A/N: A little disclaimer, before you get to the fic. It is a priest!Killian AU, and it will be rated M in future chapters. I'm telling you this so you know that if this is something you won't be comfortable with, you might not want to read this one. There is also mention of drug use. It's a gritty, angsty fic, and I'm letting you know right now what you're in for.

I am not writing this to be offensive in any way, shape, or form. The reason that I so love the idea of priest AUs for CS is because I think that Killian as a priest and an Emma who has reached the lowest point in her life is VERY TRUE to their canon characters. Life was cruel to them, both in canon, and in these AUs, and it led them down paths they may not have chosen for themselves otherwise.

This is not about mocking religion or making fun of anyone's set of beliefs. It's about two broken people, who - no matter what situation you put them in, AU, canon, or otherwise - will always find a way to be with each other.

With that in mind, I hope you like this.

One
In the Beginning ...

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

1 Corinthians 13:1-3

Killian had seen her from a distance at the group sessions he oversaw every Wednesday night. She never said anything, always sitting in the back, arms curled around herself. She flinched at the slightest noises, and was constantly biting her nails, and of all the people who came and went to these sessions, she was the one he was most intrigued - no, concerned, he told himself - with.

But it was more than concern that made him watch her. She'd show up late to each session, and tuck herself into the back row, eyes wide as she listened to everyone else's stories, never offering her own. He didn't even know what her name was, but he'd taken to calling her "the swan girl" in his head, because of the pendant she wore around her neck, and then, after a few weeks had gone by, he'd shortened that to simply "Swan".

She was lovely enough that the name was befitting, but she was so lost. He could see that sadness in her eyes, that one that all his years working in the capacity that he did, he'd seen a lot of. She'd been abandoned. Broken. Beaten down. And now ... well. She was here. Which pretty much said it all.

If he was being honest, it wasn't just his work that led him to know these things about her. He could see the perdition in her eyes, because he saw it reflecting back at him, every time he looked in the mirror.

And if he was being brutally honest ... he was probably the most lost soul of them all. He had spent ten years trying to fill a void ... a void of his own causing, and all he felt, every single second of every single day, was empty. He had nothing to look forward to, no hope, no light. He couldn't seek solace in the bottle any longer, so he'd turned to God.

Yet something was still missing, and he figured it was just his lot in life. He was fundamentally broken. He couldn't be fixed, and he likely didn't deserve to be. Not after what he'd done. He wouldn't even make it to that heaven he tried to pave the way for everyone else to get to. But he could help others get there. And for awhile, he'd managed to convince himself that it was enough. This was his atonement for all he had wrought in his past, after all.

But then she'd come to one of the meetings ... and all it had taken was one look to know that there was something there, something ... kindred about her.

The first time he spoke to her, it was after she'd been coming to the sessions for over a month. He happened to be pouring himself a cup of coffee - which he detested, but by now, it was a habit he couldn't kick - into a little styrofoam cup when she approached the table. She was chewing nervously on her thumbnail, looking around as though she expected to be attacked at any moment.

"If I might make a suggestion, love, perhaps you want to stick to the decaf," he couldn't resist, giving her a good-natured smile as she finally turned her eyes on him. He saw her expression change, only briefly, but it was enough to make his own brow furrow. There was a flicker of ... familiarity? ... behind her sea-colored eyes, though he was certain they'd never met before. Though up close, looking into her eyes, even just briefly - it was enough to convince him that he'd been right about her. She was more than just broken, though. She was shattered.

Just like him.

"Haha, funny," she said, recovering from whatever had given her pause, speaking without a hint of amusement in her voice, her smile tight and annoyed. She pushed past him a little, her hands shaking as she got her own little paper cup of coffee and brought it to her lips. She looked up at him again then, and he realized he'd been staring.

How did a girl as lovely as this one end up in this situation? True, you could tell she'd been through her fair share of the flames, from the dark smudges under her eyes, the obvious marks on her arms ... they were fading, of course, but the extent of them let him know just how long she'd been in it. But underneath all that, there was a quietly beautiful young woman ... far too young to be so broken and bitter.

