After pizza, it's noodles, and on stressful nights - when it's truly needed - it's a shabby sports bar downtown. Of all the routines he's placed upon himself -wake up at six fifteen, protein shake, resistance training, call Liam every Tuesday, no more than 90 minutes of Netflix a day- this is the one he looks forward to.

There's a spring in his step as he approaches her office, laptop bag swinging from side to side.

Voices are heard and the sounds of bags being packed. He should announce his presence with a gentle cough.

"You could tell her to fuck off, you know." That stops him in his tracks. "Or I could do it for you, with more style." Ruby clicks her heels.

"There's nothing I'd love to watch more than you shoving Regina's plans up her ass. But we both know it will only give her ammo to sideline me on the next promotion review. And assign you to someone else." He can't see her, but he's certain Emma pouts.

"I'll bounce back, I always do," her secretary replies doggedly. "She orchestrated the whole thing, Emma. She waited until the moment you entered the room to announce Sidney's doing the designs. She knew you wanted to throw your hat in for the Serenity Project, and she wanted to see your face when it went to him. That's some villain shit."

If he assessed Ruby correctly she's a wolf, but one who protects her own.

"I know, Red, I fully expect her to have a video of my face and fall asleep to it every night."

"Send it to her minions to gloat." She makes a face. "Look through her magic mirror and laugh maniacally." Ruby does exactly that, and he decides it's time to reveal himself, so he walks to them.

"I take it the acting lessons have been paying off?"

"You know me. I need to be creatively- " she spots Killian and drags the words on her tongue, "fulfilled."

"Hello ladies."

"Hotshot," Ruby growls at the same time Emma says, "Killian."

"You know what pairs splendidly with office gripes?"

"Gun range."

"Anti-capitalism graffiti."

Both great guesses.

"Beer." The two women lift their eyebrows. "I'm buying, let's go."

The bar is crowded, men with ridiculous hats of football teams chanting some Red Sox cheer. He waits for the beers to be poured while Emma and Ruby go for the pool table. There's an 80's pop song playing under the yelling and hollering, and his eyes fall on Emma swaying her hips to the music unconsciously. The rhythm is slow, her body moving as if in honey-

"Cash or card?"

He fumbles with his wallet and hands the scruffy man two twenties. "Keep it."

The bartender follows his line of sight.

"There's a quiet corner for darts."

Killian frowns, not getting his drift. He balances the three glasses and a bowl of nachos on his arm, sidestepping patrons in various stages of inebriation. It's not as wild as uni parties, but it feels a little bit like the first hang with his colleagues back in a London pub, The Bear, wet wood and loud greetings, getting proper pissed for a chance to forget the day.

Ruby has no problem recruiting a partner for the pool doubles, an overeager Dr Whale who looks like he came straight from the morgue. But he's almost as skilled as her, leaving Killian and Emma scrambling to make the damn balls fall.

She laughs at another of his attempts to pocket the seven, the ball sliding close but missing the pocket.

"Bugger!"

"Didn't you pay attention to trigonometry, Jones?" she balances her weight on the stick, languidly, in a way that ticks something into his already drowsy brain.

"Is this the part where you offer to teach me, Swan?" he says, advancing to her.

"I don't have a high school diploma." Her eyes dart to the sticky floor. "But Victor here could-" her proposition dies on her lips, as said man is occupied with mushing his mouth to Ruby's, like he's a vampire and her saliva is the cure.

He leans into her. "I don't reckon he could."

"We should-"

"-give them some space," he agrees hastily, schooling his features. He's not as repressed as he could be, growing up in a family like his, yet overt displays of affection are best avoided discreetly. Taking their drinks and newly refilled snacks, they move around cheering patrons to another corner of the bar. He swears, his unsteady feet lead him where there's a dartboard with faint red middle, chipped white and black, pin holes everywhere. It is quieter.

"This is my game."

