She walks into the bar looking for trouble, rage burning in her veins and begging for an outlet. Once glimpse of a man on the street who looks a little too much like a ghost, and just like that, she's tumbling down the proverbial rabbit hole. It makes her reckless, desperate for a distraction.

She's gotten to know this city, but she doesn't know this bar. Considering what she's looking for tonight, that suits her fine.

It's crowded, smoke thick in the air in spite of it being outlawed years ago. The scent of stale beer mixes with tobacco and sweat, and if she closes her eyes, she could be in another bar, another place, another time.

Another person.

She refuses to close her eyes.

Instead, she scans the room, looking for an opening. She prefers a table, somewhere she can keep her back to the wall, but it doesn't look like it's in the cards tonight. There's one spot left at the bar, a couple on one side and a solo drinker on the other.

Emma pushes through the crowd until she can claim the empty seat, her legs sliding easily over the stool. The bar is sticky under her fingers, and a quick scan of the liquor bottles shows very little of interest, but there's tequila – a bar like this, there's always tequila.

She places her order, scanning the room over and over. It's a habit, one that's hard to stop. Beside her, the solo drinker chuckles, his finger tracing the rim of his scratched glass with a clink of the thick silver ring he wears.

"Relax, lass." His voice is smooth, lilting with the hint of an accent, but rough with liquor. "No one will bother you here."

"Does that include you?" She downs her shot, signaling for another. The burn of the liquor usually soothes the rage, but tonight, it only burns hotter. She wants to hit something, someone – anything to satisfying the growling beast inside her, the hurt that twists like snakes in her belly, simmering away until it boils over and can't be ignored.

"Merely being friendly." He looks up this time, his eyes a shock of color in the smoky, dim bar. They're surprisingly focused and intent on her. "You seem like perhaps you could use a bit of friendliness."

"You have no idea what I could use," she shoots back, the tequila's warmth stretching into the tips of her fingers.

He shrugs, lifting the glass to his lips and pouring the remaining contents down his throat. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you've got the look of someone trying to forget, darling, and it just so happens I'm on the same mission."

The bartender returns, and he smoothly orders refills for the both of them. She raises an eyebrow, but doesn't protest. If he wants to buy her drinks, let him.

"What brings you here, love? Man troubles?"

"It's not any of your business." She pauses, watching him from the corner of his eye as he sips his rum with a nod. He doesn't push for more, but somehow she finds herself explaining anyway. "It's not your business, but you're not wrong. How did you know?"

"Beautiful woman like you in a place like this, there's usually only one reason."

"And why are you here? Woman troubles?" she asks, ignoring the compliment.

"Are you saying you find me beautiful?" He smirks, something dark and dangerous drifting into his stare.

"Forget I asked."

"I'll tell you what, love. I've got a room just down the street. Should you like to join me, I will provide you any manner of distraction you like." There's heat in the words, in spite of the slight stumble as he gets to his feet. "Or, you can sit in this bar by yourself and drown your sorrows in cheap tequila." He shrugs again, tossing cash on the bar. "Myself, I'm hoping for the former, but it's your call, darling."

Emma tosses back the rest of her drink, giving herself a moment to think. Before the burn has even begun to fade, she's made up her mind. He's right – sitting here alone with her hurt and desire to throttle someone is not preferable to losing herself in whatever pleasure he can offer. It's not as though spending another hour sitting here dancing around it will change what either of them are looking for tonight, and by the sound of his voice alone, there's pleasure to be had.

She throws some cash on the bar and follows him out. They don't talk as they walk down the sidewalk, a foot of space separating them. The cold night air slips between them and runs its fingers down the collar of her leather jacket until she's shivering, but she doesn't move closer.

He leads her into the lobby of a surprisingly nice hotel, glancing over his shoulder to be sure she's still with him. It should be awkward, but it's not. She checks her phone, notes the time, and pockets it again as they step into the elevator. He leans back against the wall, watching the numbers tick by until the door opens and he steps out.

But when the door to his room closes behind them, he's got her up against it, his hips pressing to hers, his lips demanding her response. And she gives it to him, because he's an attractive man, and she's lonely and she just needs to feel something other than the old hurts, and if that something is going to be the scrape of his stubble on her thighs, then so be it.

It's far from gentle. When the light is just right, she catches the loneliness in his eyes, the desperate need to fill the dark places with something else, anything else. But it's gone as quick as it was there, and her eyes slip shut as he drags his teeth across her collarbone before ducking his head lower. They haven't made it past the door, their clothes in a heap around them as he spins her around, her hands braced against the cool metal, and then he's there, surging forward with one sharp thrust she's more than ready for.

There's no waiting for her to adjust, no moment to savor the connection; they're just moving together, chasing a high. Her legs burn and his fingers dig into her hips, pushing and pulling, and it's not enough and far too much.

In the aftermath, the desperate edge fades, his grip soft as he pulls her back around for a lingering kiss. He still tastes like rum, and when they break apart, there's a deep sadness in his eyes despite the physical pleasure they've just wrung from each other.

But she's not ready to leave yet, not with that look in his eyes and something inside her still craving a man's touch despite her pounding pulse. So she smirks, glancing over his shoulder at the king size bed before sliding her hand down his chest. "Done so soon?" Her voice is breathless, his eyes widening ever so slightly with pleasant surprise.

"Hardly." It's more of a growl than anything, but they're moving toward the bed. She pushes him down this time, her hands and mouth torturing him until she has him where she wants him, nestled between her thighs as she sinks down.

It's an erotic dance they repeat again and again long into the night. He falls asleep quickly, and she's so tired if she were to close her eyes, she would too. But she can't, not with his lonely eyes to match hers, so she moves quietly through the dark room, finds her clothes by the door, and slips out into the fading night without bothering to learn his name.