"Did you need something?" she asked tightly, giving him an expectant, irritated "what?" look.

"No, forgive me, I didn't mean to stare," he said, shaking his head and raising his own coffee too his lips. God, how he hated the stuff. He would prefer something stronger; there were days he'd prefer to drown himself in it, to meet his end at last. But something always pulled him back from that edge, though God only knew what that something was.

It certainly wasn't Providence, for Providence cared nothing for Killian Jones.

"Whatever, everyone does it," she muttered, rolling her eyes and turning to walk away.

"I'm Father Jones," he said then, in an effort to keep her there a little bit longer. He honestly didn't know why. Maybe it had just been too long since he'd really connected with anyone. And he felt like he could connect with her. "Most people just call me Killian, though."

She turned back around, her brow creased. "I don't think I'll be calling you anything," she said blandly, but there it was again, that flicker behind her eyes. Something about him seemed to unease her, though he couldn't quite figure out why that would be so. She turned again to go, sighing heavily. "This coffee tastes like shit," she told him before she walked away.

He couldn't say he disagreed with her, and for the first time in a very long while, he felt the beginnings of a genuine smile quirking the corners of his lips. He was good at the fake smiles, the ones that didn't quite reach his eyes, but nevertheless convinced people that you were all right enough not to bother further. He was an expert at making people believe he wasn't drowning.

But speaking to her ... even briefly, even when she had no interest in speaking to him ... it had been the first time since that night ten years ago that he felt like his head had broken the surface of the water at last.

She didn't return for the next session, or the one after that. After three weeks had passed with her absence, his concern had become a legitimate fear for her well-being. He hadn't only been imagining that defeated look to her, he knew that whatever had spun her life into despair - the way it so obviously had - was going to be a demon she fought with every day. He knew it because he lived it. But he had no idea how to go about finding her, though. He didn't even know her name.

As luck would have it - or perhaps it was divine intervention; later on, when he reflected on this moment, he would never be quite sure whether it was a blessing or curse that led him to her that night - he happened to see Sister Astrid on his way out of the building. Astrid was one of the nuns who helped with the group sessions, and she was also one of the few people he'd ever seen his ever-elusive Swan girl speak to.

"Do you have a moment?" he asked her, holding the door for her and gesturing for her to go on ahead.

"Of course, Father," Astrid said with her usual bright smile. "Something the matter?"

"No, no, nothing like that," he said, smiling quickly, easily at her to reassure her. He was good at that, the fake smiles that didn't quite meet his eyes. "At least, I certainly hope not. I was ... concerned, though. There is a young lady who used to come to these sessions ... I've not seen her for nearly a month though. I was simply wondering ... "

"You mean Emma?" Astrid said, brow creasing.

Emma. Her name was Emma.

"Er, well, is that her name?" he asked, suddenly feeling a bit daft for this whole endeavor.

"Blonde girl, real thin, always looks nervous?"

"Aye, that one," he conceded with a nod.

Astrid sighed. "I don't know why she hasn't been coming ... to be honest, I don't know why she came for as long as she did. She didn't seem to be getting much out of it. I've been a bit worried, myself, to tell the truth.""

"Has anyone gone to check on the lass?" he asked.

Astrid shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe one of the volunteers has ... but I don't think she had any friends here. I just know she lives down by the river in that rather rundown complex. Not really a good place for someone like her, considering that it's notorious for ... well. The very things she's trying to get away from."

He knew the place of which Astrid was speaking, and he was slightly appalled to think of anyone ... let alone Em - Swan, he reproached himself - living there. "Well," he said, clearing his throat. "Perhaps I'll send someone down that way to check on her."

Perhaps he'd go himself.

Astrid nodded. "I would do it, but I'm running late for an appointment, as it is. Take care, Father. Let me know what you find out, okay?"

As soon as he'd hailed a cab and given the driver his directions, he immediately began to wonder if he was doing the right thing. This went above and beyond the call of his duties ... she wasn't a member of the Church, and as far as he was aware, she came to the meetings of her own volition, not because of a court order.

