Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon a Time, nor am I affiliated with Adam Horowitz or Eddy Kitsis. Title of the story is taken from a song by Carina Round. For the hat-trick of things I do not own, see basically everything.

A/N: Back in business! My essays, exams and deadlines are done and I have finished University! It's insane but there we have it. Thank you so much for your patience and encouragements. This is a short chapter as I wanted to get it updated as soon as I could, half of the next chapter is already written and will be on its way in a couple of days (: Special thanks to Riv, whose edits and insanity kicked me into gear. One last note…I know the finale was a couple of weeks ago, but let's just take a moment to hyperventilate over it again. We're on our way to becoming canon! Enjoy the chapter (:

Emma wasn't sure what caused Hook's sudden shift in mood. Maybe that was just how he reacted to killing and almost dying. For her own part, Emma didn't know how to feel after taking the life of someone…something else. It didn't feel like murder, exactly, because the vampire had been prepared to drink from her like a fountain. Still, she had been a walking, talking, almost-living thing and Emma had snatched that almost-life away from her. Her eyes were drawn to the prone, blood-drenched body on the floor. The vampire had a name, though Emma hadn't known it. She had sisters who loved her, and-

"Emma." Hook's voice bordered on stern, certainly not something to be ignored. After a moment, Emma looked up at him. "She would have killed you."

Emma nodded, taking a moment to wonder how Hook knew her thoughts. Probably the same damn way he knew everything else about her (although she still had to figure out exactly which way this was). Still, there was truth in his words.

"I know."

When she didn't move, his voice took on a warning edge.

"She still might if we don't find this damn painting."

Emma nodded again. Now wasn't the time to reflect on her feelings, she knew that, but she wanted to give herself a moment to figure out what exactly it was that she felt. It wasn't guilt, and perhaps that was what worried her. She had killed; shouldn't she be overcome with remorse or regret? Was this any different than killing the dragon? She hadn't felt any remorse over that. The questions and potential guilt nagged at her so that she was unable to focus on anything else, even though she could see an impatient Hook moving towards her.

"How many people have you killed?" Emma asked, the words forming themselves before her mind could protest.

Hook set his jaw. "A lot. Now come, we need to find the painting." He raised his eyebrows when Emma didn't move and then sighed in frustration when he realized she wouldn't until her question was answered properly. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't keep track."

He was emotionless, flippant, but Emma could see that behind his tone there was the tiniest hint of discomfort, maybe even shame.

"Does it get easier?"

"It was never difficult." He was trying his hardest to channel his most ruthless pirate persona, Emma could tell. "I dispatch obstacles in my path, it's as simple as that. I have a lot of blood on my hands." He glanced at his hook and a slightly bitter smile formed. "Metaphorically, of course. Some people deserved it, some didn't, but the fact remains that I have killed before and I am under no illusions that I will not kill again. If this bothers you, perhaps you shouldn't have hitched your wagon to a pirate."

"The pirate hitched his wagon to me," Emma corrected, raising an eyebrow at his soft antagonism. Hook's bitter, sarcastic smile was his only reply. When it became clear that he was not about to further their discussion, she finally voiced something that had been resting at the back of her mind for days.

"Why didn't you kill me? Back at the lake in the Enchanted Forest. I was an obstacle in your path."

Hook stilled, and then turned to make slow, deliberate strides over to Emma. His eyes fixed on her in a predatory stare but Emma was not cowed. She was far from prey; as the bodies strewn across the room could attest to, she was a predator too. Hook stopped, using his height as an advantage as he stared intently down at her.

"What makes you think I didn't try?" he asked, his low voice laced with menace.

Emma had thought they were over the passive-aggressive intimidation game but that didn't mean she had forgotten how to play.

"I'm still alive," she said, noting with distant satisfaction that a flicker of surprise passed over his face before he schooled it into obedience. He hadn't expected her to be honest, that much was clear.

"Maybe I was having an off day," Hook said, daring her to believe something he obviously did not believe himself. "Or perhaps I was still recovering from the solitary ten hour trip back down the beanstalk."

