Hope everyone had a Merry Christmas. Thanks for your well-wishes, and I hope you'll keep them up. My sister is still in the hospital, unfortunately, and there's no expected date of discharge. She basically has no immune system right now and is in quarantine (we had to wear masks when we went to visit her over the holidays). And they really don't know what's wrong, either. It's tough. But on that note, I apologize for the update delay. Here's the new chapter at last. :)
Chapter 10: Reap the Whirlwind
The ship floated in a dark island of mist. There were soft splashes as waves cuffed the sides, and lanterns cast an eerie halo of diffused light about twenty feet into the fog. Beyond that, it was completely black, and more than a little spooky, as if great jaws truly were about to open up and swallow them. Not that Killian Jones held with such rubbish, which was unusual among his kind. Most pirates, fearsome bloodthirsty villains in the ordinary course of things, who'd raid, pillage, plunder, and otherwise swash until they buckled, could be turned into a bunch of knees-knocking, pants-pissing little girls if they glimpsed anything that could be remotely constituted as superstitious. If folk were smart, they'd quit trying to fend pirates off with swords, and just hold up an arseload of black cats. But Killian had seen more than enough over three hundred years of life to know what could really hurt a man. He preferred to worry about what could hurt him back.
Thus, he was exceedingly annoyed with himself for his current nervous state. What was waiting out there in the night, and wanted to kill him, was real enough, so he didn't need to get his bloomers in a bunch about imaginary monsters. Not that he didn't suspect the Dark One more than capable of it, but as it had now been some hours since his uninvited guests had departed the Jolly Roger and good riddance to them, Rumplestiltskin had had plenty of time to summon the beastie back up from the deep, send it after him, and crunch his ship into so much matchwood. Indeed, it was in expectation of this possibility that Killian had anchored not in the harbor, but in a sheltered stretch of cape just out of sight of Storybrooke's main drag. This way, it would be easy for him to jump overboard and make a clean escape if any ominous chomping noises started up from below.
Yet as afternoon faded to evening, and now to full night, it had been so silent and tranquil that he had begun to suspect Cora was yanking his chain. That there had never been any beast in the water at all, and she was playing a trick on his mind. She was gone right now, of course. The witch seemed to pop in and out of existence as she pleased, another sort of trick, to let you think that she was never near but know that she was never far. And what better way to prevent him from following her than to pretend some sort of threat to his beloved Roger, which would keep him – as indeed he was currently doing – pacing the deck with his hand on his sword, as if he truly thought he was going to fight off a sea monster in such fashion? He'd had a few messy tangles with their sort before. He knew not to underestimate them. But there wasn't even one.
Killian stopped in his tracks. "Right," he said aloud. "If there are any unpleasant beasties lurking under here, they're Cora's doing, not the crocodile's." Unless it actually was a giant crocodile, but he pushed that particular horrible thought away. "So if the lot of you don't mind, I'm going to bed."
He whirled around on his heel, making a dramatic exit for the benefit of nobody in particular, and sauntered into his cabin. It still looked somewhat beleaguered from the confrontation it had hosted earlier in the day, with scorch marks everywhere, and Killian scowled. He hadn't come to this world to do any redecorating, but this was a bloody travesty. The witch clearly thought she had the right to wreck his property as she pleased, and that was just not at all –
Killian pulled aside the curtains of his bed, and stopped.
There had been a woman in here, and recently. And not the woman he wanted in it, either. He would have remembered that, and besides, she'd have been naked, which this one hadn't; he knew what bare female skin smelled like on his sheets, even if it was a long damned time since it had been there. Milah was the last one he made love to in here. The women he'd had after that were up against alley walls, in fleabag brothels, in the back rooms of even more tragic taverns. He never took whores onto his ship; they were worse thieves than pirates, would be stuffing coins and jewels down their bodice the instant he turned his back. This bed, here, now. . . it was his place, his own, had been for centuries.
And someone else had been in it.
Killian bared his teeth. Aye, then. This caused something that the Dark One had said earlier to make sudden sense. That his latest wench – Belle – had been rescued from captivity in the captain's own bed. As if Killian was the one who'd kidnapped her, presumably for some nefarious purpose involving fucking. So that was why he'd discovered her and the Swan girl in here. But not because he'd brought them here.
Because Cora had.
All of a sudden, without any further preliminary, Killian spun around and smashed the lantern with his hook, sending a trail of flaming oil across the floor. He kicked it, something that took a certain skill to avoid setting his boot afire, and slammed his hand into the table so hard that it rocked. He'd come out here in the first place to prove a point to Emma; saving her from whatever nasty thing Cora intended was just a natural consequences, he reminded himself. But finding that it had only been part of a worse plot, that bloody Belle had been the one in his bed, that all of this, that Emma had almost. . . he'd called her Milah and she'd jumped into a possibly monster-infested ocean rather than continue to subject herself to his company. Because quite honestly, that looked like the wiser option after Cora. . . after Cora had. . .
Killian stamped out the fire before it could do something furtherly unfortunate to his cabin, then abandoned any thought of going to bed – he couldn't sleep in it now with the stink of the Dark One's woman all over it, especially not after what had happened earlier. Milah, it's all right. I have you now. Why had he said that, damn him? Was he really so undone by just his first confrontation with Rumplestiltskin that he'd forget the three hundred years of why he'd been looking for him? Milah was dead. Dead. Did he have to pretend he'd forgotten that to justify kissing anyone, for rescuing Emma, for seeing those ropes around her and –
Killian smashed his hook into the wood of the table this time, leaving a long scar down the surface. Then, following an instinct, he crossed the room and opened his trunk.
