#and not say goodbye to every doorway and every leaf and every brick in the pathway until i'm actually saying goodbye

[madamescarlette]

You ever have to be like, "no babe you're not bone-breakingly heart-rendingly sad, you just had less than five hours of sleep"? Yeah.

[joyfulsongbird]

Bruises And All- Chapter 1

Hermes and Orpheus live above Herme’s bar by the ocean, which sometimes get hit by monumental storms. and when Hermes finds a girl in the woods caught in the storm, he doesn’t what kind of hurricane he’s bringing with him when she comes back with him.

***

HERMES is an old man, an old man who cares for a young boy who cares for music and for life. an old man who will spend the rest of his days repeating the same tasks over and over, his muscles only know how to wipe down the bar in one circular motion. he’s just stuck in a loop and he’s happy there, with his godson and the godsend that sent him this life of security in this little woodsy town. his boy will probably live out his days the same way, fingers grow aching from playing so much, voice growing strained over the years until he, too, is an old, old man and wipes down the bar every night before turning off the lights and wishing the room goodbye. he’s content with this life. with the forest on one side, the ocean on the other, it’s a life of little risk. terrible storms roll in from the ocean every once in awhile but the people call those “hundred year storms”. the name is pretty self explanatory: storms that happen once in every hundred years.

today is apparently that day.

“mister Hermes!” Orpheus calls from upstairs. “should I pull out the sandbags? Miss Afra said that there could be flooding.”

“I’ll do it, son, you stay upstairs.” Hermes yells back.

“but-”

“no questions asked, you get to bed, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Orpheus, the ever obedient, does exactly that. but Hermes knows that he won’t sleep for a long time, probably not until long after Hermes is home and in bed across from the boy. he worries, that kid, worries far more than Hermes would like. but it seems that is just his nature, to care so deeply that his soul hurts when he has to be separated from people.

Hermes wasn’t worried about the storm until he stepped outside with his flashlight in hand. winds going on dangerous speeds. rain pounding on his back like hard rocks. the darkness in the sky... it worries him, deeply. a typhoon is forming out there in that rocky ocean, for sure. he struggles against the wind and puts up a couple sandbags against the side of their home, the side that faces the beach. water falls over the wall of their brick home like waterfalls, streams through the concrete patches and blurring the engravings in the brick from view. and in a split second decision, he goes for some probably soaked through firewood. who knows how long they’ll be in that house for.

he’s got a few logs in his arms and is preparing to head back around the house when he lifts his head towards the forest. his ears must be tricking him, no one would be out in the woods at this time, in this storm? absolutely not. but the side of him that is a father, that worries as deeply as Orpheus does, itches to just check. it can’t hurt to just check? it definitely can but he’d rather go into those woods and find that lost child, than leave it and find out in a few days that a body has been found. if it’s what Orpheus would do, Hermes will do it too.

he drops the logs over by the door of their house, he’ll be back for those later. he hopes. and he heads directly into those woods, aiming his flashlight at the ground so that he doesn’t step into some chasm or trip over a root. he’s known these woods since he was a child but he never liked them at night, it always unsettled him. and now, he trudges through these woods in the pitch darkness of night and in the danger of a brewing hurricane. he’s about to call it a night, say he misheard, when he hears it again, clearer this time. closer this time.

please

no going back now. he won’t go back to Orpheus and his worried eyes and tell him that he left this poor person to the torture of this storm. how disappointed in him he’d be if he knew he ever considered it. having the boy in the house has made him a better person, convinced of the good of the world. growing up in the harshness of that town, hearing the opinions of other, and losing hope for the world, he’d lost hope in humanity. Orpheus is the reason he’s still hoping today. Orpheus is the reason he trains his eyes on ever crook and crevice of this forest. determined to spot this lost soul.

he expects a heep of a person. he expects a wet, soaking, helpless child all curled up trying to keep their warmth inside.

what he does not expect, however, is to have his flashlight knocked out of his hand, his knees crumpled under him, hands on his shoulders keeping him planted to the ground.

and then a voice, “oh my gods, I’m so sorry!”

