I offer my apologies both to W.H. Auden for the chapter title theft and to Adam and the Ants for co-opting a line from 'Stand and Deliver', and for pretty much everything else. Heh.
Underworld fic, because why not. Any resemblance to actual show events is both very unlikely and total luck (occasional set spoilers may sneak in, only to be immediately jossed). Parts of this first chapter have appeared in altered form as drabbles in 'Or High Water', which I am now attempting to turn into a full fic - wish me luck.
This chapter brought to you by White Lies 'EST.', eggnog lattes and scribbling on the school run.
Chapter One
Stop All the Clocks
"Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half"
― John Milton – Paradise Lost
He loves her.
He loves her so furiously, that he can feel it thrumming through his very soul, piggy-backing off of the bitter darkness.
He loves her so intensely, that the voices in his head are screaming in rage, tearing him asunder even as she lifts the sword to strike and he could tear his own skin off because it burns.
He loves her so purely he would die over and over, he would, to be a hero, to be her hero, but it hurts by the gods it hurts and her hair is so bright in the darkness, still his light, even now, even –
He loves her.
He dies.
He wakes up.
That was the first mistake.
She supposes it makes perfect sense.
It really is a dreadful coincidence that every significant event, every unutterably shitty, outstandingly awful moment in Emma's life has occurred within the sixty seconds that make up 8.15. It's the sort of coincidence that Buzzfeed articles are written about, and yeah okay she knows all about number recognition and confirmation bias, but she's the Savior and the product of True Love and her whole life is supposed to be a fairy tale (some fairy tale) and coincidences just don't happen to Emma fucking Swan.
The final, undeniable proof of this is not only that she's now in Hell, but guess what time it is.
Maybe that's why she's so oddly unsurprised by the appearance of the Underworld.
Storybrooke is burning and creaking, fog crawling unnaturally around their knees, the clock tower lying shattered in the street. That damned clock face glows an appropriately eerie orange as Robin reaches a hesitant hand towards it. Emma spots a charred, yellow lump out of the corner of her eye and chokes back a surprised little sob. Of course. Of course. She hasn't lost enough in the last twenty-four hours. What's next? Will the devil take her record collection?
I know when you're quoting something.
I love that you never know what it is.
She's not crying. She hasn't got time for crying.
To stop the burn behind her eyes she concentrates on the people who are milling around, paying Emma and the others no mind - as if this destruction is perfectly normal. Which, she supposes, it is in a way.
This is just Storybrooke on steroids.
"Do you feel that?" Snow hefts her bow, brow furrowed. Something skitters down the back of Emma's neck.
"Feel what?" Robin's hands twitch to follow Snow's lead.
Regina reaches for his elbow to comfort, to steady, and Emma schools her jealous sneer into a determined sort of scowl and wonders just how deep a stain the darkness has left.
Deep enough for this, she hopes.
"There's something about the air…" Snow trails off, eyes flickering between Rumpelstiltskin and Emma waiting for… well, something.
Emma takes a deep breath. Her mother's right, there is something odd about it, a sort of cloying stickiness that makes it hard to breathe back out. There's a permanence to it that makes her head spin; once you're in, there's no backing out.
The fog swells and swirls and smells vaguely of sulphur and Emma clutches the ring round her neck and thinks we'll see about that.
Regina is still watching the aimless pedestrians, but with wild eyes, her right hand clutching desperately to Henry's backpack whilst her left searches for Robin's.
"This is not what I was expecting," she hisses from between clenched teeth.
David, his gun in hand, draws closer to Emma's side.
"I don't get it," he sounds wary, "why would Hell look like Storybrooke?"
"Why would it not?" Robin grumbles. Emma catches Henry's eye, and he quirks his eyebrow in a devastatingly familiar way.
Rumpelstiltskin, who has held himself separate from them and now is marching ahead, tsks loudly.
"Not Hell, dearie, the Underworld. It's a nowhere land."
Emma jogs slightly to catch up with him.
"What do you mean?"
He cuts his eyes at her and she is hard pressed to recall the way he cowered before her just short days ago. Hard pressed to remember why that was such a bad thing, too, come to mention it.
"Just what I say. This place only exists so far as it exists in the minds of those who inhabit it. A sort of," he waves his hand dismissively, "welcoming delusion for the recently deceased."
Regina glowers at him, "So it looks like Storybrooke because we'll find that comforting?"
"I don't feel especially comfortable," Snow hisses, bow string drawn tight.
"I thought the souls of those we've lost were supposed to greet us?" David says, "Wouldn't that be a bit more comforting than whatever this is?"
"Oh no," Regina shakes her head, "I didn't sign up for any of this. I agreed to get your pirate and get out of here."
