This was inspired by the sneak peek of S3E1 (the Captain Swan drinking scene; you can find it on Youtube), and a Tumblr post. The post had a picture of Neal holding a crystal ball, while Phillip and Mulan watched him, and the comments suggested, as a fic idea, that he might be watching a touching Captain Swan moment in the crystal ball.
I am completely a Captain Swan shipper, but I do love Neal as a character and really feel for what he's been through. I think he is, at heart, a good guy who's been through a lot of shit, and right now, he really doesn't know how he feels about anything (Emma and Hook included). Hopefully I was able to be fair to his character - so, if you sense SwanThief here, it's not accidental but it might not be all there is going on.
Plus I have lots of emotions regarding the Hookfire family, and I kind of spewed them all over this fic as well.
"To Neal," they said, and drank.
He set the crystal down swiftly, stiffly, and turned away to face the wall. Mulan and Phillip were eyeing him curiously but he didn't care. Neal had to look away, had to at least pretend at privacy even if they had all heard the same words spoken. He needed this moment; he needed to try and swallow all these emotions down. He probably wouldn't ever be able to but at least he could try.
Neal hadn't known what he'd expected when he'd picked up the crystal ball. He knew how to operate it, knew the theory of much magic, but he hadn't been sure how clearly he'd be able to see, or if he would hear anything, or if he could communicate at all through the magical object. He had focused on Emma, because – because he couldn't think who else to focus on, he didn't want to see his father and he didn't know anyone else in Storybrooke well enough to call up that kind of single-minded desire to return to. He loved Henry already, but if the bathroom trick in Granny's had taught him anything, it was that he didn't know the kid, not yet. For this spell to obey a novice like him, he'd need to concentrate on someone's entire being, on all that they were made of and all that they had ever been – and there was no one else in any world that Neal knew so well as Emma.
(He'd thought Tamara has been that person, for a while. His chest ached with the reminder of how wrong he was.)
So he had concentrated, on all of her softness and hardness and hurt and honesty and strength and regret and love, Neal had concentrated as hard as he could on Emma, the woman he'd loved, the woman he'd left behind, the woman he had broken but loved still, who loved him still, Emma Swan. He stood in the wreckage of his father's Dark Castle, trying not to think about what sort of monster Rumplestiltskin had become, trying not to think about the bandages across his chest and who put them there, trying not to think of the danger that threatened his son (god he had a son, he was still reeling from that), trying not to think of anything but Emma.
He'd focused, and slowly the surface of the crystal had clouded, then cleared. The first thing he saw was Hook, holding a key, and he almost recoiled but he spotted Emma in the next second, sitting down in – was that the Jolly Roger? He didn't understand, he'd have expected them to be fighting Tamara, or at least each other (hadn't Hook been working against them all?), but the two seemed to be getting along quite well, talking of – of him.
And then the next second Neal's throat closed up, his eyes widening and his entire body flushing with surprise, because that was his sword, Hook had his sword after all these years and he was giving it to Emma.
"I didn't realize you were sentimental," Emma was saying.
"I'm not," Hook bit off, and Neal recognized the lie in that as easily as Emma must (he'd never doubt her again; he'd done so wrong by her so often). His breath caught in his throat, watching Hook, watching Emma watching Hook, because the Captain was lying, for him, and barely even bothering to hide it.
Neal hardly managed to take note of Hook's next few words – where were they going? What fight? God, what had Tamara done? – because then he was pressing a glass into Emma's hand and she took it without hesitation. She was staring up at Hook like she was trying to figure him out, like it truly mattered to her that she figure him out, and he poured her a healthy splash of rum.
"Thanks," she said cautiously, a familiar edge of surprise and harsher emotion to her voice. Neal swallowed, recognizing the pain there, and it caught sharp-edged in his throat because he was causing that pain, yet again, how many times had he hurt this woman?
But Hook's voice was thrumming with emotion too, something deep and sad and hurtful to everyone involved, and Neal had to take gasping breaths as he watched. He could remember this man's hand on his shoulder, long nights being taught to navigate by the stars, his first sip of rum burning so harsh in his throat that he coughed and spluttered for long minutes while Hook laughed and laughed, learning how to wield a sword, how to sail a ship, how to love the sea and the sky and the freedom of it all and a second father to share it all with.
