Some people found it hard to think of eating in the middle of a murder investigation. Maybe it was the gore. Maybe it was the growing list of actionable items. Maybe it was the image of the grieving husband running on a loop in their head, falling to his knees on his own front porch before they'd even finished saying the words: "I'm sorry."

Whatever their reasons, Emma wasn't one of them.

And it wasn't that the case wasn't getting to her. It was getting to her just fine. Emma defied anyone to make that particular house call, and come out of the experience clean. Even with Graham at her back, offering her his silent support, breaking the news to David Nolan had left its scars on all of them.

And yet, even as she replayed the scene over and over in her mind, she could no longer ignore the constant rumbling of her stomach, as it threatened to start eating itself. The granola bar she'd grabbed on her way out the door this morning hadn't really done the trick.

So when a call from Granny came in, she practically leapt on it.

There were exactly two places in town that served food until late. One was the Rabbit Hole, a sticky, neon-lit basement bar just off Main Street, which mainly catered to daytime drunks and Storybrooke's dwindling singles scene. The other was Granny's.

Conversation came to a sudden and suspicious halt as Emma swept inside the diner, a cold wind at her back. Nothing like an appearance from Johnny Law to really put a dampener on your Saturday night gossip plans.

No need to guess what the rumor mill was churning out tonight. There wouldn't be a press conference until the morning, but word had gotten around. She recognized a few faces from the search party. They'd all heard the same thing over the radio that she had.

Body.

One of their own. Mutilated. Murdered. Dumped in the wilderness.

Brushing the snowflakes from her hair and unbuttoning her parka, Emma met their gazes head on. And as if they'd rehearsed it, the gawking faces all turned as one back to their companions, the eerie silence at last punctuated by urgent whispering.

All but one gawking face, that is. Its owner held court from his usual seat by the counter, all the better to pontificate from on high. His mouth was still contorted in an arc of frozen rage, Emma's surprise appearance having cut him off mid-sentence, rousing the rabble.

There was always one.

He recovered quickly, shaking away the deer-in-headlights expression long enough to let his hands curl into fists by his sides.

Here we go.

His approach was slower than she expected, his boots beating against the the linoleum in short, angry strides. He wanted maximum exposure, Emma realized, when he came for his pound of flesh.

"Hey, Leroy," she said, cutting him off at the pass, her tone deceptively sweet. "Nice work out there with the search party today. I heard your group covered a lot of rough terrain."

The compliment threw him, as she knew it would, but only for a second. A mind like Leroy Bergmann's wasn't accustomed to changing gears at short notice. And it didn't. "Don't you 'Nice work out there' me, sister!" he raged, an accusatory finger jabbing at Emma's chest. "We've got someone out there carving out people's hearts! And I wanna know what you're gonna do about it!"

So much for keeping that little detail quiet.

Judging by the shocked hush that permeated the room, there wasn't a man, woman or child in the place who hadn't heard him. It would be all over town in a matter of minutes, if it wasn't already. Picturing herself punching Leroy in his fat mouth, Emma settled instead for pinching the bridge of her nose in despair.

The number of eyes on her had trebled, and she felt the weight of every stare. Of every vote she'd be losing in the next election.

She cleared her throat, but it wasn't her own shaky words that came out.

"And just what the hell do you think you're doing?" came the voice, shrill and indignant. Emma could only stare in wonder as the aged proprietress came from out of nowhere to batter Leroy with her dishtowel. "Don't you think the Sheriff has enough to worry about without people like you stirring everyone into a frenzy?"

It was none other than the venerable Granny Lucas herself, saving Emma's ass. Again.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," Granny continued, focusing her attention now on the diners at large. "How do you expect the woman to do her job properly, with you all baying for blood like a bunch of medieval peasants?"

Momentarily chastened, Leroy opened his mouth to retort, and found himself at the receiving end of another deadly flick of her dishtowel.

"No, I think we've all heard enough from you, Leroy. I think it's about time you took that apple pie to go, don't you?"

The staring match was legendary, but even a stubborn ass like Leroy was no match for Granny. By the end he was blinking back tears, stopping only to fix Emma with a withering look as he beat a path for the front door, his slice of apple pie forgotten.

"I swear that man grows more obnoxious every time he comes in," Granny confided in a whisper, once Leroy's retreating figure had disappeared down the front steps, into the street.

