A/N: Welcome back! Sorry for the delay. Contrary to what it says on my resume, time management has never really been my strong suit. Although, in my defence, this would have happened faster had my wifi not fucked up spectacularly and swallowed half of this chapter. *shakes fist at sky* I really should press save more often. Anywho, enough excuses and pointless banter, jetzt gehts los!
17. The Siren's Call
"How's that intonation coming along, Swan?" Killian asked, as he slid back into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut behind him. Emma just rolled her eyes, returning her focus to the video she was re-watching on his phone from the passenger seat, as out of the corner of her eye he set about rubbing his hands together, leaning down to blow some warmth back into them with his breath. She watched as the woman in the video, Ilonka, yelled at the person holding the camera, furious hand gestures accompanying her creative run of threats until the video suspiciously faded to black.
"She seems like fun," Emma deadpanned, shielding the screen from glare with her hand as she set the video to play again.
"Bit of a spitfire, that one. I thought it might help if you shared some commonalities. To really get into character, like." When she lifted her head to glance in his direction, he gave her a sly wink.
Emma didn't take the bait on that one, just swiped back her thumb to watch the video again, her mouth forming words along with the woman in the video.
"Ready?" Emma watched the video over one last time before she nodded, and went to accept the slip of paper Killian held out for her, with the number written on it. "You remember your lines?" he asked, pulling it away from her grasp at the last moment, an amused smile pulling at his lips.
"Da," she said between gritted teeth, snatching the paper from between his fingers. And taking a deep breath, she dialed.
She felt like an idiot as she recited her lines, the faux Muscovite accent tripping off her tongue thick enough to spread on toast. But if he noticed anything amiss, the guy on the other end of the phone didn't seem to let on. He seemed to accept Ilonka's tirade with something like resignation, like it was all just part of job. Hell, maybe it was. And then he said the magic words. The words they had all been waiting for. "She's here."
She ended the call as soon as she could without drawing too much attention, and then she turned back to Killian, who sat draped over the steering wheel like he was in the middle of a GQ photoshoot, a nevertheless expectant look on his face.
"She's there," Emma said finally, watching as his entire body relaxed beside her.
"Well, that certainly does make things much easier."
"I'm sure that was information you could've gleaned without me having to put on an amateurish Russian accent," Emma pointed out.
"Perhaps," he mused for a moment, "But it was definitely a turn on."
She just gave him and his wicked grin some major side-eye, and tossed his phone back into his lap. Perhaps a little harder than was strictly necessary, if the muttered curse which followed was any clue.
"So remind me. Your plan is seriously to walk right into the lair of one of Boston's most notorious criminals, and what? Bat your eyelashes at her?"
Killian just shrugged, tucking his phone back in his jeans pocket. "Is that worry I detect, Swan?"
"That depends," Emma hedged. "Are you out of your fucking mind?! I worked the crime beat, remember? I know that Nika Orlova is a lot more than the sweet old florist she pretends to be."
"You needn't worry, love. Ms. Orlova and I go way back. I'm in no danger."
Emma snorted. "You go way back? You know you're talking about a woman the Russian community have taken to calling Baba Yaga, don't you? As in, the vicious hag from the fairy tales?"
"Come now, Swan. Fairy tales?" He gave her a chiding look. "I think you put too much stock in gossip. Besides," he said, straightening the cuffs of his jacket. "You're forgetting one very important detail."
"Oh yeah?" Emma asked, humoring him. "What's that?"
He just turned in his seat to grin at her, one hand raking back to ruffle his hair a little. "You said so yourself: I'm catnip for the over 60s."
So that was it. That was Killian's master plan. He was going to walk right into Orlova's Flowers & Gifts and get Baba Yaga herself to grant him a favor. Because he had an "in". And/or sex appeal.
Oh yeah. No problems there.
Emma should have stopped him. She should have refused to impersonate Nika Orlova's niece on the phone. She should have done a lot of things, but chief among them was, she never should have let him crawl out of that pillow fort.
