YEAR

2012

The first time he met Emma Swan was not the first time Emma Swan had met him.

Killian had met an Emma that already knew him, already trusted him, an Emma that, upon seeing him enter the lobby of a hotel that would be rubble by year's end, had made a beeline straight for him and said, "Where the hell have you been?"

When Killian's answer came in the form of a scowl, she continued, "Henry was starting to worry he might never see you again. I thought you said—"

Finally reading the surprise on his face, she took in his full appearance, studying, scrutinizing, sizing him up against a version of himself he hadn't yet become. Her gaze lingered on his left hand, curled into a fist from the pain that shot from his fingertips to his forearm. A sight that, for some unsettling reason, didn't fit the image she already had of him.

"I was wondering when I'd meet you," she said with a smile that chased away every trace of the concern with which she'd greeted him. "This you."

Killian smiled back, nervous. Suddenly. Inexplicably. And not simply because she was the most beautiful sight he'd seen since—

No one from this time should've known him. Not as an adult.

"You're here for Gold, right?"

Killian didn't answer, too taken aback by how much this stranger knew. And by the way she looked at him. Like she wasn't a stranger at all.

She extended her right hand toward him. "I'm Emma. Swan."

Killian glanced at it but didn't offer his own.

Unfazed, Emma slid both of her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and resumed her appraisal of him. "Mind if I wait with you?"

Yes, he bloody well did mind. "That won't be necessary."

"You might be here a while." The way she said might told Killian she knew just how long a while it would be. She tilted her head to one side, indicating a large room just off the lobby. Inside were a dozen empty tables and a well-stocked bar. "My treat."

While Killian knew that the company of a beautiful woman was far from the worst thing he'd ever endure, he resented the ease with which Emma Swan addressed him. As though they'd had many similar meetings in the past. His future. This struck an odd chord with Killian. Friendship had become so foreign a concept to him that its mere mention lured nostalgia to the forefront of his thoughts. Awakened memories of childhood summers spent at the beach, of Liam warning him not to stray too far from the shore and Killian running headlong toward adventure. Of squawking seagulls and roaring tides and sunless, windswept afternoons. His father laughing heartily—

Killian cleared his throat of the lump that'd formed, unbidden. Cleared his mind of all memory except that which fanned the flames of his revenge.

He followed Emma through the crowd—a crowd so vibrant and bustling and alive that it turned his stomach. So many voices mingling together. Feet shuffling, luggage wheeling past, children giggling as they chased each other around artificial shrubbery.

None of them knowing they were already dead.

Did Emma know? If she'd been in contact with some alternate version of him, a version that'd disclosed the name of his intended target, she must've had some inkling. Had he told her the exact day her life would end? And in what manner? Was she perhaps one of the fortunate few like him? One of the immune?

They took two stools at the end of the bar, a convenient vantage point by which to watch guests milling in and out of the building's main entrance. Emma ordered a whiskey sour for herself and a rum for Killian, saying, "Trust me," in response to his arched brow.

They sat silently until their drinks arrived, and for several minutes after. A song filled the room, soft so as not to impede conversation, and Killian found himself gripped by its fast-moving melody. There was no music where he came from. Not anymore.

"You've met me before," he said, if only to turn his mind from such musings.

"I have."

"Am I allowed to ask when? Or will that throw the universe into chaos?"

"You tell me. You're the time traveler." Killian glanced quickly over each shoulder, forgetting for a moment that they were practically alone. The only person within eavesdropping distance was the bartender and he couldn't have appeared less interested in their conversation. When Killian looked back at Emma, she was smiling. "So, first jump." Not a question as much as an observation. Perhaps a warning.

"Is this where you tell me I'm too obvious and should try harder to blend in?"

"Not obvious," she said. "A bit…twitchy." His scowl made Emma smile again. Killian didn't think a single one had been the same. They all hid some deeper meaning he didn't understand. She threw her head back with the last of her drink and signaled for another. "The first time I saw you I was seventeen." Emma grinned down at her empty glass as she used its condensation to make half-moons on her napkin. "I thought you were a creep so I tried to pepper spray you." She laughed to herself and Killian, despite his best efforts, felt amusement tug at his lips. "Then you started talking."

"And you were swayed by my charm?"

"Uh, yeah. Charm." Emma's second drink arrived and she held tightly to it, like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. "For future reference," she leaned toward Killian the way people did when they were in each other's confidence, and a flowery scent stole his focus. Tempted him with thoughts of a prolonged stay. It'd been too many years since he'd breathed fresh air, since he'd smelled anything other than the dregs of a decaying landscape, "telling someone the world is going to end? Not the best pick-up line."

Killian swallowed thickly. "I'll keep that in mind." He reached for his glass, biting back a wince as the pain in his hand turned to a pulsating throb.

"After that night, I didn't see you again for ten years. You only ever show up when you want something, and swear me to secrecy when you leave." Emma shrugged. "Typical time traveler bullshit."

