another multi-chapter, woo! for day 2 of CS AU Week over on tumblr, canon divergence after season 1. Mostly I just loved the Neverland arc on the show, and here's a different take on it. I hope you guys like it, let me know what you thought!

(so I'm a prisoner because you love me, that's not fair)

A slither of moonlight trickled in through the panelled glass, tendrils dirty white and shapeless that painted silver shadows across the floor. The midnight blue of the curtains drifted, carried from the frame by the winds of another world, beckoning and whispering with the hushed softness of silk. The bedroom contained only one bed, an old quilt well-loved and faded already thrown backwards, entirely vacant of its usual occupant. The boy's bare feet crept across the carpeted floor, throwing furtive looks over his shoulder as he stepped into the pale light, watching his shadow extend from his heels all the way to the opposite wall of the room, a looming shape that made him want to sprint back into the darkness. The single night light had long since gone out.

This wasn't the first night he'd heard the music, floating through the cracks in the walls, tapping its way across his subconscious while he slept. It was such a mournful song, as if the notes were pulled from that place inside his heart where his deepest grief resided; it spoke of soft things, like home and courage and great games that would never end. Trapped inside this tiny bedroom, he longed to find its source more than anything. Tonight he was sure he finally would.

(you made it so no one believed me, you made me feel like I was crazy)

With trembling hands the boy reached for the latch, turning it once with a wooden creak that disturbed the stillness of the room. He paused to glance at the door but it remained exactly where it was, so he returned to his task. The window had always been light and it took little effort to lift it, pushing the panel up towards the ceiling.

Cold air whooshed in from the outside and he felt compelled to take a step back, but all the same a smile lit up his face as he felt more than heard the sorrowful melody fill the room. It tingled in the tips of his fingers, made his hair stand up on end and pulled at his heart unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Magic illuminated the bedroom, flickering starry shapes and crescent wonders across the walls and the boy giggled. Although the window was open he could hear nothing of the street below, none of the modern sounds or artificial lights he would have expected; the only chatter came from the stars and the flute and the moon loomed so close he felt he could reach out and touch it.

(how long am I in prison? while I grow up?)

The boy darted forward, right to the edge of the sill, and tried to do just that. His arm outstretched, he uttered a soft prayer.

"I believe," he whispered to the moon.

(I won't grow up, I won't)

Then the shadow came to take him.

Dawn broke over Neverland with its usual chorus, the distant wail of the Neverbird rising above the tree cover as melancholic and as desperate as it had been every day since the Lost Ones had kidnapped and butchered the young in her nest for sport. How they could wake every morning to a sound as lugubrious as that and still rejoice in the endless quests and pointless tasks He set about for them was entirely beyond Hook's comprehension. He had learned long ago not to question the land dwellers, reducing his contact with them to skirmishes when they were unavoidable and the necessary trade with the Redskins in order to ensure his crew's survival, but other than that he kept to his ship as much as possible.

It was the least he could do until he could find a way off this accursed island.

Irony must have had a part to play in his discovering how to defeat the Dark One only a few months into his arrival in Neverland for the second time, and with no magic bean nor enchanted sail to secure passage back to the Enchanted Forest, his revenge felt just as tantalizingly out of reach as it had felt the day he'd plunged a hook into the crocodile's chest. That was centuries ago now, surely. When the years had slipped into decades and he'd entered a steady arrangement with Him which seemed evermore inescapable, he had stopped keeping track.

Brushing through the undergrowth, the cry of the Neverbird continued to bear down on the landing party, casting a bleak mood onto their already discomfited countenances; Hook hated to spend the night inland, but they had little choice once the storm had hit the night before. If they hadn't taken shelter they would've been overrun by the tempest before they could even make it halfway back to the Jolly Roger. It had been a simple scouting run, one He was probably aware of, and had made it His business to detain them through some great game that only ever entertained Him. Water still clung to the jungle, dripping down onto them from the canopy as their boots sludged through the plants underfoot. Hook had elected only to bring Smee and Starkey, his boatswain and first mate being the two whose counsel he valued above the rest of his crew. It wasn't a matter of trust — every man aboard the Jolly Roger had sworn off their King for him, had followed him to Neverland without question in his pursuit of revenge even as their lives extended to centuries traversing the same waters.

