A/N: This chapter does contain mention of non-con but is not between the two main characters.

Ugh. It was official. She was an ugly crier.

For someone who prided herself on digging her heels in, compartmentalizing, sucking it the fuck up, and any other numerous words and phrases that could be listed on Dr. Hopper's yellow notepad under a heavily circled "Avoidance of Emotions" – not that she'd ever taken him up on his offer for a session - Emma was having a hard time dealing with the fact that she'd been a hot mess since Jones left her standing in his bedroom.

That's why you'll always be an orphan.

It had cut deep, deeper than any barb thrown her way on the playground at the seventh school in less than four years. At first, school wasn't so bad. Little kids were more concerned with coloring inside the lines and following the golden classroom rule of being a good friend to everybody. But as Emma got older, the kids became meaner. Exclusivity was the name of the game and nobody wanted to be friends with the new girl who wore unfashionable hand-me-downs and a permanent scowl. "Foster kid" was whispered with distain and Emma's cheeks burned hot as she stood in cafeteria lines clutching her free lunch ticket, wondering if parents and a new wardrobe could really be all it would take to fit in.

Not that she'd ever had a chance to find out. By the time she'd aged out of the system, no forever home behind or in front of her, she'd become hardened to the perception of her situation. Adulthood provided the freedom for her to redefine herself, and it didn't come without it's challenges and complete fuck ups. But she hadn't felt orphaned in a long time, not consciously. And tucking herself under Killian Jones and his umbrella had felt safe and right along with scary as hell. Having him rip that away and not only leave her standing in the rain, but contributing to the downpour with angry words made it a thousand times worse.

Looking in the mirror, she considered her reflection. Puffy eyes. Reddened nose, chapped from excessive blowing. The floor around her couch was littered with tissues, the arm of her chunky cable knit sweater streaked with dried snot because the tears had kept coming even after she ran out of Kleenex. Three days without a wash and round-the-clock styling by sofa cushions had done no favors for her hair. All in all, Emma was the embodiment of something the cat dragged in, and it only added to the total package of nope she had going on.

After a long, hot shower, brain failing to follow the directive to think about anything other than Killian resulting in more than a few tears washing down the drain, she decided a distraction was in order: research.

Another email from Will had arrived that morning.

Nothing to report. All dead ends. Totally understand if you're not down to work your magic. I got an earful, too.

It had prodded Emma to drag her ass off the couch, get cleaned up and flex her fingers over the keyboards of her laptop and phone. She knew it would be slow going. Without a last name or a concrete first name, all of the usual avenues of investigation were going to be a bust. Plus, Bangor PD had already turned over all of the name search, background check and social media stones but Will wasn't asking her to stay on the well-lit street of policy and procedure. She knew a break in a case like this was unlikely without someone ducking into the proverbial dark alleys. Luckily, she knew plenty of shadowy figures from her days in bail bonds, and the first order of business was reaching out to them.

Favors were a huge part of tracking down skips. They served as a currency of sorts. Emma had been out of the game a long time but her habit of banking IOUs instead of cashing them in was going to finally pay off if the response to the feelers she'd put out was any indication. Once the hey, how've you been, long time no see niceties had run their course, she was left with a few strings to pull as day turned to night.

An acquaintance across the border in Quebec City came back with the most promising lead. Two suspected members of the Lost Boys, a gang with lengthy ties to heists that ranged from just above petty theft to boosted truckloads of appliances worth hundreds of thousands, had been arrested in connection with a jewelry store robbery years before. They were small fish and, as it turned out, not terribly loyal. Both talked before getting bonded out and gave Canadian authorities the name Felix as their leader with a few bigger fish above him in the organization.

Emma's contact was their bail bondsman and in a phone conversation, he told her he'd spent a fair amount of time attempting to track them down when court dates were missed. He'd been in the business long enough to know when to cut his losses. It was less likely they possessed the intelligence to go into the wind untraced and almost certain they'd been killed over loose lips. The Lost Boys sounded innocent enough – like a ragtag bunch of kids who fancied themselves the antithesis of rules and authority – but gave traitors within their ranks no quarter. Second chances didn't exist.

Another gang calling itself Dreamshade that operated out of Maine had absorbed the Lost Boys in some sort of merger, according to her contact. Felix moved up the ranks once the deal went down but despite his status it was rumored he still liked getting his hands dirty and was regularly in the thick of things on the front lines. Emma thanked the bondsman, promised to keep in touch and leaned back in her chair, considering what he'd said.

Felix's position in the hierarchy afforded him anonymity. He could hide behind scores of minions from the Lost Boys and this new affiliation. Everyone would be too afraid to turn on him because of the longstanding message that snitches get stitches (along with far worse.) Even if he was part of a crew getting caught red-handed, there was no doubt in Emma's mind that a bevy of foot soldiers would be ready and willing fall on their swords to protect him. Everything she knew about gangs and birds of a felonious feather flocking together supported the protection of leaders and kingpins.

What didn't fit was somebody like Felix risking a solo job like the break-in at Gold's and going so far as to murder one cop and attempt to kill another. It was messy and high profile, and someone who had been in the game as long as Felix had to know Bangor PD would stop at nothing to find him.

Then again, even with all of the efforts to rally around their fallen, Will said the department was coming up empty handed. Even if Felix had been reckless, he was still a few steps ahead.

