Mary Margaret considered herself to be a mild-tempered sort of person. She never got angry with the cashier who miscounted her bill, never yelled at the neighbor's dog that repeatedly destroyed her tulip patch in the front yard, and never spanked her mischievous toddler of a son, Neal.

Overall, she believed herself to be patient, and she worked hard to keep her temper in check.

But the article about Emma in the Times detonated Mary's tenuous hold on her self-control and she snapped. Blew a gasket, erupted ― the works.

David had to listen to her tirades every night, as she went off about every citizen in town who had ever did her wrong. She scolded her baby and put him in time-out for the first time in his short life, called out the neighbor on the hideous landscaping that was his two yards and his damn vandal of a dog ― and she got into a spat with Mayor Regina about street maintenance, of all things. She even told off Leroy, the local drunk, and called him a "grumpy dwarf."

For being the town's sweetheart, Mary Margaret was quickly becoming what Emma liked to term a "bad-ass warrior."

And it was all thanks to one Killian Jones, temporary resident of Storybrooke.

"The nerve of that bastard ," Mary Margaret exclaimed as she poured over the notes Emma had stolen from the man. "Saying that even your friendships are questionable, that you're leading on every man you meet to think you're the one. What a son of a bitch."

Emma sighed. "That...kind of was my first impression too."

The gleam in her friend's eyes intensified. "There's got to be something in the town charter ― some rule, some loop-hole that we can use to force the asshole to leave. I'll talk to Regina and see what I find ― true, she's still pissed at me for saying that romancing a married man is wrong, but―"

"I don't want that."

Mary Margaret shook her head like a startled dog. "I must not have heard you correctly. You don't want to get rid of the man ― pardon me, degenerate ― who ruined your name and smeared your personal life across a globally read newspaper?"

She licked over her lips, resting her head on her arms. The table was cool enough to make the wood a soothing contrast to her heated skin. "Okay, I'll admit that at first...I wanted revenge. I wanted to make him suffer, for picking me out of the fricking crowd and criticizing me. But..." Emma gestured at the handwriting etched on dozens of pieces of paper. Jones had gone all out, researching her very existence, let alone her almost-marriages. "He's just going to write about me ― again. It's why he came here."

"You're...sure about that?"

She sighed into her elbow. A moody classical sonata vibrated from the CD she had accidentally swiped from his room along with all his files. It was sort of nice, really. Jones listened to nice music? "Maybe...instead of trying to thwart him...I should beat him at his own game."

Her friend was considering the idea. Her lips curved into a smile. "'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.'" She raised an imaginary wine goblet to Emma. "I like this plan."

Killian didn't get easily spooked. He was rarely frightened of anything, really.

But the sight of Emma Swan, sitting at the desk in his hotel room, lounging in front of his open laptop, nearly gave him a bloody heart attack when he opened the door.

"How the bloody hell did you get in here?" he exclaimed. He threw his keys down on the coffee table. "That git, Anton, is asking for more trouble than he can chew."

"Well, to be fair," she waved a bobby pin at him, "this time, I let myself in. No desk clerk involved."

Killian rolled his eyes. "Good, because I was starting to think you had a cult following in this town. Emma Swan: Maine's Aphrodite."

"Aphrodite?"

Oh, so she hadn't heard this story. "Aphrodite ― goddess of lust and love?" He shrugged at her puzzled frown. "In Ancient Greece, she was believed to attract men like flies to honey. Unable to resist her charms, they were besotted. She had a magic girdle and all the...necessary equipment."

"Besotted? Girdle?" Her lips stretched into a teasing smile. "I don't have any of those things, Professor."

"But you do know how to cast aside the men in your life, after you've used them, without a second thought."

Her eyes grew flat and cold. All at once, the light tone of the conversation had shifted, so he prepared himself for the upcoming onslaught of vituperative language.