No, Hook trusted every member of his crew with his life. But only Smee and Starkey with the innermost workings of his mind.

With his hook he held the lantern aloft, keeping his eyes trained on the jungle before him in case they were set upon by scouts from the Lost Ones camp. They could seemingly fade into the trees, arising from the shadows like spectres of youth, courageous and cruel in their pursuit of fun and games, the perfect little lackeys for Him. The princess of the native tribe had once told him they were the souls lured to the island by a flute played by their leader Himself, that only those who felt unloved or abandoned could hear it.

Hook had wondered, often, if Baelfire had heard it. He supposed he must have.

It had been many years since he'd last seen the boy, a few decades perhaps. The last he knew Baelfire had finally broken free from His clutches, finding himself a hidden hovel on the island as he remained on the run — a cave Hook had stumbled across himself while seeking Tinkerbell. His first thought had been to the ache in his chest at the idea of the boy living by himself after a century or so in the company of the other boys, through all of it he must have retained his good heart. His second thought had been one of horror; if he could find where Bae rested his head at night, then certainly so could Pan.

Baelfire hadn't been seen for some time, not by him nor any of his crew. There were only two ways that particular story could have ended — his escape from the island, or death. And given, in Hook's experience at least, nobody left Neverland without His permission he harboured serious doubts for the former. The latter just appeared too distressing to even consider. Hook tried not to let his thoughts linger on Baelfire's fate, it did him no favours.

"Won't somebody silence that dastardly creature?" Starkey snapped, the howl of the Neverbird apparently finally withering his patience. As the most impeccably mannered of all aboard his ship, including the Captain, Hook was surprised at the outburst.

Usually the clamour of the childless mother weren't so discernible out at sea, but landlubbers were entirely at its mercy.

"Patience, Starkey," Hook warned, "let her cry. It's the most any of us can do."

"Can't she mourn a little quieter?" muttered Smee, holding his own lantern up to his round face. "It's been months already, can't she get over it?"

Hook halted in his stride, so suddenly Smee bumped right into him. A jolt of anger climbing from his gut he whirled around, lantern swinging, causing his boatswain to duck out of the way.

"And what is it you're implying, Mister Smee?"

"Oh no, Captain, I didn't mean —"

Hook hissed. "Didn't mean what? To place an expiry date on grief? Loss?" Smee shook his head mutely, eyes flickering to the hook in place of his left hand brandishing the lantern like a trophy. "Perhaps you feel my own quest for revenge to be ill-judged and baseless, is that what you mean to suggest?"

"Leave him, Captain," Starkey placed a hesitant hand on the hook, urging him to lower it as carefully as he could. "We're — we're all tired. I'm sure Mister Smee is scarcely aware of what he's saying, sleepless as he is."

Hook's gaze remained hard, but he allowed his first mate to move his hook away from the potential to deal out immediate harm. "Mister Smee would do well to watch his tongue, even while he dreams. Lest he wake up one morning with it cut clean from his blubbering mouth."

Smee's eyes widened as he nodded, emitting the barest squeak. Satisfied he had intimidated the pirate back into his meagre submission, Hook resumed his path through the jungle back to the shore. He attempted to push down the raw fury he had felt spike within him, but he knew he wasn't merely angry at Smee (if indeed at all) — it was the entire situation that had him so frustrated, that he possessed the knowledge to rid all the worlds of the Dark One and yet it had still been centuries since the day his heart had been ripped from him.

Get over it, indeed.

As if grief were something one could ever gain mastery over. As if scars ever truly faded.

The Neverbird's mournful song finally concluded, and silence settled over the island once more.

A few minutes further into their journey and Hook was certain they were no longer alone. It was that familiar prickling sensation at the base of his spine, that distinct sensation of being observed that he had honed and sharpened over centuries of traversing these woods stalked by the Lost Ones, the Indians and worse. Neverland had always been a place fraught with danger, and he was by now well in tuned with the shifts in its atmosphere. Any Captain worth his salt knew when a storm was brewing, and the change in the breeze around him alerted him instantly.

