Five seconds feels like thirty minutes to Emma as Walsh and Killian eye each other, and the room is silent, save for the distant sound of Henry calling out to one of his friends on his way up the block to the bus stop. Walsh clears his throat first, throwing Emma a questioning look before he moves forward with his hand out. "Uh, Killian, is it?" he asks, forehead furrowed in confusion. "Oscar Walsh."
Killian quickly cradles his mug against his side with his left arm in order to free up his hand to shake. "Killian Jones," he responds brusquely, and Emma can see Walsh wince the tiniest bit as Killian's crushing grip belies the polite expression on his face.
Walsh steps back, plastering on the guarded, slightly strained smile Emma knows he reserves for difficult customers, and his eyes flit between her and this strange, handsome new man who appears to have spent the night at her place. "Uh, Emma?"
"It's not what it looks like," she says. She catches Killian's eye, and they share a brief look. He silently acquiesces to let her do the talking, and the whisper of disappointment on his face somehow fills her with guilt as she turns back to her boyfriend. "Killian is… a friend," she explains haltingly, "He's staying in the downstairs apartment for a little while." Walsh's shoulders relax a fraction, and she inhales audibly and turns back to Killian. "Um, could you excuse us a minute?"
His dark eyebrows jump, and he gives them the briefest of perfunctory smiles. "Aye. I suppose I should go dress." He pauses as he ducks away, throwing her a glance over his shoulder, his face now somber. "I'll await you downstairs, Swan." When she gives him a weak smile and nods, his expression softens, and he moves off.
Walsh's eyes are like lasers fixed on his back until Killian vanishes around the corner. Emma sighs inwardly, trying to clear her head while they wait for the basement door to close. Walsh spins to face her and shrugs off his coat, his movements slightly jerky with agitation. "You never mentioned someone was coming to stay."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't really planned," she tells him flatly. She walks back to the kitchen, absently pulling a vase out of a cabinet for the daisies. "Killian's… a new case," she explains, setting the vase in the sink and running the water. "Henry brought him to me yesterday. You remember Alan Tudyk's character in Dodgeball? The one who thinks he's a pirate?"
Walsh settles onto one of the barstools, frowning with interest. "Yeah."
"Yeah. That's Killian." Emma feeds the stems into the vase and turns to set the bouquet on the center island next to the fruit bowl.
Her boyfriend's consternation fades a little, and he snorts with amusement. "Really? He thinks he's a pirate?"
Emma smiles sadly and goes to pour Walsh a cup of coffee. "He says he's Captain Hook. Like, from Peter Pan. He's got this really weird, complicated backstory and a costume and everything."
Walsh cocks his head critically. "Okay…" He sits back, crossing his arms. "So naturally, you decided he should come home with you."
She rolls her eyes and gives him a look. "Henry's convinced he's telling the truth and was basically begging. Plus, Killian got hit by a car last night and was a little banged up," she says, her speech growing more pressured, "And he needed a place to stay, and I thought I might be able to figure out who he is and get him home, you know?" Emma slides the coffee over and slumps into the other seat, fatigued. Her mind goes back to her conversation with Killian the previous evening, and she stares blankly at the corner of the kitchen where they'd stood (a little too close) when she'd changed his bandages. "He lost someone important to him around the same time he lost his hand," she says sadly, thinking out loud. "I don't know. Maybe he had a psychotic break."
Walsh picks up his mug. "Saint Emma Swan," he proclaims, lifting the cup to his lips with a little smirk. "If I'd known all I had to do to get to stay overnight was pretend to be crazy, I'd have done it a long time ago."
She bristles and throws him an exasperated glance out of the corner of her eye. "Walsh…"
He chuckles. "Yeah, yeah. We're keeping boundaries for Henry's sake," he recites, waving her off. "I'm joking." He takes another sip and frowns. "So what if you can't figure out who he is?"
Emma arches an eyebrow. "You know me. I always get my man."
Walsh looks dissatisfied, his eyes still on his coffee. "I guess." He gives her a chiding glance. "But this isn't a matter of finding a missing person, Emma."
A wrinkle appears between her eyes. "No, it's not," she says solemnly, clutching her mug between her hands and raising it to her mouth. "It's a matter of helping a man who's lost and needs to be found." She doesn't look up as Walsh leans over and pops a rough kiss on the top of her head.
"If you say so," he says resignedly. "Are we still on for tomorrow night?"
"Yes…" she sighs in a mock-suffering tone. "I picked up my costume last weekend."
"Oh, come on," he goads, looking more cheerful, "Don't be such a fun-hater. A costume ball on Halloween? It's going to be great. You'll love it."