She goes back to her room at a much shabbier establishment, crawls into the scratchy sheets and falls into a restless sleep. There's a flicker of regret – the man knows what he's about in the bedroom – but it's better this way. She's two hundred miles from the place that might be home, and in her limited analysis, he's just as messed up as she is.

This isn't the first time she's met a man in a bar and gone back to his room. It's not the first time she hasn't known his name. But those men, they weren't looking to fill a void like this one so obviously was – they were just looking to get laid. She was the only one chasing demons in those encounters, and those men were oblivious.

They didn't have despair in their eyes that tugs at her soul weeks later. It clung to him like the tendrils of a morning fog no matter how deeply he groaned as she moved above him, or how satisfied his smirk as she came undone beneath him. It's not a sight she'll soon forget.

Another bar, another town, and she's supposed to be meeting her best friend – her only friend – for dinner, but she can't face him without a little liquid courage first. David is so together – a wife, a baby on the way, a beautiful house – and Emma just…isn't. But she promised she'd put in more of an effort to make plans when she's in town, so here she is, trying to work up the courage to go have a perfect family dinner.

She's lost in thought as she walks into the Rabbit Hole, giving herself the same pep talk she goes though every time she comes back to Storybrooke. She isn't paying attention when she slides onto an empty barstool, her only warning a faint tingling along the back of her neck. Instinct causes her to finally look up, only to find the last thing she expects – a pair of hauntingly familiar blue eyes.

"Hello, love," he drawls out slowly, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip in a display of nerves that throws her. "Never thought I'd see you again."

"Likewise." She hesitates, because now she isn't sure if she should go or stay. Perhaps this is karma kicking her in the ass for going to a bar before dinner at David's.

"Well, as you're here…buy you a drink?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Is that so?" There's an undercurrent in the words, a hint of self-loathing Emma understands all too well. "Afraid you might have to tell me your name this time if you accept?"

"How do I know you haven't already figured it out and stalked me here?" she snaps without any real sting, signaling the bartender. A glance at her phone reveals she needs to be out of this bar in the next ten minutes if she has a prayer of making it to David's on time. "The last time I saw you, we were in a different state. And it's not like you were quick to offer up a name yourself."

"Killian Jones." He drains the remainder of his drink, setting the glass down and offering his hand. He's wearing the silver ring again, a thick band around his thumb.

"Look, if I wasn't expected somewhere tonight, we could do this. I could tell you my name, you could pretend you care, and we could have a repeat performance in whatever hotel room you've got for the night. I don't usually do repeat performances, but I figure the odds of seeing you again are minimal enough to not make a difference. Unfortunately, I do have somewhere I need to be."

"That's quite a long name, darling."

Emma rolls her eyes, silently cursing the busy bar and the bartender who has yet to appear. "Somewhere. To. Be."

"I'm in town for a few nights visiting a friend. Do you have somewhere to be every night, lass?"

"If I tell you my name, will you quit with the ridiculous pet names?"

"Perhaps." His lips curl into a smirk, fingers finding hers on the bar and tugging her hand to his lips. She shivers in spite of herself as he brushes against her knuckles, the formalness of the gesture a surprise considering the man has had her several times over. "Perhaps I'd merely like to know the name of the woman I'll have in my bed tonight."

Emma snatches her hand back instantly, meeting his low chuckle with a glare. "I already told you I have somewhere to be."

"Aye, you've said. But as you've come to a bar before attending to your evening, I trust it's not a place you wish to linger. Which leads us back to your name, love."

"You're awfully certain of yourself, aren't you?"

He shrugs, drawing a finger through the moisture that's accumulated on the bar from the sweating glass. "You're still here, darling."

"The bartender is slow. I haven't gotten my drink."

"There are seats open at the other end of the bar."

She grits her teeth, because damn the man, his offer and the low rumble of his voice so close to her ear she rubs her thighs together in an attempt to ease the sudden ache. If it were anyone but David she had plans with, she would be sorely tempted to blow him off to have another round with the man next to her. But he's right – she won't be there all night.

"Where are you staying?" she asks before she can stop herself, her eyes on the liquor bottles behind the bar rather than on his face.

"Why, I don't even know your name, love."

The bartender finally appears, saving her from an immediate reply. Killian orders another rum, and Emma goes straight for the tequila. David will probably smell it on her, and she'll catch hell for it, but the night has taken a turn she isn't prepared for.

"Emma Swan," she finally says after the first gulp of her drink, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. It isn't particularly surprising he's watching her, the weight of his stare setting her cheeks on fire and a tingle down her spine.

"Well, Emma, I'm at the bed and breakfast down the block, and I will be for the next week. Room 305." He grins, something shifting in his eyes until they're dark and lust-soaked, and his voice is lower when he speaks again. "Do drop by anytime."

"We'll see." She swallows the last of her tequila, a pleasant warmth in her stomach that has nothing to do with the promise of Killian Jones and the things he can do with his tongue. She may not be willing to give him the satisfaction of a response now, but she already knows she'll end up in his bed. "I need to go."

He stands when she does, and all the warning she gets is a gleam in his eye before he's got his hand in her hair and his lips on hers. The kiss is unexpected, and a flood of memories dance across her vision as her body responds, liquid fire igniting in her veins as his stubble scrapes her cheek. He breaks the kiss but leans closer, his body pressed up against hers. "A little incentive to return." His breath is hot against her skin, his gaze wicked when he finally backs away.

Her cheeks are still red when David opens the door, but with any luck he'll chalk it up to the cold. Early December in Maine isn't exactly balmy, and she walked from the bar. "I was beginning to worry you weren't going to make it," he says in greeting, but his voice is as warm and welcoming as the glow of the candles in the windows. David pulls her into the house, wrapping her in a brotherly hug.

