When Fates Collide

The heavy slap of their shoes against the pavement reverberated off the alley's ancient brick walls, making it sound as though there were thirty of them tearing through that narrow space instead of two.

"Police! Stop!"

He shouted the futile phrase with as much authority as he could muster. With a furtive glance back over her shoulder, the suspect quickened her pace. When did that line ever work? Breaking and Entering. Possession of Stolen Property. Resisting arrest. He added the charges up in his head, mentally calculating whether it was worth his effort to keep up the pursuit.

The girl was surprisingly fast and agile, seeming to vault over fences and squeak through gates without the slightest bit of trouble. She squeezed through a small gap in the wooden fence dividing the alley ahead of them, and disappeared from view. Using a pile of crates as makeshift stairs, he launched himself over the ten foot high blockade. The girl was half a block down on the other side, but not so far that she was out of reach.

The radio at his shoulder suddenly crackled to life. "Jones, where are you? Do you require back up?"

Bugger all. "I'm fine," he barked into the receiver. "Heading east toward the docks."

His radio crackled again and then went silent. In a flash of blond hair, the girl disappeared around a corner and he redoubled his efforts. Like hell he was going to be made to look a fool by some grubby, little thief who likely-

WHAM!

His back met the pavement with no small amount of force. He stared unblinkingly at the patch of inky black sky above while his mind did a brief internal assessment. He was alive. Nothing was broken. He sucked in a ragged breath and pain lanced through his side. Well, maybe something was broken. Or a few somethings. Damn. He hadn't even seen it coming. He took a few experimental breaths just to be sure his lungs were working before lifting his head.

From the corner of his eye he saw the faint metallic gleam of a lead pipe. Jesus Christ, why did it have to be a pipe? The girl edged closer, her movements timid and unpredictable, until she was standing over him with the pipe in hand. Assault with a dangerous weapon. Assault on a police officer. His mind added two more charges to her growing list. The girl's eyes narrowed menacingly and she looked as though she had every intention of finishing him off right then and there.

"I wouldn't recommend that, love," he advised and tried to sit up. He grimaced and stifled a pitiable groan as his ribs screamed in protest.

She lifted a brow in challenge and tightened her grip on the pipe. Shit. Why hadn't he asked for back up? His radio crackled to life and then went silent. The girl's eyes flickered to it briefly and he took his chance, capitalizing on her momentary distraction. He raised his tazer and pointed it at her chest. Her eyes went wide and she took a cautious step back.

"If I pull this trigger a whole lot of volts are gonna come rushing out and with that pipe in your hands you'll get a right nasty burn. So why don't you be a good lass and set it down, hmm?"

She glanced at the pipe in her hand and frowned. He'd never been good with persuasion tactics. His brother, Liam, was a natural at it. He'd talk some perp's ear off until the poor sap was practically handing himself over to be arrested and begging for forgiveness. Somehow, no matter what he said, perps seemed to do the exact opposite of whatever it was he wanted them to do.

For a brief, merciful moment it looked as though the girl might be reasonable. The bit about the pipe burning her was a lie, but he hoped she was as ignorant about science as most of the riff raff he hauled in. She was wavering - he could see it written all over her face. Then she did exactly what he'd hoped she wouldn't do and swung the pipe at his head.

His reaction was automatic – his finger pulled the trigger and the tazer brought her to her knees with 50, 000 volts. The pipe went crashing to the pavement and he slowly, achingly, rolled to his feet. He slipped his cuffs over her narrow wrists before she had the chance to recover and then painfully hauled her to her feet.

"I tried to warn you, love," he said apologetically as he pulled her towards the end of the alley.

He reached for the radio on his shoulder and it came to life with a short burst of static.

"Jones, here. Suspect has been apprehended. We're on our way out now."

"Good work, Jones. We'll see you in a minute."

The radio crackled again and then went silent. He could barely keep the sardonic smile from his lips. Barely an hour into the New Year and he'd been gifted with a collar and a set of cracked ribs. There'd never been a more fitting metaphor for his life – success one slow, painful step at a time.

oOo

The precinct was unusually quiet. The guys with families had been given the night off to spend it with their wives and kids while the rest of the lonely saps worked a double. Detective Jones strolled over to the coffee machine where his brother, Liam, was pouring a fresh cup.

"There's my baby brother! Heard about that collar - you gunning for a promotion or what?"

Expelling a long suffering sigh, he grabbed a fresh paper cup off the stack.

