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"It was my parents' house. I apologise for its condition. Nobody has lived here in years."

They stand opposite a small house, tucked away into the woods but walking distance from the water. Weeds crawl all over its outside, a window is shattered, ripped curtains hanging from its edges. It is old and dusty and creaky. But, somehow, she feels safe here.

Perhaps it is the look on Killian's face, the soft wonder with which he runs his fingers over the tattered furniture, the way his eyes don't stop roving the walls, looking for memories long buried.

Perhaps it is the fact that no matter how their stories have changed, this might be where her Killian grew up too.

And even if he no longer remembers, these walls do.


She realises soon that his memories are blurred.

They are like echoes he says, always there but never clear enough to make out. Henry says that it is probably because the author only changed things that would affect the new reality that he had created, that his writing didn't reach back far enough or wide enough to clearly define anything else.

It explains the way that Killian sometimes takes to wandering about the house as though looking for clues to fill in the gaps. He tries to tell Henry stories when he asks, begins telling a tale of Liam and him as children but just as he reaches the middle of the story, he seems to forget, his details getting more and more distorted until he finally gets frustrated and gives up.

It is as though he remembers the feel of the stories. The colours, the sounds and the scents. But, as soon as he tries to put it in into words, they are gone.

He sits on the couch now, holding a picture in his hand. A woman with flowing hair and sparkling eyes, laughing as she looks up at the artist. Even through the faded graphite, she can see the love and care that went behind every stroke.

He runs his thumb over the rough surface of the paper, his eyes closed as if trying to remember her through touch alone. The woman is his mother, he had said but he can't remember her anymore.

And all she wants in that moment is to take him into her arms, let him press his face into her shoulder, run her hands through his hair. She wants to kiss him, to take the demons away.

But, all she does is stand in the doorway behind him, her fingers rubbing against her thumb, itching to touch but not knowing how to close the space between their hearts.


He begins to rebuild the house.

They had spent the first night on a clean patch of floor in the centre of the living room. Henry lying tucked into her side again with Killian across from them and just like every night before this, she had watched him until the exhaustion had taken over.

The very next day Killian had begun testing and touching, finding all the places where the wood had rotted away, marking it to come back to later. He had then gone into the nearby town- a small port- to look for new wood and furniture.

She had watched him but silently refused to help. Fixing the house felt like accepting that they were going to live here, like this was permanent.

(This wasn't permanent. They were going to find a way back.)

(She has gotten very good at pretending.)

Henry is quiet, spending the day buried in his book and the night talking through all the ways in which they could get back. They could work on getting Emma's magic back again. Go back to Misthaven, find her parents and try getting their memories back. Make more attempts to make Killian remember. Each plan sounding more and more impossible with every sunrise.

Her days are spent travelling into town looking for news and gossip from Misthaven, trying to find a ship that will take them back when they need it.

This is how it goes for three days. Their lives twisted together into a clumsy weave that only just manages to keep from tangling when one of them pulls too hard.

This is how it goes for three days and then she hears the news in the tavern. The Queen of Misthaven is to throw a fête. There is to be music and dancing and fireworks and the whole kingdom is invited.

There is a tinge of fear in their voices even as they discuss the details of the celebration, talking in hushed tones as someone asks what all the fuss was for.

"Haven't you heard? She finally caught that woman, the bandit. The one she's been chasing for well, as long as I can remember, really."

Emma begins to help Killian rebuild the house.


Henry stops sleeping well. His nights filled with tossing and turning, waking up sweaty from nightmares.

He has refused to deal with the fact that Regina might be gone. He spends his days looking for clues in their stories, trying to find ways to get her back but wakes every night with his skin burning, his heart racing. Her arms go around him, her hand brushing his hair back, whispering nonsense reassurances until he curls into her and falls back to sleep.

It takes him ten days before he lets himself cry, his shoulders shaking as he presses his face into her chest, her own hand trembling as she strokes his hair, kissing his head again and again.

She finds a few of her own tears mixing with his, her chest and her throat feeling overwhelmingly full from the tears she has not yet let fall. She has to be steady for him, for the little boy she can see through the tall young man, through the strong voice and the tight hugs. She needs to be his rock, his anchor and though she is trying so hard to be that, it is difficult when she feels like she is adrift on an unknown sea.