This made Killian laugh, fully and truly for the first time since—

The sound was cut short with the image of Milah that flashed across his mind. "Have you known many time travelers?"

"Just the one."

"And how well do you know him?"

"Well enough to call him a friend."

"Should I be honored?"

The look she gave him was a strange mixture of insult and pity. "Is it so terrible for someone to care about you?"

Killian held her stare, unmoved by words that were surely meant to thaw his cold, unfeeling heart. "I could not imagine a crueler fate. And I've seen the end of the world."

Emma finished her second drink faster than the first, and Killian got the impression that his presence in that place had her longing for another's.

He was starting to understand how this other him had gotten distracted. She was rather captivating, wasn't she? With her red leather jacket and long blonde hair. Green eyes that almost made him want to forget why he'd come to that hotel, on that day. Why he'd traveled nineteen years into the past to kill a man.

"You mentioned someone named Henry—is he your…husband?"

Another smile. Wider, brighter than the rest. "Henry's my son. He's grown quite attached to you."

"Does he know…?"

"He suspects. Circumstances don't always lend themselves to convenient…exits." This being Killian's first trip via time machine, he could only imagine the return journey would be similar to the one that'd brought him here, and he wasn't looking forward to it. "Even if you weren't…well, you, he'd probably make up some outrageous backstory for you—kid's always had a healthy imagination. I think meeting you was a dream come true."

Killian's gaze drifted toward the collar of Emma's shirt, where a round pendant on a silver chain had caught the light. In the center of the pendant was the reverse silhouette of a swan with a line carved diagonally across it—a mark that was intentional but not of the maker's hand.

He was tempted to ask Emma for more specifics regarding their relationship—not entirely convinced that the right knowledge at the wrong time would set off a chain reaction. But, unlike his future self, he couldn't afford the distraction.

As he turned toward the lobby and saw city lights through the main doors, shining brightly against an evening sky, he realized he'd fallen prey to exactly that.

The sun was nearly set and he'd seen no sign of Gold.

"What's today's date?" He asked Emma.

She didn't answer. Didn't appear inclined—indeed, she seemed averse to the very idea. But something about his demeanor must've changed her mind.

"The fifteenth."

"No," Killian said, even as Emma's guilty expression confirmed his fear. "You're mistaken."

"I'm sorry."

"No," Killian repeated, his tone having lost all of its bite. "A week." He laughed as he buried his face in his good hand, but there was no humor in the sound. "Off by a bloody week."

The Mad Scientist and his calculations. "They may be a tad…imprecise."

If Killian didn't need him and his blasted machine—

Before this thought reached a murderous end, Emma grabbed Killian's hand—the one that throbbed—her thumb moving back and forth across his skin in a comforting caress.

"It will get easier."

Killian scoffed. Whatever she was referring to, he could promise her that, no, it most assuredly would not get easier. Her words undoubtedly pertained to his mission and were meant to encourage him not to abandon that ever elusive hope. This era really was as sentimental as they said.

"Oh? And when, pray tell, do you suppose that will be?"

Gently, as though she knew what meaning it held for him, she answered, "Tomorrow."

It was something Killian's brother used to tell him during those final days, when Killian still considered Liam's recovery an unquestionable certainty. People got sick and then they got better. It happened all the time. Killian had heard about their father's cousin in Derby who'd gone to the hospital and never come home. And their neighbor down the road. Hadn't even made it to the front steps before he'd collapsed in a fit of coughs and didn't get up again. But Liam wasn't like them. He was the strongest person Killian knew.

"It will get better, Killian. You have to believe that."

"When? Tomorrow?"

"Yes, Little Brother," Liam laughed and there was some life to it this time—a positive sign, in Killian's book, "all will be better tomorrow."

He was loath to accept that there was any version of him in existence that would confide such things in a stranger. For that was what Emma Swan was, no matter how well she claimed to know him. Know his mission. She had no right to his brother's memory.

Killian fought to rein in his temper, even as he wrenched his hand out from under hers. It was just a word. A measurement. It was ridiculous for him to hold on to it as he had, and all because of an empty platitude passed between brothers when Killian was just a kid. Watching the world die.

Emma Swan couldn't have known that it was this solitary word, this promise of better days, that'd consoled him when his father followed shortly after Liam. That it'd been the force driving him onward, toward a future that'd never looked more bleak.

Killian had never believed in love at first sight until he met Milah. Hadn't believed suffering could still have its hand on him until she, too, was taken, and tomorrow was all he'd had left. An ever-present beacon on the horizon, growing dimmer, the space between them more vast with every advancing step.

No matter how well Emma Swan claimed to know him, she couldn't know that.

Killian was so consumed by rage that he didn't register the flickering lights at first. The subtle rumbling in the earth. Telltale signs that he was out of time. The rumbling grew to a quake, throwing bottles from shelves, lamps from tables, and only Emma seemed to know what it signified.

She smiled sadly, her eyes meeting his as she said, "See you soon."

And then she was gone.