"Garçon! A cup of your finest café!" Emma snapped her fingers at Jones. The sunrise peeking through the trees was blinding and she shielded her eyes just in time to see him flash her a grin as he slid two quarters in the ancient vending machine outside the lobby of their motel.
"Oui, Mademoiselle, venir jusqu'à." His accent sounded flawless to Emma's ears, reminiscent of the teacher she'd had at one high school for a semester who'd actually been French. Taking the steaming cup he offered her, she looked suspiciously at the contents and took a sip.
"Christ on crutches, that's awful." Holding the flimsy paper with both hands, she let the warmth soak through her gloves. Bright sun aside, the air was chilly enough to see Killian's breath as he blew on his fingers, waiting for the machine to finish filling his own cup. "How the hell do you speak French so well? I took it for a few years in school and can say about six words."
The moan that escaped his lips at the first taste of hot coffee made Emma's belly clench as a highlight reel from the previous night played in her head. Heat and teeth and tongues, and an orgasm she would have sworn could not have made her knees weaker until Jones delivered that impassioned speech about fucking her into the mattress.
She'd awakened before dawn, back pressed against his side. Slipping out of the bed, Emma tiptoed to the bathroom, glancing back as his sleeping form. Jones was stretched out on his back, hands slipped up under the pillow beneath his head. The blankets were pulled mostly to her side of the bed (whoops) and his shirt had ridden up, revealing a strip of toned abdomen and a trail of hair that disappeared into his sleep pants. Emma had briefly entertained the idea of getting back in bed and teasing the soft lump resting on his inner thigh to fullness before taking him in her mouth.
The mental image came back in a rush as the noise he made cut off with a swallow.
"You'd be surprised what you learn in the Navy, Swan. Foreign languages and the ability to appreciate a cup of coffee no matter how shitty." He drained his cup, crumpled it into a ball and balanced it on the other contents of an overflowing trashcan. Emma passed hers to him with a disgusted look on her face and drink up gesture. He shrugged.
"Your loss, princess. Let's head out."
The rendezvous point for the morning was filled with officers and volunteers milling around, waiting for direction Killian stepped up to provide.
"Good morning, everyone. After yesterday's frustrating setback, I'm glad to see you all look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." He caught Robin in the crowd yawning hugely. "Some more than others. We're going to fan out in the same direction as yesterday. With the heavy rainfall, it's unlikely footprints will visible unless they're fresh. What we need to focus on are structures that could serve as shelter – rocks, tree formations and anything that looks manmade." Killian gestured toward Emma. "As Sheriff Swan said in the initial briefing, Jefferson has spent a lot of time camping and is an experienced hiker. Grace hasn't ventured very far outside of the town of Storybrooke and the surrounding area. He will not be able to move as quickly with her in tow as he could on his own. The storm last night may have felt like a stroke of bad luck, but if it slowed our roll, chances are it slowed his as well."
Killian clapped his hands together.
"Let's get out there. Take care of yourself and each other. No going rogue. Stick together. If you come across something that looks out of place, signal the law enforcement officer overseeing your grid and for the love of fuck's sake, don't touch anything. Thank you."
Save for low spots that were still waterlogged, the ground had firmed up in the pre-dawn hours. Killian didn't need a weatherman to know that with the storms gone the temperature was going to drop considerably at nightfall. Near-freezing temps, lack of proper shelter and no dry wood available with which to make a fire would be catastrophic.
He felt the adrenaline-fueled pull of now or never and surveyed his team. All were giving their own version of a pep talk to their assigned group. Emma finished hers with an arm around a teary woman whom he knew to be Grace's homeroom teacher. Swan had offered to work with the volunteers from her town the previous day before he could suggest it himself. She'd given him an exasperated look when he said he thought they made quite the team, but he knew she felt it, too.
Regardless of the heightened stress and urgency surrounding the investigation, they had fallen into a smooth partnership steeped with intuition and respect. It was the kind of working relationship that, as a commanding officer, he hoped to see with all of his paired off subordinates. It felt natural despite the fact they were both stubborn and set in their ways. As natural as it had felt to have her moving over him, mouths fused together and his hands palming her ass.
