Archive of Our Own ^beta

Emma Swan is not afraid of the darkness - not with a lowercase letter, at least. Never has been. When she was a kid, shuffling from group home to group home, lying awake at night had been one of the only moments she could experience the good kind of alone, letting the darkness surround her like a hug. Like she was anyone else, not just a lonely orphan. She’s never been scared of monsters lurking under her bed. Lying awake tonight, though, in her own bed in her parents’ loft, Emma holds much different fears. There’s probably an irony in the fact that she’s afraid of the quiet - not of this room, but of the type that’s fallen over Storybrooke. 

It’s been a month now since Pan’s curse-that-wasn’t - since they saved Henry, since Gold surprised everyone by sacrificing himself for them all. It’s felt like one thing right after another ever since that fucking apple turnover, but things are quiet now. Not a single monster or villain lurking around the corner. Storybrooke has gone back to being the quiet coastal Maine town it always should have been.

Honestly, it sets Emma’s teeth on edge.

After all this time fighting the forces of villainy and… well, darkness , Emma feels like there should be something else coming. She’s checking around corners and staying on guard and… nothing. It’s a little easier during the daytime to set that anticipation aside, to let herself get distracted by Leroy’s latest complaints and swapping nights with Henry with Regina. 

But at night - especially nights when Henry’s with his other mother, when Emma’s upstairs all alone in the dark… every fear of what might be coming, of what they may not be prepared for, haunts her, and keeps her awake, attuned to every sound in and outside the loft.

It is 1:37 in the morning, and the darkness suddenly doesn’t seem so comforting. On a whim, Emma hauls herself out of bed - it takes much less effort when you’re not even remotely drowsy - and slips on her leather jacket and some moccasins over her purple flannel pajamas. Emma’s never been much for these kinds of matchy matchy sets, but Mary Margaret - her mother loves them. And besides, they’re nice and warm for the Maine nights. 

Quietly, she creeps down the metal stairs to slip out the front door and down to the street. The nights are still cool in April, and the flannel and the fleece lined shoes are a major boon. Not that it would have stopped her regardless; she’d come out here out of a desperation to escape her thoughts, weather be damned. 

To that end, it’s almost a relief to see a faint light in the distance, moving towards her. It’s a distraction, if nothing else - either the threat she’s been waiting to show up, or someone she’ll have to convince that she’s fine.

As the light comes closer, revealing itself as a candle in a lantern - and coming up from the docks, she now realizes - the answer turns out to be a little of both. Hook. Someone she mostly trusts after the whole Neverland debacle, but is cautious around; someone she knows cares, in a way that scares her. 

“Bit late for an evening stroll, Swan,” he comments lightly. “Aren’t you afraid of all the things that might be lurking out here in the darkness?”

“Yeah, well, last call is midnight at the Rabbit Hole on a Monday,” Emma replies dryly. “Only thing I’ve seen lurking out here is you.”

“Bravado. I like it. But don’t worry, Swan,” he tells her, leaning into her space as they walk like he’s about to reveal a secret. “I won’t tell if you are. After all, I’m a little afraid of the darkness too - or at least of what it might be hiding.”

“I’m not afraid, Hook.”

“Alright, if you say so,” he comments as she stomps past him before following a moment later. It’s the way they work, after all.

Almost without thought, Emma’s feet have carried them back down the street to the docks. It’s colder here, with the breeze coming off the surf, but she doesn’t really care. It’s calming just to hear the rhythm of the waves rolling in and back out again, to smell that particular crisp salty smell that comes off the ocean. It’s soothing, in exactly the way she needed.

“It’s the quiet, isn’t it?” Hook comments from beside her. “It’s eerie. After so long on edge, waiting for the next blow, the next move… it’s hard to turn that off.”

Emma lolls her head to the side, looking at him skeptically. “And what would you know about that?”

He huffs a strange little laugh. “After several lifetimes spent chasing the Crocodile, only to find it unfulfilling once I believed I had succeeded - and then see him die by his own hand? I understand it, more than you’ll ever know, Swan.”

———

She’d kissed him, is the thing. In Neverland. 

She’d told Hook it was in gratitude, just a one time thing, and she’d told her mother it was because she was “feeling good” (whatever the fuck that had meant), but the truth is, Emma doesn’t quite know why she did it. Because she wanted to, probably - and after so long denying herself the things she wants, being denied the things she wants, she doesn’t really see the point. With age comes wisdom, or something. 

What she knows is that there’s some kind of connection there, just waiting to be explored; kindred spirits , as he’d say. What she knows is that it was good , too. She’s kissed her fair share of men over the years, and Killian Jones is no slouch. She can tell from the way their mouths had met and his hand had buried into her hair and he’d tried to practically devour her that he wanted it, just as much as her - maybe more. It’s that connection running underneath the heat that made it so good.

(It’s that connection running underneath that makes her want to run away.)

They haven’t talked about it since Neverland, like the fairytale equivalent of “what happens in Vegas”. But as much time as they spend not talking about it, Emma remembers every moment - especially in the dark of the night when everything else seems to press in on her, all at once. Remembering the feeling of desire, and of being desired is heady. It’s not quite foreign - again, kissed her share of men, and more than that - but it’s different somehow, even if she’s not quite ready to face why. 

(The longer she remembers it, the more Emma wants a repeat, but that’s a thought only suited for the solitude of the night.)

———

She doesn’t go to meet him every night. Some nights, Henry is there, and some nights, sleep comes miraculously easier, all the worries about what hasn’t happened holding at bay for a stretch of time. Those nights are a relief, though in different ways; one the relief of knowing that her son is safe, while the other is the relief of thinking nothing at all. 

The other nights, though, she takes to wandering down to the docks, throwing on her jacket and shoes and slipping out the loft door. He always knows she’s coming, somehow, or at least that’s what it seems like - waiting on the deck of the Jolly with the lantern and a blanket.

“Can’t sleep either, huh?” she asks the first night she realizes they’re in a pattern.

“Someone has to look out for your lovely arse anyways, Swan,” he quips right back. 

Sometimes they talk; sometimes they don’t. It’s not important. It’s just nice, for once, for the darkness to be something she shares with another person.

(If she’s going to sit and watch and wait for whatever may still be coming their way, there’s no one else she’d rather do it with, all things considered.)

———

During daylight hours, Emma spends most of her time at the sheriff’s station. It’s good for everyone; it keeps the townspeople more or less in line and keeps Emma busy and keeps her from having to know more about her parents’ efforts to have another kid than absolutely necessary (because frankly, having to witness the way her father comes back from “patrol” with wrinkled clothes and mussed up hair is more than enough).

(God, she needs her own place.)

Killian drops by more surprisingly often, a regular presence at one of the empty desks instead of in one of the empty cells. Emma likes the company more than she expected - someone to commiserate with when Leroy starts causing trouble, someone to make the hours it would normally be just her pass more quickly. Besides, he’s surprisingly good at filing. 

“Surprised to see you here,” she comments the first time. “Isn’t this going to undermine the whole ‘pirates answer to no king’ thing you’ve got going on?”

“Aye, but you’re a princess, aren’t you, love?” he quips back with a wink, like that’s the only explanation that’s needed. Who knows - maybe it is.

(Emma tries not to think about how he’d follow her for reasons that have nothing to do with her being the princess.)

———

She ignores Neal, mostly.

It’s not exactly a lasting strategy. This town is… honestly, absolutely fucking tiny, and it’s inevitable that they’ll run into each other alone sometime. They share(ish) a kid, for chrissakes. It’s going to happen.

Foolishly, Emma had hoped that Neal would need longer to grieve his father’s death before turning his attention back towards convincing her out on a date. That was a pipe dream, clearly; Emma had kind of forgotten how he spent actual decades - centuries? - trying not to be found by Gold. Not that she blames him. Hell, she could use some advice on not being found right now, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s the one she’s avoiding.

It’d been kind of a happy fluke that she never ended up meeting Neal for lunch that day - the one silver lining of the whole “Peter Pan wants to curse us into submission” debacle, honestly. If she’d hoped that that would be that, however, she’s very much disappointed, as Neal hasn’t picked up on the fact she isn’t eager to rekindle anything with him. It’s probably a miracle that she’s been able to avoid the matter for as long as she has - letting Neal pick Henry up at school instead of dropping him off, ducking around corners and making sure she has other things to do, just in case. 

The problem is that technically, Neal taught her a lot of her tricks. It’s hard to avoid someone who knows exactly how to back you into a proverbial corner. So she probably shouldn’t be too surprised to come back to the loft one evening after her shift to find Neal lounged on the couch, chatting with Mary Margaret while Henry works on his homework at the kitchen table.

“Hey, Ems,” he says easily, like nothing’s changed or ever come between them. “We were just talking about you.”

“What are you doing here, Neal?” The tone must be polite enough; Mary Margaret doesn’t shoot her a look, at the very least.

“Well, you know, I was just dropping Henry off, figured I’d stay a moment. Actually, I wanted to talk to you for a moment.”

“Oh, Neal, that’s —”

“Why don’t we get out of your hair for a moment?” Mary Margaret offers with a beaming smile. “Give you two a bit of privacy.”

(Like that’s a thing that exists in this fucking loft.)

Her mother at least pretends to bustle around the kitchen, but Henry still glances their way with a happy, excited look on his face. That’s how Emma knows exactly what’s coming next.

“What’s this about, Neal?” she asks all the same, hoping for any other kind of reason for this. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh yeah, everything’s fine. I just thought you and I could get dinner tomorrow night.”

Yep, exactly what she thought. Fan-fucking-tastic. “I don’t know, Neal, I’ll have to check my schedule —”

“Already taken care of. Your mom said you’re off tomorrow night. Perfect, right?”

Traitor. 

“Look, I know you’re worried about Henry,” Neal continues, “but look at the kid. He’s fine. He wants this - you and me together. And, like, there’s no curse incoming or anything. So why not take advantage of the moment?”

“Neal…”

“I’m just saying - we could take advantage of the moment together. So. Pick you up at seven?”

Emma takes a last look at her kid - their kid - trying to look like he’s not eagerly eavesdropping and failing miserably and caves.

“Yeah, alright. Seven.”

Somewhere over her shoulder, Mary Margaret squeals in excitement.

(At the same time, a stone of dread drops into Emma’s stomach.)

———

There’s no ambiguity about what drives her out of the loft that night; the stone has turned into a boulder in her stomach, threatening to pull her right down through the floorboards. 

“I couldn’t say no,” Emma tells Killian from the bench they sit on at the edge of the pier. He’d taken one look at her and pulled out his flask, recognizing her deep seated need for booze like any decent human being, and they’ve been trading swigs of some truly stellar rum ever since. If she’s lucky, she’ll have a decent buzz going by the time she wanders back home again. “I don’t want to go - God, I can’t even start to tell you how much I don't want to go —”

“The drinking was a sign, actually.”

(She ignores him.)

“ — but he had to ask right there in front of my mother. And Henry - who would never say anything because he’s just the best kid, but I know he wants me and his dad to get back together. I mean, what kid wouldn’t? And he was just standing there, trying to look like he wasn’t listening, but just looking so…”

“Hopeful?”

“Yeah. Hopeful.” Emma groans. “God, and now I have to go have dinner with Neal tomorrow. Why didn’t I say no?”

“It sounds to me as if you were backed into a corner, Swan,” Hook - Killian - offers. “You did the best you could to keep the peace. That’s admirable in its own way. Especially when you were doing it to make your son happy.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do me tomorrow night,” Emma grumbles. It makes Killian chuckle at her side, at least, and willingly relinquish the flask for another drink. Swallowing the spiced liquor, she lets her head loll to the side to face Killian next to her. “What am I supposed to do ?”

“I wish I had better news for you, darling,” Killian says, “but I think you’ve got to go.”

