A/N: First chapter of my new captain swan multichapte, based loosely on the film Chalet Girl. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or Once Upon A Time. Boo hoo.

There are a million things that Killian could be thinking, standing here, waiting for them to arrive by freaking private jet. Perhaps some whimsical notion such as how very blue the sky is, or how bright the sun is. Or it could be something more practical, like how his hands are rather cold and next time – because he's been informed that yes, there will be a next time – he should bring his gloves.

But no, Killian's thoughts consist of a very simple and yet not entirely answerable question. What the fuck am I doing here?

The answer isn't completely non-existent, and in fact, it depends what you define as here. If here is the landing pad then the answer is very easy. He is waiting for the arrival of the Golds – the quite frankly loaded owners of the overly extravagant chalet he is catering for – to arrive by the private jet they own (because, apparently, to take a normal planelike normal people is beyond them).

If you define here, however, as the whole fucking Ski Resort then the answer is much less reachable. The reason for this being the fact that unlike other well brought up Eton or Harrow educated snot nosed public school boys, he is not here because Mummy and Daddy thought that being a Chalet boy would be a simply splendid way of learning how to cook and hitting the slopes at the same time. No – Killian Jones's knowledge of skiing is about as extensive as his knowledge of spacecrafts or nuclear power plants, and his desire to extend that knowledge is of the same limitation.

This only makes the why the fuck am I here question all the more difficult. If not to Ski or Snowboard why would any sane person apply for a job as a Chalet boy where snow sports are the only desirable factor – unless one enjoys making mind-numbingly boring small talk and serving rude, tight-lipped, upper class social climbers and serving champagne that could pay one's rent three times over. The answer to this question lies with the catering agency; one Killian had been effectively bullied into approaching.

Said bullying was courtesy of Whale, who had acquired the idea from a friend of a friend. Of course, he had made it sound better than this; saying that you simply pretend to be 'posh' for a few hours, make some food, add unneeded shavings of various herbs to the food, serve the food, resist the temptation to step on the customer's feet and voila – money everywhere and the long awaited escape from the playing-songs-at-crappy-bars career.

What his blonde friend hadn't taken into account was that just as the woman who ran the agency was about to politely decline him – him being the only person out of all the applicants with any knowledge of the working world but also the only one without some ridiculous double-barrelled surname – the chalet girl from one of the biggest effing chalets in the entirety of the Alps would break her leg (Skiing: dangerous) and his services would be rather reluctantly required after all.

And, not just that, but they would be required for the rest of the Ski season. Three months. Working as a Chalet boy. Not being able to Ski. No intention of learning to ski. Naturally, Killian had declined. But, alas, it was a declination that had lasted just as long as the pause before they had announced the game changer – the pay.

After that – the overnight train to France being a lengthy four hours after the call – it had been rushed packing – how does one pack for the mountains when the closest they've been to snow is that one harsh winter they had when him and pretty much the rest of London had more or less stayed indoors? – saying goodbye to friends and turning back for his guitar despite having just about managed to convince himself that it would be a nuisance to transport and he would have to do without (as if he could ever go three months without his baby).

He'd managed about four hours of sleep on the train before they'd woken him up again – just as vivid and scorching and blinding as usual – and he'd spent the rest of the journey doing absent minded doodles of nothing in particular and looking out the window with a promise to kill Whale for ever suggesting this before the Eurostar had pulled to a steady halt in the middle of a mountain range. Fantastic.

From there he'd been picked up by some American chick named Regina – red lipstick, raven hair, sceptically raised eyebrow at his guitar – the other employee of Mansion de la Posh – or Mansion de la Gold as she had said – and they'd proceeded on the half hour drive from the station to said Mansion.

And – after showing him to his room and explaining to him the three fundamental rules of Chalet Personing (1. Do whatever you like all night as long as breakfast is on the table at eight. 2. No having people over at the house. 3. Don't fuck the clients.) – she'd received a call from the god damn pilot saying that they were almost landing.

Thus how Killian has ended up leaning against the large black Land Rover having his hair whipped back and ears invaded by the obnoxiously loud sound of a small aeroplane landing whilst he tries to fathom his thoughts into something that might serve as an explanation why he's here.

And – just as the door to the plane opens – he manages to come up with one that should be able to carry him through these three months: I need the money.

At Regina's frantic hand gesture he pushes of the back of the land rover so she can lift the boot, making room for the luggage they have, before turning his head to watch the clients step off the plane with much unnecessary help from the man who he assumes is either the pilot or some sort of plane-butler.