She gave a great sigh and gestured at the room. "That's why I'm here. You're getting my story all wrong ― again. I want to help you write the truth."

Sure she did. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Had fun reading my notes last night?"

"Yes, they were very insightful," she scoffed. "Nothing better than seeing exactly what your enemy thinks of you."

She might think this a game, but he was done playing it. "You mean, seeing your actions in an objective light?" He smirked, just for good measure.

Her face turned red. "Look ― I came here to tell you that ― whatever this is, this hate-fest between us ― it's over. I'm done with it."

"Just as I'm done with you," he replied coolly, keeping his temper in check. "Now if you'd be so kind to return what you took, darling ― stolen property, as it were ― I'll be finishing up my research in about a week, and then be out of your hair. All in time for your big day."

She cocked her head, peering at him sideways. "You're not staying? I thought Graham invited you to the wedding."

"He did. But I don't need to stay and witness the fourth train wreck in order to write about the previous three. No doubt your lovely little town will advertise it nonetheless, shouting the news from rooftop to rooftop. Your local anchorman ― Victor, is it? ― promised to email me the new video right after it debuts."

It was rather delightful, watching how she had to grit her teeth hard to stop herself from snapping at him. "You've made yourself quite at home in Storybrooke, haven't you? Knowing all the right people. Always thinking about what to do next so you can destroy my reputation more."

Is that what she thought? He shook his head. Hearing his column's moniker, remembering Liam and his goodness the past few days...it had taken away his hate and left him dry sober, reeling from guilt. Being a selfish, ruthless bastard was not something he wanted to be known for. He could accept his fate, if need be ― but he would not accept a fate he could change for the better.

"Aye, I call things as I see them," he said quietly. "But believe me, it was never my intention to ruin your life, Swan. I jumped into hot water on a whim. My mistakes are why I have to make up for them now."

Her expression, tight and fierce, softened. "So you'll agree? To my help?"

He chewed on his bottom lip. "And just what does this offer of help entail, hmm? What is the price?"

She gave him a calculating look. "Who says there's a price?"

"There's always a price. Especially from first-hand sources."

It seemed like Swan was trying hard to smother a grin. "Well...from what I figured, you must be getting some kind of allowance...severance pay, perhaps?" He arched an eyebrow. "And with a first-person interview, there is a ninety-nine percent chance you will actually sell that story. Everything adds up."

"Doesn't it, now?" he snapped. "And what would your cut be, may I ask?"

She swiveled in the chair once before jumping onto her feet and standing up. "One thousand dollars. I want a beautiful dress, the whole shebang ― and for that, I will answer all of your questions and let you follow me around town."

"Don't I do that already?" He leaned in until they were almost nose to nose. "Frankly, love, I don't need your permission or your cooperation."

She smirked. "True. There is that alternative. And I could file a restraining order against you ― and have David throw your ass in jail for harassment. But I don't have to."

Bloody woman. He groaned. "Of course. Blackmail. The most effective method of compromise."

"Hey, who said anything about blackmail?" she said sweetly. "I'm talking about favors. You do me a favor, I do you a favor. No one gets hurt. The perfect solution."

Running a hand through his hair, he strode over to the mini-fridge and pulled out a Coke. "Six hundred is the most I can afford."

"Seven-fifty, then."

The little she-wolf dared to haggle with him? He pursed his lips. "No, too much."

That didn't keep her from her pursuit. "Six-fifty?"

He chuckled under his breath, wondering what Liam would think, seeing him argue with Emma Swan over the price of a bloody interview. He would come to regret this ― but to hell with it. "Done, lass. But from now on, I call the shots. First, I get my documents back. Second, I'll give you half now, the rest when I finish writing the article."

She shrugged, pointing at the carefully stacked folders on the desk ― right next to his computer. Aha.

He stuck out his hand. Hesitating, she shook it, as firmly as she could muster.

"Now..." Killian cleared his throat and let out a sigh. "Let me find my checkbook."