It begins at two in the morning, after Killian's spent a good several minutes trying to open the door quiet enough that it won't squeak on the hinge. It's more difficult than usual, since he's holding his sleeve to his nose to keep blood from dripping on the floor, but he does the best he can.

It's all for nothing, of course. The shadow of a man is pooling on the kitchen floor, its owner leaning against a counter just out of sight. Killian drops all pretense as he turns the corner, trying his best to walk like he normally does even as the exhaustion in his bones seems to double in weight. Guilt stabs at the ribs he bruised earlier as he remembers just how early Liam has to be up at work in the morning, but still he shuffles forward.

"You look like hell."

Liam's the one to break the silence first, as he usually is, and it takes Killian a moment to realize he's holding something out in the air between them. A glass of rum waits in Liam's hand, its brother waiting by his hip atop the counter.

Killian takes it soundlessly, wiping the blood off his hand and wrapping it around the curve of the glass instead, despite the throb in his knuckles. He spends the quiet moment remembering how surprising all of this was the first time he came home bloody and beaten, how easy it'd been to brush past his brother in the darkness.

"I know you say it helps, Killian, but I don't see how. Not when you keep going back."

He has the decency to keep from defending himself as he meets Liam's eyes, feeling the adrenaline of the fight seeping away with each tick of the clock.

"How many were there this time?"

"Just two."

"Down at the pier?"

He nods, putting down the glass so he can swipe at the lingering trail of blood in his nostril. Liam pulls a rag from the stove and tosses it his way, and somehow the action makes Killian more weary than anything else. His brother is five years his senior, the only real family he's ever known after their father left, but in the dim light falling down on them atop the kitchen sink he looks almost double his age.

They sit in silence for what must be twenty minutes, both leaning up against the cool countertop and pretending to drink their rum. It's almost a dance, he thinks, the way they try to keep their glasses from running dry so that the night lasts. In the morning, he knows Liam will leave to bury himself in work, just as he knows he'll will bury himself in silent promises to be better than the man he's become. He almost turns to say them aloud, too, but there's not enough rum for that.

Liam's glass hits the sink with a soft clink, like a ship's bell calling for the last watch of the night. Killian follows suit and turns to leave again but Liam stops him, pulling a neatly-folded paper from his pocket like he'd almost forgotten it was there.

"I know it's a long shot," he tells his brother quietly, pressing it into the cleaner of Killian's hands, "but you're not alone in this."

(It's an address and a time, and instructions on how to be dressed, and by the time Killian understands what Liam's done for him he finds himself alone beside the sink.)

The air coming through the kitchen window is brisk as Killian slips on his running shoes, watching the old scars over his knuckles dance while he ties his laces in knots. He could do it blindfolded now, this morning routine of water bottles and rummaging around in old sweatshirt pockets for extra rolls of tape to wrap up his hands, but Liam's right there beside him. They both fumble around the apartment while the sky turns from black to grey-blue, the sound of the door shutting behind them muting their arm-stifled yawns.

"I drove yesterday," he says once their cars come into view. Liam snorts halfheartedly as he tugs keys out of his sweatpants, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"How would I ever get on without you?" he deadpans, twisting the key in the lock twice so that both of their doors will open. "It's a wonder I can even lace my shoes without you, little brother."

"Younger brother," Killian intones reflexively, the same tone in his voice. The barb is one they've always traded back and forth. In the past, it used to make little Killian cry and complain, knowing Liam was doing it on purpose, but it only makes him feel like his brother is claiming him now.

(It's been a long while since Liam pulled him off the streets, gave him something to do with his life that didn't involve drinking it away or having it beaten out of him. It hasn't been easy, letting Liam see the shadowed parts of him — shadows that started growing in the lamplight when their father walked out on their family and only lengthened when their mother fell ill — but then he hadn't ever expected this from his brother, either.

Expected is the wrong word, possibly. He thinks deserved is closer to what he's feeling, because what he'd deserved the first night he'd stumbled home from an alley fight was to be kicked right back out onto the streets he'd come from. He'd deserved to be alone, cleaning the blood and sweat from his own face. He'd deserved to be left again.

What he'd gotten instead was a brother willing to give up his mornings to train with him, to teach him to fight to be stronger instead of fighting to break. That would have been more than enough on it's own, but Liam hadn't stopped there. Killian remembered it clear as day, the morning Liam had walked into his room and set a thick paper envelope on the table.

"Staring at it won't open it," Liam had said, exactly one year after their night in the kitchen. He'd looked strangely eager then, almost as if he didn't know what was inside the letter itself.

A deed of ownership. Liam was now the proprietor of the gym they'd been training at, and he was asking Killian to join him.

"You can't give up work," he'd said breathlessly, eyes still skimming the pages. "It's important."

"You're important," Liam had shrugged, and that was the end of it.