She holds him until he falls asleep from exhaustion, his breath even, his body relaxed. She stays with him, looking down at the way his face has finally lost the tightness of the last few days, the lines on his brow (too soon, too young) finally softening.

She watches him sleep for an hour before the panic in her own belly takes over. She feels her breaths getting shallow, nausea settling in to the space between her ribs. Her arms wrap around herself and it is not enough, she needs him.

She needs him so much, she can't breathe.


The house has two bedrooms, one where she and Henry sleep and one for Killian, a living room with a table and a little fireplace for cooking. Herbs hang from the ceiling and a shelf with whatever food they had managed to gather and trade from town stands on the side. Soft fabrics bring colour to the room. Thrown over the table, the couch, they had been gathered from cupboards in the bedrooms, carefully dusted and cleaned.

It has only been two weeks and already the place looks lived in. Little signs of their lives littered about the rooms. Her vest hanging by the door, Henry's borrowed coat left over the couch, Killian's boots lined up next to hers and Henry's.

One day he'd come out with a pile of clothes, dusty just like everything else in the house, but he'd held them with reverence, his hook taken off, his hands gentle. Offering them to her for Henry, he had stumbled through an explanation of how they'd been his brother's but might fit him, his own clothes too small because he'd been far too young when they'd lost–

(He never does talk about his mother. His words are faltering and his voice cracks every time he tries.)

She had accepted them gratefully, trying to speak but it was as if all her words had disappeared into the lump in her throat. So, she had only squeezed his hand in thanks and hoped that he understood.

She feels a pang of something in her chest now, as she runs her fingers over the smooth glass of the window. It had been in pieces when they had arrived.

He is rebuilding his home for them, shifting and changing it so they could fit.

And yet, all she can do is notice how the curve of his smile is different, his voice too fumbling, his hand too soft, his manner too hesitant. It is like looking at a distorted reflection, a shadow in the evening sun, extended and twisted.

She hates herself for it everyday.

But tonight, tonight she is tired and she is afraid and she has forgotten what it is like to be loved by Killian Jones.

She just wants to remember.


His room seems strangely empty. The cheerful paintings of flowers that hang in every room missing from here, the colourful fabric thrown over the furniture gone. His bed is a small thing, tucked into the corner of the room.

He isn't sleeping either when she enters.

The sliver of light from the candle in the hallway lights his figure sitting hunched on the bed. He stands up, rod straight as she walks to him.

"Swan? Is–," he frowns, his hand rising and falling as he clears his throat, "is everything alright?"

She squeezes her eyes shut, pretending, always pretending, that he had come to her as soon as she'd opened the door, cupped her cheek in his palm and stroked her skin with his thumb. That he'd kissed her forehead and whispered to her that everything would be alright. That he had just known.

But when her eyes open, it is him and it is not. He looks at her with his brow furrowed, confusion and concern etched in his face.

And she doesn't want to stop pretending, so she kisses him.


He doesn't fall with her right away. It is a small comfort that no matter what happens, he is still a man of honour, he still respects her, he still–

But, when she presses soft kisses to his neck, her arms wrapped tight around his waist, running up and down his back. When she whispers to him that she needs him, tells him to please just hold her, he stops resisting.


Just like before, his warmth is the same warmth, his lips the same lips and yet.

He does not know her.

He does not know the scar in the centre of her chest, the ink on the inside of her wrist. He has not spent hours brushing his fingers against it, listening to her tell the stories of the marks that make her. He does not know the tiny line of raised skin on her palm, where a thorn had cut her and he had made it better. He does not know that that was not the last time that he had healed her.

He does not know her.

And she does not know him.

His skin is softer, smoother. He is not hurt and marked by the battles that made him. There is no ink on his forearm, no trace of the woman he loved for centuries. No trace of his unwavering loyalty, no trace of the strength in his bones, the will in his heart.

She does not know him.

But, she has gotten very good at pretending.


He hovers above her, their bodies bare as his hand moves in her hair, trailing down its length. His arm with the hook lies at his side, as far away from her body as he can keep it. He hadn't taken it off, his hand shaking as he had stopped her from unbuckling the harness that held it but now, he refuses to touch her with it.

