One hand crept out of a crevice in the downy comforter, searching frantically. When fingers reached the cold surface of the metal ice bucket, they immediately crawled upward and sank inside, eliciting a groan from their owner.

Then they wrapped themselves around the glass bottle residing among the melting ice cubes, and upon a hefty shake that ensured how empty said bottle was, it was tossed onto the carpeted floor. A disheveled tuft of dark hair peeked out from the rumpled covers, and bit by bit, a head emerged, gasping for air.

Damn it.

Killian never forgot what it was like to be hungover, but still, he couldn't stop indulging himself. That didn't prevent the headaches, the nausea, the throbbing sinuses, and bloody damnation, a revulsion toward light and sound for the next twenty-four hours. What he needed was hot soup and Tylenol and lots of ice and his cat―

Bolting upright, his surroundings registered in his rum-soaked mind very slowly. The conclusion it reached made him bury his face in the ice bucket, heedless of the probability that the damned thing wasn't washed since its placement in this hotel room.

Cold water was a good wake-up call, he had to say. Liam had taught him that...

The thought took his breath away quicker than the frigid water did, and his held breaths came out together in a rush. It took him a while to disengage himself from the plethora of sheets twisting about his limbs, and when he did manage to put his feet on solid wooden floor, he glanced at the painting on the wall across...and saw double.

Damn, he'd had too much to drink last night. Couldn't bloody control his own primitive urges, could he? Always had to play with fire when he didn't know how to master the burn of his wounds and quell the hurt?

Sighing, he put on his boxers, which were lying on the floor, and walked toward the small desk set in the corner. There, his laptop waited, asleep, ready for him to type down "the greatest defamatory piece of shit" ― as Miss Swan would so nicely phrase it.

Bloody hell, what the bloody heck was he doing? Liam would be very ashamed of him, no doubt in his mind.

His older brother had been the one to yank the old Nintendo set out of his hands and tell him to get his eyes off the video gamer screen and move his lazy bottom into the library and read a book, for Christ's sake. He had been the one to support his ardent reading habits when his parents had been trying to tear them apart during their divorce, always arguing in plain sight and driving figurative knives into Killian's heart when he heard the hatred in their voices, saw the way they acted and held each other in contempt. It was Liam who had spoken with the headmaster of the private prep school they attended and persuade a very stubborn, restrictive man to let a depressed, anxious thirteen-year-old boy challenge his English teacher and enroll in a very advanced literature course, where he sat among gits who already had their driving licenses.

He took Killian sailing for the first time when he was fourteen and taught him how to maneuver a boat ― God, he'd never forget that afternoon they'd almost crashed into a nearby reef because the helm went spinning and the rudder went crazy. They always played make-believe whist on Sundays when Liam was off work, each of them pretending to have a partner to share trick secrets with and making the most obscene faces at blank air.

Glory and honor to the Jones boys! , his brother would shout out the door every morning, his particular, personal way of saying good-bye always striking at Killian's heart and making it swell to twice its normal size. Liam had been his best mate. They'd done everything together. And when he had made his final exit...

The last bit of good in his life was gone.

Who knew where his mother was, probably cruising along the Riviera and having galas and fashion shows every other week when she'd stop by in Paris. As for his dear father...the old fucking rotter was lucky not to get thrown into gaol after all those years of hidden income tax evasion. He was probably hiding out somewhere in South America, surrounded by his hidden savings and caring less that one of his offspring was dead and the other was all alone.

As a writer, Killian didn't get to track fugitives of the law. He might have been a reporter, but it only got him so far. Press passes and solid databases of information weren't that helpful when a man was trying to find out just what had happened to his parent. After three years of solid searching and bold inquiries, he'd given up. Dear ol' Dad ceased to matter after he had pushed that pain into the void that was his memory.

In Liam's last letter, he'd said that "a man who doesn't fight for what he wants deserves what he gets." Killian still wasn't sure where he'd pulled that motto, but it had resonated within him from then on, a constant reminder that Liam was encouraging him to really live his life and make what he wanted a reality.

From behind reading glasses, a steady set of hands, and dexterous fingers, he'd done what he could. Most people would call his existence exemplary and satisfying.

What a downright arse he was that he'd lowered himself to this.

Yes, he had been desperate when he'd written that damn article about Swan, worrying that one day his work would be considered less than worthy and he'd lost his job. That he'd be stripped of the one thing left that was important to him, labeled a coward and unimaginative old fool who was behind the times and too immersed in writing of old, when authors seemed to value good language and heavy topics over popularity.

