Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas rattling in my head!

The first time Emma Swan properly meets Killian Jones she has to fight to keep from blushing and stammering because this is the man she's waited hours in line for just so she can get his signature on the cover of Storm Rising. His books line the shelves in her cramped little apartment, dog-eared and the pages warped from too much time spent reading in the bath. The words on those pages have entertained her during the good times and been her saving grace during the bad.

But she can't be sentimental right now and if there's anything Emma's good at, it's tamping down on her feelings and focusing on the job at hand with an objective eye. "Killian Jones? Detective Emma Swan, NYPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding a series of murders that may be connected with your novels."

Twenty-four hours later, she's absolutely torn between disillusionment at having her image of him shattered because Killian Jones is a cocky, womanizing, overgrown man-child. On the other hand, he's intelligent, cognizant of law enforcement procedure, and incredibly perceptive.

Uncomfortably so.

"There's always a story, Detective Swan," he tells her earnestly over piles and piles of fan letters. His accent, lilting and Irish, flows over vowels and consonants in the most appealing way. "Take yours, for example."

"Mine?" Emma scoffs, reaching for her coffee and frowning to discover that it had gone cold, though maybe that was a good thing. This was bottom of the pot stuff and could absolutely qualify for toxic waste at this stage.

"Yes, yours. You're smart and beautiful and have amazing instincts. You could have been anything – a lawyer, a businesswoman, a politician – and risen to the very top, because that's the kind of person you are. And yet here you are." He tilts his head to the side, eyes a shade of blue that's absolutely unreal, sharp and focused as he considers her. "Something happened to you, something life-changing. Something that got you onto the straight and narrow."

Emma slowly and deliberately sets down the letter she's holding. "What makes you think I wasn't always on the straight and narrow?"

Some of the excitement fades from his eyes as he mirrors her stance and leans slightly over the table. "It's something in your eyes, Detective. You've seen too much, and most of it before you ever joined the force. Tell me, love…who was it that left you?"

The question hits hard and true. She has to fight to keep from snarling at him and instead settles for the kind of glare that has her suspects peeing in their pants in the interrogation room. She feels some satisfaction in making him flinch. "You don't know me."

"No," and there's something regretful in his tone – for what? Pushing her? She doesn't want to know. "But you're something of an open book, Detective. And trust me when I say that there is definitely a story here."

She looks down at the letter she just put down. "I think I just found it."

In hindsight, Emma knows that the case fell into place a little too neatly. Part of it is because she wanted to shut Jones and his ridiculous need for a story down (he was so annoying and when she said stay in the car she damn well meant for him to stay in the car). For once she just wants life to be easy, but she's never chosen the easy life and damned if she's going to start now.

Okay, so he was right and there was a story there (brother kills sister over inheritance, frames one of her patients and kills two others just to throw police off the scent). And he had been the one to initially apprehend the murderer.

Still, she was so glad that it was over.

"I don't mean to upset you, Detective Swan, but we make quite the team," Jones remarks as he steps up behind her.

Emma shoots a glance at him over her shoulder before turning around, a smile playing around the corner of her lips in spite of herself. Her favorite author might have fallen off his pedestal a bit, but hey, she could still say that she'd worked with the Killian Jones.

"Yes, well, it's over now. Case closed."

Jones steps into her space, eyes sparkling with mischief. "It doesn't have to be over, you know. Have dinner with me. We could…debrief each other."

Gods, is he really that cheesy? She laughs a little bit and doesn't miss the way he brightens at the sound. "I'm not going to be one of your conquests, Jones."

He does this thing where he almost sways in place, closing the space between them just a little more. "It wouldn't have to be that way, love. I could be one of yours."

"Please." Feeling playful (after all, she was never going to see him again, right?), she reaches up to whisper in his ear. "You couldn't handle it."

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away. She misses the way that his expression shifts from dazed to admiring to positively gleeful.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Captain Dulais Tracy stands, smiling wryly as Emma steps in. "Good work on the Killian Jones case, Detective. You have a fan."