"Yeah," she chuffs wryly. "If you say so."
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Killian hears the murmur of voices and the occasional creak of the floorboards as Emma and Walsh move about above his head. He sighs as he strips off the pajamas and reaches for his regular clothes almost reluctantly. The time spent last night and this morning with Emma and Henry – quiet hours in domestic peace – was an experience both completely foreign and entirely wonderful, and for a short while it was a taste of… a home. But it may as well have been a fantasy. He clenches his jaw and shakes his head emphatically to no one in particular. This isn't his life. When Milah died, he'd swallowed the bitter truth that anything resembling a happy ending for him was impossible. Now, being here, he feels as though he's been given a glimpse of what impossible might look like, and to be reminded, as he relinquishes the comfort of the pajamas and dons his shirt and pants and strains to hear the indecipherable conversation between Emma and her beau, that none of this is meant for him feels like a punch to the gut.
He pulls the Sea Star out of its purse and weighs it in his hand. At least it's a reminder that he has a mission – he needs to destroy the jewel and find a way to get back to the Enchanted Forest and the Jolly Roger. Everything else – everyone else – is just a distraction.
He's doing up the clasps on his waistcoat when the footsteps move toward the entryway, and after a few moments there's the muffled swish and click of the door. Killian hastens to the front windows to cautiously peek through the curtains just as Walsh's feet land on the sidewalk. The tall man stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and turns his head in Killian's direction, fixing the apartment with an uneasy frown before heading up the block, his brown hair being tossed in the autumn breeze.
Killian swallows. The fellow seemed pleasant enough, but Killian finds a seed of resentment blooming nonetheless based on nothing but the fact that the man appears to have Emma's affections. He huffs, berating himself. He's Captain Hook, one of the most feared (and desired) pirates ever to command a ship; jealousy, especially over a woman, does not become him. Emma is attractive, to be sure, but she is not someone he should be tying himself up in knots over.
The stair door opens, and he's immediately at attention, turning his head like an eager pup.
If only he could convince his emotions of the facts.
"Killian?"
"Here, love." He comes to the foot of the steps, raising his eyes to find her standing in the doorway searching for him. His heart betrays him again, leaping at the small, apologetic smile on her face.
"Sorry about that," she says as he climbs toward her.
Killian forces what he hopes resembles an unconcerned shrug. "Quite alright, Swan." He clears his throat, willing himself to focus. "If you have a moment now, however, there is an issue of some importance I should like to consult you about."
Emma looks at him quizzically as he passes through the door. "You mean beyond the whole 'finding your way home' thing?"
He digs the Sea Star out, holding up to her. "I need to find a way to destroy this."
"What?" she chuckles incredulously. "Why?"
Killian frowns solemnly. "I fear stealing it from the Evil Queen and fleeing here will not be enough," he explains, raising his eyes to meet Emma's. "She has more magic beans. If she figures out where I've gone, it's a simple matter to follow. Destroying the Sea Star is the only way to ensure she'll never be able to cast her curse, and it may deter her from pursuing me." He swallows, his face full of guilt. "Until then, I fear my presence puts you and Henry at risk."
He braces himself for a dramatic reaction. Curiously, none comes. Emma simply considers him for a long minute, her green eyes narrowed in deep thought, and he is unsure whether to interpret her notable lack of alarm as continued disbelief in his story or sheer (perhaps foolish) bravery in the face of a threat like the Queen. Finally, without a word, she goes to the dining table and flips open the hinged device she had been using to play music earlier.
The view he gets when she bends over to look down at it in those skin-tight, dark blue pants of hers is entirely too distracting, and he groans inwardly, both grateful and disappointed when, after a moment, she decides to assume the nearby chair instead. Killian approaches, standing behind her and forcing his attention to her machine, which consists of a glowing glass window on the top half and neat rows of buttons marked with letters and numbers on the bottom. There's a series of clicks as Emma's fingers begin to fly nimbly over the buttons. He squints. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for an expert on gems," she tells him, her eyes fixed on the display. "I don't know anything about opals, do you? Seems like a good place to start if you want to know how to go about destroying one."
He blinks, both at how seriously she suddenly appears to be taking him and at the usefulness of her idea. "Indeed," he replies in awe.
She smirks as a map appears on her device with a place marker labeled "The Gemological Appraisal Laboratory of America." "That'll work." She points to a large swath of green north of the marker. "I need to visit Central Park to check out a lead on that man I told you about last night." She gives him a leery glance out of the corner of her eye. "Are you going to get in my way if I let you come along?"
