AN: Halfway through (probably). Thanks again for the reviews/faves/follows. Y'all are very kind. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Four
Memoriam
"Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you." – Ovid
Emma doesn't sleep.
The irony doesn't entirely escape her. All those nights back in Camelot wishing for nothing more than a good night's rest and now she finally can sleep, she absolutely can't.
They've ended up in this world's equivalent of Gold's cabin. Her parents and Henry are dozing fitfully on the sofas, whereas Regina and Cora have taken advantage of the privacy of the bedroom. Low murmurs have been coming from behind the locked door sporadically, fortunately unpunctuated by screaming or the sounds of breaking glass. Robin has fallen asleep slumped in front of the door regardless, just in case.
In the absence of hordes of undead or magical firefights the quiet weighs heavily on Emma and her only companion. Rumplestiltskin has taken up position in front of the cabin window, the only movement the drumming of his fingers on the sill. He hasn't spoken to her, and she's said nothing to him. What is there to say, anyway?
She wonders if he broke the habit of a lifetime before they came here, and told Belle the truth. She wonders if it will make any difference.
She's always struggled with that, with the way Belle seems to constantly forgive the unforgivable. It never made sense – a bright, beautiful, intelligent woman repeatedly falling back into the arms of a monster – but now, well. Now she's been the monster, and there's more than one type of fear keeping her awake.
"You think terribly loudly, Miss Swan."
Emma just glares at the back of his neck.
"Well," he chirps, stepping smartly away from the window, "despite your delightful company, I'm afraid I must be off."
"Off?" She hisses, very aware of their sleeping companions, "where the hell do you think you can go?"
"Interesting choice of words. Not that it's any of your business, but I have personal matters to see to."
"What sort of matters?" she rises from her perch on the coffee table, "Cora says you've made enemies here, what do you know that we don't?"
"That would be rather a long list, dearie, don't you think?"
Something hot and vicious sparks in her fingertips. Rumple wags a finger at her as he reaches the door.
"Be careful, Miss Swan. Magic, even light magic, is an unpredictable beast. And I wager that right now yours is more unpredictable than most. Do you want to burn this place to the ground with such precious contents?" He smirks in the direction of Henry; Emma allows herself to imagine punching him square in his smug little face.
"I'm not letting you go alone."
"I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice, unless you want to leave your family here alone." He looks thoughtful, "How much do you trust Cora, really?"
"More than I trust you." She spits out, almost without thinking.
"I always thought you were a clever girl," he says as the door closes behind him and Emma can't tell if he's surprised or impressed.
"Are you going after him?"
Henry's voice cracks from sleep, which combined with his bleary gaze makes him seem even younger. Emma gives him a wobbly smile.
"You heard what he said, Henry. I can't leave you here, it's not safe."
Henry shuffles out from under Snow's coat and shrugs.
"Nothing worth doing ever is, mom. And anyway, you can't just sit here and wait for Killian to turn up."
"Can't I?" she allows herself a little giggle at Henry's expansive eye roll.
"Our lives are never that easy."
Despite her smile, she feels her heart crack a little bit further. Henry has seen so much, and he's just a kid, and god what is she thinking bringing him here at all…
"Don't look at me like that," he scowls.
"Like what?"
"Like you're wishing you'd left me cooped up in the convent with Roland and the babies."
She reaches over to ruffle his hair, and he lets her with only a huff of protest.
"Can you blame me?"
Henry scrubs the toe of his boot against the floor and picks at a thread on his jumper.
"No. But mom," he makes eye contact, expression pleading, "I'm not a little kid any more. I'm the author, and I want to help. I want to help Killian."
If she'd only known, all those months ago, what one sailing trip would turn into maybe she'd have suggested it sooner, or maybe, to save him this pain, she'd never have allowed him to go at all.
Emma kisses him firmly on the forehead. His fingers twitch but he doesn't wipe it away.
"Okay, okay. This is an official operation after all."
Henry's eyes twinkle. "I have some ideas for names."
"Mmm, I bet," Emma's attention wanders towards the door again. She wonders what time it is, and how nice it must be to be the sort of person who wears a watch. Henry raises an eyebrow.
"So are you going after him or what?"
"I am," she squares her shoulders, "will you be okay?"
"Eh, I'll be fine," he sizes up Snow's bow where it sits propped up against the wall with more enthusiasm than Emma would like, "I don't go looking for trouble."
"Nor do I kid, but it seems to follow us around all the same."
The last thing she hears is his whispered reply.
"Lucky us."