"Sir?"

The captain looks far too amused for her own good. "It seems you've got his muse alive and kicking now. He's looking to write a new hero…or rather, heroine. A beautiful, street-wise detective."

A feeling of foreboding sweeps over her. "Sir, no. Jones is a flippant little twit who-"

Captain Tracy holds up a hand. "Be that as it may, I'm afraid it's out of my hands, Detective. This is a personal request from the mayor."

"So, Detective Swan," a familiar, detestable voice pipes up from the doorway. "When do we begin?"

"I still need to think of a name for your alter ego." Jones reclines back in the seat beside her desk.

"I'm not here to help you brainstorm," she snaps.

"It's too bad I couldn't use your real name," he continues. "Detective Emma Swan. My god, it's like you're a character in a book already. A fairy tale."

Emma rolls her eyes so hard she nearly sprains them. She has no room in her life for fairy tales. Maybe she dreamed of princes and princess and happily-ever-after once – but not anymore. "I'm not a character in a fairy tale, Jones. I'm a real person."

"Real, yes. Ordinary, no." He has his chin propped up in his hand and Emma tries not to shift under the weight of that focused gaze. He's been working with her for about two weeks now and he's tried her patience more than anyone else, but there are times like this, when he dissects her like she's one of his mysteries, that she's most unnerved.

Emma reaches for her coffee and makes her usual face at the taste, not noticing the way that his gaze flitters from her to the mug. "Honestly, Jones," she begins as she puts it away. She can do without the caffeine fix for now. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Other people to creep on?"

"I like it here," he says cheerfully.

"Ugh." She gets back to her paperwork. David and Leroy are out canvassing the latest victim's neighborhood and there's no way that she's subjecting her colleagues to Jones without her, not yet. Leroy's leash is even shorter than hers, and while David's always been the most easygoing of the three of them, she knows that he's got his eye on Jones.

Speaking of – "Snow!" he cries, sitting bolt upright.

"Excuse me?"

He flashes her a sheepish grin, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "Nothing."

"Weirdo."

The next morning, he hands her a coffee cup from the place around the corner from the precinct that she treats herself to when she can't stand the coffee inside anymore. It's done exactly the way she likes, hot and strong, with just a dash of milk and two spoons of sugar. Emma's not sure she wants to know how he's figured it out, but it's a cold morning and a nice gesture.

So she thanks him and hides a smile at how pleased he is over that small thing.

Gwen Snow. He's named the character Gwen Snow.

Emma's not sure whether she should laugh or cry. It's…it's just kind of tacky and yeah, so was Derrick Storm but Derrick Storm wasn't based on her, now was he?

"Detective Snow? What, is she chasing down criminals north of the Wall?" Leroy asks, unimpressed.

"It's great!" Jones protests, deflating slightly at the three pairs of eyes staring him down. "Detective Gwen Snow – it just rolls off the tongue. The first novel will be titled Snow Falls."

"Seriously, is she Ned Stark's bastard?"

"George Martin does not have a monopoly on the surname Snow!" Jones says, affronted. Emma catches David's eye and the two of them have to fight to keep from bursting into laughter. They make a great team, the three of them. Leroy's the best at busting balls, David's got the kind of golden earnestness that has people falling all over themselves to confess, and Emma-

Well, Emma's the heavy-hitter.

She decides to take pity on Jones, who looks like he's opened a pile of Christmas presents only to discover they're all filled with coal. "It's fine, Jones. Knowing you, she could have ended up with a stripper name."

"Exactly – wait, what?"

"Nice weather theme you've got going on with your characters," she continues casually. Please god let it just be the one because the thought of him hanging around to write more than one book makes her want to …well, best not say.

Jones looks like he's about to comment but decides against it. Wise man. "Well, now that you mention titles, there's going to be a publicity party announcing the title and the new character at the Library Bar. You're all invited, of course, and I would be most obliged if the lovely Detective Swan here came as my date."

Emma wonders if she heard him right. "Excuse me?"

