Chapter Text
Special Agent Emma Swan had never been a fan of hospitals, though she spent a fair amount of time in them. Little more than a week ago she visited a concussion-addled Will Scarlet for information on the thugs that put him there. Four months ago she’d spent long hours with Mary Margaret, David, and baby Neal. A few days ago she’d been there for herself, having the doctor reset her dislocated shoulder after an arrest got a little out of hand.
But, starting around six months ago, she visited once a week—every Sunday morning—and sat with a man she’d never really met. At first she told herself it was to check on him, make sure he was safe, keep her promise. But after a while it became routine. Sometimes she’d bring a book, her morning coffee, the newspaper; it didn’t really matter, she’d just sit in the room in a chair by the corner and stay for an hour.
But that Sunday morning, when she whisked into the room, she wasn’t the only visitor there to see Liam Jones. A portly man stood at the window, overlooking the crowded city below. He was still wearing that red cap. He jumped a little when she entered the sterile room. Emma herself was a little surprised; she wasn’t sure he would come.
“Smee,” she said.
“Swan,” he replied, turning from the window. He held a letter in his hands, tapping the paper absently.
Emma glanced at the man in the bed, asleep for the past several years. Sometimes she couldn’t see the family resemblance to his brother. Liam had curly brown hair, a rounder, more amicable face.
“I got your message,” Smee said, shifting on his feet. “What did you want to speak to me about?”
Emma almost rolled her eyes. “Stop squirming,” she said. “I’m not here to arrest you.”
“Forgive me, but the letters F-B-and-I don’t exactly spell out trustworthy,” he retorted.
“If I wanted to take you down, Smee, I would’ve had plenty of time already. You’ve been shadowing Liam since he was transferred here.”
Smee glanced at the man and sighed. “All right, then. What do you want?”
“Your boss,” Emma said. Smee gave a start, his piggish eyes opening wide. “Where is he?”
Smee barked out a raspy laugh. “The feds have really lost their subtle touch, haven’t they? Just point blank now, I see.”
Emma bit the inside of her cheek, holding back a frustrated insult. “I need you to put me in contact with him. Send him a message, at least.”
Smee narrowed his eyes, peering at her with almost comical suspicion. “What kind of message?”
Emma sighed, squaring her shoulders. “Just tell him Emma Swan’s in need of one hell of an art thief.”