Great, thought Emma, we're back to this. It was a diversion tactic more than anything else and she knew better than to fall for it. She continued to hold his gaze, trying to uncover exactly what it was that had flipped this switch in him. And then - it was there, but just barely, buried deep under cold, distant layers: fear. He was afraid, and not just for himself. Emma blinked, breaking the spell between them.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," she said, stepping backwards and letting him think he had won their latest round. She didn't want to dig any further into why he had such a strong reaction to the thought of her in danger, otherwise she might be forced to consider how she felt about the thought of him in danger, and that left a peculiarly hollow feeling in her chest.

"Let's just get this done," Hook said, his eyes darting about the room. "The painting must be close if the sisters were supposed to be its guardians."

"There are…four paintings in this room," Emma said, mainly to herself as she did not doubt the Captain's ability to count. "None of them scream Master of the Undead, though I guess a high collar and fangs would be too much of a giveaway."

"Mother Elena gave us something to detect the painting, yes?"

Emma nodded and reached into her pocket for one of Mother Elena's many supplies.

"Time to use the…" She sighed at the ridiculousness of the words she was about to speak. "Magic dust."

She had no idea how this was supposed to indicate where the painting was. She poured the colored dust into her palm and, feeling foolish, upturned it onto the floor. It filtered down and settled on the stone floor. Emma and Hook watched it in its utter stillness.

"We're just creating unnecessary mess for the maid, aren't we?" Hook asked, raising an eyebrow at the failure.

Emma was casting around for new ideas when the dust shifted as though caught in a light breeze.

"Emma-"

"I see it."

They watched as the dust picked up, shifting around slowly but unmistakeably in the direction of one of the paintings. The dust shone brighter as it moved closer, as though caught in a sunbeam that was entirely absent in the room. Emma worried that it might ignite in a spark of red dust but instead its light went out altogether as it settled underneath a painting of a young man sat imperiously in a chair.

"Score one for the magic dust," Emma muttered, hoping Mother Elena was not expecting it back. She wasn't about to get down on her hands and knees and scrape it all back into the vial.

The subject of the painting was beautiful. There was an angelic purity about him, from his blond curls to the serene expression on his face. He was flawless. The longer Emma stared, the more she felt like a sinner looking into the face of a god. Her reverence was ridiculous, she knew somewhere in the back of her mind, and yet…

And yet…

"I take it this is a younger version of the Count?" Hook asked, standing closely at Emma's shoulder.

Emma blinked, shaking herself out of her reverie. It was probably too late to pretend to be taking a scholarly interest in the painting but she made the effort anyway.

"I think so."

"Hm. Handsome lad, isn't he?"

"He's something," Emma agreed, her eyes tracing the curve of Count Dracula's lips.

Hook studied Emma for a few moments before turning back to the painting with a soft, self-deprecating sigh.

"This must be what jealousy feels like."

Emma grinned but did not look away.

"Don't worry, he isn't my type."

"Obscenely handsome isn't your type? Damn. I wish you'd told me that a few days ago, I could have saved myself a lot of trouble."

Emma rolled her eyes and didn't comment. Instead, she nodded at the painting. "So, do we stab this thing or what?"

"Perhaps," Hook said, though he made no move closer towards it.

"What is it?" Emma asked, noticing his hesitation.

"I'm wary of direct contact with enchanted objects," he explained, scanning the painting as though his eyes alone could strip it of any magic. "It doesn't make sense for the painting to be so easily destroyed."

"Easy?" Emma repeated in disbelief. "I think the bodies of the Sisters of the Damned over there would disagree."

Hook didn't seem to hear her. "Do we have any holy water left? It may have the same effect on the painting as it did on the Sisters, and we won't have to touch the painting for it to take effect."

Emma checked the bag and pulled out a small vial. She shook it so that the clear liquid inside swished about. She reminded herself to next time label the objects she was using in vampire slaying.

"This is probably holy water," she said, uncorking the vial and handing it over.

Hook took it with a suspicious glance. "Probably?"