As it turned out, Liam hadn't taken after their father much, either.)

The drive to the gym only takes fifteen minutes, and in that time he lets himself wake up properly, watching birds flit between bushes and settle on power lines as they travel further into the city. It's early enough that all the color in the world looks newly painted, and Liam laughs when he says so.

"That's quite poetic for eight in the morning. What's into you today?" Liam slides his eyes away from the road for a second, checking his brother over.

He shakes his head and taps his fingers against the place where the car window begins, unwilling to cheapen the thought with words. If anything, today's a day to celebrate, to go out and grab a drink with his brother in the evening after they get their work done. Another year has passed, a full year of a new life and a new light in both of their eyes, and he wants to let memories of the past slip away into the shadows where they belong, leaving him and Liam in the light.

Liam only shakes his head and lets Killian to his thoughts for the rest of the drive, tossing the keys back over the car as they open up for the morning.

It's always a slow business in the middle of the week, but Killian hears the doors swinging open just a few minutes after he and Liam wipe down the machines for the morning. He's always liked the morning crowd better than the noisy ones in the afternoon, for some reason. It's just as well, since Liam is the opposite, loudly encouraging and training his way around their patrons. While he'd never imagined them here before, he can't see any life different for them now. They work better as a team than either of them ever did alone, and when it comes time for them to spar with each other the whole gym sees it.

He smiles as Liam goes for his usual right jab, favoring high spots to remind Killian that he's not only the older brother, but taller as well. The grin remains as he gets a decent swipe at Liam's jaw, reminding him that the years between them don't mean much. They continue their little circuit around the boxing floor like that, only going for fifteen minutes or so before the chime of the bell on the door rings again. Killian's distracted by a flash of blonde long enough to feel Liam's fist graze his cheek.

A grin slides on his face effortlessly as he regains focus, backing away from his brother with hands raised in defeat. "All right, all right, take your tally," he says, Liam's grin wide and celebratory as he makes a mark on the wall next to them. They've keep track of their victories since they've been in business, and it's always been a close thing, neither one holding the upper hand for too long before the other hits a winning streak. He's let Liam win half of their sparring matches, but he never says a word.

He runs into the blonde again later, finding her over where an obstacle course of punching bags hang from the ceiling. She's obviously working off some steam, trying to hide away in the most unused corner of their gym, and he can't help but wonder why he's never noticed her before.

"You won't last very long if you keep punching with your full weight, lass," he says, coming up to stand a few feet behind her. If he startles her, she doesn't show it. She only twists a step to the right to put him entirely at her back.

"I don't need training advice," she mutters, ponytail swishing as her arms snap back and forth in time with her punches. It's here that he can see the rigidity of her neck, the sharp lines of stress painted between the freckles on her shoulders. She's not simply relieving some mid-morning stress, not with that kind of bite in her voice.

"I'd beg to differ," he shoots back. "Were that bag another fighter, lass, you'd be down on your back in a minute."

She swivels around, bag swinging behind her as she turns the full assault of her eyes on him. They're green, flashing a warning to him even as the corners of her mouth tighten up. "Is that so?"

He knows he should leave her be, let her train poorly if she wants to because she's in no mood to take his advice, but something about her rings a bell. Killian tries his best to channel Liam's easygoing camaraderie with their clients then, softening his features into something resembling a welcome.

"I know it sounds like nonsense, love, but just trust me. I know what I'm talking about."

A group of regulars walks through the door and greets him then, and he watches with confusion as her eyes narrow further toward the trio of women.

"I bet you do." She turns and stalks off then, only to be replaced by Liam a few moments later. His brother takes one look at the woman, who has now taken up residence on the rowing machine, ponytail swishing angrily as she pulls on the handle.

"Glad to see you taking it upon yourself to welcome new clients," he teases, snorting at his brother's lack of tact. "What'd you say to her?"

"Nothing," Killian muses, unable to shake the prick of familiarity he keeps getting from her.

(He figures it out later on when she leaves, ignoring even Liam's goodbye. She reminds him of himself two years ago.)

Liam's more surprised than he is when she keeps coming back week after week, talking to no one and moving across their gym like she's the one who owns it. Though her form often matches her surly mood, she's clearly not new to fighting. He keeps away from her until the day he sees her enter with more weariness than anger on her face, moving almost sluggishly toward the exercise equipment he's just finished wiping down for the morning.

Killian doesn't know what he's trying to do, exactly. He can't outright tell her that he's been in her shoes because he doesn't know a thing about it. He can't say a word about taking it easy because he'd never listened when Liam had tried. If she's anything like he knows he was, stubborn and headstrong, then she won't hear a word from him. And despite all of her frostiness and silence, he doesn't want to turn her away. He needed this place, still needs it some days, and in the end that's how he makes up his mind.

