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laurensprentiss · 3 years

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Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 13:

Gif credit: @hqtchner

A/N: I toyed with several ideas for this one, but I wanted the reader to be strong in her own right which is why this takes the direction it does.

Warnings: Strong depictions of violence, assault, blood, vomiting. Graphic injury, choking, gun violence.

———

“What you remember saves you.” - W.S Merwin

———

“You don’t like what I’ve done with the place?”

“Jordan.” You breathe. “What did you do?”

His jaw sets. His expression goes from glee to fury and he’s next to you in a flash, nose to nose, dragging your head back by the hair on the nape of your neck. A wince escapes your mouth when the pulling sends a sting up your scalp.

“What do you mean, what did I do? Isn’t it obvious?” He sneers, punctuating his words with another pull of your hair.

You cry out in pain, your neck straining. The rabid look in his eyes and his bared teeth send shivers down your spine.

He continues, “I made sure you were going to stay all...mine.” He whispers, releasing his grip, smoothing the top of your head. “Isn’t it sweet? I did it all so I could have you all to myself… and instead of thanking me, you’re acting like you’re above me. Like you always do. Maybe I need to teach you how to be grateful-”

“I’ll be grateful.” You offer in a quick breath. “I mean- I am. I am grateful. I was just so…” You swallow thickly, tearing your eyes away from the pictures, “Surprised that you did all this. For me.” You fight the tears pricking your eyes.

“You mean that?”

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. “Yes. I do.”

“Good. Y’know all I ever wanted was us to be together? When you broke up with me, I admit, I was angry. I thought you were fucking somebody else.” He paces the length of the room and that’s when your gaze falls to the gun he has tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “But I realised you couldn’t possibly.”

You brace yourself when his gaze falls to his handiwork on the walls.

“But then…” He inhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I saw you with him.” His volume rises steadily. “I send you gifts, I send you letters, I give you clues, I even draw blood for you and you repay me by parading around another man?!”

You cry out when he delivers a blow to the left side of your face, a crack resounding in the room. Your skin blisters red hot where he strikes you, you swear he’s torn open some skin on your cheek. It sends your head spinning, you figure you’re already nursing a concussion, this just makes it worse.

“That’s not-”

“Don’t you interrupt me.” He spits, his face close enough for you to smell the bourbon on his breath. “You had him come to my house today, try to scare me? He thinks he’s a big powerful man, FBI… that badge doesn’t mean shit, he doesn’t know who I am.”

“Jordan-”

“What was it about him anyway? You could’ve had me, you know, we could’ve been a dynasty.” He’s grandstanding. Always did have a problem with his fragile ego. He turns his back to you, scanning the pictures on the wall. “He’ll get what’s coming to him. I’m having it taken care of.” He mutters.

Your blood runs cold. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re not stupid, you couldn’t possible have thought that I’d let him live?”

Your heart skips. The ‘other guy’ that was to be taken care of - Hotch.

“Jordan, no. It wasn’t like that, I swear.” He turns slowly, rage behind his eyes that’s only thinly veiled by a psychotic smile. “There’s nothing between us! Please don’t do this. I’m begging you, don’t do this.” You plead.

“Why do you care?”

“-What?”

“Why… do you… care?” His eyes are fanatical, nostrils flared. “If nothing happened between you, why do you care what happens to him?”

You know why now.

“Because I don’t want anyone to die! Him, Emily, anybody! I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” You stutter through your sobs. “Please don’t do this.”

“You don’t want him to die? How stupid do you think I am?” He grabs the back of your head and directs you to a picture of you and Hotch on the gazebo - the day you’d met. “You look at him like that because he’s a friend?” He spits.

He’s right, though - that’s the thing.

You don’t know how you didn’t realise sooner, how you didn’t see it sooner. Maybe it’s because you couldn’t see your own face when you were around him, but the way you look at him, your smile.

You don’t think you’ve looked at anybody like that before.

Tears roll down your cheeks now, eyes welling over.

He smooths over your hair, straightening out his own shirt. “I will make it quick though. Humane. I owe him that much.”

“What?”

“I owe him. How do you think you got here?” When you can’t formulate the words he continues, “Hm, let me spell it out for you.” He continues his rapid pacing, fingers compulsively scratching his neck. “We break up, you betray me, so I leave the country. I come back, try to get you back, you betray me, again. FBI man comes into the picture, his girlfriend feels neglected, said girlfriend then conveniently runs into me at a bar after an argument, confides in me and starts sleeping with me. She’s a real peach, though. Total Type-A, wouldn’t let me fuck her raw.” He adds, rolling his eyes.

You feel nauseous.

You wonder if Hotch knows.

He goes on, “I fuck her, she tells me everything I want to know. Including the fact that she thought he was cheating on her.” He laughs bitterly. “I thought we might have had something when you called me a few months ago, remember that? That was a good time.” Your stomach turns when you think back to the worst mistake you’d ever made. “But then you stopped taking my calls, I put two together from there, figured you were fucking him. I knew then that he had to die.” He rolls his eyes.

His smile reveals a row of eerily straight teeth but there’s nothing behind his eyes except a sick kind of glee.

“It wasn’t like that, I swear to you, he never touched me.” You plead with him, desperately. You reckon with the fact that if you couldn’t regain control of this situation, Hotch would die. “Look, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“I swear. Anything. Just call it off, please.” He considers your statement for a moment, kneeling down between your knees again. He makes a point to flash you his gun, the silver glinting, before reaching for a switchblade that’s tucked into his back pocket. You flinch when he brings it purposely closer to you but he cuts you free.

“I’m going to test you. Stay here with me. You run, I kill him.” He lays the knife flat against your bruised cheek, “Then I kill you.” He whispers. You wince when the sharp edge breaks a thin layer of skin and you feel a warm trail of blood on your cheek.

You nod desperately, agreeing. “I swear. I’ll do anything, just call it off.”

Just as he finishes cutting you free, his phone vibrates against the wooden table under the window. He excuses himself, face lighting up for a moment. You try your best to hear, but the voice on the other end is indistinguishable.

Jordan’s responses are short.

“Fitz.”

“Hello?” He presses the phone closer to his ear. “Lawrence? It’s done?” He smiles at the response from the other side.

“30 minutes.” He hangs up and rattles off a quick text message before setting the phone down again.

He sighs, concealing his unhinged glee when he turns to look at you. “Bad news babe.” He says tutting, knowingly with a disturbing smile. “I know I said I’d call it off but,” he waves the phone in the air, “it’s already done. Your friend, Aaron?”

Oh please, no. Don’t say it.

“He’s dead.”

———

Once the first bang reverberates in the nurses’ station, time seems to move in slow motion. McCall yells for everybody to get down, cocking his gun. Panic erupts for a moment before everybody falls to the ground, the first shot already fired.

Where it comes from, who fires first, it isn’t clear, the whole thing in reality is over in a matter of seconds but time still seems to stop.

Now, McCall kneels over a dead body, hyper-aware of eyes on him, “He’s gone.” He whispers.

A hand grips his shoulder from behind as he stares down at the corpse in front of him laying in a pool of blood, three bullet holes in the chest.

His ears still ring.

“Hey. Emily’s fine. I had two cops posted outside her door.” He turns to find Hotch, who can’t tear his eyes away from Officer Lawrence’s dead body in front of them.

They’re about to let medical personnel clear out the area and wheel him away in a body bag when Hotch spots something in Lawrence’s scrub pockets.

“Wait! Hold it a sec?” He asks, retrieving a piece of paper and cellphone from Lawrence. They make their way back to Emily’s hospital room in unison.

McCall looks at him, puzzled. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That was the first person you ever shot, right? He’s dead. You’re allowed to not be okay.”

“I’m fine - I need to focus. I need to get her back.” He’d be lying if he said his hands weren’t trembling but he has more pressing matters on his hand. The need to get you back safe and sound outweighs any personal conflict for him. He unfolds the piece of paper, muttering aloud a series of numbers. “It’s a phone number. What’d you wanna bet it’s Jordan?” He does a double take when he sees his own name written in capital letters on the other side of the paper, passing it to McCall.

“Some vendetta, hm? He was sent to kill you.” McCall takes the phone from Hotch and starts to dial when Hotch places a stalling arm on his.

“Wait.”

He dials Garcia’s number deftly, asks her to search for a location on the number before they call it, but to his disappointment, it’s a prepaid. He then has Garcia set up a track and trace before he lets McCall dial the number.

“Ready, Garcia?”

The phone rings three times before it’s answered, Jordan’s voice curt and straight to the point, assuming it’s Lawrence. Hotch can hear Garcia’s typing and beeping but when McCall doesn’t say anything, Jordan takes matters into his own hands.

“It’s done?” Jordan asks outright.

“Yes.” McCall replies with little inflection, keeping his voice even so as to not arouse suspicion. Jordan gives McCall a time - 30 minutes, before snapping the phone shut.

McCall tries the number again, but it’s dead. Destroyed.

“Garcia, anything?” Hotch asks desperately.

“No, sir, it was barely long enough to triangulate the call, I’m sorry.”

“Keep searching, Garcia, we need this address. Look for something in isolation, out of the way. It’s gotta mean something to him.”

“Yes, sir. Typing as we speak.”

Hotch rubs an exasperated hand over his beard, “Y’know the media can’t get wind of this, if he has access to a TV or radio and sees I’m alive? He’ll kill her.” He shudders as the words leave his mouth, making way for the possibility that he does not want to reckon with.

You might already be dead.

He dials quickly “Chief Barnes? I need a favour.”

———

He’s been pacing the length of Emily’s hospital room for the past twenty minutes, waiting for Chief Barnes to call in every favour he can to keep the media at bay so they can keep up the charade. He increases the TV volume opposite Emily’s bed when he sees a news report flash across the scene.

“Good evening, everybody. We come to you live tonight with some breaking news.”

He braces himself. Did Barnes manage to cover the hit on him?

“The daughters of two US Ambassadors have reportedly been involved in what appears to be a multi-car collision in the Virginia countryside, earlier tonight.”

Two pictures appear side by side of you and Emily.

“The daughter of Ambassador Prentiss was rushed to hospital earlier tonight and remains in critical condition at Bridgepoint Hospital after sustaining multiple injuries. The daughter of the US Ambassador to France however, is reported to be missing. The Ambassador himself is reportedly unaware of his daughter’s condition, presumed to be en-route to Paris tonight. Three people were pronounced dead at the scene, including Metro PD officers Evan Matthews and Howard Denton.”