"Could be," Emma shrugged, surprised to find a burble of conversation returning to the room, like nothing had ever happened.. "So, you rang?"

"Corner booth," Granny said, her voice still low. "It's been three hours. He refuses to leave."

"And you couldn't make him?" Granny might've been pushing seventy, but if the Leroy incident had proved anything, it was that most fully grown men still cowered under the weight of her glare. And if that didn't do the trick, the crossbow she kept under the counter usually did.

Not that Emma knew anything about that, officially.

"Please, Emma?"

Like she could refuse, with Granny looking at her like that, all frail and grandmotherly. The fraud.

"I'll do you up a grilled cheese?"

"Fine," Emma huffed, cracking her knuckles in front of her. "I'll work my Sheriff magic. Guy in the corner, you said?"

Granny only nodded grimly, before disappearing back behind the counter.


The man in the corner booth was a looker, that was for sure. Loiterer or not, Emma could appreciate the sight of a dark haired stranger who knew how to fill out a leather jacket.

It was only when she felt those piercing blue eyes on hers that she picked him for who he really was. What he really was. Dangerous. A preternatural predator that made the Leroy's of this world seem like fluffy bunnies by comparison.

Not a man at all. Not anymore.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she swung into the booth opposite him, her hands folded on the table in front of her. "So, Granny tells me you're refusing to leave."

"Can you blame me, lass?" he asked, one eyebrow raising with definite mischief. "And here I thought this would be the dullest stop on my itinerary. Hearts carved out of chests, you say?" He looked almost delighted with the prospect. And when a vampire was delighted, they always seemed to get that feral, hungry look about them.

Deeply furious at his flippancy, she kicked him under the table. Not enough to injure him, as if she could. Just a little jolt, to wipe that glazed expression off his face. "If you think that kind of attitude will play with me, after the day I've had, you're even worse at your job than I thought, Jones."

That surprised him. And she had to admit, she kind of liked that feeling.

"Ah, so you've heard of me?" He didn't do bashful well, eyes ablaze with interest at this development.

She shrugged, letting her gaze wander down to take in the rest of his ensemble. "Your predecessor gave me a heads up, before she 'retired'. And I gotta say, you are exactly as described."

"And how is that, I wonder? Handsome, I gather?" he asked eagerly, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. "Some might say striking."

And modest, too.

"I believe her exacts words were: 'A preening idiot with guyliner and a chronic inability to button his shirts up past his navel.'" She gave him a pointed look. "Sure seems like she has you pegged."

Of all the things Emma expected him to do, bursting into laughter was not one of them. She almost swore she saw bloody tears collect in the corners of his eyes as he fought to control his mirth.

A vampire with a sense of humor. The world really was full of infinite possibilities.

Eventually his expression sobered back into something approaching nearly business-like, and he cleared his throat meaningfully. "We seem to have started off on the wrong foot somehow, so how about a proper introduction?" He proffered a hand. "Killian Jones, Sheriff of Area 7, at your service."

Emma scoffed. "Yeah, I'm not calling you that. See, around here? Sheriffs are elected. They aren't randomly appointed by a cabal of mysterious vampire bureaucrats."

Mysterious vampire bureaucrats who were little better than gangsters, really, with their complex system of tribute and tithes, and old world punishments. Not to mention zero government oversight.

Killian's eyes narrowed, his hand still outstretched. Waiting.

"Fine," she breathed at last, reaching out to take his hand. "Sheriff Emma Swan. Storybrooke's Finest."

His grip was strong, but not crushing. She almost expected him to abuse that preternatural strength of his, after the way she'd dismissed his title. But c'mon! She'd campaigned hard for her badge. Three months of garden parties, stump speeches and hobnobbing with the Chamber of Commerce. And even after all that, she still had people questioning her abilities at every turn. So if this Killian Jones wanted her to respect his authority, he was going to have to bring something to the table beyond those baby blues.

"You're a tough lass, aren't you?" He sounded almost admiring, as they withdrew their hands back to their respective sides of the table.

"You caught me on a bad day," Emma huffed, the whiff of french fries from a nearby table invading her nostrils, and causing her stomach to churn unhappily. "And Granny said you've been sitting here for the better part of three hours, and haven't ordered anything. Are you trying to earn yourself a stake to the heart?"

A twitch of a smile. "So much for small town hospitality. You seem awfully eager to get rid of me, Ms Swan."