“I know,” Emma sighs. They sit in companionable silence for a moment before she raises the real question: “What do you think the chances are that he’ll take it well if and when I put the kibosh on all this?”

That outright makes him laugh. “Oh, Swan, if that’s your wish… I wish you luck with that.”

(It seems like too big a hope to her too.)

———

She doesn’t exactly make a huge effort for this date, despite her mother’s suggestions - flattering jeans, a nicer blouse, her boots, and a different jacket than her red leather. Basic; probably not first date wear. Then again, this isn’t really a first date - and then again too, Neal texted her at lunch to see if Granny’s was fine. It’s not like they’re going to some fancy restaurant. 

(She kind of hates that Neal didn’t bother to find some other place than Granny’s, but she really shouldn’t have expected any differently. Neal is a careless man, at his very core.)

The date is… pretty much exactly what she expected. Emma forces a smile for all the pictures her mother tries to take as Neal stands there in a t-shirt and jeans and that one jacket he seems so attached to. It feels like being a teenager again, a bit, but in all the worst ways, all that uncertainty and discomfort bringing all the feelings of her youth back again and trying to make her feel just as alone. 

It’s not really the dinner rush anymore, thank god, but the place isn’t exactly empty either. Any privacy that Emma was too smart to wish for hasn’t miraculously appeared. Granny in particular looks disapproving of this whole debacle. Emma wants to shake the old woman, assure her in some way that this doesn’t mean anything, but she can’t exactly do that. She agreed to this date for Henry, after all. 

Their date doesn’t get any easier as the night drags along, either. Conversation is easiest when they talk about Henry - the one good thing they have in common - but Neal wants to talk about other things too, a weird combination of acting like ex-lovers who already have been through all the awkward background talk and at the same time like they’re on a first date. Technically, both are true. Mostly, it’s just easiest to let Neal yammer on about his endless supply of anecdotes from New York. 

The real problem comes when he tries to draw her into the conversation too, even when Emma would be more than happy to sit in silence and let this all fizzle. 

“Henry said you were living in Boston when he found you. How was that?” he asks, shoveling another forkful of lasagna into his mouth.

Emma shrugs. “It was fine. More than enough going on in the city to keep the paychecks coming.”

“Oh yeah, bail bonds. Not what I would have expected, but hey.”

Big mistake. 

“Yeah, well, your employment options get pretty limited when you’ve got a criminal record,” she bites out, dropping the onion ring she’d been about to eat. 

“C’mon, Ems, you can’t still be hung up on that.”

“Hung up on the thing that ruined my life? On how you ruined my life?” Too late, Emma remembers where they are, that she needs to modulate her volume. Already, she can see how Granny’s perked up behind the counter. “You may not have thought twice about it in the past decade, but I’ve had to live with what you did every day. Every day!”

“Ems, that’s not fair —”

“Not fair? You called the police on me! So they’d arrest me, for something you did! Where am I missing the bit where that’s not fair to you ? I had to give up my kid , before I even held him, because you fucked up my life so bad that I wasn’t going to be able to get a damn apartment, let alone a decent job. The only reason I’m the sheriff here is because this is a weird-ass fairytale town that follows their own version of laws. That’s it.”

“Fine,” Neal bursts out. “Fine! If I’m such the villain in this story - which is a pretty rich depiction from someone who gets along with the fucking Evil Queen - then why are you even here?”

“Oh, like I had a choice,” Emma scoffs. “That was a dirty move, asking in front of Mary Margaret and Henry.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Because Mary Margaret has been pushing us together since we returned from Neverland because she thinks first love is true-fucking-love, and I’d get nagged to hell if I said no. And Henry - you know Henry wants us to get back together. He’s eleven, obviously he wants his parents together. And I was supposed to stand there and disappoint him?”

“You’re the one who said you loved me.”

Emma’s heart drops into her stomach - because this is really the gist of it, why Neal thinks they can just pick right back up in the first place. “Yeah,” she finally says, “I did. And that’s true in a way. There will always be a part of me that loves you, because you were my first love - but it’s a part of me that I hate , the part of me that is still young and scared and alone, and accepting a lot less than I ever deserved. But I don’t have to, not anymore. I’ve got the best kid and I’ve got my parents who love me more than I ever imagined and a whole town of people looking out for me. I’ve got a fucking great life that I love. And I don’t need you anymore.”

It’s freeing to say - to get it all out on the table, to make it obvious that Neal is only her past. There’s nothing more to be said, really, Emma realizes with a thrill. It’s freeing to slide out of the booth and stand up, ending this “date” on her own terms. It’s only in the name of total clarity that she turns back one last time. “Look, I want you to have a relationship with Henry. He deserves that. But there’s not going to be any rekindling, Neal.”

Granny waves her off as Emma approaches the counter. Fine by her; either Neal will have to pay for her meal (which, you know, he should on a date anyways), or she just had her bill waived. Either way, free food. More importantly, it lets her make a clean getaway out the front door and into the night.

(It feels like the rest of her life is waiting to begin.)

———

She means to go back to the loft. She ought to go back to the loft.

She does not go back to the loft.

It’s avoidance in its purest form, if she’s being honest. She knows damn well how gossip spreads in this town, especially if Granny is involved. And what just happened? It’ll be the hottest gossip for weeks to come - starting with a call home to her parents like she’s in school. And once her parents know, they’ll want to have a whole emotional to-do and she just… no. Not yet. Not to mention the talk she’ll have to have with Henry; she’s really not looking forward to explaining to her kid how she’s not getting back together with his dad. 

So she runs, just like she’s good at, just like she always does. Her feet take her to the docks without even thinking and she’s climbing up the Jolly’s gangplank before she knows it - though really, maybe it’s not so surprising. Killian is her… friend. He’s more than that, maybe, if she would just buck up and be brave, but before anything else, he’s a friend all her own - maybe the only one who wasn’t a friend of her mother’s first. He’s hers, and hers alone, even if that’s only platonically. For now.

The pirate in question rises from belowdecks with his hand on his sword and no vest or coat to be seen, clearly not expecting anyone, only relaxing when he sees it’s her. It strikes Emma, then, that he must be anticipating her on some level all those nights she’s shown up here, for him to always be dressed and ready for her. Are there nights he waits and she never comes? 

There’s no time to dwell on it as he greets her with a concerned smile, however. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your big date, Swan?”

“I was.” Looking around at the way the Jolly’s decks overlook the pier, Emma feels exposed - probably a side effect of her urge to run. “Look, can we take this… somewhere else? Below decks or something? Just not so... out here.”

“Of course, love.”

The last time she was in his quarters, Henry was tucked into the bunk in the corner, on their way home from Neverland. Emma hadn’t taken much time back then just to look around the cabin, too concerned with her son’s safety, but it’s a different story now. Now, examining her surroundings is a great way to avoid the inevitable questions. It doesn’t surprise her, really, to see how neat he keeps the place; Hook’s a meticulous man in his own way, who takes obvious pride in his ship. There’s a desk against one wall next to a built-in wardrobe, and a table with two chairs taking up what little floor space remains. It’s a cleverly designed space, one that lets him store everything away neatly and out of sight. The bed isn’t exactly a memory foam wonder when she collapses onto it, but that doesn’t really matter right now - especially when Killian slides in after her after tucking his cutlass neatly against the wardrobe, leaning with his back against the wall and staring down at her.

“So. I take it the date didn’t go well,” he comments. The lack of judgement in his tone is refreshing, not that she should have expected anything else.

“Not even remotely.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Emma sighs heavily. “Not really. But I should.”

“You don’t have to, love. I won’t make you, if you just want to hide here in the quiet.”

“No, I know. But, you know, I should. It’s all gonna come out anyways, you might as well hear it from me and not Neal or the local gossip mill or, God forbid, Leroy .”

“Ah, well, not to worry, Swan - I don’t make a habit of getting my news from the dwarf.”

That makes her laugh, at least. She thinks that might have been the point. But the smile slips off her face as she collects her words. He’s her friend, though, maybe more - he deserves to hear this from her, especially since she’s crashed into his home. “So, you know that Neal and I used to be together, right?”

“I’d been led to believe so, yes.”

Smartass.

“Ok, well, the gist is, I was 16, I stole a car, he’d already stolen the car, it was a whole thing. Mostly I was just young and desperate for love, and that made the whole Bonnie and Clyde thing seem pretty appealing.” Killian’s eyebrows twist at the reference, obviously not getting it; that was kind of half the reason she threw it in. He’s kind of cute when he’s confused. “I’ll explain later. Me and Neal, thieving power couple. And I’m young and he’s this older guy who really likes me - loves me, I thought - so I was just head over heels. Him and I, against the world.”

“I sense a tragedy coming.”

Emma snorts. “Yeah, you could say that. Turns out he’d stolen some watches when he worked in a jewelry store before he met me, and the cops were after him. So, like the naive idiot I was, I volunteered to go retrieve them for him. You know, because the cops wouldn’t be looking for a blonde girl. What I didn’t know,” she laughs bitterly, “is that August had also shown up, told Neal I was the Savior, and I’d lead his dad right to him. He abandoned me because a fucking puppet told him to.”

A look of disgust and mild horror has crept onto Killian’s face. “He didn’t —”

“Oh, he did. And then some. Because he made sure not just to leave me - devastating but survivable - but to call the cops so they’d show up where I was waiting for Neal. He didn’t just break up with me - he got me arrested . Fucked my whole life over. And then there was having Henry, and giving him up, and… you mostly know the rest of the story. Went on a courtesy date tonight, ended up yelling at him about all this in the middle of the fuckin’ diner.”

“That’s… despicable, Swan.” His voice is that particular kind of quiet and even that makes him sound absolutely deadly. “Please tell me your parents didn’t know about this and still push you towards him, Emma.”

(He never calls her that - just her name. It lends an extra gravity to the situation.)

“No, they didn’t,” she confirms. “And I never really intended them to. Though that cat’s definitely out of the bag now, if I know how gossip works in this town at all.”

“Why didn’t you want them to know?”

That’s the harder question here - the thought alone of answering it makes her sigh heavily. “I don’t know. I guess I just… didn’t want to saddle them with that. It was my own fault —”

“ — it was absolutely not your fault, Swan —”

“ — but they’d feel guilty about it. Because they weren’t there and they should have been or whatever. But it wasn’t their fault - I mean, they gave me up because they thought they were giving me my best chance. Same way I did with Henry. They shouldn’t have to feel guilty about it. Plus, I never really wanted Henry to know so he wouldn’t have to feel… I don’t know, conflicted? About wanting to know his dad? He should get to think his dad is great. And Mary Margaret can’t keep a secret to save her life - literally. So. I just… never told them.” Another heavy sigh. “Fat lot of good that did me. They sure know now, or they will tomorrow morning if I don’t tell them now.”

“It’s all going to be alright, Swan,” Killian tries to assure her. “Telling your parents and your lad won’t be particularly enjoyable, I’m sure, but it’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I believe it,” he shrugs. “Your parents and Henry love you. I’m sure they’ll be upset on your behalf, but I can’t imagine they’ll react poorly, or blame you, or anything else.”

“I do know that, consciously,” Emma admits, “but it’s hard to remember that right now, when I’ve got to go face the music.”

“Aye, I’d imagine it’s quite intimidating - especially when your night has already been emotionally fraught.” They sit in silence for a moment before he continues; Emma allows the faint sound and scent of the waves to calm and ground her, take her mind off all of this just for a minute. “So what now, love?” Killian finally asks. “Is there anything I can do?” His face is tender, understanding as he looks down at her; instinctively, she knows that he’ll do anything she asks, no matter what. Maybe that’s why she asks for nothing at all - except:

“Can I just… stay here for a bit? I’ve gotta go home and break the news to everyone, but can I just… put it off? Just for a few more minutes?”