there are so many feelings coursing through his body, but the main one: confusion. first, the yelling helplessness of the voice in the woods. second, the process in which he got swiftly knocked to his knees, expertly and quickly. and thirdly, the apology coming soon after having his flashlight knocked away, and the voice... a smooth, lovely voice he’d assumed would’ve come from a singer at his bar or a woman who reads audiobooks on the radio for a living. so many conflicting moments of juxtaposition just clash in his head and all he has to say in response is:

“e-excuse me?”

she lets go of his shoulders and he hears the shuffling around him, he’s unsure of what she’s doing until he feels his flashlight is put back in his hands.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she shouts over the wind, curling his fingers around the handle of the light for him. “I thought you might be... I’m sorry.”

he turns his light so that it shines on her. and he’s faced with a girl, not even a woman, about the same age as Orpheus, with rain falling over over her cheeks like tracks of tears and black hair sticking to her full cheeks. she blinks at the light, shielding her face with her hands. she’s shivering and soaked through, but holding herself strongly. she pulls him by his arms, pretending to brush a leaf off of his shoulder and steps back.

she’s tiny. is all he can think now that they are face to face, standing on the same level. her head reaches his shoulders, her small stature not helping her make up for height in any way.

he’s not going to leave her in this storm, no way in hell is he leaving this one behind.

“Come with me!” he shouts, motioning the same thing to get his point across in case she can’t hear him all that well. she glances from him to behind her, back into the darkness of the forest. like something is haunting her, as if there is a chain on her ankle, not allowing her to leave this place. Hermes wonders what there is that this girl is afraid of. he decides, however, that he will ask questions later and get out of this storm now.

He pulls her closer, grasping her shoulders with both of his hands, he is sure she can hear him now. “come. it isn’t safe out here. no questions asked about who you are, I can’t... I won’t leave you here.”

her lips part in what looks like confusion but one glance up at the darkness of the sky must convince her. she nods once and leans down to the forest floor to pick something up. he points his light to follow her hands, helping her only a small bit. she finds what she needs, a ratty old messenger bag that she clutches to her stomach as if it is the only thing in the world that matters.

and it occurs to him that it may as well be that much. he knows nothing of this girl. where she came from. if she even came from anywhere at all. he’s never seen her before but what does that matter? she looks lost and his entire life has proved that he quite has a soft spot for lost, lonely children.

he tries to grab her wrist, lead her out of the forest, but she rips herself out of his grip.

“I follow from behind.” the hardness in her tone doesn’t surprise him, exactly, he’s not shocked.

“How will I know you’re following?” he asks.

“where else do I have to go.” an answer that is good enough for him. he begins their walk out of the forest. now, they are facing the way the wind is coming from. the wind whistles in his ears, rain pounds against his face. his whole body feels like it’s fighting against this great wind, against the instinct to fall back and curl up and wait it out. but Orpheus is waiting for him to come home soon, he’s probably already worried sick, probably ready to burst out of the house and start a search party.

and true to her word, the girl is still there when they near the house. she’s shivering from head to foot but she’s there.

“do you live alone?” is her next question, an oddly out of left field one but he finds to qualms with answering it while he digs his keys out of pocket.

“no,” he says, beginning to unlock the door. “with my godson.”

“how...” she licks her lips. “how old is he?”

he frowns. “nineteen. why?”

she looks like she’s going to be sick.

he doesn’t open the door quite yet, “dear, you alright?”

“yes,” she says, brushing her soaked bangs out of her eyes. “yes, I am.”

he opens the door to the warmth of the bar, the dim glowing golden light that casts a hale of light onto the drenched ground around the doorway. “get inside, c’mon.”

she hesitates for a long few seconds before stepping inside, her whole body dripping (as is his) into the hardwood floor of the room. he closes the door behind him, and as if on cue, Orpheus comes running down the stairs, tripping over his feet.

“Mister Hermes-” he stops short at the sight of their guest. his eyes train on her, his mouth parted wide.

“Orpheus, would you get a couple towels please?” Hermes doesn’t even acknowledge the girl, he can already sense the fight or flight mode flying up in her. she twists the hem of her coat around her thumb, a blush spreading across her cheeks at her presence even being noticed. he has this strange feeling that she is not used to being noticed all that much.