Those eyes of his really need to stop doing that twinkling thing. "Well, it would make sense, wouldn't it?" he asks innocently. "You are, after all, the real-life Gwen Snow." He winks. "Wear something short."

"Hey buddy," Leroy growls. "We know how to make you disappear, if you catch my drift."

"It's okay Leroy," Emma says, turning over the possibilities. She hates being the center of attention, but she has no doubt that the mayor, the commissioner, and Captain Tracy will be on her to make good publicity for the NYPD. "Jones is just being Jones. What time are you picking me up?"

He looks absolutely thrown. Emma hides a smirk because really, she's just getting started. He wants short? He'll get it.

The expression on Jones' face when she opens her apartment door wearing her favorite little red dress and not so favorite sky-high black heels is more than worth a night of false smiles and schmoozing.

(Jones, of course, recovers quickly and drops innuendos the entire night but she has sharp elbows and knows how to use them.)

Emma knows that Killian has been married before. His wife is lovingly mentioned in the dedications of the first, second, third, and fourth Derrick Storm books. Now that she's been working for him for a while, she notices the tattoo on his wrist that he never talks about. She knows that Milah Jones died – an aneurysm? – and that the fifth, sixth, and seventh Derrick Storm novels were the darkest of the series.

But this? "You have a son?"

Something dark and sad crosses his face ever so briefly as he tracks the thirteen-year-old across the room where he's getting the grand tour from David and Leroy. "Adopted, technically. It's a long story." He rubs the back of his neck. "You don't mind, do you? It's just for a little while, and then he'll probably go back to the penthouse to do his homework."

It's the unexpected bashfulness that does Emma in, just a little bit. "No, of course not. He's…delightful."

Liam Jones, Jr. is as different from Jones as night is from day. Sure, he's got the same insatiable curiosity and the same blue eyes, but his hair is a much lighter brown and determinedly curly. He's quiet and serious and sensitive. Despite the differences, though, it's clear that the two Jones men absolutely adore one another.

Case in point: "All right kid, Gran's waiting for you at home. Have you done your homework?"

"Already done."

"Oh good." Jones grins, affection clear on his face as he gazes down at his son. "Why don't you finish mine?"

Liam considers it. "That depends. How much are you going to pay me?"

Jones roars with laughter. "I've taught you well, lad. Let me grab my coat and I'll walk you to the metro stop."

Liam waits until he's well away before he turns to Emma. She braces herself because this kid is Jones' and wow that's really difficult to process. "Dad really likes working with you, Detective Swan," he says solemnly.

"He's certainly…interesting to work with," Emma says diplomatically, a smile threatening at the corners of her mouth.

He shoots her a look that is all too knowing and somewhat out of place on a kid that young. "I know how he is, Detective. But he's the best. Please take care of him for me when you're working."

She understands the gravity of the request and the fear behind it. The love Liam has for Jones makes feelings old and forgotten flutter inside her, tightening her chest. "Don't worry, kid. He's in good hands."

Gran, as it turns out, is Isabel Lucas, the owner of Granny's Diner. Granny's, as it's affectionately called, is a New York City institution and a place where New York's finest have been known to end up after a long shift because the coffee's good and hot and always free for them. She's also Jones' next-door neighbor and his go-to babysitter – either Granny, or her granddaughter Ruby, who is poised to take over Granny's.

Liam tells her all of this as he perches beside her on a stool while Jones bustles around the kitchen. He drops by the precinct every once in a while if he knows that Jones is there and they're not too busy. And somehow, he wheedled Emma into coming over for dinner.

"So Granny just adopted you?" Emma asks.

"More or less," Jones says, tossing a wink over his shoulder as he stirs béchamel sauce on the stove. "Liam was but a lad when we moved in and I was something of a helpless bachelor-"

"You're still a helpless bachelor," someone sniffs behind Emma, and she almost falls off her stool.

"Gran!" Liam exclaims, jumping off his stool.

