Hey-o! So I was going to wait awhile into the hiatus to start posting my next multichap—but I figured with the last CS-lite episode, *shrug* why the hell not? So, a warning: this won't be a light, funny one like my other 2 fics. And —disclaimer—though it's based on history, the story is complete fiction. I've merged 2 Ingrid Bergman films from the 1940s as the plot base: Gaslight & Notorious, though you don't need to be familiar with them to get the story. Whole fic is rated 'M' for sex, thematic elements, and eventual violence.

Foreword: In the aftermath of World War II, several 'ratlines' were developed by sympathizers in order to help Nazis and fascists escape the post-war repercussions coming their way. A paper trail of faked passports would be set up to smuggle the escapee from Germany to either Spain or Italy, and from there to various countries, primarily those in South America.

Buenos Aires, Argentina

February 1948

The slotted blades of the overhead fan turned lazily, ineffectual in the summer heat, while below it, two bodies writhed about on the bed's thin cotton sheets. One of Emma's legs was hooked over Killian's arm as he hovered above her, driving into her tight heat relentlessly.

"Jesus, Killian," she moaned, fingernails digging into his sides to pull him even closer. "Fuck, you feel amazing, you always feel amazing." Her thighs slipped in the sweat they'd generated, and she hitched them back up above his hips.

Killian took a moment to grin down at the woman spread out beneath him so invitingly. He loved hearing his name—his real name—on her lips; she didn't get to say it often enough.

"I can't seem to find any room to complain on my end either, darling," he smirked.

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Please, I may faint from all the flattery."

He didn't respond except for a chuckle, pulling her up suddenly against her chest, bouncing her several times upon his cock before pulling her off abruptly. "End of the bed, my dear," he smirked, giving a soft slap to her ass. "Hold onto something."

Emma scrambled down the bed's length, gripping two of the iron bars on the foot frame, looking over her shoulder expectantly, and Killian felt his cock twitch. By gods, she was a majestic site, he'd love to tie her hands above her head to those bars, and…but today they'd wasted enough time. When she'd come up to his apartment today, they'd wordlessly agreed on nothing hurried, going at a slower, more sensual pace to match the temperature. It had been fantastic as ever, but now, to put it crudely, they had to move things along.

He gripped her hips firmly, and pushed back into her in one fluid thrust, reveling in her sharp inhale. The arm that ended at his wrist curled around her, rubbing against the soft skin of her stomach, while his hand gripped the bedframe next to her right one, then let it trail to where they were joined.

"Are you close, Emma?" he murmured when he felt her thighs start to shake.

She reached a hand back, threading her fingers through his thick hair. "Yes," she whimpered, pushing back against him vigorously. "Make me come, Killian. Please!"

"If the lady insists," he responded, biting down on the soft spot between her neck and shoulder and continuing to rub over her clit. She let out a loud shout, spasming around him simultaneously.

""Kil—!" she clapped a hand over her mouth, as Killian thrust twice more, coming with a loud groan. He collapsed back onto the bed, pulling Emma by the waist along with him.

"Why'd you cover your mouth?" he asked, once she'd settled her cheek against his chest. "You know I love to hear what I do to you."

She snorted, gave him a smack on the shoulder. "Don't want to give the neighbors any more cause to talk. You know, I'd expect someone in your position to be more discreet. Aren't you the one who's supposed to be telling me what to do? You're a terrible minder."

"Perhaps, the grasshopper has become the master," he intoned, in a horrible Charlie Chan voice, making Emma laugh again.

"I highly doubt that," she responded, while Killian started inching down slowly, pressing his lips to a bead of sweat on the side of her breast, while his hand reached up to cup it.

"Oh, no sir!" Emma sat up, swinging her legs over the side, and reaching for her camisole that had been flung over a bedpost. "No time for any of that."

"Must you always rush off?" he groaned, falling back onto the pillows.

"You know damn well what I'm rushing off for," she said, now doing up her blouse buttons. "I shouldn't even have stayed this long. Rumpelsteiger's going to send a car for me in an hour, and I haven't even selected a dress yet!"

Killian propped himself up on an elbow, resting the side of his face on his scarred wrist, watching her get re-dressed. "Whyever not? I thought that was a great pastime of women, selecting just the right outfit for this party or that."