Orpheus comes back with a couple of their ratty towels, his eyes never leaving the girl, on her always, on her face and just... watching. Hermes knows that Orpheus can be slightly... overbearing at times. he’s tempted to tell him to not stare at her so openly but due to the confusion of the moment and the fact that they have other priorities at the moment, he holds back.

“Orpheus,” he says his name again, getting his attention. “go downstairs and start up the furnace? we’ve gotta get some warmth back into this place.”

Orpheus nods, having said not two words since coming down those stairs and spotting the girl. Orpheus falls easily but this is one person that Hermes does not want Orpheus falling for. she’ll be gone within a week, he can tell.

“I won’t be asking you any questions,” Hermes says, turning to her. “you keep to yourself until this storm passes over, then you go where you please. alright?”

she nods. “alright.”

“I’ll get you some clean clothes, stay right there.”

[trueloveseyeroll]

When The Tide Turns (2/16)

Summary:  The plan was to go to England, finish the case and head back home in a matter of days. Of course, nothing in Emma’s life ever goes according to plan. Not only does she end up travelling across Europe, looking for a Liam Jones in order to finish her case, she ends up travelling with Liam’s brother - an annoyingly handsome Killian Jones. And she doesn’t trust him one bit.

Rating: T, for language and a bit of violence later on

Beta-reader: the lovely @forget-me-not-s  :))

Artists: check out @theblacksiren’s beautiful artwork for chapter 1 here and @optomisticgirl ‘s banner here. And while we wait for @fairytalesandtimetravel ‘s amazing artwork for a later chapter, go check out all her other stuff! Now three cheers for these three fantastic artists!

Word count: ~3,958 (68k+ in total)

A/N: I’ve been so excited to post this next chapter and hopefully some of your questions will be answered!! Thank you all for the lovely response for chapter 1 - I hope you continue to enjoy the rest of the fic :))) 

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 |  Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 |  Chapter 12 |  Chapter 13 |  Chapter 14 |  Chapter 15 |

AO3

Old roads and crooked alleyways shaped the bones of Willesby. Brick houses lined the streets, the Jones’ factory standing tall at the outskirts of the village. In daylight, Emma could see the ocean beyond the hills. The true charm of Willesby though, sparked from the nautical decorations that gave life to the bleak façades all around. A ship’s wheel hanging here and there, oars hanging above doors, a large compass chiselled into stone, and a ship at Emma’s height carved out of one block of wood. The innkeeper had been right when he said that The Brothers Jones had given life to the village. Their love of the sea had made a port town out of the streets amongst the hills.

The notary’s office looked much the same. Rich red wood dominated most of the room. Not just the floor, but the panelling on the wall, the furniture, the doors and even the picture frames. In contrast, paintings of the sea in all its colours adorned the walls. On Mr. Clark’s desk stood a model of a ship, The Brothers Jones painted on its hull.

“Do take a seat, Miss Swan. Please.” Mr. Clark, a short man with an obvious sniffle sat behind his desk, waving Emma into the room.

“I’m guessing you know why I’m here.” Emma sat in one of the two lavish chairs by Mr. Clark’s desk.

“Of course, I was waiting for you! I received a fax from your office yesterday, outlining the situation.”

“Great.” Emma’s terse smile was one she reserved for lawyer meetings. She dropped it after a split second. “We were very sorry to hear of Mr. Jones’ passing.” And pretty damn shocked too.

“It is indeed tragic. Barrie was a good friend of mine.” Mr. Clark ran a finger over the hull of the model ship. “It frightens us all when a healthy man suddenly dies at 74, doesn’t it?”

Emma didn’t know what to answer. She resorted to nodding.

“About the business, Mr. Clark, the negotiations of the sale between Mr. Jones and my client were almost finished, so I trust that you and I will be able to conclude it?” She hated to come across as crass, but the death of a man she had never met wasn’t an easy topic. She had come here to finish a case - now was the time to do it.

“Don’t set your hopes too high, Miss Swan. I’m afraid it won’t be as straightforward as we had thought, and I probably won’t be of much help to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emma narrowed her eyes at the solicitor. “I thought everything was agreed. We have Barrie Jones’ written consent and his death does nothing to invalidate that.”

