Chapter 3

Of three things Killian Jones was very sure.

One, he had a headache the likes of which were unparalleled since he put his reckless early years before the Navy behind him in favor of responsibility and adulthood.

Two, he was lying on the most uncomfortable bed his back had the misfortune of meeting in a long while.

Three, he was in jail.

Oh, fuck he was in jail.

Sitting up faster than his screaming head would like, he winced as his feet hit the floor and a voice broke through his inner monologue. HER voice.

"Here I've been this whole time putting verbal quotation marks around your title, thinking it was a self-proclamation of grandeur by some pretty boy accountant who rides with his gang of white collar buddies on the weekends. But you've earned that rank, haven't you?" Emma paused for effect.

"Captain Killian Jones, Bangor Police Department," she read off of the business card found tucked behind his badge, extra emphasis on the "Captain."

Holy fuck. He was fucked. His career was fucked. His life was fucked. Even more than usual. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Putting his head in his hands, Killian did something a man with his personal history of sin and debauchery rarely bothered with—he prayed. Prayed he was dreaming—hell, prayed he was having a nightmare, because waking up in a cold sweat in his own bed would be better than waking up in Emma Swan's jail.

"How bad was it?" His hands muffled the question.

"What? I'm afraid I can't hear you, Captain. You'll have to sit up straight."

Throat dry and secondhand embarrassment off the charts, he did. Bloodshot blue met cool, indifferent green, and Killian decided in that moment that her indifference was a thousand times worse than any rage. But he was nothing if not a seasoned professional, trained to take command himself and others in such surroundings. Rolling his shoulders back, he asked again.

"How bad was it? The DUI? I assume you've done the usual—standard Breathalyzer with subsequent booking and filing of the charges, impounded my vehicle…" His lower teeth came up over his upper lip. "Notified my commanding officer of my indiscretions."

Emma walked around her desk, coming to a stop in front of the bars of the cell. If he wasn't in such an asshole-clenching predicament, he'd have a comment or two about her tight jeans, fitted sweater and hair that he wouldn't say no to wrapping around his fist twice as he took her from behind. The momentary fantasy jogged Killian's memory, and his face went back in his hands as he faintly recalled all but molesting himself on the side of the road, attempting to goad her into snapping. Fight or fuck, it didn't matter—as long as it stopped the ache in his heart and the emptiness of his pathetic life for a night.

Lost in thought, he looked up again when she cleared her throat.

"Bad. There wasn't one. No. No. No. No. Aaaaaaaaaand no." Emma ticked each point off on her fingers. "Oh, and this." She flipped him the bird and he couldn't help but grin. If he was going to have someone lined up to read him for filth, Sheriff Swan was a solid choice.

"There was no DUI?"

"No."

"No booking or charges filed."

"Nope."

"No call to my superior."

"Drop-kicking a fellow officer's career in the balls without more information isn't my style. Plus, I don't enjoy confrontation."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"Somehow I doubt that."

Emma's eyebrows rose.

"You think I'm lying?"

"No, darling. I am convinced you are unequivocally telling the truth, but cannot figure out why. Failing to arrest a drunken driver in your town is some downright shoddy police work." He couldn't keep himself from bantering with her.

"Not just a drunken driver. One that drove impaired into my town. Made me give chase."

His eyes closed.

"Lights AND the siren."

He winced.

"Then you behaved like a crude frat boy who just saw a pair of tits for the first time. One whose only exposures to sex are the wholly unbelievable police officer role play anecdotes in Penthouse Forum. Just when you were this close to whipping it out…"

With the little he knew of Emma Swan, she had to be enjoying how scrunched his face was getting.

"I decided to take you here to dry you out."

"I don't deserve your consideration."

She peered at him through steel. Studied him really, and it made him want to apologize for last month, last night, today and probably some shit he hadn't even done yet just to cover his bases.