"Excuse me if I haven't gotten used to being invited to parties yet, Nazi ones or no." She said it casually, but it still made Killian's chest constrict. He didn't want to think of Emma being alone for as long as she had, or the circumstances, so instead he continued lecturing her.

"Well…another thing," he grumbled, sitting up, "you really shouldn't refer to that man and his son as 'the Rumpelsteigers'. They're going by "Gold' here, and you ought to do the same."

Emma darted into the lavatory to remove her diaphragm, then straightened her slip and pulled her gray skirt on over it. She popped her head around the corner. "Why? They go by 'Rumpelsteiger' when I'm around."

"Aye, but it's for your own safety, lass. Within their walls is fine, but if the outside world heard you calling them that…well, it's a different story."

Her eyes narrowed. "I thought you checked for bugs again."

"I did! Everyday. But…oh, bloody hell, just be careful!"

Emma grinned; bringing him to the point of exasperation was always great fun. She reached down to slip her gray pumps back on, then rounded the bed, leaning down towards Killian and running a palm down his stubbly cheek.

"When will we see each other again?"

"Don't fret about it. As always, lass, I'll find you." He cupped a hand behind her neck, and pulled her down for a searing kiss. Killian nipped her bottom lip, then plunged his tongue into her mouth when she opened for him, thoroughly ravaging her before he pulled back.

"Golly!" Emma exclaimed, looking dazed as her hand drifted to her swollen lips.

Killian smiled smugly. "Think of that while Gold Jr. tries to make his pathetic attempts to brush up against you this evening, darling."

Her expression grew serious. "Even if I didn't have—I mean, even if it weren't for you, Killian, he wouldn't tempt me. Him, his father, and their friends are all despicable people."

"Don't let your emotions take over, Swan," he said, reverting back to her code name as a pointed reminder. "Just remember the end objective."

Her eyes grew hard at his return to a cold, professional tone. "Yes, Hook," she replied. "I remember perfectly." And she turned and left, shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

Killian sighed, leaning back against the headboard. She'd taken so well to recruitment and training, sometimes he forgot how deep Emma had been plunged right off the bat. For all she'd been game for, she was still, essentially, a civilian. It wasn't fair, but then again, it hadn't been Killian's call.

Seven months earlier, New York City

The man glanced over his newspaper, then rolled it up and set it on the bench beside him. Any minute now, that flash of blonde hair and darting gaze would be along, as it had for the past couple weeks.

Only this time, Killian Jones was ready.

And there she was—inching closer and closer to the fruit cart, inconspicuous in her worn tan trenchcoat. He doubted she'd notice the vendor wasn't the usual, easily-fooled fathead. Today, it was a similar looking agent—and she wouldn't get away with her typical routine.

Emma ran her fingertips lightly across the rows of oranges, apples, and plums, drops of dew still glistening on them. She was sure her coat, though old, put her above suspicion. It didn't look like something a dame who was a step away from being out on the streets would have, at least. She'd snatched it a couple months ago off a chair back at some outdoor café, nobody noticing as she'd folded it over her arm and strolled away nonchalantly. Her heart rate picked up, as it always did, when her fist closed around a particularly plump apple—her target. Yes, it was wrong, as the orphanage matrons had done their best to beat into her all those years ago, but one more piece of stolen food was one more man she didn't have to lie on her back for. Emma had only made it three steps when those dreaded words came: "Hey, you gonna pay for that, little lady?"

Goddammit, the question that was the bane of every thief's existence. Emma turned stiffly, apple still clutched tightly. No. No, she didn't want to have to make herself available tonight, please no, she was so close….

"I…" she took another step backwards, and the vendor sprung, much more agile than she would've guessed a man of his girth to be. In seconds, her wrists were pinned above her head, the man's large stomach pressing her against the brick wall.

"I don't take kindly to thieving scum," he hissed in her ear. "And if you ain't got the coin…."

"I'm not!" she wailed, struggling futilely in his grasp. "I'm not sc—"

"Is there a problem here?" A velvety, accented voice broke through the confrontation, and Emma raised her head towards it. Roosevelt's ghost, it had to be the most striking man she'd ever laid eyes on. Dark hair, windswept, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to drill right through her. His black suit was sharply tailored, and his gloves and shoes looked to be real leather. A man of some means, she mused. But what does he care what happens to me?

