Tin Hearts

Author's Note: Sorry for the major delay in updating (I've had a crazy couple of weeks). Thank you to everyone who read and liked the first installment. I've got this fic pretty much roughed out so hopefully I'll be faster with the updates from this point on. After all the spoilers this week, I think it's safe to say this is now in AU territory. C'est la vie. Also, I threw in a sort of 'Frozen' nugget for fans out there. Because of reasons.

Part Two

Emma's not sure why she's surprised when Kathryn Nolan is the Good Witch of the South. (Her life is seriously one evil twin or mistaken identity away from being a full-blown soap opera).

She follows Graham and his wolf up the path, Hook trailing close behind.

It would be simpler if this was a trap; if this 'Graham' lead them to the Wicked Witch or one of the countless other villains that kept popping out of the woodwork with a beef against her family. She could handle that. This? Not so much.

Kathryn waits outside the threshold of the cottage. Aside from the whole cape and gown ensemble, she seems generally unchanged from the woman who left Storybrooke 2 years ago.

Did Emily Post cover how to greet a woman who was married to your father AND the victim of a murder investigation in which your mother was the primary suspect?

Kathryn saves her the trouble of figuring out what to say, pulling Emma into a short, unexpected hug, before ushering her three guests inside.

She leads them into small, whitewashed room. The ceiling is low enough that Emma has to stoop a little.

"Munchkin-made," Kathryn says, with an apologetic shrug, before guiding Emma into one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire.

Emma sits rigidly on the edge of her seat, determined to keep up her guard. The chaos of the last 24 hours has left her drained and it takes everything in her power not to curl up and take a nap.

She scans the room.

It is filled with mismatched but comfortable-looking furniture. A series of loose papers and maps cover the room's only table. Next to a large but fairly empty bookshelf, a large metal statue is pushed into a corner. A silver tea tray rests on an ottoman by the fire. Hardly the boiling cauldrons, broomsticks, and other trappings you'd expect from a witch's cottage.

Kathryn hands her a cup of tea.

As a rule, Emma usually steers clear of tea. She is more of a hot chocolate (or on rough mornings) strong black coffee kind of gal. Not to mention that the last time she had tea she wound up drugged and held hostage by a top-hat wearing psychopath. Par for the course when you're the sheriff of Storybrooke, but an event she rather not repeat.

Still, she cradles the cup in both hands, letting the warmth of the porcelain seep into her frozen fingers. She takes a sip. The tea tastes of bergamot and something floral that reminds her of late nights gossiping over tea and blueberry scones with a certain cardigan-wearing schoolteacher.

Across from her, Hook awkwardly balances his own cup in his good hand. Emma tries to hide her smirk. She has seen a lot of crazy things since first following Henry to Storybrooke (a dragon and a homicidal shadow come to mind), but the sight of the fearsome pirate captain holding a delicate china teacup tops the list.

"I don't remember you," Kathryn says, watching Hook carefully. The troubled look on Kathryn's face twists something inside Emma. She is all too familiar with how difficult it is to sort through memories of two different lives.

Since drinking that potion in New York, most things are a fog. The truth has become a muddled thing, and not even her superpower can help her determine the real from the created.
But every once in a while something (a sip of tea, walkie-talkies, a brown pickup, "as you wish") breaks through, anchoring her to reality.

"He's not from Storybrooke," Emma supplies.

Kathryn nods, visibly relieved as she takes a seat in the chair next to Hooks

"I'm Kathryn," she says. "Emma's evil stepmother."

Emma almost chokes on her tea.

From behind her, she hears a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a snort, come from Graham.

Hook looks thunderstruck. His gaze shifts warily between Emma, who studiously avoids making eye contact, and Kathryn, who is grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

Emma's not sure what conclusions the pirate draws (undoubtedly he'll have a question or two for his buddy 'Dave' when they're reunited), but he quickly rallies from this addition to her twisted family tree.

"Captain Killian Jones" he says finally, bowing his head to Kathryn. "But you can call me Hook, love."

Emma rolls her eyes as Hook shoots Kathryn a flirtatious wink.

To her credit, Kathryn doesn't seem particularly impressed by Hook's 'charms', turning her attention back to Emma.

"It's a good thing Graham found you when he did," she says. "You landed in the Forgotten Forest. Those not used to its magic often remain trapped there."

"Lucky me," Emma deadpanned. She would land in some kind of Oz funhouse-forest that traps its victims.

"It's where lost things from across the realms find themselves," Kathryn shrugs. "It's how we came to be here."

"Yeah, about that," Emma says, eager to get down to business. David had been gone for three weeks already. They didn't have time to waste. "You have some explaining to do. How did you get here?"

