She turns off the engine to the bug, groaning as she adjusts in her seat and stretches out her legs. She's parked across the street from Granny's, a few stores down, just far enough away to be inconspicuous but close enough for the diner's string of lights to further illuminate the section of street that Emma has her eyes on. She hasn't been on a stake out in a while, and her joints feel as rusty as her instincts.
Just days after getting back from what remained of the Enchanted Forest and there's already some incident that needs to be checked out. Reports of strange sightings and phenomena happening all along main street that Emma is hoping to get a glimpse of during her shift (while David and Mary Margaret continue their re-acquaintanceship, and just the thought of awkwardly walking in on them again was enough to motivate her to volunteer to spend hours in her Volkswagen and far, far away from that).
Gold had said it could be another portal, like a stitch in time; some side effect of the wraith's havoc that never really went away despite it's defeat.
So Emma waits. Taps her fingers against the dashboard and leans back as she stares through her window with a mixture of piqued curiosity and lethargic boredom.
And then, she sees it. A shimmering, translucent wave weaving through the air, crackling before dissolving completely.
"What the hell," Emma mutters, sitting up and craning her neck to get a better view.
Images begin to emerge from that spot right outside the diner. There's a woman approaching the car, her steps quick and determined. She's murky at first, hints of blonde hair and a light brown jacket appearing the closer she comes. But then the woman's face materializes, and Emma gasps when she realizes the figure is actually her. A future version of herself perhaps?
She doesn't seem aware of Emma's presence, but Emma still remains perfectly still all the same, unwittingly holding her breath in anticipation of what's about to happen.
Emma hears something suddenly. A voice shouting after her, masculine and pleading. She grips the steering wheel tighter when she sees the person chasing after her future self is Hook, decked out in his full leather get up and extravagant duster that she won't soon forget. So he's here, in Storybrooke, she deduces. Her knuckles turn white from the force of her hold, observing as the pirate catches up to the other her, using his namesake to loop around her arm and—with surprising gentleness—turns her around to face him.
They argue for a bit, but are fully engaged with one another in a way Emma hadn't expected to be possible. Their words are muffled, like they're underwater or on the opposite side of a thick wall. From what Emma can see, there's no eye-rolling or looks to the side from either of them. No non-verbal cues from herself that signal his presence is unwanted. It's strange to the say the least, but Emma is captivated, trying to make sense of what's happening before her.
After a beat, and without warning, Hook lunges forward and captures her lips with his. Emma releases her breath, her brows scrunched up practically to the point of pain, with her mouth hanging wide open. Even more startling is the fact that, almost immediately, her future self returns the kiss, with as much passion and intensity. Their hands—her hands—are everywhere, reverent but urgent. It's like watching two teenagers making out after a few days of going steady, and for the second time that week Emma feels like she's intruded on an intimate moment between two very eager people.
She has half a mind to bolt out the door and arrest him on the spot, but then the scene rattles and shakes, like a bad cable channel, before vanishing completely, and she remembers that it isn't real. Or, rather, it wasn't happening in the present. But it will, at some point, and the thought makes her heart race.
An array of questions come rushing into her mind. How did Hook even get here in the first place? How had their antagonistic relationship boil down to a lover's spat? Why did she get butterflies in her stomach at just the idea of someone, even him (especially him) holding her like she mattered, like she was something special?
How was it that she would manage to let someone in?
Emma makes the decision to call it a night, and chalks it all up to the infinitely weird and unreliable properties of magic in this town. And when asked, she'll say saw nothing, because frankly, she might as well have.
/
/
He paces back and forth along the alleyway, shrouded in darkness and armed with his spyglass and the ever-present rage that permeates his very being.
The Crocodile is due to depart his shop within the hour, and while Hook longs to simply put an end to his centuries-long quest and slice through the Dark One's chest in all his fury, he knows from experience that timing and planning are the most effective methods for catching one's prey.
So he waits, out-looking the main thoroughfare of the quaint and bizarre place in which Rumplestiltskin—and other people of note—call home.
No one, to his knowledge, is aware of his presence here, nor are they aware of Cora's plans for her daughter. He'd be lying if he said he hasn't been tempted to linger outside the Sheriff's station to push his luck; to see how the Swan girl is fairing after their last encounter. To make sure she has in fact made it back to her son, and that Cora's grasp hasn't reached her yet.
Hook suppresses those thoughts as soon as they come up, however. They make him feel off, unbalanced. When visions of golden strands and piercing green eyes make their way into his mind, there is an inexplicable tightness in his chest, eventually drown out by memories of corroded shackles around his wrist and empty apologies from her retreating form.
His attention is diverted by a bright flickering to his right. It sparks and fizzles before dissipating, and Hook allows himself the distraction by stepping a few inches onto the sidewalk. The street is vacant, save for two obscure figures walking side by side across the road. They're like ghosts, floating along at a leisurely speed, gradually filling out until he can recognize bits of clothing: a grey coat on the woman, and a leather jacket on the man.