"Ugh, focus, Jones." With one last look in her direction, Killian instructed his volunteers to stand an arms' length apart and begin moving forward as a group. They used poles and long sticks to move brush aside and poke into deep bushes. Eyes swept methodically from surface to sky, looking for disrupted ground, cleared paths, constructed shelters or snags of clothing on low branches. Two hours in, the voices on the walkie talkies Zelena had driven up from Bangor hit DEFCON 1.
"We found something!"
A volunteer under Locksley's supervision had spotted a spot of pink on the ground, covered by a low canopy of brush. When she moved the branches back, she saw it was a muddied, ripped sleeve of a sweater. Grace was curled in the fetal position, covered with a men's winter jacket and cold to the touch. The volunteer had screamed, fearing the child was dead, but Grace had opened her eyes at the sound. She was able to whisper, "My daddy said we could have a tea party" before losing consciousness. Paramedics had come in with a backboard and carried her to an ambulance, taking her to the hospital to treat her for hypothermia and dehydration.
With the child safe, the search party was scaled back. Emma had pulled Jones aside, explaining that on more than one occasion, she had been called to the forest outside Storybrooke because hikers had heard Jefferson ranting and raving in the throes of a psychotic episode.
"If there aren't dozens of footsteps that sound like a herd of giants moving through the woods, we should be able to hear him. If he just got turned around in unfamiliar territory, he'll be calling for Grace. If he had an episode, we'll probably hear that, too." Emma swiped one glove under her running nose and pulled her beanie down over her ears. "Why the fuck aren't you cold?"
Jones' nose and the tips of his pointed ears were red, but he was both hatless and gloveless. "I'm warm where it counts, Swan." He took her hands and tucked them under his arms. She was so grateful for his heat on her fingertips, she couldn't find a fuck to give that his detectives were nearby eyeing them and whispering among themselves.
"Jefferson may not be so lucky. It's possible he's without a jacket since Grace was found wrapped in one."
Emma didn't look at him until he said her name. No Swan, or love, or lass, or any other cheeky term of endearment.
"There may be nothing to hear if he's hurt or succumbed to the elements." Jones said it matter of factly, but the concern in his eyes matched how she felt. Emma pulled her hands back and slipped them in her back pockets.
"Won't know if we don't get moving."
"Too right." Jones pulled out his walkie talkie and spoke into it loudly, with his lips pressed right on the mircrophone. "LOCKSLEY!" Robin jumped thirty feet away. "Quit standing around with your thumb up your ass. Let's move."
"You'll look for any excuse to use that thing, won't you?" Emma rolled her eyes and turned the volume down on her own receiver. Jones poked his tongue into his cheek and raised an eyebrow at her. "You're such a child."
"There are worse things to be, Swan."
Killian's chest had surged with no small measure of pride when Emma's suggestion to cut down the search party in order to zone in on noise panned out. A faint yell of came from a distance, then closer. Jefferson had crashed through the trees to their left, coming to an abrupt stop when he saw them. He was brown from head to toe, covered in dried mud, save for the blood from a wide gash on his right cheek and the blue of his lips.
"Jefferson? It's Sheriff Swan. Do you remember me?" Emma shook off Killian's hand as he tried to keep her from moving closer. Not having a handle on Hatmacher's current mental state and the fact that he'd drugged Emma at some point in the past gave him a serious case of the oh, hell nos and watching her walk closer to the man filled him with trepidation. He unzipped his jacket, flipping it up and over where his .45 was nestled in its holster. Killian unsnapped the strap of leather that held the gun in place and kept his hand on the butt, ready to draw.
"She's gone. She's gone. I lost her. She's gone." Jefferson chanted it over and over again, louder until he was yelling, fat tears rolling through the dirt on his face. He paced back and forth, getting more and more agitated. Emma walked closer, hands raised, and began speaking to in a strong, steady voice.
"Grace was found, Jefferson. Do you understand? We found her. She's safe. Grace is at the hospital." Emma kept speaking, repeating Grace's name over and over in a string of calm reassurances. Her eyes tracked him as he paced, methodically repeating that his daughter had been found and was safe. "Grace is at the hospital waiting for you, Jefferson. She said you promised her a tea party."
