Chapter 2

Killian woke in the darkness before dawn, as suddenly and completely as if someone had shouted in his ear. He lay very still, struggling to recollect the dream he'd just been having, some turbulent and circular jumble of synaptic gibberish that had seemed very important at the time, but it had already vanished into the ether, leaving him with nothing but the leaden feeling in his stomach. He was used to rousing early. During his days as an abandoned street urchin, he'd always been up and about before sunrise, one step ahead of the harbormasters and reeves and general ne'er-do-wells who made it their especial business to interfere. Then when Liam found him and conscripted him into the Navy, his existence was ordered by drill and discipline, sharply rebuking layabouts dragging themselves from their bunks with hangovers and contraband bottles of grog. For the rest. . . the only time he could ever recall sleeping in was with Milah. There were too many nights to count, after losing her, where he never slept at all, too broken and hurting and furious. When he finally left Neverland, came to London and decided, under Wendy Darling's patronage, to go to school and become an academic, his rooms at Trinity College Dublin had been directly under the bell tower, thus ensuring his prompt wakefulness at strict intervals whether he liked it or not. But he didn't mind. He'd had too long a life, and too dark a one, to ever take comfort in sleep. It came with too many nightmares.

That was all this last one was, he told himself. Just old scars stirred up by the unconscionable shock of seeing his brother yesterday. Something related to the rush of unwelcome magic he'd felt on his way back from the Bodleian, and that sensation unmistakably Neverland, like insects crawling on his skin. But Liam had been dead for hundreds of years, poisoned by the water that was supposed to save his life, died in Killian's arms in the captain's quarters and gone overboard in a shroud. His death was as authoritative as anyone's could get. So no, it wasn't Liam. No, he hadn't actually been there. But it was a dangerous and delicate piece of illusion that had splendidly served its purpose at totally unnerving him, and Killian damn well recognized a thrown gauntlet when he saw one. Someone was playing with his mind, known and purposefully gone for his weakest point, and that someone was nobody to be trifled with. And in his current state of paranoia, he was having a great deal of trouble believing that Anastasia Castle had just so happened to drop out of the sky and back into his life last night by accident, either.

In the bed beside him, Emma sighed and shifted, and Killian told himself once more and with feeling that he was being an idiot. The only woman who mattered in his life was right here in his arms – the only two, in fact. When she'd found out she was pregnant, Emma had impulsively offered, if the baby was a girl, to name it Milah, and according to the fine professionals of the NHS, it was indeed. Now, however, Killian couldn't help but wonder if she would have cause to rue her generosity. Milah was dead, and hence safe, but even the most forbearing and tolerant of wives might not want the name of her husband's lost love spoken aloud every day, keeping her memory fresh. Especially not after what had happened last night.

Killian didn't blame Emma for her insecurity. In her position, he would have demanded the whole story as well, and he knew that she was still adjusting, slowly and painfully, to the idea that they were a team, that she didn't have to be alone and cursed and struggling anymore. Besides, seeing Anastasia like that (and what the devil was she doing?) was a pointed threat, and one which Emma had clearly taken to heart. Worse, it was in some degree Killian's fault. He'd never slept with Anastasia, or even given her the impression that he was interested, but he had turned to her for matters beyond the professional. He had met her in the two years he'd spent at Oxford, waiting for Emma to graduate from college and move away from Boston so she wouldn't get caught in the crosshairs of his revenge (look how bloody well that had worked out) and Anastasia had promised she had a way to help him accomplish it. She'd revealed that she too knew about Storybrooke and the secrets it concealed, and if they wanted to band together and take it down, there'd be a fat slice of spoils for them both. Him, the death of the crocodile, and her. . . whatever she wanted. He hadn't troubled to find out, ultimately electing to go it alone as usual. Whoever and whatever Anastasia Castle really was, she was (like him) not merely an eccentric scholar. She was hiding something much darker and deeper.

I thought I'd never see her again. Killian pressed his lips together grimly. For even his wretched former self to pass up an opportunity for revenge, his misgivings had to be considerable, and Anastasia had rubbed him the wrong way from the start. What was more, he couldn't think of any safe way to confront her and demand what she'd been up to last night. And yet, if he didn't –

"Killian?" Emma said drowsily, startling him. "You're thinking so loudly I can hear you over here. What the hell is up now?"

