Author's Note: Still not sorry!

This chapter is rated T

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This is as good a place to fall as any
We'll build our alter here
Make me your Maria
I'm already on my knees

-Bedroom Hymns, Florence and the Machine

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Two days later, Father Jones came to the sheriff's station.

Emma was glad to see him. She'd wanted to give him some space, but she was also desperate to break the curse. She'd planned on giving him three days.

He was wearing creased black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a dark gray vest. He wore the clothes well. Emma had to admit it was nice to see him in something other than leather or a cassock, but as the same time, a part of her longed for him to be restored to his pirate glory.

"Good morning," she said, standing up.

He lingered in the doorway, his expression wary.

"Good morning," he replied quietly, his eyes roving over the room.

"Here to report a crime?" Emma said conversationally.

"Ah, no," he said, his eyes meeting hers for a second before darting away. "I'm here about… the other thing."

Emma felt a surge of relief wash through her.

"Oh, good. Great," she babbled, trying to modulate her excitement. "Please come in."

She walked around the desk and approached him. He was watching her warily, so she refrained from touching him. She gestured to the chair opposite her desk and then walked to the counter where the coffee pot was percolating.

"I don't have any tea," Emma said. "Coffee?"

"Yes, thank you," he said.

She heard his quiet steps across the room and the scrape of the chair. She poured two cups of coffee.

"How do you take it?" she asked without looking, spooning sugar into her cup.

"Black," he said, his voice coming from right behind her.

She jumped, and his hands were suddenly on her shoulders.

She spun around, leaving the cups behind, and found herself staring into his curious, hungry blue eyes. His hands were still on her shoulders.

"How did you know that I dream of you?" he murmured, his voice raw and needy. "I've told no one."

Emma's pulse sped up. She tried to find something to say, but her throat seemed constricted.

"Do you dream of me, too?" he mused in a whisper, his gaze dragging over her face, lingering on her mouth.

He licked his lips, his eyelids dipping as he leaned in closer.

"Hook," she managed to whisper, her voice breaking.

The name seemed to break the spell. Killian's brow furrowed, and he took a step back.

"Wh—what?" he said, confused.

He let go of Emma and then skipped back another three steps, as if being near her was unpleasant. He made the sign of the cross over his chest.

There was no recognition in his eyes.

Emma turned around quickly, closing her eyes and taking a few cleansing breaths through her nose. She picked up their coffees before pivoting to face him again. She held out one of the cups to him.

He took it easily, but made sure not to touch her as he grasped the cup. He was still studying her with critical, apprehensive eyes.

Emma walked past him to her desk, sipping her coffee as she went. She sat down, closing her eyes again for another second. This situation was impossible. Hook, the priest. Hook, the ridiculously hot man of God. Emma was going to end up in hell, she knew it.

When she opened her eyes, he was sitting across from her, and his expression had opened up a little bit. His cup of coffee was cradled between his two hands in his lap. Her eyes lingered on his fingers, all ten of them. What would happen to his hand when the curse broke?

If the curse breaks, said an unpleasant little voice in the back of her mind. Emma shoved the thought away.

"To say that you have my full attention would be an understatement, Miss Swan," Killian said quietly. "Please, explain to me what it is you know that I do not."

"You're not a priest," Emma blurted out.

He cocked an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth quirked up.

"I have paperwork that claims otherwise, love," he said.

"I'm sure you do," she said, "but you probably don't remember getting that paperwork."

Killian opened him mouth to make a retort, but his face crumpled and he pressed his lips together.

"How long have you been a priest?" she asked.

"As long as I can remember," he said warily.

"Where did you go to seminary?" she asked.

"I…"

He frowned, looking down.

"How old were you when your brother died?"

"Seventeen."

His head snapped up, eyes wide.

"I haven't got a brother," he said. He crossed himself again and eyed her warily. "Why would I say that?"

"Because you did have a brother," Emma said gently. "You just can't remember."

He chewed on that for a long minute, his lips pursed as his eyes bored into hers.

"And the dreams?" he asked, his voice strained.

"Memories," she said, holding his gaze.

She watched the thoughts and emotions flicker behind his eyes. Disbelief, confusion, hope, doubt, pain, apprehension, desire.

"All of my dreams?" he whispered huskily. His eyes left hers and traveled down her body before returning to her face. His gaze lingered on her mouth again before rising to her eyes.

Emma felt her skin warm at the look he gave her.

"Well, I don't know exactly what you've been dreaming," she said, "but if they're anything like mine, then they're more real than not."

"You have these dreams, too?" he asked again. He licked his lips.

"I did," she said. "I've been under the sp—the effect you're under before. Memories and dreams get fuzzy and you can't remember a lot of details about your life."

"So, I've been drugged?" he asked. "Hypnotized?"

"In a way, yes," she said, glad for an explanation that didn't involve magic.

"Why me?" he asked, brow quizzical.

"It's not just you," she said. "It's the whole town. Everyone's been… reprogrammed."

"But not you?" he asked, eyes narrowing a little.

"Not me," she confirmed.

"Why not?"

"I'm… well, it, uh, doesn't work on me. Anymore."

He took another minute to process what she'd said. She let him have the time he needed, staying quiet and sipping her coffee.

"Why are you telling me?" he eventually asked. "Why not someone else?"