He could remember the guilt and horror surging through him when he'd found his mother's portrait and remembered his papa's words. The cold expression on Hook's face as the Lost Ones dragged him away.
Hook still looked exactly the same, and Emma was years older but it was like she softened to seventeen again as Neal watched. Two people from his past, frozen in time, so broken and lost and alone and – and they were mourning, he suddenly realized. This was grief, for him of all people, Baelfire the cowardly Dark One's son, Neal the cowardly man.
Emma and Hook stared at each other for a long, long moment.
"To Neal," Hook offered.
"To Neal," Emma echoed quietly, doubtful and hurting but with that familiar edge of curiosity, of – of caring. And Hook's eyes were so… soft, they clinked their cups together (they must think him dead), Neal felt sick and had to let go of the crystal ball.
He turned away, trembling, and his companions were merciful enough not to speak right away. His heart was racing, his every breath heaving, his eyes felt wet – Neal wasn't sure what he felt at all. Some horrible mix of happiness and guilt, love and loss, pleasure and rage.
Yes, rage, because he recognized that look in Emma's eyes. She'd looked at him like that once, and maybe she'd been a little less broken at the time but there was no way Neal wasn't going to recognize that expression. He could tell she was curious about Hook, wanted to understand him, wanted to trust him (maybe already did). And Hook – Neal hadn't ever seen Hook look like that, it was like all of his viciousness had just drained away, like he met Emma's eyes and was just somehow better for it, for her. And Neal had been there himself, he knew exactly what that was and it burned in his chest for a multitude of reasons he couldn't even hope to untangle.
He would never let Hook take another woman he loved away. He was so happy to see that hope in Emma's eyes again. He was unreasonably disappointed she so easily accepted him being dead. He felt guilty for all the pain he'd brought her – but he was glad to see her hurting over him, to see her still caring for him after all this time. He was glad Hook was hurting, for the same reason. He couldn't believe Hook was hurting, couldn't believe Hook had ever cared, still cared. He was terrified at that hope in Emma's eyes. She'd said she loved him, what was this? He knew all too well what this was, and he hated it, hated that it was happening like this, almost literally over his dead body so far as they knew. He loved that they could connect like this, because of him, for him.
He wanted Emma back. He wanted the only woman who had ever made him believe in destiny, fate, even True Love, however briefly.
He wanted Hook back. He wanted the Captain who'd made everything all right, once upon a time.
(He missed Tamara, she'd always felt so simple.)
(He hated Tamara with every painful breath he took.)
He took a deep, slow breath, and turned around.
Mulan and Phillip were still watching him quietly. Neal forced himself to smile at them, though it felt lopsided and gasping.
"Okay," he said. "So we know that Emma and Hook have joined forces. They're on the Jolly Roger; I'd recognize that ship anywhere. And they said something about going somewhere, and a fight. The first thing we need to do is figure out where they're going. I don't think the crystal ball will help us contact them, so we'll have to find another way."
Mulan nodded. There was something like understanding in her eyes, and for more than just his words. "Then we should start searching. I'm sure there is a magical artifact somewhere in your father's castle that will help us."
The mention of using magic sent a shiver of disgust down Neal's spine, but he'd just done it and he would again. He'd use it as often as necessary to get back. He'd do whatever it took, to get back to Emma again. Back to Henry, to his father, to – Hook, and Neal had no idea what he would do when he came face to face with the pirate again.
He wanted to kill him, to hug him, to tell him to treat Emma right, to never let him see her again, to thank him…
Neal shook his head, refusing to dwell on his conflicting thoughts. Whatever he wanted to do when he saw them again, it would have to wait. First, he had to get there.
And oh, he would. Whatever else, he knew this for sure: he refused to let Emma believe him dead, absolutely refused to let her mourn him with that pirate. They weren't finished yet. There was still so much to say, and he wouldn't, couldn't rest until he found her again.
He would find her again.