"It's a long story," Kathryn says. A deflection. The same words Graham spoke not an hour earlier.

Emma sets her cup and saucer on the low trunk next to her.

Making a show of settling back in her chair, she shoots Katherine her patented tell-me-what-I-want-to-know-or-so-help-me-God-you-will-regret-it stare (effective on your run of the mill dirt-bag, as of yet untested on fairytale princesses).

"I've got time."

Kathryn tells her everything.

She tells her about disappearing from a lecture on international trade law at Boston College and arriving in the Forgotten Forest. She tells her about finding Graham and a dozen others, all pulled to this strange land at the same time. She tells her about how Graham is not the only one to have arrived from beyond the grave. She tells her about how they were pulled to the Forgotten Forest because they had been separated from their true selves; the few individuals who had crossed the town line or died while under the curse.

Emma listens, eyes trained on Kathryn's face, ready to find some sign of deception. There is none. And while her superpower has been faulty in recognizing the fact from fiction in her own life, her gut tells her that everything Kathryn has said is true.

"So let me get this straight," Emma says, brow furrowed. "Because of some loophole in Regina's curse you all wound up stranded in Oz?"

Kathryn doesn't seem bothered by Emma's skepticism.

"You are so much like David," Kathryn grins. "I don't know how I didn't see it before."

Emma squirms at the almost wistful way Kathryn is looking at her. Whatever complicated past Kathryn and her father shared, there was still clearly some kind of lingering affection.

"He's why we're here," Emma says, hoping to channel this affection to their advantage. "He's in trouble. The witch has him."

As Kathryn's face falls, so does the bottom of Emma's stomach.

"Then he is in great danger," Kathryn says, confirming Emma's fears. "How can I help?"

"Do you know where she would keep him?"

"Her castle is in the Western Mountains. You will have to cross through the Poppy fields and the Ozelot Canyon," Kathryn pauses, searching Emma's face. "It's a dangerous journey, Emma. Especially for someone new to Oz."

Emma shrugs off the warning. Nothing about this journey had been easy thus far. She hadn't expected infiltrating Oz to be a cakewalk.

"I'll take them," Graham says, moving forward from his place leaning against the doorway. "You will need a guide who knows the land."

Emma closes her eyes. She had almost fooled herself into forgetting about the large elephant in the room that was the resurrected sheriff.

She couldn't deal with this now. Not when David's life hung in the balance. But how was she supposed to get to David? After her time in the Forgotten Forest, her navigation skills in Oz had already proved unpromising.

Steeling herself, she turns to Graham. It's still jarring seeing him standing in the doorway, warm, breathing and so very much alive. She can tell he's trying to keep his face neutral, to appear like he doesn't care whether or not she takes him up on his offer. Despite his efforts there's a glimmer of something behind his eyes that looks an awful lot like concern. Damn him.

Emma gives a curt nod, not trusting herself to speak. He smiles, and it's too much. She looks away.

"You should all rest here tonight," Kathryn says. "You'll need your strength. Oz has become a very perilous place."

Emma opens her mouth to argue against waiting, but is interrupted by Hook.

"What the bloody hell's been going on in this land?"

Kathryn gives Hook a arch look, complete with a raised eyebrow that would put even the pirate himself to shame.

"Zelena's had free reign over the land for thirty years," Kathryn answers. "Those who opposed her have left or been eliminated."

Eliminated. Certainly darker than the story Emma had known growing up. Where were the ruby slippers? And the gingham? And skipping down a cheery yellow road? Where was—

"Glinda. Is she—"

"Dead. For many years."

Jesus.

"And how exactly did you become the Good Witch of the South?"

Kathryn frowns.

"Not long after we arrived I discovered that some of my father's magical proclivities were an inherited trait," Kathryn says, clearly agitated. "Magic is rare here. The resistance was quick to rally around it."

Well that sounds familiar, Emma thought bitterly. She was the savior. She knew all too well what it was like having people rely on powers you never asked for.

Kathryn avoids looking at Emma, staring miserably down at her hands resting in her lap. That's when Emma notices them. Gloves.

Emma quickly glances at the metal statue in the corner. It wasn't gold, but it was so life-like, there could only be one explanation.

"Did you—"

"No!" Kathryn interrupts quickly. "Emma, I swear I didn't—" Kathryn looks horrified by the implication. "I'll show you."

Kathryn begins to remove one of her gloves. Hook tenses, his eyes darting to Emma. Emma shakes her head. Despite what had passed between Kathryn and her parents, Emma was pretty sure she wouldn't turn her into a hunk of metal.

Carefully Kathryn reaches for her discarded teacup, grasping the narrow handle in her now exposed hand. Nothing happens. Then, suddenly the surface of the tea seems to harden into ice before breaking into a web of cracks. More ice forms around the rim, slowly spreading until the entire cup is encased.

