Chapter Text
Despite working for the FBI, Belle French didn’t typically have a lot of excitement in her day. Sure, sometimes a case more exciting than insurance fraud or stolen identities would cross her desk on the way to an agent, but most of the time she just filed things, took phone calls, and scheduled meetings. It was good work, she supposed, if not the most thrilling.
She was typing away at her keyboard, sending out a handful of emails and trying to coordinate a meeting between three frustratingly busy higher-ups, when someone approached the front desk. “Pardon me,” he said. “I have need of seeing someone.”
“Just one moment please,” Belle replied, not taking her eyes off the screen. A few seconds later she hit send and swiveled around to face the stranger. She smiled, but the pleasant greeting fell from her face when she recognized just who was standing there. He was unmistakable. Belle had seen so many sketches of him by now, and the artist who’d drawn his portrait for the NYPD to distribute had gotten everything right -- the thick black hair, the stubble on his cheeks and chin, the slight facial scar next to his nose...they’d even managed to capture the mischievous glint in his eyes.
He grinned as her own mouth fell open in shock. “Would you mind telling Agent Emma Swan that the Captain is here?” he asked, leaning so casually against the FBI’s front desk. “And that he’s got one hell of a deal for her?”
…
Special Agent Emma Swan had been making several arrests when the call came in from headquarters. She brushed it off at first, focusing instead on securing the handcuffs on four members of the elusive Nottingham gang. They’d been hitting banks in organized robbery sprees for a few months now, but - with the help of some anonymous tips she was sure came from members of Nottingham’s rival gang, the Merry Men - she’d managed to snag their leader.
Emma barely heard the string of curse-heavy insults coming from the four captured thieves. After each had been loaded into the back of a prison transport van, she let out a large breath, rested her hands on her hips, and smiled. Not a bad start to the day; she hadn’t even had a chance for coffee yet.
“Shit.” The hissed swear drew her attention to her partner, pacing with his phone glued to his ear. His expression was stormy. She walked over to him, hoping to hear whoever was on the other line, but when David saw her out of the corner of his eye he sighed. “She’s right here, sir.” He handed her the phone.
Emma frowned, worried that whatever news was on the other end of the line would spoil her good mood. “Agent Swan,” she said, squaring her shoulders.
“Swan, Jesus, there you are,” said the exasperated voice of her supervisor.
“Sorry, sir,” she said, “was a little busy taking down half the Nottingham gang.”
“Well we’ve got a situation here that takes priority,” Supervisor Spencer said. “I need you back ASAP, Swan. Let the locals handle the Nottingham guys.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder and nodded at the officers waiting outside the transport van. One slapped the palm of his hand on the back doors twice before climbing into the cab and driving away. Sirens started up along with the red and blue lights, making way for the van.
“You’ve been riding us about Nottingham for months; what takes priority?” Emma asked. She glanced up at David, who still looked stricken and agitated.
“The Captain.”
Emma’s whole body did a hard stop. She was sure even her heart stopped beating and her blood stilled in her veins for a few seconds. Her brain short-circuited for a moment before lurching into overdrive.
“The Captain,” she repeated, her once stalled heart now jackhammering. It’d been nearly two years since her run in with the art thief. He hadn’t made even the tiniest blip on any radar since the day he’d given her Edward Thatch.
“He just walked through the goddamn front door,” Supervisor Spencer said, likely rubbing his temples.
“Why?” Emma breathed, a headache starting to form at the back of her skull.
“Hell if I know; he refuses to talk to anyone but you, Swan.”