"I don't want to alarm you, gentlemen," he murmured over his shoulder, "but I fear we are being hunted."

Suddenly, the bushes to the right of him burst open and a figure sprung forth — they were a lot closer than he had thought, to give them credit, and they had perhaps overheard his warning to his men and realised they no longer possessed the element of surprise. Hook let the lantern drop to his feet as he made to draw his sword but he wasn't quick enough, feeling the prick of a blade at his neck causing him to still his movements. Behind him, Smee and Starkey had managed to raise their swords, but hesitated when they realised their captain's compromised position.

Hook took this opportunity to observe his assailant, and was astounded to discover they weren't a Lost One at all — in fact, his foe wasn't even a man, let alone a boy. All wavy locks of blonde hair and hard green eyes, the woman's mouth was set into a thin line as she surveyed all three of them in a calculated manner. He could feel his mouth go dry at the sight of her, dressed only in garments of unfamiliar materials that clung to her voluptuous curves yet left her arms bare, a small satchel of some kind slung over her shoulder. It wasn't that Hook was unused to seeing the form of a woman, within the Redskin tribe the women were oft considered the superior hunters, and mermaids haunted at every locale the water could reach with their bewitching smiles, exquisite beauty and tempting songs, ready to lure any heedless sailor to his death.

But this woman was neither mermaid nor Brave, radiant but fierce — and the cool touch of steel to his skin reminded him of the sword she had pointed at his throat.

"My name is Emma Swan," she said, in answer to the question he had yet to give voice to, "and I'm here for my son."

Hook's gaze darted from her eyes to the blade; there was no way to assess her swordsmanship, uncertain was he if she would be able to react quick enough if he ducked and tackled her, but her arm didn't shake — that had to mean something. The sword she was carrying was a long sword, not entirely unlike one he would expect to find in the possession of a knight, and her posture remained steady as she pressed it against his neck.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Well, Emma Swan, many a lad has washed up on Neverland's shores. None are ever reclaimed."

The tip of the steel pressed further into his neck and he winced. He heard the shuffle of Smee and Starkey behind him.

"His name is Henry. Just tell me if you've seen him, yes or no."

Hook knew the names of very few of the Lost Ones; Pan, Felix, Rufio. The name of every boy who had met a tragic end by his hook. Henry was entirely unfamiliar, and appeared far too polite for an island as barbaric as their home. Still, he wasn't one to reveal his cards so early, and this woman's presence intrigued him.

"And what if I have?"

The woman's narrowed gaze was unrelenting. "If you have, you'll take me to him or I'll stick you with the pointy end of this, got it?"

A smirk pulled the corner of his mouth upwards. "Fortune favours us both, then." The lie fell easily from his lips. "If you'd kindly lower your blade I'll escort you straight to your boy."

Emma Swan made no move to do as he requested, pupils darting back and forth between his eyes as she adjusted her grip on her sword. Hook felt the distinct sensation of being analysed, and waited patiently for her verdict. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret," she said instead, and Hook's eyebrows rose, "I'm pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me."

He sighed, knowing his bluff had been called. "I wouldn't give yourself any medals for that one, love," Hook replied. "I'm a pirate. And you have me at sword point." His hand moved to gesture to the weapon and Emma Swan increased the pressure for just a moment. Hook let his expression slip into something a little sultrier as he surveyed her, letting his gaze travel all the way from her shapely legs up to her chest, then her stern expression. "There's nothing I wouldn't say, should you so bid me."

Emma Swan made a snap decision then, taking a step back but keeping her sword brandished in front of her. Hook let out a breath of relief as the pressure on his neck disappeared, and his hand went immediately to the hilt of his own cutlass, though he didn't draw it yet.

"You're wasting my time," she muttered, emerald eyes darting quickly between the three pirates.

"Am I?" Hook mused. "I'd wager your lad has taken up with the Lost Ones."

Something flickered across her expression for a moment there, something he would have likened to disbelief did it not so quickly surrender to something else — resignation. "The Lost Boys? Seriously?"

"If you could call them boys," he shot back darkly, "savages, all. I'd be surprised if they hadn't beaten the humanity out of your boy by now."