"Maybe not, but I'll be the judge of that. I've come across many stupid, reckless people, Jones. At first glance, you fit the bill. At second glance, you still fit the bill but have a lot more to lose than most of the assholes I lock up. But I have a feeling there's more to your story and you're going to tell it over pancakes." She swung the door open and gestured for him to come out. As Killian brushed past her, Emma caught his arm. "And don't bullshit me, Captain. I can tell when someone is lying. And you're buying."

When she told him he was buying her breakfast, Killian assumed Emma would be like many of the women he'd dated. A bagel or muffin with a side of fresh fruit, but his assessment was based off the mid-to-late day "I'll just have a salad" dining habits he'd witnessed over the years. A woman hadn't graced his bed past dawn in a long time, much less been invited to stay for breakfast. But as he sipped on black coffee strong enough to convince him it shared the same chemical composition as jet fuel and petulantly ate the two greasy sausage links she'd forked across the table with a mumbled "eat something" he decided to put another tick mark in the Emma Swan Is Not Like Other Women column.

She switched out the empty plate that once held a ham and cheese omelet, hash browns and four strips of bacon for one with a double stack of pancakes. Cutting a wedge that was as wide as it was tall, Emma shoved it in her mouth and looked up, her dining companion regarding her with a hint of amusement in his now-clear eyes. (Granny's coffee tasted like concentrated swamp water, but it cured a hangover like no other.)

"What?" She said it with her mouth full and glared at him as she swallowed. "Got a problem?"

It was juvenile and he chortled.

"I've many a problem, darling. Watching you systematically pack away a full breakfast and practically tongue the plate clean is not one of them."

"I didn't tongue the plate."

"Perhaps not, but I have a feeling you might have had there been no one to impress."

"It's cute you think I'm trying to impress you, Jones." She made a show of licking the syrup off her fork and gave him a wildly insincere smile.

"It's cute you think I don't know you're trying to put me off by displaying table manners not unlike a street urchin who doesn't know when they'll have another meal."

The utensil clattered to the table, distracting him from the unexpected hurt he saw in her eyes and the immediate chant of "you dumbass" running through his own head.

"Start talking, Jones. I didn't spend half my night listening to you saw logs and watching you drip drool onto the cot in one of my cells for fun."

"This is where the fun begins then, love?" Killian grinned as Emma's mouth soundlessly formed the words not your love as she circled her hand in the universal motion for him to continue. He steepled a finger near his ear and leaned an elbow on the table. "Killian Jones. 35. I hold the rank of Captain within the Bangor Police Department. Former Naval officer. Unmarried. No kids."

Looking directly into her eyes, he half-shrugged a shoulder.

"So that's it?"

"Mmhmm."

"Nothing more to tell? No sordid past, no tragic backstory? Just a reciting of your abandoned account's bio?" Emma leaned into the table.

Uncomfortable with her gaze, Killian slid down in his seat, steadfastly ignoring the slide of his knee against hers in the narrow space under the booth.

"Do you remember when I told you I can tell when someone is lying to me?"

"As I said, I recall and cherish every word and moment we've shared, Swan."

"Interesting." Emma signaled the waitress to bring her a refill on her hot chocolate, motioning for her to include another cinnamon sprinkle. He raised an eyebrow at her innocently salacious gesture and hoped her lie detecting abilities caused a deficiency in another area (such as memory) so the good sheriff would forget his self-abuse and lewdness by the side of the road just a few hours before.

Weighted silence fell as she waited for a mug piled high with whipped cream and their bill to be plunked down on the chipped Formica table. The genuine smile Emma flashed at the waitress didn't escape him, and he desperately wished he were spending time with her under difference circumstances to be on the receiving end of one.

"Do you know what else I can do?" Killian swallowed hard as she swiped a finger through the cream in her mug and sucked it off, staring him dead in the eye.

"No, but I'd kick a box of kittens into a ceiling fan to find out."

"You're going to hell."

"Been there and back." He said it with an ease and confidence borne of years believing it.