Mr. Clark swiped at his nose with a tissue. “I understand, Miss Swan. But there’s an unforeseen complication.” His choice of words felt overdone coming from his mouth. Too formal for a small guy like him. Mr. Clark cleared his throat and hesitated through his next sentence while Emma kept her irritation from showing. “You see, there’s an heir.”

“An heir?” She must have misheard him. “We were told there was no heir. Mr. Jones never married and he definitely never mentioned this ‘detail’ throughout the negotiations.”

“I was as surprised as you are, believe me. Everyone thought Barrie Jones was the last of the family alive, but he sent me a letter two days before his death, saying otherwise. Understand, Miss Swan, that had I known about this earlier, I would’ve informed you.”

So far he had had three days to inform Emma or her office of this letter. Emma fought not to call him out on his laziness. Mr. Clark coughed as he retrieved the letter from his desk drawer, handing it over to Emma.

“So who is this heir? I suppose I’ll just have to sign the contracts with him or her, right?”

“Liam Jones; Barrie’s nephew. Brennan - that is, Liam’s father - didn’t always see eye to eye with Barrie, so Liam never lived here in Willesby. He was an adventurous sailor though. Here in Willesby, we always thought he died in an accident on the sea about nine years ago. Apparently, we were wrong,” Mr. Clark gestured towards the letter.

Emma had read about Brennan in her files. The older of the two brothers, he had been meant to take over the family business, or at least run it with his brother Barrie. The factory hadn’t interested Brennan though. He had left Willesby, and died about twenty years ago. But Emma’s files had never mentioned any Liam.

“So where can I find Liam Jones?”

Mr. Clark blew his nose again, and Emma had an odd sense he was trying to hide behind his tissue.

“I don’t know, Miss Swan. All I know is written in that letter, and Barrie only wrote that he had corresponded with Liam for several years. He seems to be travelling around Europe.”

Travelling around Europe. Well, that narrowed it down. Emma unfolded the letter in her hand, skimming Mr. Jones’ words. There wasn’t much information she could use. First two paragraphs of how old Barrie had started to feel. Then a couple of sentences about Liam, a man everyone had presumed dead; nothing specific about his whereabouts.

“Now, I have told you as much as I know, and so the situation in legal terms should be clear. If you want to conclude the sale, you have to find Liam Jones. Believe me, Miss Swan, when I say that I am most sorry for this regrettable setback. Most sorry.”

“Great.” Emma was as insincere as Mr. Clark’s apologies. “What now then?”

“Perhaps you will find more information in Barrie’s office? I have a key here. Two actually,” Mr. Clark fumbled for the keys in his desk drawer before handing them to Emma. “One for the factory and one for the office. I believe my role in this affair finishes here, Miss Swan. If you’ll excuse me, I must rest. You see, my health is not excellent at the moment and my doctor forbids me from working for too long. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Swan. Do not forget to close the door as you leave.”

And like that, Mr. Clark rose to leave the office through a side door, Emma barely managing to say goodbye before he was gone. She stayed in her chair for a moment longer.

An heir. Her mind clung to the word, as if saying it enough times would make it untrue. There was an heir somewhere in Europe, an heir she needed to find if she wanted to conclude this case.

With a sigh, Emma rose from her chair and left the office. Dark clouds greeted her outside, and she fought to keep herself from kicking a lamp post out of frustration. Instead, she followed the road to its end, towards the Jones’ factory.

She did not look forward to calling Regina about this.

The lock gave a last satisfying click before Killian removed the lock picks. Still crouching, he tugged the handle and pushed the door open with a wide grin. It only took him a minute this time; he was getting better at this lock-picking-business.

Killian stood in the doorway for a moment, holding his breath as he looked around the office. He had only been there once before. How old had he been then? Eight? Nine? It had been shortly after his father’s death - that much he remembered. As a child, when Barrie let him enter his office, Killian had felt humbled. Much like then, he now felt like he was intruding on something much greater than he could ever become.

