Emma found Henry slumped over on the kitchen table, snoring into the spine of the fairy tale collection. He'd been poring over the book as thoroughly as he had before the first curse had broken, when he was fighting to make her believe, but he didn't seem to want to volunteer anything about the suddenly renewed interest. She had hinted a few times, but let the subject drop when she realized with a cringe that the motherly predilection toward curiosity and asking questions after the subject was closed was a very real part of her and not (as she liked to pretend) purely a part of the false memories.
However, the curiosity was still there, and unlike some other mothers, she had the skills to retrieve some answers.
Cautiously, she slid the book out from under his head, careful to leave it open to the page he had passed out on. Henry, despite being of possibly the most magical parentage in the history of, well, history, was still a teenager, and as such slept like one. That is, through everything short of an explosion next to his head.
She crept to the door, grabbing her coat and slipping outside to sit on the landing. It was chillier than the apartment, but it also had less likelihood of being disturbed or surprised. Old habits dying hard.
Emma tucked herself into the corner near the stairs and finally took a look at the book. Her heart twinged a little when she recognized the image of Neverland. That trip had not been a pleasant experience for anyone involved, though some developments led to… happier times in the present. She tucked herself further into the corner, trying to drive away thoughts of the oppressive heat, the moments alone with Hook, that insanely tempting pouting mouth as he practically dared her to kiss him, his absolute confidence in himself that he would win her.
"Cocky pirate," she mumbled to herself, forcing herself to focus on the pages and not the memories of the steamy jungle. To her surprise, she found that it was a section of the book about the very pirate she was trying so desperately not to think about—and how typical, after all, that even without his direct presence he was still managing to invade every portion of her life.
A smile still danced along her lips, however, as she kept reading, learning more about Lieutenant Jones.
A few pages later, the smile was gone, and so was she. Henry stirred as the Bug started outside, shifting positions to flop his arm more comfortably under his now pillow-less head.
He answered her knock with a fumbling, sleepy-eyed confusion of concern and mussed hair that under any other circumstances she would have found adorable. As it was, however, she was shaking too badly to manage anything other than a bit lip and a glare.
Killian caught on quickly, pulling her inside and closing the door. "What's wrong, love? Has something happened?"
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, wheeling on him.
"You're going to have to be a mite more specific than that."
Emma opened the book up and shoved it at him, indicating with the hand that didn't support the weight of the heavy tome. "Your brother. Neverland. Pan. This. Why didn't you tell me?" she repeated.
His face cycled through several emotions very fast: first confusion, followed by hurt, then an even older pain and a deeper anger, and finally it snapped shut, like the book as he took it and turned away, putting space between them. She was a little frightened now. Emma had never seen him this way before, so closed-off and unyielding, like you. Just like you were. She took an uncertain step forward, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder. "Killian," she said, in a voice a good deal softer than it had been a moment before, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"To pry into my past? To find the darkest secret I have and flaunt it? I asked to be let into your past, Swan, and I thought that I could trust you to do me the same courtesy." He was angry, but kept his voice low. The thin walls of Granny's didn't offer much protection from outside ears, especially when the nosiest woman in town lived directly underneath you. "Had you considered that this was my story to tell you when I felt ready?"
"Killian, I—I'm sorry," she managed, eyes hot half in anger at being chastised and half in shame because he was right and she hadn't considered it. She willed the tears down by pure force, because she had come to start expecting comfort from him but it wasn't exactly her place to expect it when she had made a mistake and he was the one yelling. She didn't like being on this side of the arguing; it was too much like her early weeks in town, going to battle with Regina and losing time and again. This time, though there may have been less at stake, it somehow felt worse.
He turned then, and his expression was angry and hurt but also ashamed. In a few strides, he had closed the distance between them and pulled her to his chest. Emma was surprised to find he was trembling.
"Emma," he whispered, and his voice was thick, "Emma, Emma, Emma… I'm sorry, love. It's just that Li—Liam's death is still a thorn in my side. I should have expected that you would find out from that infernal book. Forgive me?"
He pulled back and tilted her chin up, and his eyes were dark but the storm was clearing, leaving the old, old sadnesses behind. Her heart ached for him and his losses—something she was so painfully familiar with—and she loved him even more for all that he had suffered. In truth, she had been so shaken to find that there was a part of him that she didn't know about, a wound that she couldn't have imagined (she only knew the Disney version of his story, though she should have expected something bitter after all this time among the fairy tales, because in stories you didn't have to see and feel and heal the walking scars left by others, but in the flesh was a whole different story) that was where her anger came from. It wasn't really anger, either, it was fear, the same fear that had driven her to push him away again and again until he finally broke in and wouldn't leave.
She tried to pour all of that apology and explanation into a kiss, holding him to her the way that he held her so often, trying to tell him that she could be his anchor too. She could be trusted.
When they separated, she reached for his hand, guiding him to the bed and sitting carefully. Almost shyly, she tugged the book from his hand, setting it on his lap.
"You don't have to tell me now," she said, resting her hand over his, "but when you're ready, I want to hear your story. From you."
He smiled at her, a small smile, the smile of an old wound breathing for the first time in many, many years, and opened the book to the page where his story began. Now was as good a time as any, and he was more ready than he thought.
A/N: The idea was that as viewers, we've seen all the back stories, but maybe the other characters haven't. I'm not really sure, it was just an excuse for some angst.