"Yeah. Mother Elena gave us a lot of stuff, there's an equal chance of it being a light refreshment."

Hook raised his eyebrows in a fair enough gesture and took three steps back.

"Best stand away," he said. "I'm not entirely sure what will happen."

Emma followed his leave, resisting the sarcastic urge to comment on the dangers of wet paintings, and watched as Hook splashed the potential holy water on the beautiful boy's face.

As soon as the first droplets made contact., the painting began to wither before their eyes. Lines of age and decay marred the smooth skin until it was almost unrecognizable. Sharp teeth poked through the once-soft lips which now thinned and cracked as the skin around them sagged. The effects of age on a human had been intensified on Dracula to the point of hideousness; his life essence may have been clutching on but it was rotten to the core.

"I was right," Emma said after a moment of stunned silence. "Definitely not my type."

In another part of the castle, Van Helsing, Arthur and Jonathan were stalking further into the stone hallways in the hopes and fears of running into the demon whose death they still had nightmares about. They carried out small talk in small voices so as to distract themselves from the terror that any sane person would be heeding.

"Miss. Swan is a most interesting young woman," Van Helsing murmured, stopping short of anything that could be construed as offensive.

The small group was following Jonathan into the inner sanctum of the castle where he suspected Dracula may be hiding. They carried weapons in shaking hands, afraid for their lives but resolutely refusing to turn back until they had carried out their grave task.

Arthur nodded in agreement with Van Helsing's assessment.

"Hook seems a disreputable chap, though," he said, matching the man's quiet tone.

"I am cautious of trusting anyone with a weapon for a hand," Jonathan agreed, his eyes alert to every shifting shadow. "And that's not to mention his title. Captain? I shudder to think of what vessel."

"He is almost certainly without doubt a pirate," Arthur said, spitting out the final word as though its mere mention would sully his mouth.

"Necessity makes for strange bedfellows," Van Helsing said with faint rebuke. "If they can assist in freeing the town from the Count's curse then their roles outside of this mission does not concern me, nor should it you."

Chastised, Jonathan nodded.

"Well," Arthur muttered under his breath, "he should not expect an invitation to the ball."

Van Helsing pursed his lips. "I am certain he will be crushed."

"What do we do now?" Emma asked. She was still transfixed by the painting, albeit in a completely different way than before.

"I'm hoping that was the painting's last defense," Hook said, stepping forward for a closer look. "Assuming that the painting can be destroyed in the same way that a vampire can, a stake to the heart should finish the demon off. Care to do the honors, love?"

"You bet," Emma said darkly, her fingers already wrapped around a stake. She hovered the tip of the stake over the centre of the painted heart and then reared her arm back. Summoning up her anger and fear and adrenaline from the last few days, she slammed the stake in.

Dracula's mouth opened in a silent scream, his eyes widening and turning accusingly onto Emma as though he could see her. Emma's fingers stiffened around the stake, stuck fast despite her desperate efforts to unclench them. She tried to pull the stake out but that too was stuck.

"Hook, I can't-"

"I know, I'm working on it."

His voice was taut with a panic that told Emma he had no ideas. As he tore through the bag of weapons for something useful, Emma's face scrunched up with the effort of moving her fingers. It was no use; the painting had one last defense after all.

Flakes of paint fell away as the painting moved inside its frame, one of its withered hands slowly reaching for the embedded stake. Emma watched, horrified, as the other hand reached out from the frame, its paint-flecked talons clutching at the air. When the paint flecked away, it left a space in the artwork. Once all the paint had fallen, Dracula should be defeated. In theory. God, Emma hoped this theory was correct.

Hook threw the bag aside with a frustrated noise and returned to Emma's side, deftly avoiding the outstretched hand whose paint was steadily chipping away and falling to the floor below. With half of his attention on the slow-moving painting, he examined the stake and its position in the Count's chest. He paused, nodded to himself and moved away again.

"Emma, do you trust me?" His voice was quick but not demanding. If her answer was no, he would find another way.