"I'm here," she assures him, returning the hug and breathing in the homey scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meat. David is the closest thing she has to family, and while it takes some courage to face him when she's such a mess, she's never sorry for her visits. One of these days he might even succeed in his attempts to get her to stay, to do more with her apartment than use it as a glorified storage unit.

"Emma!" Mary Margaret appears in the archway leading to the dining room and rushes forward to claim a hug of her own. She's barely showing, her cream sweater revealing a small bump, but she practically glows with happiness. "I'm so glad you're in town for the week. We've missed you!"

"I missed you guys, too," she says, and she means it.

"Are you sure you can't stay through Christmas?" Mary Margaret asks, looping her arm through Emma's and leading her back through the dining room to the kitchen. The table is already set, linen napkins and gleaming cutlery like a page out of a home magazine. Emma brushes a wind-snarled curl back behind her ear as she looks away, trying not to think about the fact she doesn't even own a dining room table. "You can stay with us if you don't want to deal with the apartment. We've got plenty of room, and we'd love to have you."

"I can't," Emma replies automatically, banishing the longing the words bring. Maybe it would be nice to stay, to let the warmth of the only two people in the world who mean anything wrap around her and keep her company this Christmas, but who is she kidding? She won't survive a month with them without feeling just how much she's failed at building a life for herself when theirs is so perfect.

"The offer still stands. I could always use a deputy. I know Storybrooke isn't Boston or New York, but it's steady work." David's brows knit together, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Hell of a lot safer, too."

"David." Mary Margaret's smile is just a little too bright, a note of warning in her voice. They have this argument every time Emma is in town – David doesn't like her job, and Emma doesn't like him trying to tell her what to do.

He sighs, slinging an arm around Emma's shoulders and pressing a kiss to her hair. "We just want you to be happy, Emma."

"I'm happy," she replies automatically, but the words stick in her throat, hollow even to her own ears. She doesn't move from David's casual embrace, the brotherly gesture the only genuine affection she really allows from the men in her life.

Her thoughts flicker to Killian Jones and the soft press of his lips against her knuckles without her permission.

"Are you cold?" David asks, dropping his arm and turning toward the living room. "I'll throw another log on the fire. You could get a real winter coat too, you know!" he calls over his shoulder as he disappears through the archway.

"Thanks, Dad!" she shouts back, rolling her eyes at Mary Margaret. "So how are you feeling?"

"Like I swallowed a watermelon." Mary Margaret wrinkles her nose, but her hand strays back to her stomach, rubbing almost absently. "But David has been so good about everything. He's going to be an amazing father."

"I bet he'll nag that kid to put on a coat before it's even born."

Mary Margaret laughs, cracking open the oven door to check on the roasting chicken before straightening. "You're probably right. What about you? Anyone interesting from your travels?"

Emma usually regales Mary Margaret with the tales of her would-be suitors from her time on the road, the ridiculous things men say to her. Occasionally there's one worth talking a little more about, one whose name she bothered to learn, but today she hesitates. Because as soon as Mary Margaret asked the question, Killian Jones and his bright blue eyes popped up once again.

"Emma? Did you actually meet someone?"

"Oh, you know, just the usual assortment of bad pickup lines." Emma forces a laugh, turning to the cabinet to get a glass to cover her blush. "No one special."

"All right, keep him to yourself for now. But I'm ready to listen whenever you want to tell me about him."

"There's nothing to tell," Emma protests as she turns back around, pouring a generous glass of wine from the bottle on the counter and taking a deep sip.

"Nothing to tell about what?" David asks as he comes back into the room, the subtle scent of wood smoke clinging to his sweater.

"Nothing," Emma answers before Mary Margaret can. "So tell me, what are the latest criminal escapades in Storybrooke?"

David exchanges a glance with his wife before he answers, but somewhere in their silent conversation he decides to drop the matter. He launches into a story about his latest arrest, and the night passes without further incident.

Emma leaves with a promise to meet Mary Margaret for lunch the next day at Granny's – damn if the woman doesn't still serve the best grilled cheese she's ever had – and shoves her hands in her pockets to ward against the wind coming off the harbor. She declined David's offer to give her a ride back to her car, not wanting to explain what it's doing parked in front of the Rabbit Hole.

She sets out down the sidewalk, determined to walk directly past the bed and breakfast attached to Granny's, get in her car, and go back to her apartment. Seeing Killian tonight won't help matters, not with David and Mary Margaret fresh in her mind. No, Killian won't be a distraction – he'll be a reminder of yet another thing she can't get right.

Emma Swan doesn't meet a nice man and get married and have a baby. She has one night stands, and upon finding herself presented with an offer of more, runs in the other direction.

Killian takes a deep breath as he settles back onto his barstool, brushing his thumb over his lip with the taste of Emma still on his tongue. He catches the bartender's eye, pointing to his empty rum glass, thoughts churning.

He never thought to see the lass again, but yet here she is, almost two months to the day since another bar in another town led to a night he hasn't been able to forget.

"Emma Swan," he mumbles under his breath, rolling her name on his tongue like a fine liquor to be savored. He hadn't been completely surprised when he woke alone in that hotel room, her scent on the sheets though she was obviously long gone. He had wished for her name, for some way of contacting her, and the universe had conveniently dropped her in his lap in Storybrooke, Maine of all places.

Her eyes were just as haunted tonight as they had been then – and just as beautiful.

Scowling, Killian takes a drink from his freshly filled glass of rum, savoring the burn. He doesn't know a thing about her, really, but he wants to, and that's a terrifying thought. His finger traces an outline of the ink etched into his skin below his sleeve, his penance and a reminder of everything he's lost.

He's not even sure why he came. Between life and his deployments, he hasn't seen his friend in years – not since Liam's wedding – but for some reason he accepted this invitation in a moment of weakness.

Christmas is coming and it's not like he has anywhere else to go.