Underbrooke – Henry's idea, and she'd actually laughed when he came up with it – is busy in the reddish dawn, its population meandering the streets seeing to their daily business as if the shops sold coffee and bagels instead of coffins and candles. The window of what ought to be Modern Fashions catches her eye as she heads towards Gold's shop. The wedding dress that has been displayed in the window back home for, god, it feels like years, has been replaced with painfully familiar black leather and it makes her hurt. It's not like she'd ever have wanted the fluffy eighties confection even if – even if. But.
But you don't know what you want till it's gone, or however that old saying goes.
She doesn't know what she's expecting to find at the pawn shop, except that maybe she can't think of anywhere else Rumplestiltskin would go, but she's still surprised to find the door hanging open, half off its hinges. The sheriff inside rears her head and she reaches for her gun.
The store is empty, or empty at least of thieves or enraged Dark Ones. In every other sense it is overflowing, the organised chaos of its Storybrooke counterpart looking practically OCD compared with the randomised destruction she's faced with. Emma picks her way carefully through a carpet of probably priceless artefacts, cringing as something delicate crunches to dust under her foot.
"Hello?"
Her voice cracks and she swallows hard. There's something not quite right about this place, something even less right than there is about the real thing. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
"Anybody here?"
Her blood thumps in her ears and if this was a horror movie this is totally the moment that the murderer would leap out from behind the counter and who is she kidding her whole life is a horror movie and is that the sound of floorboards creaking or her knees shaking and maybe she's too old for this and…
She doesn't realise she's bolted till she finds herself on the sidewalk, hands on her knees, breath coming in embarrassingly loud pants.
The toes of two pairs of shoes appear at the edge of her vision.
"It might be my name on the door, Miss Swan, but I'm not the pawnbroker around here." Rumplestiltskin doesn't sound at all surprised that she's followed him after all, his face perfectly neutral as she glares up at him and tries to regulate her breathing.
"Yeah, I got that impression, thanks."
He opens his mouth again, snide and smug, and she's just sick of listening to it, cutting him off with a hand in front of his affronted face.
"I've met the guy in charge here, and it ain't you. So you can give up the mysterious shtick. I don't care about you, or your unfinished business or your power-plays. I just want to get Killian and go home."
He lifts a finger as if he's going to argue the point or maybe magically mute her, but he's shoved to one side before he has a chance to do either.
"You're here for Killian?"
Emma hasn't spared his companion so much as a glance before, but now she's got both hands on Emma's shoulders, blue eyes burning, the very air around her seeming to fizz and crackle. Emma has only seen her face once before in a smudged, faded charcoal sketch that she'd stuffed back into the drawer she'd found it in before she could be caught snooping, but it's not the sort of face you forget in a hurry. It would take centuries, she expects. (Knows.)
"Milah?"
Milah, because it wasn't really a question, does about the last thing Emma expects and pulls her into a crushing hug.
"Oh!" Emma gasps, slightly winded, "Oh, okay!"
"Ah, yes. Miss Swan, this is Milah, my…"
"Your nothing," Milah lets go with a growl but leaves her hands on Emma's shoulders, "How did you get here? Are you alright? Where's Henry?"
Emma gapes at her.
"H-henry?"
Milah nods furiously, tears glittering at the corners of her eyes, and lifts her hands to rub her thumbs along Emma's cheeks. This is seriously weird.
"I'm so sorry," Milah half-sobs through a watery smile, "you must think me very odd."
"I'm pretty used to odd," Emma half smiles back, and Milah laughs, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes.
"That would be self-evident, I suppose. Considering."
Considering you're stood here, next to your ex-husband who murdered you, cuddling me like we're long lost friends, when I'm here to rescue the man we both love from the underworld. And the mother of your grandkid.
"Okay this is weird, even for me," she admits.
Milah's sympathetic little grimace strikes a familiar chord, and all the air rushes out of Emma's lungs. She hasn't even thought about the prospect – her headspace has been full of hades and death and Killian Killian Killian – but she's suddenly spinning on the spot, eyes searching.
"Nea- Baelfire. Is he here?"
The look that passes between Milah and Rumplestiltskin twists her gut.
"No. It would appear my boy left us with no unfinished business to hand."
Rumplestiltskin's bitterness is clear and Milah's reply is almost gentle.
"A fact for which we should be grateful."
Rumple huffs and waves his hand dismissively.
"So, wait," Emma narrows her eyes, trying to will Hades' words back to her, "that's why you're all here? Because you have unfinished business, right?"
"Oh she catches on!" grumbles Rumplestiltskin.
Milah ignores him, nodding eagerly.
"This is the inbetween, the land where those of us who cannot rest easy must come to earn our peace."
"Earn it?"
"Or accept it. Not everybody here is a villain."
Something about the way she says it makes Emma squint.
"But you… you are?"
Milah lets out a shuddering sigh.
"That depends on who you ask. In life I found that things were rarely that clear-cut."