Emma Swan's expression hardened. "He's only been here a day."

"All it takes." Hook took a step forward and the woman raised her blade threateningly, eyes darting down to his side and widening as they finally seemed to acknowledge his hook. He took a modicum of satisfaction in that. "Time runs differently here. A day in your world may equate to much longer on this island, I assure you." A sort of puzzled curiosity furrowed his brow. "And just where is it you hail from, Emma Swan?"

Emma Swan gave no reply, taking a few steps further back along the path. "If you can't help me you better stay the hell out of my way."

Hook merely tilted his head in the mimic of a bow, touching two fingers to his brow in salute. "As you wish."

With one final glance at the trio, Emma Swan lowered her sword and darted back into the undergrowth, sprinting away from them as if she were imagining they might pursue her. A deadly silence settled on the three pirates, all watching her retreat with considerable interest even if it stemmed from different places — Hook's, an unashamed place of desire and curiosity, and a glance at Starkey and Smee informed him they were watching after her with something akin to wonder. Another spike of irritation shot through him as he thought of their observing her, as if she were some great secret not meant for their eyes. He could understand their surprise, though. Hook had meant what he'd said about the Lost Ones; it wasn't that mothers never came to reclaim their lost sons, it was only that none ever succeeded. He couldn't remember seeing any who had ever made it to the jungle.

Hook ducked to retrieve his fallen lantern, and it appeared to shake his men back to the present.

"Was that a — a mother?" Starkey breathed, sheathing his sword as he did so.

"It appears so," Hook replied carefully, "a mother outside the Maze of Regrets. Extraordinary."

"Captain," Smee's hand immediately clutched at his upper arm in urgency, "she's heading straight into tribal territory. Shouldn't we — warn her?"

Starkey made a doubtful noise, turning back in the direction of the shore. "She has a considerable lead on us, Captain. We'd be lucky to catch her before the Braves do."

The options wrestled inside of him for a moment, but he knew what he would decide long before he even began considering it. Liam's influence over him had been irrepressible in most things, after all. The differences between foul and fair play, good form and bad form.

It was bad form to allow a woman to wander unknowingly to what could be her death.

Without another second's thought, Hook pressed his lantern into Smee's chest, who was given no other choice than to take it.

"Head back to the ship, mates. Inform the crew I have added business to attend to inland." He whirled around, pressing his hook in the bare space between their nervous faces. "And breathe a word to anyone about our unexpected visitor, expect to be tossed to the mermaids upon my return." The last thing he needed was his men turning aggressive and red-blooded at the thought of a woman in Neverland aside from those that usually tried to kill them.

"Yes Captain."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Captain."

Hook shirked his outer coat, handing it to Starkey. If he was to be running after a madwoman he would need to be light on his feet. "And by all the gods, look after the damn thing."

After checking only to make sure his sword was at his side, Hook took off into the jungle in pursuit.

Breaking the curse had to be the worst thing she had ever done.

While at first that thought had incurred some kind of guilt within her, especially when she'd given the musing a voice and had seen the look of hurt that flickered across David and Mary Margaret's expressions, their True Love restored in the wake of their returned memories. Especially when they wanted to talk to her about them being their long lost daughter, a fact she was still sorely trying to come to terms with, especially since she and Mary Margaret had discussed sex, adultery and everything in between that she definitely never imagined talking to a mother figure about — particularly one actually the same age as her and one who went by Snow White in casual conversation.

But all of that was just — supplementary. The curse breaking had been good for them, for their reunited family, as tricky as it was. What Emma had lost in that polychromatic burst of magic as she kissed Henry's forehead was the only thing that mattered to her at all in the world.

Henry. Her son.