Tear-filled eyes met Emma's. "You talked to her? You talked to my Grace?"
Emma smiled gently. "I did. Grace is waiting for you. Grace would want you to come home in time for tea." She caught Jefferson as he fell to his knees sobbing and wrapped her arms around him as he rocked. "She's safe. Grace is safe."
"You're still here." Emma startled mid-yawn when Killian popped his head into the empty cubicle in the bullpen he'd set her up in before he'd gone upstairs to talk to the brass. By the time he came back down, most of his unit had cleared out and there were only fifteen minutes left before the ten o'clock shift change. The white board that had once sported photos of Grace and Jefferson and details of the case had been wiped clean. They'd both changed clothes since they'd last seen each other, and the only sign of the fact that they'd spent the better part of the week tromping through the woods was an errant stick in Emma's hair.
She stood, gesturing to the leather messenger bag strapped across his chest and the helmet under his arm. "Heading out? I was just about to head to my car. That drive back to Storybrooke won't make itself." Emma's chin quivered as she tried to conceal another yawn, but Killian saw right through her.
"It's late and it's been, if you'll excuse my flawless French, a completely fucked up week. You should stay overnight and make the drive in the morning." He moved closer to her.
"I'll be okay. Besides, with the luck I've had with hotel reservations lately, I'd probably end up renting a dumpster behind a place even shittier than the one we were stuck in." Emma's eyes widened as he reached his hands up over her shoulders and began fiddling with her hair. "What the hell are you – oh." He handed her the stick he'd worked out of her ponytail, letting his knuckles brush the back of her hand.
"Come home with me." He blurted it out, louder than he intended and she froze. "I mean, not with me with me. I have an extra room." Killian could see the wheels turning in her head and a million excuses on the tip of her tongue.
"I really should head out." Emma stepped back and shouldered her own bag, elbowing past him. They took the same hallway to the parking lot and said polite, offhand goodbyes, parting ways.
He walked to where his motorcycle was parked, talking to himself under his breath. "Real smooth, asshole. Couldn't have asked her on a date? Or offered to make her a hotel reservation on the department's dime to keep it professional? Noooo, you had to make it sound like a goddamned offer to roll in the hay." Killian angrily pulled on his helmet and kick started the bike with more force than necessary. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he saw someone in the street, kicking the tire of a battered yellow VW. Rolling to a stop, he raised his visor and yelled over the sound of the engine.
"May I be of some assistance, milady?"
Emma wheeled around. "First of all, fuck off with that 'milady' crap. I'm not a damsel in distress and you're not a knight in shining armor. Second, you can call your traffic department and get this damn boot off my car." She turned and wound up for another kick.
"It says no overnight parking."
"Jones, I will kick you off that fucking motorcycle and beat you to death with it, so help me God." She pulled her phone out of her pocket and held it up. "What's the number for Traffic?" He recited it and waited patiently, counting down from ten in his head. "THEY'RE FUCKING CLOSED?" The screech that came out of Emma was both terrifying and the funniest thing he'd heard over the course of a very long week. He was still chuckling when the back of her hand smacked his chest. "It's not funny, Jones." The fight seemed to go out of her and her shoulders slumped.
"Get on." He jutted his chin toward the space behind him, holding out his helmet in her direction as she looked at him suspiciously. "Swan. Don't be difficult. You're tired. It's been a hellaciously long week. My place is fifteen minutes away. In twenty, you could have already brushed your teeth, put on those cute little ducky pajamas you wore the other night and crawled between the sheets. It would take you at least that long to find a place with vacancy and rent a room."
She snatched the helmet out of his hand and put it on, neck wobbling a bit at the unfamiliar weight.
"There's a good girl." Moving her bag cross-body to rest on the opposite side of the ones Jones had, she swung a leg over the back, settling behind him; her hands sliding around his waist. "If you wanted to hug me, you could have just said so. No need to stand on ceremony." This time, she smacked him upside the head. He reached back and cupped behind her knee, pulling lightly to have her scoot forward, only letting go when he felt her chest pressed firmly to his back.