“Of course, Swan. Take as long as you need.”

———

Emma returns to the apartment to find one distressed preteen and two adults pretending to do anything else other than waiting for her - making it all very obvious that Granny definitely did call. 

“Can I talk to Henry for a few minutes first?” she asks her parents; their nods of acquiescence are immediate and somehow guilty, sending a shoot of unwarranted shame through her own soul. At Emma’s gesture, Henry leads the way upstairs, already in his pajamas for the night. Today, there’s planets and stars all over the cotton bottoms; it’s something endearingly youthful for a boy that some days seems so anxious to grow up.

(Maybe, once everything settles down a bit, she’ll ask Killian to take Henry out and teach him the constellations one night; she thinks they’d both like that.)

“So,” Emma starts once they’re both settled in, facing each other on their beds. “I guess you probably heard about what happened tonight.”

Henry nods. “I heard Grandma and Gramps talking about it. Someone called, earlier.”

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Emma tells him quietly.

“You didn’t want me to find out at all .”

“No,” Emma admits after a moment. “I didn’t.” She lets it sit for a moment, giving Henry time to process, to ask questions if he wants. However, the questions never come, and Emma can’t help but break the silence herself. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” The answer is quicker than she expected, and accompanied by an emphatic shake of the head. 

“Are you sure? Because it’s okay if you are —”

“No.”

Emma waits for more, but it never comes. “You gotta tell me what you’re thinking, kid,” she begs. “Because I am terrified that I’ve screwed up here. I never want to disappoint you.”

Henry tilts his head, like he’s thinking his words through carefully. “I was so mad at you when we found Dad in New York. Because you lied to me.”

“I know, kid.”

“No, I know, but… you never lie to me. Never. Except about that. I never thought about why you would have lied to me because I was so mad, but… this is it, isn’t it? You didn’t want me to know about this.”

“Henry…”

“You wanted me to have a dad I could be proud of, not one who left on purpose - and I was mad at you for it.” When Henry finally looks up from where he’s been fiddling with his pants strings in his lap, there are tears threatening at the bottoms of his eyes. “Are you mad at me ?”

“Oh, kid, of course not.” Hastily Emma crosses the gap between their beds to pull him into her lap, his growing limbs sprawling everywhere. “Not telling you is on me. I thought you’d never meet your dad - so you’re right, I wanted to make him someone you could look up to. Firefighter sounds a lot better than thief, right?” Henry smiles weakly when she nudges him at the even weaker joke. “And then when you did meet Neal… I wanted you to have a good relationship with your dad, regardless of my own feelings. There was no way I was going to tell you and seem like I was going to ruin that for you. I don’t want you to be mad at your dad because of this.”

“But he hurt you!” Henry sounds personally affronted by the knowledge; that’s her empathetic son.

“I know. But that was a long time ago, Henry, and he’s changed. It means I won’t ever have a relationship with your dad again, but it doesn’t mean you can’t. That doesn’t mean you can’t ever get mad at him - I’m sure you’ll get plenty mad at him in all the years to come, about staying up late and doing your homework and whatever else, but don’t be mad at him about this for my sake. Okay?”

Henry nods against her shoulder. 

“I love you, kid.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

———

The conversation with her parents is both harder and easier, probably because it goes exactly the way she expected. Both her mother and father are already waiting on the couch with guilty looks on their faces, like children waiting for punishment.

“Is it true?” Mary Margaret says, barely above a whisper. David’s face turns distinctly murderous when Emma nods. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because of this,” she tells them with a sigh and a hand waved in their direction. “Because… what would it do? You guys would feel guilty for something that wasn’t your fault and Henry would feel guilty for wanting a relationship with his dad.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t have pushed for you to reunite with that… that…”

“Bastard,” David supplies with a deadly straight face. Dad points for that, or something.

Emma shrugs, even if the movement feels uncomfortable. “You didn’t know. And that was my choice.”

“But —”

“We just want you to know that we never would have encouraged it if we knew,” David says, interrupting his wife. “We just wish we had been there to protect you in the first place.”

“And we’ll listen, now,” Mary Margaret jumps back in. “You can tell us anything. Whatever you want to.”

“Thanks… Mom. Dad.” She’s still uncomfortable with the titles, but it feels like a moment that warrants it. Even if she goes back to calling them Mary Margaret and David tomorrow. “I just want things to go back to normal. Henry has a relationship with Neal, and I don’t. And nobody runs anybody through with a sword.”

David’s lips twitch just the slightest fraction towards a smile. “I make no promises.”

———

It’s obvious that the word is well and truly out the next morning in the way Granny puts the fancy syrups in her hot chocolate and Leroy doesn’t greet her with his laundry list of petty complaints and especially the way Archie stops her on her walk into the station just to casually mention that his office is always open if she ever needs a neutral ear. 

(Come to think of it - why aren’t more people in therapy in this weird-ass, fucked up little town?)

The real sign that word has gotten around, however - or maybe just that hell has frozen over, either or - is when Regina herself waltzes into the station to provide her own… unique brand of support. 

“So,” she demands, examining a chair before sitting as if there’s something vile sprouting on the seat, “what are we doing to Cassidy?”

“Excuse me?”

“The obvious move, of course, is just to deny visitation privileges - but I do have a particularly thorough book of curses that may be of interest.”

She’s fallen into some kind of alternate universe. That’s the only explanation for… whatever the fuck this is. “No one is cursing anyone, Regina. Do not make me arrest you for… assault. I guess. I’m sorry, what is bringing on this unexpected girl power moment? We don’t like each other nearly enough for this.”

“He abandoned Henry,” Regina says like it should be obvious. 

“He did not know about Henry. Hell, I didn’t know about Henry,” Emma points out. “You can’t hold that against him.”

“Sure I can. All this hurts him - and I won’t let anything hurt my son.”

“Look, I’m obviously not here to claim Neal is some reformed paragon. But let’s let Henry set the tone on how he deals with his dad moving forward from this, alright? I’m not about to tell that kid that he can’t see the dad he was only just starting to know.”

“Fine,” Regina sniffs. “But if he steps one foot out of line…”

“I will gladly turn a blind eye to whatever potion you decide to brew up.”

With a nod, Regina sweeps back out, in full dramatic fashion. Typical. Emma drops her head to her desk as she hears the outer door swing closed; it’s not even 10am, and it’s already shaping up to be one hell of a day. Before she can let the worn wood entirely absorb her, however, there’s the sound of footsteps and the rustle of a paper bag by her head. Emma jerks back upright and to attention, just to discover Killian standing there offering her a small Granny’s takeout bag.

“I thought you could use this after your rough night,” he explains as she accepts the little paper sack. Inside is a single bear claw, still warm and perfect.

“These are my favorite,” Emma comments. “How did you know?”

“I’m more observant than I look,” he winks. “Especially where feisty blondes are concerned.”

The pastry is perfectly gooey and sweet, and Emma struggles to not just inhale the whole thing. 

“Feeling better today, Swan?” Killian asks with a faux-casual air that really is anything but.

She considers the question for a moment before answering - after all, it’s not a simple matter. “Yeah. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? I made it through.”

“Of course you did,” he smiles. “After all, Swan, it’s like I told you in Neverland - I’ve yet to see you fail.”

(Now that Neal is a non-issue, she just might be able to admit how warm it makes her feel to hear Killian say that.)

——— 

He’s trying to be better, she thinks - for his sake or her sake or everyone’s sake. The specifics don’t really matter. He’s trying .

She sees it in little pieces, not just in how Killian helps out at the sheriff’s station, but the way he lets Snow volunteer him to speak with her students about astronomy and tries to help the Lost Boys acclimate and has somehow gotten on Granny’s good side enough that she pats him on the cheek after lunch one day. And it’s… good. For him and for them.

(And maybe for her too.)

Of all the ways he’s trying , though, Emma didn’t expect it to become most apparent in her insistence that he get new clothes.

“Look if you’re planning to stick around, you’ve got to get different clothes,” she argues.

“My leathers have served me perfectly well for decades now, Swan,” he shoots back. “Do you mean to suggest that there’s something wrong with the way I dress?”

“I mean to suggest that if people see you wearing the same thing day after day, they’re going to think you stink.”

“I bathe quite frequently, thank you,” he mutters. The grouchy effect is kind of ruined by the way he’s trying not to smirk. 

“Sure you do. C’mon, it’ll be fun. I’ll go with you.”

“Ah, I see how it is,” he winks, quickly shifting back into innuendo. “You just want to get me out of my clothes. There’s much easier ways, darling.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Yes, fine, you caught me. This is all just a plot to make you strip.”

“I knew it.”

“Seriously, though - tomorrow? After lunch? Go get you some clothes? I mean, you can go by yourself, I don’t have to come with you, but you really should —”

“It’s fine, Swan,” he smiles, moving his hand to cover her own and stop that thought in its tracks. “I don’t suppose, though —” He trails off before completing his thought; though Emma waits for the rest of the sentence, it never comes, at least not until she prompts it.

“Don’t suppose what?”

“I don’t suppose we could invite the librarian, could we?” he finally finishes. “To come with us?”

“What, Belle?”

“Aye.” His gaze won’t quite meet her own, though Emma can’t put her finger on why. Honestly, the whole request is kind of out of left field.

“I mean, sure, but… Why? I mean, you did try to kill her. Not that long ago, in the grand scheme of things.” Killian is uncharacteristically silent on the matter, examining the wall of the station with scientific intent, until Emma finally sighs. “Look, forget it, you don’t have to tell me, I’m fine to invite Belle —”

“I’ve been in her shoes before,” Killian interrupts. “Or at least something like it. Losing the person who was, in many ways, your life. My feelings about the dearly departed Crocodile aside… I know that particular kind of loneliness. No one should have to go through that alone.” He shrugs. “She’ll likely say no. I’ll be there, after all. But…”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.” It’s a surprisingly generous thought - one she shouldn’t be so surprised to hear from him.

(He’s trying, after all.)

Belle is even more confused when Emma brings it up. “You want to invite me to… go shopping with Hook?” The particular twist of her face betrays that this isn’t something she ever anticipated, or even remotely understands.

“I mean, you don’t have to, obviously,” Emma assures her. “But you’re more than welcome. He specifically asked me to invite you.”

“You do know he tried to kill me, right?”

“Oh, I absolutely know that. Twice, if I remember right,” Emma acknowledges. “And again - you don’t have to. But…”

“But?”

“I think he’s trying to make amends.” It’s close enough to the truth, at least. “Look, I’ll be there too. Nothing will happen, I promise. Besides, you’ve got the best sense of style around here.”

That bit, at least, is the genuine truth. 

At the end of the day, the whole expedition goes better than expected - even with Ruby inviting herself along to make vaguely lecherous comments. It’s a taste of his own medicine, or something. Still, he takes it well, and is patient with what seems like the never ending pile of clothing Ruby and Belle shove into his arms in the three clothing stores Storybrooke can boast. 

Really, Emma’s the one who’s struggling here. Seeing Killian in modern clothes is… a lot. It’s starting to seem like every garment is personally designed to taunt her: the soft v-neck t-shirts that show off his toned arms, henleys that let his chest hair peek out, dark wash jeans that hug his ass, a leather jacket that makes him look like some kind of bad boy daydream come to life… it’s a lot . There are other pieces too, ones that call back to his pirate wardrobe, like a pair of dark waistcoats and some dark-patterned dress shirts and black boots with zippers up the sides so he doesn’t have to struggle with the laces.

“What do you think, Swan?” Killian asks, coming out to twirl about in his latest pairing - black jeans with a dark green henley shirt and a jean jacket Ruby dug out of some clearance bin. Honestly, it’s the look of half her old one-night-stands - but better.