It's horrifying and beautiful and just as suddenly as the ice has formed the cup shatters, pieces of porcelain and ice shrapnel shooting into the rug.

"You see," Kathryn says, quickly slipping her hand back into her elbow length green glove. "My talents lie in a different direction than my father's."

Emma's heart aches at the bitterness laced in Kathryn's voice. Whatever trouble Emma's magic incurred, it never was this kind of burden.

"The tin gentleman in the corner was once the Captain of the Winky Guard," Kathryn says, making every effort to sound detached. "Zelena discovered certain aspects of my past. She does this to my followers now to torture me."

Of course. The details are a little fuzzy, but Emma can see it now: Henry seated across from her at Granny's, storybook and cocoa in hand, telling the story of her father and King Midas' daughter. She can't remember the whole story (something about a lake monster and her father's acts of daring do) but she does recall a knight turned to metal. The princess's true love.

This Wicked Witch was a real twisted piece of work.

"She is powerful, Emma," Kathryn says, reading Emma's thoughts. "More powerful than you can imagine."

Emma nods, trying to push back the overwhelming sense of dread filling her stomach.

Maybe it was a fool's errand. Maybe it was going to get her killed. But she couldn't just leave David. Not here.

"So eager to get me to yourself, love?"

Emma shoots him a glare, before dragging him the rest of the way into her room. The door shuts behind them, and they are alone. Finally.

The Lady Kathryn had placed them in guest accommodations on the second floor of her cottage at opposite ends of the hall (yet another member of Emma's family to win over it seemed).

No sooner had their hostess bid them goodnight that Emma latched onto his elbow and pulled him into her quarters.

She has stuck to his side the whole evening. Under other circumstances he would have been giddy at Emma choosing to be closer to him, but in this instance he sees the truth behind her actions.

She does not wish to be left alone with him. Graham. Her 'old friend'. (That's how she introduced him downstairs: an 'old friend').

But he knows his Swan.

He's all too familiar with how she operates. Her avoidance speaks volumes. For her to be this desperate to dodge Graham, he must be something more than just an 'old friend'.

If Hook had any self-respect, he should have spurned Emma's attentions tonight, instead of allowing her to use him (to escape from another man no less). But their separation over the last year has made him desperate. He will take whatever part of Emma she is willing to give, and what's more, he'll thank her for it.

The fearsome Captain Hook turned codfish over a woman.

Now that they were alone, the space is back. The space Emma had so carefully placed between them since her memories had been restored. A day ago, he would not have batted an eye. He was a patient man. He could wait for her. But now? The board had been reset with new, unexpected pieces. Emma's heart might not be solely his to win.

Despite having to stoop to accommodate the low ceiling, Emma paces, moving about like a caged animal. There would be no approaching her. Not when she was this agitated.

He takes a seat at the foot of her bed, watching her. He should have never brought her into this. He should have just gone after David himself, and left her to happy ending. Without him. But it was too late for that now. They were here, and somehow, he had to get her through this in one piece.

"Is this how you treat all gentleman you invite to your chambers, Swan?" he smirks, falling back on his innuendos.

Emma glares at him but the fight seems to have gone out of her. She sighs, before moving to take a seat on the bed next to him.

They sit for some time in silence. She avoids his gaze, instead choosing to look down at where her boots dangle, not quite long enough to reach the floor.

"Graham was the sheriff when I first came to Storybrooke," Emma begins.

He listens, careful not to move or react in any way should it deter her from continuing. It is not often that Swan freely offered information about herself.

"He was one of the first people in town to take a chance on me. Made me his deputy," she continues, her voice hushed but steady. "Then he died."

Hook would wager there was a trifle more to the story than that, but is in no position to push. In any case, he'd been right. Graham was more than just an 'old friend'.

"We can trust him, Hook." She finally meets his gaze.

When he sees the unshed tears welled in the corner of her eyes, he fights the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms. She's not yours to comfort mate. Instead he settles for resting his good hand over hers, squeezing the tops of her fingers.

"I trust you, love."

He studies her face, eager to find some sign that she understands his words. They are his promise, his sacred oath to follow her and her alone, even through the depths of hell itself. But her expression is unreadable, her armor in place once more.

Reluctantly, he hoists himself off of her coverlet, turning back towards her once he reaches the door. "Best get some rest, Swan. We have a long journey ahead of us."

As he makes his way down the corridor to his own room, his mind races through all that had passed. It would seem he did not know his Swan as well as he thought.

Open book, indeed.

Reaching for his flask, he shoulders his door open and settles in for the long night ahead.