He affects his most innocent grin. "On my honor, I wouldn't dream of it, Swan."
Emma chuffs, though he catches the dimple that appears in her cheek. "Well, we can visit the gemologist after that. I'll request an appointment for this afternoon," she says.
He watches, uncomprehending, as she alternately presses buttons and glides her finger around a small rectangular field in order to guide a little arrow magically across the window at her whim, the images in the window shifting and changing as she works. "What is this?" he asks.
"Hmm?"
He gestures toward the device.
She registers the suspicion and bewilderment on his face and chuckles. "It's a computer. It lets me access the internet…" She pauses, a cute little wrinkle appearing between her eyes as she searches for a way to elaborate. "It… It lets people all over the world communicate with one another and post information."
Killian's forehead creases. "Post it where?"
"Um…It's…" The pitch of her voice rises and she gestures toward the window before she gives up, a feeble smile gracing her mouth. "It's really complicated."
He smiles reassuringly, completely taken by her helpless expression. "Fair enough, love."
Emma hums and folds the computer closed with a sigh. "Anyway." She gets up and walks to the living room, and Killian watches, intrigued again, when she reaches toward a large picture frame and swings it away from the wall on a concealed set of hinges running along one side. There's a series of tiny chirps as he stands, and when he clears the corner, he sees her tug open the door of a solid-looking safe buried in the wall behind the frame.
Killian grins appreciatively at her hidden cache. "A woman after my own heart," he quips.
Emma rolls her eyes, allowing him an amused glance. She pulls what he recognizes as a compact gun from the safe, checking it over before ramming a short cartridge of bullets into the base. The efficiency with which she handles her weapon is both alarming and captivating.
"Bloody hell, Swan," he breathes. "I thought you said your work wasn't dangerous."
"Yeah, well," she says, tucking the gun into the waistband of her pants at the small of her back, "A girl can't be too careful." She shuts the safe and puts the picture frame back into place. "Like I said, no need to take stupid risks, especially when I'm looking for a guy known for trafficking guns." She takes a deep breath and straightens her jacket. "Ready to go?"
They descend back into the apartment to retrieve his coat and his hook and to argue about whether he should take his sword with them.
"You're going to take your weapon and not allow me mine?" he demands indignantly, clicking his hook into place.
"Mine's legal in this town," she informs him. "Yours isn't. Besides, I'm pretty sure we won't be running into anyone for you to swordfight with."
He glowers at her but sets his scabbard aside, the sting of his displeasure lessened by the self-satisfied grin that hints on her lips when she leads him out the door.
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The Evil Queen's footfalls are silent as she shuttles down the corridor from her bedchamber to her solar, her ornate, high-collared dressing gown swishing heavily around her. Her foul mood is palpable, and the three guards that always accompany her are particularly vigilant about keeping their distance today.
"A bad morning, my Queen?"
She walks directly up to the source of the voice, a large, circular mirror ornamented with an array of silver tentacles that curl out in every direction like a sunburst. The disembodied head of a dour-looking man appears to float inside, his face tinged blue by the shadowy world inside the mirror, and he blinks at her expectantly, his expression placid.
"Save your chit chat for another day," she snaps. "Show him to me."
"The pirate, your Majesty?" he asks serenely.
"Yes, the pirate!" she barks, taking a step toward the mirror menacingly. "Show me Captain Hook!"
The face disappears, and the mirror is suddenly filled with the image of the dark-haired man in question. He's standing in an odd-looking room filled with white cabinets and holding the Sea Star in his hand while speaking with a blonde woman, earnestness painted on his face.
"I fear stealing it from the Evil Queen and fleeing here will not be enough," he tells her. "She has more magic beans. If she figures out where I've gone, it's a simple matter to follow. Destroying the Sea Star is the only way to ensure she'll never be able to cast her curse, and it may deter her from pursuing me."
The Queen's eyes widen, her expression turning venomous at the possibility that he would destroy the stone. She curses. "Where is he?" she demands, squinting at the surroundings in the image. "What land has he gone to?"
"It's the Land Without Magic, your Majesty," the Mirror replies, his face reappearing.
The Queen blinks at him, further displeasure causing her to flush. Hands planted on her hips, she spins around and begins to stalk this way and that in thought.
"You could do as he says and follow," the Mirror points out.
She whirls on him. "It's the Land Without Magic, fool," she spits. "I can't use my powers there. I'd never get past the tip of his sword."
The Mirror hums. "Another plan then, perhaps?"
The Queen huffs and bows her head for a moment. "I need someone he trusts." She turns to the Mirror. "Show me his first mate."