Back then, words had some of the writer's soul sprinkled on them, and characters were alive because not only they were a part of history ― they carried the mark of their creator and they were individuals whose morals and ethics came from the times.

But most of all, literature was a new trend, something many were skeptical about and few could afford. Knowledge was bared to the ignorant and financially unfortunate, but as the newspaper's influence became massive, more and more people were able to experience the joys of reading, the pleasures of finding stories hidden among saddening and cruel headlines. Libraries grew, and what was once obscured was pushed into the spotlight.

Storytelling started through word of mouth. But the printed word had changed it all, and for that, the newspaper was partially responsible. He respected that greatly.

Though Liam had pressed him to major in literature instead of journalism, Killian had been too afraid. When you reported facts and data, it was all too easy to keep your true face hidden from the crowd. Literature, on the other hand...well, he probably would have had to be some bloody professor at university, teaching hormone-distracted twits with high egos about the wonder of Shakespeare's expansion of English vocabulary or the lesser known excellence of Tolstoy's lengthy, plaintive novels. He just didn't know how to be a teacher, he'd told his brother. As as for writing fiction of his own...too bloody complicated.

No, it was much safer to be a journalist. Writing non-fiction in other genres and even daring to scribble down a story was too dangerous, too close to the heart. He'd never get away with closing off himself and keeping his dearest hopes and desires, as well as his deepest regrets and darkest fears, from entering his books. There would simply be too much of himself in them.

As he stayed seated before his computer, searching for his eyeglasses and then mechanically putting them on, he mulled over the reasons why he couldn't let go of this ridiculous vendetta he and Swan had. Ah yes, there it was. He was right, she was wrong. The end of it. But no, he had to prove himself ― and by God, he was going to make her admit how right he had been about her. He had to win this, for his career's sake.

But bloody hell, this was absurd. He was a grown man, writing about a lass who couldn't make up her mind whom to marry. Or whatever the truth really was underneath that tale. He wasn't some paparazzi freak who needed a blown cover story to get ahead in the game. And Emma Swan was certainly no celebrity. Damn it, he had only wanted to do his job and complete his column for the week ― and look at how well he had handled that, foolish idiot that he was. Lost his gig entirely, saw his good name utterly debauched in the world of writing, and...

His migraine throbbed even more, and he had to suppress another bout of nausea that threatened to send him to the toilet for a vomiting marathon. Blame it on the rum. Blame it all on the goddamn rum.

How Liam would laugh if he could see him now. Fine. He could take laughter. What he wouldn't be able to swallow down was if his brother would just give an unhappy look and frown, his eyes speaking louder than his mouth about failure and disappointment and―

His parents had never really argued over his choices, but of course, if it would benefit them... God only knows what they'd say about him now. For one thing, his mom was still cross that he'd refused to be a concert pianist whom she could drag halfway over the country, on display like one of her human dolls, bringing her more fame and prestige. As if she didn't have bloody enough already. For him, the piano was Liam's idea. It began as a quiet pastime, him tinkering with the keys ― though when things had gotten more serious, Killian had been forced to meet with his music teacher, practically unwilling to budge from the house. Under the bribe of ice cream in waffle cones afterwards, Liam had managed to get him to yield. And what a wise decision that had been, for the instrument quickly became another of his passions, almost equal to writing itself. He had played sonatas and concertos and minuets and all varieties of musical compositions ― but only for himself and his brother. It was simple, really: he loved the sound of the piano, and he loved his brother. Both made him monstrously happy.

However, it would just be too bloody excruciating to perform in public, like a monkey on puppet strings. No, this art had been reserved for himself, for the joy of it. And for Liam, who was, like most of the time, responsible for inspiring the best in him.

Perhaps that was why this falling out with the Times had occurred. Perhaps that was why he was currently skulking through a shoddy town like this, trailing after the bread crumbs of some insignificant person's romantic history. This was how much he had shamed himself.

Why didn't he agree to go off with Liam on his adventures around the world and take a chance on everything? Why did he have to be so bloody insecure?

He sighed, resting his face back in his hands when he was assured his eyesight was slowly getting better and his headache was slightly mollified. Ultimately, the way every aspect of his life had turned out was all his own damn fault. He had no one to blame but himself for his mistakes and vices.

Oh, and he did indeed have no one now. That was true too.