There was absolutely zero reason he should be going to this girl's apartment right now. Or ever.

And yet here he found himself, outside the ramshackle complex, staring up at the buiding that was covered in ivy and looked to be on the verge of collapse, and wondering which door was hers.

He supposed he couldn't just go knocking on every door til he found her.

With a sigh, he shook his head. "This was a stupid idea," he muttered to himself, turning to go and nearly running over ...

Her.

"Watch where you're fucking going," she snapped, then froze, her eyes widening in shock when she looked up into his face, recognition dawning. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I ... " He was at a loss. What was he doing here? Christ, this was absurd. "Forgive me, I was simply ... "

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, Jesus, look, just come inside before we get mugged, you can flounder for an excuse once we're behind locked doors, how's that?"

She didn't give him much of a chance to protest, she just took off toward the building, leaving him to either stand outside like an idiot, or follow her.

Like an idiot.

"Do you want anything?" she asked once they were inside, leaning back against the door heavily after she threw the deadbolt. Even though it was very apparent that she didn't want him there, she was also seemingly determined to be gracious. Which was admirable, he supposed.

Or he did, until she pushed away from the door and removed her jacket, draping it over the back of one of her chairs. Underneath, she wore a thin white sweater, and through the material, he could see the dark outline of ...

Jesus, what was he doing here?

She turned to face him, her expression expectant, and he realized she'd asked him, again, if there was anything he wanted. "Whatever you have is fine," he mumbled quickly with a dismissive wave of his hand, finding that he couldn't look in her direction at the moment.

Emma rolled her eyes, sighing heavily. "I'll make you a decent cup of coffee, how's that? Then you can lecture me, and then you can go." She fixed him with a smile, but it was sarcastic, and it didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm not here to lecture you," he told her. He didn't know why he was there, but he knew it wasn't for that reason.

God, was he so desperately alone that even this was an appealing alternative to another night spent alone back at the rectory?

"Sure you're not," she said dryly. "You're a priest. You're all pretty much the same, you men of the cloth. Holier than thou, thinking you have to save everybody ... "

Killian's brows raised at that. "Sounds like you speak from experience."

Her eyes met his then, her expression cool. "I know enough," she said, shrugging simply, hugging her arms around herself then. "I'll be back in a minute with the coffee. Just have a seat or whatever."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, feeling awkward and out of his element, completely, and wondering for the eighty-eighth time what the hell he was doing there.

"No!" she said quickly ... too quickly. "No," she said then, quieter, shaking her head. "Just ... stay put, all right?" She disappeared down the narrow hallway before he could protest, and he found himself alone in her living room.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting of her living quarters, but the small, cozy little bohemian-styled apartment was not it. The age of the building showed, of course, but she had done a good job hiding it with bright fabrics and an eclectic mish-mash of furniture. It was also clean ... almost obsessively so. The only indication that she actually spent time here were the tiny foil wrappers he saw strewn about one of her endtables.

Chocolate. To help with the cravings.

His brow furrowed as he caught sight of a leatherbound book. At first, he thought it was a journal, and he was prepared to leave it alone ... until he caught the corner of one of the pieces of paper sticking out of the book, and realized it was a sketchpad.

He glanced over his shoulder, making sure she wasn't behind him, before carefully picking up the rest of the sketchpad, opening it slowly. He knew this was crossing a line, but there was a part of him that was desperate to know more about this girl - this woman - who had stirred something in him that hadn't been stirred in over ten years.

The first pages were full of sketches of every day things ... there was a very nice one of a cathedral, and Killian was impressed with Emma's attention to detail, even in a simple, quick pencil sketch such as that one. She had a way of shadowing her drawings - you could see the way the light reflected off the rose window, even in black and white.

He flipped through the pages, more simple things, the park, birds, flowers. One page made him stop, a pair of clasped hands, a ribbon winding around their wrists. Handfasting, he knew. His brow furrowed, wondering at that briefly before flipping to the next page.