He kissed her tangled, sleep-smelling hair. "Nothing, love. Probably wriggling like a bloody fish on a hook, aren't I?"

He felt more than heard the low laugh that buzzed through her. "That's what I admire the most about you, you know. A hook quip for every occasion."

"I have to be good for something." Killian wrapped his arm more firmly around her, cupping his hand on the warm swell of her stomach. "Go back to sleep, lass. It's sheep-fuckingly early."

Emma buzzed once more in amusement, but settled more comfortably into the pillows and was soon breathing deeply again. He lay there, torn in half. He wanted more than anything to blurt out the entire ugly truth just to have it done, but she wasn't the only one struggling with crippling insecurity and old self-preservation habits. Besides, there was no need to ruin their idyllic weekend with this. She and David were going back to London on Sunday night, it would be the rest of the week until they saw him again, and not in Oxford; he'd come down there instead. If he staged this right, there would be plenty of time to smooth everything over.

Nonetheless, he couldn't balm his restless thoughts. He rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb her. Shrugging on his dressing gown, he opened the door and emerged into the dim living room; it felt even earlier than it was due to the grey mantle of mist lapping against the windows. David was peacefully snoozing as well, almost buried beneath the heap of quilts on the sofa bed, and some of the perpetual clench in Killian's heart eased. He had them both. It was well.

On a whim, he ducked into the kitchen. Normally he avoided it like the plague (though his historian's mind had always wondered how, precisely, the plague could be avoided – wasn't that the bloody point?) but he felt inspired. He flicked on the overhead light, and ransacked the refrigerator for the bits of actual food he'd collected at Sainsbury's, correctly anticipating that Emma and David would not want to eat cold sandwiches all weekend. Soon he had the stove humming, managing awkwardly but well enough, as he fixed a regular English breakfast: bacon, sausages, eggs, toast, fried tomatoes, and tea. Then he scooped the lot onto a tray with only minor calamities, remembering how he'd made breakfast for Emma in the snowed-in cabin on Thanksgiving morning, when he'd asked her to marry him the first time. And then that night David was taken. No. He'd rather not do that again.

Speaking of his offspring, David had been awoken by the noise and the smell of food, and came pattering into the kitchen to investigate. "What are you making, Daddy?"

"Breakfast for your mum, lad," Killian told him. "Want to give me a hand?"

David giggled; this joke was funny to him every time, bless his seven-year-old heart. "Okay. Can I have some cereal?"

"Aye, whatever you like. Then we'll give Mum the afternoon off and go see our film, how's that?"

"Wicked." David carefully accepted the heavily laden breakfast tray with both hands, then proceeded as solemnly as the Archbishop of Canterbury into the bedroom, interrupted only by Killian having to get the door for him. "Mom, wake up! We made you breakfast!"

Killian raised a dark eyebrow, but gallantly decided to share the credit. Emma sat up, blinking, and smiled at them, and an enjoyable if rather messy meal was partaken of atop the covers. Once everyone was washed up and dressed, it was going on midmorning, and there were various minor tasks about the house to see to, until Killian checked the time and called to David. "We're going to catch the noon showing, lad, grab your shoes."

David promptly obeyed, and after exhorting Emma to enjoy her boy-free few hours, the two of them stepped out into what was now a wispy, clean-washed day. It was a short stroll to the city centre and the cinema on Magdalen Street, and they stepped inside to the ticket booth. After the experience of yesterday, Killian had attached his false hand for this outing, but he felt just as much a fool as he balanced his wallet awkwardly in it, fishing for a few crumpled pound notes and keenly aware of the teenage concierge's puzzled stare. Bloody hell, he hated pity. "Two for the pirate film, please. Adult and child."

"Pirates?" a voice said behind him. "Now that's the one thing I'd think you've had enough of."

Killian went cold from head to toe. He didn't want to know what look was on his face. Didn't want to say anything, be caught talking to his hallucinations in public; they all thought he was round the bend as it was. What was the name of that mathematician who'd been mad as a hatter and won the Nobel Prize? Killian himself appeared headed that way, though without the laurels. "Thank you," he said to the clerk, took the tickets, and turned around.