His eyes slip closed at the pain of holidays gone past, Liam's teasing and the yearly unspoken competition to drink the most eggnog without falling over. But Liam is the reason Killian was in that bar, desperate for a distraction, when Emma Swan walked in with her lonely eyes.

He misses his brother, but they haven't spoken since that night.

It's better Killian stays away, far away, from Liam and his beautiful wife and successful career. They both had the same crappy childhood, but somehow, Liam's made something of himself.

Killian is still lost.

He curses under his breath, swallowing the last of the rum and slapping some bills onto the bar to cover his tab. He isn't expected until tomorrow, but he was restless and his things are already packed away into a storage unit, so here he is, rudderless on the edge of the sea.

The wind catches him in the face as he turns toward the harbor, even the turned up collar of his jacket doing little to ward off the chill. He ignores the bite of winter in the air, following the sound of the surf to the docks. His breath steams into the night as the moonlight reflects off the calm waters all the way to the horizon, beckoning.

Sometimes he wishes the sea would swallow him up, never to return – even if that means leaving behind the only family he has left.

The cold has gotten into his bones by the time he turns back toward town, stopping to purchase a bottle of rum from the liquor store before it closes. Thoughts of Emma swirl around him as the stairs to his room groan beneath his feet, and a fierce rush of desire floods his veins.

He would like nothing more than to share his bed with her tonight, but he saw the touch of fear in her eyes lurking behind her shock. He may have thought he would never see her again, but she planned to never see him again. It stings more than it should, but he wasn't his most gentlemanly that night, either. If she does show, he'll apologize for his behavior, take his time with her, show her he isn't the sort of man who makes a habit of not learning the names of the women he beds.

The floorboards give her away.

He thinks it's his imagination at first, the settling of the building around him. It's quiet at this hour. The tourist season has passed, so it's not as though there are many others under this roof tonight. But then he hears the creak again, and a glance at his door shows a shadow shifting in the sliver of light beneath.

Setting his book on the nightstand, he takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. He truly hadn't expected her tonight, perhaps not at all, and he's long since changed into a pair of loose pants and nothing more. It's tempting to cross the room and fling the door open, pull her into his arms and forget his troubles for the night, but he's already seen that particular film.

Instead, he opens the door slowly, offering an inviting smile when his eyes meet her wide ones. "Evening, Swan," he says softly, stepping back and holding the door open. "Would you like to come in?"

She nods, stepping through the door without a word. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, her hair falling down her back in long, golden curls, but her shoulders are tense.

"Can I offer you a drink?" He points to the bottle of rum on the small table by the window. "Afraid the choices are rather limited."

"No," she replies, her voice hoarse. He has but a moment to wonder on that, on why it is she sounds like she may have been crying, but then she's in his arms and her lips are on his, urgent and demanding. His arms tighten around her the moment she's against him, the zipper of her jacket cold against his bare skin, and her hair smelling of wood smoke.

He doesn't stop her when she shrugs out of her jacket, the leather falling to a heap on the floor at their feet. The V-neck sweater beneath exposes more of her creamy skin, and he breaks the kiss to take advantage, working his way along her jaw and down the column of her throat.

The vibration of her low moan under his lips goes straight to his groin, but he pulls back when he feels her going for the waist of his pants. "Slow down, love," he murmurs, drawing her flush to steal another kiss, his fingers in her hair.

"I didn't come here for slow." There's a tremble to the words, and when he tilts her chin up to look her in the eye, he sees a dam about to burst. "You didn't want slow last time." The words are harsh, and her eyes narrow as he continues watching her. "You took exactly what you wanted. Well, here I am, ready for the taking."

The words are laced in pain, the tremor in her voice stealing into her body, but her stare doesn't waver. "Emma, the last time…I do not make a habit of bedding women whose names I don't know. That night…" His own eyes slide shut for a moment, memory washing over him and the familiar guilt wrapping tight around his throat. "I was not entirely myself that night."

Her expression shutters instantly. "This was a mistake." She pulls away and he doesn't stop her, watching as she bends to pick up her coat from the floor.

"Emma." He moves slowly, giving her the chance to avoid his touch, but she just watches him like a cornered animal as he presses his palm to her cheek, his fingers reaching for her hair. "Tell me what you need, love. Tell me what you came here for."

"To forget," she whispers, her voice cracking as she takes a step back. "But I shouldn't have come. Enjoy your visit with your friend."

"Wait," he calls after her, catching her shoulder just as she's about to slip out the door. She turns back to him slowly, her jaw tight and a glimmer in her eyes that brings an ache to his chest. "Give me a chance, love. Whoever he was, I'm not him."

"How do you know…"

"Open book, darling." He taps on his forearm where his tattoo is visible, suppressing his own wince. "I know a thing or two about pain and wanting to forget. But you're the first person I haven't wanted to forget in some time, Emma Swan."

A single tear escapes and slides down her cheek, and for a moment, he thinks he's convinced her. This wasn't what he intended for tonight, and he's not even sure how they got here in the five minutes since he opened the door. When he asked her to slow down, he simply wanted to savor having her again, spend a little more time in her arms before he knew she'd be out the door. But with that look in her eyes, that haunted, terrified look, all he wants to do is soothe her pain and maybe his along with it.

"I have to go," she whispers and then she's gone.

Killian curses, leaning back against the closed door and rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. A headache is beginning behind his brows, a steady drum beating a tattoo of his many failings and shortcomings. Snatching the bottle of rum up from the table, he takes a long drink and watches through the window as Emma Swan walks out of his life.

Emma makes it to her car before the tears begin in earnest, pouring unchecked down her cheeks. She can barely see through them, but it's a short drive back to her apartment, and she needs to get away from Killian Jones before she does something stupid.

She wasn't going to go to him tonight. She knew her emotions were already running rampant after a night with David and Mary Margaret, their lingering touches and soft looks a constant reminder that she is incapable of making anyone happy. Her feet had their own idea, bringing her to room 305 and the promise of a few hours of distraction.