He waits anxiously for any mention of his own name or Jordan, Lawrence, but the anchor passes over to the correspondent.

He sighs in relief, just as his phone rings.

“Garcia?”

“I think I finally have a location on Fitzgerald. I checked for any and all properties under Senator Fitzgerald’s name, his second and third wives, his spawn’s name, even the Fitzgerald Family Trust. Nada.” She pauses for breath. “So. I dug down deeper. I searched instead for any properties under Sloan Marie Fitzgerald - still nothing. But then I chanced a search under her maiden name, Hamilton, and wouldn’t you know - the Hamilton family had a cabin between Rock Creek Park and Montgomery County. The late Mrs. Fitzgerald would take him to said cabin most summers before she died.”

“Alright, good work. Send us-”

“I'm not even going to let you finish that sentence, because it’s quite frankly insulting. Coordinates are on their way to you now, Sirs.”

Hotch huffs a laugh, it’s the most he can muster right now. He knows he owes Garcia a massive bouquet of flowers after all this is over.

He grabs McCall by his jacket. “Suit up. We’ve got an address.”

———

‘He’s dead.’

The onset of shock and unmistakable rise of nausea had caused you to retch violently and empty the contents of your stomach into the nearest toilet.

Your legs had given out then, and you’re now planted on a dusty armchair, finding yourself staring into nothingness, your body still stinging with the shock and injuries you’d sustained.

It’s all you’ve done for the past fourty something minutes. The blood stays rushing in your ears, and the pounding in your head is unrelenting. You haven’t said a word since, your body’s energy drained. You’re almost catatonic, unable to even shed a few tears for Hotch’s death.

He’s dead. He’s dead because of you.

You think back to the first time you met, he’d been so bright eyed and optimistic. Disarming. You think about the way he’d told you about his hopes and dreams, his plans for the future as a profiler. He’d had so much to live for. All of that had been ripped away from him because he’d gotten involved in your case. It was your fault he was dead.

And you didn’t know how you were going to make it out of this. Your limbs feel like concrete - fatigue, shock and grief make it hard to formulate any kind of rational thought. Jordan’s hand comes to smooth the top of your head once again, but the gesture is far from comforting or loving.

“It’s okay. You’ll see in time, this was for the best. This way, there aren’t any distractions.” He whispers. He’s been pacing the length of the cabin, repeatedly checking his second burner as though he’s awaiting some news.

He resumes his pacing when you finally break your silence, your voice hoarse.

“You killed a man.” You whisper.

“What’s that?”

“You killed a man.” You sob quietly. “You had someone killed, that doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Oh I did more than just have your little lover killed. I made sure your father and that Prentiss bitch were taken care of too.”

Your vision tunnels, a high-pitched whine penetrating your skull. You feel like the ground has just been ripped from under you, like you’re falling. You can feel your heart shatter, the splintering fragments of your life piercing your skin.

“My father? He’s not here. He’s-”

He glances at his watch. “-On his way to Paris?” You feel the bile rising again. “I know. Like I said, I’m having it all taken care of. They’re all dead, babe - or will be, soon.” He brings a hand to your face, brushing his thumb over your cut. “Don’t you see? I did it so I could have you all to myself.”

The glee in his voice provokes something in you, a rage you’ve never felt before. You figure you have nothing else to lose, everything and everyone you ever loved is dead, you’d either fight and die quicker, or you’d stay and die slowly.

In a move that stuns even you, you spit on Jordan’s face and bring your hand up to strike him notwithstanding the piercing pain in your ribs. The flat of your palm makes sharp contact with his bearded cheek. The sound echoes in the room, and your own hand stings from the force, but a minute satisfaction settles into your bones.

He takes a minute to steady himself, but when he turns to look at you, his eyes flash with something you’ve never seen in a person before. In one fell swoop, he drags you to stand by your hair, pushing you into a glass frame against the wall.

The glass shatters, puncturing the skin on your cheek and forearm where you bear the brunt of the impact. He lands two blows to your stomach, causing you to keel over, winding you. The pain blooms to your already bruised ribs, your breaths ragged. He grabs you then by the throat, pinning you against the wall, your breaths coming short and constricted.

He shakes you against the wall, his hand tight around your throat, cutting off your air. “You ever pull something like that again, I’ll kill you in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine.” He growls in a low voice. “Do you understand me?” You can feel the blood pumping in your face, your eyes starting to bulge.

You drive your knee into his crotch with all the force you can muster, exactly like Hotch had taught you. You then go for his shin that only gives you mere seconds to grab your breath when he lets you go in pain.

You fall with him, knees giving out when you gasp for breath, and when you see him charging towards you again, you reach to your right for a dusty glass vase that sits on a single table. You manage to get yourself back on your feet right as he’s about to make contact with you again, the butt of the vase smashing into his skull.

He cries out in pain as he falls to the ground again on all fours, blood streaming down his face. A gash on his forehead seeps blood and several pieces of glass are embedded in his face.

You’re still trying to catch your own breath when you spot the silver glint of his 9mm catch the light in his back pocket.

This is your chance.

You half-crawl, half-run to him, landing a violent kick to his stomach to strike him down. You grab the gun from his back pocket, stumbling a little from the adrenaline coursing through your veins, your hands trembling. You check the magazine and load it as fast as your hands will allow.

You grip the Beretta just as Hotch had taught you, wrapping your dominant hand around the magazine, your index finger parallel to the chamber. Your other hand wraps around your dominant, as you stand over him.

“Get up.” You snarl. “Get up, NOW!” You order him through your coughs.

He turns around slowly, slipping twice on his way up, groaning with the exertion. His face mirrors your own, a gash on his lip and forehead, blood streaming down his cheek.

He chuckles darkly, revealing a set of shark-like teeth that are covered in his blood. “Oh… you think you’re hot shit. You even know how to use that thing? Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Your body aches feverishly and you swear you could pass out at any minute, vision blurry. You can feel your grip loosening and you’re trying to centre yourself when Jordan takes advantage of your momentary slip.

He lunges for you in a flash, knife in hand.

———

“We’re about a mile out, I want sirens and lights off. He can’t know we’re coming.” Hotch says into his radio. He’s watching the road ahead as they get deeper into the woods, the off-road terrain making it hard to keep control of the SUV.

They’re backed up at rear by three MPD police cars, Chief Fuller’s attempt at making nice with Hotch after their earlier altercation.

He swallows thickly, his mouth like cotton. He knows he can’t afford one wrong move, not here. Not with you. He needs to get you back. He made a promise to Emily.

He’ll die trying.

He keeps a firm grip on your chain, rubbing it one last time for steady luck before tucking it into his shirt pocket.

A clearing of trees reveals another path to them. It leads off into the distance, to a small wooden cabin around 80 feet away. It’s illuminated by amber light emanating from a single window.

“Alright, guys. Nice and slow, headlights off, we’re gonna dismount now. Everybody out.” He whispers into the comms once they clear another 50 feet.

Leaves rustle underneath their feet as they stealthily approach the cabin, guns cocked. Hotch has three cops flanking him and McCall brings up the rear, covering the back exit.

They’re almost at the entrance when a loud bang resounds from inside, and Hotch short circuits, his knuckles white around his glock.

Inside the cabin, you send Jordan flying with a shot to his shoulder, the smell of gun smoke burning your nostrils. Your hands tremble violently, your mind temporarily blanking - you feel like you’re swimming. Your ears ring from the noise, a high-pitched whine piercing your brain.

There’s another bang almost immediately after Jordan stumbles backwards but you’re sure you only fired one shot.

Jordan’s body in front of you is your only focal point, so much so that it’s only when you see McCall and two cops approach him writhing on the floor that you come back into your body.

You realise the second bang had been them kicking down the front door. Your hands on the Beretta loosen just slightly and you let out a deep exhale. The voices in the room are still swimming as your brain slowly catches up.

“Grab her.” McCall’s voice calls out. He shouts into the comms that he needs medics, and suddenly there’s a distinct feeling of a hand on your wrist and a body next to you. You reassure yourself that Jordan is on the ground so you let your hands fall limp, dropping the gun and it falls to the ground with a sharp clack. Your eyes are still trained on McCall pressing on Jordan’s wound.

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me.” The voice cuts through your still-ringing ears.

You know that voice.

You’d know that voice anywhere.

Your heart thunders, and your lips start to tremble as you try to reconcile everything you thought was reality with what’s really in front of you.

You turn slowly to find an achingly familiar pair of warm hazel eyes.

He’s alive.

“Aaron?” You sob. You reach out for him but he catches you before you can stumble, his arms steady around your waist. He whispers into your hair, bringing a protective hand up to cradle your head as you sob into his chest.

“It’s okay. I got you. I told you I’d come for you.”

His voice is the last thing you hear before you black out, your body finally offering you some well-earned reprieve.

———

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let-it-raines · 4 years

Text

Black Velvet (1/1)

1919. The War is over, but life is far from normal. While the imminent danger is gone for many, it is not gone for Emma Swan. Her secrets have always been dangerous and had the ability to control her, but they have never been more dangerous than now as she is forced to work undercover as a barmaid and keep her true intentions hidden from the most notorious gang leader in England.

Her life depends on it, but unfortunately for Emma, Killian Jones can read her better than anyone ever has.

Rating: Mature

a/n: I was going to wait to post this next week since I’ve been catching up on posting other things this week and flooded you all with words, but I am sooooo excited for this one! Like, I haven’t written a big one-shot in awhile, and this one is a little different for me. But I love it, and hope that you do as well! For my Peaky Blinders fans, I think you’ll recognize some similarities because this is def based on it😘

Found on AO3 | here |

-/-

There is a sudden crash of glass shattering against the battered wood floor, stains of alcohol, blood, and the scuff marks of boots covering it to make it a darker wood than it originally was. She’s scrubbed that floor until her hands were dry and cracked, but the stains are as imbedded in the wood as the Jones family is in this place, their place. The stains might well be purposeful, and really, they could have been, a sure sign that the Joneses are not scared to let anyone know they do not mind getting blood on their hands or mind leaving the evidence behind. In fact, they are likely proud of it.

Loud cursing fills the usually subdued pub, arguments over whose fault it was for the spilling of the whiskey, but Emma knows that it doesn’t matter whose fault it was when she’s the one who has got to clean it up and scrub the damn floors clean when all is said and done.

