for moldypoptarts: "noir au where emma is the detective and hook is an ~homme fatale~"

.

—otherwise it's a gamble

.

This one was way too smooth, his whole look meticulously designed to look effortless and alluring, hair "carelessly" messy, stubble just at that 'haven't shaved in two days' length, leather trenchcoat, wicked smile and devilish blue eyes and the proclivity to use both to get whatever he wanted, whenever and wherever he wanted it.

Emma had had her eye on him for a while; as far as she could tell, he was a mercenary of sorts — she'd caught sight of him working with one crime boss, then another, and then back to the other, and then — out of the blue — here he'd come to her with an envelope and a smirk and a taunt about information for information, love, I scratch your back, you scratch mine.

Jones was a wild card, a dangerous character; general consensus was torn between him having some secret personal agenda or just being an amoral son of a bitch who took jobs from the highest bidder, but she'd been trailing him for too long now, figured out his pattern, and, as such, his goals.

He'd work for either side of the Mills' bloody rivalry, and on occasion with Pan, but the only time he was spotted on Gold's side of town, he'd come out of it with a total of seven broken bones, a manic grin, and a massive bounty on his head (something about attacking Gold's mistress) because apparently he had a death wish and a hell of a vendetta with the boss.

It was actually kind of sad.

"What makes you think I'm interested?" she asked, leaning back in her chair and schooling her face into blankness — much as she wanted this man behind bars, the information in that envelope would cripple the legendary Cora Mills.

"Please, darling," he replied quietly, raising an eyebrow and sinking further into the seat opposite her desk; it was one of those slouches that said I hold all the cards here, and he was infuriatingly right. "You've got nothing on Cora, no one has. You don't even know what she looks like, woman's a bloody chameleon, she could be anyone, anywhere, and that puts you in a nasty position, doesn't it?"

"So exactly what is it you supposedly have?"

"Whole file," he said carelessly, shrugging. "All currently-known addresses and places of work, list of contacts and affiliates — although, my apologies, it's somewhat incomplete — " he shrugged with a wry smirk " — she's slippery, even for me. But enough, if you strike quickly. Hell, I even managed to get her birth certificate, although I admit," he added, amused, "I got that one simply to see if I could, I doubt it has any use to you. But, in the interest of full disclosure, and all that."

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying very hard not to respond too eagerly. That was a hell of a file he'd pulled together, one they couldn't afford to pass up… assuming he wasn't lying through his teeth. "And what do you get out of this?" she asked neutrally.

His smirk turned a little more… unhinged, it was the only word for it, the confident facade flickering for a moment, the shift in his eyes reminding her of his medical file when she'd damn near caught him in the hospital after his run-in with Gold — death wish.

"You give me what you have on Gold," he answered, not surprising her in the slightest. "No worries, though, love, I only want copies, you get to keep it all." He leaned forward, and she caught a glimpse down the open buttons of his shirt, dark chest hair and the ghost of muscle underneath — it would have been funny, the man using the woman's technique to distract her, if it didn't work so damn well. "You win in this deal, I assure you."

"Yeah, I do," she said, crossing her arms. "Which makes me suspicious."

He scoffed. "You've been trailing me for months now, darling, don't think I haven't noticed. Nice dress the other night, by the way," he added off-hand, and she clenched her jaw in irritation. It wasn't surprising — if the man didn't frequent such high-end clubs and bars, she would have been able to fit in easier, but the places he hid were the sort for slinky dresses and three-piece suits and exclusive clientele — but it was annoying. "Red suits you."

"Thank you," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "You have a point?"

"Ah, forgive me for the digression," he murmured, a little smile on his face as he glanced over her in a way that made her glad she was sitting. "My point is, you know how I function, I've never pretended to be anything but a mercenary. As it happens," he went on, shrugging, "this time, you have the reward I seek."

"Yeah, and when you turn on me, tell Cora I'm the one threatening her now?"

"You wound me, love," he said, and actually sounded sincere. "What good would that do? If she finds out you have this information, who do you think she'll suspect is the source?"

"What if you're setting me up?"

"Why are you so unwilling to trust me?" he countered, leaning back again and watching her with intense interest. "I'm being honest, it's a simple transaction that benefits both of us. I've nothing to gain from turning on you, and, in fact, quite a bit to lose. And, again, you've seen enough of me to know I don't traffic in lies when the truth will suffice."

Emma still didn't trust him, although she was beginning to wonder how much of that was because of his reputation or because of his (potentially-successful) flirtation. She sighed and stood, rifling through her cabinet until she came up with Gold, Robert, and held it out. "Copier is right there," she said, pointing at it and reaching out with her other hand for his file, which he passed to her with a grin.

"All on the level, my dear," he said in a low voice, taking care to brush against her fingers when he took her file and passed her his. She ignored the electric rush under her skin.

A quick glance through the manila envelope confirmed that he'd been telling the truth, everything he'd said would be in there — birth certificate included — right where he'd said it would be.

All on the level.

Nothing was ever this easy.

She watched him copy all of her papers on Gold and slide them into a new envelope — that she hadn't told him he could take, but whatever — until he finally turned to her with a flourish and an almost-boyish smile, taking her hand like an old-school gentleman. "Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured, kissing the back of her hand and making her breath hitch in her throat. "Hope to see you at the Rabbit Hole tonight," he said louder, winking. "I'd love to see what else you have in red."

She raised an eyebrow and did her damnedest to look unaffected by the warmth of his hand or the ghost of his lips (and, judging by the look on his face, failing). "Just get out of here before I catch hell for this," she snapped, and he bowed, still grinning.

"If the lady insists," he replied, and walked out the door.

The grin on his face was so genuine. Mercenaries like him never looked that happy, and rogues like him were never as sincere as he'd looked when he mentioned the Rabbit Hole. No one with eyes that blue or pants that tight had good intentions.

(It was, even she could admit, a whole lot of weak excuses.)

She pressed the intercom button and leaned into it. "Nolan?"

"Yeah?" came the response from the deputy at the front desk.

"Killian Jones is about to be right in front of you," she said, heart pounding in her chest with a deep feeling of this is wrong. "Take him into custody, would you?"

"Sure thing."

Emma released the button and exhaled, the guilt already setting in.