Killian swallowed his uncertainty and stepped over the threshold. Barrie’s desk stood to the left, a great painting of the original brothers Jones on the wall behind it. Matthew Jones, Killian’s great-grandfather, stood proud beside his younger brother Michael.

Two windows framed the painting and let light into the office. His uncle wasn’t a tidy man, that much was clear. Piles of papers littered his desk, some with only a few notes written on them, others with sketches or elaborate drawings. Books lay open and a pen lay ready for scribbling, as if Barrie had only left for a short moment.

The object Killian sought wasn’t on the desk though. He pulled out every drawer on each side of the desk only to find more drawings of boats and compasses and even constellations. Killian ruffled through all the papers, hoping to find something underneath.

With pursed lips, he closed the final drawer and looked at the desk again. What an utter mess. A spindle stacked with bills caught his eye. He wasn’t here to look through papers, yet the bold letters on the bills intrigued him.

Overdue

Killian leafed through each invoice, all of them informing his uncle Barrie of overdue payments and stressing the financial liability of the factory. Killian’s brows stitched together. Did the business really struggle that much? And what would become of it now that Barrie had passed away, leaving behind all this debt? The entire business would probably be sold off and torn down. Killian tried to ignore the several regrets looming at the back of his mind. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he found that bloody trinket.

On the other side of the room stood a file cabinet, as wide as the wall behind it. Killian had no interest in going through more papers though.

Instead, Killian turned to the cabinet against the wall opposite of the door. It was as rich in its design as the desk. Books lined the shelves, along with several trinkets; model ships, an octant, even a souvenir of the London Eye. If the item Killian sought wasn’t here, it wasn’t in the office at all.

He studied each shelf carefully, skimming the spines of maritime textbooks and old classics. One classic in particular caught his attention: Peter and Wendy. Killian grinned, remembering his uncle’s fascination of Peter Pan and Neverland. After all, the stories had been what started this whole mess in the first place.

Killian pulled the book out of its place with a finger on its top. His tug was met with resistance and a subtle click. Killian’s grin only grew wider as the mechanism activated.

What a classic way to hide your secrets, uncle.

The back of the shelf lifted, revealing a hidden space behind it. A space once again littered with both everything and nothing. Killian pulled out old photographs, a teddy bear that had seen better days, a battered notebook and several drawings. The shelf was a mess of rubbish to put it lightly. Items of no value to anyone but Barrie.

Killian shifted through the trinkets and papers, hoping it would be there. Hiding one item of value amidst unimportant things was exactly the kinds of thing his uncle would do. That way, it could easily be overlooked by any thieves or nosy guests. He just had to -

There.

Killian almost laughed, so thrilled to have found it at last. He grasped the round trinket, studying its beauty for a mere moment before tucking it into a pocket of his leather jacket. Finally feeling the weight of it by his side, Killian could rest easy. He looked at the mess on the shelf one last time, his eyes flickering towards a pile of letters.

He knew that handwriting.

Killian reached for the bundle of letters, three in total, with an unsure hand. Liam. They were letters from Liam. He admired the familiar writing on the envelopes, forgetting his former purpose. No matter how much he had tried, Liam was not something he could push away and ignore.

A clang from outside the office startled Killian.

Bloody hell.

The stairs from the work floor to the office - they were of metal grid. That clang meant someone was coming.

Killian’s eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. The office was on the second floor, he couldn’t possibly jump from the window.

The footsteps were getting closer. Killian glanced at the door, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no way out. Whoever entered the door in a few seconds would find him like a deer caught in the headlights - or more accurately, an intruder caught red-handed.

He stuffed the letters in his coat, looked around one last time and made a quick decision.

Bloody buggering hell.

Emma leaned her head back to take in the building as she stood by its door. There was something gothic about the architecture. Maybe gothic wasn’t the right word, but she had never paid much attention in her few choice lectures on architecture. The Jones factory was a grand building, that much she could vouch for. With dark bricks, arched windows and doors, wings on each side and endless details, it might as well have been some sort of cathedral.

Emma chose the bigger of the two keys, sliding it into the lock. She felt odd turning it. The click of the door unlocking and the creaking as she opened it urged her to cringe. She had a key - even explicit permission from the notary - yet she still felt guilty. Like she was breaking and entering. A chill ran through her at the thought.