Damn drunk men and their damn petty fights over what always amounts to being about a woman who has no interest in either of them.

Sighing, she turns on her heels behind the bar where she was polishing tumblers and other glasses and walks back into the storage room to retrieve the broom and dustpan along with some cloths. She is not supposed to leave the bar and the alcohol unattended, but she has been working here long enough to know that anyone who stumbles into this particular pub is smart enough to know not to steal from the Jones family.

They’ll be dead faster than the rum can pass their lips, and the Joneses don’t give out the good stuff to just anyone so that would be one pathetic last drink.

Twisting on the lights in the closet, her eyes scan over shelves of supplies and half-empty bottles that have somehow made their way back here, until she finds the broom, unattached from the pan.

Of course. Why would the broom ever be stored away with its matching set?

“Fuck,” she mutters, adjusting her trousers. They are too large around her waist, but she hasn’t had time to buy any new clothes lately. From what she’s gleamed, trousers on women are not widely accepted in Birmingham, but some days she cannot be bothered to wear a dress that squeezes the breath out of her. Today was one of those days, but unless she wants her knickers on display for everyone to see, she is going to have to buy new clothes soon.

“That’s no language for a lady.”

Immediately, she twists around to look at the other side of the room where the deep, accented voice originated. He’s standing with his gray suit clad legs crossed over another, arms stretched over his chest so that his shirt tightens around his muscles, and there is a bloody smirk plastered on that ever-handsome face under the dark brush of his facial hair. He’s without his cap and suit jacket today, but he’s never without his vest and the shirt that stays indecently unbuttoned. It is the one thing that never changes about his appearance, and the day she sees his shirt fully buttoned, Emma knows shit will start flying in every direction.

“Well, as you know, I’m far from a lady. I work here after all.”

Blue eyes flicker up and down her body, taking in the curves of her hips and her breasts even under her loose clothing, the bastard, and if possible, the smirk intensifies, curling from one side of his lips to the next.

“Now, darling,” he croons, uncrossing his legs and taking three strides forward to stand in her space, hovering just enough above her to make her feel smaller than she already is, “you and I both know that is not true.” “Do we?” she argues, raising a brow in his direction.

He chuckles, something dark that heads straight between her thighs, and then warm hands are on her hips, rough fingertips brushing against the skin at her waist, and hot breath brushes over her ear and down her neck while whiskers prick her skin.

“Did you miss me, love?” Killian whispers before pulling back, putting space between them as quickly as he closed it off.

“Were you gone?”

His head tilts back with laughter, and she watches him roll his shirt sleeves up, revealing angry red scars and marks on his left hand. She’s heard the rumors of how he received those scars, but when it comes to Killian Jones, rumors are not reliable. He’s done things the average person could never dare dream of, and fiction and reality toe a thin line, both of them crossing until everything is blurred.

“I was in London for two weeks, love. I cannot believe you didn’t notice my absence. I would have thought it would be at the forefront of your mind.”

“Well, I know this may be hard for you to believe, but my thoughts do not revolve around you.”

His brow lifts, lines on his forehead moving with it, and he cocks his head to the side, disbelieving. “A woman as fascinating as you must have too many things to fill her mind other than me, so I can actually believe it if you must know.”

“You flatter me.”

Killian clicks his tongue. “I intend to.” He moves around her, footfalls quiet, and presses open the hidden door in the closet he must have walked through to be in here. “My brothers and I will be in our dining room today. Get the good stuff from the safe.”

Emma mockingly bows. “It would be my pleasure.”

He stares, blue eyes bright compared to the darkness of the rest of him, and then he slips out, moving through the back hallways and compartments that were installed during the War but are now used for the family to avoid their enemies and the coppers, who are usually paid off but can sometimes still question the Joneses’ business practices, especially when there’s a new hire for their more questionable ventures. It is a fascinating thing to watch how a family who supposedly manufactures automobiles and distills rum has such a varied number of enemies. Maybe that is simply how it is for all businessmen, but Emma wouldn’t know.

She is simply a barmaid after all.

When she exits the closet with both broom and pan in hand, the argument is over, but the shattered glass remains. She quickly cleans it, dumps the glass outside, and gets back to tending bar, talking to the men who wander in and out of the place. Half of them fancy her, she knows. It’s obvious in the way they speak to her, even more obvious in the way they will often attempt to touch her, but Emma does not get paid to appease the baser desires of the patrons of My Fairest Lady. If she did, she would be in an entirely different type of business where her purse would be full for once.

As the day passes, men come in and out in their tailored suits and carefully curated ties, and Emma watches all of them, seeing where they go and what they order. She watches as some walk up the stairs and only appear again hours lately, but mostly she watches the ones that walk into the pub and immediately turn right into the private room the Joneses sit in when they decide they are going to conduct business at the pub instead of in one of their offices. When the rest of the place quiets, she can often hear them, especially if she decides to rest near the small trap door through which they order their drinks.

Tonight, they are talking about needing new men, but she cannot hear well enough as to why. This has been her problem for weeks. She gleams a little information, but not enough, and if Killian Jones wasn’t so in tune to every noise in the place, she’d sneak through the back tunnels and listen from there.

That would surely get her killed.

The sun sets early, the smog from the factories outside aiding in the darkening of the world, and when her shift is over for the night, Emma grabs her things and leaves, walking through the streets of Birmingham until she is at her flat, a small, dingy little place that reminds her of the homes she grew up in. It wasn’t her first choice, but so often, things aren’t.

Emma twists the key in the lock and walks inside. For all of its faults, the place has electricity. That makes her life much easier since she does not have to go about striking matches and blowing out fire every few hours.

“Hello, dearie.”

Emma’s skin pales, and heaviness settles in her stomach, weighing her down to keep her from moving. Sitting at her kitchen chair is Robert Gold, and no matter how long she has worked with him, she will never feel comfortable when he decides to show his face without notice.

She will never feel comfortable even when he gives notice.

“Gold,” Emma nods, straightening her back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Slowly, he stands, using his gold-encrusted cane to prop himself up, and Emma shuts the door behind her. She has a knife in a strap around her thigh, and while she technically works for him, she doesn’t trust Gold as far as she can throw that knife.

“Have you located the guns?”

“If I had, you would know.”

“That doesn’t work for me.”

Emma tilts her head back and scoffs, her rapid heartbeat calming as her skin heats, rage and fire and disbelief settling in the bumps of her skin. “Oh, my deepest apologizes. It is obviously a simple bloody task to infiltrate the most notorious gang in the city and gleam where they keep stolen guns. They don’t talk so openly about their business!”

Gold walks closer, beady eyes reflected under the lamplight, and Emma stays steady. “We hired a woman to do this because women are Killian Jones’s weakness. Get to know him, get in his bed, and then you will be in the inner circle.”

She spits. “I am not sleeping with him for your cause.”

“Is my cause not your cause? Getting rid of undesirable gangs and criminals that disrespect the Crown and steal from our arms factories?”

Emma laughs, her heartbeat racing again. “I work for you because I have no other choice. It was this or death.”

He shrugs, tapping his cane. “You shouldn’t have made a deal with me, and we wouldn’t be in this position. Alas, we are, and you must deal with the consequences of your actions, dearie. All deals have a price. I’ll be returning.”

Gold steps around her, making Emma move to the side, and then he exits her flat. His presence, however, lingers, and she feels as if grime and smog are coating her skin. That is a feeling that never goes away, but it is especially present after one of Gold’s visits. Emma curses and stomps her foot, despising her situation. She is only twenty-three years of age, but she has lived the life of an elder. Growing up in orphanages does not set a woman up for a good life, and seven years ago when she fell pregnant but couldn’t afford to take care of the baby, she went to Gold for help. He was known to be able to do anything, especially find homes for children without charging the birth mother exuberant prices, but no one told her the price of his services would be to work for him and the government in backhanded deals. It was this, death, or harm done to a child she has only held once but loves as if she was allowed to raise him.

She couldn’t be a mother, doesn’t know if she ever will be able to again, but she will not let harm fall on that child.

So, now, she is shipped across Europe, putting her life at risk every day. After all, what is the potential of death when compared to certain death?

-/-

Days pass, and Emma learns of no new information. She works long hours, taking extra shifts and standing behind the bar until her feet bleed from blisters, her heels too small with swollen feet. Every day, Killian and his brothers Liam and Lee walk inside, often with William Scarlet and Rob Locksley following behind them, but they say nothing more to her than greetings and drink orders. Killian will spend additional time leaning over the bar, his voice deep with his flirtations, but she pushes them away. She will not sleep with him to get information, and she will not sleep with him because he thinks she is easy prey.

Men like him, no matter how enticing, do not lead to good things.

Knowing he’s the head of a gang doesn’t reassure her.

Knowing one day he will have a price on her head, well, it does not give her any confidence that she could ever be anything more than a warm body in his bed. Most likely, he wouldn’t give her the curtesy of taking her there, instead taking her behind the bar.

If only she had been born into a family with means. Maybe then she could live a life where death did not linger so closely.

“Swan, darling,” Killian calls from his private room, “can you come in here?”

Emma stills, gripping on her glass, but she quickly composes herself. It’s not often she is called into the room, and while she would like an invitation to the inside, she knows it comes with risks. Slowly, she moves around the bar and heads toward the door. Liam opens it for her, nodding, and she steps inside as Liam closes the door behind her. Killian, Lee, William, and Rob are sitting in the cushioned booths, and Killian pats the seat beside him. She nods and sits next to him, keeping her posture straight and face neutral.

“Emma, love,” Killian starts, “you’re educated, are you not?”

“I am not.”

Killian twists and looks at her with wide eyes. “You speak like you’ve been educated.”

“Natural intelligence,” Emma shrugs. Gold gave her an education, but she refuses to give him any credit when most of it has been of her own doing. “I attended school as a child, but not much else. Everything has been self-taught.”

“See,” Lee sighs, “I don’t need more schooling.”

“You damn well do if you want to be a part of this business! We are educated men, and you will be no different.”

“Where did you go to school?” Emma asks, not able to help herself.

“Oxford. Though, my studies were interrupted by my needed service in the War.”

“It’s a shame.”

“I think I’m doing well for myself, regardless, love.”

“You should go to school, Lee,” Emma tells the youngest Jones brother, a bastard child of their father they brought into the family business. “You have the Jones Corporation to fall back on, but if you want to be a true asset, you should better yourself as much as you can.”

“Oi, am I bloody well supposed to take advice from a woman? A woman who is a barmaid no less? What could you possibly know?”

