She spends the next week telling herself to forget about him and the bar. She doesn't sleep, which is nothing new, but she finds that instead of pouring over case files, or watching mindless TV, or trying to figure out how to make something as simple as cut and bake cookies without nearly burning her apartment down…she's thinking about him. She hates it and she hates him, but that doesn't make it stop.

Killian Jones. He of the bright blue eyes and impish grin. He of the husky voice and subtle accent that makes her want to press her thighs together to keep from squirming. He's bold and brash and crude and annoying…and he's undeniably under her skin.

But Emma doesn't want this man under her skin. It irks her that he's seemingly proving himself right, that her return is a matter not of if, but when. When will she give into this insane urge to return to the establishment, so carefully decorated and maintained inside to give the feel of a ship while the outside marks it a tourist trap. The interior is anything but, and Emma remembers the feel of the thick wooden planks on the floor. By the time she left, they nearly swayed as though they were a ship's deck, though she suspects that had a great deal more to do with the quantity of rum she drank than an atmospheric trick.

She's grumpier than usual at work that week. Ruby shoots her sympathetic glances across their pushed together desks, chalking up the blonde's moodiness to the gruesome case they've been working. After a year working side by side, she's learned not to ask. Emma will speak if she wants to; if she doesn't, the storm will pass eventually. Ruby has lived by the sea all her life; she understands the ebb and flow of the tide. Emma will right herself, eventually.

Graham is another story. He's her boss and while the first day or two he lets slide, he can't let it continue. The Portland PD is a small group, and when one of his four detectives starts acting up, he's going to have problems. This sort of conversation with Emma is always touchy – he tries to regret, for the thousandth time, sleeping with her when she was new – but he still can't regret that decision, not matter how awkward it had been after when she made it clear it had been a one time mistake…that happened a few more times.

But Emma isn't making that particular mistake anymore. Graham as her boss, she can handle that. Graham as a lover who obviously wants more…no, she can't do that. He cares too much; she knows it even as he rails at her about her less than stellar attitude over the last several days.

Killian Jones, though…there's a man who has probably left many a bedside in the middle of the night. Perhaps she should take him up on his offer. There needn't be any complications with that man. Just good…service… and then she could be on her way.

Yes, she thinks to herself as Monday rolls around yet again, a weekend spent working resulting in a day off, finally. Yes, perhaps she should go back to the Jolly Roger and find out a little more about this man, make sure he isn't some sort of criminal before she gets in bed with him. Being a cop and all, that part is important.

She doesn't want him to know what she's thinking, though. She's determined to keep the upper hand with him this time, to make sure she's on steady ground and he's the one thrown for a loop. Emma is good at that; years of staring down criminals have given her the ability to fake fearless pretty damn well. It's not that Emma doesn't get scared – everyone gets scared. She's just learned to put on a really good poker face, to disguise her tells.

She tells herself the matching lingerie set she dons before heading out to the Jolly Roger is a secret just for her, a boost of confidence. He's never going to see it – not tonight – but it makes her feel better to have something pretty against her skin. Emma isn't a girl who wears a lot of dresses or lace; it's mostly jeans and a T-shirt for her. The hidden lingerie makes her feel feminine, just like her long, loose blonde hair.

The wind is kicking off the bay as she leaves her apartment, her boots echoing off the cobbles. It's late already, the majority of Portland in bed and asleep, but the Jolly Roger will be open until last call. Emma has timed her visit intentionally well past the evening rush, so that it appears almost as an after thought. It wouldn't do for Jones to think her eager. That was not part of the plan.

The bar is nearly empty as she steps out of the wind. No pack of frat boys this time, but a few couples in the narrow booths along the wall join the handful of solitary drinkers at the bar. It's a Monday night, so isn't expecting much. She's not even sure she's expecting him to be there, but sure enough, there he is, eyeliner and all.

"Swan! I knew you'd be back." He's smirking as she slides onto a barstool, hair in his eyes and stubble thick as ever on his cheeks. His clothing choices are the same as the last time she was in the bar, dark jeans and a black shirt, fitted nicely across his chest. She forces herself to look away, but not fast enough. His grins widens marginally. "Couldn't resist, could you, lass?"

"Yeah, you tell yourself that." She rolls her eyes, gesturing vaguely toward the direction of the door. "I told you, I live close by."

"Aye, you did say that. I also have never seen you in here before last week and you don't have the look to you of a fresh transplant."