"Perhaps with a promotion you'll finally stop referring to me around the precinct as your baby brother."

Liam chuckled heartily and clapped him on the back.

"I can't help it if I'm proud of my little brother's accomplishments. How are those ribs holding up?"

He straightened, smiling through the sharp pain in his side. "Just bumps and bruises. Nothing I can't handle."

His brother studied him speculatively and his smile faded at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he knew he was lying, but he wouldn't go so far as to say anything. An injury like that could relegate him to desk duty and that was exactly what he didn't want.

"Glad to hear it," his brother said finally, his smile returning. "That girl you brought in is in Interrogation Room 1 if you're feeling up to it. Watch yourself though, she's a bit feisty."

"Yeah, I got that memo," he grumbled, taking a sip of his coffee. He grimaced and added just enough milk and sugar to make it palatable before slapping on a lid. "I'll be in Interrogation 1 if anyone asks."

Liam sent him off with a tip of his head and sauntered back to his desk. There was talk from some of the others in the precinct, rumours here and there, about how it was strange for them to work together. It'd never bothered him but he wasn't so certain the same could be said of Liam. His brother had turned down two chances at the Captain's exam that he knew of because passing it would take him out of the A-1. There was always some excuse, some reason why he couldn't be bothered, everything but the truth.

Maybe it was because of where he'd grown up and the crap hand he'd been dealt, but from the time they were kids Liam had taken it upon himself to look out for him. First in the school yard, then at the Academy, and now here. He protected him, watched his back, always put him first. After so many years alone, it felt good to have someone in his corner but things couldn't keep going like this. Something had to give.

After seven years on the force he deserved the chance to stand on his own two feet. His brother would never agree, of course, but he'd find a way to make him see reason. It was either that, or put in the transfer request that'd been sitting in his desk for the last six months. Some days he wasn't sure which would be a bigger pain in the ass.

Putting aside thoughts of Liam for the moment, he pushed open the door to Interrogation Room 1. The suspect was there waiting, seated at the table with her hands cuffed and folded neatly in front of her.

"Sorry about those," he said sincerely, "but when you assault a police officer they become mandatory."

The girl looked up just long enough to fix him with a heated glare before returning her eyes to the table. Sliding out the chair across from hers, he took a seat and pulled out his notepad.

"My ribs are fine," he quipped with a click of his pen. "In case you were wondering."

The girl said nothing, though he was certain if it were possible her eyes would have bored a hole through the table. He consoled himself with the thought that she wasn't the emotive sort and felt the burden of her remorse internally.

"Do you have a name, lass?"

The silence in the room was deafening. Exhaling a soft sigh, he flipped open the manila folder in front of him and leafed through the first few pages.

"Allison…Rogers, is it?"

She flicked the hair out of her eyes with a shake of her head and coolly met his gaze.

"We have you on camera stealing some designer watches from a jewellery shop downtown. The owner is in the other room deciding whether he wants to press charges. Not the best way to start the New Year."

With a bored look, the girl rolled her eyes and glanced away. Her metal cuffs scrapped loudly across the table as she slid her hands into her lap. Coughing lightly, Killian made a few pointless notes in her file and then clicked his pen.

"What I'm wondering," he ventured, his tone softening, "is why a nice girl like you would steal a bunch of watches."

She snorted indignantly and sat back against her chair. "Try spending your whole life in and out of foster homes, or working an honest job only to get fired because a co-worker decides to tell your boss that you spent time in juvi. A lot of things can make a "nice girl" girl steal a bunch of watches. But hey, maybe I just thought they looked pretty."

The cool detachment in her gaze hit a little too close to home. His own eyes had held that same look once, long ago.

"I get it," he said, flipping his notebook shut. "I spent some time in the foster system myself. Lived in a charming little red brick apartment down on Bond Street. Sometimes life deals you a crap hand and when it does you have two choices - wallow in it or rise above it."

The irony of telling this girl that she had to rise above her circumstances while, a year after the fact, he was still struggling to accept that his wife had left him wasn't lost on him.

"Based on our little run in earlier I'd say you're not the type to give up without a fight, so I'm going to give you the opportunity to help yourself - who told you to steal the watches?"

"No one," she answered distractedly and then, "Did you say you lived on Bond Street? 301 Bond?"

"Aye, that's the one," he replied warily.

She leaned forward, the links of her handcuffs clinking against the table. "What's your name?"

"Detective Jones. Killian Jones."

The fight seemed to evaporate out of her in a single breath. Releasing her hold on the table she sat back and shook her head in disbelief.