Killian slams his hand down on the table, glass and silverware shaking. “This woman is far more competent than you, lad, and I suggest you respect her. Everyone is your equal, no matter what dear old dad told you to make you believe otherwise.”

Lee curses under his breath, and Emma slinks back into the booth as the room stills, the air heavy with unspoken words waiting to be set free. She doesn’t know if she should stay or walk out of the room and back to her job, but Killian makes the decision for her. “Why don’t you all go? Get back to work.”

“What about what we were discussing?” Liam questions, but he still grabs his cap and his coat.

“We will discuss it later.” The men nod and then begin to shuffle out of the room. Emma moves to join them, but Killian reaches out and grabs her wrist, the warmth of his hand spreading over here. “Stay, Swan.”

She doesn’t dare deny him as she cannot give up any opportunity to learn more about him, so she turns and takes the seat opposite him, smoothing out her skirt and her hair. “Is everything alright?”

“The horse race is this weekend, as I’m sure you know, and I’d like to bring you as a guest.”

Emma blanches. “Excuse me?”

A smile creeps onto his face, and he reaches into his pocket to slide a bag of coins across the table. “I’d like to take you to the races as my companion. You should use this to buy a nice dress and hat.”

“Are you trying to buy my affections?”

“I think we both know you cannot be bought.”

If only he knew.

Emma studies him, trying to read past the smile and the friendly invitation, but she sees nothing of any use. “Why me?”

Killian leans forward, elbow pressed to the table and chin resting on his knuckle. “I fancy you from time to time when you aren’t ignoring me, as I have made no secret.”

Emma thinks to all the times where she’s forgotten herself and has allowed Killian to get close in the way she doesn’t want, all the times he has lingered close to her and pressed his lips to her neck before she pulls away. She will not sleep with him for money or for Gold’s cause, but she would be telling a lie if she said she has never considered it for her own personal reasons. Her mind is constantly contradicting her there, and Emma has never been able to settle her thoughts one way or another.

Getting into bed with dangerous men leads to getting into bed with dangerous things.

Emma has already put on the sheets and started slipping out of her shoes despite her best efforts not to.

“So, you expect me to buy a nice outfit and spend a day away with you as nothing more than an ornament on your arm because you fancy me?”

“I expect nothing of you. Every choice is up to you.”

Emma reaches her fingers across the table and takes the purse of coins. “Any color in particular you’d like for my dress?”

“Surprise me.”

-/-

Her dress is red, and when she walks into My Fairest Lady on Saturday morning, she can feel the eyes of the entire place on her. It’s made of a delicate lace and flowered accents and flares out at the hips, but the corset makes her breasts push up, cleavage showing where she usually hides it. Her heels were dyed to match, her hat too, and it is the nicest thing she’s ever worn. It feels foreign on her skin, and while Emma would prefer comfort, she doesn’t mind feeling elegant for once. Anna, the woman who lives next to her, saw Emma carry her dress home, asked where she was going with it, and insisted she allow Emma to roll her hair with hot curlers and apply paint to her lips. She thinks the redness of her lips along with the cleavage may be the thing that brings down the Jones Company, and if she’d known that, maybe she would have dressed like this earlier.

“You look,” Killian begins.

“I know,” Emma finishes, taking his hand as he helps her into the carriage. “You look nice as well.”

“And much like you, I did know that.”

The drive to the races doesn’t seem long, but Emma knows they’ve traveled for at least two hours. Killian doesn’t talk for much of it, but when he does, it’s to point out something on the side of the road. He’s able to tie everything in with a story from the War or something William Scarlet has done, and Emma chuckles, seeing the lighter side of them. She knows how they spend much of their time, and it is not taking all of Killian’s suits out of his closet and replacing them with Lee’s so they’ll be several sizes too small.

When they arrive at Cheltenham, it is like nothing Emma has ever seen before. The building around the track is glamourous and obviously newly built, and everyone around is in their nicest clothes. To Emma, this is foreign, every bit of it. Her life is a life in the shadows in tattered clothes and normal things. Her life is not spent betting on horse races and wearing dresses worth more than her flat to accompany the head of a gang while she secretly attempts to discover where he’s hiding the guns Gold wants.

She does not even know why Gold wants those guns so badly when the factory can surely produce more, but her entire life is about finding them.

She should have never stepped foot in his house had she known these would be the consequences, but she needed to give that kid the good life he has.

“This is spectacular,” Emma says as the carriage stutters to a stop amongst all the others, motors slowly dying out.

Killian takes her hand and guides her out of the carriage, placing his hand on her lower back when they set foot on the gravel. “You haven’t seen anything yet, love.”

Killian is right in that she hasn’t seen anything because when they walk inside, the floor is lined with black and white tiles, and the ceiling is home to ornate paintings and chandeliers that look too heavy to stay there. Emma shouldn’t feel overwhelmed by it all, but she does. Killian knows every other person they pass, some greeting him with reverence and some greeting him with fear, but they all greet him just the same. His hand stays steady on her back as he moves her though the hallways, and he introduces her to several other women before disappearing into another room. She wants to follow him, to see what business he’s doing, but she knows she can’t.

“How do you know Killian Jones?” a woman with long brunette hair asks. Emma thinks her name is Ruby, but she cannot remember. It was too much talking at once.

“How do you?” Emma counters.

“I was his lover years ago.”

Emma arches her brow. “Well, that does not shock me.”

“Oh, you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

Ruby steps closer to her, whispering so no one around them can hear. “He had an affair with the wife of a powerful man, and the man killed his wife in front of Killian and burned Killian’s hand. After that, he slept with anyone who so much as looked like his lover because he was often too drunk to realize the difference. So, you, you’re different. I have never seen him go with a blonde.”

“Well,” Emma steadies, trying to keep her heart from racing after what she heard, “I am not his lover, so I imagine you’ll have to keep waiting to see that.”

“Not yet,” Ruby tells her before stepping away, dress trailing behind her.

“You ready to watch the races?”

Emma jumps at Killian’s returned presence, and he chuckles, placing his hand on her back again while looking down at her, amused. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Emma lies. “Just fine.”

She flashes a smile that reaches her eyes, making it as genuine as possible, and before Killian guides her to their seats, she sees a spot of blood on his shirt. She doesn’t know if it is his or someone else’s, but she does know that whatever business he had at the races has very little to do with horses.

-/-

Emma’s feet ache when she settles into her seat in the carriage, and she immediately toes out of her shoes and tucks her feet underneath her. Killian eyes her with curiosity, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shrugs of his jacket and lays it over her lap.

“You may not have been able to move, but you cut quite the figure in that dress.” Her cheeks heat, but she doesn’t say anything, simply smiling at him. “Did you enjoy the races, Swan?”

“I did. Though, not as much as you.”

“What makes you say that?”

Emma hums and taps her fingers over Killian’s suit jacket, moving it to cover more of her. “Well, your purse is fuller. Your horse won, and if I heard correctly, you are now in charge of all bets.”

He turns to look at her, and if she were talking to any other member of the gang, she would back away. For some reason, however, the leader doesn’t scare her tonight, not like he should. She had one too many glasses of fine wine.

“How exactly do you know that?”

Emma points to the small blood stain on his shirt. “I’m assuming that is the blood of someone from the Mills family, who all mysteriously went away before the races even started. Everyone came to Rob and Liam to make their bets. It does not take a genius to figure things out once the pieces begin to fall into place.”

“Not a genius, no, but someone with an observant eye.” He leans forward, invading her space like he so often does. “You, love, know a little too much.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Emma whispers, breathless.

He leans closer, until her air and his air are the same, and Emma closes her eyes to brace herself, not knowing what is coming next. His lips ghost over hers, but they do not firmly touch. Instead they linger, and Emma feels every move he makes. “Keep you close,” Killian finally says. “I believe you would know too much for me to let you go.”

Enough but not what she needs.

“I believe you may be right.”

Killian rests his hand on her thigh before pulling back, their air separating into their own entities once more. “Lee would have a bloody fit if he ever knew you so quickly figured things out. The boy has potential, but he is too much like our father. I believe that will be his downfall.”

“I believe underestimating women will be his downfall.”

Killian clicks his tongue and nods. “You see, that stems directly from our father, the bastard of all bastards, and you are correct. Many a man was brought down by the kiss of a woman, but few of them have the smarts to know it was her brain that truly brought them down.”

“And you know that?”

“Aye, I do.”

Emma wants to ask about the woman Ruby mentioned early, but she doesn’t dare. She’s already toeing the lines of danger tonight, and mentioning the deceased woman Killian used to love seems ill advised.

So, she stays quiet and keeps her place, knowing she is one step closer to where she needs to be. She is gaining his trust more and more each day, but she also feels herself slipping into a place from which she cannot return.

Fuck.

-/-

Weeks pass, and the weather chills, Birmingham’s winter quickly creeping upon them. Emma freezes every day on her walk to the pub, but one day a coat appears in a box with her name on it. It is long and warm, and besides her red dress, the nicest thing she owns. Killian never confirms it is from him, but she knows it was. She knows the coat, the gloves, and the scarves are all from him, and while she tells him thank you, he never accepts any of her words. Instead, he invites her more into his life. She knows about the gambling and the illegal businesses of the Jones Corporation, and her knowledge gets her foot in the door.

Everything that happens inside is up to Killian.

He brings her in from the pub to settle arguments, to help with the numbers after he discovers she’s better with them than Rob ever has been, and when Liam goes away for some time to take his wife to visit her family in France, Killian often has Emma sit in Liam’s seat with his hand on her thigh underneath the table.

Killian Jones is not a man who takes his time courting women, but Emma cannot help but feel like that is exactly what is happening with her. It is surely not proper, but there’s too much lingering between them for it to be anything else.

Though, it does always stay lingering, never crossing the line, and Emma finds herself thinking more and more about the woman he loved and the string of women who followed.

She finds her resolve to keep her heart away from him teetering over the edge of no return.

She also thinks of Neal, of how much he promised her, of how much he let her down. He was going to give her a better life, but then he disappeared into the wind, never to be heard from again when she realized she was pregnant.

Surely she must take some blame for her situation, but Emma always remembers that so much of it is because of Neal.

Tonight Killian is allowing singing in the pub. He never does, says it makes the place too cheery when that is not his style of pub, but once a week, he allows the men to sing after she leads them off in whatever song she knows. The joyous mood leads to more drinking, which is more money for them, and she imagines that is the only reason Killian allows it.