Jones looks wounded. "I'm hardly helpless, Gran!" he protests. "See, I'm cooking!" He's only just put the lasagna noodles into the pot of boiling water and is back to attending the béchamel.

"Burning is more like it," the older woman scoffs as she releases Liam from her embrace and eyes Emma. "Detective Swan, you seem like the sensible type so I know you'll keep him in line. Though heaven knows why you decided to work with him in the first place. The man's impossible." Granny's behind the counter with Jones before Emma can even reply, nudging him aside as she peers into the pot of sauce bubbling away on the stove.

Liam grins at Emma as he climbs back into his stool. "Granny doesn't cook for us all that often, you know. Dad's a really good cook," he confides. "He says he likes it because it clears his head. And his lasagna's the best."

Emma can't help but smile back at him. She's not good with kids (and really, really doesn't dwell on the reasons why) – David's the one who's usually saddled with them during cases. Liam's different though. Maybe it's because he's older, or something of an old soul, but he's easy to talk to and inquisitive in a way that isn't invasive or irritating. "I'll believe it when I try it, kid. So, how does Granny know about me?"

"Easy. Dad talks about you all the time." Emma blinks because what does that even mean when he turns back across the counter. "Speaking of – Dad, if I was putting a body in the freezer, it would be because I was trying to hide it."

The words arrow straight into her brain and all the alarm bells go off. "Whoa, whoa. Jones, you cannot discuss open cases!" It's bad enough that he's a civilian consultant, but talking about cases with his teenage son? She's going to kill him.

Jones darts behind Granny, who just snorts and stands aside. He raises his hands. "I think best aloud, Swan! And I'm never specific!" He quickly diverts his attention to Liam, pointedly ignoring the death glare that she's throwing his way. "Trying to hide it – until you stop paying for the storage space."

Liam hums under his breath, his brow furrowing. "Did I stop, or did something stop me?"

Jones' eyes widen at that insight, and even Emma takes notice. Finally, he laughs. "It's family moments like these I will never forget."

Granny slaps the back of his head with a dishrag. "With a good therapist, hopefully Liam will. Now come on and assemble this lasagna!" She motion towards Emma and Liam. "And you two – less murder and more chopping, help me with the salad."

"So." Mary Margaret hands Emma a mug and curls up on the couch beside her. She's kicked David out for the night, citing the need for a much-needed 'Girl's Night.' "Tell me more about Killian Jones."

Emma takes a moment to appreciatively sniff the hot chocolate, lightly scented with cinnamon. The M.E. (and David's fiancée) is perhaps her first true female friend, and the only other person she knows who enjoys the hot beverage this particular way. "I'm sure David's told you plenty."

"Sure," she agrees. "But I want to know what you think."

"He's annoying, self-centered, egotistical…what else do you want to know?"

Mary Margaret just grins at her from over the top of her mug.

"What?"

She wiggles her eyebrows. "He's not a bad man, though." And Emma knows that. She has, after all, met Liam and the kid's turned out all right. "And he could be…fun. You could use a little more fun in your life."

"Not in the form of an overgrown third-grader," she mutters.

"All I'm saying is that you should be a little bit more open-minded. He could be good for you, even if it's just in the professional sense. How many cases have you closed since he started shadowing you?"

"A few," she admits reluctantly. "Don't say a thing," she warns. Mary Margaret is an idealist. She wants everyone to have what she has with David – especially Emma. She knows that she means well, but it can be exasperating. Especially after one too many blind dates.

The petite brunette raises a single hand in surrender. "Zipping it now. Anyway, want to hear about the latest Perlmutter disaster?"

"Oh god, lay it on me!"

"So, we have this new intern…"

She's going to stab him through the eye.

"All right, so you and I are married."

Emma crosses her arms and gives him the death glare. "We are not married." She can almost – just barely – tolerate the crazy theories, because, well, so far they've provided an alternative viewpoint that gives them an edge in solving crimes. She would never admit it, but Jones has good instincts.