Emma side-eyes Rumpestiltskin, "Sometimes, yeah. Not always." She flicks her attention back to the other woman, "so you're here because of… him?" she jerks a thumb at Rumple, who rolls his eyes in mock offence.
"He wouldn't dare flatter himself so."
Emma backs away slightly, because no matter how friendly she may seem Emma is painfully aware that it's Milah's name tattooed on Killian's arm. Milah whose murder he has dedicated centuries to avenge. Milah who was his first mate and his first love. Emma hasn't really had anything to call her own for so much of her life, she's no stranger to the green eyed monster that rears up in her chest and paints a bullseye on the dark-haired woman's head.
She doesn't want to fight, but by god she will.
Milah seems to read her mind, eyes wide and honest as she takes Emma's hands gently in her own.
"Nor am I here for Killian, Emma. Our story was over a long time ago. I would, though, be pleased to see his new story have a happier ending."
Emma swallows the monster back down and tries to smile.
"Bae has no unfinished business with me," Milah continues, "that is true. But that isn't to say I have none with him."
She gestures at her outfit – bodywarmer and jeans – and the crossing guard sign discarded at her feet that Emma had failed to notice.
"I abandoned my son," she continues, "and I died without ever making that up to him…"
"That wasn't your fault!" Emma interrupts, scowling at Rumplestiltskin.
"No," Milah soothes, "No, perhaps the manner of my death was not of my choosing. But I did choose to leave him. And I can never have peace or his forgiveness until I have paid penance for it."
Emma eyes the stick at their feet with disdain.
"By being a… crossing guard?"
Milah shrugs.
"We come from cruel worlds, Emma, there's many a lonely child here. I do my little bit to care for them, to keep them safe, and one day perhaps I will have earned the right to see my boy again."
This time it's Emma who clings to Milah a little tighter.
"He'd forgive you. He's already forgiven you, I'm sure of it, wherever- wherever he is."
"You're a kind woman, Emma Swan. I'm glad he had you."
"This is terribly touching, ladies, but I was under the impression we were supposed to be on some sort of rescue mission? Although if you've quite given up on the idea I am ready to leave at your earliest convenience."
The clock face glows dolefully at her. Day two, 6am. Time's wasting. Rumple swings his pocket watch with an obnoxious little smirk.
"Speaking of rescue missions, what have you actually been doing out here? Have you found anything? Do you know anything that can help us find him?"
Rumplestiltskin taps his chin with one long finger, as if considering his options.
"What's it wor-" he begins, but Milah snatches up her pole and jabs him hard in the stomach.
"Are you telling me you haven't even seen him?" she asks, gobsmacked.
Rumplestiltskin wheezes.
"No," Emma bites her lip to keep the tremor from her voice, "no we arrived last night and there were hell beasts and sociopathic teenagers and y'know, Satan, and I don't even know where to look because I tried the docks and I got kidnapped by the devil or something and I don't know where he is or if he's okay or…"
"I know where he is," Milah looks bemused, and Emma tries to ignore the thundering of her heart in her ears, "he's not out here, so he must be at home."
"But the Jolly…" Emma protests; Milah shushes her (much more gently than she had Rumple).
"Not the Jolly, Emma. Home." She gives her an encouraging little nod.
"How…" Emma shakes her head, which is suddenly full of cotton wool, "how do you know? How do you know who I am or who Henry is or any of this?"
Milah just shrugs.
"Does it matter?"
"No. No I suppose not."
Milah grabs her hand one last time, tighter this time, and her face is too intense and too close.
"There are more things happening here than you can understand Emma. Don't forget that. This isn't Storybrooke. You're not the sheriff here. You don't make the rules."
Emma nods, tugging her hand free as Rumplestiltskin taps at his watch face, his lips curling.
Tick tock.
Emma leaves them, statues in the red-grey morning light. Her skin crawls, but she doesn't look back.
She'd started at a run, but as the house grows ever larger on the horizon her pace slows and slows until she's approaching the battered fence line practically on her tiptoes, her breath caught in her throat. All those childhood days of wishing for a home and a family just for her and yet it's still the most terrifying thing she's ever had. Or nearly had, anyway.
It was an imposing place even back in Storybrooke, and the peeling paintwork and slight tilt to the tower aren't helping. It reminds her of an illustration in one of the books she'd lifted as a kid – the haunted house waiting for a visitor to devour.
There's some irony there, if she lets herself think about it too deeply. So she doesn't. Instead she forces trembling legs to carry her up the stairs to the porch, lifting a fist to knock and then second-guessing herself because isn't this her house? Who knocks on their own front door?
"Come on," she growls to herself, "come on, come -"
The door swings open. Her world shatters and mends in an instant.
"Emma?"