He inhaled sharply then. On the page in front of him was ... him. A few details were different - the hair was messier, almost as though it were windblown, and the scruff along his jaw was a bit more present than he typically allowed it to get. His eyes seemed to be lined, and he was wearing what Killian could only describe as pirate attire.

But aside from those few - absurd - details ... everything else was dead-on accurate. There was no mistaking that the man in these drawings was him. She had every detail, every little quirk of his represented in this quick sketch. It was uncanny. It was ... well. Unsettling was putting it mildly.

He quickly flipped to the next page - it was another one, and further page turns revealed that the rest of the sketchbook, in its entirety, was drawings of him. "Holy shit," he exhaled shakily, the book falling from his hands, pages scattering everywhere.

Now, more than ever, he was certain he shouldn't be here. He turned, prepared to head for the door, and take his chances with the muggers that she had insisted were out there, but when he turned around, she was standing behind him, two cups of coffee in her hands, and a confused expression on her face.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, her voice snapping angrily as she set down the cups on her coffeetable and knelt down to gather up the drawings on the floor. "God, do they not teach you about personal fucking property in seminary school or what?"

"That's rich, coming from the stalker," Killian retorted shortly, not really sure what to do with the emotions he was feeling. His heart was racing, and he wasn't sure if it was because he was terrified or beyond intrigued by this woman ... and the fact that he wasn't immediately running for the door was a problem. God, he was more fucked up than he'd known, wasn't he?

Her head shot up, an incredulous expression on her face. "Save it, princess," she snapped. "I'm not a fucking stalker."

He arched a brow at her, casting his eyes back to the sketches on the floor.

She stood back up, clutching the papers to her, her eyes snapping blue-green fire at him. "I don't have to explain myself to you," she said. "It's a free country, I can draw whatever the hell I want. You're the one who was poking around where you had no business!" Nevertheless, her hands were shaking as she thrust a few of the papers out to him. "But did you even happen to look at the dates?" She shook the papers at him, urging him to take them from her.

He looked at her warily, the bigger part of his brain screaming at him to get out of there, now. But there was a look in her eyes, and he found that he couldn't easily walk away from it. Begrudgingly, he reached out, taking the papers from her and looking down in the bottom corner of the page. His forehead creased, his eyes flickering from the page to her face, then back. "That's not possible," he said. "That date is ten years ago."

"You think I don't realize that?" Emma said, teeth gritted angrily. "Why do you think I stopped coming to those stupid meetings after we met?"

Killian frowned, looking up at her. "Because of this?" He held up the papers.

"I'd seen you at the meetings before, obviously," Emma said, "I mean, you've always been there."

"I kind of run them," he said drolly. She gave him a look, to which he rolled his eyes slightly. "I'm sorry. Continue," he said, sighing to himself.

"It wasn't til that last meeting I went to that I'd actually seen you ... up close." She shook her head. "I came right back here after that meeting and dug this out - it's my old sketchbook, from high school. I had sort of half-convinced myself that I was hallucinating or making shit up again ... wouldn't be the first time. But then I flipped to the pages and ... "

"That's a lovely tale," Killian interjected once again, eyebrows raised as he looked at her. "But how?"

"I don't know," she said simply, shrugging. "I just ... " She blew out a breath. "I've had the same dream for as long as I can remember ... ever since things started getting really shitty in my life ... there was always this one dream. And he ... you ... whatever. Always there. Every time. So I finally started drawing what I dreamed. There was something ... comforting about it." She hugged her arms around herself again. "But now it's just really freaking me out."

He should be leaving and never looking back. Whether he believed her story or not, it flew in the face of everything he'd ever known. He should want nothing further to do with her, he shouldn't have come here in the first place ... but he had. And he couldn't just walk away now.

"Why did you even start coming to the sessions in the first place?" he asked her then, knowing immediately after he spoke that it was out of left field, but finding himself curious nonetheless.