He'd been safe there, Emma waking in the small hours to the steady thrum of his heart beating against her palm, his every exhalation causing a strand of her hair to tickle over her face. That was probably what had woken her to begin with.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep in the fort. It rather defeated the purpose of his even needing to build it in the first place, a perfectly good double bed left wanting. Nor had she meant to wake up to discover that sometime during the night they'd become undeniably entangled, Emma head resting snugly into the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around her, holding her in place. He'd probably have a nice case of dead arm when he woke up. Pins and needles for days.
It wasn't very platonic of her, cuddling up to Killian Jones in a goddamn pillow fort. Hell, it wasn't very Emma-like. She'd never exactly been the cuddling type, too used to her own space, too prone to hogging the covers. She could blame it on the weather, she supposed. Nothing inspired a bit of snuggling like a snowstorm outside. She could make any number of excuses. And if he'd been awake when she'd crawled out of that fort, maybe she would have tried a few on him. But the fact of the matter was, it was comfortable, being with him like that, soft conversation melting into peaceful slumber. Whether she'd meant to end up that way or not.
Sooner or later, Emma would have to stop to examine that realisation. If he didn't get himself killed by an aging Avtoritet of the Russian Mafia first, that is.
And despite his assurances, she couldn't deny that was a pressing concern. Especially as she sat waiting in his car, the engine still running to keep the heat on, the façade of the florist's shop into which he disappeared obscured by the fogged up windows. She'd wanted to go with him. As in, she really didn't want to go with him, because she wasn't a fucking idiot, and knew to stay far, far away from Russian mobsters, but she was also not all that eager to let him go in alone. He'd talked her down. Made some frustratingly good points. But when he handed over the keys to his baby, that's when she knew he was serious.
So she waited. In the car. Like a chump.
If she hadn't been so focused on the blurry outline of the door through which Killian had passed, maybe she would have noticed she wasn't the only interested party staking out Orlova's Flowers & Gifts. And maybe she would have seen the figure approaching before she heard the sharp rap of knuckles against the window right beside her, causing her to jolt in her seat as if she'd just been hooked up to a live car battery, adrenaline coursing through her.
Praying she wasn't asking for a handgun to the face, she slowly rolled down the window, until her eyes came level with a shiny belt buckle, feeling equal parts relief and dread. She recognised the figure, even before she looked into that disgruntled face. She'd bought him that belt buckle, last Christmas. A silver wolf motif, howling at the moon. She wasn't sure how she felt about the fact that he still wore it.
"Detective Humbert," she said, putting on that faux cheery tone that's employed against law enforcement the world over, and fools no one. "What a pleasant surprise."
Fuck. Of all the florists in all of South Boston…
"Emma," he responded, coolly, eyes tracing her face, and Emma had never been so thankful for the thick concealer Mary Margaret had dug out for her that morning, hiding the worst of her bruises. She wasn't in any mood to explain that.
"Can I… help you?" She asked, feigning ignorance.
"Still palling around with Jones, I see," he said, gesturing at the vehicle with visible distaste. Which Emma thought was a little unwarranted, considering what an undeniably sexy automobile it was. A little respect wouldn't go astray.
"Yep," she said, taking a moment to surreptitiously scan the street in her mirror for Graham's partner. Two cars back, she spotted the dark sedan with the curiously conspicuous radio antenna, a figure slumped in the passenger seat. "He's still my boss."
Not that this was, technically speaking, a work assignment, but like hell she was going to tell him that.
"So you're on a case, then? Or is there some other reason you might be staking out Baba Yaga's shop in broad daylight?"
"Baba who?" She figured denial was worth a shot.
"Cut the shit, Emma. Yesterday Killian calls me out of the blue to intimidate some thug for him, and today he's having a sit down with Nika Orlova? Despite whatever the two of you might think, I'm not a fucking moron. So you can either tell me what is going on, or-"
"Or you'll what?" Emma's voice was stronger now, finding herself back on solid ground. "Are you really about to threaten to hold me over some trumped up charge if I don't tell you everything about Killian's flower preferences? Is that seriously where we are right now?" She pulled out her phone, out of habit, if anything, and had her thumb hovering over the button. "Can I get that on tape?"