But the man she found tonight was not the same man as the one in Boston, the one who had her against the door the minute she was in his arms. That man's touches didn't linger, didn't carry anything other than pure lust. The man who looked at her tonight, oh, he desired her too – but he also cared. It was all over his face the moment he said to slow down, the moment their eyes met and she couldn't hide the cracks in her veneer.

And maybe it would be different, if he wasn't just in town for a few days. Maybe if there was any chance of a future, maybe she would have stayed, because even if Mary Margaret and David are a reminder of her failings, they have also always been her secret hope – that somewhere out there in the world, she could find someone who would look at her how they look at each other. And for a fraction of a second, there was something in Killian's eyes, something that reminded her of that look.

It's for the best, she tells herself as she drags herself up the three flights of stairs to her apartment and shoves the key into the old lock. He's plainly just as messed up as she is, that tattoo and the bone-deep ache in his voice impossible to forget. She didn't get a good look at it, but from what she could tell, talons slashed across his forearm, something in their grasp. If ever pain was defined in an image, it's there in the inked gashes she can't unsee.

The loft is dark, but she doesn't bother turning on a light as she stumbles across the room and up the stairs to her bed. She shoves the pile of clothes and papers littering the mattress to the floor and kicks off her boots before curling up on top of the quilt. It's for the best, she repeats as her eyes close, exhaustion taking hold.

Tomorrow she'll call her boss and see if there's work that needs doing, week off be damned. She can't stay here, not knowing it's a tiny town and Killian Jones will be here for the next however many days. She'll leave after lunch with Mary Margaret, and this time, Killian's sad blue eyes will be firmly behind her.

Yet morning arrives, and it's her luck there is no work to be had. "The holidays are coming, Emma. Even the criminals seem to be laying low. I'll call you when something comes up," her boss says, the sound of paper being shuffled in the background. "Enjoy the extra time with your family. Gotta go."

She tosses her cell phone onto the kitchen counter with a growl of frustration, glancing around the dusty apartment. The office she works for is based out of Boston, but she's the one who goes on the out of state assignments, tracking down the people who really don't want to be found. It's worked out for her the last few years, never staying long in any single place, but there are still boxes littering the apartment.

David found her this apartment. David came to Florida to get her, driving through the night by the look of him when he arrived, and helped her load her meager positions into the back of his pickup. He helped her carry her things in, and he held her when she finally broke down sobbing on the floor.

She tried to stay after that, for David's sake. But Emma couldn't take it, the concerned looks and the smothering presence, so she made a few calls and got herself out of town.

She's been running ever since.

Mary Margaret frowns the moment Emma slides into the booth across from her, her hands already cupped around a mug of cocoa. Another sits in front of Emma, a liberal sprinkle of cinnamon on the whipped cream. "Did you get any sleep?"

"Is that your way of telling me I look like shit?"

"I didn't say that." She sighs, reaching across the table and squeezing Emma's hand. "I know something was bothering you last night when you came to the house. You can talk to me."

"It's not important."

"Emma."

Staring down into the whipped cream, Emma takes a deep breath before looking back up at her friend. "I ran into someone before I came over last night that I…I had a one night stand with. I didn't think I'd ever see him again, but then he shows up at the Rabbit Hole, and it just threw me."

"Just a one night stand?" Mary Margaret lifts an eyebrow, taking a sip of her drink and setting the mug back down with an unreadable expression.

Emma laughs, a bitter laugh she doesn't mean to let out. "You know as well as I do that's the only kind of relationship I'm any good for."

"I don't believe that."

"You can believe whatever you want, but the facts are the facts. Neal stole my money and left me. Walsh cheated on me after he proposed. August turned out to be gay. How many more times do I bother trying before I just accept I'm not relationship material?"

"Do I have to remind you how David and I met?"

That draws a genuine smile from Emma. She still remembers David's black eye from the night he met Mary Margaret. "No, I know that story, trust me. I was there."

"You don't think that maybe the universe was giving you a little push having this guy show up in town?"

"And even if it was, what then? He said he's only here for a few days."

"A lot can happen in a few days. I'm just saying, don't dismiss it so quickly."

"It doesn't matter. I…the way we left it…that ship has sailed. He probably never wants to see me again, anyway." Emma ignores the sharp pain the words slash through her, swallowing against the tightness in her throat at the remembered look in his eyes right before she walked away.

Mary Margaret squeezes her hand, a look of sympathy on her face. "I don't believe that either, but we can talk about something else."

"Tell me about the baby. Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?" Emma sips her hot chocolate, shoving down all thoughts of Killian Jones as Mary Margaret lights up.

They spend the rest of their lunch talking about the baby – it's a boy – and the plans for the nursery. Not wanting to return to her disaster of an apartment, Emma volunteers to paint the nursery while she's in town, and they spend a pleasant hour walking around town to pick up supplies before heading back to the house.

It's dark by the time Emma puts the finishing touches on the second coat of paint, a pale green with white trim. Mary Margaret smiles happily as Emma climbs off the ladder, and her happiness is contagious. "You're going to be a great mom," she tells her friend, impulsively hugging her.

"You're going to be a great aunt," Mary Margaret replies as the women separate. "You're family, Emma. I know you didn't have family growing up, but you have me, and you have David. And you will have a nephew who loves you."

Emma swallows past the sudden lump in her throat. "Thank you," she manages to get out, turning back to the paint cans and brushes. "I should get this cleaned up."

They gather up the supplies, carefully wrapping the empty paint cans in plastic sheeting. Emma deposits the whole mess directly into the garbage can outside, meeting David in the driveway. "Painting?" he asks in greeting, and it's only then that Emma notices the smudges of paint on her face and hands…and the T-shirt of his she borrowed at Mary Margaret's insistence she not ruin her sweater.