"It's not possible," she muttered. Her brow furrowed as her eyes raked over his features. "I'm guessing that about twenty years ago you lived at 301 Bond?"

It was a time in his life he'd prefer to forget, but he reluctantly nodded his head. The Bond Street residence, run by Donald and Arlene McCormack, had been about as far from a nurturing home environment as could be found in the Boston foster care system. Countless nights without supper, a dirty mattress on the floor as his bed, and days spent hiding from the bullies who lived in the building. He'd called that place 'home' from the ages of 7-10, before fate stepped in and he was adopted by the Jones family. If she knew of Bond Street, or God forbid, spent any time there, it was reason enough she'd turned out the way she had.

"I was there, too" she told him evenly. "Though back then I had a different name. Maybe you remember – Emma Swan?"

Killian blinked, momentarily taken aback. Emma…Swan? He hadn't thought about that name or the girl it belonged to in years. During their time on Bond Street she'd been quiet, fragile and always in need of protection. From almost the day she arrived they were inseparable – first out of necessity, and later because they realized they were the only family each other had. That was, until the day the Jones family had arrived to take him away. Without so much as a goodbye he'd left her alone in that place. A wave of guilt crashed over him and he swallowed hard, suddenly regretting his coffee from earlier.

Her expression of shocked surprise melted into a cynical sort of smile and she leaned back against her chair.

"Cry baby, Killy," she mused, reminding him of his childhood moniker. "Do the boys still call you that? Can't say I'm surprised you decided to become a cop."

His mouth went dry and he took a hurried sip of his coffee to clear his throat. What was the proper way to respond in this sort of situation? How does one confront a ghost from their past? He hadn't a damn clue, so he did what he usually did and fumbled along.

"It's been a long time since anyone has called me that," he managed, his voice rougher than he would've liked.

She responded with a snort. "I'll bet. It's good to see you again, Killian."

"I only wish it'd been under better circumstances. You didn't have to try and beat my head in with a lead pipe, you know."

She lifted her shoulders and a smile toyed with the corners of her mouth. Killian sat back against his chair and wondered what the hell his next move was supposed to be. He couldn't very well put her back on the street and it felt wrong to lock her up given the circumstances. Expelling a short sigh, he pushed his chair back and headed for the door.

"Sit tight. I'll be back soon," he promised, closing the door quietly behind him.

Liam was waiting on the other side of the two-way mirror, his expression troubled.

"What kind of interrogation tactic was that?"

Killian closed his eyes and rested his head against the door.

"She and I grew up in the same foster home," he explained. "Back then we were as close as two friends can be and then I…left."

"You didn't leave her," Liam reminded him. "What could you have possibly done at that age? This is ridiculous, Killian. Don't let her get under your skin."

He firmly shook his head. "Don't you get it? That could be me sitting in that chair. I could have turned out just like her. She's not unredeemable, Liam. She just needs a helping hand."

"She's not your problem and she sure as hell isn't some charity case you can fix. Listen, I know things haven't been right since Lauren left but this is not the way to deal with it."

He fixed his brother with a hard look, his jaw stubbornly set. His ex-wife was a touchy subject, one he didn't appreciate being brought up in the least. There'd been an unspoken agreement between them over the past year never to speak of her. Not after how everything went down. For Liam to bring her up now, it was obvious he was concerned but it only made him more determined. He'd dealt with enough crap in the last year to last a lifetime. He was due for a bit of good. Maybe that was this girl, maybe it wasn't, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let the opportunity walk out the door.

Recognizing defeat when he saw it, Liam heaved a sigh and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Always the bleeding heart," he chided, giving him a light shake as though to shake some sense into him. When his hand fell away and he retreated towards the squad room offering a muttered warning of "Don't say I didn't warn you" back over his shoulder.

Killian watched him go and scrubbed a weary hand over his features. Reluctant as he was to admit it, Liam had a point. This was irrational and reckless and foolish but he needed it. Maybe it was only misplaced guilt, but he felt obligated – no, driven – to do right by her. To take care of her the way he should have and couldn't all those years ago. Sure, it'd probably come back to bite him in the ass but he had to at least give it a try. What sort of man would he be if he didn't?

Pushing off the wall, he straightened his shoulders and walked purposefully towards the Captain's office.

Author's Note: The inspiration for this fic came almost entirely from a song: "Girls Like You" by The Naked and Famous. Check it out if you get a chance! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far! Please take a moment to leave a review. I do my best to reply to all of them.