Stretching, she looked at the clock. Midnight had come and gone, marking the start of another day without Killian Jones. Well, he may not want her in his life, but neither hell nor high water could keep her from doing what she could to help bring Liam's killer and to justice. She fired off an email to Will with her findings.

This was a mistake.

That was the only thing running through Killian's head: You stupid, brainless sack of shit, this was a mistake. And there was no wondering how he'd gotten into this mess. He'd been angry and hurt, blinded by rage and revenge after he had unceremoniously tossed Emma out of his home and out of his life. Once she was gone, he'd turned his wrath toward Will, ripping him a new one before hanging up on his friend and throwing some shit around his house. A popped stitch was all it took to win a trip back to see Dr. Whale and, incidentally, that overly friendly nurse.

Some self-diversion flirting on his part led to a dinner invitation on hers. Dinner led to drinks. Drinks led to a cab ride that had started with light touches and ended with a disgruntled driver who was none too happy to witness their full-blown make out session in his rearview or Killian pulling his hand from between her thighs when he pulled up to her building. And once they were inside the door to her apartment, he didn't hesitate to let her help him forget all of it. Emma and Will's betrayal. The reopening of scar tissue left by the loss of his brother.

At one time he would have been grateful for the distraction provided by half a bottle of rum and an eager woman. If he had taken a second to be honest with himself, it would have been painfully clear during dinner that Tink didn't hold a candle to Emma. She'd be perfect for someone, just not himself. And through the fog of liquor, bad judgment, guilt and the feeling of unfamiliar lips wrapped around his cock and the wrong blonde hair tangled in his fingers, Killian could only think one thing.

"This was a mistake." Killian gently maneuvered her mouth away from him and helped the nurse off her knees, tucking himself back in his pants. He didn't miss the murderous look in her eyes.

"What the fuck? Is it that other woman?" Tink crossed her arms, huffing at him as he quickly did up the buttons of the fly of his jeans, leaving his shirt un-tucked in his haste to pick up his coat off the floor.

Killian didn't have the heart to tell Tink that to him, she felt like the other woman. Gravity of consequence hit him like a ton of bricks and in a moment of clarity, he knew he'd fucked saying the things he did to Emma. He made his apologies to Tink, told her she deserved better and kissed her cheek before slipping out the door. Suddenly sober in the chill of the night air, he turned the collar of his pea coat up to block the wind and started back in the direction of the restaurant.

She wasn't at the town line. She wasn't at the station. And when he stood on her doorstep and knocked, Emma didn't answer. He tried to call her, ear pressed to cold metal with the hope he could will her to answer it through entry door steel.

Nothing.

With a sigh he turned back to the curb, certain he'd pressed his luck enough on other occasions waltzing into Storybrooke unannounced in the dead of night. Waking up a sleeping giant – and one that valued her sleep as much as Emma – wasn't going to get him off on the right foot. He'd wait until morning and try again.

Getting back into his truck, Killian took out his phone and set the alarm for six o'clock. That would give him at least three hours of shuteye and an opportunity to catch her on her way out for hot chocolate if she had the early shift.

Emma awoke with a start, nearly rolling off the couch. When she wasn't plagued by insomnia, she'd been having Jones-centric dreams. Most nights, she didn't know which was worse. At least she'd have a shot at a few hours in her own bed.

Heading to the small U-shaped kitchen, she held up a glass that had been in the sink alongside a half dozen others. Deciding it was clean enough and that some housework was in order when she got off work later, she filled it with water and took a long drink.

Her tiny apartment was nothing compared to the space and comforts provided by Killian's house by the river, but she'd always considered it home. Even when she could afford to move to a bigger place she hadn't, choosing to put money away for a rainy day. The building was old and in need of updates, but it was safe, especially with the extra locks she'd put on her doors.

That means he must have come in through a window.

Emma felt his presence before she saw him. Smashing her glass against the countertop in the hope it would shatter and provide her a weapon, she cursed when it broke but slipped through her fingers, cutting one deeply before the jagged pieces rained down to the floor . No matter. She'd been in plenty of fights over the years. Using the sink cabinet, she planted one and pushed hard off the sink cabinet with the other, propelling him backwards until she felt him hit the opposite counter. Smashing her heel down on the top of his foot, she pulled away from him.

"Bitch!"

He caught her just as Emma was trying to vault over the counter separating the kitchen from the living area, dragging her back toward him. She kicked viciously in an attempt to knock him off balance, sending a canister of cooking utensils and a small clock that doubled as an oven timer flying. That was when she felt it.

The taser.

He wasn't a large man by any means, but the element of surprise and the desire to intimidate gave him an advantage. He dug the prongs into her neck harder than necessary, hissing in her ear and wafting rotten breath over her face.

"Captain Jones found himself a pretty little thing, didn't he? Don't worry, sweetheart. We're going to have a good time together."

She didn't have to read between the lines. The deliberate thrust of his hips into her backside was plenty confirmation of his intentions. Emma tried to scream, struggling even harder to free herself, but he pulled her into a chokehold and began to squeeze.

"Now, now don't be like that. You were the one looking for me, remember?"

As she lost consciousness, Emma realized that without even realizing it, somehow she'd summoned the devil.

Felix.