She was good at this, talking circles around police officers. And by the clench of jaw, he was remembering that fact all too clearly.
"Emma," he tried again, his voice losing some of that earlier antagonism, eyes filling with concern. "I'm not trying to start a fight with you. I'm worried for you. For Killian. Can you honestly tell me I have no reason to be?"
She caught a glimmer of it then, how things had been with them before all the hurt and recriminations. Before Emma had thrown him under the bus. The guy who'd taken her on her first ever camping trip. They guy who'd carried her a two whole miles back to his truck without complaint after she'd rolled her ankle walking across a slippery log, and ruined the whole thing. Emma was good at that, ruining things.
The truth was, underneath that pretty face and excellent profile, there was a wellspring of decency in that man. And that was the problem. He was hands down the nicest guy she'd ever dated. He was hot. He had a good job, a meaningful job. He had a good relationship with his parents, and no obvious chemical dependencies. No matter which way you sliced it, he was a catch.
And yet, Emma had never really gotten comfortable. She'd never really let him in. She'd sabotaged it all, rather than admit the truth, that things had gotten too serious, too fast. That she couldn't ever see herself slipping into the role he'd cast for her in his plans for the future. It wasn't his fault. He'd been great, more than great. It was her. She wasn't enough for him. Couldn't be. So she did what she did best, she ruined things. A clean break, where she emerged the clear villain of the piece. Where he would never have to think that he'd been somehow lacking.
It hurt that even now she couldn't be honest with him, for his own good. She opened her mouth, her next lie on the tip of her tongue when Killian emerged from the florist's main entrance, and Emma sat forward at once, tugging Graham's attention away from her to where her employer stood on the sidewalk pulling his beanie down below his ears, a long, slender box tucked under one elbow. If he seemed surprised to see Graham leaning against his car, he didn't show it, whistling a jaunty tune as he hopped the curb to approach him.
"Didn't expect to see you out and about, Humbert," he said breezily, coming to stand beside him, boots stamping against the concrete to combat the chill.
"Saw your wheels on my way back to the station. Thought I should check in… after yesterday." His tone was pointed, and Emma couldn't help noticing Killian had left a little something out of his recount of yesterday's events.
"Ah," Killian frowned slightly. "That. Sorry to say, one of my clients has been on the receiving end of some rather aggressive offers to sell his home off to a developer, eager to bulldoze his whole block and put up a high rise. Apparently they've taken issue with that, sending a few unsavory types his way to… sway his decision. I'm sorry I put you on the spot like that, but I appreciate you playing along. If it helps, I think it went a long way to getting them to back off."
Emma had to give credit where credit was due. It was a hell of a cover story, delivered with just the right amount of world-weariness and underlying flattery.
"Right," Graham nodded, absorbing Killian's explanation with an unmoved expression. "So, what's in the box?"
"Hmm?" Killian asked absently, as if distracted.
"The box?" Graham repeated, "The one you're holding?"
Emma hoped to God he hadn't been stupid enough to put anything incriminating in there after his audience with Orlova.
"Oh," Killian chuckled, pulling it out from under his arm. "Well..." He gave a somewhat bashful grin. "If you must know, it's a gift for the Lady Swan."
And with that he removed the shiny silver lid and plucked a single long-stemmed red rose from a nest of tissue paper, holding it experimentally towards the open window. "M'lady," he bowed in an overly dramatic fashion, brandishing the flower towards her.
She raised an eyebrow at the theatrics, but with Graham's cool gaze still on her so she took it with only a grateful nod, holding it to her nose to inhale its sweet scent.
"You give all your employees flowers, Jones?" Graham asked, clearly not appreciating their little pantomime.
Killian cocked his head to the side, as if considering the question. "It certainly appears so. But if you were ever to give up your high-flying career in the public service and come and work for me, I'm sure you'd earn a bouquet or two yourself," he winked.
Graham grumbled under his breath then, and turned to look back to the car where his partner was now leaning out of the window, tapping his watch meaningfully.
