Heart of Stone

Chapter 2: Missing

Emma searches for Killian with the help of her family. Warning-some mild language. Emma/Hook.

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Over the rising and falling hills, Emma raced toward the town line. 200 yards, 100 yards, the distance was closing fast. She tried to peer through the darkness, her flashlight casting a faint yellow light only six feet in front of her. Tears stung her eyes, blinding her. She stumbled over the uneven pavement, feeling her ankle twist painfully, but refused to slow for a moment to register the pain.

"Killian!" His name caught in her throat as she called to him. She felt a tug on her elbow and was whipped around. Her father held her fast even as she struggled against him.

"Emma stay here."

"No…I have to see him." She wiped her tears away, trying to peer into the gloom ahead.

"Emma. Stay. Here. Don't move." He planted her in place as he strode alone into the darkness.

An icy fear gripped her chest. Her heartbeat became a dull thud between her eyes, the beat syncing with David's heavy footsteps as he continued down the road without her. She waited a moment and staggered after him, holding her flashlight in front of her, trying to make out something, anything up ahead.

"Please God…please not him…not him please…not Killian…God not that…please," she muttered the words over and over again, running her prayers together in a mass that amounted to nothing. She let out a sob as David collided with her. "Is he…is he…?"

"He's not there," David assured her quietly, looking back at Belle who was still wringing her hands, trying to wash away an imaginary stain.

"He's not…oh thank God…" Emma almost sank to the ground in relief. She rushed past him, wanting to see, wanting to assure herself that Belle had imagined it all. It was probably some sick hallucination brought on by one of Gold's spells...or maybe it had something to do with the Snow Queen's failed magic…

"No Emma, don't go."

She turned, surprised. "Why not? He's not there…you said he's not there."

David nodded. "Yes…but…just don't go. Not yet."

Emma's face fell. Her heartbeat began to sound in her head again. "What's wrong?"

"He's not there. Killian isn't there…but…" he paused, avoiding her eyes"…something happened. I want you to wait. We're going to need some help with this."

"You never call him Killian," Emma said quietly. "You've never once called him Killian. It's always been Hook."

"Emma, let me make a few calls."

"Something's happened," she said angrily, pushing past him. This time he merely followed her, silently watching as she shone her flashlight down the road. He found his phone and began dialing contacts with a shaking hand.

Emma's flashlight caught an odd glimmer and she froze. Just in front of her, a large dull stain had spread across the road way. Impossibly wide, unmistakably red. It was as if the road itself refused to act as a silent witness to something unspeakable, and left the bloody evidence for all to see. The stain was at least six feet wide, forming a circle around a shadowed object. Emma approached slowly, shining the light on the sickle shape. Reaching down, she picked up a blood-stained hook.

David carefully eased towards her, watching as she studied the curved metal in her hand. "We should leave things as they are. We'll get help…I called Regina and your mother. They'll be here in a few minutes. Together we can work this out."

She stared at him for a moment, gripping the hook in her hand. Her gloves were now rubbed red with its dried blood, the same color as her jacket. Her eyes seemed blank and unreadable. For a moment she reminded him of the statues in Medusa's layer—alabaster figures staring sightlessly at the ruins around them. All at once she broke the stillness, springing past him, hurling herself towards Belle.

Emma charged her, holding the hook. "Where the hell is he?"

"He's gone Emma," Belle replied in a tired voice.

"Enough with the crazy talk Belle." Emma shoved the hook in her face. "We found this. We know he was here. Now what happened to him? Where's Killian?"

"I told you," Belle said quietly. "He's gone."

With a choking cry Emma lunged at Belle. She grabbed her by the collar, shaking her furiously. The hook cut into Belle's coat, slashing long marks into the dark fabric.

"Where is he Belle? What the hell happened to him?" Emma's grip tightened until her fingers were around her throat, the hook cutting shards of Belle's red hair. "What did your fucking husband do to Killian? Where are they? Do you hear me Belle? What did you see? I swear to God Belle if you're holding out on me..."

David rushed between them, pushing Emma away. The hook slid across his shoulder, tearing away the fabric of his shirt and slicing against his flesh.

"Emma, stop." He snatched the hook and held it safely out of reach.

"She knows where he is. She knows what happened," Emma shouted, pointing at Belle accusingly. "She can take us to Killian."

"Emma, she's not in any kind of state to tell us anything." David looked back at Belle, who started scrubbing her hands again, this time using sand to grind away the skin of her palm. "She's not thinking clearly."

"She's just covering for that twisted fuck of a husband."

"There's more to it than that."

