He does not find himself hurrying down the still-chilly Storybrooke streets towards the crocodile's shop out of any sense of self-preservance. He is acutely aware of the bit of him that still fancies survival calling out bitterly from the back of his mind, assuring him that if the librarian is in trouble and Gold has truly gone off the rails, he is certainly a goner. Heart newly replaced and beating hard on his chest or not.

But the horrors he has committed over the past days weigh heavy at his shoulders, and the woman had saved his bloody worthless life whilst simultaneously betraying the Dark One.

He knows all too well how that story ends.

The chilly thought sends an icy dagger through his heart as dark memories resurface in miserable black and white.

He cannot stand anyone else being hurt because of him.

When he catches sight of the Pawn Shop around the corner, he picks up his pace.

The door is locked, closed sign hung crooked against the pane of glass. But he hears noises from inside.

"Open up, Gold!"

Running idiotically into it. Pretending to be the hero his heart reminds him with every painful beat that he certainly is not. His blind insistence to face off dangers he is incapable of handling never bloody fails to bury him in leagues of shit.

He hears another, muffled noise from within and lets out a long-suffering sigh, rivaled only by the groan that the pleading reason still present somewhere in his subconscious releases.

"I am a pirate, mate. I can let my bloody self in if you refuse."

There is still no response.

It only takes one good blow to knock through the door that he had fully expected to house some Enchantment to knock him three realms south.

He steps carefully through, still not entirely convinced that something will not come out at him or turn him into a sodding reptile.

It is just his variety of bitter, vengeful humor.

But the shop is dark and eerily empty, and he momentarily thinks he may have imagined the noises.

Until it comes again.

Without the door muffling it out… it sounds almost like a sob.

Concerns of traps and reptiles slip out of his mind as he follows the sound to the back of the shop. It is nearly pitch black—only bleak rays of moonlight creeping through the crevices in the blinds and leaking across the floor to illuminate even lines across Belle. She is sat curled in on herself on the floor, a dark item clutched within both of her hands that he assumes is the dagger. Her posture is utterly broken.

His heart thuds and moves him a half a step closer.

He is not sure if she has seen him. And then she speaks.

"I took care of it. You can tell Emma he is gone."

Her voice quivers.

He moves cautiously closer still, straining his eyes through the darkness.

"Has he harmed you?"

She shifts, and cold, shattered eyes land on him.

"I said, he's gone Hook. Go away. Tell Emma everyone is safe."

He clenches his jaw.

"I am not here for Emma. I am here to check to make sure he hasn't crushed your sodding heart."

He knows it is wrong as soon as he says it, and her attention falls from him as she moves to hide her face in the knees she has curled near to her, pulling her arms closer around her and inadvertently moving the item into the light.

It is a teacup.

"Perhaps I ought to make you some tea to fill that, yeah?"

She is broken and aching and alone.

He knows a thing or two about the feeling. And he fully expects her quiet emptiness to press her to push him away. He prepares himself to back down. But then;

"I wouldn't mind something a bit stronger."

He smiles softly in spite of himself, moving towards her as he pulls his flask from the depths of his jacket, twisting the top with his thumb.

"I can certainly assist there, darling."

She lifts her head slightly up from her knees and offers him a weak, teary smile as he finally loosens the top, kneeling down and finding the edge of her cup—holding it steady with his hook as he splashes her a shot.

He lowers himself carefully to a seated position in front of her and watches attentively as she downs the rum with ease and a vague grimace. He takes a small bitter sip from the flask, eyes never leaving her. She lets out a breath and he holds out the flask to offer more. She moves her cup to accept.

"I was wrong about you, Hoo—Killian." She bites her lip as she corrects herself, watching as he pours her another shot. His heart thuds a quiet mocking song about just how much he does not deserve it.

"I am not certain you were." He answers slowly, pressing his mouth into a tight-lipped grimace before pulling his flask back to his own lips.

It is her turn to watch carefully as he drinks, eyes regarding him with an odd understanding.

"You came here to check on me. At the risk of your own life. That is not the behavior of a man with a rotted heart. And now I've seen your heart," she smiles softly and reaches to touch his shoulder as his eyes fall away from her. "The secret has spilled. You aren't quite so fearsome as you'd want everyone to believe, are you?"

He scratches carefully behind his ear with his hook, forcing his attentions back to the tear-streaked face in front of him.

"I was with Emma when we worked out that… that he had control of you. I am fairly certain she would not care so deeply for someone not worth it."

He feels the warm bite of a blush growing on his cheeks, and he is thankful for the cover of darkness. His heart patters again in his chest thinking of her, and gods, he missed the feeling.

But now every thud leaves a bitter aftertaste.

"You saved my heart. I have honor, I was not about to leave you to whatever punishment the croc—Rumplestiltskin… saw fit. I know what he is capable of."

She shrugs as she takes another drink from the chipped cup.

"It was his turn to face consequences."

They sit in silence a moment. Killian is not sure what she has done to her husband, but part of him isn't sure it is entirely his business either. She is torn to bits over it—and he is gone. To him, at that moment, it is all that matters.

"I am truly sorry that you have been hurt in this, love."

And he is. Belle has never been anything but a lovely lass stuck in the wrong places. And it always seems to be her paying for the wrongdoings of her unfortunate husband. She takes another longer drink, refusing to look at him.

"I have no one to blame but myself."

His brow furrows at her words.

"That is not true."

She lets a breathy snort into her cup, and he reaches his hook to guide it away from her face so he can look her in the eye.

"That is not true." He repeats firmly. "You forget, I may have more a history with your husband than even you have. I knew his last wife better than myself. Whatever he has done to you is of no fault but his own. Loving someone is not a wrong."

She raises an eyebrow.

"You say that, but you don't believe it. I know you aren't just drinking to keep me company."

His heart gives another faint patter.

"What are you implying?"

"You blame yourself for getting your heart taken. You blame yourself for being used. And still you think you can sit there and pour me rum and tell me it wasn't my fault for ignoring everything that told me he hadn't changed."

She talks slowly and carefully, holding eye contact with him and she is right. But the scenarios are different and he had not been too blinded by love to see just how unchanged the Dark One truly was.

"'s different," he mumbles.

"Is it?"

They are quiet again and he caps the rum, stowing it back in his jacket and inhaling slowly.

"Perhaps we both were taken advantage of."

Belle gives him a bleak smile and his heart is still reminding him with every bloody thud the darkness of the manipulative fingers that had grasped it not hours earlier. It still longs for Emma but the black clings tight to the edges and he cannot shake it no matter how he tries.

It doesn't seem to wish to lift itself from his chest.

"Perhaps we were."

(He coaxes her back to the diner for a less heavy drink and she coaxes the dirty details of his time in Gold's control from the bitter hole it has left in him and swears she will assist him in righting his wrongs.

"It is partially my fault, after all."

He argues and finds she can hold her stance just as well as she holds her rum, and her blatant inflexibility nearly makes him smile.

"'s too bad your husband never would allow us to be mates."

"It's a good thing he is gone then, isn't it?")