Emma settled back in the booth, sliding her leg further along his until her knee was brushing his inner thigh, holding his gaze. Unwilling to gamble on whether or not she was playing at something, he casually draped an arm over the back of his seat and spread his knees to break their contact.

"So what is this other superpower of yours, Swan? Besides the ability to sniff out liars."

"Before I was in law enforcement, I was a bail bondsperson. I'm sure in your line of work, you have an inkling of what sort of skills would make one excel at that particular profession, Captain?"

He nodded, unable to find words that weren't shit, fuck, or goddamn it.

"It seems you left out a few details. Killian Jones. 35. No social media presence aside from an Instagram account that favors sunrises, bodies of water and the Valencia filter. You bought your motorcycle, the truck and a cabin in a remote area of the next county within three months of each other after being on the receiving end of an insurance policy payout."

Emma's voice softened.

"Not long after you made the rank of captain in the Bangor Police Department following the death of your brother. Liam Jones was killed in the line of duty five years ago yesterday. You were appointed his successor, promoted from lieutenant and transferred to his department to run his unit."

He couldn't help the sting of tears in his eyes and he looked toward the ceiling to catch them before they fell. Unsure if it was over his loss being laid at his feet or anger at her digging, Killian drew a breath to tell Emma Swan to go fuck herself when her hand slipped over his.

"Look at me. Jones. Please."

He shook his head.

"Killian."

That did it. To hell with earning a smile, he could die a somewhat content man hearing his name fall from her lips in a gentle whisper. Killian looked up to see her were full of sympathy.

"I'm so sorry." She squeezed his hand and waited a beat. "Tell me about last night."

Drawing his hand back, Killian hunched in on himself, all of the fake swagger he'd displayed just a moment ago gone.

"I tried to keep busy. Worked a 5 a.m. shift and when there was a shooting in broad daylight at three in the afternoon, I rolled out with the detectives assigned to the case. The scene was a mess—an armed robbery went bad. The convenience store clerk and the gunman exchanged fire. "

He picked up a napkin and began systematically shredding it.

"A bullet clipped the neck of a 15-year-old bystander–he bled out before an ambo could be called. The eyewitnesses scattered and it took hours of knocking on doors before we found one. By the time we called it a day, night had fallen. My detectives were heading out for a drink and asked if I'd join. I—I didn't want to be alone."

The pile of torn napkin was brushed to the side in favor of a fidgety spinning of the heavy ring on his thumb. Emma nodded for him to continue.

"One drink turned into two. Two turned into making my leave and heading to the cabin with a stop off for a bottle. With the third came the tears and the fourth, the resolution to move on from marking the day every damn year with maudlin reflection and reckless behavior, living every day to the fullest. And the fifth brought the ill-conceived notion that I may not have put my best foot forward during our initial meeting, and Captain Morgan decided a drunken Killian Jones could do better."

"You came to what–woo me? By driving while massively intoxicated?"

He huffed a breath and went to work worrying a different ring.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. My brother was always after me to get out of my own head. What better way to honor his memory than getting so far out of it that I endangered who knows how many civilians, rural mailboxes and a decade-long career on my way to get laid?"

"You were so NOT going to get laid showing up like that." Emma crossed her arms and made a valiant effort to look both casual at the notion and moderately offended.

Killian saw the opportunity to deflect and took it.

"So if I'd shown up stone-cold sober, we'd be having enthusiastic morning sex at this moment? Good to know, Swan."

She snorted.

"You wish."

"Of course I wish. Have you met you? Getting a taste of the Emma Swan blend straight from the source would be quite refreshing." He slurped his coffee loudly, smacking his lips and exhaling with a loud ahhhhhhhhh.

Her boot made contact with his shin under the table.

"I know you're making a sad attempt to change the subject, Jones. And, for the record, Sober Killian isn't any closer to getting laid than Drunk-as-Fuck Killian."

He twisted in the booth, stretching his legs across the seat as he rested his back against the wall.