"Tell me your plan," Emma said, far more demanding as she tried to put as much distance between her and the talons.

"I want to splinter the stake with my hook and separate it from the painting."

Temporarily forgetting her panic, Emma turned to stare at him. "There isn't enough room, my hand's in the way."

"There's a small bit of room," Hook corrected, his eyes not leaving hers. "Which is where the trust part comes in."

Emma held his gaze for a few crucial seconds, deliberating. His face was as open as she had ever seen it; he wanted her to see that although he was afraid of hurting her, he believed in his own aim and ability and would not have offered otherwise. Finally, Emma nodded.

Before Hook could begin, she reached out and bunched the leather of his coat underneath her fist.

"If you cut off my hand, I'll replace it with a brick and use it to beat you to death," she warned, earning a flicker of a grin.

"Trust me, darling, my visions of our future together definitely involve you having two hands."

"I trust you." Emma paused. "Not about the vision thing, that was weird and unnecessary. I trust you with sharp things near my skin. Just…don't hurt me."

"Never."

Emma kept her eyes firmly fixed on Dracula's sluggish form. His hand still edged towards the stake in his chest while his other hand slowly retracted back into the frame to assist. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hook angle his wrist. She winced as metal struck into wood, merely a whisper away from her skin. Dracula began to draw his own hand away, his eyes fixing on Hook in outrage. Paint had crumbled away from most of his face, leaving the backdrop against which he stood perfectly intact. Although he was technically less of a threat, he was more physically terrifying than ever.

"Hold still, sweetheart," Hook said over the dull thud of another strike.

"Really, Hook?" Emma asked through gritted teeth, her fear getting the better of her. "I was going to do a bunch of claps and then wave my hand about in the air but come to think of it, yeah, I probably should hold still. Idiot."

Hook grinned as the wood began to splinter under the repeated attacks. "Good, love, focus on that anger. What else annoys you about me?"

"Oh, don't even get me started on this," Emma said, though she wasn't really paying attention to what she was saying and she knew that Hook was focused on the stake. It was a distraction technique, she knew it and embraced it. "Okay, the coat. Leather? Really. You look like you're on your way to a fetish ball."

Thunk.

Emma pushed away the fear and took strength from the fact that Dracula was fading fast. She watched as his painted fingers flaked off and fell from the frame. It was like a ripple effect; the more paint chipped away, the faster other areas began to peel. Without taking her eyes away from the painting, she continued her list.

"You named your ship the Jolly Roger and I just can't take that seriously."

Thunk.

"You told me that you're always a gentlemen, but every other sentence that comes out of your mouth sounds like something from Playboy."

Thunk.

"I'm pretty sure that you apply your eyeliner better than I do and it really annoys me."

Hook glanced at her at this comment and offered one of his more devastating smiles.

"It's all in the wrist movement, love." He looked back down towards the stake. "Speaking of, try and snap this off. I've made a dent in it, it might be enough now that the painting's power is fading."

He rolled his shoulder, easing the discomfort of the jarring actions, and kept an eye on the painting as Emma, using both hands, pressed down on the stake as hard as she could. Her hands shook with the effort and splinters pricked at her but with one last large groan the stake cracked and split. It was not a clean break; she had to worry away the strands that were more reluctant to fracture, but after a few more moments the weapon was free from the painting. Emma's grip finally relaxed and half of the broken stake fell from her numb fingers.

She took a wavering step back and watched, tired and relieved, as the last flecks of Dracula disintegrated. She was covered in blood, splinters and the painting of the most famous vampire of them all, but she was one step closer to getting home and back to Henry. It was a victory.

"If you say anything about my wrist movements, I will end you," she warned as Hook stood next to her.

"Thought never so much as crossed my mind, love."

He settled an arm around her shoulders, a casual movement whose implications Emma decided to ignore. They both needed comfort after their ordeal, someone to stand with and be close to while they contemplated how close they had come to death. With a weary sigh, Emma let her head fall sideways into the collar of his coat.

Perhaps, on reflection, fetish ball chic wasn't so bad after all.