"Sheriff Swan," Emma corrected. "And I am. It's Saturday night and you're taking up Granny's best table. At best, you're being a dick. At worst, you're looking to cause trouble."

"Perhaps I was just trying to get your attention?"

He was definitely trying to get her attention. If all he'd wanted was a booth of his very own for a few hours, all he had to do was turn those baby blues on Granny and Suggest as much, in that freaky vampire whammy way they had.

Sure, Suggestion was not considered good manners in polite society, but in Emma's experience, that didn't count for much.

"I have a cellphone," Emma replied, deadpan.

"You didn't answer my summons, the day I was appointed. Perhaps I was concerned?"

Oh yeah, his "summons". Emma remembered that. Hand delivered and printed on the kind of card stock usually reserved for weddings and christenings. God, vampires were such snobs.

Hers was probably still screwed up in a ball at the bottom of the wastepaper basket in her office, where she'd left it. "Yeah, well, I don't remember anyone at my swearing in ceremony telling me I had to answer to vampire bureaucrats."

"Of course, you are not obliged to liase with us," Killian agreed diplomatically. "But it is a courtesy. Studies have shown that in areas where vampire authorities enjoy cordial relations with human law enforcement, human on vampire crime is significantly reduced."

"And vice versa," Emma couldn't help adding.

"Indeed," he agreed, another hint of amusement. "And yet you ignored my invitation?"

Sure, make Emma the bad guy.

"Well, we've been kind of busy. You remember? The whole 'dead woman with her heart carved out' thing?"

"Ah yes. Of course." The glazed look was back. Fucking vampires.

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

That earned her a sharp look. "That's a very loaded question, Sheriff. And I would hope you wouldn't be foolish enough to let your judgement be clouded by prejudice so early in your investigation."

A true politician's answer. And only one week into the job. He was a natural.

"That's not what I meant," Emma corrected herself. "I only meant, it's weird. For Storybrooke. Carving out someone's heart?" She shuddered. "I wondered if you'd ever seen anything like that?"

"Hearts removed?" He seemed to give that some thought. "Entrails, aye. Eyes, certainly. Genitalia, most definitely. Hearts, though? That's something I haven't seen all that often."

It was a little disturbing how cool he could be on that subject.

"...Right. Well, thanks anyway," Emma said, rising to her feet.

"Is our meeting over?" he asked, surprised to see her already working at the buttons of her parka.

"Is that what this is?"

"Of a sort," he admitted.

"Well, Granny has a grilled cheese with my name on it. Then after that I thought I might solve a murder. Besides, I don't want to keep you from your secret vampire machinations."

He was definitely amused now. "Of course. The secret vampire machinations."

And because he'd been such a good sport about the whole thing, she threw him a bone. "I'll call your secretary back. Make an appointment for us to go over the human/vampire strategy. When things are a little less… hectic."

"You think Tink is my secretary?" he asked, with a wry chuckle. "She's my second."

"Because that's a totally normal thing that people need in this day and age," Emma responded dryly. "Well, anyway, Tink was it? You can tell her from me that her phone manner needs work."

He grinned, and Emma swore she saw a flash of fang. "It would be my pleasure. I've only been telling her that since 1904."

Nineteen Oh … Fuck. Sometimes Emma forgot what immortality really looked like up close. Right up until she remembered she was talking to a centenarian. At least.

Fortunately, before she could do something stupid, like ask how old he actually was, Emma's stomach made a loud protest, diverting her attention.

"I'll leave you to your grilled cheese," Killian nodded in her direction, getting to his own feet.

"Thanks."

Emma made to shuffle sideways out of her booth, when a smooth hand on her arm stopped her progress. She looked up, surprised to find his eyes staring right back. Almost Suggestive, if she had any frame of reference.

"You will keep me apprised of any developments in this murder case of yours, won't you, Sheriff?" he asked. Implored. "As a courtesy?"

The bastard was trying to vampire whammy her! And after she was just starting to like the guy.

Shaking him loose, she neatly sidestepped her way out of the booth, and out of his sphere of influence. He looked confused. Troubled. As well he might. And if Emma was in a more self-preserving state of mind, maybe she would've worried about that. Instead she just took a twenty out of her jeans pocket, and slammed it down on the table.

"If you were trying to butter me up, Jones," she called, as her parting shot, "maybe you shouldn't've pissed off Granny."