Emma would never forget the feeling of being told your only surviving parent had died, alone and aged in their house. To make her guilty conscious even more rampant, Emma had been told over the telephone because she was out of state. Now, as she stood beside her mother's open grave and a handful of mourners gathered to watch the dull, black casket lowered into the earth for the first and only time, Emma wept. Hot, stinging tears fell from her bowed head and were lost in the raindrops that pounded the soft, grassy ground of the cemetery.

She must have sniffed, or her body must have heaved for more breath because a strong, masculine hand filled with warmth and comfort took hold of hers and squeezed tightly. When she looked up from the joined hands which were soggy from the warm May rain, her watery green eyes met the dark greyed hues of her brothers. David did not smile, nor did he say anything, he just held her hand as the words of goodbye were muttered from the Bible at the head of the six-foot grave by a man in a long, soaked robe.

David jerked forward a little as he slowly threw a handful of dirt down into the hole, reluctant to let go of the crumbly substance that left brown stains on his fingers. He heaved a breath and fought back tears of his own. David was older than Emma, taller and had always been the stronger one in the relationship. Emma was smart, a doctor and had taken the resemblance of their mother, slightly curled blonde hair, green eyes and when the situation called for it, a dazzling smile. David was the opposite; huge, masculine and toned to the highest degree with soulful blue eyes that changed colour with his mood.

Emma lifted her free hand and wiped away a warm tear amongst the cold raindrops that splashed her face. Her hair stuck to her forehead and drips collected at the end of her nose, plummeting to the ground shortly after. David handed Emma a damp, dark red rose, de-thorned and made safe for his little sister in their delicate time of loss. He didn't look at her, his eyes fixated on the glistening, rain covered casket that held their mother as the sound of a pulley system stopped and silence filled the air when it hit the bottom on the grave.

"You have to say goodbye," David whispered, rubbing her hand in his as the other mourners dispersed, leaving them alone at the graveside. Their mother had no family left apart from them and the few people that did turn up were her in-home carers, but David suspected they were being paid to be here.

Emma flicked water from the ends of her mid length hair as she turned to face her brother. Rain defined itself down his face, leaving fake tear lines from his eyes as the rain pummelled into his chiselled features. Emma suspected a few of the lines were real though and he blinked rapidly as the rain hit his eyelids when he turned to face her. "I don't want to," Emma snivelled, clasping the rose between her fingers.

David's hard features dissolved at her childlike weakness and uncertainty. "I should have been in Storybrooke," Emma muttered sadly turning back to the grave. Her voice cracked when she spoke and David tilted his head sideways in empathy before pulling her into a tight embrace.

"Mom was very ill, Emma, you couldn't have done anything," David reassured her as he rubbed her sobbing figure. "She doesn't hate you," David said with a lighter tone as if his mother was still with them. Emma cried against the expensive white material of his shirt and silky black material of his tie, her hands crushed against his body and covering her face.

Emma's crying ceased momentarily but her sobs kept her breath hitching, rocking her body each time it did. David draped his hand over hers and gripped onto the stem of the rose that she held tightly. "When you're ready, let me know," he soothed, ready to take the rose and throw it for her, down into the awaiting darkness of their mother's grave.

As Emma stood with her face pressed against her brother's chest, her entire childhood flashed before her eyes. The time she and David had found a dog, only for their mother to scold them both and return it to its rightful owners. The day Emma got her first period, scared and only ten years old and the way her mother had told her about why women had them and how babies were born. The day Emma graduated and went to college to study medicine and her mother's comments about it being the happiest day of her life. When their father was killed in a train crash, beyond unbelievable odds their mother stayed strong for her two teenage children who threatened to crumble and fall more than once.

Emma was her mother's daughter, strong and proud of her family and how they had beaten all other odds to get to where they were. Emma inhaled deeply and lifted her face from David's shirt, calmer and stronger than a few minutes ago when she was ready to dive into the hole with her mother. David let her go but kept his grip on her hand as she turned and tossed the rose into the grave. "Goodbye, Mom," Emma whispered as the fragile flower landed softly on top of the casket and was stuck there by the rain.

David once again gave Emma's hand a proud squeeze and he offered her a smile, which she returned weakly. "You did good," he told her softly, releasing her hand and pulling her into a sideways hug.