"Well, you do," she deflects, glaring back at him. "That accent sure as hell isn't downeast."

"Aye." He simply agrees with her, but offers nothing more. He's still grinning though, and she's beginning to wonder if this was such a smart choice.

But that's the point, Emma, rationalizes, letting her eyes sweep over him. Tonight isn't about thinking. Nothing having to do with Killian Jones is about thinking and that's the appeal.

"What'll it be tonight, love? More rum?" He's already got the bottle in his hand, but Emma shakes her head, remembering too well the hangover left behind by the cheap spirits from her last round.

"That stuff is awful."

"Aye," he agrees cheerfully, setting the bottle back down. He rummages around a bit, bottles clanking together, before producing another bottle of rum. This one bears a name she recognizes and is a richer amber color. He holds it up for her inspection, pouring the liquor into a glass at her nod. She shouldn't be surprised when he pours himself one as well, but an eye roll can't be helped.

"I keep it on hand for the college kids," he supplies in explanation, gesturing toward the swill he had served her the last night. "And newbies."

"So I rate a decent rum tonight?"

He laughs quietly, tapping his glass lightly to hers. "It's a celebratory drink. Of course we should have spirits worthy of the occasion."

"I wasn't aware there was an occasion."

"Of course there is, Swan. I was right. You've come back."

She's so shocked she can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of his statement. She's forgetting herself again, tucked into the cozy bar with a man who would have made a better pirate than bartender. The rum is substantially better, leaving a pleasant warmth in her stomach without the acrid burn in her throat. She can feel herself relaxing, letting the quietness of the bar lull her into calm. After the week she's had, it feels good to be here, to sip her drink quietly while this strange man makes her laugh.

"Jones, you tell yourself whatever you like."

"I could tell you what I like. In detail. I bet you'd enjoy that." He's smirking again, his eyes following the flush that spreads across her cheeks. His gaze settles on her mouth, the blue orbs growing dark even as she watches. The bar is dark to begin with, candles lit along the back shelves and the lights dim. But she can read the desire in his expression, the lust in his eyes, clear as daylight.

Emma has been able to tell when people are lying to her for her entire life. It's served her well in her line of work, and she can feel it now, that this man isn't kidding when he's talking so boldly to her of sharing a bed. He wants her, and he wants her very much. Even if she isn't sure if she wants to go through with it tonight, it's nice to feel wanted. It's nice to have an attractive man want her, even if it's just for physical release.

"I don't think you have any idea what I'd enjoy," she tells him, taking a sip of her drink to hide the small smile she can't suppress. She's goading him, and she's doing it intentionally because it's fun. Truthfully, she thinks he's a quick study and could play a tune across her flesh that would have her body singing in no time, but he's confident enough in his abilities without encouragement.

His eyes darken further, and then he's leaning forward, his mouth so close to her ear she can feel the heat of his breath. It's all she can do to not shiver, to not give in to what her body wants. "I'm sure, Swan, that I know very much how to please you."

He pulls away suddenly, called down the bar by a patron requiring a refill. It bothers her, the smug way in which he walks away from her without a backward glance after saying something like that to her. He's an arrogant bastard, this Killian Jones, and she's more sober this time, but she still wants to haul one off on him. The trouble is, she's beginning to suspect a slap in the face would just be foreplay in his version of events, an invitation to press his advances.

But she's a cop now and can't get into bar fights like she did…once. No, she's got to control her temper, sip her rum, and bide her time. This night isn't going quite how she intended – he seems to gain the upper hand in their verbal sparring match no matter what sort of intentions she has – but the rum is good and the bar is bit of calm in the storm. She wonders if they'll get snow soon, in spite of the fact that it's barely November. But it's also Maine, and all in all, in wouldn't be that strange.

The image is there in her mind before she can stop it, snow falling outside and Killian a tangle of limbs with her before a fire, the light gleaming off naked flesh. She sucks in a breath to banish the thought, polishing off the rest of the rum in one fell swoop. She shouldn't be here, in this bar, with this man. He affects her too much. The promise of fantastic sex aside, this was a very dangerous game to be playing.

She's about to commit to leaving when he returns, the bottle of rum in one hand and his glass on the other. He pours her a generous measure, tops his glass off, and lightly hops onto the counter behind the bar, lounging as he studies her. The bar is slowly emptying, one guy left at the bar and one couple left in a booth. No one needs anything, so Killian is hers and hers alone.