“You’re a regular 21st century man, Jones,” she replies with a smile. “No more assumptions about your bathing. Or, you know, lack thereof.”

She can just tell he’s got an innuendo on the tip of his tongue, can see it in the lift of his eyebrows and the way he starts to sway into her space - probably something about clothing, and lack thereof, or maybe a quip about nothing lacking here - but Belle interrupts at exactly that moment with even more shirts. For as cautious as the other woman had been about this whole thing, she and Killian appear to have buried the hatchet; maybe she’s just distracted by the prospect of shopping. Either way, Killian’s scheme has worked. 

“Try these,” she commands, shoving a collection of plaid shirts at Killian like she’s entirely unaware of the variety of mountain lodge candle fantasies she’s about to bring to life. 

Or not. For as patient as Killian has been this whole day, the plaid button downs are the one item he now refuses to grab. “Absolutely not,” he tells her. “I’ve seen these. The prince wears these. Absolutely not, I won’t wear them.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” Belle scolds. Emma, on the other hand, fully agreed with Killian the moment he brought her father into this. “It’s Maine. It gets cold in the winters, you’ll need a nice flannel.”

“I can’t imagine that this is the only garment in this realm that offers seasonally-appropriate warmth.”

“Well, no, there’s sweaters and winter coats and —”

“Then we’ll get some of those. Later, when the weather is cooling and not warming.”

“Now really, Killian —”

“I’ll take him later in the year. It’s fine,” Emma interrupts. “I mean, you’ve grabbed him several jackets and long sleeve shirts. He’ll be fine for the spring.”

“My savior,” he winks once Belle gives in, walking away with a resigned shake of her head towards where Ruby is sorting through sweatpants and pajama sets. 

“Just thinking of your limited wardrobe space.”

“Then my wardrobe thanks you too.”

(Really, she’s just invested in not letting him dress like her dad.)

———

It’s becoming almost painfully obvious how much Emma needs her own place. Like, as soon as possible. 

There’s the matter of her parents wanting another kid, for one. There’s been no privacy incidents yet, but Emma’s still a little scarred by the whole “tacos” debacle. She knocks on the door before entering. She leaves her work schedule posted on the fridge. She does not question when David spontaneously decides to go on “patrol” alone on school holidays. And still, she knows , at some deep instinctual level, that this luck can only last so long. It is far better to solve the whole problem now by just… moving out. Preemptively. Before she sees things that she really, really doesn’t want to. 

(If she doesn’t, she might end up living with her parents and a baby , and that’s a whole different kind of nightmare in a loft apartment with no walls.)

There’s also the fact that maybe, possibly, Emma would like to date again one day. Certain pirates or otherwise. She is nearly thirty years old, for the love of fuck, she should get to bring a man back to her own place for some adult delights if she damn well wants to. Without her parents there to know about it. And if she thinks, more and more, that she wants that man to be Hook, then so be it - that’s her prerogative. There’s something there, simmering just below the surface, between her and Killian - something they’ve fostered in all those times they’ve simply sat in the night together. Understanding , she thinks. 

(Then again - he said right from the beginning that she was an open book to him. Recently, Emma’s discovered that that goes both ways.)

Regardless. It’s… a thing. That could turn into another thing. Or something. He’s the one with the words, anyways - and nothing really fun can happen as long as she’s still living with her parents. 

Weirdly enough, Mary Margaret totally gets it - it’s David who keeps insisting that everything’s fine, that she doesn’t need to move out. Like the need isn’t just obvious fact for everyone else involved, and quite a few people who aren’t involved. Maybe it’s because technically, she and Mary Margaret already had their time living together. It’s not a replacement for a denied childhood together, but it’s still an experience that they had together. David didn’t get that.

“I get that he’s got his whole… protective schtick going on,” Emma laments to Killian on yet another midnight rendezvous, “but it’s a little much.”

“Sounds like a little more than a little much.”

“That too,” Emma agrees with a little snort. “Still. Grown-ass adult here. It’s more than time for me to move out, man.”

“Ah, but you’ll always be his little girl,” Killian mocks with a sickly-sweet voice. Good to know that he views that the same way as she does. 

“Well, he’s gonna have to get used to the idea. Come to terms with the adult woman in the room. Because, come hell or high water, I am getting my own place as soon as possible.”

“I know you will, Swan - because may the gods help the poor bastard who stands in your way.”

———

Neal avoids her. Killian doesn’t. And the thing that keeps it from becoming awkward is the arrival of the next threat to Storybrooke.

(Emma fights the urge to go yell I told you so! from the top of the library clocktower.)

Whoever this is arrives in a particular burst of dramatics, a massive tornado forming in suddenly green-tinted skies and sending everyone fleeing for cover. Emma didn’t even know there were tornadoes this far north; then again, if there’s magic involved, “normal” kind of gets thrown out the window. They’re just lucky that the funnel touched down outside of the town proper, and that no one was hurt.

(There’d been something particularly… intimate about taking cover with Killian in the supply closet, in the way he’d pulled her close - to shield her body with his own? - as rain beat down on the roof and winds pulled at the shingles. It’s just something else to add to the list of things she’s increasingly bad at not thinking about.)

It’s obvious from the start that there’s something odd about the tornado that appeared out of nowhere, in an area of the world not prone to them; even beyond that, there’s a feel to the air that hints at something supernatural. Still, it’s a surprise to reach the area where the funnel touched down to discover a group of people who definitely weren’t in Storybrooke before all this. 

“Emma?” calls a familiar, confused voice across the clearing. Mulan, who they definitely left back in the Enchanted Forest what feels like a goddamn lifetime ago, who apparently is now here in Storybrooke along with a bunch of men Emma doesn’t recognize in what must pass for camouflage where they come from. “What are you doing here?”

“I think the real question is what are you doing here ,” Emma responds. “Because this is Storybrooke. I live here, so technically… you’re the one out of place.”

“What a warm welcome.”

“Yeah, well, a tornado just came out of nowhere, we’re all a little on edge.” Emma smiles to temper the words, but she knows Mulan gets it; in some ways, they think about things similarly. “What happened here?”

“About the same as what happened here, it sounds like. We were just about to set up camp, me and the Merry Men —”

Emma nearly chokes. “I’m sorry, the Merry Men ? Like, Robin Hood and shit?”

“You know Robin?” Mulan asks with a confused twist to her brow. 

“No! I — it’s a long story,” Emma concludes. Lamely. “What were you saying?”

“We were in Sherwood Forest, and a fluke storm sprang up. Too quickly to have been anything but magic. We bunkered down as best we could, but…”

“Forest. Nowhere to bunker down, and a tent isn’t gonna do you any good.”

“Exactly. One bumpy ride later, here we were.”

Killian chooses that moment to practically pop out of nowhere from whatever he and David had been investigating in the meantime. “Realm travel. Nasty business no matter how you go about it, or so I’ve found.”

The disgusted twist of Mulan’s face is almost cartoonish, not that she’d appreciate such a reference. “ Hook ?”

“Ah, you remember me,” he winks. Even just a month ago, Emma would have thought he was trying to flirt; now she knows it’s just a defense mechanism of a kind. The jury is still out on whether it’s healthier than her own technique of concentrated sarcasm. “It’s always nice to know I’ve made an impression, especially with such a… formidable lady as yourself.”

(Idly, Emma wonders if he knows he’s barking up the wrong tree. Is gaydar a thing in the Enchanted Forest?)

Mulan rolls her eyes. Or maybe her entire face - Emma’s not ruling that out. “It hasn’t even been a year, Hook. I’m not senile, I just didn’t expect to see you here . Apparently in league with Emma. Seems a little odd for the pirate who was helping Cora, last I saw.”

“Aye, well, I fell in with the heroes some months ago after discovering revenge was… what was that charming phrase, Swan? ‘Not all it’s cracked up to be?’”

Emma studiously ignores whatever his eyebrows are doing. “He’s reformed, he’s helping, he’s fine.”

“I even look the part, you’ll notice.”

He’s not helping his case.

There’s more important things at hand, though, than whatever farce Killian is trying to goad Mulan into participating in. “Why don’t you introduce us to the… Merry Men?” she suggests instead, unable to actually say it without hesitating. “As long as you’re here, let’s get you settled in or whatever.”

Robin Hood, as it turns out, is a polite man with a three year old son and a glint in his eye that hints at mischief. Emma likes him immediately. There’s probably jokes to be made there about her having a liking for thieves and scoundrels, but it’s really Robin’s deep sense of responsibility that stands out to her. It’s obvious that he just wants to do right by his people - his little boy and the Merry Men and everyone else that’s marginally under his protection. Emma recognizes that, in a way. Hell, that’s how she found herself as sheriff; he just took a slightly different path. 

“I wish I could tell you more, and help you get to the bottom of this,” he tells her, apology tinging every word, “but it was the most I could do just to hold onto Roland and hope for the best.”

“We understand,” Emma assures him. “Hell, we were camped out in a storage room taking shelter. You had bigger priorities.”

“What about after?” Killian cuts in. “Once the tornado deposited you here. Did you see anything, or anyone? Anything… out of the ordinary?”

“To be fair, your entire world could be considered out of the ordinary to me,” Robin comments.

“Ah, well, you’ll learn it’s not so different in some ways, mate. All the loud machines aside.”

“Keep that up, and I won’t give you a ride back to town in the ‘loud machine,’” Emma can’t help but quip back. It’s what they do, after all, circumstances be damned. Banter. Tease. Flirt?

( So not the time to be thinking about that.)

“I do remember thinking your birds were… unusually large,” Robin continues with a thoughtful tone to his voice, evidently unfazed by her and Killian’s little detour into sarcasm. “Unless there are other creatures that fly in this realm?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” Killian assures him.

They stand in silence for a moment, as Emma turns the sparse clue over in her head. If it even is a clue. Could Robin have seen a vulture, or an eagle, or a hawk? What qualifies as “unusually large”? Without more information, there’s not really anything to do. 

“Let me radio Ruby and Mary Margaret - contact them,” Emma clarifies at Robin’s confused look instead of addressing the flying mystery in the room. “We’ll give you all a lift into town, get you some supplies or settled into the inn if you prefer. I know you didn’t plan to be here, but, uh… welcome to Storybrooke, I guess?”

“Thanks,” Robin laughs. “I dare say you may be a sheriff I’ll actually be happy to work with.”

———

In retrospect, the tornado should have been their first clue. The flying things a second, maybe, if they were feeling especially on their game that day. But it takes a third clue, practically flashing and neon, for Emma to finally catch on to what the fuck is happening now, and who’s here to play villain of the week like this is some bizarre crime procedural.

A week after Robin and company arrive by tornado (and there’s a sentence no one’s ever had cause to say before), there’s reports of happenings out by the town line. Two dwarves are missing, and Neal comes in swearing he saw something massive with wings. Suspiciously consistent with Robin’s description. 

The fact that Neal is there at all speaks to how serious the matter is. After the whole date fiasco, he’s avoided her at all costs - not that Emma’s objecting. No, she’s fine to see him only on the rare occasions Henry needs to be picked up instead of walking back to the loft. 

But Neal is there, and he looks… haunted. Scared . That concerns Emma more than anything else - Neal’s always been full of bravado, putting on a tough guy front. To see him shaken like this is weird.

“It was this big… thing ,” Neal tells her. “I know that’s pretty fucking useless, but I don’t know what the hell it was. It was big and looked like it had fur and it was flying. Look, all I know is that I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been in this realm for a long time. That thing ain’t natural.”

He isn’t thrilled about the way Emma makes him come with them - Emma’s parents in David’s truck, and her, Killian, and Neal in the police cruiser like some nightmare come to life - but he comes all the same. Having the three of them in the car is still better than forcing Neal into the truck with her still-vaguely-murderous dad, and as long as there’s something on the loose in Storybrooke, she’d rather not add a homicide to her pile of work. Killian, at least, listens to her marginally better where the Neal issue is concerned - and no, she doesn’t have the time to examine why right now. 