He sounds the same, oh god he sounds the same and it's been a day, or two, or forever, but she was so, so afraid she'd forget. Her hands swing out to clutch at his jacket without any conscious thought on her part, but she stills them before they reach him. Last time she touched him he was cold, and she couldn't bear it. Not again. He blinks down at her, and she tries to smile, but there's something wrong. Something terribly not right with the way he's looking at her.
"What are you doing here?"
He sounds genuinely perplexed, which would be funny if it wasn't so sad.
"What do you think I'm doing here?"
She stares into his too blue eyes and sees nothing but the reflection of banking fog. Her breath catches in her throat.
"Killian?"
She plucks at the edge of his jacket with trembling fingers, still avoiding his skin like it might burn her. He shakes his head slowly, but the fog doesn't clear.
"Did something happen? Are you…" he stops, tongue slipping out to catch the last word before it escapes. Then, again, almost plaintive, "why are you here, Emma?"
"I'm – we're – here to save you."
"Save me," he seems to be considering the idea, his expression almost dreamlike.
Emma tries to smile but it sits uncomfortably just at the edge of her mouth.
"Well," she shrugs one shoulder, "I'm the saviour, aren't I?"
His expression twitches, just a tiny bit. A spark of something. Hope, maybe.
"We all came, Killian, my parents, Regina and Robin, Henry…"
"The boy," he wets his lips and for a moment his eyes flash clear, "It's not safe, he's not safe…"
She shushes him, hand sliding from cuff to elbow.
"It's okay, he's with my parents and Regina, he's fine."
He just stares at her with those beautiful blank eyes and god she'd thought her heart couldn't break any more. What a way to be proven wrong.
"What's wrong?" she asks, ending on a hiccup as she chokes on the tears she's swallowing.
It's a stupid question, so stupid, they're in the Underworld because she turned him into the thing he hated most then murdered him with his own damn sword, what's right with this picture, and she waits for the full sarcasm and eyebrows reply. Wills it. Instead he lays his hand on her cheek (it's warm, god it's warm) and she can't be sure who's shaking more. Their mutual intake of breath seems to suck all the oxygen from the air and it hangs heavy, waiting, watching.
"It hurts when I touch you."
She forces herself to step away even though every cell in her body is screaming closer. He chases after her with a wobbly little step.
"It hurts more when I don't."
He runs his thumb across her cheekbone, his brow furrowing as if he's trying to remember a word on the tip of his tongue. Emma tilts her head into his touch.
"I'm sorry," it's barely a whisper, but it's enough to still the gentle strokes of his thumb, "I'm so, so sorry."
"Don't be sorry. It doesn't matter, not anymore. I'm where I should be now. I've paid my price and I'll do my penance. This is how it should be."
The words come out, but the tone's all wrong. It's as if he's reading blind from an auto-cue.
"What did he do to you?"
He shakes his head at her, confused. She'll take confusion. It's better than that awful blankness.
"I don't follow."
"You," she pokes him in the chest, maybe a little harder than she intended, "you never just accept things, you never give up, you feel everything too deeply…"
"I don't," still confused, "I don't feel anything."
Emma grits her teeth against the wail she can feel rising out of her chest. She wants to shake him. She wants to shake herself. She wants her mom.
"Wait."
She hadn't realised she'd been moving away, backing down the steps like a cornered animal, until he catches up with her reaching out for her waist with his hand and twirling a blonde curl around his hook. (She's irrationally pleased he's still got the hook). He stares at her hair for a long moment and then his eyes fly wide open as they meet hers.
"He came to me with a proposition, told me that he would allow me to earn redemption if I gave up my hate," he tightens his grip on her waist, his voice suddenly a growl, "then he tried to take what we had."
The fog clears from his eyes, fully and finally, and Emma presses herself closer so that they stand toe-to-toe, her arms moving so that he can run her fingers through his hair, his both wrapping around her waist.
"No one," she says, and it's as fervent a promise as she's ever made, "will ever be able to take what we have."
She kisses him, hard, and he kisses back harder, all teeth and tongues and it's not soft or romantic in the least, but magic doesn't much care about that. It bursts forth from where they're joined, flashing white behind their closed eyelids, and thunders away from them as golden topped waves on a stormy sea.
The Underbrooke sky bruises dark then suddenly splits, rain rushing through the guttering of the old house and bouncing off the sidewalk. Killian smiles and raises an eyebrow.
"It would appear our love has manifested itself rather damply, love."
Emma laughs wildly, clinging on to him as the downpour washes the tear tracks from her face. Killian leans forward to rest his forehead on hers.
"I forgive you."
They stay like that with red-rimmed eyes and secret smiles, swaying on the spot and breathing each other's air, and it rains as if it's never rained before.
(It's never rained, before.)