"Hold on, love."
Twenty minutes later, Emma was not crawling between the sheets. She was getting the dime tour of the ridiculously gorgeous house Jones owned on the river. He seemed almost sheepish as she gaped at his kitchen, running her hand over the sleek granite counter tops and counting more cabinets in the single room than she'd ever had collectively in a series of small apartments. There was a claw foot tub in one bathroom and huge windows in most of the living spaces showcased moonlight on the water.
Forty minutes later, she was tucked on one side of his couch in front of a fire with a glass of red wine, unapologetically wearing her ducky pj's and an oversized sweatshirt playing a bastardized version of Twenty Questions.
Her favorite song changed according to her mood, he stood by Van Morrison's "Tupelo Honey," although with a long enough stare from her, he'd admitted he listened to a fair amount of Top 40.
He absolutely loathed mushrooms, she couldn't get enough onion rings.
She preferred the beach to the mountains, he couldn't possibly pick one over the other, Swan.
He'd been engaged once while he was in the Navy and came home on leave to find his fiancée had shacked up with a much older man. She'd had a string of failed relationships whose dominant personality trait ran the gamut from boring as fuck to dickbag loser.
"How long have you been on your own?" The question wasn't exactly what Emma was expecting, but it didn't surprise her. Spending the better part of a week in his company, she knew Jones could read people better than most. She twirled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, staring at the liquid as she considered how to answer.
"Always. I was found on the side of the road as a baby. Bumped around the foster system. Had a real shot of a forever home, but she got pregnant and pulled the plug on the adoption. Met a guy at seventeen. Got screwed, literally and figuratively." She scowled harder at her, twisting her wrist to see how close she could get the wine to swirl up to the rim without spilling. "You know the story. Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love. Boy pins a minor jewelry heist on her. Girl finds out in jail she's pregnant. Girl gives up the baby for adoption."
Emma blew out a breath and chanced a look at Jones. He didn't look shocked. Or like he pitied her. He just looked…accepting and she didn't know what to do with that.
"What about you? Aside from the whorish fiancée." Jones took a pull from the bottle of beer he held loosely in one hand. He grinned at her choice of words, the firelight accentuating his cheekbones. His jaw flexed, something Emma had seen plenty of during their time together.
"A fair amount. Mom died when I was in high school. Dad took off. Liam had already graduated and looked after me until I had my diploma and enlisted. When I got out, he talked me into applying with the department. He was always there until…he wasn't." He blinked a few times, this time the light picked up the shine of tears.
"Quite a pair," Emma muttered. She held her glass out in his direction and he clinked his bottle against it. She felt the overwhelming urge to crawl under his arm, pull it around her and just breathe him in. It would somehow be both the easiest and most difficult thing she'd ever done. But she just couldn't get past the what ifs and her rampant fear of rejection to move an inch. "And on that note…" Emma stood and held her hand out to him to help him up. Jones looked at it for a moment, then grabbed it and allowed her to hoist him up. They walked to the sink to put her glass and his empty beer away then he showed her to her room. She turned at the door and quickly bussed his cheek.
"I wanted to thank you, Killian. For everything." He nodded and gave her another one of his dramatic bows.
"Till the 'morrow, Swan." She smiled as she closed her door.
She woke in an unfamiliar bed to the faint sounds of an unknown origin. For anyone else, it would be a shock to the system. For Emma, it was the story of her life. It only took her a split second to put together Jones and his pretty house on the water. Throat dry from the wine, she threw off the covers and padded to the door, heading down the stairs toward the kitchen.
As she drew closer, Emma realized the faint sounds she'd heard were a combination of music and Jones humming along softly. She recognized the song; one whose lyrics had been stuck in her head more than once.
I spent a lot of nights on the run
And I think oh, like I'm lost and can't be found
I'm just waiting for my day to come
And I think oh, I don't wanna let you down
He was standing at the sink looking out the window. A single lamp from the hearth room provided the only light, but it was enough for Emma to see the tension in his shoulders. He jumped when she ran her hands up his back and over the muscles, kneading and soothing them.