"The nursery. I wanted to help while I was here."

"Did you get any on the walls by chance?" he asks with a chuckle, easily side-stepping her swat. "C'mon, I want to see this."

They go inside, and Emma takes over paintbrush cleaning while Mary Margaret takes David to see their handiwork. The low hum of their voices carry down the stairs, and she wouldn't have thought it possible with how the day started, but Emma finds herself in a rare moment of contentment.

Maybe she should stay this time. Mary Margaret could use her help with getting ready for the baby, and they'll need someone once he's born. If Emma took the deputy job, David would probably have more free time, and she could handle things for awhile when the baby is born.

A knock at the door startles her from her thoughts and she pauses, listening for either David or Mary Margaret on the stairs. Neither of them appear, so when a second knock sounds, Emma turns off the water and heads for the door, wiping her hands on her jeans. Not bothering to check the peephole, she swings the door open only to be met with the same pair of startling blue eyes she's been trying so hard to forget.

"Emma?" He seems just as baffled to see her as she is him, and he scratches nervously at his ear, his eyes darting to the numbers fixed beside the door. "How…"

"What are you doing here?"

"Killian! You made it!" She jumps at the sound of David's voice behind her, moving out of the way in stunned silence as he pulls the man in for a back-slapping hug. "Hey, this is Emma," he says as he yanks Killian into the house. "Emma, this is Killian. We went to high school together, and then he went off and joined the Navy."

"Hello, Killian," Emma forces herself to say, plastering on a welcoming smile. She's suddenly very conscious of the paint on her hands and face, the baggy T-shirt and messy hair knotted on top of her head.

Fuck you too, universe.

"Nice to meet you, Emma," Killian says after a beat, holding out his hand. With David standing right there, she offers her own, gritting her teeth when he brushes his lips against her knuckles just as he did in the bar.

"She's practically my sister, Jones. Your tricks won't work on her."

David's words break the spell, and a flush rises in Emma's cheeks as she turns away. "I need to finish washing out the paint brushes before they dry," she mumbles, practically running into the kitchen to avoid having to say another word. Their voices follow, the lilt of Killian's accent scraping against every raw inch of her.

Mary Margaret finds her before long, still furiously scrubbing at the paintbrushes though the water is running clear. "Emma, you look like you've seen a ghost." Her hand lands on Emma's arm, her touch gentle. "And I think those are clean."

Emma takes a shaky breath, turning off the water and reaching for a towel to dry her hands. "I should get going. I didn't realize you and David had company tonight."

"I'm making lasagna for dinner. I know how much you like it, and even with Killian here we can't possibly finish it." Mary Margaret pauses, her eyes narrowing, and Emma realizes she winced when she heard his name just before her friend quietly asks, "Killian is the guy from the bar, isn't he? In town to visit a friend for a few days, right?"

Emma nods, watching the doorway for any sign of either of the two men. She doesn't know if she's hoping Killian appears or stays away. "Please don't tell David. I don't think he could handle a friend of his being a one night stand of mine."

Mary Margaret frowns, stepping around Emma to start pulling things out of the fridge to assemble the pan of lasagna. "Can you grab the pan from the cabinet? I cooked the noodles this morning but I need to assemble. You can help."

It isn't a question, and Emma silently turns to get down the requested pan. When she sets it on the counter, Mary Margaret hands her the bowl of noodles. "You put those in the pan and I'll layer the rest."

Emma nods, and they work in silence for a few minutes. "Have you met him before?" she finally asks, her voice quiet.

"Just once, at his brother's wedding. Remember when David and I went down to Boston a few years ago?"

"Liam Jones. Right. He's Liam's brother?" she asks unnecessarily, the pieces clicking into place. Liam is the closest thing David has to a best friend, and she's met him and his wife a few times when they've come up to visit. She vaguely remembers mention of a younger brother, but never a name.

"Yes he is. I know he got out of the Navy about a year ago, but I'm not sure what he's been doing since." Mary Margaret pauses, turning to look at Emma before going back to spreading on the next layer of ricotta cheese mixture. "Where did you meet him?" she asks much more quietly.

"Boston," Emma whispers, her face flaming at the memory of the night. "I…I was in town for a job, and I was walking back to my room when I passed a guy on the sidewalk. For a second, I swore he was Neal. He wasn't, he was just some guy, but I was so angry. I walked into the next bar I came to, and, well, one thing led to another." Emma swallows past the lump in her throat, her eyes darting nervously to the doorway again. "I didn't even get his name."

Mary Margaret sighs softly, her cheese-covered fingers sliding over the counter to grasp Emma's. "Emma, that wall of yours may keep out pain, but it also may keep out love. I don't know what happened between you two in Boston, but Killian is a good man. It's not my story to tell, but you might find you have more in common than you think."

"I don't …"

"You ladies need any help?" Killian picks that moment to walk into the kitchen with David, a tentative smile on his face when Emma finally looks up.

"No, we've got it. I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on." Emma turns her attention to David, hoping he'll take a hint and Killian along with him. "We'll let you know when it's done."

"Suit yourself." David ducks to give Mary Margaret a quick kiss, his hand falling to her stomach in a gentle caress before grabbing two beers from the fridge. "C'mon, Jones, let's get out of their way."

Emma keeps her eyes on the counter until they're gone, practically holding her breath until their voices fade. "I really think I should go."

"Emma Swan, you will do no such thing." Mary Margaret smiles to soften the words, nodding toward the bottle of wine corked on the counter. "But you can have a glass of wine or two since David will be the one to drive you home."

"My car is at the diner. I could walk."

"You're right. You could walk. Killian can go with you, since he's staying at Granny's."

"For a few days."

Mary Margaret shrugs. "You spend plenty of time in Boston for work. It's not that far. And last time I talked to Liam, it didn't sound like Killian was all that settled himself."