He pretends to ignore the look of shock on her face as he hands her a water bottle, noticing the lack of one by her feet. "I saw you forgot yours today," he tells her quietly. He smiles as she gathers herself together to thank him and leaves her to it, going to help one of their younger patrons in the ring.

The boy's been learning to fight to build his stamina, mainly, and he's quick enough that he has Killian working to maintain his focus. He sees Emma pause as they go around with each other, trading uppercuts and dodging each other's limbs like a practiced dance. He lets her watch without looking back, only encouraging the boy not to worry about hurting him.

(He sees something like pride in Liam's eyes each time the boy comes to visit, and he knows his brother sees his own blue eyes when he sees the boxer-in-training.)

"You're good with kids," a gentle voice hums, catching him by surprise as he picks little bits of discarded tape off the ground beneath one of the benches. "I wasn't expecting that."

"What were you expecting, exactly?" He straightens up and throws the tape in the wastebin tucked under his arm, glancing over at her. Her hair is braided in a long plait today, draped over her shoulder and secured by a bright yellow ponytail. It sticks out against the dark racerback and shorts she has on.

"Haven't decided yet." She takes a seat by him, surprising him further as she makes a show out of retying her shoes. He can tell she's working up the courage to say something, mostly because this is the longest conversation they've had since they met. He's not even sure he can call it meeting, since he doesn't know her name, but he never seems to remember to ask.

"If you're here to ask me to help you train, love, you only need to ask," he tells her, guessing the reason for her reluctance. "Unless it really is that difficult to form sentences around me."

He thinks he sees the corner of her lip tilt up for a moment before she schools her face blank again, shaking her head so her braid falls across her shoulder again.

"All right, so you aren't asking. I'll just offer it myself, then. Let me help you train."

"Why?" She's turned her knees toward him now, still looking like she could spring up and rush out at a second's choice, but there's not nearly as much bite in her voice as there had been the first day.

"You remind me of someone I once knew." He manages to keep from telling her she reminds him of his former self, but only just. The woman's eyes latch onto his like she's been struck, and he can't for the life of him figure out why she's looking so hard at him, what exactly it is she's searching for. The important thing, he supposes, is that she seems to find it.

"Okay." She stands and he follows her up, forgetting the wastebin where it sits on the bench in favor of moving toward the ring. There's almost no one else in the gym at the moment, save a few of the daily regulars, and he feels strangely exposed as he steps onto the padded floor of the boxing area. It's not quite as well-set up as a ring, but it's marked off with floor tape and there are wall pads lining the area where the walls meets in the gym's corner.

It's not that he hasn't sparred with women before. More often than not, his best matches happen in some of their afternoon training groups, where both he and Liam wind up being taught a thing or two. It's not that he barely knows her, either, or that he feels like he understands what little of her he does know. There's something else tripping him up as he wraps his hands, watching her do the same. He's seen it happen a million times, could probably do it with his eyes closed, but something in the the way her wrist turns when she moves has him mesmerized. Something like a smile is playing on her lips, but the moment she catches him looking it drops away.

Then it begins with her throwing a fist at his arm. He responds by sending a double jab her way, one at her face and another at her collarbone, and it's not long before he feels like he's been doing this with her for years. Encouraging her is easy as she takes to his advice quickly, grounding her feet and breathing out each time she tries a punch. She makes no awkward steps to fumble their movements around the padded area. She has a backup plan for just about every move he can try on her. She laughs, and the sound surprises him so much he nearly rolls his ankle.

"You're good at this," she says, smiling and breathing hard.

"I co-own a gym," he replies hastily, twisting out of her reach. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Not that," she says, landing a blow to his ribs. "The teaching. The guys at the station didn't tell me any of this stuff."

He can tell she feels like she's said too much by the surprise on her face, as if she hadn't meant to give him that much of herself. She doesn't step away, though, so he continues on as if nothing's happened at all.

"Perhaps you'll have something to show them when you return, then."

Her almost-smile returns, and he swears he sees it behind his eyelids when he sleeps.

The weeks continue on and he learns her name — never mind that he learns it from Liam, who'd managed to get it out of her first, because the smile she gives him when he calls her Swan for the first time is reward enough. Her morning workout becomes something they do in tandem, coming near each other and ebbing back as they move from machine to machine, and he figures that it's as good a starting point as any.

He shares bits and pieces of himself with her to try and get her to open up in return, starting with the brother that seems to relentlessly tease him under his breath whenever she comes to work out in a good mood. He tells her how ridiculously loud Liam is in the morning as he bangs the kitchen cabinets in search of coffee and toast, and how the man complains when it rains outside. He tells her how he and Liam came to own the gym, and doesn't question it when he sees understanding in her eyes. Killian keeps the conversation from turning toward talk of parents, though, and maneuvers back to himself, telling her about the adventures he and his brother had shared growing up. He draws little pictures in the chalk dust at their feet when he has the opportunity, showing her the small boat they'd captained as children, the stream that had been their ocean, recalling fond memories of maps they'd drawn in crayon and ink.

