Gun pointed at Emma, Jefferson leaned down and picked up the hat she'd made him, casually putting it on. He tilted his head so that his scar was clearly visible, and, for some reason he couldn't explain, he smiled.

What's crazier than seeing and not believing? Open your eyes, look around, wake up. Isn't it about time?

"Off with his head," he whispered.

You know what the issue is with this world? Everyone wants some magical solution for their problem and everyone refuses to believe in magic.

Part of him knew that what he was doing was crazy. He didn't want to hurt Emma. But another part of him was too desperate to care anymore. He needed to find a way home, and he was out of options.

This is the real world.

A real world. How arrogant are you to think yours is the only one? There are infinite more. You have to open your mind. They touch one another, pressing up in a long line of lands, each just as real as the last. All have their own rules; some have magic, some don't, and some need magic.

A sudden impact jarred his lower back. He grunted in pain, dropping the gun and turning to face Mary Margaret. Without hesitating, the school teacher landed a powerful kick on his chest that sent him crashing through the window behind him. The glass seemed to move backwards with his body before giving way. Tiny shards surrounded him, ripping his clothes and tearing into the exposed skin on his face, neck, and hands.

He was falling.

It wasn't the tight feeling in the pit of his stomach that bothered him. He'd felt that every time he used his hat. What bothered him now was the landing. He was headed for the ground, face-first. The hat Emma made him slipped off his head, flipping before it hit. Jefferson squeezed his eyes shut, ready for the impact.

But the impact never came. Where he should have felt ground, he felt more air, only this time he couldn't tell what direction he was falling. A strange sensation that was somehow both pleasant and painful tugged at his heart and sent a chill through his skin.

Magic.

The feeling only lasted a moment before Jefferson felt his whole body collide with solid earth. He coughed, face pressed into the dirt, trying to regain the breath that was knocked out of him. After lying still for a few moments, he was able to regain some normalcy in his breathing. Groaning against his protesting muscles, he pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around.

What little light was in the sky had been dimmed by the filter of leaves stretching over Jefferson's head. Everything was still and quiet among the countless trees. Wincing, he pulled himself to his feet.

Jefferson was standing alone in the forest, nowhere near his house. The hat was gone.

Groaning again, he ran both hands through his hair, trying to make sense of the past few hours. Figuring out how he'd gotten into the forest was undermined by his anger at himself for having lost control so completely. He squinted up at the sky and started walking forward, trying to sort out his thoughts.

Suddenly he noticed that he was walking along a dirt trail. Trees stretched as far as he could see on both sides. As he looked up ahead, Jefferson stopped short. Twenty feet in front of him stood an old, grey well on a raised cement platform.

Letting out a shaky breath, Jefferson stepped closer, knowing exactly where he was. He stretched out a hand and touched the cold stone, running his fingers around the rim, then onto the carved "Wishing Well" sign. According to legend, this well was fed by an underground lake with water that had the power to return what was lost. But he wondered if it was more than a legend – if, somehow, the waters of Nostos had come over with the Curse. Another one of Storybrooke's many secrets.

He smiled slightly. Perhaps he had been right about Emma. Her hat had worked. At least, it had held just enough magic in it to connect to – and transport him to – one of the only spots that still held a remnant of magic from his own world. With so little magic left, what remained worked by funny rules.

With trembling hands, Jefferson slowly let down the bucket and pulled it back up. He had only been to this well once before, on the night the Curse brought him here. Much good it had done him then. Still . . .

Lifting the rough wooden bucket to his lips, he drank deeply. The water could return what was lost. He wasn't giving up yet.

After all, magic didn't always make sense.

…

A/N – Hey again everyone! I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's been reading and reviewing this story! Getting your feedback means so much to me, and I seriously couldn't ask for better readers! Thanks also for being patient with me in getting these chapters up. My life has been really busy lately, and it's about to get busier with starting a new year at college. So I might not be able to get new chapters up quite as regularly. But Jefferson's not giving up, and neither am I! ;) I'll post whenever I can. And to all my fellow August fans – you're going to want to stick around! Thanks again everyone, and keep telling me what you think!