"But wouldn't you want to?" Snow relaxes her stance, looking around with suddenly much more interested eyes, "what if there's a chance we can see some of our own friends and family again?"
Regina's knuckles turn white where they curl over Henry's shoulder.
A couple walking past stop at Snow's words, their heads turning towards the group in a synchronised motion that reminds Emma uncomfortably of too many late night B-movie binges.
"Cree-py," Henry sing-songs quietly, ever with a teenager's eye for the dramatic.
"We ought to split up," Rumpelstitskin is already hallway across the street, clearly heading for the battered façade of his own shop. Emma swings to face him, still painfully aware of the couple stood stock still, steadily staring.
"That is a truly terrible idea," Robin states, before she has to.
"No, no he's got a point," Snow says. Emma spins back to her mother, who has clearly lost her fucking mind. The looks of disbelief Snow is receiving seem universal. Even the creepy people twist their heads a little more in confusion. "We need to find out where Hook – where Killian – is, and we need to find out how to get out of here. We need an exit plan. This is Storybrooke, we know it. Let's use what we know."
"We will need magical assistance, I have no doubt," Rumpelstiltskin gestures over his shoulder, "and I happen to know where to find some."
Snow looks to Emma, and Emma nods. The further away he is from her, the less she has to fight the urge to strangle him with his own tie. He practically runs down the street and she wonders if he's more afraid of the Underworld or of her. She wonders if she should be pleased. (She is.)
"Snow White teaming up with Rumpelstitskin. This is a very personal Hell." Regina grouses, but her eyes are still flickering in panic and Emma remembers that there was a very, very good reason Regina didn't want to end up here. Still, she steels herself, addressing Emma directly and managing to keep the fear to the tremble in her fingers, "I'll head to my office; hopefully the Underworld has a dedicated filing clerk."
"I'll go with you," Robin says softly, but Regina shakes her head.
"No, no you look after Henry. Whatever is waiting for me there, well. It's waiting for me. And that's what it'll get."
There's an attempt at the patented Evil Queen lip-curl, but to Emma's eyes it falls a bit flat.
"Okay," Robin has quickly learnt not to argue it seems, even though everyone can see the tension in his shoulders, "I'll take Henry and head to the diner – try to set up some sort of base of operations."
"Like in Camelot," David agrees.
This had better go nothing like Camelot, Emma pointedly doesn't say.
"Snow and I will head out towards the town line, see how big this place really is," he continues, and then turns to Emma. "You should stay with Henry and Robin, rest up, gather your strength."
Emma barks out a laugh. The watching couple clearly sense something of her feelings about that idea, because they turn away and hustle off down the street, heads down and feet in sync.
"Forget it. Don't even think about it. I'm going to the docks."
"Alone?" Snow's gone all motherly, and Emma bites her lip to avoid pointing out that this was at least partially her idea.
"I need," Emma takes as deep a breath as she can manage, suddenly aching with exhaustion, "to see what's… if he's… I mean it seems obvious I know, but..."
But he might not be there. But he might be there and hate me. But he might be there.
Regardless, she has no interest in an audience for whatever comes next – because she's either breaking down or breaking down and she's seen enough well-meant sympathetic winces recently to last her several lifetimes.
David smiles at her, gives her one of his understanding little nods, and she manages a tremulous smile back. Henry rushes up to her and throws his arms around her waist in a hug more ferocious than any she's had in months (I can't hug you here mom, people will see).
"Tell him we're waiting," he says, and Emma is forcibly reminded that she isn't the only one lost and grieving here.
"I will, kid."
She hopes she sounds surer than she feels, anyway.
They part ways, Emma watching Robin and Henry until they disappear before she makes her way through the distressingly familiar streets. The wandering locals (zombies, her mind helpfully supplies) seem to fade away as she gets closer to the waterside, until it's just her, alone in the ever thickening fog. Her feet hit the wooden decking and the silence is absolute.
"Killian?"
She means to call out, but it's a harsh little croak, nothing more. Ahead of her, something creaks and it reminds her of the Jolly, still anchored safely at home. No idea that she's Captain-less.
It's not normal to be jealous of a ship, surely.
"Killian?" She tries again, and it comes out a little stronger.
The fog parts just in front of her feet, as if in answer, and she has the time to notice what's creaking (a rowboat, lantern lit, empty) and that her toes are on the edge of the dock before she's falling, face first, into the space between its seats. There's a huff, as if of swallowed laughter, from somewhere above her and then the boat is moving and the fog is closing in and the air is just too thick to breathe and…
Somewhere in the distance, she hears her mother scream.
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