She had never had this with him, never had the time, the opportunity. But, she wonders if he would have been as afraid, of hurting her, of baring himself before her. She reaches for the metal, running her fingers over its cold curve before slowly bringing it to her chest, letting it run down between her breasts.

He sighs, his head dropping to watch cold of the metal against her skin, her body arching up to meet it. His hips drop just a touch and he brushes against her centre, drawing a strangled moan out of her, her eyes closing as her hips move too, searching for his heat against hers. When she looks up at him, his eyes are wide, his face slack, his lips parted. The tips of his fingers brush along her lower lip, his forehead falling to rest against hers.

"I've not heard a sweeter sound in all my years."

Her eyes squeeze shut as his adoration seems to fall around her like a blanket but instead of warmth, she only feels the itch of guilt. The sinking in the pit of her stomach that reminds her of what she is doing, how she is deceiving him and suddenly she can't face him anymore.

She pushes him off her gently, her mouth curving into a slow, sultry smile at his surprise.

Her eyes give her away though, laced with her desperation, her helplessness, her guilt. She had hoped, some mad distant thing, that he would know. He would know just like her Killian had always known that something was wrong when she smiled at him with only her lips. But, he doesn't, his hand reaching for her skin as she turns away from him.

She pushes the thought forcibly out of her head, focusing on the heat between her legs, on her heart beating faster in anticipation. She turns around, on her hands and knees, looking over her shoulder and biting her lip as if in invitation. He only smiles, the flush in his cheeks turning a deeper red as his tentative hand brushes against the new skin revealed to him, venturing deeper between her legs to just barely graze her wetness, his hook running gently down her spine. Her heart sinks, the ache in it intensifying when he begins to press kisses along her back, not noticing, not knowing that her every smile rang false, her heart beating for another man.

When he slides into her, slow and unsure, just like everything else; her eyes close, hands clutching at the sheets beneath her as she tries to forget. Tries to forget the eyes that had looked into her very soul, seeing the deepest, darkest parts of her and loving her anyway. Tries to forget the way he had said her name, called her love, darling,Swan; like a caress, like a kiss.

She tries.

But, when she finally lets the pleasure take her, the name she says on a broken moan is his.


She wakes with his arm draped loosely around her waist, his face in her hair. They are pressed together on his tiny bed and she is surrounded by him, his chest hair brushing against her back, his thigh trapped between her legs.

The sky is only just beginning to lighten, awash in blues and oranges through the window across from her. Her body feels heavy, her mind relaxed. She sinks deeper into the mattress, deeper into him, just about drift back to sleep when he shifts and the arm around her waist turns.

She sees his unmarked skin and it all comes crashing down on her.

And suddenly, the bed is too small and he is too close and this was the first time that they had- and it wasn't even him and she can't look at him.

She can't breathe.


What they don't tell you about loss is this. It is not a thunderclap, a sudden strike of lightning, your life changed utterly in a moment. It is not a flash of metal, a piercing of leather, a splash of red.

No.

It is more like a house falling brick by brick. It is like the sinking in your stomach when he pulls away from you uncomfortably when you hug him. It is like the ache in your ribs when he smiles at you and you notice that his mouth is curved wrong. It is like cataloging every difference in your mind until all he is, is a list of reasons that he is not him.

(It is like wandering around a wood in a land not your own trying to remember his real smile.)

What they don't tell you about loss is that once the cut is made, the piece of your heart gouged out of your chest, there is no fixing it. There is no going back.

There is only living with the scars.


The sun is now high in the sky and she is still barefoot in the woods. She knows that she should go back, that Henry is probably looking for her but she can't seem to turn around, moving forward and forward until she reaches the river.

The water sounds like a song and her heart begins to beat to its rhythm, slowing and calming. Her feet are damp, caked in mud, the hem of her pants ruined. She collapses by the river bank, letting her feet and her hands dip in to the rushing water. The cold makes her gasp and just like that, her tears begin to fall.

