Chapter Four: The Opening of Literal and Figurative Books

"You don't really strike me as the type to be tutored," Emma mused, leaning against the chair. Her blond hair was loose, framing the defined angles of her face, and her eyes flickered with bursts of contained emotion she was struggling to keep hidden. Killian examined her, contemplating his next move as if this staring contest was some sort of chess game.

"What do I strike you as?" he cracked a cockeyed smile, motionless and unblinking.

"I know you don't strike my fancy," Emma quipped, trying to find his buttons and push them. Hard. She'd lived in a rural part Michigan for nearly all of sophomore year, with a cop as her guardian. Uncle Butch had shown her the ropes and helped find her way around an interrogation room. On minor charges, such as cases involving the typical teenage Trespass-N'-T.P., he'd let her run the show and call the shots. "Everyone needs a trade," Butch had told Emma once. "You might as well learn mine." Those words stuck with her wherever she went. Butch was the closest thing she ever had to a father, though he was more like a grandfather at sixty. He died the summer before junior year, sending Emma packing for yet another town far, far away. To Florida.

A burning sensation shot through her eyes. Not because of the competition she was engaged in, but the painful memories that went along with the thought of Tallahassee… and Neal. Someday she'd be able to face her demons, and stare them down in the broad of day, but for now all she could do was run. And soon she'd be running again.

Killian, instead of staring at Emma, looked inside himself and pondered his thoughts – or rather, her thoughts. There was something that he couldn't quite figure out about Emma Swan. What was it? Was there something missing? Was there something extra about her? She had this air of knowledge about her. Not the florescent, brilliant knowledge that smiled so blindingly bright. No. The kind that manifested someone who had seen everything, heard too much, been beaten down too hard, had tried every trick in the book and found than nothing worked. So what? She bottles herself up and stores her hope away in that iron heart of hers and lets it freeze over and dwindle, melting away like a candle until – poof! She's all gone.

But still there was something more. Something so downright familiar, as if he had always known her but had never met her.

Grinning, he said, "Don't kid yourself, of course you like me. You know everything about me. I know the accent is a bit of a turn on, but you know how girls are with those…" He winked at her, trying to get the impenetrable Miss Swan to absolutely blow up with fury and frustration. After all, manipulation was a talent, and didn't somewhere in the Bible Jesus say to play to your strong suits? That was the one thing he could accredit his embarrassment of a step-father, Mr. - or should I say Principal? - Gold. He learned from the best.

"And why would I ever make the mistake wanting to know anything about you?" Emma quizzed ruthlessly, poking around to try to find his breaking point that all others feared.

Emma's Goals for Her First day at Storybrooke –

1. Get 'bad boy' to run home crying, or at least fluster him a little.

She wanted to see him squirm.

"Well," Killian drawled, "earlier today you and I had I nice little chat about the kind of guy I am. Right on the money, I have to say.

"I don't believe I said anything indicating your character," Emma stood her ground, not wanting to play his game anymore. She blinked.

Ms. Swan plopped down into the blue plastic chair and leaned over, most of her weight on her elbows.

"Now, I don't know why you're here. Frankly, I don't know why I'm here. But you and I both know that you'd rather be somewhere else, and same goes for me. Whatever game you're trying to play with me, it isn't going to work. All you are is a typical senior jackass who doesn't give a shit about anything. So why don't you go back to Hell where you came from and burn."

"Blind hatred is a wonderful thing to have in life isn't it?" Killian wondered aloud. "Especially when it's the new girl making assumptions as if everything fits into a nice square little box." He suddenly turned bitter, and growled through gritted teeth: "Think you know everything. Think you're too good for us small town chumps? Well guess what? Nothing is as universal as you make it seem. Everything's a mess and you digging your pretty little nose into it thinking you've seen it all doesn't make anything better." He should know. No one understood. No one went through what he went through.

"I know. A lot of things are messy. But that's our baggage to carry. And a lot of times, people get their luggage from the same place and fly on the same plane."

"There are some exceptions." Killian countered matter-of-factly.

"Like you, I suppose," Emma sniffed.

"I never said anything about me, love," He pulled off the bad-boy smirk and raised eyebrow impressively, but it would take more than sheer attractiveness to rattle Emma Swan.

"You were talking about me then," the blond huffed in annoyance. Who was he to presume he knew everything about her? That he knew much more than she could ever fathom?

"I never said anything about you either," Killian grinned devilishly.

Emma was about to groan, but she thought better of it, far too proud to let any sign of annoyance show. "Who could you possibly be talking about then?" she deadpanned.

"Not everything's about you, love," he whispered. "I might just be a keen observer. And anyway, why would you care so much?" It wasn't really a question; Killian already knew Emma was looking for a fight. And he was looking for one back.

"I don't," She steeled herself, gritting her teeth.

"I think your lying," Killian accused, bemused.

"Why would I think you worth lying to?" she countered, not missing a beat.

"I think you lie to everybody," he growled, not taking his eyes off of her, trying to see her flinch. "Mostly to yourself."

She went rigid. There, Killian thought, One piece of the puzzle... A thousand to go.

"So is that what you are?" he queried, shaking off the seriousness. "Emma, the deceitful? Why, I bet I know more about you than you do!"

"You don't know anything," Emma challenged.

"No, love. You're really something of an open book, but you speak a different language. It's only a matter of time before I figure out how to translate it."

Emma looked at him intently, and Killian almost thought she was about to give in. But Emma Swan didn't do that sort of thing. "You're wrong." She held her ground, and they both almost believed it. But they saw the hollowness behind her words, and how they were drenched with bitterness and pain. He reminded her of someone, she just didn't know who.

Apparently that little sparring match was enough for the day, because Killian didn't say anything after Emma's last denial. He knew there would be more days to duke it out, and part of him wanted the joy of finally understanding what Emma Swan was all about to be a slow process. There was more to her than met the eye, something that wasn't completely transparent.

For a while, it was a staring contest, until Emma finally broke the silence "Look, I -" she stopped and shook her head, not giving way to any kindness in her voice. Killian Jones was trouble. The less he knew about her the better. "If you aren't interested at all in learning anything, I should be going back ho -" She stopped once more. The little house she lived in with Penny and her foster siblings was not home. "I should be getting back."

Killian watched Emma walk away. There was something so utterly familiar about her. So distorted and complex, and so simple at the same time that it was impossible to understand her.

"Same time tomorrow?" he called after her. And for one split second he swore he saw Emma Swan smile.