"God dammit," Emma held her head in her hands. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I felt it…" She thought back to their last exchange at Granny's—Killian awkwardly praising the Dark One for finding a portal back to Arendelle, giving her a brief kiss and an odd smile as he headed off to God-knows-where. Then Anna admitting she'd met Gold years ago…Emma knew then that something was wrong. But being so preoccupied with Elsa and Anna, she'd filed it away, planning on teasing it out of Killian over drinks later. He could never keep anything from her for long…

Emma felt drops of water on her hands and thought it'd begun to rain again. It took her a second to realize there were tears streaming down her face. "We have to find him Dad. We have to," she said quietly, not bothering to wipe them away.

"We will sweetie."

He wasn't lying, but she could hear the doubt in his voice.

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"So you're telling me…what exactly?" Emma tapped her foot impatiently, glaring at the others in their search party. Snow and Regina had arrived quickly to the scene. At first Emma thought David had merely called her mother to comfort her, but as soon as Snow arrived, she started searching for tracks around the bloodstain.

As Snow sorted through the debris on the roadside, Regina cast a locator spell on the hook. In theory, the hook should have found its way back to its owner, leading them to Killian. Instead, the hook fell like a stone to the center of the stain, unmoving and fixed. Regina tried the spell several more times, each time with the same result. Snow, too, came up with no traces of Killian whatsoever. The only footprints leading away from the scene were tiny and barefoot and assumed to be Belle's. It seemed whatever happened took place within the concentric area of the stain.

Regina gestured towards the hook. "I don't know. I just…I don't know. This shouldn't be happening."

"Is something wrong with the spell?" Emma asked through gritted teeth. She'd stood by, useless and impatient while Regina fiddled with her magic and Snow sorted through blades of tall grass. And all for nothing.

Regina answered briskly, irritation in her voice. "There's nothing wrong with the spell. I have done this a time or two in the past. It's fairly straightforward—I cast the spell and the hook should be reunited with its owner. Simple."

Emma threw up her hands. "Oh good. That's incredibly helpful. Definitely worth the wait. Hey Dad…Regina's cracked the case. We started with no clues at all and now the hook is on the road. Right where we found it an hour ago! Problem solved."

"Emma…" David warned.

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Sorry Regina, but I'm having a hard time with this. The spell is supposed to locate Killian, and I don't see him. So either I'm mistaken and he tunneled his way into the cement searching for buried treasure, or you fucked up the spell."

"I didn't…fudge anything up, thank you. And there's nothing else I can do. For some reason, the hook is attracted to this location. I can't force it to do what you want. Whatever happened to Guyliner…um… Killian…this is where the trail ends."

Emma stared at the ground for a moment before turning to David. "So fine…something is special about this area. Maybe Gold did something to the road itself. I mean... why can we see the blood so clearly? The road is blacker than Regina's wardrobe. The stain is practically day-glo. It looks like someone poured paint over the pavement."

"The road here has strange properties," Regina explained. "Remember, the magic from all the curses have at one point or another all converged on this spot, and those curses left traces of residual magic each time. This town line is only a 'line' in theory. It's actually a boundary that's been defined by a series of spells. It may react strangely to any magic in the area."

"So…the town line is unpredictable," Emma said quietly, peering down the road. She took a few steps towards the magical border, pausing only when her mother touched her shoulder.

"What if Killian's there? What if he managed to cross the town line?" Emma motioned to the invisible barrier. "What if he's lying there right now, watching us fumble around while he bleeds to death?"

"We'd be able to see him," Regina assured her. "He couldn't see us, but we'd see him."

"Besides," Snow added. "There's nothing indicating he went in that direction." She motioned to the red circle. "There are no tracks, no traces of blood anywhere else."

"Well he didn't just melt into the ground folks!" Emma cried. "He's somewhere close by. He's lost about three liters of blood and we're standing around treating the crime scene like it's a God-damn Ouija board."

Snow touched her shoulder reassuringly. "Trust me Emma, we're going to find him."

"Oh really? Because what we're doing right now is the opposite of finding him. We're standing around waiting for some useless spell to take effect. Meanwhile Belle knows exactly what happened and you take her back to the hospital for a snack and a sponge bath."

"Belle has a severe head injury and was under influence of some kind of sleeping potion. There were traces of it all over her. She's not going to give us the answers we need right now," David replied sternly.

"I'm sure that's what Gold wants us to think," Emma muttered.

"Emma…" he warned.

"No…this is exactly what Gold would do. He leaves little clues for us to follow and while we're gathering up his breadcrumbs, he summons some mystical hell beast or raises an army of the dead or opens a portal to Middle Earth. Because that's the kind of thing he does… we're just pawns in his game and right now he's doing God-knows-what to Killian while we stare at a stain on the pavement."

David shook his head. "We don't know he has Killian. We don't even know if this is Killian's blood."

"What?" Emma reeled on him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Think Emma," David explained. "A puddle of blood on a dark road with a hook in the middle of it… Gold would've had no problem concealing that. He wanted us to find it."