If she were a conceited woman, she would say he allows it to hear her sing.

The Joneses and their associates march into the pub, some of them disappearing into the back room, but most come to the main part of the pub, moving around the crowd and disappearing into the thick of it. Emma watches Killian, and she can feel his eyes on her no matter where he is.

He never does come to the bar for long periods of time, not while the place is full of people at least, but then when Arthur Pemberton’s hand gets a little too close to Emma, suddenly Killian is there, standing with her, hand possessively on her hip while he warns Arthur not to let his libations get to him.

“I can handle myself,” Emma hisses when Arthur has stumbled away. “I do not need you.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“Then what was that? You wanted to show off who had the bigger cock?”

“Darling, I know that would be me.”

Emma’s head tilts back with feigned, exasperated laughter, but Killian does not seem amused. She waits for him to laugh, for the blue of his eyes to light up, but instead his jaw clenches from beneath his whiskered chin.

“Fancy a song then, sailor?” Emma asks to change the subject and keep them from getting into a row. For all the nights they have spent talking about small little details of their lives and their wishes, so, too, have they spent nights arguing. She knows when they’re on the verge of both.

“Why would I fancy a song?”

“To make you smile.”

“Alright then.” He taps his hand on the bar top before helping Emma up to her new vantage point, arching his brow while he looks at her. “Sing me a song then, lass.”

Emma nods and inhales, knowing the entire room will be listening, but she only focuses on the one man with blue eyes as clear as the ocean on a sunny day.

“In a neat little town they call Belfast, apprentice to trade I was bound. Many an hour’s sweet happiness had I spent in that neat little town. A sad misfortune came over me, which caused me to stray from the land. Far away from my friends and relations, betrayed by the black velvet band. Her eyes, they shone like diamonds. I thought her the queen of the land. And her hair, it hung over her shoulder, tied up with a black velvet band.”

When she finishes, the room is silent, her voice echoing between the four walls, and when she looks at Killian, she can see water in his eyes, a new ocean amongst the blue.

“Another!” someone in the crowd yells, but Emma doesn’t turn away from Killian.

“Oi, the lady sings one song. If you want a new one, sing it yourself!”

Emma chuckles and allows herself to sit down on the bar top, Killian helps her to the ground, her heels clicking against the hardwood. His hand lingers, warmth spreading through her, but as soon as it warms her, it disappears as Killian walks away, disappearing upstairs.

“Are you truly not going to sing us another song?”

Emma rolls her shoulders back and turns around, Leroy standing in front of her. She smiles softly and takes his glass, pouring him another drink. “If you ask me nicely, I just might.”

The night passes quickly, My Fairest Lady filling as it does on this day every week, but eventually everyone leaves, the place emptying as the streets quiet outside, the drunks all returning to their homes or their mistresses. Emma takes her time sweeping up, toeing out of her heels to let her feet rest, and she hums all of the songs sung today, their lyrics filling her usually tired mind.

She doesn’t hear him come in, and it would startle her if he didn’t step directly to her, taking her hands in his and pulling her close, joining in the songs she was singing. She didn’t think he could sing, but he carries a tune almost better than she does.

“I don’t dance,” Emma whispers.

“That is because you have never had a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“And this partner is you?”

“Aye.”

Emma hasn’t danced in years, and she doesn’t know any of the traditional ones. She would be out of place at a ball for many a reason. She could wear the dress, have the nice man on her arm, but her footing would give her way. One wrong step, and everything would be over.

One wrong step here, she could be dead.

Once more, she has no interest in thinking of the real reason she’s here. She wants to stay in this moment, allowing Killian to sing sweet melodies to her, and she wants to forget about Gold and her mission and everything else.

Emma wants to pretend that for now she is nothing more than a woman dancing with a man she has come to fancy despite herself, no darkness and secrets between them.

What a world that would be.

Emma tilts her head up, looking at Killian, at the softness of his lips and the length of his dark lashes. He is different in this light, softer than his usual hard edges, but Emma knows they are still there, just below the surface.

“I took a stroll down broadway,” Killian sings, continuing her song from earlier, “meaning not long for to stay. When who should I meet but this pretty fair maid come a-traipsing along the highway. She was both fair and handsome. Her neck, it was just like a swan.”

Here, he runs a finger down her neck that ricochets into a tremor down her spine.

“And her hair, it hung over her shoulder, tied up with a black velvet band.”

“I thought you didn’t like music,” Emma whispers as his fingers toy with the ends of her loose hair. She’s enchanted by him, and for once, she isn’t afraid to admit it.

“That’s because not everyone sings like you, love.”

Slowly, Emma presses up on her toes, and her lips go gently over his, feeling the softness that resides there. He lingers, not pushing her forward, but before Emma can do just that, his hand comes to cup the nape of her neck, tilting her head for him to control the kiss. She never did imagine Killian Jones wouldn’t be the one to take charge of a kiss, so no part of this surprises her. He tastes like rum, the alcohol burning her tongue as heat overwhelms her, and Emma is so consumed by him that she doesn’t notice the way he’s backed her across the room until the edge of the bar is pressing into her lower back, leaving a mark that will linger longer than the burning of this kiss.

When Emma gently bites at his bottom lip, he growls, moving his hands to pick her up until she’s resting on the top of the bar. Emma cups his cheeks, the prickle of his beard scratching her palms, but she pays no attention to that when her legs wrap around his back and she feels his hips roll into hers, the firmness of him pressing into her in ways she hasn’t felt in too long.

It feels damn good, and if Emma were a proper woman, she would have stopped this and kept it from going too far.

She is not a proper woman.

Killian, however, seems to be a proper man, because he pulls back, sweat slicked forehead leaning against hers, and then he moves away, putting more space between him than Emma wants now that they’ve finally closed the gap they’ve lingered near since her first day on the job. All she wants now is to feel him pulsing inside of her, creating a rhythm that matches with the beat of her heart and brings her the pleasure she so craves.

“I am not having you on this bar,” he grumbles, his voice deep and hoarse. His hand falls down her back, grabbing onto her hip and pulling her closer to him. “You deserve more.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” And she means it. She once thought that he wouldn’t care enough to take her to a bed, but now she finds she’s the one who doesn’t care. Her blood is running hot, and she would be fine with it right here even if the countertop digs into her arse. “This is fine.”

He kisses her again, all teeth and tongue and rough determination, and she thinks he’s given up on his sense of chivalry, especially when he encourages her to wrap her ankles around him, but then he’s stumbling with the kiss and lifting her off the bar. She gasps at the sudden movement and circles her arms around his neck to keep from falling.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Emma protests, pulling away as Killian runs his mouth down her neck.

“I said I wasn’t having you on this bar, and I meant it. I have a private room upstairs for when I can’t sleep at home.”

There’s a dark hunger in his voice, one that thrums between Emma’s thighs, and while she’d much prefer to walk herself to the room, she allows him to have this moment. Her legs are likely too shaky with desire for her steps to be steady.

This is not what she intended to do when she kissed him, but she should have known. It’s been building for months, and Emma has shown enough restraint.

She is tired of convincing herself that she wants anything other than this. s

When they get to Killian’s room, he lays her down on the bed, and Emma immediately starts unlacing her dress at her breasts as Killian undoes the buttons on his shirt, pulling it off before he leans down to assist her, his tongue and teeth tracing her exposed skin and leaving red marks with all of his kisses. The heat between her thighs is a sharp throb now, and Emma writhes underneath Killian has his mouth touches the hollow of her throat and his hand reaches behind her knee, pulling her up until he drags against her in the perfect way that has them both moaning.

“You have tempted me since the moment you walked in this damn pub asking for a job.”

His mouth is eager with its ministrations, especially when he finds her nipple, and Emma is left searching for words as her heart threatens to beat out of her chest. Snow falls outside, cold white flakes coating the ground, but Emma is nothing but warm. Parts of her feel like she is on fire, and even as things progress and clothes no longer lay on her body, she might as well be wrapped in down blankets with a fire burning next to her and a hot drink in her hand.

Instead, she’s pressing into the mattress, Killian’s hand palming her breast while his mouth goes lower and lower until her back is arching into the air and she’s dragging her nails down his back and up into the soft tresses of his dark head of hair. Sweat is beading down her chest and collecting at her hair, and Emma never thought it would be possible to sweat in December in Birmingham.

“Killian,” she moans when he does something sinful with his tongue. “Oh fuck.”

He doesn’t say anything back, simply keeps working how he’s working, and for a long while, it’s like the pleasure is never going to end. It’s a constant working up and up and up until she’s dangling off the cliff, ready to let go.

Killian barely gives her any time to recover from her fall before he’s working his way back up her body, settling over her and settling against her so she can feel him bare where she wants him. Emma licks a stripe up his neck, salt on her tongue, and he grunts in response, rolling his hips against hers until both of them are messes.

Shifting beneath him, Emma moves until Killian is face to face with her, his lips lingering over hers and his wild, sweat slicked hair in front of her. She imagines her hair is tangled as well, and it’ll likely never be the same.

“Hello, beautiful,” he whispers, cupping her cheek with his hand.

“So, this isn’t the bar anymore,” Emma jokes, looking for levity in a moment that seems heavy.

“No, no it isn’t.”

They’re both quiet as he presses into her in a slick stretch of heat, and Emma immediately spreads her legs wider for a better fit, allowing him to settle. He’s thick and heavy inside of her, and Emma digs her nails into his back, holding on tight as she moves her hips to get a more perfect fit.

She is going to leave her mark with him tonight, red scars from her nails stretching across his back.

“You are wonderful.” He kisses her again, muttering soft words while his hips start moving, creating a rhythm that might just burn Emma alive, especially when Killian’s hand slides down to her arse and helps himself slide in deeper. “So fucking wonderful.”

“You are too.”

He groans above her, and his hips become that little bit more frantic as his chest hair creates friction against her breasts. This is the best Emma has felt in months, maybe even years, and she wants to chase this high for as long as she can, even as she feels herself tumbling over with each thrust of Killian’s hip and swipe of his thumb as his lips devour hers, only stopping to mutter filthy encouragements.

This is not how she expected today to go.

She wouldn’t change it for a thing.

Her skin is boiling now, and if the curtains were closed, Emma wouldn’t know it was winter outside. Sweat is slicked everywhere, but she doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care about anything except how good it feels when Killian engraves her name into the side of her neck as he succumbs to pleasure as well, his bodyweight pressing down on her, melding them from two to one.