When they reach the town line, here’s nothing to be seen, at first - just pavement and trees and sky. Still, they diligently inspect the town line for any clue as to where the missing dwarves have gone or any sighting of… whatever the fuck Neal saw. Neal himself shifts restlessly off to the side while Emma, Hook, David, and Mary Margaret examine the pavement and surrounding woods. Emma knows she was the one to insist that he come along in the first place so he could point out what he saw, but she regrets it now that she has to watch him stand aside, totally useless. He’d guided them out here, to where he supposedly saw something, and pointed vaguely when she’d ask him where, but he’s not exactly a model witness. Their search isn’t productive, not even remotely, but it doesn’t feel fraught, either, like there’s danger just around the corner. Emma’s guard is down, just for a moment. There’s nothing here.

And then - there is.

Emma never even sees the attack coming. She’s just about to turn and ask Neal if he’s sure this is where he saw the thing, when an unholy screech pierces the air. Emma jerks her head upwards only to see the monster Neal must have been talking about - a beast covered in dark hair and sporting wings. A monkey , she realizes even as she is struck agape with shock. A flying monkey.

The beast doesn’t leave her time to gape, as it dives for their little clustered group. Killian pushes her behind him in what must be a protective instinct as she fumbles for her gun, his own sword already drawn in defense. A damn good thing he’d had the foresight to bring that. At her side, David has his own sword drawn too, simultaneously trying to fight the monkey and shield her mother. In the heat of the moment, it’s easy for Emma to wave her free hand and materialize a bow and arrows into Mary Margaret’s hand, though she knows she won’t be able to replicate it later. 

( Fuck , she’s got to get a handle on her magic, but now is not the time to be worrying about that - now is the time to fight , by any means necessary.)

As Emma starts firing shots, more monkeys materialize from the treeline, swooping to try and attack their clustered group. Shooting at them doesn’t do much; they’re far too fast for Emma to accurately aim. She thinks a stray bullet might graze or hit a few of the monkeys, but nothing is fatal. At this point, she’s more than happy to deal out injuries as long as it gets them to retreat. 

Their crucial mistake happens just as Emma thinks they’re finally getting the upper hand. She turns to take a couple shots at a particularly quick monkey, scaring it back into the forest, only to inadvertently leave her back exposed, with other flying beasts more than happy to take advantage of it.

“Ems, look out!” Neal yells. Emma jerks her head back around, only to see one of the monkeys behind her, too quick to shoot, too late to run - 

Until she’s not facing it anymore, and Neal’s pushed her out of the way, only to be snatched up himself and carried off.

With a victim in hand, the monkeys easily scatter, taking to the air and back to the woods. As much as Emma wants to freeze in horror as he’s carried off, kicking and screaming, she forces herself to dash after Neal. They may not be on the best of terms right now, but he deserves better than being mauled by some ape with wings, a monstrosity that isn’t even supposed to exist. She owes him that much after he just saved her life, at least. 

Emma takes off through the woods as quickly as she can, Killian right behind her and her parents pulling up the rear. Following the monkeys isn’t an exact science - mostly, Emma just tries to follow the sound of crashing and Neal’s ever more distant yelling. Knowing that, it’s probably a damn miracle they find him at all, dropped among the bushes god-only-knows how far from the road.

For a split second, Neal and Emma’s eyes meet, his eyes reflecting a relief that must be echoed in her own, and Emma allows herself to believe it’ll all be okay. He’s got what looks like a bite on one arm, and all kinds of scratches, but he’s more or less fine. She’s not going to have to break bad news to their kid today. 

And then he goes into convulsions. 

Emma isn’t sure how they get him back to David’s truck, honestly, just remembers her and Killian having to ride with him in the bed of the truck as he thrashes uncontrollably and grits his teeth in apparent pain as Mary Margaret leads the way to the hospital in Emma’s squad car. Emma does her best to stabilize his jerking head, maybe spare him a serious concussion, but it’s a losing battle, like Neal’s body is exerting a strength he doesn’t have under normal circumstances. It’s all Killian can do to try and pin Neal’s arms down to keep him from striking either of them in his convulsions. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter. They never even make it close to the hospital, as the effects of that bite become horrifically obvious as Neal sprouts fur, wings, and a tail right in front of them, springing into the sky indistinguishable from any other flying monkey. That’s the second miracle of the day - that he’s too anxious to flee, or maybe retaining just enough of his human mind, to take a swipe at Emma and Killian and drag them along with him. 

It certainly answers the question of what happened to the dwarves.

(God, what is she supposed to tell Henry?)

“Well, at least we know what we’re dealing with now,” David comments later, when Emma’s had to break the news and they’re all clustered into one of the booths at Granny’s with rum in their coffee cups.

“Care to enlighten the rest of us, then?” Killian quips before taking a generous drink. 

“Flying monkeys? The tornado?” Even as Emma throws out the now-obvious clues, Killian just stares blankly. Right - not from around here, no curse-downloaded pop culture knowledge. 

“It’s the Wicked Witch of the West - from Oz,” Mary Margaret completes. “That’s who we’re up against.”

And if that wasn’t bad enough - they don’t even know why. 

———

Things go from bad to weird when David goes dashing headlong into the woods, convinced he’s seen something, and comes out with a dazed look in his eyes, talking about fighting a version of himself. Emma would think he was talking crazy, or the witch had cast some kind of confusion spell on him, if not for the fact that he comes back with only half his sword. The blade is more or less intact, but the hilt is entirely missing, snapped clean off in a way that is anything but natural. So, as batshit as it sounds… Emma has to assume it’s true, and that it’s related to their Wicked Witch situation.

“Why can’t any of these fucking villains just come out and say what they’re up to?” Emma whines to Killian after sending her dad home for the day. He’s way too shaken up to be of any use for the rest of the afternoon. “What’s with all the smoke and mirrors? Hell, if they just came out with it, maybe we could help.”

“Ah, well, what would be the fun of that?”

“It would mean we wouldn’t have to be running around just trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Perhaps that’s true. But take it from me, love,” he says with a rueful smile, “most of these villains don’t have noble intentions. No heart that they’re hiding deep down inside.”

He’s remembering his own past, she knows - and he might be right. Hell, there’s no denying that he was on a single-minded quest for bloody revenge, and damn anyone who might get in his way. But the thing is - he’s changed . He turned his ship around and has been helping them ever since. Emma’s never really understood the concept of the exception proves the rule , but if she had to guess, he’d probably qualify. 

“You did,” she makes sure to tell him. “You’ve definitely got a heart in there. I’ve seen it. You’re…” she fumbles for a way to finish. “That’s not you. Not anymore.”

It does something funny to her heart, the way he smiles and ducks his head at her words. It seems to have snapped him out of his little self-loathing spiral. “Don’t go spreading that about now, Swan,” he jokes weakly. “A man’s got to keep his reputation, after all.”

“Don’t worry, I think the leather jacket is broadcasting that reputation loud and clear. But your secret’s safe with me, anyways.”

(She’s selfish enough to like that his soft side is just for her.)

——— 

Life goes on in Storybrooke, even with another villain afoot. It’s a little disturbing that they’re all so used to this, really; there’d been a town meeting, and a front page story in the Mirror, but the townspeople had barely batted an eye before turning back to their jobs and their lives and their morning coffee runs. Emma’s patrols increase, with help from David and Hook and whoever else pitches in for the day, but things are… suspiciously quiet.

It sets Emma’s nerves on edge.

(It doesn’t help that the increased patrols and ever-looming threat hovering over them all puts an abrupt stop to her early morning visits to the Jolly. Emma hadn’t realized just how much she depended on that to take her mind off of things until the possibility is taken away.)

After the whole “Neal the flying monkey” debacle, everyone kind of collectively decides it would be a good idea for Emma to start up magic lessons again. There’s a wicked witch on the loose after all; Emma may need to battle her with more than just luck at some point. If nothing else, it doesn’t hurt to have another person on hand who can wield magic in some kind of consistent way. You know, unlike whatever Emma can manage maybe a quarter of the time right now.

“Where’s your shadow?” Regina asks as soon Emma walks into her crypt. Lair. Whatever, it’s weird regardless.

“Too soon, Regina,” she warns. Not that Emma can’t handle reminders of their little jaunt to Neverland, but it feels like tempting fate to bring that up. She’s still doing her best to forget the fear that permeated every inch of her body during that whole episode. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Where’s Captain Guyliner , then?”

“It’s not like we’re attached at the hip,” Emma argues. “And besides, even you have to admit, he’s been a big help. We wouldn’t have gotten Henry back without him.”

“That’s true,” Regina concedes. “But don’t think the rest of us haven’t noticed the doey eyes and yearning looks.”

“I don’t yearn, ” Emma mutters. Even if that’s, maybe, not exactly true. It’s not any of Regina’s business.

“Maybe not - but he does.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me magic?” Emma doesn’t even try to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Because if I wanted to stand around and gossip all day, I’d go to Granny’s. At least the diner has coffee.”

“I thought it might do us both good to lighten the mood, but fine. Have it your way. This is a big favor I’m doing you, Miss Swan, so I hope you came prepared to actually learn.”

Regina is not what Emma would call a patient teacher. Learning from her is less of a show-and-tell or a do-as-I-do and more of an exercise in frustration. Regina doesn’t seem to quite get that the exact reason that Emma’s shown up today is because she can’t summon her magic on demand the way Regina can. 

“You’ve got to feel the magic inside you and channel it, Emma!” she barks. “It’s not just waving your arms and making things happen, you’ve got to center yourself!”

“I’m trying!” Emma snaps back. “I’m sorry that you yelling at me because this isn’t just happening doesn’t help!” 

“Think about who you’re doing this for, and why,” Regina says with barely concealed impatience, “and then light the candle .”

It’s not like Emma’s not trying. It’s just that whenever she tries to feel or channel or center or whatever, she can barely feel the slightest tickle beneath her sternum - nothing like the warmth in her veins that runs right down to her fingertips when she’s managed this in the past. A little smoke drifts up from the candle wick - but that’s about it. 

“God, it really was a damn miracle no one died in Neverland with this to protect us.” Regina doesn’t even make the attempt to say it under her breath. 

“Well I’m sorry that something about literally being about to die brings it out of me!”

That sparks an uncomfortable little twinkle in Regina’s eye; Emma really, really doesn’t want to know what that’s about. Thankfully, before she has to find out, her phone rings. Henry. He’s spending the day with Killian, actually; her son had all but demanded a sailing lesson, and Hook had been only too eager to concede once Emma gave the okay. Truthfully, Emma isn’t sure Henry’s interested in sailing so much as being on the water and hearing Killian’s pirate stories. As long as the kid’s distracted from worrying about his dad, and still under capable protection, Emma’s more than fine with it.

“Mom!” he yells as soon as Emma picks up the phone, panic coloring his voice and making her blood run cold. “Mom, you gotta get down here, there’s —” An unholy screech completes the sentence for him, just as well as any words.

Flying monkeys. Going after Henry. Fuck.

“Where are you, Henry?” 

“Boathouse!” It sounds like a shot fires in the background. “Killian’s fighting them. But get here qui—” Before Henry can finish, it sounds like the phone is knocked out of his hands, clattering to the ground before the call cuts out. 

“Get us to the boathouse,” Emma barks to Regina. “Henry and Killian are in danger.”

Without any of her usual snark, Regina grabs Emma by the wrist and twists her hand upwards through the air, enveloping them both in a plume of purple smoke. When the haze clears, they’re in the middle of the boathouse, watching a sextet of flying monkeys circle the far end. As Emma watches, Killian pops up above an overturned rowboat to fire at the winged monstrosities. He’s careful, she notices, to aim for less lethal areas of their bodies; that makes sense, she supposes, if the creatures were once their friends. It just wouldn’t do to go and shoot Neal on accident.