Meeting Milah had changed his life. She was once the brightest star in his universe, and he had adored her. Such a shame...that what they had had together blinked out and died like all his other relationships had. Damn stupid, stubborn woman. Their story was a goddamn disaster in the making.

Well... He loved, and he lost. "Take that for a motto, brother," he muttered to the empty room. A fresh wave of self-loathing made his stomach churn and then twist into knots.

Forget about writing today. Forget about getting his rear into gear and finding out more dirt on Emma Swan.

He was staying put in the damn fluffy bed that was paid for out of his meager severance pay.

Ten minutes later, he recalled that this hotel didn't have room service and he was most certainly out of sustenance, the tap water from the bathroom sink the only exception. Additionally, his inner demon chided, he was out of rum.

Goddamn it. He needed to get to the bloody store ― and fast.

It was just milk and eggs and bacon. George always asked for the same combination ― and Emma always reminded him, again and again, that high cholesterol was going to get him killed. That, and the insane amount of whiskey he consumed behind her back. His house, his rules, he argued.

Cora knew it was an on-going problem ― that it had been one, ever since Laura had passed on, her heart not strong enough to make it any more years. George had been a decidedly warmer person when she was still alive...even after their miscreant of an only son, James, had gotten himself killed in a bar fight at the age of twenty. Thank God he had already been gone for several years from the house before she had been adopted by the mournful couple, her memories of past foster parents and foster siblings none too pleasant.

Fucking understatement of her lifetime, really.

But she could handle troublesome families, alright. Oh yes, she was best friends with trouble. All her days up till now, it had followed her, like her shadow. And she still didn't know how to be rid of it.

When she was eight, she was taken to the zoo for her birthday by one of her better foster parents. That worn-out picture of her, nose pressed up against the glass display window between her and the chameleon hanging on a bare branch in his cage (her ice cream cone dripping onto her shoes and she had cared less), her giggling when his skin changed color ― like magic ― to blend in with his environment... She'd held on to that all her life.

Well, the photo itself was still stored in the one leather-bound album she owned, safely wedged among a crowd of books in her room. This particular memory, on the other hand, had played a greater, deeper part in the whole aspect of being wanted and wanting .

Some would say she should thank her lucky stars for being accepted at all into anyone's home. Contrary to what charities advocated and celebrities spouted to news channels and the rest of the media, orphans were viewed today much in the same way as they had been in Charles Dickens' time. Dickens... She really loved his books. Which was surprising ― at least, that what "Grammy" Cora always said. Who would expect a street rat to love classics like those, right? But "Oliver Twist" and "Bleak House"? Those two were on her bedroom bookshelf, because she couldn't resist the familiarity of two lead characters who only wanted one thing: to belong somewhere, with someone.

"Pardon me, lass. My vision's a bit blurry, so I didn't see you there till now."

The brunt of his blow to her shoulder registered in her mind after his voice did. Dear Lord... She groaned, bracing herself. Could her morning not get any worse?

"You." He sounded so damn shocked. Hoarse, dry...and shocked. "What are you doing here?"

The nerve of the bastard. She crossed her arms over her chest ― well, as much as she could, being barricaded behind the shopping cart. "If that tiny brain of yours remembers, Jones, I happen to live in this town."

Emma expected that remark to trigger some badly constructed quip from Jones, but he didn't take the bait at all. Instead, he was swaying on his feet, nearly teetering to and fro, for once not wearing a two-piece and looking atypically slack. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Oh," he finally replied, accent deepening, a loud hiccup escaping his lips two seconds later. "No, I meant...what are you doing here , at this godforsaken hour?"

Squinting, she stared really hard at his face, making a note of his bloodshot eyes, mussed hair, and overall, glazed look. Then some cool breeze from a nearby open refrigerator door pushed a waft of his alcohol-infused breath toward her nose. " I am getting breakfast," she said flatly. "And you've been drinking. A lot."

He waved away her observation in an instant. "Well, I'm a responsible adult, so no worries." Coherent words and quick reactions meant he wasn't that inebriated, but he wasn't entirely sober, either. Otherwise, he'd have chewed her head off by now with some scathing remark about her choice of clothes ― skimpy pajama pants, loose tank top, and worn out flats. Not to mention that her hair was easily a lion's mane and she wasn't wearing any make-up.

She smiled sweetly at him. "I was worried about the floor ― see, I know Grumpy, and he owns this store. I'm one of his regular customers, so I don't want your vomit to be all over my shoes when you throw up and then have to pay for damages."