Again, the ghostly face disappears, this time replaced by the visage of a shorter, somewhat portly man with a reddish brown beard and a bright red knit hat. The Evil Queen watches him whop the head of a fellow crew member lying asleep at a tavern table in order to rouse him.
"There," she says with a sneer as the first mate moves on to do the same with a few other pirates. "Where are they?"
"Longbourn, Majesty," the Mirror replies.
Her head whips around to her guards. "Longbourn. Prepare the carriage!" she orders. One of the soldiers promptly bows and scurries away, and she turns back to the Mirror, narrowing her eyes as she studies the man in the red hat once more and formulates her plan, a ruthless little smile forming on her lips.
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The sun shines down upon Killian and Emma as they wander the paths of Central Park that lead toward the chess house. Emma's hands are stuffed in her coat pockets, a light wind tossing her hair over her shoulder. She produces a gray beanie and tugs it on, catching the way Killian eyes it with a quirky grin while she runs a finger under the edge to smooth back a flyaway strand. "What?"
"Nothing, love. You just look rather fetching," he says airily.
She colors a little but doesn't reply, too busy silently scolding herself for feeling a little thrill between her shoulder blades at his smile and for noticing how the medium scruff of his beard appears more ginger than brown in this light.
The squat, hexagonal, brick chess house sits on a pavilion upon a small hill, ringed by stone games tables and benches and graceful pergolas whose vines have gone dormant for the season. The balding, elderly man manning the desk inside greets them pleasantly, his dark brown eyes comically magnified by his thick glasses lenses. His name tag reads "Geri." "Hi, folks. You need some game pieces?"
Emma flashes a warm smile and shakes her head. "No, thanks. My name's Emma Swan. I'm a private investigator who works with the police." She briefly grasps his wrinkled hand. "We're looking for a man named Joe Rathburn who likes to play chess here sometimes and were wondering if you might have seen him." She pulls out a copy of the man's photo and hands it over. "He's about 6'1", 190 lbs, Jersey accent."
Geri peers at the photo and nods, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Sure. I know the fella. He likes to come in the mornings, maybe once or twice a week."
Emma's face lights up. "You've seen him recently?" she asks eagerly.
Geri nods again. "Sure. He was here last weekend. I imagine we'll be seeing him today or tomorrow."
She beams triumphantly at Killian before she realizes what she's doing, and it's only when he returns it with a dazzling grin of his own that she colors and looks away. Emma pulls out a business card and snags a pen out of the cup on the counter. "If you see him, would you mind giving me a call or a text?" she asks. She scribbles her cell phone number on the back. "The Mounted Auxiliary Unit will also be keeping an eye out, but you might see him before they do." She hands the card across the counter. "I'll try to stay nearby for a bit in case he shows up today."
The old man accepts the card and studies it. "Sure." He glances at the photo again warily. "What'd he do?"
"Parole violation," she explains. "He's not the nicest guy, so if you see him, just stay calm and quiet until I can arrive with police back-up, okay?" She raises her eyebrows, her expression encouraging.
Geri takes the photo and her card and slides them below the counter. "I'll do my best, Miss."
Emma offers him her hand again. "Emma," she corrects him, shaking.
"Emma," he repeats with a grandfatherly smile. "Geri."
"Geri, thanks for your help." She gives him a little wave as she turns, and she and Killian head back out into the morning air.
"Excellent," Killian says as they saunter across the pavilion, passing half a dozen ongoing games. "Now what, Swan?"
She hums and looks out over the park. "Now we kill time," she answers.
They return to the foot path and begin to wander south, circumventing the ice skating rink at a leisurely pace without a particular destination in mind.
"So this suitor of yours," Killian says. "He seems pleasant."
Emma shoots him a suspicious side-eye, but when Killian merely awaits her response, looking relatively innocent, she nods slowly. "He is."
Killian glances down at the toes of his boots. "He seems serious about you."
Emma gives a sigh that borders on impatience, not terribly excited or prepared to discuss her relationship with Walsh with anyone, much less with the man next to her. "Yeah," she confirms curtly.
Her tone causes him to turn his head. "The feeling's not mutual?"
"No! I mean, yes. I mean…" She gives an irritated frown. "Yes, of course I care about Walsh," she insists, sounding rankled.
Killian is silent for a beat too long. "I see."
"What?" she demands.
He shakes his head soberly. "It's nothing, Swan. I've probably overstepped as it is."
"Yeah," she says with a dubious chuckle. "Yeah, you have. So you might as well stop being cryptic and say what you want to say."