Even knowing it was a delusion didn't prepare him for the sight of Liam, leaning against the wall next to the posters for upcoming releases. He was casually dressed in jacket and jeans, not the captain's uniform he'd died in all those centuries ago, dark curls artfully tousled and scarf draped around his neck. Just as he'd looked in his materialization at the office yesterday. "What's this, little brother?" he asked with a grin. "Father-son outing?"

David glanced curiously at Killian. "Daddy, who's that?"

Oh bugger. Killian felt true panic starting to well up in his chest, closing his throat, strangling his heart. "You. . . you see him?"

David gave him an extremely odd look. "Of course I can see him. He's standing right there. Do you know him?"

"Hello, lad," Liam said. "And what's your name?"

"I'm David." Naturally, the little wretch liked to introduce himself to everyone he met. His friendliness with strangers was part of what, according to Emma, had gotten him into his previous predicament. "That's my dad. He's a little weird."

Liam looked amused. "Oh, I know. It's been a long time, but I always believed we'd see each other again. He doesn't seem all that happy, though."

"You're not here," Killian said through clenched teeth. He almost couldn't stand it. "I don't care how real you look, you're not here. You're not you."

"Oh, I'm real." Liam crouched to David's level. "It's nice to meet you, lad. I'm your uncle."

"Uncle?" David blinked, then stared, then grinned. "Daddy! You never told me!"

"That's because he's not your uncle." Killian grabbed his son by the collar; his hand had started to shake uncontrollably. If Neverland had somehow been unleashed in the real world. . . Liam had died because of it, drank that water that made you live as long as you were in Neverland. . . but Killian couldn't begin to imagine the horrifying consequences. Everything else that had been created and sustained thanks to that dark magic was, quite simply, a monster. To the thing masquerading as his brother, he ordered, "Stay the bloody hell away from us."

Liam looked hurt. "Killian," he pleaded. "You don't understand. It's me. It's been – how long? Years? – since we last saw each other, since I – "

"Try centuries." Killian pulled harder at David, almost jerking the boy off his feet. He felt on the very hair-trigger edge of control, and he was afraid of what he might do if he snapped. "You're dead, Liam. Dead! And you don't come back, nobody comes back from that! Leave me! Leave me alone!" Oh gods, he was almost crying. A man over three hundred years old, about to bloody break down in the middle of the cinema lobby. "Get out of here or I'll make you!"

David gaped at him. "Daddy? Daddy! Are you all right? I think you're going crazy."

"I'm fine." Killian whirled on the spot, marched to the baffled usher, and shoved the tickets at him. Then he all but dove into the theatre, grateful for the darkness and the distraction and anything else to keep David from asking what had just happened. As for the film itself, doubtless it was enjoyable, but he had no idea; he sat with his eyes closed the entire time, unable to tolerate even this stylized dramatic fiction. They knew nothing, they knew bloody nothing, and the sound of cannons and swordfighting and breaking masts and sinking ships was flashing him back so intensely that he almost couldn't breathe. In his first days as Captain Jones, maddened with grief, cut free of every belief or value he'd ever held, he'd done things nearly to rival the later excesses of Hook. He'd blocked out most of those memories for his own self-preservation, but seeing Liam and now this had brought them so close to the surface that a single slash would bleed them out. He felt terrible, sick and shaking, by the time the credits rolled.

As they emerged into the early afternoon, David obliviously chattering away, Killian's head swiveled in every direction, searching for the visitation. It wasn't there, but this was no comfort. He'd suddenly had a terrible thought. The thing pretending to be his brother obviously knew where his office was, having ambushed him there yesterday, and all his case notes, his research on magic and curses and that dark blood ritual from Crane's manuscript, his carefully annotated files on Neverland and Storybrooke, were stored there. And if not Liam, then. . .

"This way, lad," Killian said tersely, grabbing his son by the arm. He picked up his pace, nearly dragging the extremely confused David, as he jostled through the crowds of pedestrians and shoppers on Broad Street, up to Parks Road and left the few steps to Wadham. He jogged through, out around the quad walk to Holywell Court and the steps up to his office. He took them two or three at a time, almost vaulting to the landing, and down the corridor.

He knew something was wrong before he even reached the door. The latch was slightly ajar, when he knew for a damned fact he'd left it locked, and he jerked it open, eyes flashing at once to the file cabinet. Crossed the floor in two steps, and twisted the key.