After, Killian is gentle when he helps her clean up, and they settle underneath the blankets. Emma presses her right leg between his and rests her cheek against his collarbone as her fingers tread through the dark hair on his chest. She moves it around from where sweat has matted it, and she traces the red scars that make up so much of him. They look almost silver in the moonlight.

They look stunning.

Emma feels lips press to her temple, and she smiles, burying her face in his neck and breathing him in.

Happy. This is what happiness feels like. It’s been so long that it surprises her.

“I have to go.”

It’s like she’s been slapped.

“Sorry?”

“I have to go,” Killian repeats, but Emma can’t quite come to terms with the words. “I have…business to attend to.”

Her walls immediately come back up, brick by brick.

“You have business to attend to? Seriously? What the fuck kind of excuse is that? What? You fuck me and then leave? Were you using me because – ”

Emma pulls back away from him, sitting up and pulling the blankets with her, and Killian stays settled against the headboard, hands behind his head. “I had this business before I slept with you. Believe me, there is nothing I would rather do than stay in bed with you until I’m bloody dragged out of it, but I have to do this tonight.”

Emma scoffs and crawls out of the bed, getting finding her undergarments. “I’m coming with you.”

“Swan.”

“If I’m jumping into bed with you, I want to know the exact details of the man I’m jumping into bed with.”

He arches his brow, mouth curling into a smirk as his head nods to how exposed he is. “It may be a little too late for that now.”

Emma should be flustered, but she’s not. She’s determined that she won’t be left behind.

Her hands fall to her hips. “That depends on if you let me come with you.”

“Grab your damn coat and a scarf. You’ll freeze without them.”

“Are you a gentleman now?”

He clicks his tongue. “I’m always a gentleman.”

They take Killian’s carriage, only with him driving this time instead of the two of them sitting in the back, and they don’t speak wherever it is they’re going. Anticipation courses through her veins, gooseflesh spreading across her skin wherever it can reach, and a lump permanently lodges itself in her throat. She doesn’t know what to think, what to feel, and when they drive to a graveyard, Emma is certainly confused. When Killian grabs a shovel out of the back and leads her to his mother’s grave, her skin crawls for a reason entirely unrelated to the cold.

“She’s not buried here.”

“Oh?”

“No. I had a stone made, but she is closer to the ocean. It’s the place she loved the most.”

“Then what is – ”

Emma doesn’t bother finishing her question when she sees the gleam of guns underneath the moonlight. Her heart drops to the pit of her stomach, and for all that Emma has pushed away her thoughts of Gold and his threats lingering over her, there is no denying them now.

She found the guns.

Rather, Killian showed her.

She knows where they are, and by sunrise, she could be out of this place and out of this damn deal.

But Emma knows better than to think she’ll truly be free from Gold. He’ll find her again and bring with him new threats, and she’d be a fool to think otherwise.

Life as a moll has not seemed too bad lately, especially now that she knows how Killian feels when he kisses her, but she’s still torn between two places.

If she tells Gold where the guns are, she’ll be under his control for the rest of her life.

If she tells Killian, he’ll surely kill her.

For a moment, she contemplates a third option, one where she both keeps her breath and is able to truly live. It would never work, however. Gold would manipulate her, and she’d spend her entire life leading a double life, betraying the man who has obviously given her his trust.

The strange thing is, she has given him the same.

It’s not enough, and Emma, surrounded by all these graves, already knows she will have no headstone. There will be no one to mourn her.

She needs time to figure things out, and she’s running out of time.

Emma floats through the rest of the night, not knowing what she’s saying or doing, and when Killian leaves her at her flat with a resounding kiss that shakes her to her core, she thinks of running away with him. It should be easy. She’s been doing it her entire life.

“It’s late,” Killian whispers, “You should go inside and get some rest, but tomorrow, I have different plans for you.”

“Oh?”

He kisses her again, warming every bit of her body that is chilled. “Goodnight, my love.”

“Goodnight, Killian.”

Emma exits his carriage and walks into her building, a smile on her face until she unlocks her door.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Fuck,” Emma mutters, her senses coming back to her as Gold stands across from her. She hasn’t seen him since the last time he broke in, but he’s here now.

It’s too late for her to run away.

She is no longer floating through tonight.

“Where have you been?” Gold asks, his voice as cold as the snow outside.

“Working.”

“I noticed that Killian Jones himself drove you home.” The floor creaks underneath him, and his cane thumps against the floor at the same beat as her heart. “Interesting that. You didn’t come from the direction of the pub either.”

“We went for a drive.” Emma takes off her coat in an attempt at nonchalance.

“To where exactly, dearie?”

“Around the town. Nowhere in particular.”

“Is that so?” He steps closer and taps his cane. Emma doesn’t have a gun on her. She can’t risk anyone finding it at work, but she knows Gold has one on him. Fuck. She doesn’t even have her knife today, and they’re both across the room where Gold is. “Would your drive happened to have gone near the cemetery?”

Emma’s skin goes colder than the outside weather could ever make it, and it is difficult to keep her breath from shallowing.

She’s been caught, and Gold is most likely going to kill her for her disloyalty to him.

“The guns are in Allison Jones’s grave.”

She had to tell him. She had no other option.

She hates herself for it.

“That is what I needed to know. Meet me in Nottingham in a week. I’ll have a new assignment for you then.”

Emma nods and backs against the wall as Gold moves around her, his hand turning the knob on her front door. “What are you going to do with the guns? Return them to Churchill?” she asks against her better judgment.

He laughs, and gooseflesh appears on her arms and down her legs, pebbling her skin as nausea settles in her throat. “Well, I’m going to return them to Churchill, of course, but not before I have a little fun with Killian Jones. Wouldn’t you know that a gang leader was mysteriously shot in his home in the middle of the night? Must have been one of his many enemies that did it.”

“Why?” Emma whispers.

Gold smiles. “Jones is known for sleeping with another man’s wife years ago, and well, I was that other man.”

And then he’s gone, limping out of the room with that slow, aching walk of his. Emma feels as if she’s been slapped across the cheek by his cane, and she immediately turns to her sink, releasing her insides and heaving, waiting for her breath to come back.

It never truly does.

Gold’s carriage sputters to life outside as Emma heaves once more, and even though her brain is functioning at half of its capacity, she knows what she needs to do.

She has to tell Killian.

Everyone in town knows what he does is illegal, but there’s no proof of his family’s crimes. They make it all as legal as possible through their legitimate businesses, and often the local coppers are on their side.

Gold, Churchill, and the Constabulary on not on their side.

Gold is going to murder him just like he murdered his wife.

Emma grabs her coat, shrugging it on as she runs out the door, and she wishes she had a carriage. She doesn’t however, so as snow falls down around her, Emma runs through the streets of Birmingham, taking the alleys she frequents so often, to get to Killian’s home. She’s only been there a few times, nearly all of it for business reasons, but she knows the way.

Her lungs are heavy, her breath short, and her feet ache from the heels of her boots. She imagines frostbite is hitting her toes, but she can’t stop. She was foolish and allowed herself to develop feelings for this man, to fall in love with him in the midst of all her protests otherwise, and she can’t let him get arrested.

She certainly cannot allow him to be murdered. Gold has an agenda against him, and Emma knows the only reason Killian isn’t dead is because he wanted the guns first to cover up his crimes.

Fuck.

When Emma comes across the house, she runs into the door, banging her fist against the wood before picking up the clapper and hitting it. It seems like hours before anyone comes to the door, but eventually someone does, Lee opening it with his gun in his hand.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he grumbles.

“Where’s your brother?”

“If you’re here to fuck him, you’ll have to get in line.”

“What?” Emma gawks, her heart still pounding. She knows he’s fucking with her, but of all the people she doesn’t fully trust, Lee Jones is near the top of the list. She’s heard Killian talk about his similarities to their father too much to think of him as trustworthy. “No, it doesn’t matter. I need to talk to Killian.”

“If it’ll get you to be quiet, fine. First door on the right upstairs.”

Emma nods and hurries up the stairs, her steps as loud as a heard of elements, and while she does hesitate to enter his room because of Lee’s words, she still does. He’s sitting in his bed, alone, and now is really not the time for her to be focusing on how Lee is constantly trying to fuck with her because he spent too much time with their arse of a father.

“Swan? Bloody hell. What are you doing here?”

She may get murdered for this, but she’s trusting that she won’t. Maybe he’ll understand that she’s done him wrong in the past, but she’s trying to save his life now.

“Robert Gold.”

Killian immediately sits straighter and moves the blankets off him until he’s standing in front of her, looming. “How do you know that name?”

Emma rolls her shoulders back, the adrenaline pushing her words forward.

“I got pregnant when I was sixteen, and I didn’t have a job or a family. I had nothing. I heard of this man who could help with discreet adoptions, get the baby into a good home, you know? So I went to Robert Gold, and he took care of me and my baby, and he found the kid a family who could love him. I believed I didn’t owe him any debts, but he’s threatened to hurt me and my son if I don’t do what he says. I don’t think he’d hurt the kid anymore because I now know the kid’s parents are in the government, but I know he’ll hurt me.”

Emma starts pacing. She can’t look at Killian. She cannot look at the blue she loves so much because it is surely about to turn black while looking at her.

That would break her heart.

“I’ve been working for him. This entire time. He had me gain employ at your pub to learn the location of the guns you stole from the arms factory. All this time I thought it was because Churchill wanted them so they could send them to where they were intended. But tonight Gold was in my flat after following us to the cemetery, and he told me you had slept with his wife, which means the man who shot his wife and your lover in front of you was Gold. He’s going after the guns, Killian. He’s going to get them, and then he’s coming here to either kill you for your crimes against him or arrest you for your crimes against the Crown. Either way, he’s going to kill you.”

Emma doesn’t notice the silence between them as her heart is still pounding like the loudest of drums, but the silence is surely there, being filled second by second with Killian’s rage toward her and toward Gold.

She gained his trust, and then she betrayed him.

“Why are you telling me this?” he whispers, his voice as even keeled as she’s ever heard it.

She nearly falls to the ground at the sound of it.

“Pardon?”

“Turn around and look at me.” Emma braces her shoulders and turns, having no idea what she’s about to see, but she imagines it will be a low-burning fury. She’s wrong. “If you were anyone else in the world, I would have your head for this. I don’t take betrayals lightly, and I will not take this one lightly even though I understand what it is like to be under Gold's thumb. Do not be fooled. But for fucks sake, Emma, I love you. I haven’t loved a woman since Milah was taken from me, but I love you. I also believe all sins can be forgiven when you love someone, but that does not mean I forgive you tonight.”