Emma didn't answer, instead focusing on gathering up the rest of her sketches and placing them carefully back in the book. "No offense, Father, but I don't really want to talk about it," she mumbled. She set the book down on the endtable, and reached for her cup of coffee. Her hands were shaking, he noted, and she ended up knocking the cup over, spilling hot coffee on the front of her jeans. "Shit," she muttered, looking around for something to clean up the mess.

Killian immediately reached into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to her. "Here," he said gently, his hand brushing hers as he handed her the fabric.

Her eyes flickered up briefly, meeting his own. Their gazes held for the barest of moments, their hands still touching, before she shook her head, pressing the handkerchief back into his hand. "It's fine, I've got towels in the kitchen, the coffee would ruin that."

"I do have others," he said, flashing her a quick, genuine smile.

Emma blinked a bit as she looked at him, before shaking her head. "I said it's fine," she muttered snappishly then, standing back up and going into the kitchen. She came back with a roll of paper towels and a rag and set to work cleaning up the spill. "Why are you here?" she asked him without looking up at him.

"You stopped coming, and I wasn't sure why," he said matter-of-factly. "There had to have been a reason ... I understand now," he nodded in the direction of her sketchbook, "but I'm still confused as to what brought you there in the first place. It wasn't mandated, I didn't see your name on the list."

"I already said I don't want to talk about it," Emma said bluntly, standing up. "And why does it even matter? Do you go by everyone's place who doesn't show up for group therapy?"

Killian didn't say anything to that. What could he say? She had a point. Even he didn't know what he was doing there. The excuse he'd come up with before seemed flimsy now, when the truth was simply that he'd gotten used to seeing her face, had looked forward to it, even, and when she'd stopped coming around, he had felt it, acutely.

And that in and of itself was a problem, and not one he should be encouraging like this.

"Didn't think so," Emma said when he didn't answer, and her expression was unreadable to him in that moment. Her eyes were searching his face, and he knew it because his were searching hers.

He hadn't been wrong about her. There was deep pain behind her eyes, a soul-deep loss that she still felt in her bones. He saw it because it mirrored his own.

"I came to the meetings for my son," she finally said, swallowing thickly. "His father ... " She trailed off, her expression growing dark. "Never mind that he's the reason for ... " She shook her head. "No, that's ... wrong. I know we're not supposed to blame others for our own failings, right, Father?"

She sighed heavily, moving to sit on the sofa. As though moving of their own volition, his own legs led him to sit down beside her, close enough that he could feel her trembling, ever-so-slightly, but not close enough that they were actually touching.

Emma looked over at him, her brow furrowed. "If ... I talk to you here, is it like confession?" she asked him.

"If you like," he said, his voice quiet. "I won't tell anyone anything you say to me, if that's what you mean. And maybe I can help."

"Why would you want to help me?" Emma asked, smiling sardonically at that. "I'm a stranger who has creepy prophetic dreams and pictures of you."

Killian laughed at that, he couldn't help it. The sound was foreign to his own ears ... how long had it been since he'd last laughed? "Who knows?" he said simply, offering her another smile. "Maybe someday you'll return the favor."

"What kind of help could a recovering heroin addict be to a man of God?" Emma asked, widening her eyes a little at him, the faintest hint of smile quirking the corners of her lips.

His heart gave a funny little flutter, and he tried to ignore it ... but when was the last time he'd felt that? "I think you might be selling yourself short, love," he said, keeping his tone light. "Even priests need friends."

"But why would you want me?" She seemed genuinely taken aback by the notion. "I'm not anybody's idea of a good friend."

"That was before you met me," he said, finding that it was growing steadily easier to talk to her now.

Emma gave him a look. "You're a very strange man, Father Jones," she said.

"It's Killian, actually," he said quickly. "I'm only Father Jones in the Church."