"And you're sure you don't need me to stay over?" David half offered, half suggested to his baby sister as they climbed the mountainous concrete steps to their mother's house. The will stated the house was now theirs, to do as they wished with. Their mother had even put in her will that if they wanted to keep it, they had to share, something David and Emma had always had trouble with growing up. Emma had smiled and a chuckle had escaped her lips at the soft words of the will reader, much to his surprise, even though Emma and David both knew it was a private joke from their mother.

"I'll be ok," Emma smiled and pulled her brother into a hug. It lingered, her tiny frame enveloped in David's massive bulk as he smoothed his hands over her shoulders while Emma's hands barely touched each other around his waist. His clean-shaven face was pressed to her soft locks on top of her head and he pulled back to plant a kiss there.

"You know where I am," David nodded, holding her at arm's length from him at the door. He was still dressed in his expensive, black suit but his tie had been wrenched loose and now hung loosely around his neck. The top button of his collar had been popped open and his normally neatly preened, short, blonde hair had gone limp in the rain. Emma just offered him a smile and stepped from his embrace with a caring nod of agreement as he cupped her chin in his massive hand and lifted her still watery eyes to his. "Goodnight Sis," he said, leaning forward to plant another soft kiss to her, this time on her forehead, before leaving her to enter the house alone.

The house was cold, desolate and yet so familiar as Emma stepped over the threshold and inhaled its homely scent. The decorated hall reminded Emma of her childhood because her mother had not changed the ghastly wallpaper since then, and the carpet had been worn so flat over the years Emma wondered if her mother was ignorant to its need for change or she just loved it so much. Emma shrugged off her coat and rested it over the acorn banister stop at the end of the handrail to the stairs. At least that had been recently painted and freshened up.

The only sound that came from the hall was the old grandfather clock that stood at the bottom of the staircase next to her mother's shoe rack. Why somebody who lived alone and was practically housebound needed more than one pair of shoes was beyond Emma, but her mother had insisted on the wooden, box-like structure shortly before she passed. Apparently, you never know when you're going to need one.

The floor beneath Emma changed into linoleum when she stepped into the kitchen. It was small, way too small for a house so big. There was barely room to move, it was thin and long rather than wide but Emma remembered it well. Phantom smells of her mother's cooking wafted from appliances that hadn't actually been used in so long Emma wouldn't have been surprised if none of them even worked anymore. The worktops were still those from her childhood; light beige and rimmed with a metallic edge that filled Emma with nostalgia instantly.

Emma's fingers traced over a melted spot next to the cooker top and she smiled, remembering how she and David had thought it a good idea to make rice whilst the babysitter was otherwise occupied with her boyfriend, only to forget the water, set fire to the pan and melt the sideboard in the process. The babysitter was never invited back and they were severely scolded.

The living room was exactly how Emma remembered it the day she left home and moved to New York. The sofa was still covered in the deep red throw her mother used on all her furniture, but only after years of nagging from Emma and David to get rid of the plastic coverings. They had claimed it cramped their teenage style and was old fashioned, only to understand its fantastic purpose once they were both older and a small child had been let loose in Emma's apartment with a candy bar. In the nicest possible way, Emma had told her friend not to return until her son was in college.

Emma's eyes danced across the photographs her mother had resting above the open fireplace in wooden frames, possibly the most modern thing about the old house. There were pictures of Emma and David as babies, graduates, and adults. One of David standing proud in his naval dress blues and one of them and their mother when she was in better health. At the end of the mantelpiece, encased in an old brass frame in need of a polish was a photograph of Emma's father.

Lieutenant General George Nolan, MD of the First United States Army stood in full uniform, chest puffed out proudly as the slightly angled flag of the United States of America lay behind him. His uniform was dark green with huge, shiny brass buttons and his black tie stood out from his light, leafy green shirt, crisp and practically ironed to his body. On each shoulder was a row of three silver stars, telling the world he was indeed a Three Star General and a barrage of badges decorated his jacket above his left pocket. On each sleeve, at the shoulder, was a sewn on badge. It was black and white and depicted the US military ensign for the medical corps and on his right breast pocket was a dull black plastic badge with his surname stamped on it in white lettering.

Emma picked up the photograph and ran her finger down her father's smiling face. He was the reason she had become a doctor. George Nolan had been one of the only things in Emma's childhood she wanted to see for the rest of her life. He would tell her stories of how he'd saved lives and it made Emma so proud to know him, that being his only daughter was like a gift in itself. When he had boarded the train that day, waved off by a loving wife and two loving teenage children, George had pressed his thin, masculine lips to his palm and flung his arm towards Emma, offering her a kiss of feigned goodbyes. When he hadn't returned, Emma had died inside.