Emma doesn’t know what to do or think.

There are too many thoughts stampeding in her mind, and she isn’t caught up with it enough to process it all. For now, all she can think is she isn’t dead.

But Killian may be soon.

“What are you going to do about Gold?” Emma asks even when she meant to say something else entirely. She meant to say the three words that reside at the tip of her tongue, but they keep being pushed back.

More important matters are at hand.

“How long ago did he leave your flat to go after the guns?”

“I don’t know. I ran here as soon as he left.”

Killian nods and cups her cheek, kissing her soundly, before he turns around and starts pulling luggage from his drawers before quickly grabbing onto clothes. “Find a few warm things for you. Quickly.”

“Why? What the hell is happening?”

“It’s not safe for us here. We have to go until I can figure something out. There isn’t time to ask every bloody question.”

Lee comes rushing into the room at the same time that Emma grabs a thick blanket and some of Killian’s shirts and what she can only assume are clothes women left here. She doesn’t have much time to process that particular fact. “What the fuck are you two doing?”

“We have to go. Gold is coming after us. Pack a bag and start the carriage.”

“What about Liam? He’s in France. We have to warn him.”

“Liam isn’t set to come back until February. We’ll have time to get him a message. Gold is only coming after me for now. Go, go, we don’t have much time.”

“I thought we didn’t run from a challenge.”

Killian’s jaw clenches, and he turns to face his younger brother. “We’re not running. We’re allowing me to conjure a plan so we don’t get our heads blown off. Fucking go or I’ll leave you here!”

Lee nods, and then he’s out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the hallway for a quick moment before he’s heading out the door and the carriage turns on with a rumble. Emma’s collected enough clothes to last her weeks, and she watches as Killian stashes money into his suitcase before handing some to her.

“For if we get separated,” he explains.

“Where are we going?”

“I have a place in mind, but I can’t tell you yet. Now, come on, go get in the carriage. He works fast, and he shows no mercy, as I’m sure you know. Don’t worry, love. We’ll be fine. I’m a survivor.”

Killian’s hand finds Emma’s back, and as they walk down the stairs, she takes in the beauty of his home. A lot of love has been put into it, and by all accounts, it looks more like a house than a home.

Emma would have liked to have this place as a home. She’s still aching for that place she can call her own.

Now is not the time to think of that.

The cold hits her when they walk outside, and it doesn’t fade away when she climbs into the carriage next to Killian, Lee sitting behind them. Emma clutches onto her luggage, her knuckles white but her fingers pink, and Killian quickly reaches down and hands her a pair of gloves. She takes them without protest, and in the dead of night, she begins moving with the Jones brothers, leaving a white-covered Birmingham behind them.

She doesn’t know what’s going to happen to anyone, not to William or Rob or any of the other Jones Corporation associates. Gold will surely go after them to try to learn of Killian’s whereabouts, hers too, but there’s not time to drive to their homes and tell them. They’re smart and resourceful. They’ll figure things out. At least, Emma hopes so.

There’s no way for them to avoid Gold forever. Emma knows firsthand that he has connections across Europe with his ties to the government, and he’ll never stop until he gets to Killian. She has so many questions about what happened between Killian and Gold’s wife, a woman he obviously loved, but now is not the time for questions when she’s being driven to who knows where, every breath she bringing her one closer to her last.

Now is not the time for a lot of things, but since she didn’t say it earlier, Emma whispers a quiet “I love you,” not knowing if Killian or the wind catches it.

When he places his hand on her thigh, the comforting movement he’s been doing for months now, she thinks she knows.

Emma’s exhausted, but she dares not fall asleep. Instead she sits silently, Killian’s hand still on her thigh, and she watches the sun rise, bright lights reflecting against the pureness of some of the snow. In some places, it is nothing more than slush, but in others, it is beautiful. She can smell water around them, the salt of the ocean becoming clearer with each passing minute, and eventually, she can see the budding activity in a port, a large ship waiting in the water as people walk on board.

“Where are we going?” Emma asks.

Killian turns to her and flashes a tired but bright smile. “America, my love.”

-/-

tag list: @qualitycoffeethings @mrtinski @klynn-stormz @scarletslippers @jonirobinson64 @snowbellewells @therealstartraveller776 @thejollyroger-writer @sherifemma @galaxyzxstark @galadriel26 @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @teamhook @spartanguard @searchingwardrobes @jamif @shireness-says @ultimiflos @nikkiemms @onepunintendid @bluewildcatfanatic @superchocovian @killianswannn @carpedzem @captainkillianswanjones @mayquita @mariakov81 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @a-faekindagirl @scientificapricot @xellewoods @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @singersdd @tornadoamy @cluttermind @lfh1226-linda @andiirivera @itsfabianadocarmo @captain-emmajones

#black velvet #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan

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scenerp · 5 years

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HELLO SCENE STEALERS !!

it's your friendly neighborhood admin team, back at it again for another announcement. so we sat down together as a staff and realized that with how much positive reception we're already getting to this roleplay, it would probably be best for us to add one more person on our team. thus, today, we would like to officially welcome caroline to our moderation staff. you'll start seeing caroline helping around here, as they have already stepped in to help us continue prepping this roleplay for opening. we open in ten days, guys. omg. here is a proper introduction to our new family member. . . .

MEET: CAROLINE

THEY, THEM || 27 || MODERATOR || BLOG

Hello, my name is Caroline I like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain! (If you didn’t catch reference you’re too young). In all seriousness I am 27 years old, go by they/them, I am a professional actor and also work two part time jobs to keep that dream alive! I’ve been rping for 15+ years cuz I’m OLD. I love horror movies and musicals. And I mostly play queer men characters so please love me and give me all the plots! what do you hope to contribute to the staff … I hope to contribute unique event ideas, insight on what members want out of a site and to run a fun and relaxed site. What I hope to get out of this are some new plots and new rp friends! what are your favorite characters / faces / plots / tropes to play … angsty relationships, dysfunctional families, forbidden lovers, love triangles, anything that keeps you on your toes and wanting to write more. i also love enemies in the workplace type plots. we are all super excited to have caroline on our team, so everyone offer a warm, and enthusiastic welcome! now . . . just a few reminders for those of you who have been away / for those of your just joining us.

to those of you just joining us...

don't forget to post up a personal intro and tag it #scenerp, after you've done that you can go ahead and send us a love note to our ask box to claim your first official free face!! then you can get cracking on that development to try and win some really cool prizes. include: alias / age (range?) / pronouns / your favorite kinds of character, faces, tropes, etc / a personal statement about you! / a tribute to the admins (a funny meme?), your favorite meme, a funny cat gif ... something to make us chuckle!! don't forget, completing just one development post as a part of our first official development challenge enables you to claim your second free face (which should also be sent to our ask box, and also enters you to win an additional free face reserve prior to open (so you can walk in with four characters instead of five). on top of our first official development challenge, the staff is also hosting a rapid fire development challenge where you can enter to win a free premium member group.you have until MIDNIGHT TONIGHT to compete in the rapid fire development challenge before we close it down for entries. don't forget to post, tag, and track! one last note. we are only ten days away from opening and we are diligently working away at getting this roleplay open for everyone to enjoy. we want to open chicago up to as many scene stealers as possible. we have been working hard to recruit, and i'm sure you've seen our advertisement literally everywhere, but there is a part you can play as well! recruit your friends and fellow roleplayers. for every intro we receive from now where someone specifies your name as the person that recruited them, you will earn + 2 points towards our first development challenge (and also 50 points per person on site, deposited into the account of your choice). so what are you waiting for? help us make a scene!! again, we are super happy to see how excited everyone who has joined up so far are for this roleplay! we'd love to hear from you. if you have any suggestions / comments / ideas for the roleplay, or things that you'd like to see prior to us opening .... our ask box is always open. feel free to shoot us a message and we'll be happy to answer you. welcome to chicago. let's create a scene !!

( BLOG // TAG // STAFF // RESERVES // CALENDAR . . . . . . . . . . . . GUIDELINE // INTRO // DEVELOPMENT // PREVIEW // MEMBER GROUPS )

#jcink #jcink rp #jcink roleplay #jcink site #jcink premium #city town rp #city/town rp #rl rp #rl roleplay #scenerp #intro #staff intro #announcement

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hipsbef0rehands · 7 years

Text

Cresco Amor: Chapter 3

Author: @hips-bef0re-hands Timeline: Ties in with the canon of season 6 and 7 Rating: PG-13 (for now) Summary: How I think the ‘ship came to be

Part 1 and Part 2 found here

April 19th 1999

She sat at the desk thrumming her fingers against the wooden top. The office was cleaner, fresher. Likely from the renovations after the fire, combined with the fact that the former occupants never desired to make it any homier than a ficus in the corner. Of course the industrial cleaning of a mysterious bloodstain found on the floor added to the sterile feeling of the room. The blood was identified as Jeffry Spenders. The FBI assumed him to be dead based on blood loss, although no body had been found.

There were filing cabinets and a few standard FBI wall hangings. The walls were white, and on a sunny day, like today, the light shone in from the clean windows brightening the room. It felt bigger. It felt different.

Mulder used to keep the office a mess. On more than one occasion she had asked him to help her organize, make the place more conducive to working. ‘Organized chaos, Scully’ he would tell her. It was how he worked best.

It was not, however the way that she worked best. But it was his office and over time she would get used to working his way.

She had replayed the scenes from the past weeks in her head over and over again. Cassandra Spender demanding to be killed, the decontamination shower, her fight with Mulder over Diana Fowley. Each time she meticulously picked apart the events, she would become angrier. She hadn’t spoken with Mulder since their meeting with ADs Kersh and Skinner. They had been re-assigned to the x-files last week.

Scully felt like she should be happy about this, but the happiness felt compulsory. Was she happy, truly happy to be back on the X-files, or only proud that she and Mulder had gotten their way? She knew Mulder would be ecstatic, now fueled by the events and truths exposed in the past weeks, he would return to his post with renewed vigor. One that she wasn’t sure she shared at the moment.

“Murnin, Schull” he waked into the office with a McDonalds breakfast sandwich between his teeth, a cardboard box in his arms and a carefully balanced coffee cup on top. He bent down in front of her and raised his eyebrows, offering her the coffee. He walked over towards an empty shelf and plopped the box down unceremoniously. He removed the sandwich from his mouth.