Regina has already stalked towards the fray, throwing fireballs, and Emma follows just behind. Ironically, it’s easy now - again, when she and everyone she… cares for are in danger - to summon magic of her own, blasting out a burst of white light that sends one of the monkeys tumbling.

“Fucking figures,” Regina mutters, purposefully just loud enough to hear. And you know what? Emma agrees. 

“Mom!” cries Henry, trying to peak his own head above their makeshift barrier even as Killian tries to push him back out of sight.

“Stay down, kid,” Emma calls. “Just until we take care of this.”

It’s almost easy now that the numbers are more even - especially when their numbers include two magic users and a foolhardy pirate. Once Killian’s bullets run out, he tips the rowboat over Henry for extra protection and stands on top, swiping with his sword at anything that comes near. Watching him fuels Emma’s own magic, somehow - makes it burn brighter, like she just needed a reminder of what she’s fighting for. Her magic has always come easiest when she has something to protect, and seeing Killian, a man she - cares deeply about, fighting so hard to protect her son? Well, that certainly qualifies.

Finally, the monkeys are driven into a retreat - not quite defeated, but deferred. Good enough. As Emma lowers her arms, the white light she’d wielded with instinct rather than skill fading just as independently, her gaze searches for Henry, only to find Killian already helping him out from beneath his make-shift shelter. It’s obvious that he’s checking her kid over for injury in the way that he pats at his shoulders and peers at him, but there’s only a couple of shallow scratches on Henry’s arms and one above his eye. With a relieved cry, Regina hurries over to take their son into her arms and heal all his little injuries before Emma gets a chance. That just leaves her free to see the way Killian’s eyes search her out now that he knows Henry is safe and taken care of, and free to see the way his body sags in relief when he finds her entirely unharmed.

It shouldn’t be a romantic moment, really. They’re both hurtling towards an adrenaline crash, sweaty from the gathering heat of the day and an outpouring of stress. But - honestly, Emma should have taken this leap ages ago, because Killian has done nothing but try to be better - for himself, for her - since they boarded that ship to Neverland. He’s her biggest confidant, her greatest assistant, willing to support her in any way she needs, never expecting anything more but very obviously hoping for it. It shouldn’t be this, seeing the way he protects her son, placing Henry’s safety above his own, that spurs her into action.

But it is. 

“They came out of nowhere, Swan,” Killian tries to tell her as he approaches. “I’m sorry to have ever put Henry in a situation where —”

“Shut up,” she interrupts.

And then she grabs him by the front of that damn t-shirt and yanks him into her space and kisses him.

There’s shades of Neverland to the kiss, in the motion and the suddenness and the way he so willing gives into it. But it’s different, too - because Emma knows that it isn’t just a one time thing. This is just the start of something, something greater than she ever let herself imagine or believe in.

But for now, to start, it’s a kiss. A damn good kiss, one that makes her toes curl and her heart soar like she’s living in a teen rom-com. Her hands relax from their grip on his shirt as he gently sweeps his tongue past her lips, tugging her even closer into him with his hand and hook at her waist. Her initial attack of his lips morphs into something softer, even as the kiss deepens. It’s not just passion anymore - it’s comfort, affection. Home , maybe, if she’s brave enough to take it.

(She thinks she might be - if not now, one day soon.)

They finally break apart, but only far enough to breathe. Killian gently drops his forehead against her own.

“Emma, love, I’ll follow your lead - hell, I’ll follow you to the ends of the damned world,” he chuckles breathlessly, “but please, please , tell me this is more than just —”

“It is,” Emma can’t help but cut in, unwilling to leave him in doubt for a moment longer, not when she finally knows what she wants. “It’s more than just a one-time-thing. I know the timing is… well, it’s shit, honestly, but I’m tired of trying to pretend. Not when you’d do anything for me and Henry. I’ve had feelings for you for a long time, and… I want to explore that. I mean, if you want that too.”

“Do I want that?” The disbelief is obvious in his voice. “I… yes, I…”

Rather than finish his sentence - the great verbose Killian Jones, reduced to a stammer by her! - he swoops in for another kiss. It’s more than enough of an answer.

A groan sounds from across the way before the kiss can deepen again, however. “Do you have to do this now? ” Henry demands. “In front of me? Jeez, impressionable eyes or something.”

Well that has a way of bringing her back down to earth. In front of her kid! 

(Truth be told - this might be something he has to get used to.)

“Alright lad, we’ll save it for later,” Killian laughs, before slinging his hook arm around her waist. It’s the work of a moment to rise up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek and whisper in his ear. 

“I’m holding you to that, Jones.”

The flush of his ears, she thinks, is the start of something wonderful. Together. 

———

So. They’re dating now. Or courting , he’d probably say. 

There’s not room to call it much of anything, in Emma’s opinion, as they’re all still busy trying to figure out who the Wicked Witch is and where she is and what she’s planning to do next. David tells her to live in the moment - taking the news of his little girl dating a pirate remarkably, surprisingly well - but there’s just too much going on for her to actually do that. There’s still flying monkeys around and a Wicked Witch afoot and somehow in the middle of all that the remaining dwarves are still at each other's throats and, well, Emma’s the Savior. She’s not exactly allowed to take a day off in the middle of all of this, even if she really wants a nice date and maybe (definitely) some uninterrupted time in the captain’s quarters afterwards. 

(She’s a simple woman, with simple wants and simple needs, and an entire town determined to get in her way.)

The only times she and Killian have managed to find together - alone - so far are on patrols. That’s the cover, at least - looking for any place their latest villain might be hiding in the corners of Storybrooke Emma usually doesn’t have reason to check out. If some of those patrols also include making out in the front or back seat of the patrol car, well, that’s her business.

(After everything her parents have gotten up to, they have no room to judge.)

They’d stumbled across a farmhouse Emma never knew existed in their latest quest for abandoned back roads. It’s actually nestled not too far from where Robin, Mulan, and the Merry Men had touched down during the tornado - maybe half a mile through the woods. That’s the only thing, really, that convinces Emma to actually check out the place instead of just dragging Killian into the backseat again - the knowledge that it can’t be a coincidence to find this place so close to the proverbial scene of the crime.

“It’s probably nothing,” she tells Killian as they trek up the gravel drive, hand in hand. Even that small, mundane contact feels wondrous to her, almost a little miraculous; it’s more than she ever dared to dream of for so long, to know that this is a partnership even more than just a blossoming relationship. “We’ll walk up, some jolly old farmer in a straw hat will answer the door, obviously not the Wicked Witch, and then we’ll go back to the cruiser and, you know. Patrol .”

“I rather think this little hamlet has never been so well patrolled before,” Killian teases. His thumb strokes along the back of her hand in a move she thinks he might not even be aware of, making her heart flutter in her chest. 

“I don’t hear you complaining, Jones.”

“Oh, never, darling. Perish the thought.”

They fall silent as they approach the farmhouse and climb the front steps. There’s a barn, a shed, several outbuildings - all the makings of a rural farmstead, but all deathly still. It’s eerie. Circling the wrap-around porch before they knock, there’s no sign of life in any of the windows.

“Looks abandoned,” Killian comments as they peer in the last window.

“I know. That’s what worries me,” Emma explains. “All the best hide-outs look empty. Doesn’t mean they are.”

“Shall we check inside, then?”

God, she doesn’t want to.

It seems almost more suspicious when the door swings inward as soon as her knuckles hit the weathered wood. The sparse rooms inside give every indication of being abandoned - that tell-tale empty echo, the layer of dust covering every surface - but still, something niggles at Emma. It’s like her magic senses… something. Somehow. Something she can’t quite put her finger on, but that tells her this is all a front.

“You think this is where the witch has been hiding out, don’t you.” There’s no judgement in his voice - only curiosity. It’s a welcome change after ages of dealing with Neal and Regina and goddamn Rumplestiltskin, in all their cynical dickery. 

“Yeah,” she admits. “I couldn’t tell you why. I just… I know it. There’s something going on here.”

“Then we’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Just like that? No other explanation needed?”

“Just like that, love.” He pauses. “Is that - does that surprise you? Is that alright?”

Quickly, impulsively, Emma presses up on her toes to drop a brief, tender kiss on his lips. “It’s more than alright.”

God, she can’t believe she was lucky enough to find a partner like him.

———

There’s something about knowing there’s yet another villain on the loose that tinges every minor mishap with an air of suspicion. That’s what happens, Emma figures, when they don’t actually know what the witch wants in the first place. She’s a little ashamed to admit that it’s the only reason she even entertains the thought that Henry’s missing storybook is witch-related. Maybe that makes her a bad mother; Emma’s choosing to believe it just makes her one who knows her messy kid. 

“And you’re sure you didn’t just… leave it at school? Maybe at Regina’s?” she asks, just to cover all their bases.

“ No , Mom,” Henry insists. “The storybook always stays in my backpack, and that always stays with me. And it’s not there .”

Staging a full-scale search of her parents’ loft and Regina’s house feels kind of overkill, in some ways, but Emma isn’t really sure what to do. Even if there’s no foul play involved, that book is important to Henry - it’s probably his most prized possession, almost an extension of himself. She’s got to do everything she can to find it. 

Regina’s house is both easier and harder because everything’s so regimentally tidied - there’s no mess to sort through, but plenty of stuff hidden away in closets and under-bed totes and whatever the hell other storage solutions Regina has managed to get her hands on. 

“Isn’t this a little… excessive ?” his other mother asks when Henry is out of earshot. 

Emma just shrugs. “I’ve learned not to second guess Henry, honestly. And do you want to be the one that keeps him from finding that book?”

It’s less easy for Regina to call this overkill, though, when they tear her house apart only to find nothing, and to repeat the whole process to no avail at the loft. Even with Killian and Mary Margaret and David helping, checking in even the weird spots it should never be hidden in, they turn up nothing. Emma watched Henry search his book bag himself earlier, take everything out and put it back in again, but with no other ideas anymore, she goes to look through the backpack herself one more time.

And that’s when things get weird. Because there still isn’t any leather-bound storybook in there - but there’s something weirder instead. It’s like a weird tingle that goes up her arms and sets the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. Something she remembers from that farmhouse - and now, she realizes, from the clearing where the tornado touched down. Magic - of the type she’s never encountered anywhere else.

So the Wicked Witch has Henry’s storybook after all. The real question remains: why in the hell would she take it in the first place?

——— 

Killian waits for her with coffee every morning. 

It’s not something Emma is used to. Her romantic history, post-Neal, has been all one-night-stands and that one poorly advised fling with a married man - temporary, covert situations. Nothing that lasted. Nothing that resulted in these kinds of gestures. 

But Killian waits for her, every morning, with coffee in hand in front of the Storybrooke Library, ready to walk with her down to the Sheriff’s Station. 

It’s convenient on multiple levels, she has to admit; it lets her spend some time alone with Killian in a not-quite-date, and spares her a trip to Granny’s that always seems to spiral into dealing with five different petty complaints when she really just wants some coffee. Getting to sleep in the extra twenty minutes is a nice bonus too.

It also, on this momentous morning, keeps her from having to witness the Wicked Witch’s theatrics at the diner. Her name is Zelena, she definitely came with the tornado (as if there was any question about that), and - because things can’t be simple in Storybrooke - she’s Regina’s sister. And, typically, she’s yet another person holding a personal vendetta against the former Evil Queen.