Regina agreed. "It's not very subtle. It's the sort of message I would send. You know, to intimidate any uppity peasants. Heads on pikes, some burning farmhouses, couple of poisoned apples… after a few years of that, people fall in line."

Emma stared at them. "It's not subtle because Gold doesn't care about us finding it. He obviously has an exit strategy. He's not worried about leaving any evidence behind because he's long gone."

"So his plan involves him leaving his wife behind, traumatized and wandering through the town? Doesn't sound like a great exit strategy to me," David replied quietly.

Emma remained silent, crossing her arms over her chest and staring into the woods.

David went on. "Something happened here Emma, but we need to be objective about it. We'll follow the evidence and see where it leads."

"Fine," she muttered, shaking her head. "And where will the evidence lead us next?"

"Next we'll comb through these woods."

"But Mom said…"

"I know…the trail ends here. But if Killian and Gold were here, there might be other evidence nearby. And somebody better check his usual haunts—the dock, boathouse, the station…for all we know Killian might be lying low somewhere."

"Did anyone even try his cell phone?" Regina asked impatiently.

"Yes, I've tried his phone," Emma replied through gritted teeth, repressing an urge to hurl her cell phone at Regina's perfectly coiffed head.

David nodded. "Fine. Regina, you stay here, trying to do what you can with the locator spell. Snow, you and Emma sweep the woods nearby. I'll head back into town, check out the places he'd usually be. Everyone keep your phones on."

"Oh…" David added. "And if you see Gold, don't approach him." He looked pointedly at Emma. "He may not know anything about this…but if he does, we'd better get a tail on him."

Emma nodded. "Right. And after I disembowel him, you can see what he had for dinner last night. Might help establish his timeline."

"Emma!" Snow said, staring at her daughter.

Emma turned away wordlessly, stalking towards the woods, knowing in her heart they'd never find anything. The key to this whole mystery was with Gold. Wherever he was.

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As Regina busied herself with her spell and Emma stomped noisily through the woods, David pulled Snow aside, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Keep Emma busy. Don't let her back into town for at least two hours. I'll have Ruby sit with Belle until I get there, but I don't want Emma to question her without me."

Snow stared at her husband. "You don't think Emma would do anything to hurt Belle, do you?"

He answered slowly. "No, I don't think she'd do anything intentionally... But right now, with the state she's in, she may not be thinking rationally. I'll have Regina check in on Belle tonight. Maybe she can conjure up a potion to get Belle to remember exactly what she saw."

"That would certainly help. What exactly did Belle say about all this?"

"Nothing that made any sense. She said Killian was gone, and she'd never get the blood off her hands."

Snow shook her head. "That doesn't sound good David."

"Yeah, I know. But then again, Belle wasn't exactly coherent. She had a concussion and she was under some kind of sedation. We don't know how reliable her story is."

Snow watched her daughter with a grave expression. "If Killian is…gone…I don't know how Emma's going to take it. She hasn't told me much about their relationship, but from what I've seen, Killian's death would…"

"We don't know anything at this point," he interrupted. "Right now we need to keep Emma calm. Focus her energy on finding evidence. Assuming the worst isn't going to help the situation. It might actually hurt the investigation. Just keep Emma busy with the search, and don't let her near Belle."

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As a fiery sunrise signaled the end of a long night, Emma found herself trudging up the stairs to Killian's apartment. Their search through the woods had turned up nothing, and no one had seen him since Gold disappeared. She knew David had already searched the apartment, but she didn't want to go home. She couldn't go home. She saw it all now—pacing around the crowded loft, fixing herself a cup of tea and eating crackers in bed, acting like nothing had happened. And then there were her parents…they'd be home already, fussing over baby Neal, fixing breakfast with the weather channel playing in the background. She could already see her mother's sympathetic looks and hear her father's grave assurances.

None of it would feel right. Not with Killian still out there, injured and alone.

Emma turned the key she commandeered from Granny and opened the door. She blinked as orange and red sunlight filled the small space. She'd been inside only once or twice before, usually standing awkwardly in the doorway as Killian grabbed a jacket or his phone. Emma had carefully avoided the temptation of being alone with him in his apartment—and he never pressed the issue. She hadn't been ready for it. They hadn't been ready for it. The relationship was too new; too powerful in its potential. They didn't want to rush into something that would complicate what was already endlessly complicated.

Now as she stepped inside, she became painfully aware of how empty the place was without him. It was a small studio apartment, a single bedroom and bath. The view from the large bay windows dominated the tight space. It looked out over the expanse of the docks. The sight of sailboat masts and yachts must have been a comfort for him—each time she'd been by, the curtains were flung wide open, even though Killian valued his privacy.

The view of the bay offered a rosy winter sunrise—water as smooth as cut glass, mist hanging heavy in the air, black-freckled seaweed dotting the shoreline, jutting rocks lurking in the shallows. She turned away from the sight, closing the curtains with a sigh and switching on a lamp.