Somewhere along the way she reciprocates, and between learning her petty fears —snakes, crossing bridges in a storm and losing her keys —and her favorite time of day — 8 o'clock in the morning, specifically, unless it's the weekend —he realizes exactly how much trouble he's in.

He learns that she does indeed work at a police station, one that's only a few miles away. He learns she lives close to her favorite bakery — he ignores Liam for nearly a full day after she brings in a small box of bear claws for all of the staff to share —and that she likes mixing hot chocolate with her coffee in the morning.

She tells him that she became a cop so she could help children, and while he knows there's more of a story there than what she tells him, he doesn't press on for more. He lets her change the subject to the obnoxious neighbors in the apartment next door to her, about the diner where she had her first job, about how old she was when she got the small buttercup tattoo on her wrist. There's more to that story, too, and he files that question away in the ever-growing pile of things he wants to know about Emma Swan.

They're very similar, her and him, and he's known that for a while. It's how he knows something's wrong the second she walks into the gym late one morning, even though there's not a hair out of place in that long plait of hers. Something's broken in her eyes, and he thinks he feels a snap in his chest when he realizes he recognizes that look.

Emma walks right up to him, snatching the wrap tape from his hands and intently winding it around her own hands, rushing through the motions in an attempt to get herself ready. He doesn't say a word as she prepares herself, refusing to meet Liam's eyes across the room and give him a reason to worry. Whatever is going on, it's a secret he'll gladly keep until he and Liam make the drive back home.

She's come in frustrated before, telling him about failed attempts to capture skips and criminals, and he usually helps by pushing her harder, giving her less time to think and more time to punch. He expects her to start in as soon as he does, but she's as stony silent as ever. It frustrates him, getting one step forward and two steps back in this tentative something they've started together, and he pushes harder, squaring tighter into her space and reaching out to all her weak spots. She answers back with equal vigor, possibly more, and it's then that he sees the tears in her eyes.

She doesn't seem to understand it at first when he stops moving, landing a couple blows to his chest and his stomach. Her eyes dart up to his in accusation, and she hisses under her breath in an effort to keep him moving.

"What are you doing?"

"We need to stop."

"No we don't." She keeps her arms up, brushing a sweaty lock of hair off her forehead with the inside of her wrist. When he doesn't move, she invades his personal space, knuckles sweeping dangerously close to his cheekbone as he dodges out of the way. "Keep going, Jones."

He shakes his head and steps back, catching her hand in his when she moves in closer. She pushes her knuckles into his palm stubbornly, trying to wrench out of his grip to no effect.

"Emma." He's pleading with her, even though he knows she'll hate the expression on his face when she looks up to him. "Please stop. Just look at me for a minute."

There's a growing storm in her eyes, threatening to spill over onto her cheeks when she finally lifts her chin. He can tell she's trying not to blink, not to let the tears fall where they can be seen, and the second he loosens his grip on her hand he feels it begin to shake.

He takes her out of the makeshift ring the second he sees her lip tremble and pulls her out of view, taking her back to a set of metal bleachers on the far side of the gym. He's moving as fast as he can, trying to get her away from where the other clients would be able to see or hear her, but he can feel her unraveling on the walk over anyway.

They sit halfway up the bleachers, Emma curling in on herself the moment she doesn't have to be walking anymore. Tears keep rolling down her cheeks and mixing with the sweat on her collarbone, and all he seems able to do is watch as spots of water mark the white tape on her hands.

"Emma, can you tell me—" She interrupts him with a vigorous shake of her head, a tiny sob escaping from her as her breath catches in her throat. It's then that his arms come around her, that her nose presses against the hollow of his throat, that she lets him rub his finger and thumb along the back of her neck without doing anything to quiet herself down.

They sit there for what feels like hours and she never says a word. She grows quieter as midmorning sunlight begins to stretch onto their side of the building, to the point where he has to look at her to see if she's still crying.

It's strange knowing she trusts him enough to let him see her like this, but not enough to tell him what's wrong. It's strange seeing understanding in Liam's eyes from across the room when he looks over, giving them privacy they may not necessarily deserve. Killian's focus snaps back to her when he feels her fingertips tracing the shell of the wrap tape he has on, absently drawing little patterns along the lines of the fabric.

"Are you okay?" He asks quietly, trying to tell her in those short words that he wants to know, that he wants to help. He doesn't have a rum glass to offer her, but he offers his hand, and her scars press up right against his as she laces their fingers tight.

"No," she tells him, voice ragged and shaky, meeting his eyes with a strange kind of defiant, hidden hope. "But I think I will be."