Oh, hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

Killian had expected it, known it, and yet, there was no way to prepare himself for the sight of the ransacked mess inside. Entire dossiers missing, others with fistfuls of pages ripped out, some of his rarest and most hard-to-get books either defaced or outright pilfered, a solid decade of academic work gone. He'd started those back at Trinity, and while some of them were saved on his hard drive, that did him a fat fucking lot of good when his computer was missing as well. He felt violated, foully and personally taken advantage of, and savagely cursed himself, the perpetrator, and the whole bloody business, not entirely under his breath.

"Daddy?" David was hovering on the threshold, staring at the destruction with an aghast look on his face. "Daddy, you're scaring me."

Killian inhaled a slow breath. Christ, he'd almost forgotten about the lad. "Sorry," he said, with a smile that felt painfully brittle and false. "But somebody's burgled the place, and I'm going to have to get this sorted. Stay here and don't touch anything, I'll be right back."

With that, Killian barreled out, down the stairs again, and back to the front quad, not stopping until he reached the porter's lodge. The head porter, an amiable Glaswegian named Malcolm, was buried behind a copy of yesterday's Daily Mail, but he started to attention at the crash of the door against the jamb. "Dr. Jones! Surprised to see ye about on a Saturday – I thought your family was up from London?"

Killian was in no mood for pleasantries. "Phone the police. My office's been robbed."

Malcolm's jaw dropped. "What? Never!"

"It's not a dream, if you were wondering. Now."

Still clearly unable to comprehend how such a sacrilege could have occurred within his lovingly stewarded domains, Malcolm nonetheless did so, and in a few minutes, the Thames Valley Police pulled up outside, a detective and a sergeant following Killian up to the scene of the crime. He ran them through the situation, the stolen items, and the fact that it had to have happened some time between 6pm last night and 2pm today. It ran into trouble, however, when they asked if he had any idea as to a possible suspect. He did – had several ideas, in fact – but how did he say so without sounding like a total sodding lunatic? Bad enough if, by some miracle, they recovered the material and some nosy bastard in the department decided to read all about curses. He'd tell them it was for a novel or something, but then –

The detective was still looking at him expectantly, pen poised above notepad. "Dr. Jones?"

Damnation.

Resisting the urge to add further picturesque epithets, Killian bit the bullet. "Several possibilities. First, you may want to look into one Anastasia Castle. She teaches literature here, or used to. We were. . . business associates, several years ago, and she likely still has an interest in the sort of stuff that was taken. It would have been easy for her to get in here without arousing suspicion, but. . ." He hesitated. "It doesn't seem her style. Too messy."

The detective scribbled accordingly. "You had another idea?"

"Aye." Hellfire, there was no way around this. Killian stared at the ceiling, the floor, the desk, anywhere but their faces. "It may have been a man using the name Liam Jones."

He sensed the start. "Relative of yours?"

"Not exactly. It's. . . bloody complicated. Liam is – was – my brother, but he died a very long time ago. Someone's appeared claiming to be him, and I'm not sure why. I saw him last night here and then again today, at the Odeon Cinema on Magdalen Street a few minutes before noon. He could have come over directly afterward and cased the place, or he could have already done it. I'll warn you, though. Whoever this individual is, he's bloody dangerous."

"We can handle that, Dr. Jones," the amateur assured him gravely. "If it is him, do you have any speculation as for a motive?"

He's a creation of the darkest magic you or anyone have ever known, sent to warn me that things are about to get much worse? A ghost of Neverland, a servant of Pan? A demonic shadow of the beloved brother whose loss turned me into a pirate in the first place? "No idea."

More dutiful scribbling. "Physical description?"

Killian provided it, fighting the ever-growing urge to stick his head out the window and scream. He hadn't had to talk about Liam this much in several lifetimes, hadn't had to face it, had spent so long running from it. He wasn't sure he could handle a third appearance, and for that reason, had absolutely no doubt that it was coming. What's he going to do, chase me down at the flat, or just wait until he's certain he has me alone, that I'll ask him what in damnation he wants, if he'll just go and leave me in peace? He preferred to think that that was what he would do. He had to. The alternative – that he'd fall into the trap of believing Liam was actually real, that he'd do anything, anything, for it to be so – was too horrifying to imagine.