The rest of the room was nothing extraordinary. The comforters and curtains were navy blue and white, the kind of fabrics you'd find any seaside hotel. He had no need of any kind of ornamentation, but his personality was scattered amongst the scant possessions if you knew where to look.

A few sketches of his sailboat designs lay on the desk. He'd shown her a few, and she'd been impressed with the amount of detail he managed to capture on a few pieces of parchment. The calculations were scribbled on some hotel stationary nearby. She skimmed through them, but the math was beyond her.

She remembered once asking him where he'd learned to sketch like that.

"My schooling as a young man," he'd replied.

She shook her head. "What? Like…pirate school?"

He'd looked at her oddly. "No…not really."

At the time, she felt like she'd offended him, but they were busy chasing a Snow Queen, and she didn't bring it up again. Now she wished she had.

She glanced over his dresser. A tortoise shell comb lay next to his cologne, cell phone, and a few expensive looking watches. Beside it, a stack of doubloons glinted in the lamplight (he had a stockpile of them somewhere but feared pirate he was, he'd never tell anyone where). The TV was dusty and unused—he said the contraption gave him a headache. But he'd promised to watch Pirates of the Caribbean with Henry after being assured that the pirates were indeed the heroes and Jack Sparrow was in no-way based on his own character.

She saw a pile of library books on the end table—Perfume and the Master and Commander series (probably suggested by Belle); The Princess Bride, Grendel, and I Am Legend (definitely Henry recommendations), and grimaced at her own pathetic suggestion: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He'd asked her once about the kinds of books she read. She'd been too embarrassed to tell him that her taste in literature ran to Us Weekly and back-issues of Cosmo, and she'd managed to stammer out the only book she could ever remember reading in school. She picked up the novella, aware of how painfully thin and meager it was compared to the others. It took her a moment to realize it wasn't a library book at all. He'd actually gone out and bought a copy.

She flipped through the pages and recognized his elegant handwriting scrawled in the margins. From what she read, he actually seemed to enjoy it…writing notes about motifs, foreshadowing, and dramatic irony. She suddenly felt a flash of panic—what if he wanted to talk to her about it? She'd read it years ago and could hardly remember who the villain was. Okay…wait…it's Dr. Jekyll, right? Or maybe Hyde…but they're both the same person, so obviously both are the villain, but in different ways. There…now I won't sound quite so culturally retarded. But what the hell is a motif? And I definitely shouldn't mention The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen…

She held the book in her hand as she examined a few pieces of jewelry on the bedside table; she'd noticed he'd started wearing less as his own look became decidedly modern. Modern…and hot, she smiled, thinking about his changing wardrobe. That was the word that sprang to mind when she first saw him without the long leather coat and embroidered vest. Hot. The kind of guy women would stare at in the street, maybe cast a lingering second glance just to may sure their eyes weren't playing tricks on them.

Since then, she'd taken to walking very close to him, gripping his arm whenever they strolled together in public, as if to say, Yeah, he's mine…Stare all you want but you're wasting your time. The waitresses at Granny's were the worst. They must have been well-tipped tavern wenches in the Enchanted Forest because they made special effort to flash him flirty little grins when he was ordering drinks. But he never seemed to notice—he was usually too busy challenging her to a game of darts or teasing her about the weak-kneed domestic beer she always ordered.

She smiled even as tears shone in her eyes.

She could find traces of him everywhere. The room even smelled like him—clover and warm cider. She half-expected him to walk up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, smell her hair, whisper something sweet in her ear just to see her smile.

Opening the closet, she saw a rack of neatly stored clothes, all black, all well-cut and carefully chosen. A while ago he'd mention about the importance of image…how the perception of a man determined his success in life. She'd debated him on that, calling it shallow, saying how the work you did mattered, not how you looked. She'd gotten worked up about it, talking so fast that at one point he threatened to hire himself a translator.

In the end he'd just shrugged and said if a man can't make an effort to look presentable, no one's going take him seriously. Then he'd laughed and said it was nice having a meaningless argument with her.

"What do you mean…meaningless?" She'd asked, almost hurt.

"No giants chasing us, no time traveling witches, or demon-seed snowmen to contend with…it's nice having an argument over a few beers at Granny's about something that really doesn't matter. I kinda like it," he smiled shyly, taking a sip of his beer.

She'd shut up then, realizing he'd win every argument by just looking at her like that.

Dammit Killian, she muttered, taking a jacket off a hanger and holding it close. Her eyelids drifted shut and she found herself crawling over the bed, losing the battle against a bone-weary fatigue. Curling up in his blankets, she clutched the jacket and his book tightly against her, wrapping her own arms around her shoulders, imagining it was him holding her as she fell asleep.