He meets her eyes questioningly. When she blinks expectantly at him, he shrugs. "You just don't strike me as a woman blissfully in love," he admits.
"Oh, and you would know," she shoots back. Her sarcastic expression drops the moment she sees the shadow that crosses his face and the echoes of that same haunted look she's seen before.
"I would."
Way to go, Emma. Emma opens her mouth to say something but realizes she doesn't know how to respond, and she awkwardly looks away, fixing her gaze on the horizon. At last she sighs. "It's…" She shakes her head. "I don't know what it is. It's complicated."
They walk in companionable silence for a while, the wind roaring in their ears at times as gusts whip across the park.
"Walsh is great," she says at last. "He's sweet and reliable and he forgives a lot…" She shrugs, her eyes falling to the walkway. "He's, you know, he's everything I need."
Killian arches an eyebrow. "Well that's one way to describe true love, I suppose."
Emma chuffs, giving him a skeptical glance. "True love?" She cocks her head. "Pretty sure there's no such thing."
"Are you now?" He stops walking, surveying her with his eyebrows raised and his eyes half-lidded.
"Uh, yeah." Her voice is confident as she turns to face him. "That bliss you're talking about? That's just infatuation, puppy love." Her countenance darkens a little, and regret steals over her features. "And puppy love is for children and… you know," she waves a hand at him, "fairy tales." She resumes their pace.
She can feel him studying her, still with sadness in his eyes, though it's no longer for himself. "On the contrary, Swan," he replies, matching her steps once more, "where I come from, it's widely known that true love is the most powerful magic of all."
She laughs dryly. "Is that so?"
"Aye." Killian appears contemplative. "Are you familiar with the story of Snow White?"
Emma raises an eyebrow. He can't be for real. "Sure. Girly princess who talks to forest creatures and has a weird living arrangement with seven little men."
Killian gives a deep chuckle, the sound sending another transient thrill up her spine. "Yes and no." They arrive at the scenic pond that occupies the southern corner of the park, heading east to the benches that line the water's edge and afford visitors a picturesque view of the pond and the romantic stone bridge that spans it. He gestures toward a bench. "Sit, Swan. It's story time." Taking a seat, he pats the spot next to him and tuts at her look of skepticism. "We've nothing better to do at the moment anyway. Humor me." He smiles when she huffs and complies, settling back on the bench, hands in her pockets and legs crossed. "Good girl."
Ignoring the annoyed look she shoots him, he proceeds to spin a tale for her about the real Snow White and her Prince, about a princess-turned-bandit-and-warrior and the man whose heart she won with a blow to the head and the theft of a ring. Killian tells her about their legendary romance, a true love for the ages, and the numerous times the pair has faced the Evil Queen (the same Evil Queen he himself crossed), consistently thwarting her schemes with the strength and courage and hope and persistence that stem from that love. His voice grows melodious, almost hypnotic as he talks, and he weaves his story so masterfully that there are points when Emma actually finds herself hanging on his words intently. He rewards any interest she shows with a warm smile that causes butterflies to stir in her stomach, and she has to admit that it's a wonderful idea at least, this True Love thing that he's trying to sell her on.
"It's a great story," she agrees when he finally finishes, letting her faraway smile fade. "Really." She clears her throat. "But this is the real world, Killian," she points out gently, her eyes on the fall colors that have set the surrounding trees ablaze, "and we don't have magic here."
He sighs and purses his lips. "Perhaps not obvious magic," he says with a thoughtful nod, "But if living in Neverland taught me anything, love, it's that sometimes all you need to do to find the magic in a place is believe in it."
Emma turns her head to look at him again, hesitantly tracing the lines of his face, taking in his kind expression and those soulful blue eyes, and finds herself wishing that he were right. Maybe, in this World According to Killian Jones, she could actually hope for true love – for a man who inspires her and makes her laugh, a man who believes in her and reminds her every day that he's never going to leave, a man who isn't just enough, but everything. Her breath catches a little, and she blinks back the early sting of tears, forcing her gaze away from Killian's face and redirecting it out over the water. Yeah, she thinks wistfully, taking a deep breath. That would be nice.
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They remain at the pond for a little while longer, sitting quietly side by side on the park bench, each thinking their own thoughts. A young couple with twin toddlers arrives, leading their little girls to the rocky ledge that overhangs the pond and showing them how to throw bits of bread into the water to attract the ducks. The air fills with the high-pitched shrieks and squeals of childish laughter as the girls embrace the activity, their little, round, rosy faces scrunched up with joy as they clumsily toss fat handfuls of crumbs to their new feathered friends and clap delightedly.