Finished with their questioning of him, the police prowled about, dusted for fingerprints, appropriated the broken latch and a few other items as evidence, photographed the office, and assured both Killian and the head tutor, who had been summoned by this point, that they'd be stepping up their patrols around the area and doing their best to ensure no further risk to Wadham staff, faculty, and students. But as they'd taken their last statements and were preparing to depart, the sergeant glanced back at Killian. "Dr. Jones?"

"Aye?"

"Pardon if I'm mistaken, but I get the distinct impression that this is. . . personal. And I just wanted to warn you not to get involved in it. Let the bureau do our work. We'll catch whoever's responsible, I promise. But if you're trying to do the same, it will. . ." The officer hesitated. "Complicate matters. And with all due respect, I don't think you're capable of – "

That was one provocation too many. "Mate," Killian growled. "I appreciate the sentiment. But with all due respect, you have no idea what I'm bloody capable of."

Both of the policemen gave him odd, lingering looks, but forbore to comment on what, he knew immediately, was never the right thing to say to authorities who had just instructed you to butt out if you knew what was good for you. Instead, they nodded smartly and departed, leaving Killian to the assurances of the head tutor that they would find him a new office while this was being investigated. He brushed her off, still too livid to trust himself to say a civil word, and collected his son, who had been hiding in the corner. "David. We're leaving."

David crept after him, out into the quad and thence to the street, where it was several moments before either of them said a thing. Notably, Killian. "So, lad. What would it run me to get you not to mention this to your mother?"

David blinked at him, confused. "What?"

"Your mother," Killian repeated. "Until I get a few things sorted, I'd prefer not to worry her with this. So, if perhaps. . ."

"Are you asking me to lie to her?" David's small brow furrowed. "I don't think I want to do that. And I don't think you should either. She doesn't like it when you keep things from her."

"I'm not lying to her!" By the defensiveness in his tone, Killian was well aware that the boy had struck too close to home. Still more, he knew that David was right. But he didn't want to, gods he didn't want to. Was clinging to the faint, delusional hope that if he didn't speak it, didn't shape it, didn't make it real, it would fold up tidily and go away, instead of continuing to uncurl its dark tendrils into the happy family life he and Emma had both struggled so hard to build. He'd told her everything, just last night, including several things he'd prefer not to. How could the lad accuse him of. . . of. . .

Bloody hell. He clenched his fist. He was doing it again. Choosing what was easy instead of what was right, and of all his old pirate habits, that was the hardest to shake. Look out for yourself and you'll never get hurt, eh, Jones? But he couldn't do that, he couldn't. If Emma found out later, some other way, she'd be furious, and he'd not blame her. And if Neverland's dark magic was reawoken, she'd be in just as much danger. Lying was no safety.

"Daddy?"

Killian glanced down, having once more nearly forgotten about David. "Aye?"

"Why did that man say he was my uncle? The one who scared you so much?"

An instinctive, prideful denial sprang to Killian's lips – to say that he wasn't scared, that he could manage it fine, thanks – but yet again, there was no point in anything less than brutal honesty. The lad had eyes, had seen him nearly come to pieces. "It's a long story."

"That's what adults say when they just don't want to explain."

Caught off guard, Killian laughed. "You're sharp, lad. Aye, well. Short version. Many years ago, I had a brother named Liam, whom I loved very much, and we had adventures together. But he died, and I went. . . wrong. I know it can't really be him now, and it. . . it frightens me."

"Because of Neverland." David looked at him seriously. "Isn't it?"

"How in the devil did you know that?" Killian's pulse sped up.

"Because that's the only thing with the power to do that, isn't it?" David sounded quite practical, referring to the place he was kidnapped, been (however briefly) a Lost Boy in Henry's band, stolen by mermaids, saved by a kiss. "I get in trouble when I talk about it, and Mom doesn't like to remember it, but I know what happened there. That's what you're really afraid of."

He knows. He knows exactly. In a moment of sudden clarity, Killian wondered if his and Emma's persistent habit of brutally compartmentalizing their emotions, only talking about them when they damned well had to, might have done more damage to their son than they knew. David was such a cheerful, resilient, optimistic child that they'd both counted their blessings that he was able to bounce back and no harm done, but Killian wondered now if the boy had inherited their closed doors, their high walls, their propensity to shove aside and not speak of it. Since he'd not mentioned any ill effects from his time in Neverland, nightmares or otherwise, they'd been happy to accept that there were none. We should have known ourselves better. It gnawed at Killian, that lingering sense of failure. "Aye," he admitted. "It is."