Like their last case – she wasn't sure what prompted her to let him into the interrogation room with her, but it was his line of questioning, his way of sympathizing with the suspect that drew out the confession. So yes, his way with words comes in handy.

But she draws the line at roleplaying.

"Relax, love, it's just pretend."

"Don't call me love. And I don't want to pretend."

"Well, if that's what you-"

"Don't finish that sentence."

The landlord looks between the two of them with interest. "Are you two like this all the time?"

"Yes," they say at the same time. Emma's scowl deepens and Jones beams, rocking back on his heels.

Emma wears her mementos on her body – as tributes and as reminders. She doesn't talk about them to anyone (not even David and Mary Margaret know the full story behind any one of them), so it's a surprise that she winds up telling Jones. Not everything, but just enough.

"I was found abandoned on the side of the road. They couldn't even bring me to a hospital or a church or a shelter. My first foster family kept me until I was three, but then they had a kid of their own so I was put back in the system. From then on it was just one house to the next until I finally got out." She's deathly calm and it's like she's reciting a report, but that's the only way she can tell it and keep it together. That is, until- "Swan was the first foster family's name. They wouldn't keep me, but I kept their name."

The emotion is still bitter on her tongue and harsh in the corners of her eyes, not that she ever lets any tears fall.

"The swan's a reminder of what you lost," Jones murmurs, staring at the silver swan around her neck. There's no pity or sympathy in his eyes, only a deep sort of understanding that's oddly comforting.

In more ways than one, Emma thinks remembering when the pendant had been a part of a keychain, and warm brown eyes as it was handed to her-

But that's a wound that cuts too deep, so she shoves it down, down, down, to that locked away place inside of her, the part of her that is still seventeen and bright and hopeful.

"And the shoelace?"

That hurt is still fresh in her mind. "Graham was my first partner," she says, running a thumb over the brown suede tied around her wrist. "I was fresh out of the Academy and stupidly overconfident."

"I find that hard to imagine."

She shrugs and tucks her hair behind her ear. "Well, I was. Graham…calmed me down."

"How did he die?"

"We were investigating a bodega robbery. The kid who did it hid in the broom closet in the back and when Graham opened the door…" Emma lets out a watery laugh, remembering her screams of 10-00, requesting backup, repeat, 10-00. "He told me…before…that I'd saved him. What kind of idiot says that when he's bleeding out in front of you?" She knew that he'd had some sort of past, something that he'd eventually let go of during the brief months that they'd been partners, but he'd never told her the specifics.

"One who meant it, I imagine," he says softly.

One for the one I lost…and one for the one I saved. Perhaps she could look at it that way.

Silence follows them as they ride the elevator down and cross the lobby. She pauses at the front doors and turns to him, wondering why she trusted him enough to tell him these things.

"Until tomorrow, Swan."

She shakes her head. "You can't just say 'night?'"

"I'm a writer. 'Night' is boring. 'Until tomorrow' is more…hopeful."

His honesty and utter lack of pretense knocks her off balance, so Emma falls back on what she knows: distance. "Yeah. Well, I'm a cop. Night." And she pushes through the doors, leaving him behind.

Jones is sitting with David and Leroy in front of the board while Emma pins up the crime scene photographs.

"Why do you writers always call suspects 'perps?'" David's asking.

Jones raises an eyebrow. "Isn't that what you call them?"

"We've got a whole lot of names for them. Pipehead, pisshead, orc, creep-"

"-crook, knucklehead, chucklehead," Leroy chimes in.

"-chud, turd-"

"-destro, scall-"

"-slicko, slick-"

"-mope-"

Jones' notepad appears out of thin air and he's scrambling to keep up as they throw slang his way. "Hang on there mates, slow down a tick!" he exclaims.

"Suspects," Emma says. Her head's starting to throb. "We call them suspects."

Captain Tracy walks by. "I'm old school," she comments. "I like 'dirtbag.'"

"Classic!" Jones cries. Emma resists the urge to slam her head against the board.