"You realize you're talking about moving for a guy I slept with once."

"Well, for one, you would have to spend more than a week at a time in that apartment to really say you live there. And you obviously didn't see the way he looked at you."

"He's just trying to cover up the fact that he had sex with me so David doesn't punch him."

"Emma." Mary Margaret doesn't say anything else until Emma finally looks at her, her expression unreadable. "I don't expect you to answer me, and this is the last thing I'll say about it tonight because I can see I'm upsetting you, but are you really so sure that's all he's trying to do?"

Emma doesn't answer, sipping her wine and trying not to think about the hope in Killian's bottomless eyes.

Even after his years on cramped ships, Killian isn't sure he's ever been more uncomfortable during a meal. He finds himself seated next to Emma, and the lass has plainly had several glasses of wine by the time dinner is ready. She was breathtaking in her tight dress in Boston, but the sight of her here, casual, with flecks of paint still stubbornly clinging to her cheek and wool socks on her feet, is somehow even more alluring.

She's soft in a way the cold, devastatingly beautiful woman in the bar wasn't.

But she hardly speaks, and when she does, her answers are quiet and short. She's not rude, but she's hardly welcoming either, spending most of the meal with the wineglass to her lips. He notices the glances exchanged between his three dining companions, and not for the first time since Emma opened the door, a part of him wishes he hadn't come. He peeks at her from the corner of his eye for perhaps the hundredth time during the course of the meal, wondering just what strange twist of fate is at work.

If only they could have met like normal people. Perhaps they could have been introduced at Liam's wedding, the younger siblings pushed together by their well-meaning brothers. Oh, he was a mess then too, on leave and determined to soak up as much living in the two weeks reprieve he was granted as possible, but maybe the sight of her would have sobered him up.

Maybe if he had met her before going back, he would have had something to live for. Maybe things would have turned out differently.

"Killian?" Mary Margaret's smile is hesitant when he meets her stare, belatedly realizing she'd ask him a question he hadn't heard. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. My apologies. What was it you were asking?"

For some reason, her eyes flicker toward Emma, whose face has gone curiously pale, before she repeats her question. "Last time we talked with Liam, he mentioned you were looking to get out of Boston for awhile. Would you have any interest in staying for Christmas? We've got plenty of extra room, and Elsa keeps telling me she wants to see the snow in Maine." There's a thump under the table, but Mary Margaret's smile doesn't falter.

"That's very kind, but I couldn't impose." He forces a grin to cover the uneasiness his brother's name brings forward. They must not have spoken to Liam since their argument – they must not have heard his brother's tirade on Killian's wallowing and sulking.

"Impose? I haven't seen you in years, man. A few days hardly seems long enough. Unless of course there's someone waiting back in Boston you'd like to get back to?"

David's teasing makes Killian's ears burn, his cheeks flushed as his eyes find Emma's without his permission. He looks away quickly, only to find David watching him with something like curiosity. "No, mate, no one to get back to."

"What about your job?" Emma cuts in, her fingers clenched in her lap when he turns his attention to her again. She isn't looking at him, her gaze fixed steadily on her barely-touched plate.

"Haven't settled on one yet," he replies, watching as she twists the napkin into knots, her knuckles white. "I confess after so many years in the service I'm at a bit of a loss as to what comes next."

"Then why did you leave?"

Memories slam into him with the force of a cannon blast, the rattle of gunfire and the screams of wounded men. His men. His operation.

His death wish, yet he lived.

But it isn't a tale for polite dinner conversation, so he reaches down into the place he keeps his cocky smile and paints it on for her. "I grew weary of having such a small bed," he says with a raised eyebrow, a small thrill running down his spine at her flush.

It's a struggle not to slam things once she's escaped into the kitchen under the guise of cleaning up so Mary Margaret can relax by the fire. Killian never actually answered David, but Emma knows how convincing her almost-brother can be. He may or may not stick around all the way until Christmas, but his "few days" is now a thing of the past. David secured his promise to help hang lights outside on Saturday, and Saturday is four days away.

Plunging her hand into the sink, Emma lets out a hiss and jerks back, spraying soapy water everywhere. "God dammit," she curses, the gash in her palm already welling with blood. Gritting her teeth, she reaches more gingerly into the sink, carefully feeling around with her not-bleeding hand for the knife she forgot she threw in with the rest of the dishes.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," she snaps, her spine going rigid at the sound of his voice. Why, of the three possibilities, does it have to be Killian who comes to check on her?

"You're bleeding." He grabs the towel from the counter, approaching slowly and taking her hand with surprising gentleness. "Nicked yourself good."

"It's fine." She tries to pull her hand away, but his grip is too tight.

"No, it's not. If you keep struggling, you'll make it worse and require stitches. Hold still, love."

"So what, you're a sailor and a doctor now?"

"I'm a great many things." She hears it again, the undercurrent in his words, the promise of secrets hiding beneath the surface. For a moment, she wants to ask why it is he answers questions in half-truths and flippant jokes.

Emma remains silent as he tends to her hand, carefully dabbing at the cut first with a warm paper towel and then wrapping the dishcloth securely around her palm. He doesn't say anything either when he's finished, but he does nudge her aside and begin washing dishes while she stands next to the sink, dumbfounded.

"What are you doing?"

"Washing dishes while you hold that towel in place and be sure the bleeding stops. All that wine is sure to have thinned your blood, so keep pressure on it." His voice is smooth as amber, calm and level as he rinses first one plate and then the next. Emma watches the flash of his rings as he moves, the flex of muscle in his forearms where he's rolled up his shirtsleeves to avoid soaking them in the soapy water, tattoo on full display. The talons are just as horrifying in the bright kitchen light, bloody and wrapped around what appears to be a trident. The question is on the edge of her lips, but the memory of his quiet words is too strong – I know a thing or two about pain and wanting to forget.