"Because you're…" Emma started. She chewed on her lip for a moment. "Because you're the one who helped me when I was under the effect."

He frowned, thinking about that for a moment. He took a drink of his coffee.

"What is 'Hook'?" he asked, his eyes searching hers. "Why did you say that when I… Why did you say that before?"

Emma licked her lips, trying to determine how to answer.

"It's… It's something from your past—your real past," she said. "It's something you need to remember."

"I need to remember a hook?" he asked incredulously. "Like to a song? Blues Traveler?"

Emma couldn't help but grin. It was too bizarre to see knowledge of her world come out of his mouth, even if she knew it wasn't really him speaking.

"Not exactly," she said with smirk.

"Then what is it?" he pressed, brow furrowed.

She bit her lip.

"Not yet," she said, shaking her head. "You're not ready for that, yet."

He frowned again.

"I think… I think we need to take things slow," she said. "When you helped me, you had a… uh, an antidote for me to take, but I don't have one for you. So, I think we need to work slowly."

I need to make you fall in love with me, she thought wistfully.

"Why can't we simply procure another dose of the antidote?" he asked.

"Because I don't know how to make it," she said, "and everyone else in town is under the effect."

"Then we should go fetch it from Boston," he said.

She bit her lip again, knowing that her next words would be difficult for him to hear.

"No one can leave town," she said, watching carefully for his reaction.

His eyes narrowed again, and he cocked his head.

"How convenient," he said sarcastically.

"It's really not," she huffed.

"Perhaps you should speak to Dr. Hopper about these thoughts you've been having, lass," he said.

She sighed, rolling her eyes.

"I'm not crazy," she said. "I knew about your dreams, remember?"

He pursed his lips and sat quietly again, using his coffee as a shield.

"Then prove to me that we cannot leave town, sheriff," he said. "Surely you should be able to give me some evidence of what you're asking me to believe."

Emma snorted at that.

"Oh, that's priceless coming from a priest," she said, fighting a chuckle.

He looked shocked for a second, and then he laughed. She loved the sound. When he was Hook again, she'd have to find ways to make him laugh more often.

"Seriously, Emma, you're asking me to take a lot on faith," he said. "I may be a man of the cloth, but that doesn't mean I fall for everything I'm told. You have to be able to give me something."

He looked at her expectantly, and she knew he was teetering on the edge of writing her off and giving her a chance. She had to do something, but what?

Emma's eye darted around the room as she thought. She looked at the cells and thought about locking him up. She dismissed the idea immediately. Her eyes landed on her keys, and she considered taking him out to the town line. In previous versions of the curse, bad things had always happened when people tried to leave. She couldn't risk it.

Then she saw the shoelace tied around her wrist.

Emma's pulse sped up.

Graham.

Graham's memories had awakened after he'd kissed her. The kiss hadn't broken the curse, but it had done something to him—opened something in him, and he'd started to remember.

Maybe it would work that way with Hook.

Emma's heart was pounding in her chest as she slowly rose from her seat. Her breath came in heavy pants as she dragged herself around the desk toward him. She saw the edge of heat come in his eyes. He knew. He knew what she was going to do.

She was grateful that he wasn't in his cassock.

He stared up at her almost defiantly as she stepped close to his chair. She saw his jaw move as he swallowed. Reaching down, she slowly, deliberately took two fistfuls of his vest and hauled him to his feet. He came willingly, offering no resistance.

She searched his eyes, just inches from hers.

His gaze was hooded, hungry, but also wary. He looked conflicted, and she couldn't blame him. She was conflicted, herself.

He didn't stop her, but he didn't take action, either. He was passive, waiting.

His gaze flicked to her mouth, and his lips parted as his breathing accelerated. She saw his tongue flick out unconsciously to wet his lips.

That sent her over the edge, and she roughly yanking him down to her, crashing her mouth to his. He went completely rigid, surprised, but then he melted against her, kissing her back as she clung to him in desperation.

She felt his right hand rise to gently touch her hair, just as he'd done in Neverland, and his left hand landed on her hip.

He made the most delicious sound, a cross between a groan and a sigh, and then the kiss changed. There wasn't a burst of magic, but she felt it—she felt him—for just a moment. Hook, her Hook, growled into her mouth, gripping her roughly, nipping her bottom lip before deepening the kiss possessively.

She moaned gratefully, but the moment was over too soon.

Father Jones was back in a heartbeat, and he tore himself away from her, stumbling backwards and nearly falling over his chair. He put the piece of wooden furniture between them as if it could protect him from her. He crossed himself again, his eyes wide. He was mumbling something under his breath, and she thought it might be in Latin.

His hand, shaking, rose to his kiss-darkened lips.

He stared at her, and she could clearly see the fear in his eyes.

"That was—" he started, swallowing hard.

Emma chuffed, a small smile touching her lips at his words.

He frowned at her expression, gripping the back of the chair between them so hard, his knuckles went white.

She just watched him, waiting. Giving him time and hoping.

"Good day, Sheriff Swan," he finally whispered, his voice broken. He looked away from her, frowning at the chair, the floor, her desk. He shuffled past her, seeming unsteady of his feet. He gave her a wide berth, and she let him go.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, listening to him as he made his way to the door.

"Good bye, Killian," she said softly, not sure if she wanted him to hear, and not sure if he did.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

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