"Oh." David considered. "But Neverland doesn't exist in this world. Does it?"

"I." Killian felt that strange sad ache that he supposed every parent must face, the day they had to tell their child about evil and darkness and pain. "I don't know any more."

"So why is the man who isn't really my uncle here?"

"I don't know. Just.. . . be careful, all right? Whatever this power is, it's nothing to lark around with. Your mother and I couldn't endure it if we lost you again."

"Okay." David nodded. "I'll be careful."

Killian loved him then, loved him more than he'd let himself in a long time, from the moment he'd discovered he had a son and Emma had been so wary about introducing them, fearful that he would vanish off the face of the earth again. He wanted to reach down and swoop David into his arms, hold him close and promise that nothing would ever hurt him, but contented himself with a gruff pat on the boy's shoulder. "You're a good lad. I'm sorry I'm a bloody lunatic."

They turned onto Walton Street, and in a further few minutes were arriving home to the smell of supper cooking and an extremely agitated Emma. "What the hell? Where have you been? Couldn't call me or text me or something? Your movie ended over three hours ago!"

Killian frowned. Much as his affianced might struggle with her abandonment issues, she wasn't normally this clingy, would have assumed they'd gone to grab a bite to eat or otherwise entertained themselves, and would have phoned herself if she was genuinely concerned for their whereabouts. It made an alarm sound in the back of his head, especially to look at her. She resembled a lioness, blonde curls tousled and green eyes burning, face bloodless except for the high spots of hectic color in her cheeks, enough to make him frown and move forward with a convulsive idea of checking her temperature. "Emma, lass. . . you look feverish, are you. . ."

"I'm fine," she snapped, turning her back on him and storming into the kitchen. "Dinner will be ready in half an hour, I hope you didn't go somewhere else and not bother to tell me."

"Emma." He went after her, accepting the full and present risk of disembowelment, and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, his lips resting on the nape of her neck. "God's sake, love, a porcupine would complain of you being too prickly. What's wrong?"

She shuddered, but he could feel the tension leak out of her, and she yielded to his embrace. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I called my parents today, and. . . apparently Regina tried to escape last night, and almost succeeded. There was a giant mess, the entire town of Storybrooke went nuts, and they're still trying to figure out what happened. They think she might have some kind of new power, or that her magic is coming back, or that something else in general is happening to make her think she'd be confident at getting out. The people are keeping her barricaded in her house, after they took all the possible weapons out of it, and. . ."

"She's the Evil Queen, lass. They'll never have found all the possible tricks she has up her sleeve." Killian's stomach clenched uncomfortably at the news. One incident was unfortunate, two less so, and a third could definitely not be filed away as chance. No other conclusion could be drawn but that Regina had felt the dark magic as well, and it had empowered her. "Still, though. That alone wouldn't make you so vexed. What?"

Emma shot an oblique sidelong glance at David, who had already gathered that his parents were having one of those important conversations that did not involve him, and thus was doing his best to look studiously absorbed in something else. Then she said, "That would be the part where they asked if I'd think about changing my name back to Emma Nolan."

"What? We're going to be married in a few months, I thought. . ." In fact he hadn't broached the topic at all, supposing that a woman as independent and untraditional as Emma might well want to keep her maiden name. They'd filed papers to officially alter David's surname to Swan-Jones, but asking or requiring her to do the same had never crossed his mind. He wanted it, but. . . "Timing seems a bit odd, that's all."

"Exactly." Emma's nostrils flared. She had changed her name from Nolan to Swan after she lost her memories, and never changed it back. "As guilt trips go, that one was running the travel agency. They barely got to know you at all while they were cursed, and now they remember. . . it turns out you're Captain Hook and the first thing you do is whisk me away to the other side of the Atlantic and get me involved in some other nefarious activity." She looked as if she couldn't quite decide whether to laugh. "Fine, I'll be blunt. They're not happy."

"I'm not Hook," Killian snapped. Too fast, too defensively. "Not anymore."

"That's beside the point." Emma pulled loose of his arms and briskly stirred whatever was bubbling on the stove.

"So what do they want you to do? Come back home to Storybrooke, live with them as the vulnerable young woman they left unconscious in a Boston hospital?" If he was being honest, Killian could not blame Charming and Snow too stringently for that – he after all had done the same thing, and they had been under considerable duress from the crocodile at the time – but he was prickly and barbed and baited and tired of being seen as the incurable villain. "That's not going to work!"