His expression suddenly morphed in the oddest way. And then, stepping past her own grogginess, she realized what the change really was. She saw it in her reflection late, late at night, when the door to her bedroom was locked and no one could peek in on what the town's resident "bad girl" was up to. She knew it so well.

Killian Jones, her worst enemy, was currently, undeniably vulnerable. Every few seconds, his facial features were twitching desperately in an attempt not to crumple, and he didn't even want to glance at her for fear she would see the truth of his behavior in that blue gaze of his. Ha, he was such an open book for being a reporter.

Now was the ideal time to strike. If she was correct ― in vino veritas ― she could take advantage of his drunken state and wrangle some scandalous secrets from him, something she could use against him later in order to drive him away. She could get even. She could take a picture of him with her phone and then post it online so his infamy would go viral. So he would finally feel what she felt when she saw her photo in the paper, spread wide next to her failures for all the world to see. It seemed that rational thought couldn't get through to him, that he needed to experience that kind of humiliation himself in order to fully understand why she wanted to tear him into pieces.

But then, he turned and looked at her. Really, really looked at her. What made her throat tighten was the lack of venom there, in those wide, agonized eyes... The anguish ― that she recognized immediately. And she couldn't understand why a twinge of sympathy visited her when his raw scrutiny dissolved into a sad stare, one that saw right through her.

For the first time since they had crossed paths, she felt speechless, like she was intruding on something private. She wanted to tell him nasty things, to sting him with verbal barbs, to wreck his pride with level-headed sarcasm. How could she, though?

It was a classic situation: David had been seeing Mary Margaret behind his then-wife Kathryn's back, and when the truth about their relationship came out, her best friend was called "a hoe" and "a slut" in public. Emma had tried hard not to cry along with Mary Margaret when they came back from the salon to find her white car covered in black paint, the phrase "you're a whore" applied in bold print. When Emma came across David the next day, she wanted to slug the hell out of him for putting the sweetest woman in the world through so much heartbreak and disgrace. The man had literally broken down right in front of her after her accusations, begging for forgiveness and a chance for redemption and offering to publish a confession of guilt in the local newspaper so that the townsfolk would stop gossiping about Mary Margaret as if it were her fault he didn't have the strength to make a choice between his high school sweetheart and her. Poor Sheriff David , she had taunted him at the time, feeling angry for her friend.

Even for a couple whose love appeared to be more true than that in fairy tales, they had had a long, difficult journey to travel before they reached their reconciliation and resulting happiness. However, it was look on David's face that Emma remembered, tormented and stricken and haunted and guilty . Although the world had always punched back whenever she had suffered, she believed to some degree in second chances and compassion and mercy.

In her honest opinion, Jones here didn't deserve any of the three, but...it was five in the morning, she was tired, and he was totally wasted. A victory won over him now would be depressingly inadequate, sorry to say.

Reaching around him as he stood there hunching his shoulders and running one hand through his hair absently as he gazed off into space, she plucked a bottle of Gatorade off the shelf and nearly slammed it into his chest, then ensnaring the two glass bottles she'd spotted in his shopping basket and hiding them behind the macaroni and cheese boxes. "Drink plenty of fluids and get some rest, paper boy ― the last place you ought to be is in the supermarket, buying beer . Why, you could suddenly decide to strip and go swimming in the freezer aisle," she snapped, rolling her eyes when he tried to smirk at her ― and failed.

"Afraid I'll be too much for you au naturel, darling? Or were you planning on joining me for a nightcap, perhaps?" he leered, eyebrows raised high.

"No..." she finished the vowel with a loud pop as distractingly as she could. "Just don't want to subject our emergency services to your lovely self when you get alcohol poisoning." Hey, at least he'd temporarily forgotten about the extra liquor he was about to purchase ― another service done for humanity and the safety of the citizens. Hah, David would applaud her for that.

"Hmm, that David? The sheriff who asked me to bring red wine to his weekly Thursday night poker game?"

For a moment, she was tempted to clap her hands over her mouth. Did she stupidly say all that aloud ? "You know what?" she exclaimed, grimacing. "Must have been a different David. Have fun dealing with hangover, Jones."

Not bothering to say good-bye ― they were not friends or anything ― she swiveled her cart around and headed for the cashier, only casting a glance in his direction when she was sure he couldn't ambush her from behind.