She bit her bottom lip, looking up at him with a thoughtful expression. "There's a custody hearing soon," she finally said after a long moment of contemplation. "And my ex and his ... his wife," she said the word with no small amount of disdain, "they want to prove that I'm not fit to be Henry's mother." She looked down. "I'm trying to prove that I am. I haven't even ... it's been almost two years now that I've been ... clean, and I've done all my programs and everything ... I just thought that a ... a little more couldn't hurt, right? I mean ... I've got to do something. Right now, I'm not even allowed to see him unsupervised." Her voice shook a little then. "I'm his mother and I can't even visit him without some court-approved lackey tagging along. And I know ... I know it's my fault, but it still sucks."

He hadn't realized he'd reached for her hand until he felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. Her head shot up, her expression confused. "Is this all part of the services offered by the Church?" she asked drolly, arching a brow at him. "I'm starting to see why you guys get in so much trouble."

He made a face at her, pulling his hand back and pushing his fingers through his hair, trying to reconcile himself with the suddenly rapid pounding of his heart. "Very funny," he muttered. "I was just ... "

"Don't worry about it," Emma said with a tentative smile. "It's okay. I didn't mind it. It was kinda nice, actually. Sorta felt like somebody actually gave a damn."

"Somebody does," he told her earnestly. He shouldn't have said it, he shouldn't even still be here. But he felt lighter here, somehow, despite everything. He felt like he was breathing, truly breathing, for the first time in a decade.

"I almost believe you mean that," Emma said softly, her eyes flickering to his briefly.

"I do mean it," he told her seriously. "I want you to start coming back to the meetings, all right? Sod the pictures," he gestured at her sketchpad, "maybe it's all just a sign from God that I'm to help you. And I will help you, Emma," he said, his voice full of conviction then. "I swear it."

Emma blinked a little as she looked at him, a sad smile on her lips. "Well, why the hell not?" she finally said, shaking her head. "I mean, you certainly won't be the worst choice of friend I've ever had."

"That's very flattering," Killian deadpanned.

Emma shrugged, giving him a crooked half-smile. "Get used to it. I'm not here to make the little priest feel better about himself."

"Little?" he scoffed. "No need to worry about my ego when you're around, lass."

"You can leave at any time," she said, nodding toward the door. "Besides, priests are supposed to be humble, right? I'm just here to keep you honest." She leaned a little bit closer to him and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

She was beautiful, in a haunting, heartbreaking way, and it made it hard for him to breathe.

"I should go," he said then, slowly getting to his feet.

Emma looked up at him, brow furrowing. "Right," she said slowly. "I suppose it is late. And this is ... well, isn't this pretty scandalous?"

Killian laughed a little, shaking his head as he looked at her. "We're allowed to have friends, you know. And make housecalls for those in need. Perhaps you should brush up on your knowledge of us men of the cloth." He gave her wink, and she rolled her eyes. "Next meeting?" he said then, his expression going serious.

"I ... " Emma began, then sighed. "Yeah," she finally said. "I'll be there."

"Because if you're not ... I know where you live," he said, widening his eyes at her.

"And you called me a stalker," she retorted.

"It's not stalking if it's in the name of God," Killian said, keeping his tone completely serious, though he could feel the smile that threatened his lips. God, when was the last time anything had been this ... simple?

Better not think about that.

"That's not creepy at all. Stalker," Emma said, a small grin on her own lips. She stood up then to walk with him to the door. "Thanks," she said, placing her hand on the doorknob before he could reach for it. "It's been a long time since I've had anyone to talk to."

He resisted the sudden urge he had, to reach out and touch her face, just to see if the skin was a soft as it looked. He knew it would be, and that was precisely why he kept his hands at his sides. "Goodnight, Emma," he said then, nodding once at her.

He pretended not to see the flicker of disappointment that crossed her features, pretended he didn't feel a little bit of that himself, as she moved her hand from the door and allowed him to leave.

"This is madness," he breathed to himself once he was back outside.

It was sheer folly, whatever it was that had brought him here tonight, sheer folly that had kept him here for as long as he'd stayed, and it was madness that he even entertained the idea of seeing her again ...

In the morning, he was sure he'd regret it, but for now, he just didn't care.

Tonight he might actually have peace.

And God said, "Let there be light." And there was light.

Genesis 1:3

To be Continued ...