It's a sight far different from anything that he's seen in a very, very long time, and Killian finds himself smiling softly. "See, Swan?" he murmurs, leaning a little toward Emma and nodding toward the children. "I think your world does have some magic in it."
Emma raises her eyebrows at his sentiment and gives him a sideways glance, her dimples peeking. "You know, you're kind of a softie for a guy who's supposed to be a hardened pirate," she comments after a moment.
Killian blushes and grins ruefully. "Oh, I can be many things, love," he says teasingly. His eyes swivel to meet hers, and there's something about the approving way she looks at him and the color that blooms in her cheeks that fills his chest with hope. His rakish grin transforms into something quieter, and he drops his gaze to the bench shyly. "It's nice to be reminded of that once in a while," he confesses.
The device she refers to as a phone suddenly chimes, and Emma hastily fishes it out of her pocket. What she sees causes her to promptly sit forward, stuffing the phone back into her jacket. "It's Geri," she reports, sucking in a deep breath before getting to her feet. "Come on. Showtime."
They make their way back toward the chess house while Emma proceeds to call two other people with her phone – a man named Tom, whom Killian gathers helps patrol the park, and the police. She has to identify herself and give a lengthier explanation to the latter, but she ultimately seems satisfied when she ends her call. "That's it," she tells him. "Cavalry's on their way." The corner of her mouth tugs upward in grim determination. "Let's go get our guy."
When they near the long staircase leading up to the chess house from the foot path, Emma hums. "Tom's here," she murmurs to him, tipping her chin toward a sturdy-looking chestnut mare with a white blaze and matching white half-stockings that stands tied to the enormous lamppost at the base of the stairs. The horse bears a saddle atop an green blanket embroidered with the gold shield of the patrol unit, and her dark tail swishes lazily as she waits on her rider.
Emma's quarry is to their right when they set foot back on the pavilion, seated at a table across from a lanky man with a sallow complexion and salt-and-pepper hair. Both men are dressed in short leather jackets and the blue trousers that seem to be ubiquitous in this world, and they're engrossed in the fastest game of chess Killian has ever seen, their hands alternately darting over the board and slapping the buttons atop a funny double-faced clock that sits on one side of the table.
If Emma sees them, she gives no indication, her features neutral as she leads Killian back into the chess house, her only display of emotion an appreciative glance when he pulls the door open for her. Once inside, the door shuts behind them, and she makes straight for a man who stands at the counter speaking with Geri. "Tom."
The middle-aged blonde gentleman with a round, white helm tucked under one arm is dressed in a dark green jacket and matching pants tucked into tall black riding boots, and he turns at the sound of her voice, his crow's feet creasing deeper as he smiles. "Emma Swan," he says, turning and extending his other arm to her. He chuckles as she grabs his hand and pulls her into a quick half-hug. "How you been, darlin'?"
She hums cheerfully. "Busy, same as usual."
"I see that." He nods toward the windows. "You see your man out there?"
She nods, her back still to the door. "Yeah, at my four o'clock. His buddy's a known associate of his."
"You think he'll come quietly?"
She follows his gaze over her shoulder. "I hope so, but better safe than sorry," she replies. "The park police precinct is sending us a couple of officers. I just hope they don't spook him."
Tom hums in agreement before turning his eyes to Killian. "I don't think we've met," he says, reaching forward and studying Killian's clothes with pleasant confusion on his weathered features. "Tom Riley. Parks Enforcement Patrol."
Killian lets go of his belt in order to shake hands. "Killian Jones."
"Killian's a friend," Emma interjects quickly. "He's tagging along. It's kind of a long story."
Tom gives Killian a last curious once-over and shrugs, turning his attention back to her. "So he's not your new partner," he says with a jesting smile.
She snorts. "Please. How long have you known me?" There's movement outside the window, and she cranes her head. "Cops are here. Time to go."
The three of them make for the exit with Tom taking the lead. As soon as Emma's friend presses the door open, Killian can see two uniformed officers in dark blue arriving at the top of the stairs. Tom indicates to them with a pointed look toward Rathburn. One officer nods, and he and his partner move off in that direction as Tom, Emma, and Killian step outside the chess house but hang back at a relative distance to observe. Around them, a few other players take notice of the police presence and pause their games to watch with varying levels of apprehension and interest.
The police approach Rathburn and his companion. "Excuse me," the first officer says in a raised voice.
