moved, instead of blindly hanging onto that apartment, hoping you'd come back soon."
"Hindsight, and all that," came the answering mutter.
"And digging you out of this hole is going to be a huge pain in the arse," Killian pointed out.
"Yep."
Killian groaned and leaned back in his chair. "I think it's time to raid Dave's liquor cabinet. How do you feel about American Honey?"
The alcohol wasn't a brilliant idea. He still had to drive back to the city. There was no way he was going to leave Emma alone in the apartment overnight when there were still a whole bunch of scary people out there looking for August. Especially since they knew he was back. Smee was many things, but a good guard dog he was not. An unfortunate side-effect of being all of ten pounds and cute. His tiny red sweaters hardly inspired fear in the hearts of men, and he was at a convenient kicking height. And then there was the whole exploiting his friends' hospitality angle.
But he let himself enjoy that first glass anyway, the warmth of it spreading through his chest, filling in the chasm inside him that had opened up when he'd first glimpsed August's little friend back in the bar, and had only grown wider and deeper, the more truth came to light. He wasn't one to show it, and he certainly wasn't one to speak of it, but Killian was afraid.
This wasn't a small debt between friends. This was serious cash, owed to seriously not-nice people. And August, his friend, his stupid bloody friend, had found himself caught right between a rock and a hard place.
When the Nolans returned from their cinema outing, both of their eyes a little red-rimmed, however much David tried to hide it, they didn't say anything about the half empty bottle on their coffee table. Rather charitable of them, Killian thought, until they sat down beside them, and joined in. However much they were ignorant of the specifics, the Nolans weren't daft. They knew they'd been dragged into something. Something dangerous. And this knowledge sat uncomfortably on their shoulders, even as they pretended all was well. But the way Mary Margaret gripped her whiskey glass with white knuckles, considering August from the corner of her eye, didn't lie. If Killian was a better friend, maybe he wouldn't have involved them. Maybe if he'd been a better friend to begin with, it all never would have happened.
The rest switched to gin, Killian to water. August conked out early, not even making it upstairs before he passed out on the couch, mouth hanging open unattractively. "Jet lag", Killian had murmured, at David's pointed look. It could have been at least partly true. But when the doorbell sounded, while they were still cleaning, he knew he wasn't fooling anyone.
"I'll get it," Mary Margaret had said, making to head to the door. But her husband had grabbed her hand, his fingers still covered in soap suds, stilling her movements.
"I'll get it," he amended, standing in front of her, sharing a look with Killian. No one missed the sound of him fumbling for the baseball bat in the hall closet on his way to the door.
Both he and Mary Margaret tensed as they heard him open the front door, waiting for whatever came next. So when David returned a few moments later with a smile, they looked at each other, confused. "Well?" Killian asked.
"It's for you," David shrugged, going back to the sink. It was a statement that ordinarily would have given him pause, if it wasn't for the non-nonchalant delivery. Nobody knew Killian was there. That was the point. He waited for his friend to elaborate, but he didn't, simply returning to his chore, ignoring Killian's incredulous look.
Rolling his eyes, Killian chucked his dish towel at his friend's head, and headed out into the hallway, where David had apparently been content to abandon their guest. Liam would have flayed him alive if he'd done that. But all thoughts of proper manners were abandoned, when he looked up and saw Emma Swan standing awkwardly by the Nolan's coat rack, wringing her gloved hands in front of her, snowflakes still melting into her hair.
"Hi," she said at last, shrinking under his stare.
"How did you-" he began, but he was silenced by Emma pulling out her phone and waving it in front of her.
She looked pensive, biting at her bottom lip. "What would you say if I told you I hacked the GPS on your phone?"
Well, that certainly explained that.
"I'd ask you to teach me how to do that," Killian replied truthfully, earning a small smile from her.
"I know it's weird of me to just show up like this," she said, holding her hands up to indicate the unfamiliar hallway. "But after that message you left me, I guess I just wanted to..." She trailed off, as if she was uncertain she should continue.
"Have I deprived you of a dashing rescue, Swan?" Killian smiled at the thought.
She pointedly ignored his question, continuing with her prepared speech. "I looked up the address. I know David's a friend of yours. I guess I just wanted to be sure. That you were alright."
He'd thought his message to her had been rather calm, if a bit vague. But if it had dragged Emma all the way out to the suburbs at night, in the middle of a blizzard, maybe he hadn't been quite as cool about it as he'd thought.
"Aye, I'll admit it hasn't been the best of days. But I assure you, I'm fine. I was just about to head back, actually. I didn't mean to worry you, lass." Emma scoffed, as if the thought hadn't even occurred to her. As if it hadn't brought her out there.
"Smee was starting to worry," she said, lip twitching with the effort of keeping her smile in check.
"Oh, I see," Killian stepped forward, until he was right in front of her. "It was Smee that was worried. Of course."
He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to bury his nose in her hair and inhale the scent of her shampoo. Nay, he wanted to bathe in it. He wanted to lose himself in the feel of her again, and never come up for air. He wanted to forget all of the shit that was raining down on them, take her home, and take her to bed. He wanted that. And with Emma looking at him like that, smiling despite herself, eyes darting down to his lips, it was hard to remind himself of all the reasons he'd decided it wasn't the right time. His promise to himself that he'd give her space. Her abrupt flight from the apartment that morning. The look on her face when she'd returned. The situation with August, hanging over everything like a dark cloud.
Fortunately, that one re-emerged to remind him just as he felt himself leaning in, in the form of a sudden snore. The smile on Emma's face faded, as she stepped around Killian, to peer into the living room behind him.
"Do I want to know why he's here?" she asked, taking in her brother's prone position on the couch, tucked underneath one of Mary Margaret's crochet blankets, looking like far less of a fuck-up than he really was.
"If you do, I won't lie. But it's probably not my place to tell you." She nodded, absorbing that.
"But it's bad?" She asked, as if half-hoping he would correct her.
"It's bad," Killian admitted, knowing her superpower would go off if he tried to sugar coat it.
"Fuck."
"My sentiments precisely."
She sighed, looking back over at her sleeping brother. "I think you should probably just tell me anyway. I'm less likely to want to kill someone after if it comes from you."
"Is that fondness I detect in your tone, love?" he joked, wanting to preserve the easiness between them for just a moment longer.
A small smile from her was his answer. "I'll never tell."
"Then I suppose you should lose that coat, and follow me into the kitchen, Swan," he said, taking a small step away. "Because this is going to take some whiskey in the telling. And if you're good, I'll share."