"Did I wake you?" His voice was rough, either from lack of sleep or too much sadness. She rested her forehead between his shoulder blades, stretching her arms around his waist. Jones was all soft hair and hard muscle as her hands stroked his belly. "Someday, Swan."
"Someday what?" She stilled her movement, waiting on a confession or a ball drop.
"Someday you'll see me at my best. I promise." His voice broke on the last word and he turned, pulling her toward him. Strong arms enveloped her and she laid her head on his chest. Jones rested his chin on the top of her head and she felt a few tears land in her hair. Pulling away, Emma brought her hands to his face, forcing him to look at her.
"I have. I've seen the way you work. How respected and revered you are." Emma twined her hands in his hair. "I've seen you stand up for what's right when you helped that woman with the asshole husband." One hand slipped down, her thumb brushing his earlobe and over his cheek, brushing a rolling tear away. "You're always a gentleman. " Emma kissed his cheek. "You basically let me use you as a humping pillow and didn't expect anything in return." He let out a choking laugh as she kissed his other cheek. "You can be sad, Killian. Sadness doesn't make you weak. As long as you let yourself feel something else, too." She touched his chest and smiled at him, relieved when he smiled back. His hands rubbed her upper arms for a few seconds and when he moved his hands, the wide neck of her sweatshirt slipped off her shoulder.
Killian's hand came back up, fingertips brushing her shoulder before running the length of her collarbone. He bent his head and kissed her skin along the same path. In seconds, one of his hands plunged down the back of her pajama pants, the other cupping the back of her head as he kissed the hell out of her until she had to pull away for air. Fuck, the man could kiss.
Determined this time to give as good as she got, Emma wasted no time touching or tasting every inch of available skin. Arms, back, neck, abdomen. The one hand on her ass became two as she scraped her teeth along his throat, his head thrown back and a positively filthy moan on his lips. Sliding a hand between them, she found Killian was already half hard and she relished the feel of him thickening even more under her fingers.
Yanking the neck of her sweatshirt down, his hair tickled her nose as he bent to kiss the swells of her breasts. A warm hand palmed her from underneath and she gasped as his tongue slid over a nipple. Emma involuntarily clenched her fist around him and his mouth opened over her as another deep moan escaped him. Deciding she needed at least a three-peat of that noise, she slipped her hand into the waistband of his pants and around his cock. She slowly started to stroke him, sliding all the way from the base to the tip, twisting her wrist before sliding down again.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed, leaning back against the counter, granting her space her to properly work him over, and Emma pulled out every trick in the book. By the time she sank to her knees, dragging his sweatpants down to the floor with her and licking a stripe up the underside of him, he was wrecked.
But she wasn't finished.
Flipping her hair over one shoulder, she took him in hand and in one smooth motion, slid as much of his cock into her mouth as she could, swirling her tongue around the head. Killian's fingers tangled in her hair and she looked up at him, sliding her fist and lips over him in tandem in a measured rhythm. The hand that wasn't currently edging Killian closer to orgasm was braced on his thigh and the tremble of his legs made Emma double her efforts.
Strong fingers clenched in her hair, stopping just short of pulling it. "Emma, darling, I'm not going to last much – fuck – much longer. You are too good, love." She took the devastated sound he made when she pulled off of him and stood, delicately brushing the corners of her slickened mouth with her fingers as a compliment.
Standing naked in the moonlight, Killian was breathtaking. And she wanted more. Pushing her pants to the floor, she asked, "Do you remember what you said in that motel room?" He nodded, drinking in her bare legs. She stripped her sweatshirt off, standing before him in a pair of black boy shorts. "You told me all I had to do was say the word." Emma reached for his wrist, stepping closer and guiding his hand between her legs so he could feel the wetness there. Moving so there was barely an inch of space between them, she went up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "Fuck me."
The granite was colder than she expected and Emma would have yelped when her back hit it if she wasn't completely overwhelmed with other sensations. Technically "fuck me" was two words, but Killian took direction well. In no time she was up on the counter opposite the sink, panties flung across the room, his tongue swirling circles around her clit and a long finger fucking her breathless. A large, warm hand was splayed across her stomach, both holding her hips down and rocking her into him.