In his faded jeans and simple white t-shirt, unkempt and scruffy, he didn't look at all like a high-and-mighty journalist or the womanizing asshole who had no remorse in writing what he wanted, when he wanted ― and who couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.

That diminishing figure in the background of her peripheral vision was the silhouette of a regular man with regular problems. A little bit drunk, more than a little bit lost, and a whole bunch of pathetic.

No , the little girl inside her whispered, you forgot something else .

A lot of broken and more than a lot of lonely.

Just like her.

"Wait, what?" she muttered to herself, quickly loading her items onto the counter. "Did I just let myself feel sorry for Killian Jones ? Not a chance in hell. Besides, we have absolutely nothing in common. He's a prick."

The cashier ― Nova, was it? ― gave her a strange smile and made no comment on her outburst. "Will this be all?"

Graham's loving face flickered into her thoughts. Graham ― she had Graham, and he loved her. And she loved him. Right? "Uh, no, actually." She grabbed five sticks of peppermint gum and dropped them next to the bag of peaches. "Can't forget my boyfriend's gum, now can I?"

The girl scanned them, scowling when it took more than one try per stick to get the machine to pick up the code. "Oh? I heard you were engaged."

Emma wanted to slap herself again. See, just one encounter with Jones, and her senses got depleted.

There wasn't any room for sportsmanship here. She needed to know what he knew about her, and when she did, she was going to beat him at his own game.

It was time to put those special skills Neal taught her to good use.

On a good day, Killian considered himself a reasonable man ― a man of honor, as Liam had wanted him to be.

Today was not one of those days. Not when a golden-haired harpy was racing through his room with his research and his notes and his goddamn work in her arms, scurrying into the bathroom to evade his wrath after he'd caught her red-handed.

"Come out and we'll talk about this, Swan." Again, he jiggled the doorknob, noticing that the lock could easily be tinkered with.

"Not a chance," came her snarl. By the excessive squeaking noises, it seemed she was trying to slide the window panel up. Trying, but not succeeding. Yet .

Distraction was the best tactic at this point, he reminded himself, preparing his most persuasive tone while he managed to swipe a credit card from his wallet. "You're afraid to trust me ― to reveal yourself ― but things will go much smoother if you do." Her repeated grunts and refusal to listen to his proposal weren't exactly music to his ears, and the damn lock wasn't opening either. So he started pushing against the door. "After all, breaking and entering is a crime, last time I checked."

"So is libel, asshole."

His determination to get through to her, calmly and rationally, evaporated. Instead of quelling his temper, as Liam had taught him to since he was a young lad, he fed his growing rage, recalling exactly why he was here, now, and in this place. She was the cause. She had gotten him fired.

Calculating where he should stand to gather the right momentum, Killian stepped back. "Fancy that ― you, tampering like a common thief!" he spat out, barreling against the door with a roar. "Swan!"

She was already halfway out the open window, just barely squeezing through the narrow space.

Killian growled, his frustrating mounting. "That's it ― I'm calling the sheriff, Swan!"

"Go ahead! Oh, and can you do me a favor?" Emma flashed him a wicked grin. "Remind David that he's supposed to take care of bar service for my party? It would save me so many hours of endless arguments."

He could only scream her surname, as loudly and angrily as his throat could endure until his voice gave out, growing embarrassed when every other bloody occupant in the damn building also stuck their heads out the windows to see who was the daft moron making their ears bleed off. Climbing down the side of wall like a monkey, wiry arms and strong hands lowering herself down brick by brick, the "Runaway Bride" of the century made her getaway ― but not from her upcoming marriage. Finally, she disappeared from sight, and he was left alone, with his shame and fury churning into an unmanageable, chaotic mess.

Running his hands through his hair, Killian desperately tried to pull himself together, ignoring the laughter outside. Then he hit his head on the windowpane meanwhile. Bloody fucking woman.

She had just bloody rifled through his room. With his entire portfolio in tow. And how the hell did she get in, in the first place?

More importantly, what was he going to tell Gold when he called in to check on his progress, with his research now whisked into the hands of the enemy?

His fervent resolve to unwind shattered in an instant. Grinding his teeth, hands clenched into fists, vision tinted with red and black, he stormed out, slamming the door as he exited. Why bother with the damn lock? If the slag wanted, she'd get in again anyhow, using her charms like a siren on her willing admirers.

Oh, when he got his hands around the neck of that damn simpering hotel clerk, Anton...