A/n: Thank you everyone who has favorited, followed and reviewed my other stories! I really appreciate all the support and it encourages me to keep writing about Emma and Killian. This story came out of the blue as they all do; I really wanted to explore Emma's reaction to breaking up with Walsh—who she loves—and how she would handle being dragged back into a world with magic.
"Swan?" Hook threw open the door to the roof, an edge of panic in his voice. "What the blazes was that?"
"A reminder," Emma said numbly. "That I was never safe. That what I wanted—" she gulped "—what I thought I could have, was not in the cards for the Savior."
Hook looked at her with something like pity in his eyes. A sharp pain struck her in the chest. Broken hearted again. Why did it always have to feel so literal? Without Walsh…well. She was who she'd always been. But suddenly New York didn't feel like home anymore.
"We leave in the morning." She brushed past Hook.
The apartment looked exactly the same as it had ten minutes ago, when she left to break up with the man she loved. Nothing indicated the betrayal, the fear that had lodged in her chest. Someone was watching her; someone with enough power to turn a man into a flying monkey—or vice versa—and send magic to New York. Why did this always happen to her?
I hate magic, she thought vehemently. Her hands itched to throw something, though she knew it would just make her angrier when whatever-it-was broke.
"Love?" Hook's voice came from behind. He put a tentative hand on her shoulder.
Emma twitched away, marching through the front door where she had stopped suddenly. She paused only to pour herself a generous drink—rum, her new favorite, possibly a joke on Regina's part, she realized—then strode into Henry's room.
They were leaving again. New York had become just another place to run away from. She shook her head. That was in her old (real?) life. She hadn't done much running in the new memories Regina gave her. Was it better or worse that this feeling was familiar?
She tugged Henry's suitcase out from behind the hockey stick and a pair of skis in his closet and threw it on the bed. The last time they left New York it was for a trip to Killington, a ski resort in Vermont. The irony, she thought, of going back, so close to where Storybrooke used to be. But wait—when did they go again…? Had that trip even been real?
Now she knew how the people of Storybrooke felt when they woke up from the curse. Two selves, two sets of memories warring for dominance. It was like waking up from a dream, but dreams didn't usually stick around trying to convince you that you never gave your kid up for adoption.
Hook hovered in the doorway while Emma finished packing Henry's bag. Her son's wardrobe wasn't complicated: pants, shirts, socks, boxers…she was done in a few minutes.
She pushed past Hook for the second time and went into her own room. There were more memories here. Walsh's engagement ring still sat on her dresser. It stared at her, looking more and more like an eye, glowing like Walsh's, until she wrenched her gaze away. There was the dress she wore to dinner last night, still thrown over the chair in the corner—the chair that she got at Walsh's furniture shop.
Her chest felt tight. She pulled random clothes out of her dresser, throwing them haphazardly into the suitcase. It was an indication as to the gravity of the situation when Emma opened her underwear drawer and Hook said nothing.
She was fine.
She was fine.
The soreness in her chest would go away eventually. The lump in her throat that felt like something was stuck there would surely dislodge soon.
She held it together until her hand fell on the scarf hanging from her closest doorknob. It was the scarf Walsh gave her on the night Emma realized she loved him.
Her hand pulled back as though it had been burned and then the tears were spilling over.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" she cried, punctuating each word with a punch to the closet door.
At once, Hook's arms were around her, twisting her around and pulling her to his chest. She fell into his embrace and cried harder. Unworthy, the voice in her head said. Unworthy of love, that's what she was.
Her knuckles were white with their grip on Hook's long coat as she sobbed into his shoulder.
When the tears ran out, she came back to herself enough to realize that Hook's hand was stroking her hair; his hooked arm was wrapped tightly around her back. He was whispering things into her ear. "…strongest woman I've ever met. You're braver than all the pirates in all the realms, lass," he murmured. "Emma, Emma. Shh. Henry loves you, and your parents—you have a family, sweetheart, you're not alone…"
Emma hiccupped a few times and released Hook's coat long enough to wipe her nose on the back of her hand. She wrapped both arms around him. The sneering voice in her head that had whispered "unworthy" was quiet.
She was confused, suddenly. She loved Walsh. But her feelings for Hook were resurfacing, here in his arms, not that she had admitted them to anyone, let alone herself. Hook—Killian loved her, she realized…remembered? But the pain of Walsh's betrayal was still a raw spot on her soul.
She pulled away, looking into Killian's blue eyes. He wiped a few stray tears from her cheeks and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He was always doing that. She smiled tearfully.
Killian took her face between his hook and his hand and placed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Is there anything I can do for you, my love?"
My love… her heart clenched with desire and pain.
She stepped back, passing a hand across her face, unsure. Her drink was on the dresser next to the ring. She seized the glass and downed it.
"Another drink," she thrust it at him. "And this—" she grabbed the ring, "is going down the drain."
She stomped into the bathroom—Killian following somewhat curiously—and hurled the ring into the toilet. She slammed the handle down and watched as the ring swirled around in the bowl, finally disappearing into the darkness.
"Was that treasure?" Killian asked almost wistfully.