The door opened to a large open room with miles to the ceiling, or so it seemed. Emma stood in the doorway for a moment, soaking everything in. An assembly line twisted its way through the room with different machines at each station. Pipes followed the line about, creating a net of metal a few feet above Emma’s head.

It certainly looked like a factory. Emma had wondered how compasses and sextants and the likes were made. She had imagined by hand. Like an old-clock worker. The Jones factory was just one large platform, a mixture of machines and tables where workers could do their thing.

Emma wandered about for a few minutes, imagining what the place looked like when the engines were running, the large furnaces in the corner sparking with heat. She almost forgot her initial purpose.

Right. The office. Find the office.

To the right of the main door, a stair led to a gangway with a nice view of the entire factory. The stairs also led to a door, which had to lead to the office.

Against the factory floor, Emma’s steps had been muffled. But against the metal grid of the stairs, clangs echoed throughout the entire building - a stark reminder of how silent the place was. No factory should ever feel this abandoned without even the whirring of an engine. It was like all life had just vanished.

Emma pulled the second key - the smaller one - out of her pocket and slid it into the door lock. Turning it to the left, she heard no click. To the right instead, she heard the wrong sort of click. Emma tugged at the door handle and her suspicions were confirmed. The door had been unlocked before - now it wouldn’t budge. Emma turned the key again. Maybe Mr. Jones wasn’t a stickler for privacy?

Finally, the door gave way and Emma stepped into Barrie Jones’ office. She noticed the sun first. It had found its way through the dark clouds, leaving two long stripes of light on the floor by each window. A few papers lay strewn about. They had probably fallen off of the clutter on the desk. Emma’s face fell at the thought off all those papers she’d have to go through. In addition, there was a file cabinet the size of the entire wall on the other side of the room.

Here’s to hoping he at least organizes his mess.

Emma stood in the centre of the office for a moment, letting her eyes gloss over everything. A painting of two well-dressed men hung on the wall between the windows. The original brothers Jones perhaps? She studied them for a second, squinting her eyes against the light-

The desk chair shifted. The screech of wooden legs against wooden floor lingered. What the hell?

Emma narrowed her eyes at the desk. “Someone there?”

No one answered. Emma kept her eyes on the back of the desk. Whoever hiding there wasn’t doing a very good job. But why was someone hiding there? She was about to say something again or walk over to the desk and expose who ever hid there when the chair shifted once more.

“Swan?”

A head of dark hair popped up from under the desk.

“Hook?”

He looked as surprised as she felt.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, love.”

“Hey, I had a key. You’re… hiding under a desk.”

Hook, still crouched on the floor, surveyed the desk with amusement. “Not as much hiding as enjoying the view. You’ll find that the spaces under desks are quite riveting here in England.”

This guy was full of crap.

Hook scooted the chair further backwards and stood tall behind the desk. Emma’s eyes flickered between him and the men in the painting behind him, a part of her noticing an odd resemblance. The thought was fleeting though.

Hook surveyed Emma as she surveyed him. A challenge sparked between them. Who would explain themselves first?

“You didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who hides under tables.”

“Then what kind of man did I strike you as?” He dodged her meaning with a lewd grin.

“A cheeky bastard,” Emma deadpanned. He laughed at that. “Seriously, how did you even get in here? The door to the building was locked and I didn’t see any open windows.”

“I have my ways,” Hook wiggled his fingers in the air. Emma narrowed her eyes at him again. She hadn’t slept on the shoulder of some criminal had she?

“What are you doing here?” She kept her voice low and level, turning on her lawyer persona.

Hook feigned a sigh and walked around the desk to stand in front of it as he spoke. “If you must know, Swan, I was merely looking around. My father used to be great friends with Barrie. I’m simply interested in learning about the man I’m here to pay respects to on the behalf of my departed father.”

Something ticked inside Emma. Something was off about his words, but she couldn’t place it.