"This filthy tramp was tryin' ta steal from me, mister," the vendor responded, releasing one of his hands holding Emma down. "An' I don't take kindly to—"

His expression unchanging, the dark stranger tugged off one of his gloves with his teeth, then swiftly snatched it and struck the vendor across the face with it.

"I'd watch how you speak about and in front of a lady, you swine," he said calmly, looking at Emma now. "Shall I get you your apple, love?"

What did he want for it? They all wanted something. Still, he was quite pleasant looking, maybe it wouldn't be so bad…. She nodded, staring at the ground while the man tossed a nickel at the vendor, muttered some last comment, then grasped her elbow securely and led her towards the park across the street. Once seated side-by-side, Emma had no clue what to say, twirling the apple in her hands. After a minute, she looked up, startled to see the handsome man staring at her, smiling gently.

"So…what do you want?"

The man looked confused. "What do I want?"

"Yeah. You—you did me a service back there, mister, and I'm grateful. But I know men aren't content with a 'thank you most kindly', now are they…sir?" She was surprised to see him look almost angry at her words, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"Haven't had a very smooth go of it, have you, love?"

Emma let out a very unladylike snort. "You could say that, sir. Though that's phrasing it mildly." Her head jerked up. "I'm not looking for your pity, or anything. Sorry…I don't know why I just said that to a complete and utter stranger."

"You can say anything you want, or don't want, to me, darling. You see,"—and here the man actually covered her hand with his un-gloved one—"you're something of an open book."

Emma pulled her hand out from under his. She wasn't getting any dangerous vibes from him, but he was certainly an oddball. "That's kind of a presumptuous thing to say, mister—?"

"Ah, well, I suppose we're past formalities now, aren't we? However, my name segues right into what I want from you." He started to reach into his inside suit pocket.

Emma glared. "So you do want something from me." She stood up quickly, hands in fists. "Dammit, are you a copper? Playing some game with me, are you? You're all the same, think toying with the beggar's a great blast before throwing me in the clink for the night—"

The stranger pulled her back to the bench by her wrist. "Settle yourself, ma'am. I'm here to entreat a favor of you. I actually know quite a bit about you already, Emma." Before she could react (how did he know her name?), he flipped open what looked like a thin billfold right in her face.

Curiosity got the better of her, and Emma leaned over what looked at first glance to be some international ID card. But upon further inspection, her eyes widened.

"Killian Jones…MI6? But—but isn't that—?"

"The British Secret Service? Aye. Out to protect Queen and country, and all that lot."

She raised a brow. "And what could the British Secret Service possibly want with whoring, thieving trash?"

There was that jaw clench again. "Don't speak of yourself as such, Emma. You're actually quite an important person—to your country, my country, and quite possibly, the whole free world."

Emma could feel her jaw hanging open, but no matter how foolish she probably looked, she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. He was off his rocker, without a doubt. "I—what? I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, but I'm afraid you have the wrong person. I'm—I'm nobody—just an orphan who grew up on the streets, doing what I could—what I had to do—to survive. I've never mattered to anyone, and I never—"

"But you do, lass," Killian Jones said, unruffled, tucking his ID back into his suit. "What I'm going to tell you is, at first, going to sound like something straight from the cinema, but…please keep an open mind."

She sat back slowly, hands on her knees. What else did she have to do? The man might still be a nutter, but at least he was entertaining. "All right, Mr. Secret Agent. Let's have it."

He visibly relaxed, giving her another gorgeous grin. "Well…'spose I should start at the beginning. Emma, for years the Yanks have tried to get together a covert structure like the one we Brits mastered years ago…and after several starts and stops, it's finally clicked. It's not common knowledge yet, but let me tell you about a new, comprehensive unit called the Central Intelligence Agency. And the CIA considers you to be a vital component to their next operation."

A/N: Well, hope you liked the first bit! Planning on this being the writing exercise that gets me through the hiatus. Oh, I wonder if anyone knows which 1933 movie I took their meeting scene from? Hint: It was remade in 1976 and 2005. Review, por favor?