The case is truly starting to get to her. It all snowballs when the suspect alibis out and there's nothing they can do about it. She knows that she's got to get out of there or people (most likely Jones) are going to get it (and for once it wouldn't even be his fault).

So she goes to blow off some steam in the shooting range. She needs the sharp juxtaposition of loud and quiet, the cool weight of metal in her hand, and above all, the semblance of control.

But of course Jones can't leave well enough alone. He all but bounces in and her irritation keeps notching upwards until she's just itching to use him for target practice (of course, it's not until later that she realizes he did it all on purpose, making her focus on him rather than the situation at hand).

Then he implies she's not doing it right – or something – and she's handing the gun off to him. "All right Jones, you show me how it's done."

He sends that stupid grin of his in her direction. "I love a challenge."

She gestures at the target, wondering how long it will be before he puts a hole in the ceiling. "All yours."

Jones' stance is ridiculous, standing profile with the gun in one hand, his right shoulder up and eyes squinting. "It's not a duel, Scaramouche." She's reaching out to turn him before she remembers that she really doesn't touch people, but oh well. If he's going to shoot then he might as well do it right. "Square off the target. Feet shoulder distance apart and gauntlet your right fist in your left palm."

She gets a whiff of him as she arranges his stance to her liking, and it's something like wood, salt, and warm leather, rich and cozy and comforting. They've never been this close before and she's suddenly aware of how here, his larger-than-life persona is toned down. And when he's like that…well, he's an entirely different animal.

Oh god. She's not actually attracted to him, is she?

Evidently Jones is just as distracted, because he squeezes the trigger and fires into the wall. "Oops. Shot too soon."

The moment is light and funny and just what she needed so Emma can't help but respond. "Yeah, well, you know we could always just cuddle, Jones."

Jones angles his head towards her and is clearly taken by the sight of her amusement. "Oh, funny, Swan, and a smile! Good!" He winks and tries another shot, missing the target by a mile. At least it's not the ceiling.

"Well, that's…better."

He shifts a little bit and regards the target. "I actually came down to ask you if I could take some of those stolen property photos."

"Photos of the evidence? Why?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I could talk it over with Liam. Something might spark, you know?" He squares his stance and fires again, shooting the target, but right in the groin. He winces. "That hurt."

She's going to let him take them anyway, seeing as they're at a dead end, but maybe he'll do better with some incentive. "Tell you what. You put any of the next three in the ten ring and I will give you the files."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jones straightens and before Emma can say something he fires three shots straight in the ten ring. Emma's jaw drops and she turns to him, eyes narrowing.

He beams, unapologetic. "You're a very good teacher."

The book dedication to Snow Falls is this:

To the extraordinary ES and all my friends at the 12th Precinct.

Her gaze lingers on the word "extraordinary" for far too long and it stirs something in her stomach. No one's ever called her that before and as she looks up into his eyes, she knows that he means it with every cell in his body.

"Henry!" Jones exclaims. Emma looks up to find a boy around ten years old standing beside her desk. He has dark brown hair and is wearing a wool coat and a striped scarf. He's staring at her with eyes that are unnervingly familiar. "What brings you here, lad?"

"Hi Killian," the boy says, then focuses his attention back on Emma. "Are you Detective Emma Swan?" he asks.

"That's me," she says warily, wondering how Jones knows him. A friend of Liam's perhaps? "What can I do for you?"

"My name is Henry Mills." He takes a deep breath. "I'm your son."

Please review!

This is part of my Captain Swan Secret Santa gift for Solène (a.k.a. robbkays) over on tumblr. She requested graphics, but seeing as they're not my strong suit I decided to add to her gift. :)

I really like AUs (nah, really). They're so much fun to play with. And yes, there is a LOT drawn from Castle here. But when the source material is so brilliant...

If you're curious about Liam Jones, Jr., more explanations are forthcoming, but one of the things I love most about Castle is the dynamic between Alexis and Castle. I wanted Killian to have something like that here. As for why the kid's Liam Jr. and not Bae...well, that treads perilously close to headache territory.