Shortly afterward, Emma Swan Nolan had decided to take only her mother's surname for the rest of her life, unable to bring herself to even say her father's name anymore. David of course, being the fifteen year old son of a high ranking military hero kept his father's surname and dropped his mothers. The family were unusual and trying to describe the Swan-Nolan connection when Emma and David were at school was difficult but it worked for them. It helped them cope, Emma especially, who had always found it easy to run and not face her feelings. Now she was Emma Swan, MD (Medical Doctor) and her brother was David Nolan, Meng (Master of Engineering), and Emma knew, wherever they were, George Nolan and Gaye Swan couldn't have been more full of pride.

"Good morning Mr. Nolan," the petite brunette chimed from behind the huge wooden desk with a massive toothy smile when David stepped from the elevator into his company's floor. She wore the same thing every day apart from on Thursday when her brilliant white blouse was replaced with an olive green one that accented her jade eyes. Not that he had noticed.

"Good morning Mary Margaret," David smiled at her as he retrieved his mail from the paper tray on her desk. "How is your day going?" he enquired politely, lifting his eyes from the letters and memos in his hand just long enough to flash her a smile. David enjoyed work, especially office work. He had time to interact with his staff, his pretty assistant especially, and it also kept his high functioning partner, Killian Jones at bay.

Mary Margaret blushed and fiddled with her modern silver headset when it began ringing on her desk. She cleared her throat and motioned to David with a long, extended and well manicured finger. "Jones-Nolan Engineers," she droned like a robotic Barbie doll into the mouthpiece of the hands-free headset. "Please hold," she said sweetly and pressed the well used grey button on her telephone. She looked back to David with an apologetic grin. "Mr. Jones has been in your office for twenty minutes," she whispered in a low voice, her warning followed by a knowing look. David gave her thankful smile and sighed heavily.

Killian was his friend, his best friend in fact and they had been through a lot. Both of the men had met whilst at university studying for the same Masters, sharing a room and even graduating as the top two in their class (David was, unfortunately, second to the ever neurotically charged Killian.) When Killian had insisted they set up their own business David had jumped at the chance. What better way to make money than with an inevitable rival at your side? However, Killian was a pain, and not like a niggling itch in the center of your back. Far more than that, Killian was a disease; meticulous and infectious to everyone he came into contact with, as well as reckless and arrogantly intelligent. Sometimes it worked in their favor, but mostly it just caused issues.

Every morning he would start by sitting himself in David's office until his partner arrived to inevitably find him with his feet up on his heavy, well polished desk and some sort of folder clasped in his hand. He was a fantastic engineer, David couldn't deny him that, but he was not normal. So far from normal that David had, on more than one occasion of his outbursts, threatened to sell his half of the business to the highest bidder and leave him with nothing. Killian was like a child; always eager to please and learn but he had a wicked streak that scared most people. David was no exception. Killian scared the pants off of him.

As soon as David stepped into his office, Killian bolted from his chair clutching a pale orange folder and began waving it erratically in his direction. David blindly fiddled with his mail, sifting through the letters that he knew were all irrelevant to the business but he had acquired as junk mail nonetheless. Killian was wired wrong, highly strung, and the smallest thing set him off. With an inward sigh, David wondered what it had been now.

"They did it again!" Killian bellowed. "Those damn construction workers changed my plans to suit the building materials!" he crowed with a slightly red face.

"Good morning Killian," David said calmly, not lifting his head from the welcome distraction of unopened mail bound for the company shredder. Killian stalked towards him and David lifted his heavy head to meet Killian's stare.

"I swear to god Dave, they do it to me all the time!" Killian growled, flipping open the folder into his palm and leaning in to show David some photos of the building in progress. David took one of the glossy black and white stills he was handed and inspected it for the flaw Killian so enthusiastically protested.

"I don't see the problem…" David began, handing Killian the photograph back and walking past him to his desk. The high back leather chair creaked a little when he settled into it and then rocked backward with David's massive bulk. Killian seethed and grunted a breath of frustration.

"They are not using what I had specified in the plans," Killian insisted, throwing the folder with more photographs onto the desk. The folder slid with a swishing sound towards David and was halted by his huge hand on the dark wood antique. Killian leaned over the desk and prodded his finger to a tiny spot on the photograph.