Rathburn looks up, and the blood drains from his face. He swears loudly and leaps to his feet, his wild eyes searching for an escape as the officers place hands on their holstered weapons. He barks at his companion to run. The other man sweeps his hand across their table, scattering chess pieces everywhere as he ducks off his bench and flees toward the rear of the chess house while Rathburn backs up to the iron railing that encircles the pavilion and swings himself over the side, dropping onto the worn rocky slope below. He scrambles down the hill toward the foot path, angling east.
One officer draws his weapon and rushes to the railing yelling for Rathburn to freeze, but the man is already halfway down the hill and has no intention of heeding him. The other officer turns to head for the stairs and slips on a chess piece, crashing to the ground and striking the back of his head on the paving stones.
Emma hisses as the chaos unfolds. "Son of a bitch." She launches forward, sidestepping the fallen policeman. "Tom! Help him!" she hollers over her shoulder. She runs up to the railing where the first officer stands calling into a little black box on his shoulder for back-up and vaults herself over.
"Emma!" Tom calls in protest, but she's already gone, her blonde hair flashing in the dappled sunlight that filters through the trees as she navigates her way down the stony terrain.
Killian looks around quickly and breaks for the staircase, scurrying down the steps back to the footpath as fast as he can, his heart pumping with increasing fervor in his chest. Emma may be accustomed to chasing on foot, but he sees a better option. He covers the last few steps in one leap and hurries to untie Tom's horse. She gives a surprised whinny and blows at the sight of his unfamiliar face. "Come," he mutters to her, gently tugging at her bridle to turn her head in the direction of the chase. "The lady needs our help."
In a moment he's up in the saddle, and he wastes little time getting his seat and gathering the reins before jerking his heels and asking her to gallop. The mare responds admirably, breaking into a canter and then gaining speed as he guides her after Emma and the man, who have turned at a junction and are now heading north.
"Hyah!" His voice rings out as they fly, urging the mare on and drawing the attention of park-goers on the path ahead of them. Yelps arise and people scatter, and the way clears as they race to catch up with Emma. She's running full-out, arms and legs pumping, hair streaming behind her, but though she's fleet-footed and acquitting herself well, she doesn't have Rathburn's long stride, and the gap between them has grown considerably by the time Killian passes her.
The trees thin out just then, and he can see their man traverse a road just up ahead. Killian shoots a glance up and down the empty street and charges the mare across, and she clears the low fence-post barrier on the far side effortlessly.
They come up on Rathburn as he cuts his way across a grassy area dotted with trees and lampposts that stretches out between a wide avenue lined with statues on the right and an enormous open meadow to their left. The horse closes the remaining distance, her hooves pounding the earth like drums of impending doom, and Rathburn yells unintelligibly when he catches a glimpse of them over his shoulder. Killian sets his jaw and reaches down, launching himself sideways out of the saddle and tackling the man to the ground. They tumble to the grass in a tangle of struggling limbs, rolling and wrestling as they desperately fight for dominance. Killian manages to throw himself over the heavier man's torso and sees Rathburn's right hand come up wielding a gun just in time to pin the man's wrist to the earth with his hook. Rathburn's face is red as he roars and reaches up to wrap his other beefy hand around Killian's throat in an uncoordinated attempt to either strangle him or force him away. Killian grunts at the pressure on his windpipe and lashes out with his right arm, breaking the man's grip on him before throwing his whole shoulder into a cross punch that hits home. Rathburn's eyes roll up into his head, and he falls back.
Killian hovers over the man's body for a moment, chest heaving, before pulling his hook free and sitting up on his haunches. He grimaces and gives his sore hand a shake, splaying his fingers to examine his knuckles for injury before grunting and climbing to his feet. He coughs and absently rubs his throat, throwing a glare at the unconscious man and taking some satisfaction from the imprint of his rings near Rathburn's cheekbone. "Don't feel bad, mate," he mutters gruffly. "More formidable foes than you have tried to choke me and failed."
"Killian!"
Killian turns to see Emma running up to him, her face pink with exertion and shock. Her eyes are huge, and he smiles at her concerned expression, even as he rolls his left shoulder and winces. "Swan."
"Oh my god. You just… How did you…?" She stares at him, then down at Rathburn, then back up at him, stunned.
Killian smiles grimly and nudges the man with the toe of his boot. "I suppose you were right, love," he comments. "I didn't need my sword." She continues to gape as he turns. "Kindly stay with him while I fetch your friend's horse, will you?"
ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ
As shocked as she continues to be at having witnessed Killian run her man down on actual horseback like some Hollywood hero, Emma can't help but laugh at the wonderment on everyone else's face when they arrive to find Joe Rathburn laid out on the ground with Killian hovering nearby, calmly patting Tom's horse on the nose as though he's just been out for a relaxing ride.