Hook scrubs at his face as they pass in front of him, seemingly in their own world. He struggles to believe what he's seeing, but has the wisdom of many years and countless adventures to know that this is as likely of an occurrence as anything else: there's Emma—radiant and smiling as though she has not a care in the world—with her arms wrapped around his own.
Except it's not really him. He's dressed differently, for one. His coat is shorter and with less flourish, and his manner is generally more subdued. His hair is somewhat shorter from what he can tell, less disheveled and styled in a way reminiscent of his days as a naval lieutenant in its finesse. But the most unfamiliar thing about this version of himself is perhaps the wide, childlike grin plastered across his face.
He looks… happy. Truly and wholly content, in a way that Hook hadn't thought himself capable of since Milah's death. Or even since Liam's passing. There's a lightness about him (and Emma as well) that leaves him gaping like an imbecile as he continues to contemplate them.
He makes a fist and bites down until his jaw clenches when he sees Emma lean her head against his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck with an immeasurable intimacy. Their strides are in sync and their eyes never leave each other as they suddenly fade from view, and the street is back to being as empty as Hook currently feels.
It's surely a trick, he decides. Some fantasy brought to life. Some sort of illusion meant to divert his course for revenge against his oldest foe.
Hook refuses to fall for it, no matter how much he longs to surrender to the hope that springs in his heart.
/
/
She's following a lead. Or, at least, that's how Emma justifies the thinly veiled surveillance of the Storybrooke's newest resident. She falls back when Tamara enters the inn, carrying take out and a few things from the drug store. It isn't her proudest moment, but the nagging feeling that there's something about Neal's fiancé just won't go away.
And she won't even allow herself to think too hard about the fact that Neal is engaged and that he's found Tallahassee with someone else. That she's just a part of his past, when he's always been there with her, like when she's leaving some stranger's apartment at the crack of dawn, or when she refuses a drink from a guy at a bar. When she's too afraid to give anyone the time of day because the pain is still too raw even after over a decade.
Emma alternates between wanting to go to the station to potentially relieve some tension through mindless paperwork, or if she should just head back to the loft where Henry's probably already asleep and she'll have to explain the reason for her late night excursion to her skeptical (and pitying) parents.
The station it is.
It's then at she sees it again: that twinkling barrier that's been resurfacing like clockwork. It's further down east than it was when she first saw it. The glimmering crevice is now at the center of an intersection, and Emma doesn't know if it's resurgence is a blessing or a curse.
She stands at the corner, vigilant and alert to it's positioning and size. As expected, it disappears within seconds before a scene from an unclear future comes into focus. This time, it's several people standing in the middle of the street, scattered about and looking towards the sky.
There's a strong wind that moves through them but doesn't reach her. There's an abrupt shift and Emma can vaguely make out a spinning cluster of black ribbon-like limbs that's settled before them. The group of them, most of whom she's able to identify except for an unknown man who's holding onto Regina, are frozen in their positions until her future self steps forward.
Emma's anxiety increases as she fears for her own life and tries to absorb everything about what she's witnessing in the hopes that she can maybe prevent this all from happening, whatever it is.
And then he runs up to join her. Hook takes her arm not unlike before, and turns her around with an anguished expression as she takes hold on his ringed hand and places it over her heart.
"Don't do this," Emma hears him say. The way his voice cracks around his words is enough to make her knees go weak.
There's a pause, filled with longing looks and violent gusts that obstruct her alternate self's face, before Emma hears herself say something that is more unbelievable than any fairytale character or storybook monster:
"I love you."
Their foreheads touch—and the tenderness of the gesture leaves Emma stunned—and suddenly she's pushing Hook away as he screams his dissent as she thrusts an object (is that Gold's dagger?) into the air. The black strings envelop her, and the scene ends in a flash.
Emma stumbles back, her breathing shallow as she takes it all in. Her attempts to process what she can are interrupted when she spots someone across the street, undoubtedly paralyzed by what the time portal displayed.
Hook grips at his side as he leans against the brick wall behind him, dumbfounded and just as overwhelmed as she is. They stay like that for a minute, exchanging looks of absolute confusion until a car drives by and the moment is disrupted.
"Hey!" she calls out after him, but its half-hearted and he's already gone.
It's the last time she come across the prophetic anomaly. The spell—or whatever the hell caused it—wears off shortly thereafter, and soon Emma and her family are forced to deal with a ticking time bomb in the form a town self-destruct, and a race against the clock to stop Greg and Tamara's plan.
But when Hook comes through the door of their apartment and their eyes meet with knowing looks, Emma is reminded of the glimpses into an unknown future, and she's not so frightened of it anymore.
.