And the other thing he confessed, the terrifying part – that she's the reason he doesn't want to forget anymore.

"Killian." She waits until he looks up at her, and shifts uncomfortably under his intense gaze. She doesn't even know why she's asking, but she can't seem to stop herself. "Are you staying? For Christmas?"

"Do you want me to?" he asks quietly, holding her stare for another moment before turning back to his task. The question hangs between them, the running water and clinking of the dishes the only noise as Emma takes one deep breath, and then another.

"I don't even know if I want me to stay for Christmas." The truth comes out without her intending it to, and she braces herself for his judgment, the questions, but he merely nods and continues to scrub at the pan he's moved on to.

"Do you live in town?" he asks eventually, rinsing the pan and carefully balancing it on the rack. His eyes shift to her, then dart back to the kitchen wall.

"I have an apartment here. According to David, whether I live in it or not seems to be up for debate."

He laughs, a genuine laugh that rumbles up from his throat and the kitchen grows just a little bit warmer. "Aye, older brothers can be like that." The words seem to sober him, his laugh fading and eyebrows knitting together as he scowls at the wall.

Emma only nods, worrying her lower lip between her teeth and pressing harder against her palm, the stab of pain giving her something to focus on other than his hands. If she stares at his hands for too long, she'll start thinking about what those hands are capable of, and whatever is going on between them in this kitchen, it can't be that.

Mary Margaret appears with the last handful of dishes, and the quiet spell is broken as she notices Emma's hand and immediately begins to fuss. It's all Emma can do to convince her that she does not need stitches, that it's just a small cut and it's her own damn fault for throwing the knife in the sink in the first place. She loses the argument to slap a few bandaids over it, and by the time she's released from the bathroom, her hand is neatly bandaged in clean, white gauze.

She grabs her sweater and quickly changes out of David's T-shirt while they're upstairs. She is not going to get stuck playing board games or whatever other scheme Mary Margaret has up her sleeve to push her toward Killian tonight.

She's already exhausted from the hours they've spent together. Her body refuses to forget his touch, and the longer he's around, the more she craves him. He brushes past her and she can smell his scent, a mix of cologne and salt and something else, something that lives in his skin, and she wants to crawl into his bed and never leave. But then he worries over her hand, and he washes dishes, and her heart aches because she can't actually remember any man in her life that isn't David ever fussing over her.

Or washing dishes without being asked.

But regardless of what her body wants, she needs to get out of this house and put some space between them before Mary Margaret's not-so-subtle looks put ideas in her head.

Or his.

"I'm going to take off," she announces, grabbing her coat from the closet by the door and poking her head into the living room. Killian is standing next to David near the fireplace, a furrow in his brow and tension in his shoulders, but he looks up at the sound of her voice.

"I can give you a ride," David offers, setting the fire poker back in the rack and brushing his hands against his jeans. "It's pretty cold tonight."

"It's all right. I'm in the mood to walk." Emma smiles as brightly as she can manage, willing David to let it be. "Besides, I don't want to cut your visit short."

"I was actually about to call it a night myself." Killian offers her a tentative smile, shoving his hands into her pockets. "May I escort you home?"

"You know it's not 1950, right? I can walk home by myself."

"Emma!" Mary Margaret frowns at her, giving a shake of her head when Killian's back is turned. She mouths stop it with another emphatic shake, gesturing toward the door. "That's very sweet of you, Killian. Emma has to walk by the bed and breakfast anyway."

Emma sighs, shrugging when Killian's eyes find hers, a spark of hoping dancing along with the flames from the fireplace. "Fine. Let's go."

They say their goodbyes and step out into the night, their breath puffing in misty white clouds around them as they start down the sidewalk. Emma is careful to keep space between them and her eyes in front of her. She agreed to the walk. She didn't agree to talking.

"Emma." They're about a block from Granny's when he says her name, a quiet plea offered into the still night. She stops, takes a deep breath, and turns to him with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting with her heart pounding. "I like you," he says softly, taking a step closer when she doesn't move away. He takes a deep breath of his own, his fingers trailing over her arm to cup her cheek. She leans into his touch before she realizes it, but there's something about the look in his eyes that won't let her move away, something in his words – I like you – that's too genuine to scoff at or roll her eyes.

When he kisses her, it's the barest whisper of a kiss, his lips rose petal smooth even as the scruff of his stubble scratches her cheek. He doesn't move closer, doesn't deepen the kiss, but simply pulls back with a guarded expression. "Do you truly wish to be alone tonight?"

"It's not a good idea," she says instead of giving a direct answer, finally stepping away and shoving her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket.

"Why not?"

"Because you're leaving. In a few days, in a few weeks, either way, you're not staying. And that's fine, when it's a one night thing, but, god, Killian, you can't tell me you like me and ask me to spend the night." She shakes her head, an ache in her chest building the longer she looks at him, Granny's twinkling Christmas lights throwing green and red bursts of color across his face. "We both know where that ends up."

"The only thing I know is that you're the first woman, the first person, who has made me feel alive in a very long time."

"From one night where you didn't know my name, and the last two where we've barely spoken?"

"Aye."

"That's a hell of a responsibility, Jones."

"It's the truth."

Emma studies him in the wash of lights, that damn melancholy clinging to his eyelashes like flakes of snow. She can see it all over his face – he's told her this in spite of believing she won't stay, in spite of being just as broken as she is behind his charming smiles and smooth words. She wishes he wouldn't look at her like that, like he's holding his heart out, waiting for her to crush it.

Like he wouldn't blame her if she did.

"Still got that bottle of rum?" she finally says, shoving her hands deeper in her pockets and glancing up at the deep velvet sky. "I could use a nightcap."

Part 2 will go up in a few days. Massive thanks to onceuponsomechaos for the last minute beta job!