Killian's head lifted and his thumb replaced his tongue. "So wet for me, sweetheart. And so sweet." He licked his lips, tasting her essence as he slipped in a second finger. Emma's back arched involuntarily and she didn't waste a moment sliding her hand down over his to take over rubbing her clit.
"Fuck, that is so hot. That's it, darling. Show me how you like it." As Emma did his bidding, she felt a rhythmic brushing against her leg and knew Killian had taken himself in hand. The thought of him stroking his cock aroused her even more and she begged for him to make her come. His fingers curled and moved faster, brushing against a spot that had legs shaking. She fell, screaming his name.
Before Emma could catch a breath, he hauled her off the counter, cupping his hands under her ass and rubbing her up and down his length.
"Last chance to back out, Emma." The feel of his erection sliding over her overly sensitive flesh balanced somewhere between pleasure and pain. She loved it. All it took was a whispered, "I want you, Killian" and he was sliding into her inch by inch. The thick drag of him was exquisite, and her hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders. Lifting her bodily, he slid her up and down his cock, thrusting with his hips on every third or fourth pass.
"Oh, God, you feel so good," she breathed in his ear. Crossing her ankles behind his back, she moved against him, whispering filthy things that drove Killian to fuck her harder. When she felt him start to falter under the exertion, she dropped her legs and stretched until her toes hit the floor. He slid out of her and she spun around, elbows on the counter. Throwing him a coy look over her shoulder, Emma decided to see what Jones was really made of and gave him one last direction. "Don't be gentle."
"Fuck, Emma." Killian stepped behind her squeezed her ass, slapping one cheek and grinning wickedly when her squeal turn into a moan. He wasted no time slamming into her. The hand on her hips was hard enough to bruise, but she didn't care. He was thrusting so hard her belly was pressed into the edge of the counter in no time. Emma felt her hair being gathered and wrapped around his hand and Killian used it to pull her back against him, grunting every time his hips hit her ass. "You are so fucking tight." He pounded into her, reaching to roughly cup a breast and pinch her nipple. It was just past too much and exactly what Emma wanted.
When Killian's thrusts became sloppy and erratic, she reached back and grabbed his ass, grinding back into him. "Wanna feel you come inside me." Her words were all it took for his cock to swell as he pushed into Emma one last time, folding her flat onto the counter as he came, a litany of curses mixed with her name.
They stood unmoving, locked together in his kitchen as raggedy breaths filled the air. Emma's ass stung from the slap. Her lips felt swollen and she was pretty sure it would hurt to walk in the morning. She giggled, causing her to flex around Killian's cock. He jerked behind her, sweaty forehead pressed against the back of her neck.
"The fuck was that?" he mumbled into her hair.
"What? This?" She flexed again and he jumped.
"Dammit, woman…"
Emma wiggled and his softening length slid out of her. Without him inside her, she felt empty. Killian pulled her into his arms and kissed her temple. She listened to the tattoo of his heartbeat, lightly scratching her nails through the hair in the middle of his chest as he hummed.
"I didn't mean for our first time to be in my kitchen."
Emma thought about it, half-shrugged her shoulders and decided she couldn't find a fuck to give (in the kitchen or elsewhere.) She took Killian's hand and squeezed it. "I could fall asleep standing here. Take me to bed or risk losing me forever."
"You like Top Gun enough to quote it?" he asked. Apparently deciding no clothes were the best clothes, Killian led her up the stairs and into his room.
"Nah, I just watch it for the homoerotic volleyball."
"Same." A cheesy, sleazy grin accompanied his thumbs up and she laughed as she pointed to the bathroom.
"Mind if I freshen up?"
"What's mine is yours."
As Emma cleaned herself up behind closed doors, cleaned her teeth with a dollop of toothpaste and her finger, and splashed cold water on her face, she thought about his last words. Killian Jones was a lot of things, but insincere was not one of them. She decided he meant it and stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself for a moment as she rolled it around in her head, waiting for the panic to start.
It didn't in the bathroom. It didn't when she slipped into his bed. It didn't when his arms came around her. And it didn't when he whispered, "Good night, love" in her ear.