"Who is everyone?" He asks, turning to Regina and burying his hands further into his leather jacket – which was not designed for the cold, he has now discovered.

"That's Mr Gold." She tells him, nodding to the first off the plane. He looks – even from the quite considerable distance away – to be about fifty with a sharp suit and long black cane that he uses to walk whilst the pilot-slash-plane-butler struggles with his bag.

The next out the small rounded-cornered door of the plane is a short woman who looks to be about thirty, a contributing factor to his surprise when Ruby introduces him as Belle, Mr Gold's wife.

"She's quite young." He comments mildly, musing that young wife is not out of sync with the stereo type for aging men of his social class.

Regina shrugs. "She's his second wife, he had Neal with his first." She says and – noticing the blank expression on his face at the name Neal – nods to the third figure to step of the jet, a brown haired man with no particularly remarkable features.

"That's Neal and that –" She nods to the next person getting out of the plane " – is his girlfriend, Emma."

Killian looks up, momentarily distracted from the fact that Mr Gold is approaching and he really should keep up social formalities, too busy looking at the next person to manage the stairs and somehow managing to be taken aback by someone at such a considerable distance. She has blonde hair that the wind is blowing in all directions and – like him – has chosen to ignore the advice to get a proper snow-withstanding jacket and has likewise opted for a leather jacket, hers being red and hanging open over a black turtle neck.

His eyes are drawn from her by the approaching figure of Mr Gold, who looks – in Killian's humble opinion – to be even creepier up close as he gives Regina tight-lipped smile (he supposes they know each other by now) and pat on the shoulder, and looks as if he's about to move towards the car when his sharp eyes land on Killian and his expression settles into a frown.

"Where's Kate?" He says abruptly, giving Killian a once-over with an expression that borders on disapproving.

"She broke her leg." Regina supplies, and then nods to him. "This is Killian – he's the sub."

It's then that Belle comes up behind Mr Gold, all blue eyes and warm smiles, extending her hand to Killian which he manages to shake before plane-butler offloads the luggage onto him. "You must be Kate's replacement." Killian nods before turning to dumb the bag into the boot of the car whilst Mr Gold gives Belle an indignant "You knew?" as the two of them walk round to the car.

When he spins round from taking care of Gold's luggage Neal is already there, passing his onto him with a heavy sigh. "Kevin, was it?" He says in a casual tone whilst he scrolls through something or rather on his phone.

"Uh – Killian." He corrects, trying not to get snappy (apparently there's an un-spoken fourth rule: don't be rude to the clients) whilst he pushes the suitcase to the back of the boot, and when he spins round she's there and lord help him because all the things he didn't see – couldn't see – like the sharp green eyes and pink lips are right there.

"Regina!" She says, lips curving into a smile has she hugs his new co-worker, who is apparently also a friend and he notes to himself that she has a nice smile, chastising himself immediately afterwards because what kind of rom-com protagonist is he, thinking about a girl's smile.

She turns to him. "You're not a girl." She says bluntly.

"I'm flattered you noticed." He says and she raises an eyebrow, extending her hand to him.

"Killian, right?" She says and he nods, thanking the lord that at least someone got it right.

"Emma." She says, withdrawing her hand just as the very name she's introduced herself with is called from the other side of the car in a voice he recognises as belonging to Neal. Her boyfriend.

Fuck.

She gives him a tight-lipped smile before sidestepping to the door of the car opening it and he can't help but follow her movements as she slides into the car, tight hugging jeans –

"Rule three." Regina says in a sing song voice as they walk over to her considerably smaller car – the one Killian had driven over because she didn't trust him with their bulldozer style rich people car – and he groans inwardly because was it that obvious?

"Yeah, yeah." He mutters as he slides into the passenger seat.

Of course, inside, he's not concurring at all. No – inside he's thinking that if he is going to break one of those three rules – which is inherently likely considering he's pretty helpless at not doing just that – well then god – green eyes, pink lips, tight jeans – rule three would be the one to break.

The half hour drive from the landing pad to the Chalet is one Emma is, by this point, quite familiar with. And yet – on another one of these journeys – she finds herself unable to partake in the conversation that goes back and forth between the occupants of the car – something about something to do with money and something – too consumed with looking out the slightly frosted window, gazing out upon the vast mountains and valleys and trees and everything.

It's huge. Massive, made up of all different slopes and unexplored crevices, untainted snow that expands for miles and the whole thing, it's vast and open and it should make her feel free and empowered and yet – sitting in this car driving towards that house – Emma Swan has never felt more trapped.