"These are the wrong bolts. They are saving money but shortening the life of the building," Killian said angrily. David's eyes shifted from his partners to the photograph again as he looked for the flaw Killian so desperately persisted with.

"It's out of our hands Killian. We don't build, we sculpt on paper," David reclined into his chair and rested a lazy arm onto the leather bound armrest whilst pointing a short, blunt finger towards Killian with his other hand. "You said that my friend."

Killian considered David's words for a moment with a frown. This was the Killian that had just had his candy taken from him. This was the Killian who would be in a bad mood for the rest of the day and would skulk around the workplace with a scowl. This was the same old, unpredictable Killian.

"Lighten up," David suggested with a shrug. "We did our job, let the builders do theirs."

"Fine," Killian snapped, pulling the photographs back into the folder and straightening himself up. He tossed the photos into David's trash basket and headed for the door. "If you don't care about the reputation of this business…" he called, yanking the door open and letting it swing idly open as he stormed through the dark, mahogany archway and into the lobby.

"Wait a second," David argued, jumping to his feet and rushing after Killian. He found him in the lobby, shucking off his jacket and replacing it with a high visibility vest that felt weightless against his high threaded white shirt. "You think I don't care?" he shouted from his doorway, his own face flushing with red and his heartbeat pounding in his chest. Killian made him so angry sometimes. No wonder he was an only child.

Killian paused for a second after plucking a white hard hat from the same stand the vests were kept on. He hooked his hand through the adjustable strap and let it fall limp at his side. "You used to," Killian said softly but bitterly and was gone, bolting down the stairs before David could interject. David inhaled and held his breath for a second, exhaling hard and shaking his head in disbelief.

"What's upset him about this job?" Mary Margaret asked casually from behind the desk where she had sat silent all through the arguing. Her dark brown hair was in a short pixie bob, a side fringe almost touching her brow line. David's head moved towards her and she let out a chuckle.

"Bolts." David simply said, dumbfounded that such a small thing could make someone so angry. "Bolts!" he repeated with a laugh that made Mary Margaret smile before she resumed typing once again, the sound of the keys clicking easily drowned out by their combined hysterics.

Emma's temporary means of income was as she expected, community driven. Her boss had arranged for her to be temporarily transferred to the Storybrooke General Hospital as an attending in the ER. Emma knew she wouldn't be in Storybrooke that long but when she stepped through the noisy automatic sliding doors of the emergency room, she was taken aback. Children cried in the waiting room, telephones rang constantly with only one elderly gentleman available to take the calls of the desperate, and the janitor currently cleaning up vomit in the reception area looked like he'd be more at home in a morgue. On the slab.

No one looked assertive, in charge or even remotely like a doctor. Only a few white coats littered the room that was stuffy, hot, even at the time of the year, and smelled like fermenting garbage. Emma clutched her handbag to her side instinctively, unsure of who, or what, might try their luck as she waded through the growing crowd of coughing people towards the elderly gentlemen on the desk. When she approached he looked up with small squinty eyes that were magnified behind his thick brown rimmed glasses.

"Yes?" he snipped, already fed up with his day at nine in the morning. Emma offered him a weak smile and stuttered slightly.

"Um…I am supposed to start here today on a temporary basis," she said, unsure if anyone had been told about her arrival. The small man reminded Emma of a mole, regarded her closely, pausing with a cynical frown. Emma quickly retrieved her badge from the other hospital and handed it to him over the desk. A shaky, wrinkled hand took the square tag and he inspected it with caution before handing it back.

"Hey, Whale!" He called behind him with a ferociousness that scared Emma a little and she jumped back. Moles were not supposed to be fierce creatures. "Your new doctor is here!" he bellowed, giving her a smile of broken dentures and a wicked laugh that was quickly followed by the chesty cough of a smoker.

Victor Whale was medium height and handsome with a loose, curly mop of white blonde hair on top of his head and light sprinkling of dark stubble adorning his face. He wore glasses that were modern, chic and sat pronounced upon his face, the deep blue frames accented by the ocean blue of his eyes. As he walked towards her his off white coat flew open slightly to reveal a pair of tight, crotch hugging jeans and a light pink shirt that was buttoned loosely around his neck. He had a sway when he walked, distinctive of a certain sexual orientation and he extended a hand to Emma with a smile.

"Dr. Swan," he sang in a squeaky voice. He was well spoken and had perfect teeth that glistened, even in the dim hospital lighting. Emma nodded and took his moisturized hand in hers, following his motion to shake it up and down before. "Ooo, love the shoes!" he squealed with a pinched expression and Emma laughed nervously. All the good-looking ones were gay nowadays.