"I love a challenge. Sober Killian will just have to try harder."

"I'd say Sober Killian can go fuck himself, but Drunk Killian already established he does that in the shower."

The bang of his head against the floral wallpaper of the diner was loud, as was her giggle at his expense. Eyes closed, Killian desperately wished for a tear in the time-space continuum so he could go back and punch his drunken, stupid self in the face.

"Are we done here, Sheriff? I'm not sure my ego can take another hit." He reached for the inside pocket of his jacket only to find it empty.

"Ah…I seem to have forgotten my wallet. Unless before you were a cop and bail bondsperson, you were also a thief."

Sliding out of the booth and grabbing the check, Emma threw him an eye roll and a generous tip onto the table.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Making long strides to catch up to her as she approached the register and paid, Killian touched her elbow.

"Perhaps I would."

Tossing somewhat flattened, day-old curls over her shoulder, she stepped out of his reach and toward the door.

"Let's go, Captain. I'll drop you off at your vehicle before I head home to catch up on the sleep you're costing me."

He trotted after her as she briskly made her way up the street from the diner and back to the station. Taking in his surroundings, Killian decided that as much as he appreciated the solitude his cabin provided after a long week of working in the city, the slowness of a town like Storybrooke held little appeal to him. He wondered how Emma—someone he saw as a bit of a kindred spirit—didn't go mad patrolling the picturesque storefronts and streets that were still mostly deserted, even at 7:30 on a weekday morning.

Bangor wasn't huge by any means, but he doubted the morning shift here yielded so much as a speeding ticket most days. Lost in thought wondering why she'd let the revenue from a DUI slip through her fingers and escape Storybrooke's ledger, Killian almost ran into Emma when she stopped abruptly in front of a battered yellow car.

"Quite a vessel you have there, Swan." He wrinkled his nose, not at the fact that she owned a beater - he'd had more than his fair share of them over the years - but at the impracticality and potential danger of driving such a vehicle in the snowy, icy Maine winters.

She threw him a dirty look at she got into the car and leaned across to pull up the door lock on the passenger side. While he all but fell into the low seat, accidentally slammed the door and worked to arrange his booted feet in a limited amount of space, Emma turned the key in the ignition and worked the long gearshift into first, pulling away from the curb.

"Talk shit about my car again and you can walk, Jones. This is my baby." She patted the dash above the ancient AM radio. "And it's in far better condition now than it was when I, uh, acquired it. You could hear it coming from a mile away, thanks to the exhaust leak."

They fell into a companionable silence as the town faded in the rearview mirror, broken only when she pulled the car behind his truck and deadpanned her farewell.

"Get out."

Killian's laugh faded as he warred with what to say. I'm sorry? Thank you? Breakfast is on me next time? He settled on a warped mix of all three as he scratched behind his ear and glanced sideways at her.

"Well, I'll leave you to your day. I apologize for casting a pall on your night with my inexcusable behavior." He climbed out of the car, leaning back in. "I'm in your debt, Swan." He hoped his tone conveyed the sincerity he felt.

She nodded and he went to close the door.

"Jones."

Killian stuck his head into the doorframe.

"If you pull that shit again, I'll hit your ass with every consequence imaginable, including coming for your badge. Don't mistake my ability to recognize when someone needs a shoulder over a pair of handcuffs for the acceptance of an irresponsible cop endangering the citizens he's sworn to protect. Even outside his jurisdiction."

Her mouth was a hard line and Killian knew she completely serious.

"Understood." He gave her a nod and straightened, speaking over the top of the car but loud enough for her to hear.

"Until we meet again, Sheriff."

By the time Killian unlocked the truck and heaved himself into the cab, she was gone. Briefly touching his mouth with his fingers, he considered the width and breadth of this last encounter with Emma Swan and let out a stream of air. She'd (figuratively) pushed him out of the path of a bullet from his own fucking gun and he owed her.

As he started the engine, Killian wondered in what manner they'd cross paths again.