"What a coincidence," she eyes him in false suspicion, but the line of her shoulders is too relaxed. "Mine too. I bet I can take you."

She unplucks the darts from the rubbery surface, when he comes behind her.

"Not at darts, you can't."

She turns around slowly, eyes heavy and relaxed, stopping where he's sure there's flush on his cheeks.

"Care to put your money where your mouth is, hotshot?" Her use of Ruby's moniker doesn't escape him. It's not a friendly call, it's a dare.

"I never back down from a challenge, Swan."

"And how's that going up for you?"

("Can you be quick?" Milah yanks his tie and pulls him into a supply closet, her lips on his as hands explore the front of his shirt hurriedly, frantic movements bumping them to the shelves.

"Your husband's in the other room waiting for us."

She bites his jaw and he groans. "So?"

Her eyes shine in delicious challenge.

Fists on her skirt, he pulls it up and-)

He takes a large gulp of beer to cool down. It doesn't help, judging by Emma's curious look.

"If I win, you'll send your sketches for the Serenity project."

"And what if I win?"

"What do you want me to do?" he challenges.

"I haven't decided."

"We'll find something afterwards then."

"Sounds shady."

"It's only a game, Swan. Unless you're not as proficient as you led me to believe. Now, now," he chastises.

"Alright, fine."

"Ladies first."

He can tell she's been doing this for a long time from the way she poses, back straight, left leg in front, wrist flicking into a perfect semi-circle as she releases the dart. She scores within the reds on both tries, shooting him a smug smile.

His darts land very close.

"Sure you wanna keep going? Is the ghost of a malnourished Victorian child claiming your limbs and making you imbalanced?"

"I'm half-Irish. If I was possessed, it'd be ghouls and spirits and they'd help me kick your lovely ass."

She closes her left eye, lets out half a breath and releases. The darts scores 50 points.

"Am I being grifted?" he asks, acting.

"You wish."

He could let her win. Minimize whatever friction is between them, before it sparks into electricity. Familiarity has loosen his limbs, being in a place that reminds him of the better parts of home, drinking ale with his grandfather when he was just fifteen. It's all so easy when he's not putting a face for anyone.

Suspiciously, dangerously easy.

He flicks his wrist hard, almost hitting the bull's eye.

"Oliver Twist just hit the streets!" She cheers. The familiar buzz of electricity courses through him, the need to impress.

"Feeling the heat?" he counters, blowing on the darts, pistolero style.

She throws two red ones in response. "Only the heat from you fans," he follows her line of sight to a table of three women, ogling at him with decreasing levels of subtlety. Reflexively, he stands taller. Only then he meets Emma's eyes, for a second, and curses his body's reaction. Vanity got the better of him.

Or habit. He knows these steps as intimately as the path from the door to his bed after a long night. Their attention would be rewarded with a smirk. Nothing for a minute, while he laughs with his friends. Then he'd throw a flirty smile, gaging reactions. Then another one, smoother, brimming with intent. He'd saunter to their table with a casual, heavily accented "Hello ladies" and choose the one who wouldn't meet his gaze.

Emma realizes how their proximity would seem to other patrons and puts some distance.

"You don't have to do that."

"You said you wanted to make friends," she counters, nodding her head in the direction they had been headed.

He opens his mouth and shuts it. He should make friends, and he should find people to take to drinks and to bed. It has been very long. For his standards, anyway. Yet the strangest thing happens: he doesn't feel lonely. He hasn't felt that for some time now.

His internal monologue must have been lengthy, because when he takes his eyes off the target, literally, a petite blonde is standing in front of him.

"Hi. I'm Esme. Would you teach me to play?"

It's direct and cute, albeit a little cliche, but that's how it's done. She's short enough to tilt her head to him, giving him an excellent view of big dark eyes, as if the 8-ball is dancing in the white. Delicate lips, wide cheekbones; greatly symmetric, his professional mind surmises. And lovely.