“One sugar and a splash of whole milk.” He nodded towards her. Starting to unpack the box. She recognized its contents as old files he had salvaged after the fire and kept hidden during their time on manure patrol.

She sat quietly at the desk while Mulder buzzed around the room, unloading the contents of the box, flopping files down on the desk right in front of her.

“Damn, I miss that poster. I’m going to have to go to one of the college’s annual poster sales at the beginning of the semester and pick up another one. That is unless you want me to pick up a Backstreet Boys one for you” he said, turning his head towards her and wagging his eyebrows.

His attempt at humor was not well received. Scully continued with a blank stare.

“Mulder, I think I am going to take some time off.” She had been very thoughtfully formulating a way to tell him, but it abruptly came out of her mouth.

This time he turned to her with his whole body.

“Wha-what do you mean. We were just assigned…”

“I mean I am going to take some time off this week. We were just re-assigned, Mulder, and unless there is a current file in that box of yours, we aren’t going to be working on anything right away. I am going to take this time to decompress, to think about some things.”

It was his turn to give her a blank stare.

“What types of things did you want to think about?”

“Personal things” she spit out, almost too quickly. She knew she was being passive aggressive. Alluding to their conversation about Diana. She didn’t feel good about it. She could feel the acid starting to churn in the pit of her stomach.

How could he be this aloof, how could he expect everything to return to normal at the drop of the hat. How could he, still, after all this time be expecting her to turn her emotions, her frustrations on and off with some imaginary switch.

“Look Scully, I know that you and I had disagreements about the Cassandra spender case, but we are back on the X-files now, and it is going to be up to us to figure out the truth about what happened in that hanger. It’s our job again.”

“Our job,” she said plainly “Where should we start then? Are you still going to tell me that you believe Diana Fowley had nothing to do with what happened to those people?”

Mulder rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He began to speak when she interjected.

“You know she hasn’t reported back to the FBI in a week, Mulder. Where did she go? Crawling back into the wood-work along with…”

“Enough.” He cut her off loudly.

She looked up at him stunned, then her face settled and softened.

“Mulder, this is why I need time off. I need to be able to process things in my way, not in yours. I will have my phone, keep me updated if Skinner assigns us anything. Otherwise I’m taking the rest of the week.”

She stood up from behind the desk, smoothed her skirt, and walked out of the office.

xxx

She breezed past him on the way out the door and he was left speechless. He knew that she was still angry about their fight over Diana but he didn’t know how to meet her in the middle. He knew he could be stubborn, but he also knew that he usually ended up being right about these things.

He and Diana had shared a tumultuous past, but he didn’t believe the ruler of the underworld himself could sway her into joining the dark side. They had their differences but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, believe she would take part in all of this.

He began to unpack the contents of the first box and returned to his car for more.

Five hours later and he was fully unpacked. He sat down at the desk and picked up the phone to dial Scully.

#9 he punched to make an outside call, and hung up the phone.

He went over her words again and again in his head; ‘keep me updated if Skinner assigns us anything’ was basically Scully’s way of saying ‘don’t call me for anything else.’

In the past year, Mulder could feel a shift in their relationship. They had never discussed the events that took place in his hallway before she was infected with the virus. He wasn’t even sure if she remembered them, but he did.

‘There never seemed to be a good time to discuss it’ he would tell himself, followed by ‘that’s a lie and you know it.’

They had been spending time with one another outside of work on a more frequent basis, and there had even been times where he swore something more than friendship was developing. He just never wanted to ruin those moments with an awkward conversation.

He knew that Scully harbored jealousy for Diana but he woudn’t dare bring it up. He could imagine what Scully’s face would look like, what she would say to him if he did. And he knew it would be at least 10 times worse than anything he could imagine.

He thought again about calling her. He decided against it.

xxx

April 22nd 1999

*knock knock* “Dana?”

“Come in” she said, adjusting her paper gown.

“Dana, hello, its so good to see you.”

“Thank you again for seeing Linda, especially on such short notice.”

“Of course, of course” Dr. Perryman said, walking to Dana’s side and taking her hands warmly in her own. “Can’t be easy making appointments with a schedule like yours.”

Dr. Linda Perryman was an old friend of Scully’s from medical school. She was now working as a OBGYN at UMD and specializing with women who have fertility issues due to gynecological cancers and other pathologies. Scully had been following her work closely and decided to see if Linda would take her on as a patient given her unique set of circumstances. It had been almost 9 months since Scully was reunited with her stolen ova.

After a physical examination, Linda took Scully into her office. The room was decorated in various shades of cream and she had a bubbling water fountain on her desk. The room was comfortable and relaxing. Scully wondered how many women’s hopes and dreams died in this room and suddenly the calming décor seemed a lot more ominous.

“Dana, please have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Scully said sitting and gripping onto the arm rests. She took a deep breath.

“Dana, I am afraid that I can’t help you.”

Scully let out her breath in one rapid exhale. She was starting to feel sick. Although this is the answer she was expecting, she realized how much hope she was giving to that one small sliver of a chance to conceive.

“Dana?”

Scully looked up at the doctor.

“…Dana, on a professional level. I am afraid I am unable to help you. Unfortunately, because the ova were not removed and tended to by appropriate methods, I can not implant them, and as we suspected, upon examination it seems that you are unable to become pregnant on your own.”

“Which we already knew.” Scully said, slightly annoyed.

“Yes. Dana, have you heard about a Doctor James Parenti?”

“No”

“He is working on experimental treatments and he may be able to better serve you…. due to your, extremely odd set of circumstances. I can make a call, if you’d like.”

“Yes.” Scully said, he breathing slowly returning to normal. “Yes, please.”

xxx

As she waked into her apartment, she began to feel a tidal wave of emotions beginning to crack through her carefully constructed walls. She was hopeful for the possibility of becoming pregnant, she was angry that Mulder had kept the stolen ova from her for so long, and she was sad… sad that their partnership had hit a stalemate

It had been far too long since she had gone for a run, and if she was going to strongly consider fertility treatments, she knew it would be best for her body to be in top shape.

xxx

He was sitting on a bench along the mall, a stack of files to his left, and a meatball hoagie from subway on his lap when he saw her. She was jogging up the path towards him, he would know that red hair anywhere, even if it was tucked up beneath a sweatband.

He stood up and gave a goofy wave as she approached.

She stopped; putting her hands on her knees she took a few deep breaths.

“God,” she panted “I forgot how hard it was to start once you stopped doing this sort of thing.”

“Don’t I know it” Mulder said handing her his Dasani bottle.

Scully took a generous swig and handed it back to him.

“Thanks” she said looking over at the mess of files he had strewn across the bench. “Working hard I see.”

He shoved aside the files offering her a seat, which she gladly accepted.

“Want to hear the best ones we’ve got?”

She nodded

“Aliens possessed my dog,” he read, she laughed. “Swamp monsters spotted in Florida…”

“… ah, seen that one before” she quipped.

“And my personal favorite, he said holding up a supermarket tabloid, Elvis is alive… and he’s an alien.”

“Mulder,” she warned. “You can’t be serious.”

There was a moment of silence before he spoke.

“How’s the time off?” He asked.

“Good. I’ve made a few appointments I’ve been meaning to make, visited my mom, cleaned out some old junk in my closet… its been good, some time to clear my head.”

“Do some thinking.” He said plainly.

“Mulder.” She said, turning to him. “I am not leaving the X-files. I know that’s what you are thinking.”

He turned to look at her. It was what he had been thinking, but he wouldn’t admit it.

“I am just starting to feel a little, constrained lately.”

“Scully, if this is still about Diana…” he started.

“It isn’t just about Diana, Mulder. It’s about a lot of things, but most recently yes, it’s about that situation. You and I, we have always had a trust, an understanding… us against the world and all that.”

Mulder paused for a moment, considering his next statement.

“Scully, do you remember last year, before you were taken?”

She was quiet, he started to think that maybe she didn’t remember, the virus had hit her so fast and had her under it’s influence for so many hours; it must have affected her memory.

“The hallway?” She asked.

“Yes, the hallway. I said I don’t want to do this alone, but I meant that I don’t want to do this without you.” He took a deep breath. “Scully, I trust Diana, but I would never let her come between us.”

“Mulder,” she said, biting her lip and looking down at her knees. “You’re making it sound like we are a married couple.”

“Well….” he said shrugging his shoulders.

Their eyes met and he smiled. “We kind of are, if you think about it”

She looked at him quizzically.

“I mean we are as good as. I’ve never been this close to any partner.” He meant that.

She nodded in agreement.

“I guess you are right.”

“Can I get you to write that down?” Mulder said with a chuckle as she shot him a ‘watch it’ look.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you don’t have to be jeal….”

“Woah, woah, woah!” she demanded. The words had only slipped from his mouth. He regretted them almost immediately.

“Jesus you’re acting like I’m some jealous co-ed.”

“No, Scully. That’s not what I mean. I mean…” he bit his lower lip and looked up towards the sky. Choosing his next words very carefully.

“I know that there is nothing… like that… going on between us, Scully… but I’m saying I’d like to think that maybe someday….”

Her eyes were instantly glued to his. She was not going to speak; she needed to hear everything he was about to say before she stopped him.

“I don’t know, I just think that maybe it won’t always have to be this way.” He took the easy way out.

They were silent for a few awkward minutes.

“I got word today, that Special Agent Diana Fowley is still at the FBI and now in the Intelligence Department.”

Scully rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I bet she is.”

“But we have the X-files back, Scully. You and me.”

“Mulder, I need to know, that I have your full trust going forward.”

“Always.” He said simply.

“You know that I will be right there with you, doing this work… of ours, but I need to know that you will be right there with me, that you will listen to me, and you will trust me.”

He nodded his head, understanding, as best he could, what she was saying.

“Then I will see you at work on Monday.” She rose from the bench and stretching her left quad muscle. “That office better still be clean.”

She started to make her way back to Georgetown with an uneasy feeling. She had not been totally honest with Mulder. She had not told him about her renewed pursuit for conception. She was not sure how she would bring it up. She didn’t know what it would mean for her work at the FBI, for their partnership. She promised to always stand with him. But she knew in her heart, she may have to break that promise. She ran the 3 miles home, allowing the cooling spring air to burn in her lungs as attempted to clear her mind.

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