"So, Swan, what brings you in this blustery eve?"

The way he talks should be ridiculous, the blend of formal speech and filthy innuendo, but she secretly finds it a little bit charming. He's a relic of another age, or another place, and though he isn't quite right for Maine, the Jolly Roger provides him a perfect home.

"Wasn't the company."

"If you say so, love." He's grinning again, the same stupid grin he wore the last time he knew he was right. She glares back, but uses the opportunity to study him a bit further. He's tanned, surprisingly so for the time of year it is and the small hours of sunlight left in the days. Her eyes are drawn back to his mouth, those lips of his so soft looking. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him, to feel that mouth on her skin and those hands on her hips.

"I'm a gentleman, you know. Not going to tell a lady's secrets." The words are quiet, not meant to carry to the other patrons, and gentle. He's left the innuendo out of his tone, and when she meets his eyes, they're serious.

She wants to talk to him in that moment, to tell him the gruesome details of the case she can't breathe to a soul. She wants to explain that she loves her job, loves it, but right now it's making her insomnia worse than ever. Her best friend is her partner, but working so closely with someone you know so well when things are hard is just worse than anything else, because Ruby can't help but look at her all concerned. It makes Emma feel guilty. And that doesn't even touch all the problems with the way Graham looks at her, like a stray cat that needs to be taken in.

But Emma's not about to unload her problems on a perfect stranger. So instead, she shrugs and takes another sip of her rum. "No secrets to tell."

"You make an awful liar, Swan." He's so assured as he says it, a simple statement of fact. He matches her drink with one of his own, leaning into the shelf at his back. His pose is lazy, his eyes alert in spite of the way his body slouches. "But I'm a patient man."

"Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night."

"Should you find the words to conjure that particular result, you be sure to let me know."

The statement surprises her, and she is staring back into his ocean-blue eyes suddenly, searching for the truth of his statement. She doesn't expect to have anything in common with this man, but the casual reference to insomnia isn't an accident. He isn't lying, and he isn't making a big deal of it; it's the same sort of offhanded comment she might make about her sleepless night.

"Been trying for years." The response is gruff, and she looks into the depths of her glass as she says it. It's as much as she can give him, this man who is nice to her for no particular reason she can discern – she certainty isn't nice to him – but this statement, this truth of a shared struggle, this is what she can offer him.

He doesn't say anything in response, and she finds his silence more comforting than any words he may come up with. It shouldn't be comfortable to sit across from him, her at the bar and him on the counter, sipping rum in silence, but it is. She's not getting drunk tonight like she did the other night; she's taking her time, savoring the spicy liquor and the salty man.

He's called away to cash out the tab for the couple in the booth, young lovers so wrapped up in each other they barely seem to glance at anything else. Emma winces as she watches them, memories assaulting her of a time she was young and carefree with her heart.

Fat lot of good that had done her.

Killian notices the wince, and his expression softens as he returns to her. It's down to her and the solitary older gentleman sipping a beer on the other end of the bar. She'll be leaving soon, returning through the cold evening to her empty apartment. If the thought hadn't been a bit lonely before, the sight of the couple has twisted the sensation.

"Aye, so that's the trouble." He nods toward the door where the couple has just disappeared, the rush of cool air making Emma shiver. "I've been there, lass."

"You don't know me, so don't pretend to know my problems. A few drinks does not make us friends."

He shakes his head, and he laughs, but it isn't the joyous laugh that has already become familiar to her. It's bitter and heart breaking to hear, the result of his own private hell. "I may not know your problems, love, but I know the look of misery like that. Saw it in the mirror for many a year. It's not a sight I'll soon forget."

She wants to ask, to know what pain has branded him so deeply he can go from the man she's begun to expect to this different version, with hard eyes and a stiff set to his jaw. Because he's right; she can see the same expression in his eyes she's seen in the mirror herself, loss and pain and rejection and hurt, a hurt so deep it feels rooted in the very marrow of her bones.

She wants to reach across the bar, to lace her fingers with his and whisper that it will be all right, eventually. That they'll find their way back to the people they used to be, before these other people, these people who clearly still held their hearts, saw fit to give them back.

But Emma doesn't want any of those things as badly as she wants to run away, so that is what she does. Killian is silent as she stands abruptly, throwing some cash on the bar and sweeping her scarf around her neck. She mumbles a good night, but it's under her breath and he barely even hears it as she rushes for the door.