The street is nearly deserted, probably because of the storm rolling in. Killian doesn't mind; he's had enough of the people in this town looking at him like he's a monster. The hospital staff had at least tried to be civil, but he had seen the contempt in their eyes when they thought he wasn't looking. Honestly, he can't blame them. He knows he's a villain; he made his peace with that fact long ago.
Killian passes a diner; it looks empty. He pauses and weighs his options for a moment: go back to his ship, where Cora might be waiting for him, or stop for something to eat and risk more people giving him shifty looks. He is sorely tempted to just go back to his beloved ship, but a rumbling in his stomach soon puts to rest any other arguments.
A bell tinkles overhead as Killian steps through the door. The diner is virtually empty, a fact for which Killian is grateful. The black-haired wench behind the counter eyes him appreciatively as he walks in. Killian winks at her, grinning. He goes to sit at one of the odd, plastic chairs in front of the counter.
"So you're Hook," she says, as Killian sits down.
"Glad to see you've heard of me," he replies.
"You wouldn't be if you knew what Emma's told me about you," she says.
"You're a friend of Emma's, then? Do give her my regards the next time you see her," says Killian.
"Sure," she says, in a tone which suggests she has no intentions of doing so. Killian ignores it.
"I do believe this is an eating establishment?" he says.
"Oh, yeah. Here you go," replies the girl.
She hands him a large piece of paper covered in more of that odd plastic material. As she walks away, Killian stares at it and tries to make sense of the words on it.
"The bloody hell are pancakes?" he mutters.
Someone laughs hollowly. Killian looks to the left and sees a red-headed woman with her back to him and a newspaper stretched out in front of her. Her hand, delicate and pale, is partially wrapped around a cup of what smells like coffee. The scent is strong, drifting over to Killian from three seats away.
"Can I help you?" he asks contemptuously.
"Fish out of water, eh?" says the woman. Her voice is young and lovely, but there is an edge of bitterness to it.
"You could say that," he responds.
"Pancakes are dough, omelettes are eggs," says the woman brusquely.
"I'll bear that in mind," Killian says.
With a rustle of paper, the woman goes back to reading. As she does so, she trails a finger around the rim of her coffee cup. Her nails are red and chipped.
Killian turns back to the menu. A lot of the words still make no sense, even with the woman's helpful translation. He flags down the black-haired serving wench.
"I'll have a cup of coffee and some toast," he says.
It's what he had in the hospital. Not the tastiest thing in the world, but he's hungry enough that he doesn't care. Coffee, at least, he remembers being somewhat good.
He drums his fingers on the counters as he waits. His hook, he keeps tucked in his pocket. There's no need to frighten the locals; at least, not right now.
The redhead is the only other person in the diner, aside from Killian and the black-haired serving wench. And the serving wench has already retreated into the kitchen, leaving Killian alone with the redhead.
Quite frankly, Killian is intrigued by the woman. She never turns around, and she does not speak beyond the few words they exchanged about food. Killian finds his eyes drifting back to her every so often. There is something familiar about her, though it may only be her hair.
Killian knew a red-haired woman once. A mermaid, she had been. Lovely, too. But he hasn't thought about her in years. He lost her a long time ago, long before he lost Milah. He cannot recall exactly how old his mermaid was, but he realizes that with the curse, she might only be a few years older than when he knew her. That is, of course, assuming that she is in Storybrooke at all. He knows as well as anyone that some people didn't come over.
The serving wench comes back with his coffee and toast. The coffee smells sharp and strong, and the scent kindles Killian's hunger in full force. He eats the toast quickly. It is crunchy and covered in butter, and it rests satisfactorily in Killian's stomach. When he finishes, he sips languidly at his mug of coffee.
"What is your name?" he calls over to the redhead.
She ignores him. She flips her newspaper to another page and lifts her coffee to take a sip. Killian is fascinated by the way she moves her slender fingers around the cup. He lets his eyes trail down to her legs, covered in loose brown trousers and crossed beneath the counter. It is clear that she has a lovely shape. Killian can feel his interest in the woman increasing by the second.
"Your name," he repeats, louder.
"Marianne," she says.
"Pretty," remarks Killian.
"And yours?"
"Killian Jones."
She sets her coffee cup on the counter too quickly. The coffee sloshes over the side and onto Marianne's loose, white sleeve. She seems not to notice.
"Have I said something?" he asks.
Marianne reaches into her pocket and draws out a few green bills. She tosses them onto the counter beside her mug of coffee. Killian can hear the rustle of newspaper as she folds it up hurriedly. Then Marianne jumps up from her stool with a swish of red hair.
"Are you leaving so soon?" says Killian.
Marianne does not answer. She turns partway around, but then she stops. Killian realizes that she cannot leave without turning to face him, as he is sitting between Marianne and the door. The realization comes with a sort of smug satisfaction. If Marianne seems so determined not to show her face, then this will come as a victory.
Killian rises to his feet slowly, almost predatorily. His boots tap on the linoleum floor as he steps toward Marianne. Otherwise, the diner is entirely silent. He can see the tension in Marianne's shoulders. He recognizes the absence of her breathing, and he knows he has already won.
Killian places his hand gently on Marianne's shoulder; the gesture is gentlemanly but dominating. He tilts his head down to her ear and whispers into it.
"I think you already know me."
Marianne's shoulder hunches beneath his hand. Killian smiles.
"What is your name?" he asks again.
"Marianne," she answers.
"You're lying," says Killian.
"Am I?" replies Marianne.
She is trying to play the game. But her fear creeps into her voice, and both she and Killian know she has failed. She failed before she even began to play, because Killian knows this game better than anyone. And he will get the outcome he wants.
"Why don't you show me that pretty face? Perhaps I'll know your name without you telling me," says Killian.
Marianne does not move. Killian is growing more and more frustrated with this woman by the second. What had begun as intrigue has deterioted into a nuisance. He can no longer wait for Marianne to acquiesce to his requests.
Killian steps around her faster than she can react. He reaches to push her hair out of her face, but his arm stops in mid-air as he recognizes the woman in front of him.
"Ariel."