When the thick purple cloud had overtaken Storybrooke, it hadn't taken long for Regina to regain mastery over her powers. She had grabbed Henry while the town was still waking up and hidden him away in their home, guarding it with hundreds of powerful spells that not even Gold could break — and he had wanted to. Eager to set about dealing his own revenge against the Evil Queen (something about a woman named Belle, Beauty if Emma's memory served, and seeing him as the Beast was probably the most believable thing about all this fairy-tale crap) his efforts had been relentless, but Regina's power, buoyed by her love for Henry, had kept the walls fast. No matter how many times Emma had demanded to see him and, she hoped, he had demanded to see her, Regina refused to allow anybody entrance to the Mayor's house. Emma was inconsolable. She didn't have time for the family reunions David and Mary Margaret wanted so badly when the only family she cared about was trapped on the other side of those marble pillars.

Henry deserved more than this. At least while under the curse she had been able to see him, spend time with him. Make him laugh and buy him hot cocoa with cinnamon and brush his hair from his eyes.

(But of course she wouldn't take it back. Henry had flat lined, had been dead on the table until she kissed him.

As fate would have it, she didn't get to keep Henry either way.)

The stalemate had lasted for weeks, their constant bombarding on Regina's home growing only more ineffectual, and they were all running out of ideas.

That was the day Regina had opened the door. Eyes red-rimmed and clutching his scarf, Emma had known immediately something was wrong. Everything had blurred into white noise after that.

Some kind of magic had broken through her wards, something even more powerful than Gold. Regina had awoken that morning to Henry's bed empty, quilt pushed back and his window wide open, curtains swishing in the breeze the outside brought. She had first assumed it must have been the heroes that had done it, 'stolen' him from her in the night, but nobody in Storybrooke had seen him — that day passed in a flurried panic of activity, of desperation, until Gold's cane had whacked the floor of the manor and he had come with his own suspicions of what had taken the boy.

Since she was apparently the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, it shouldn't have taken her so long to come around to the idea that Neverland was real as well. And Peter Pan too, the Pied Piper of Hamelin, who played the softest melody that only the loneliest, lost children could hear as he lured them from their beds; it was a far cry from little boys falling out of their prams, but Emma would believe anything if it could lead to getting her son back.

At first she had assumed Gold was helping them out of some sense of duty after weeks of being tentative allies, but she quickly realised it wasn't that at all that kept the words flowing from his smirk — it was the way Regina continued to crumple in on herself, Henry's scarf pressed to her mouth as she tried to resist the emotion shaking her shoulders as he reiterated just how lonely, and just how unloved Henry must have been feeling in order to hear the pipe of the Piper. This was Rumpelstiltskin's revenge, or at least part of it.

It made Emma's heart ache to consider it. Her Henry, her smiling Henry, alone in his room and feeling so desperately sad he allowed himself to be carried to another land. But she'd be lying if she denied a dark part of her also roiled in satisfaction at the fact that Regina's imprisonment of him had been entirely unwelcome. In her darkest moments she had considered the possibility of Henry staying because he wanted to. Because Regina with all her magic might have been the mother he had always wanted, the fairy-tale character; they might have started living a happy life in a world of their own, closed off from the mother who had given him away before he had even been born.

But Henry hadn't been happy, not at all.

And now he was in freaking Neverland.

Barely an hour of planning and they were all working together now, heroes, villains, in an attempt to bring the lost boy home — Regina emerged with a hat Emma recognised to be Jefferson's, the madman from the outskirts of town, although the mayor claimed she had no idea who he was. There was only enough magic left in it to transport two of them there, and there was no way in hell Emma was letting Regina do this on her own, so the pair had jumped into the violet vortex the hat had summoned together. Or so she'd thought, at least.

Emma had crashed into solid ground alone, no sign of Regina nor Jefferson's hat. For a while she was convinced she had been set up, thrown into another world while Henry's adoptive mother continued her rescue mission alone — she had no freaking idea what Neverland looked like after all, except in the Disney picture she had watched when she was a kid.

But that was animated. And she wasn't six anymore.

Emma had walked for what felt like hours, brandishing her father's sword and cutting through the undergrowth in the hopes she might come across someone — hell, at this point she'd be happy to see Regina, her magic could probably do wonders for clearing a path through the goddamn jungle. By the time she'd heard voices it was all she could do to track them through the forest, and she'd been discovered in under five minutes. Emma had hoped they might be able to help her, or at least push her in the right direction, but she'd gotten one good look at the hook in place of the first's left hand and realised she might be addressing the eponymous Captain from the well-loved children's fable, distinctly lacking in perms or wax moustaches, and she noped the crap out of there as fast as she could.