"Afraid not."

Her eyes widen for a moment and he's afraid he was harsh. But then she shrugs and nods. "Okay."

Emma purses her lips when the woman is out of earshot. "Ouch. That was… why did you-"

"Not feeling it."

"Really, hotshot?" she pushes.

"Let it go," he snaps, and she's a little taken aback.

"Why?"

"Because I want to keep playing with you." There's finality in his tone, but not unkindness.

He offers her the darts in reconciliation to a battle barely waged.

With a sharp shot at the target, he clenches victory, trails of anger sharpening his skill.

"Don't worry," she bumps his shoulder, "we're still friends." She smiles, but the sentiment carries a surprising honesty, and he's relieved. "Until I crush you next time."

Another round of drinks and he asks. "Where did these skills come from?"

"Spent a lot of time in bars and diners."

Emerging from behind her, he wonders. "Am I ever getting the rest of the story, Emma?"

He can't see her face, only the tension in her spine. "Do you- do you really want to hear it?"

He touches the small of her back, giving her plenty of opportunity to escape should she want to. "Emma."

She leans into his hand for a moment. A flash of electricity zaps him when her eyes find his. More so when she lifts up to her toes and-

He squeezes the hand on her waist and a muffled sigh escapes her lips.

-she whispers in his ear, "People look at me differently when they find out. And so will you."

A hand pushes his shoulders to disentangle, but he pulls her into a hug. She is surprised, her chin crashing on his chest, and he leaves his other arm on his side, not crowding her, giving her choice. After a wiggle, he feels her deflate under him, blonde head nestled on his neck.

He traces patterns on her back. He wanted to press for answers he's not entitled to, but this somehow is all the answer he needs.

When it's over, she doesn't meet his eyes.

Avoiding complications, right.

The conference room looms huge when there are only six people on the table for thirty. The meeting includes only relevant executives; Regina, CEO Cruella Feinberg, Mr Marco, Emma and him, surrounded by assistants with notepads, post-its and fixed expressions of anxiety. Mr Marco sips his Turkish coffee with reverence, in what one would see as a power play in such a tense meeting, but it's really his attempt to keep tensions from rising. Killian has come to appreciate the man, with his tremendous woodworking talent and handmade scarves.

"If there's nothing else, you're free to go. We're touching base next Friday." Cruella closes the meeting, her icy eyes betraying nothing of whether she found it satisfactory.

"Actually there is." He feels his peers' stabbing glares for prolonging the already drawn out meeting. What he has to say needs an audience, witnesses. "Regina, are contests open to anyone in the company?"

"What is your interest in particular, Mr Jones?" She busies herself with tucking her notebook in, signaling the meeting is really over despite his question. If Cruella is the Emperor, locked away in a palace of prestige, Regina is the Centurion, leading the army, unquestioned by higher ups.

"I reckon I want to throw my hat in for the Serenity project." Emma casts him a glare. "Since, you know, you're following through with my idea. Seems fair, doesn't it?"

"We're open to submissions, of course. But if it doesn't pass our criteria we're going with our usual partners, Glass and Co."

He smells horseshite.

"It's anonymous, correct?"

Regina raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"Correct."

"Perfect," he flashes a saccharine smile and stands up to leave, winking across the table at Emma. "So anyone can submit sketches."

He's not far outside when Regina catches up, her heels stabbing the marble floor.

"Mr Jones," her voice stops him. "This company has been leading the sector for more years than you've been alive. We are setting an example of excellence."

That's a thick blanket of crap, if he ever heard one.

"What's your point?" He drops the cajoling tone, now they're alone.

"With a name like yours, be mindful of who you side with." The derision in her words nauseates him, he instantly gets Ruby's instincts for violence. There's only one person he's been seen with, and damn if he lets Regina know how even an indirect jab affects him. "After all, you have such a bright future awaiting in London."

The battle horns just blared. So much for staying out if.