"Looks like your services are required elsewhere, Detective," Emma said, as she clambered over the gearshift and back into the passenger seat, allowing Killian to open the door and slide right into the driver's seat. "As are ours."
Graham looked back at them then, as they buckled their seat belts with eerie unison, and gave a weary sigh. "Whatever you two are up to, I hope you know what you are doing," he said darkly.
"Always a pleasure, Humbert," Killian nodded, winding up the window, before turning the engine over and peeled out of their parking space and away from Graham's watchful stare.
"He's onto us," Emma pointed out, as they wended their way South on Dorchester Avenue.
"He doesn't have anything," Killian replied. "Just coincidence and a bad feeling in his gut. He's too good of a detective to rely on that alone."
"Okay," she said, deciding to drop it for now. She knew better though, knew that sometimes a gut feeling was enough. "So what do we have?" she asked, rolling the stem of the rose between her fingers. "And how did you know to go to Baba Yaga to get it?"
With little warning, Killian pulled right, into the tiny parking lot of a Vietnamese Grocery Store, killing the engine.
"Sorry," he said, when he saw Emma rub the spot at her collarbone where her seat belt had dug into her skin. "I thought it would be better if we had this conversation while I wasn't driving."
"Alright," she agreed, still rubbing the tender spot. "So start talking."
He leaned forward to pick up the rose from where Emma had dropped it onto the dash, and held it back out to her to take. "When I said Nika Orlova and I go way back, it wasn't an entirely idle claim." Emma took the proffered rose again, and nodded. Her superpower had told her as much. "When I dropped out of law school, I had a couple of odd jobs before I started on the whole private detection thing. One of those jobs was as an apprentice florist..."
"You worked for Baba Yaga?"
"Aye. Only with the legitimate side of the business, I should stress. Don't laugh, but it turns out I had a bit of a knack for the florist trade. Attention to detail. Not entirely devoid of good taste. And the women who came into the shop used to like me."
Emma could quite suppress her snort, though she did try to muffle it with her sleeve. She bet they did.
He gave her a warning glance, but continued anyway. "Needless to say, it never really worked out. There was clearly more to the shop than meets the eye, and I wasn't wholly comfortable with that. Moreover, some of her subordinates seemed to be rather suspicious of me, of my law background. Thought maybe I was an undercover police officer or something. Orlova never believed that, though. She liked me. I could tell. Even when I told her I was quitting. I wasn't entirely sure she would help me, but I thought it was a pretty good bet, if I could get to her without too many of her lackeys around."
A sudden realization struck Emma. "That's why you made me make the call."
"Aye."
"The rose was a nice touch," Emma said, as she twirled it in front of her. "Standard operating procedure?"
"Would have looked a tad suspicious leaving empty-handed. The place is always under some kind of surveillance. Not that I exactly expected your ex to be waiting outside..."
She felt it then, the little prick of her internal lie detector, taking issue with his phrasing.
He'd seen Graham alright, before he'd left the store. He'd been too cool in his approach. Too laid back. And somehow Emma doubted that his choice of flower had been an entirely innocuous choice. A single red rose. A romantic gesture, if there ever was one. No matter his claims of innocence, he'd meant to provoke Graham. Even if only in payback for the awkward hallway incident back at Finnegan's.
She didn't correct his version of events, though she did file it away for later, nodding for him to continue.
"If you'll recall, August mentioned that the guy he originally owed died in a boating accident some weeks back. Turns out that kind of thing doesn't really go unnoticed in certain circles. And word on the street is, his son orchestrated his father's death in order to inherit his criminal enterprise."
Patricide, Emma thought. Classy.
"If you like that, you haven't even heard the kicker. Rumor has it he instigated this little coup at the urging of his new girlfriend. Who you might recognize from some of her earlier work."
He pulled out his phone and held the screen up in front of her face. It was an online news article, she realized, from the Sentinel. Son Cleared of Suspicion in Father's Drowning, the headline screamed. And below that, a picture of a man exiting court, his jacket pulled up to obscure most of his face. And trailing behind him, their hands clasped in a clear sign of unity, was none other than Ariel. Killian's former assistant.
That Ariel.
"You've got to be shitting me."