She cries with body wracking sobs, her arms wrapped tight around herself as she sways back and forth. She cries for the family she has lost. She cries for the mother she will never embrace again, the father she will never see laugh. She cries for the little brother she will never get to know. She cries for her love. The man who had scaled the walls around her heart, who had helped her knock them down brick by brick. She cries for his touch and his kiss, his hand holding hers, his smile. She cries for the way that he had looked at her, like she was the most precious thing he had ever held. She cries for the way that he had known every inch of her broken, bandaged heart.

She cries and lets the water wash it all away.

(She stops pretending.)


Henry runs at her as soon as she comes into view of the house.

"Mom! Are you alright?"

She feels the guilt in her belly grow. Henry had just lost his grandparents, his mother and then she'd–

She holds him close, her hand cradling his head tucked into her shoulder. She murmurs apologies into his ear, holding him tighter.

"I'm sorry kid. Just had a bad night," she pulls away to look at him, forces some approximation of a reassuring smile onto her face, "Won't happen again."

"Hey, it's fine. Just, next time? Tell me before you run off into the woods, ok?"

He's grown up so much, her kid, looking at her with such understanding in his eyes. Understanding that is far beyond his years and even though her first instinct is to crush him to her chest and protect him from everything that has allowed him to understand and know the deep sadness that now lives in them both, she is proud of him.

She is proud of who he has become.

"Promise."

She smiles at him, genuine this time, pulling him in to drop a kiss on his forehead and ruffle his hair. He squirms and she laughs and for a moment, it is like before.

"Killian's worried about you. He hasn't stopped pacing since he woke up," he says as they walk back to the house, her arm around his shoulders.

She feels her stomach sink, unease falling across her shoulders as she tries not to imagine how he would have woken up, his hair tousled and the vestiges of a smile still on his face.

(She hadn't looked at him before she'd left. She hadn't noticed the lazy smile on his face as he'd slept. She hadn't.)

She tries not to think about the way the smile would have fallen when he hadn't found her in his bed, in his home.

She only grips Henry's shoulder tighter and walks inside.


There is a small makeshift hut in the garden behind the house. Killian had built it. It isn't much, just a roof on supports. But, it stores all the things they need to rebuild. It is filled with piled up planks of wood, tools that he had bartered from town. It holds the half finished pieces of furniture that he had begun working on. It holds the little bags of seeds, the shovel for the overgrown garden that she is slowly breathing back to life.

(It holds the books of notes written in a careful hand, page after page filled with delicate drawings of vegetables and fruits and flowers, with notes on their properties and how to grow them. His mother's, given to her with a nervous laugh and barely steady fingers when she had asked how she could help.)

It is a quiet and awkward affair, when they work together. It is not the perfectly synchronised dance from before. They do not sense one another's movements the same way, bumping arms and hips and elbows as they navigate around each other.

But, even as she feels the urge to leave the space as soon as she can, the sight of the half finished bed that sits in the hut ("It's for the lad.") making her heart pound against her ribs, he seems to gravitate to the small enclosure, spending late evenings in it, working away. She watches him from the kitchen sometimes, the muscles in his back rippling with the effort of sawing and chopping and hammering, his thin shirt clinging to his skin. It is easier to pretend when she cannot see his face. When she cannot see his eyes that look at his work like they would help him remember. All the things that he is supposed to be. All the things that he is supposed to have.

Sure enough, she finds him there now, sitting on a crate inside, his hand running through his hair.

(He tells her later that it had felt like a place of his own, something that he had built. That it felt more safe and more real than the house they lived in with all its almost memories.)

He must notice her or sense her or something because he is standing in front of her before she can make it halfway across the garden. His hand rises, to caress her cheek perhaps, but falls away before he can make contact. His faces twists into confusion as he watches hers.

"Emma?"

It is the first time he has used her name. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a breath, trying to hide the tremor that runs through it. Her eyes open and she looks down at the patch of land that she had cleared to his left.

"We should get to work. I'm just going to–"

He is not hers, she tells herself. He is not hers and he deserves better than this. He deserves an explanation, an apology but she is too weak and she is too frayed at her edges. So, she does what comes easily.

She runs.

Walking to the hut to gather her tools, she tries to ignore the way his eyes follow her, his face falling into defeat, his shoulders sagging.

"As you wish."