The morning dragged on but to its credit, the busy rush of people kept Emma busy and she didn't mind working for what seemed like longer. Emma wanted to help people, just like her father had, and even in the disruption and chaos of the Storybrooke ER, Emma saw beauty in everyone she treated. They made her smile, made her laugh and complimented her on her soft approach to medicine that, according to one frail old lady, was lacked by most of the other staff, apart from 'the nice gay one'.

Emma's first patient was a problem. A small child with an attitude malfunction and a coin lodged in his throat. No amount of coaxing could get him to open his mouth and then his parents proceeded to argue with each other about how lousy they both were when it came to their custody times. The boy looked at Emma and rolled his six year old eyes before coughing the nickel back up and then gleefully vomiting onto the lap of his father. Emma smiled at the irony and the justice of the situation.

Her second patient was a little more vexing. Twenty-four-year-old Jessica Barnes had a swollen arm that was painful to touch and looked broken but unfortunately, Jessica could only utter one word; buttons. Her carer assured Emma that it had happened whilst she was interacting with other patients of the Storybrooke Asylum located ten minutes West of the hospital, but Emma suspected foul play. Her head still pounded from the volume of abuse that had been directed her way as security escorted the burly man in white away with Jessica screaming "buttons" at the top of her lungs.

On Emma's first break, she snapped off her white, latex gloves with a rubbery twang and hurried to the staff lounge. The room was eerily quiet, so quiet that Emma could hear the faint buzz of silence in her ears. She made herself a strong coffee and settled into one of the hard plastic chairs that surrounded the round, white table with a sigh. Her head lolled forward and her forehead smacked onto the cool surface, her eyes pressed closed as she wallowed in the peace. It was however short lived.

"Dr. Swan," a small, nervous voice called around the door and made her bolt upright and spin in her chair instantly. "We need your help," the petite intern said shyly. It seemed all the other attendings had left the floor and part of being one was you had to be there for your interns. Even though the gaggle of new faces had nothing to do with Emma, she complied with a light smile and enquired about the nature of help needed.

"What wrong Thomas?" she sighed, trying not to sound too exhausted. The short man stood higher in the doorway having suddenly found more confidence than he had before. Apparently, he had drawn the short straw to interrupt the resting Dr. Swan, who was already known for her caring bedside manner and contradictory lightning tongue. Word sure did travel fast through this hospital.

"We have a patient who is causing a problem," Thomas said timidly, his baby blue eyes blinking rapidly and his palms sweating.

"Are you even old enough to be a doctor?" Emma wondered out loud.

"Um…" Thomas stammered, fast turning red.

"Nevermind," Emma sighed, pushing herself to her feet. "Tell me what seems to be the problem." Thomas was about to respond when a gruff yelling interrupted her thoughts and inquisitiveness pulled her from her seat in a flurry.

"I don't want to be here!" the man yelled, waving an arm out and batting a small nurse aside with his lean but strong arms when she tried to dab his wound. Blood trickled down his face from a huge slice across his scalp that was easily seen because a chunk of his previously perfect, black hair was missing too. He jumped off of the gurney, and immediately wobbled, eyes blinking rapidly to steady his vision. He was caught by two burly security guards who lifted him with ease and pinned him back onto the bed. "Get the fuck off of me!" he growled, gripping at the men with his fingernails. Neither flinched as they leaned on him.

"That's enough! I won't have that sort of language in my ER!" Emma bellowed, her voice turning dark and angry as she skimmed over the man's chart in her hand which Thomas had handed her. She stepped into the cubicle and drew the curtain behind her to stop the prying eyes and craning necks from the waiting room before hearing the tell-tale buckle of restraints to the side of the bed.

"Please, don't do that," the man begged the security guards. "Please!" he called as they left the curtain with a smile towards Emma who acknowledged them with a nod of thanks. Emma dismissed Thomas and a nurse through the curtain once the man was restrained; they were needed in the busy rush of the midday ER traffic and Emma could handle one unruly businessman no problem. "Dr. please, I'm not crazy," the man insisted softly, almost on a weeping whisper as he pulled against the padded cuffs without success.

Emma rested the chart to the table near to the bed and plucked two medium sized gloves from a pink and white box next to it. "Nobody said that. Ok, Killian, is it?" Emma asked the man, reading the name from the chart and appealing to his humanity with his first name. He didn't reply. "Ok, Killian, I need to dress your head," Emma's voice trailed off when she finally lifted her head and took in the exhausted shell of a man that lay in front of her.