“I panicked a bit when I heard someone coming - wasn’t sure how they would take my snooping about.” A faint blush tinted his cheeks. “The desk seemed the best choice. Precautions and all.” He reached up to scratch a spot behind his ear as he spoke. Then he leaned against the desk behind him, crinkling a few papers as he did so, and raised a brow at Emma. “So, it’s tit for tat, I believe. What’s your story?”

Emma studied him for a moment longer, trying to see why her lie detector was going off. He seemed sincere enough in his words. Something was just… off.

“I’m a lawyer,” she started. “I’m here to finish the sale of the business.”

Hook’s eyes widened for a moment but he was quick to conceal his surprise. Not before Emma noticed though.

“I suppose that’s rather hard to do with Barrie deceased,” he said.

You have no idea, Emma thought.

“It complicates things…” She paused, realizing that Hook’s sudden presence could be a great help to her. “Hey, if you say your dad knew Barrie well, did he ever mention a Liam Jones? Barrie’s nephew?”

Hook swallowed and shook his head slightly. “Not much. He died at sea about a decade ago, didn’t he?”

He fidgeted ever so little, but enough for Emma to see. He was hiding something. Definitely.

“No, not really. But I guess I have to start looking through all the papers in here to figure out more.” Her shoulders dropped in a show of exhaustion.

“Important for the sale, is he?”

Emma smiled, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Afraid I can’t tell.”

“Ah, of course. Lawyers and their confidentiality.”

“At least not until you tell me what it is you’re not telling me,” Emma finished.

“Pardon?”

“You’re hiding something. What is it?”

Hook challenged her by mirroring her stance, arms folded and brows raised. “What makes you so sure I’m hiding something?”

“You wouldn’t be so defensive if you weren’t.” She’d rather not have to explain her superpower to him.

Hook gave up the challenge quicker than she had expected. He dropped the teasing look and uncrossed his arms. When he reached into his pocket, Emma’s back stiffened. She didn’t really think he was keeping something harmful. Still. Precautions and all.

“In truth, Swan, this is why I’m here.”

Emma looked at the object in his hand, carefully held out for her to see.

“A compass?”

“Aye. Not just any compass though,” Hook kept his eyes on it as he spoke, running his thumb over the glass. “My father gave it to Barrie once long ago. I never completely understood the significance of it, but it meant a great deal to my old man”

“So you’re stealing it.”

“I do have the name of a pirate, don’t I?” Hook grinned. And dammit, Emma couldn’t help but smile too. Just a little. She barely even lifted the corners of her mouth.

“I’m not proud of the way I handled the situation when I heard you coming, but in all honesty, I don’t think I could have been more relieved than I was when I heard that American accent of yours.” There he was again with the smarmy words.

“I just told you I’m a lawyer. Shouldn’t you be scared I’m going to hand you over to the cops or something?”

“Will you?”

His stare feigned honest wonder, but he clearly didn’t believe she would. What made him so sure of that? Emma held his stare for a few seconds before shrugging.

“Not really worth it. No one else is gonna find much use of that thing but you, so I guess I can let it slide.”

“I am most grateful, Swan,” Hook bowed his head at her and tucked the compass back into his jacket.

“Yeah, well, you should probably get going before I change my mind.”

He gave her look that easily read ‘you wouldn’t dare’. Nonetheless, he pushed away from the desk and almost made to leave.

“Could I be of any assistance with looking through all the papers?”

Emma smiled. “Nah. You know, ‘lawyers and their confidentiality’ and all that.”

Hook’s lips curled in a grin. Once again, he nodded his head at Emma.

“I’ll see you around then, Swan.”

She wanted to ask why he was so sure of that, but remembered he would probably be at the memorial in the evening as well. Furthermore, he was already on his way through the door.

“Stay out of trouble ‘till then,” she called after him.

“I’ll do my best.” Hook closed the door with one last cheeky smile. His descent down the stairs rattled the office and echoed even when all went silent again. Emma stood in the office alone, trying to gather her thoughts. And motivation. She probably could have used an extra hand for all these papers. She’d look for letters first, that would at least narrow it down. And a list of workers at the factory - Barrie couldn’t possibly be running everything on his own.

Emma set to work, finding a quiet rhythm, glad to at least be doing something. If only her cheeks would cool down.