The look on Tom's face is particularly priceless when Killian walks the horse over to him and hands her off.
"Apologies for borrowing your mare, mate," he tells him, with a gentlemanly bow of his head. "She's a fine mount."
Tom grasps the horse's bridle dumbly. "Thanks." He swivels toward Emma. "Where did you find this guy again?"
Emma chuckles, arms crossed. "Like I said, long story."
Rathburn starts to come to by the time the paramedics arrive to haul him off to the nearest ER in police custody, and Emma finishes giving her statement before bidding Tom a fond farewell and leading Killian away from the scene. The sun is directly above them now, the sky a lovely shade of blue, and the sounds of law enforcement and EMT activities fade as they walk southwest toward the edge of the park.
"Where did you learn to ride?" she asks him. She folds her lips when he throws her a dry look. "Right. Sorry. Stupid question. No cars in the Enchanted Forest." She clears her throat. "Um, thank you for your help."
Killian's eyes dance. "You're quite welcome, love."
Emma's stomach growls, and she's grateful to be distracted from his modest little smile. "Come on," she says, blushing. "Lunch is on me."
They catch a cab to her favorite Midtown diner, a little corner place trimmed in neon signage and 50s-style finishes – stainless steel and glass blocks and black and white checkerboard. Granny's has been her go-to haunt for years, one of the few places in the city she counts as a refuge, and why she feels like sharing it with Killian is a question she chooses not to answer as she leads him inside.
She slides into her usual seat at the formica counter, and a gray-haired, bespectacled woman bustles up and beams.
"Emma!"
Emma smiles back. "Hey, Granny."
Killian perches on the stool next to Emma's, and Granny eyes him over the tops of her glasses. "Who's the pretty boy?" she demands good-naturedly.
Emma feels her face warm and shoots Killian a reproachful look, but he's too busy turning on the dashing rapscallion routine to pay her much mind.
"Killian Jones," he volunteers, flashing a gorgeous grin and reaching forward to grasp Granny's hand cordially. "Pleasure."
Granny looks back at Emma wryly. "Does Walsh know you're replacing him?"
Emma's eyebrows pinch upward. "I'm not replacing him!" she says, her tone close to a whine. "Killian is just a friend."
Granny tsks and shrugs. "Whatever, Emma. It's your business," she answers dismissively. "What'll it be?"
Emma glances at Killian. "Do you want to see a menu?"
He leans his right elbow on the counter in order to angle a bit toward her, brushing his fingertips with his thumb absently, the red stones on his heavy rings catching the light. "I trust your judgment, love," he says with a grin.
Emma chuffs and gives Granny a look, and the woman heads off to the kitchen window. "Grilled cheese with onion rings, coming up!"
"Hope you're hungry," Emma says to him. "Granny's food'll stick to your ribs."
He smiles boyishly. "Famished."
Granny returns to them with a coffee pot in hand. "No offense, but you look like you could use some caffeine," she tells Emma, pulling a clean mug out from under the counter and filling it up, one eye narrowed at the faint dark circles under Emma's eyes. "You sleeping?"
Emma is only half-surprised by Granny's insight. She gives a weak smile and accepts the cup gratefully. "Just up late last night is all. I'm okay."
Granny hums skeptically and plops a little caddy of sugar packets and creamers and plastic stirrers next to Emma's hand. She turns to Killian. "Coffee?"
"Please."
There's the dull clink of ceramic as Granny sets a second mug on the counter and pours before breaking away to go ring out another customer. Emma empties a couple of packets into her mug and grabs a stirrer before sliding the caddy over to Killian.
"So, Swan," he says thoughtfully, studying a little pink sugar packet with interest before tearing it open. "It's 'another day.' Care to talk about your sleepless night?"
Emma raises an eyebrow and keeps her eyes on her coffee. "Care to tell me more about what happened with Milah?" she asks back, lifting the mug to her lips. She can see his forehead crease predictably at the name out of the corner of her eye, and Emma expects him to drop the subject, though in truth, she's quite eager to know more about this mysterious woman, if for no other reason than it might give her a lead in her quest to figure out Killian's true origins.
It's to her surprise, then, that he hesitates, as though weighing his options. "You tell me why you couldn't sleep," he drawls at last, glancing down at the counter with a small, slightly sad smile curling at his mouth, "and I shall tell you about Milah." He looks up and meets her eye soberly. "Deal?"
Emma lifts her head and blinks at him for a long moment, contemplating the honesty in his expression. She sets her mug down and takes a deep breath. "Deal."