Killian's head lifted at the same time and their eyes met, dancing together in the florescent lighting of the exam room. He was gorgeous, there were no bones about it, and Emma felt a tingle in her spine and a flush in her cheeks. He held his breath, unable to say or do anything else but stare at the doctor who had instantly calmed him. Emma looked away first, clearing her throat and swallowing the mass down with a painful frown.

"I'm not crazy," Killian repeated softly, holding up his restrained wrists and motioning his wrists towards Emma. "These are being wasted on me," he smiled, making a joke out of the situation. "With a doctor as beautiful as you, I'm not running anywhere," he smirked, never letting his gaze drop from hers, even when she turned away with another blush. Emma's head tilted back and she let out a short burst of laughter, exaggerated for effect but hiding the nervous twang she knew her voice would have. "Come on," Killian coaxed with a lopsided grin. "I promise I am not angry anymore."

Emma didn't know why but she found the charm of Killian Jones more than a little irresistible. His smile was alluring and his eyes were warm, welcoming, almost childlike in innocence. He relaxed in his cuffs with a sigh, turning his head sadly away from hers. "I'm not crazy," he repeated.

"So you keep saying," Emma said, moving to pull the tray closer to the bed and swivel herself onto a nearby stool. She rested there for a moment with her hands pressed together between her knees. Killian stared absently at the wall beside him, his eyes flickering backwards and forwards over the tiled wall. "So what are you, if you are not crazy?" Emma nudged with a gentle tone.

Killian didn't look around. "I am a genius," he said in no uncertain terms and swung his head to Emma. "I know things, calculate things, fabricate things," he droned desperately but unconvincingly. "People just think I'm crazy because I scare them." Emma's eyebrows rose a little and she smiled sadly.

"Everything you have just told me tells me otherwise," she said sadly, pushing herself from her stool and leaning over the raised silver rail of the bed to inspect Killian's head. Killian clicked his tongue in his teeth, frustrated.

"I mean it, ask me anything," he tried to prove his intellect but Emma shook her head and refocused on his oozing wound that was still bleeding and staining the crisp whiteness of his shirt. "Ask me a math problem," Killian insisted with a flinch as Emma jabbed a long, sharp needled under the edge of his skin.

"You're going to need stitches, Killian," Emma said in a light voice that was apologetic to a certain degree. Killian pinched his eyes closed in frustration and sighed.

"Ask me!" he told her, turning his blood stained head to hers. Emma stopped with the needle of numbing agent posed above Killian's head and the rubber gloved hand that had been cradling his head now rested on his cheek. Emma felt the warmth of his skin through her gloves and her hand lingered on his skin for what felt like a perfect fragment of time. Killian's eyes met Emma's and they were a steely blue colour that reminded her of her brother's but with a darker undertone that made her apprehensive. Emma liked to think she was a good judge of character when it came to her patients but Killian was proving difficult to read. She sighed audibly, and humored him.

"Ok Killian, what's the square root of…" she paused, looking at the ceiling for inspiration. Emma remembered once, while in college, she had been approached by a campus nerd (for want of a better term) who liked to try and score dates by his impressive knowledge of mathematical figures. His particular chat up line to Emma popped into her head – 'Did you know the square root of 2654 is 51.51, to two decimal places?' – So she stole the failed musing of a probably now wealthy scientist and fired away. "…2654, to two decimal places?" Emma finished with a smug expression.

"51.51," Killian breathed without hesitation and caught Emma's look of shock as her jaw dropped open. "To two decimal places," Killian panted, his blood cooling and his entire body relaxing when he realized he had convinced her. He offered her a small smile and shook her from her shock. "I told you," he said, holding up his wrists once more. "I'm not crazy."

Emma didn't know what to do, call a shrink or release him. Her mouth hung open and she forgot to swallow temporarily, shaking her head in disbelief and stepping back from him. The lapel of Emma's coat shuffled its position and Killian spied her name tag clearly clipped to her breast pocket. "I have a condition called Low Latent Inhibition, Emma," he spoke softly with a calm understanding of how he must appear to her. It had been the same way all of his life. "So what do you say Dr. Swan?" he dipped his gaze lower to meet hers when it drifted to his restraints. He smiled and a chuckle escaped his lips. "You break me out of these cuffs and I'll buy you a coffee."