It's a feeling that grows as his arm curls around her shoulder, pulling her away from the view she's so incessantly drawn to and back into the Gold universe where of course first on the list of conversation topics is the new chalet boy because to meet a new person and not immediately judge them – and judge them on the five second impression you got of them before your attention span was instantly captured by something with a price tag – would be just unheard of.

"What was his name again?" Neal says. "Something weird and English."

"It was Killian." Emma says, thinking back to the crooked smile and dark hair and blue blue eyes and fuck he wore that leather jacket well and –

"Yeah, that was it. Seems alright, although I did like Kate."

Oh, I bet you did. Emma thinks dryly, mind switching to the what can only be described as very unsubtle leering that had taken place before Christmas when they'd last been up and Kate – nice girl, although rather dull – had been wearing the black dress that tended to be more on the revealing side.

Not that she can blame her; cooperate clients, all male, that dress probably did her a wonder in tips. It's just that sometimes she wishes she was in a long-term relationship with someone who she could actually talk to rather than at whilst he entertains himself with the view from across the room.

But – she thinks – when you love someone you take the good with the bad. And loves Neal, she does. More importantly, her parents simply adore him. So glad they'd been, her finding a nice boy from a nice family with money of their own, someone who wasn't going to marry her for hers.

"I don't know." Gold says, shifting in his seat. "Seemed a bit rough around the edges, don't you think?"

If by rough you mean ruggedly sexy –

"I get what you mean." Neal says, now using the arm that isn't around Emma's shoulder to dig into his pocket, pulling out his iPhone and flicking through his twitter feed.

"You boys." Belle says as the car pulls into the all too familiar driveway. "Don't be so hard on him."

Emma can't help but agree, musing as she gets out the car that it can't be easy being caterer to this lot's high standards and lack of regard when it comes to firing new people who don't meet said standards.

She looks up at the house, still as obnoxious and imposing as ever and god she's so ungrateful because it is beautiful and she's sure anyone would love to spend a holiday here, to see it as a location for future family holidays with children and wedding rings, and yet, here she is, regarding it as though it's some kind of prison –

But it is. It's not a prison in the sense of walls or bars but in the sense that she's on holiday with her boyfriend and his parents and there's expectations and etiquette and she has to behave like the good girl from the good family that she is. That she will always be.

She moves round to the boot, opening it and taking out her bag, struggling with it for a second because it's heavy and she almost drops it until two strong hands grip the sides, steadying her and her eyes travel upwards – leather jacket, scruff lined jaw, blue eyes, dark hair – and then he's there, giving her that smile again.

"Need a hand?" He asks, going to take it off her but she tightens her grip on it, tugging it back.

"It's fine." She says, swinging it over her shoulder and going to sidestep him until Neal's voice cuts through as he goes to get his own suitcase.

"Honey, why don't you give that to – uh – "

Emma rolls her eyes because is he really too far up his own bloody ass to remember a name? "For god's sakes – Neal – it's Killian."

His eyebrows dart up. "Christ, calm down, Em. I'm sure he doesn't mind." Neal – her charming charming boyfriend – says, moving away from the car and towards the house and with a reluctant huff she passes her bag to Killian.

"Sorry about that." She mutters as they head up the stairs, Regina up ahead and helping Belle and Gold with their bags.

"'S fine." He says. "Is a bit of a mouthful. Most people tend to call me by my surname."

She looks to him with an eyebrow raised in question. "Jones." He supplies and she nods, going to open the door but he beats her to it, letting her pass with a nod of the head.

"Swan." She says as she passes and he smiles again.

"Cool name." He says following her into the house and for a second she feels as if she would quite happily continue this conversation until Neal calling her name from the living room pulls her out of it, reminding her where she is and who she is, and then Regina's, calling to him for some help with the bags and then – with a fucking wink – he's off to do his job and she's off to do hers.

And apparently – as she discovers when she reaches the living room – her job consists of listening politely to boring chatter about the family business whilst Belle pores over a Ski map and Emma groans inwardly because, in all honestly, she doesn't even like skiing.

But – of course – she still goes because where else does one spend their Christmases and New Years and every other weekend because apparently, when you have a private jet flying out to France to go skiing with clients is totally normal.

That's her – internally whining because she has to ski when she should be grateful, grateful for the fortune she's been blessed with. So blessed to be effectively tied to a guy she thinks she loves – although she's not even sure – and roped along to holidays with the spindly presence that is his father and eating delicacies like Caviar which she supposes she likes, although again isn't quite sure because for all she knows she only eats it because it's expected of her.

Fortunate indeed.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed, reviews are immensely appreciated.