"They didn't say so in as many words, but yes." Emma's fingers tightened on the handle of the saucepan. "I get the feeling that that's exactly what they want."

"Well, too bloody bad for them. They can't dote and spoil and coddle the little girl they wish you still were to make up for the time they lost." Yet again, Killian was uncomfortably aware that he himself was doing more or less the same thing with David, but at least David was only seven, still a child and a forgiving one at that. There was time to repair the damage. This was different. "They have to learn to be your parents as adults. For you, and for them."

"I know, all right?" Emma kept stirring. "They mean well, it's not like they're going to fly over here to kidnap me in the dead of night. They can't, remember? They can't leave Storybrooke, so all they can really try to do is change my mind about it."

Killian's stomach did another unpleasant flip. "About. . . us, lass? Me and you, our family?"

Emma's silence felt ominous. He took another step. "Is that what they meant?" he repeated, feeling a sickening, whistling sensation as if he was free-falling in an elevator. His voice had dropped lower, verging on a growl. "Your parents, the bloody embodiment of True Love, can't stand their daughter finding anyone besides them?"

"I already told you that's not what they meant!" Emma's hand jerked, splashing béchamel sauce onto her apron. "They're not going to break us apart, if that's what you're afraid of. But they don't know you and they're not sure they like you and they want me to come home. The end."

"I saved you in Neverland! You and David! What else do they want to prove I won't – "

"No," Emma burst out. Her face was turning red, and not merely from the heat of the kitchen. "You didn't save David. I saved him. It was because of you that he was drowned in the first place, because you couldn't keep your goddamn deal with the mermaids! If you had just – "

"If I had just, lass, they would have skinned me blind, and likely got me into worse debt, and – "

"You should have paid it," Emma breathed. "Sucked it up and paid it. Not – "

"I was a pirate, lass. I am a pirate. Much as it may shock your sainted parents. So forgive me if I wanted to get back to you at any cost, if I didn't know that I – "

Their voices were rising, their tempers as well, and it was Emma who was the first to turn away. "God," she said to the wall. "What's wrong with us? It's like we're not even ourselves. I'm so on edge and I'm so out of control and I'm so angry, all the time. I don't know why."

Neverland, Killian thought again. Unless that was just what he wanted it to be, a convenient excuse for the darkness pervading them. He'd asked her to marry him two days after their reunion, after a separation of almost seven years. No, it wasn't too early; he'd never love another woman the way he loved her, not even if he should live another three centuries. But the fact remained that there were massive issues still to be worked out, which they hadn't had time to touch in the drama and terror of David being kidnapped by the Home Office and thrown down the portal to Neverland. And then the Storybrooke situation after that. Not much opportunity to sit down for cozy heart-to-hearts. He was afraid of what these cracks were revealing, how deep they ran. The battle is only beginning.

"I don't know, lass," he said wearily. "I'm just as guilty as you. I love you, and I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too." She put down the spoon she'd been hereto brandishing as a lethal instrument, and came quickly into his arms, her head snuggling under his chin, as he kissed her hair. "Let's try not to fight anymore, all right? This isn't the way I wanted to spend the weekend."

"Me neither," he admitted, pulling her tighter against him. "Fortunately, term goes fast. Only five more weeks. I'll be back in London full-time before you know it."

"Then we can fight more conveniently." But she buzzed with wry laughter, and he had to join in, rocking her, until she heaved a ragged breath and let go. "Why were you late, by the way?"

Killian hesitated. "Went to check something at my office."

"Get distracted with work again?" Emma asked, expertly nabbing the timer as it began to beep and whipping the pan off the stove. "David! Come set the table, please!"

David poked his head cautiously into the kitchen, clearly trying to ensure that no more parental blowups were in the offing, before he enlisted his father's help in fetching down the plates and glasses. This gave Killian an excuse not to answer immediately. But then supper was ready, and smelled delicious, and Emma was smiling at him, and he couldn't face the ordeal of explaining it to her now, when all he wanted to do was take her to bed and make it up to her in the darkness, in the soft wordless language of intimacy, of kisses and touches and warmth and sex and love, of having her in his arms again, a joy he would never take for granted, and so he did not.