“ Half- sister, from my mother,” Regina makes sure to emphasize once Emma shows up at the diner after being greeted by a flurry of phone calls as soon as they’d walked into the station. Granny’s is a mess, quite frankly; a short duel had ensued between the two half -sisters after Zelena’s dramatic revelations had interrupted Regina’s own coffee run. There’s smashed plates and food on the floor and overturned tables and chairs. Even Regina is less than her usual composed self, her hair frizzing out on one side and her regular pantsuit showing uncharacteristic wrinkles. It’s probably a damn miracle no one was seriously hurt in the chaos. While Emma had to interview Regina first thing, try and figure out what the hell is going on, Killian had immediately moved to help Granny and Ruby clean up. It’s just another way he’s trying, and the difference from when he first showed up in town to now is sharply evident in moments like these. He fits here, in a way that neither of them would have bet on all those months ago.

Before Emma can get too distracted by watching her reformed - no, evolved pirate, she forces herself to turn her attention back to the mayor and the important questions that still need asking. “Did she say anything? Maybe tell you what she’s trying to do here?” 

“Oh, you know. The usual ‘I’m going to take everything you never deserved’ nonsense. ‘I’ll seize what should have been mine.’ So wonderfully specific.”

Emma really should have figured that this Zelena wouldn’t be nearly so helpful, but it’s always worth asking. “So she didn’t give us anything useful at all.”

“No. But I think I know someone who can.”

———

Someone who can , it turns out, is Regina’s mother. Her dead mother. Who they’ll be contacting via séance. You know, like you do. 

(What the fuck has her life become?)

Apparently, it’s a simple ceremony, according to Regina, as long as the right components are present: the person who took the life of the spirit they’re trying to summon, and the murder weapon used. Mary Margaret, obviously, is still at hand, as is the murder candle… thing. So that’s the two most important elements out of the way. The rest of them are there because they knew or had some kind of connection to Cora - Emma and David as former foes (though, in the latter’s case, mostly as support for his paler-by-the-second wife) and Killian as a former ally.

Emma can see the way the memories of that time weigh upon Killian, even if he doesn’t want to talk about it. His feet practically drag as they approach the mayor’s mansion with a hesitance that Emma’s rarely seen from him.

“Will you be alright?” she asks softly as they approach the front gates.

Killian sighs heavily. “Aye,” he finally responds. “It’s simply a less-than-welcome reminder of the darker side of myself, even as I’m trying to leave that behind.”

“The man you used to be,” Emma makes sure to emphasize. Because he’s not that villain anymore, not in her eyes or anyone else’s.

No one’s eyes but his own, that is. “The man I am , love.” Shame colors every syllable of his admission. “I know you see the best in me, and I can’t tell you how much that means, but that man I was, when we first met? He’s still here, underneath all the niceties, just waiting for the right time to reappear. And what if this somehow sets me back? Lets the villain back out to play? My heart will never be pure the way yours is, darling.”

Emma stops to face him, reaching to cup his face in her hands. “I know. But I don’t need it to be,” she assures him. “I’m not my parents. I’m not focused on good versus bad - people are a lot more complicated than that, in my experience. What matters to me is that you’re trying , and I see that, every day.”

“But —”

“I’m not afraid of who you used to be, Killian, because you’re not that man anymore,” Emma interrupts before he can needlessly object. “You’ve got plenty of marks in the good column, trust me.”

“If you say so, love.” The words could be taken as dismissive, but there’s awe shining in his eyes - awe that she put there, trying to make him see himself the way she sees him. It’s a heady thing, that knowledge. Maybe they’re both just trying to live up to the person the other person sees.

Regardless of Killian’s fears, it all comes to nothing. They sit in a circle and hold hands and focus on summoning Cora and everything else, but nothing ever materializes - not even a whisper, not even an unusual draft. It’s a total dud. Honestly, Emma isn’t too disappointed. They’ll figure out some other way to discover Zelena’s intentions, she’s sure; not having to deal with Cora is always the best-case scenario in her book.

Things are a bit lighter after the séance-that-wasn’t is over, too. Killian trails her down Regina’s ostentatious hall stairs with a gentle hand on her back while Mary Margaret and David stay behind to help clean up. The gesture doesn’t bother her the way it might from anyone else - probably because she knows he does it not out of a desire to control her or manhandle her, but out of a more gently selfish desire to always be in her proximity, touching her whenever he can. Pirate , he’d probably joke if she confronted him about it. We’re naturally drawn to treasure, love.

(She sees no reason to confront him about it, especially if that means he stops.)

“I don’t suppose I can treat you to a spot of dinner, Swan?” he asks as they exit back out into the early summer night, scratching at his neck in a nervous gesture. Like he truly has anything to be nervous about - at least where dinner is concerned. 

“What, like a date?” she teases.

“Aye. Or at least as close to one as we can manage in the midst of the latest crisis. A little time for just the two of us.”

“I don’t know… I’m not exactly dressed for a date…” She punctuates the faux hesitation with a smile, just to make sure he knows she’s teasing. He probably knew anyways - open book and all that. 

“Ah, but darling - you look wonderful in anything. Or, I’m sure, in nothing at all ,” he adds sotto voce . The absurdity of it makes Emma laugh - that, and his awful attempt at a wink, Killian clearly unaware that his other eye closed as well. Idiot.

(Her idiot.)

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she laughs. “So, sailor, where are you taking me?”

He takes her to a little fish and chip joint down by the docks that Emma vaguely remembers opened a few months after the curse broke. It’s nothing fancy, obviously, but it’s good food and even better company and not Granny’s, where Emma eats half her dinners and feels like she’s being unnecessarily babysat. If the way the man behind the counter doffs his baseball cap and calls Killian Captain is any indication, it’s run by one of his former crew members, who can doubtless be discreet. She and Killian aren’t the type to stand on ceremony, anyways; she doesn’t need some fancy dinner with white-tie waiters and five courses. This is perfect for them - some greasy little shack where the food is good and they can be together without everyone else’s eyes watching.

“As far as first dates go, you did good,” she tells Killian, polishing off a bite of fried lobster from the mixed fry basket they’ve been sharing along with a couple of beers. “Definitely better than the last one.”

“To be fair, that was a low bar to clear,” Killian points out as he examines a piece of shrimp. He’s oddly, endearingly perplexed by this particular food, though he keeps eating them all the same. Maybe it’s something about the shape? Emma doesn’t ask, for fear that bringing it to his attention will make him stop in embarrassment. 

“I mean, true,” she concedes, “but I think that would still be the case even if my last first date hadn’t ended with a shouting match in Granny’s. Or the ones before that, where I hauled my so-called ‘dates’ off to jail.”

“You’re still welcome to handcuff me if you like, darling. I’m sure we can have plenty of fun.” His eyebrows waggle in salacious promise, and god , Emma wants . What if they did go back to his ship? Her parents were doubtless expecting her at home - but maybe, just for a bit…

Before she gets a chance to follow that thought to a very enjoyable conclusion, however, Belle barrels through the door of the tiny restaurant, book in hand.

“I know what Zelena wants!” she bursts out. Emma can’t help but throw an exasperated look at Killian, only to see him doing the same thing.

Well, the date was nice while it lasted. 

“The sword, Henry’s book - they’re ingredients ,” Belle explains, pulling up a chair and wiggling a hefty tome onto the small table between the plates. “I thought the sword was weird enough that it sent me to research, but the storybook turning up missing - that really sealed it for me. And I just found it.”

“Well don’t leave us in suspense, love,” Killian prompts when Belle shows no signs of continuing. “What are they ingredients for?”

Belle takes a deep breath before plowing ahead. “I think Zelena is trying to cast a time travel spell.”

“No.” Emma didn’t really mean to burst out with that, but it’s a bit too late now. Seems her disbelief couldn’t be tamed. 

“I don’t know, it doesn’t seem more far-fetched than anything else that we’ve dealt with,” Killian hazards.

“I mean, yeah, but… c’mon. Time travel? If that was a thing, don’t you think Regina would have already tried it?”

“Not necessarily. It’s a very obscure spell. I found it in… Rumple mentioned it in one of his notebooks,” Belle explains, her voice faltering. “He never got it to work. No one has. And this spell book - there’s not many left in existence.”

“So it’s entirely possible that Madam Mayor never heard of this spell, or never got it to work,” Killian concludes.

“Exactly.”

“It would make sense,” Emma admits. “Zelena’s apparently got a stick up her ass about Regina getting everything she never had, or some shit. Because I guess she thinks growing up with Cora was more fun than I was led to believe? I don’t know. But it would make sense that she’d want to go back in time and change things.”

“You said the sword and the book were ingredients?” Killian asks. “Are there others?”

“Oh! Yes. The sword is for courage - it was infused with David’s courage when he faced his deepest fears. And Henry’s book, I imagine, is for innocence.”

“That would explain the attack at the boathouse,” Killian interrupts. “I’d imagine the actual Truest Believer would be much better than a symbol of his belief. Not that I’m complaining about the outcome,” he assures Emma with a smile, taking her hand.

“Kiss-up.”

“Aye, yours.”

“ Anyways ,” Belle interjects, “according to this book, what’s left is intelligence and a heart. A resilient heart. Now, I won’t pretend to know how intelligence will manifest, but a resilient heart…”

“Regina,” Emma realizes. “Probably the whole reason for that melodramatic showdown she tried to stage in Granny’s. She wanted Regina’s heart - her ingredient, with a nice side of revenge.”

“I know it’s not great news,” Belle concedes, “but at least we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Aye, and she’s halfway there.”

“Then we’ll just have to stop her,” Emma declares.

They’re steep odds - but when have they ever let that stop them before?

———

They watch. They wait. They do their best to stay vigilant. Emma helps Regina place an extra protection on her heart so that it can’t be taken.

Nothing happens.

They know the Wicked Witch hasn’t truly retreated; flying monkeys still try to snatch anyone who gets too close to the town line, and every so often Emma will stumble across a little pocket of residual magic. She’s here, somewhere - she’s just hiding, biding her time. Waiting for them to slip up. 

Henry’s got a theory, one he’s slowly convincing everyone else of, that Emma’s Savior magic is the key to defeating Zelena - that she’s the only one who can. It makes sense, in a way; the sparse research that Belle’s been able to dig up suggests that while the Wicked Witch is not vulnerable to well-deployed buckets of water, she may be susceptible to powerful light magic. Emma may not be a particularly consistent magic user, but everything she’s heard says magic born from True Love is more powerful than anything. So. This may be all on her shoulders, yet again.

“If I’m the only one who can defeat her, or whatever, why hasn’t she just… come and fought me? Tried to take my magic or whatever, like Pan tried to do with Henry?” Emma groans to Regina in another of their fruitless magic lessons.

“Magic born of True Love is special,” Regina explains, barely paying attention to Emma as she examines something in one of her heavy tomes. “It’s something that’s a part of you in a way that other kinds of magic aren’t. Zelena won’t be able to take your magic, unless you give it up willingly.”

“What, you just know that?”

Regina fixes her with a baleful stare. “Some of us are willing to do our research, Ms. Swan. Call me invested in defeating my sister and keeping Henry happy.”

At least there’s that. 

Emma tries not to think about it, mostly, and embraces the quiet moments instead - something that gets easier as the days, and then the weeks slip by. Killian helps a lot. They finally, cautiously have more of those dates she’s been wanting - lunches and dinners and evening walks and, one memorable time, a breakfast after spending the night on his ship. Being with Killian is like nothing she’s ever experienced before. It’s comfortable. It’s easy - and somehow, it’s them , and more than Emma ever believed she would have.

(It’s still hard, some days, to believe she could deserve something like this, but it gets a little easier every time she sees his face light up once she walks into the room.)

(Some days, she thinks those three words that could change everything are sitting right on the tip of her tongue, just waiting to take flight - if only she would let them.)