Trust the first person she came across in Neverland to be Captain Hook. An unfairly attractive, rugged, would-fuck-in-another-life version at that.

Speaking of, what the hell was her life?

Henry. Henry was her life. And she had to find him. At least Captain Noshave's presence confirmed she was actually in Neverland, even if she still had no clue what had happened to Queen Sensible Pantsuit.

Truthfully, Emma had no idea where she was nor where she was going; she'd been dropped in the middle of the jungle and had found only jungle thereafter, but the way she saw it an imaginary island couldn't be so big, could it? It could be just like New York. Dense, not large, and with just as many pirates — in her world they just called them stockbrokers. She'd long since slowed her pace, it'd do no good to burnout before she even found Henry (and she was expecting a fight to get him back), but ever since she had she couldn't shake the prickly feeling at the back of her neck like she was being watched.

Only a short time ago she had been the one stalking the pirates clattering through the forest, and now she was certain she was the one being hunted. Emma quickened her pace, her grasp on the hilt of David's sword tightening, constantly throwing glances over her shoulder as if she expected some ticking crocodile to come crawling through the shrubbery. This was ridiculous. But Captain Amputee had said the Lost Boys were savages, a far cry from the stories she was familiar with, and even though his role as their sworn enemy hardly made him a reliable source, she would be on her guard. Ever since Henry had eaten that apple turnover she'd had a crash course in all-is-not-as-it-seems where fairy-tales were concerned, anyway.

While Emma kept glancing behind her, it turned out she really should have been watching the jungle in front of her.

Jumping right into her path, Emma nearly stumbled in surprise as she recognised the by now familiar figure cutting her off, even if he lacked the heavy coat. Hook. His chest was heaving, as if he'd been sprinting in order to get to her and the idea unnerved her. Although, in order to get in front of her as he had he'd probably been moving considerably faster than she'd been going.

She raised her sword again. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He appeared unperturbed by her ire, merely stood regaining his breath with his hand resting on the hilt of his own sword, likely in case she took a swing at him. "Rescuing you, lass. You're venturing into dangerous territory here."

"Yeah? I'm guessing the dangerous part is where I'll find my son, right?"

In a surprisingly quick movement, his hook made contact with her blade and forced her to lower it as he took a step forward, voice turning low and urgent. "This is the Redskins' favourite hunting ground. If you're not careful you'll be the Panther's prisoner before you've even made it within ten miles of your lad."

Emma huffed out a breath, letting the blade drop to her side. "I've slayed a dragon, I'm pretty sure I can handle a few people with pointy—"

"Would you keep your voice down," he hissed, throwing a cautious glance to the wilderness surrounding them. "You're new to this land, you have no idea who you're dealing with." Emma had been about to bite a retort when they were interrupted. A few rustles sounded from behind them and Hook darted back, pulling out his sword in a defensive manner which Emma mirrored. Whatever he had seen or heard, the look of fear she had managed to capture a brief glance of was enough for warning klaxons to start sounding in her mind. And so they should.

Like shadows melting from the brush, Emma watched with horror as figures stepped out of the undergrowth as if they were built from the souls of trees.

"Your assertions are correct, Captain," a woman's voice, steady and low came from above them, "you have no idea who you are dealing with." Perched on a branch not a few feet above them, Emma's gaze rose to meet glinting, dark eyes ringed by red ochre staring back at her. Tanned of skin and dark of hair, this woman leapt from the tree to stand before them. Her legs and arms thick with muscle, she looked like she could deal a reasonable amount of damage with the small axe she had clamped in her right hand, and two long braids hung low past her waist, raven black but peppered with spots of colour in the form of beads and strands of thread.

"Wonderful," Hook let out a hushed string of expletives Emma wondered if she was supposed to hear. "Now we're both their prisoner. Job well done, Emma Swan."

God, she just wanted her son back.

Standing back-to-back with Captain Goddamn Hook with swords raised, surrounded by an advancing tribe of warriors did not factor into her in-grab-out game plan.

At all.

Shit.