She barked out a laugh. "It was probably fake, just like everything else in this life." The thought sobered her. "Where's that drink?" she asked tiredly.
Killian took her hand, the glass balanced on his hook. "Come." He led her into the kitchen.
Emma texted Henry while Killian poured them both full glasses of rum. Come home tmrw morn before school. Walsh and I broke up.
The phone buzzed back immediately: Are you ok? I can come home now.
She smiled. She had the best kid in the world. I'm fine. Just need some time to think. Love you.
Be home at 7. I love you too.
"You've a good lad," Killian said, watching her face.
"The best," she accepted the glass.
She took a drink and put the glass carefully on the counter before settling her face in her hands.
"What the fuck!" she yelled into her palms.
Killian jumped at her exclamation. "Swan…" She felt his hand on the back of her head; he had come around the counter to stand at her side. "I know it hurts, but it will get better. You're strong, darling."
She shook her head. "I don't want to have to be strong. I wasn't supposed to feel this way again," she said with a sob.
Killian dropped his hand. "Would you like me to leave?" he asked quietly.
"No—no. It's nice to have someone to talk to." She gave a bitter laugh. "In this world, when you break up with someone, you get together with girlfriends and watch chick flicks and eat ice cream out of the container. They never say what to do when your boyfriend turns out to be a flying monkey and your memories are fake and the closest thing you have to a friend is a pirate from another land."
"Are—were we not friends?" Killian's eyes dropped to his hand, where his thumb was twisting the rings around.
"We are," she put a hand over his, stilling the nervous movement.
"We could do your mourning ritual, if you wish."
"It's not a—never mind." She smiled sadly at him. "I'd like that."
She got two spoons from a drawer and dug the gallon of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. "Do not let me eat all this," she shook the container at Killian.
"Whatever you say, lass." He followed her into the living room carrying both their glasses in one hand and the bottle of rum pinned between his hooked arm and his body.
Emma stood in front of the TV scrolling through Netflix with a game controller, looking for something suitably cheesy and romantic. She stopped on a particular title and began laughing out loud.
"You'll appreciate this one," she smiled at Killian.
She clicked play and pulled off the top of the ice cream carton as the opening cartoon of Enchanted came on the screen. Killian was sitting towards one end of the couch, trying to be a gentleman and give her her space.
She shifted closer. "Hold this," she plopped the ice cream carton in his lap and pulled a blanket over their legs.
Guilt drifted through her; she wasn't being fair to him, snuggling up against his side, leaning her head on his shoulder. It just felt so good to feel safe and loved; she couldn't bring herself to pull away yet. Killian's arm tightened around her as though he could read her thoughts. His mouth brushed almost imperceptibly against her temple. So Emma sighed, relaxing into his warm body, and tried to forget about Walsh and pretend that Killian was just a friend.
When Emma awoke cradled in Killian's arms, she stiffened—Killian gripped her tighter so as not to drop her—until she registered he was carrying her to her bedroom. The apartment was filled with the soft, comforting darkness that happens when late night turns into early morning.
"Such a gentleman," she mumbled into Killian's shirt, still half asleep.
"Always," he whispered back.
He laid her gently on her bed, the covers of which were already folded back. He pulled the comforter over her, letting his hand linger on her shoulder, brush back her hair. "Sleep well." Warm lips pressed against her forehead.
"Killian?" Emma grabbed his hand as he turned. "Thank you."
He only hesitated a moment before squeezing her hand. "You're welcome."
"See you tomorrow."
"Aye. Goodnight, Swan."
After he left, a few tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes to greet the darkness. Killian had called tonight a mourning ritual and he was right. Emma mourned, not only for Walsh, but for the life she could have had. A life without magic and danger. One where Henry would be safe and she had only to think of her son and her would-be husband, not an entire town.
But it was a life based on lies, the voice in hear head said, the voice that sounded like Henry. Without her parents, Neal, even Regina and Gold. Henry's family.
But it was safe—safer in the real world, the world she grew up in. Henry couldn't grow up in a place that wasn't even real! A place that was cursed, with a bunch of fairy tale characters! Emma ran her hands through her hair, tugging at it with a grimace, before smoothing it back.
Her decision solidified. She couldn't leave her family in danger, not when she was their only hope. But she also couldn't raise Henry in Storybrooke.
She briefly considered having Henry stay with Avery for a week or two, until she recalled her ex-almost-fiancé; someone had sent him to watch her. So she would take Henry to Storybrooke, just for a few weeks. She would break the curse, as she was supposed to, and then they had to leave. They could go back to their normal lives, start over somewhere new. Maybe Boston. Or Portland, even, close enough to Storybrooke that Henry could visit Regina. And if Henry never got his memories back…? Well. Perhaps that was what was best.
Emma laid awake a long time watching the shadows shiver and wondering what happened in Storybrooke, did her parents remember her, what if Henry never remembered, she couldn't stay in that town, couldn't raise Henry in a life filled with danger, but her parents would be crushed, and Neal, and Regina, and Hook…
When she finally fell into a fitful sleep, she dreamed of a dark jungle where she watched her son tear out his heart over and over and over…
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