They’re taking a stroll by the docks this afternoon, ice creams in hand and her fingers wrapped around his hook. Summer has finally arrived in Storybrooke, all blue skies and warm breezes, and it’s simply too nice to waste the day inside when there’s nothing going on. She can bring the walkie-talkie and her cell phone anyways if anything unexpected happens.

“Did you ever think we’d be here?” she asks on a whim. “Way back on the beanstalk?”

He laughs. “I know you didn’t, darling,” he teases her.

“Hey! We’re talking about you here, not me. Don’t dodge the question, Captain.”

“Did I think, on the beanstalk, that I’d enter into a relationship with the feisty blonde who’d already threatened me with bodily harm? No, I must say I didn’t.”

“Okay, well, you don’t have to put it like that ,” she grumbles, mostly to get him to kiss her.

(It works, but that’s probably not the point here.)

“I think it would have been a stretch to think we’d end up exactly here,” he continues, “but I will admit that I was… intrigued.”

“Feisty, intriguing, and threatening? Good combo. I like that.”

“I certainly have no complaints.”

“Me neither.” It’s not quite a declaration - not by any stretch - but it’s… something. Something to let him know that he means something to her, that she’s happy. And she’s lucky enough that he gets it - just like he always does.

Killian tugs gently on her arm to draw her up short, waiting to speak until she turns to face him. “I may not have foreseen this from the first moment, love, but I’m glad we made it here, all the same.” His eyes practically overflow with affection, and Emma can’t help but stretch up to bring her lips to his —

But before they can kiss, a cloud of smoke and a loud cackle interrupts. Zelena . Even if they’ve never met, Emma knows it instinctively from the way the other woman’s magic feels. The cliche black garb, pointed hat, and green complexion just confirm it. “Oh, how precious!” the witch drawls with a pompous accent. “But I’m sorry, Savior - I’ll be taking that.”

Emma barely has a moment to process the words, let alone figure out what they mean, before the Witch throws her hand into the air again. When the thick green cloud clears, Emma’s all alone.

She’s taken Killian.

The panic that courses through Emma’s body now is only rivaled by that which she'd felt when Henry ate the turnover and collapsed into a coma. It’s raw and immediate and nearly desperate, clouding everything and making it hard to think about anything but fixing this . She barely remembers calling her parents, barely hears their pleas for her to stay put and wait for backup. Zelena has Killian, is going to do god-knows-what to him, and Emma knows where they are. There’s no time for waiting and for backup - she’s got to act now .

It becomes crystal clear as Emma speeds towards the farmhouse that she loves Killian, to a degree she’s never admitted but has been there for a long while. He’s her best friend, her partner, the person who makes her feel most special and always knows what to do to make her laugh. Faced with the prospect of losing all that, Emma realizes that while she can picture a life without him, she doesn’t want to. She’s been so afraid, for so long - of letting someone in, of making herself vulnerable again in that way. But with Killian… As much as Emma’s afraid to admit it, she thinks she’s already there. It’s like being deep in a cave, the kind where no light can permeate, darker than any citywide blackout, when there’s no choice but to embrace the pitch black - to reach out and place your trust in those alongside you and feel . 

Emma’s never been afraid of the darkness. And this shouldn’t be any different.

(She’s never been afraid of his darkness, after all, for all that he is.)

She loves him. Zelena has him. And, well - that just won’t stand.

When Emma arrives at the farmhouse they’d searched near where Zelena’s tornado touched down, the Wicked Witch is obviously waiting for Emma to arrive, standing with a smirk and Killian bound at her side. Emma can see the panic in his eyes, even at a distance; he opens his mouth to shout or cry out, but no noise comes out, like a spell has been cast to mute him. At Zelena’s feet, in a compass pattern, all the pieces she’s been collecting for her spell lie in metal dishes: David’s sword, Henry’s storybook, a single red apple - a symbol of the curse, of intelligence, Emma realizes. Regina’s apple, her greatest accomplishment, never her heart, as they had all assumed, and something they never realized was missing. Still, at the fourth point of the compass lies a heart - Killian’s , she realizes. 

(It seems foolish, now, to think that it could ever have been Regina, when Killian has weathered so much more - centuries of pain, only to come out the other side, still wanting to try. Still wanting to love.)

“I’ve been waiting for you, Savior,” Zelena crows. “Come to rescue your little boy toy?”

“Let him go, Zelena.” Emma puts all the authority she can muster into the command, even as her heart beats faster with fear for Killian.

“I don’t think I shall,” the redhead replies. “Not without a little trade, at least.”

“We’re not making deals here.”

“Oh, but I think we are ,” Zelena tosses back with a wicked grin. “It’s simple, Savior - you give up your magic, and I give back the pirate. Everybody wins, and isn’t that nice?”

“From where I’m standing, it seems like I have the upper hand,” Emma comments. “You can’t touch me. You can’t take my magic yourself. There’s literally no reason I can’t just knock you out, untie Killian, and get the hell out of dodge.”

“Do you think me so dumb, Sheriff, as to not have considered that? Oh, my pretty, how wrong you are. How you’ll pay for that.”

To Emma’s horror, with a wave of her hand, Zelena sends Killian flying into a waiting trough, submerging his head beneath the water even as his body jerks and struggles, still confined by ropes. Emma practically flies over to his side, but there’s no pulling him out, not even with magic. 

“What a fitting end for a sailor, isn’t it?” the Wicked Witch cackles. “But it doesn’t have to be. You can rescue him, Savior - but not without a cost. I’ve placed a curse on his lips, one that will strip your magic as soon as yours touch them. So tell me, Sheriff - is his life worth your power? Or is your power worth his life?”

All through Zelena’s little speech, Killian continues to struggle, horrible air bubbles breaking the surface of the water as his panicked lungs deplete their oxygen stores. It’s only once the struggle stops (when he passes out, please let him only have passed out) that Emma is able to pull him from the water, where it immediately becomes obvious that Zelena isn’t bluffing. Killian’s pulse is thin, and she can’t feel his breath against her hand or face. Shit.

“Killian, you gotta wake up,” she pleads, starting chest compressions. It’s putting off the inevitable; she knows, in a horrible way, that he won’t wake on his own. Still, there’s no real choice - not when she loves him, not when their story is just beginning. It’ll be worth it.

“Killian, come back to me,” she whispers, before pressing her lips to his to force air from her lungs into his own.

She can feel it when the curse takes hold, latching onto her magic and claiming it for its own. Emma had never really thought much about her magic as a tangible part of herself, but she can feel it as it’s drained from her body and soul - the way the magic had settled in her chest and her fingers and up and down her spine, no longer there to prop her up. She’d slump if she were standing, though she can’t with her body still hunched over Killian’s.

(It’s worth it, though, if it saves him - if he lives to love her. She has to believe that.)

Behind them, Emma is faintly aware of a brilliant green glow as Emma’s powers are sucked away, of the way the witch laughs with maniacal delight to see her plan come to fruition. That’s not really important, though, not when Killian takes a gasp of air on his own and starts to cough up all the water he inhaled. When he looks up to see her, though, a look of horror crosses his face.

“No,” he whispers. “No, Emma, what did you do?”

She remembers, in that moment, exactly what Killian thinks of himself - the way he thinks he’s unworthy, not worth saving at the expense of everyone else. Love blooms bright and brilliant in her chest at the realization, missing magic be damned, for the man Killian doesn’t yet believe he is.

And suddenly, Emma knows what she has to do.

(Some things are all about belief, and Emma is choosing to believe this is one of them.)

“I love you, Killian,” she tells him, stroking her thumb along his cheek and relishing in the way those words make his face soften into awe. “It’s going to be alright.”

And she kisses him, with her lips and her soul and every single bit of her heart. Ok, and maybe a bit of tongue too, but that’s just because. The important thing here is that she kisses him not just like she means it, but like she believes it. She loves him, and he loves her; there’s no reason that shouldn’t be enough to break curses and move mountains and change fate, as long as she believes in it. 

For all that Killian had been alarmed by their earlier kiss, he readily sinks into this one, complete with a happy little noise she thinks he emitted subconsciously. It’s that little content hum that does it; Emma grins with a suppressed chuckle of her own against his lips before diving in for more. A feeling of affection and supreme contentment bursts in her chest as she digs a hand deep into his hair - and that’s when it happens. The feeling keeps spreading outwards until it surrounds them in a burst of rainbow light she can see even beneath her eyelids. Somewhere behind them, Zelena’s triumphant laughter turns into shrieks of horror before abruptly vanishing into thin air; Emma’s a little too busy kissing her True Love to bother looking. 

(They’ll investigate later, and discover nothing more than a pile of faintly smoking designer clothes, the emerald pendant she’d probably trapped Emma’s magic in sitting on top of them with a deep crack dividing the once-precious gem in two, as if something more powerful than anyone had anticipated had burst from within. Water may not have been capable of stopping this Wicked Witch - but a curse explosively broken by a kiss sure was.)

“You really love me,” he mumbles, voice still muddled by the kiss and tinged with no small amount of awe. Will that ever really go away? As much as Emma wants those words to become the most wonderful kind of routine, she still can’t help but hope he’ll always look at her with a bit of that awe. 

“I really do,” she tells him, all the while knowing there’s a grin to match on her own face. 

Killian dives right back in to kiss it off her face, their lips and tongues tangling again in between smiles.  Emma laughs when they finally pull away. “Anything you want to tell me , then?” she teases. There’s no real heat in it and he knows it; Killian has long since made his feelings for her obvious, even without the words. Even if that hadn’t been the case, the True Love’s Kiss they just shared more than proves it. 

“Darling, you must know,” he tells her, fully sitting up to face her with an impossibly tender look on his face. “I love you beyond all reason, for your brilliance and beauty and pure stubbornness. I love you more than the most vibrant sunset or most calmest day at sea or my very ship. More than my own self. You are precious to me, for all that you are, and I love you for every bit of it.”

“Trying to make my declaration look bad. I see how it is.”

“As if I could ever, my love. Though you’re always welcome to try again,” he teases back with a wink.

(She loves that wink - the way he can never manage to close just one eye, and ends up with a spasm-y blink instead. That’s her spasm-y blink.)

As much as she tries, though - well, words have always been his thing. “You make me happy,” she finally says. “And comfortable, and… me. You make me feel like me, not like the Savior or anything else. I was so scared when Zelena took you, and it made me realize that if I’m brave enough to come after you, I can be brave enough to love you, too. That’s it, really. I love you.”

“And I you, Swan,” he tells her, like a personal gospel. “As if I could ever not.”

———

(“How did you know it would all work out?” he asks later. “Why would you kiss me, and give up your magic, when that was the best way to defeat her and save everyone? How did you know that we had true love - let alone that True Love’s Kiss would bring your magic back?”

“I didn’t,” Emma tells him. “I just had to believe . And it turns out - you did too.”)

——— 

She wakes up in the middle of the night after another nightmare about the turnover and everything she almost lost because she refused to believe. These dreams are always jarring because they pull so much on memory before twisting it and making it into a horror beyond words, and her heart is beating so fast and her breath is coming in panicked, if slowing gasps. And she’s used to dealing with this by herself, used to reminding herself on her own that everything’s alright, it was just a dream, used to —

Behind her, Killian stirs. “Alright, love?” he mumbles into the darkness that cloaks her bedroom - the one she usually has all to herself, in the apartment she finally signed a lease on. Even as he talks, he pulls her closer, back into his arms. Like he knows on some level. Like he’ll do anything to protect her.

“Yeah,” she whispers back, letting herself sink a little further into his protective embrace. “Just a bad dream.”

“Mmmmm. Go back t’sleep, I’ll keep you safe.”

“And you’ll be there in the morning?” She feels silly even asking, but there’s something about the darkness and the nightmares they can bring that makes her vulnerable.

But she’ll never have to worry about that again. “I promise,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade as if to seal his vow.

(And together in the darkness, they sleep.)