It was there. Right on top. Before she had departed, Cora had told him that she'd borrowed a gun from the sheriff's station, and she was leaving it with him, as she didn't like such crude and clumsy weapons. If she'd stolen it from Emma's office after ransacking it. . . it must be Emma's gun to start with, and Cora was hoping he'd do something imprudent with it which would thus implicate the princess in the crime. Something like going ashore and shooting David Nolan, Prince sheep-fucking Charming, for the pig's breakfast he'd made of everything earlier.
Except no one would ever believe that dear Emma harmed her own father. Hook's lips drew further back over his teeth. It would always be me.
He picked up the gun and checked it over. It was slightly more complicated than the flintlock pistols he was accustomed to, which were unreliable in both aim and discharge – he'd known more than one man who'd shot his own family jewels off after sticking a flintlock through his belt – but it didn't take him long to work it out. When he thumbed the magazine open, he also saw that it was loaded and ready for bear, and he clicked its catch off and raised it with one smooth motion. Eyes fixed on his dark image in the mirror at the end of the cabin, he cocked it, pointed it, and shot his own reflection into crashing, splintered shards.
Killian could hear his breathing harsh and lurching in his ears. There's for your fucking looking glasses, Cora. He didn't even know what he was going to do, only that the anger was consuming him, gnawing at his vitals like an enraged beaver, and there was no way he was going to sleep tonight. Or do anything else but hunt.
He was out of the cabin and halfway to the railing before it occurred to him that perhaps this was also what the witch had wanted, get him off the ship so the monster could come after it. . . but he was already more than halfway mad, thinking like this would end with him throwing himself into the drink just to make the voices shut up. He wanted to, but not as badly as he wanted revenge. And to get rid of the iron shackles that had closed around his heart, and not from Cora's hand.
Killian Jones jumped up, and took a long walk off a short plank.
(8888888)
He was wading ashore only a few minutes later, cold water sloshing in his boots and running down his cheeks like tears, but he couldn't remember the last time he had cried. He'd taken care not to get the gun wet, holding it in his hand, so his swimming had been as awkward as an ugly duckling with a broken wing. The ugly duckling did grow up to be a swan, though.
Fucking hell, he was not thinking about this now. He shook himself like a dog and shivered, then clambered up onto the rocky coast. Glancing behind him to the dark sea, lit luminously by the full moon, he of course saw nothing – it was as black as the inside of Cora's heart, wherever it was. Not in her chest, as he'd found out in Wonderland, and suddenly it made him curious. She wouldn't keep it inside her, and she wouldn't keep it where someone with a grudge against the Queen of Hearts could find it and crush it. . . so it wasn't here nor there. Could it be where she'd grown up, somewhere important? But where was that? Who was she?
Something else to ponder later. At the moment, he had to decide where he was going. The choices were bountiful. He could hunt down the crocodile's lair directly – a pawnshop, run under the Dark One's assumed name of Gold. He could go back to Emma's apartment and see if Smee was still tied up there (although he doubted it, the slippery bastard would have wriggled out by now). He could locate the Charming family abode, whereupon to commit some act of depravity upon the prince that may or may not involve a literal left hook into his pretty-boy face. He could return to Granny's bed and breakfast and commit the same upon Neal Cassady, although that was certainly not a pretty-boy face and would only be improved by the hook.
Or he could find Emma.
And do what, you sodding idiot? Enough. Enough. He'd already run after her far too much. Already saved her life twice today alone, at significant risk to his own. He wanted to blame her for distracting her from his revenge, was sick and bloody tired of the way his nerves were rubbed raw around her, not wanting to let her out of his sight, thinking all sorts of strange things about her, imagining what would have happened if it was her in his bed, and not Belle. If it was her skin that his sheets would smell of, the way her blonde curls would fan over the pillows and –
Killian was in danger of either disgusting himself thoroughly, or finding something out about himself that he was not at all ready to face. Whichever it was, he was interrupted by the sound of a large splash from the black ocean, the sight of a wake rippling along palely in the moonlight, too fast and too deliberate to be natural. In fact, to be anything but a –
"Well, slap my arse and paint me purple," Killian murmured. "The beastie is real after all." He couldn't tell if it was coming for him, but the odds were good and getting better every second. Which meant that it was in his interests to get out of the water, and stay out.
The crocodile.
He turned his back as if he had not a care in the world, and started to walk.
(8888888)
There wasn't a whole hell of a lot happening in downtown Storybrooke by the time Killian reached it. The storefronts were dark, the doors locked, and if he had been expecting or hoping to run into anyone making another boozy exit from an ill-judged drinking episode, he was disappointed. At least nobody seemed to notice that the infamous Captain Hook was standing right there on their street, but that was mildly insulting as well, as Killian prided himself on drawing a crowd. And not to mention, he was sorely spoiling for a fight. Just let someone try to kick up a fuss – or better yet, confront him themselves. With pistol, sword, and hook, he'd be a match for three or four at least. And then, if he'd behaved so badly, they'd have no choice but to summon the sheriff. And then –
Stuff it, Jones. You're daft, you're bloody daft. Indeed, Killian had not felt this out of control for a long time, and it scared him. You didn't survive this long, against the enemies he was up against, by making stupid mistakes and acting in the heat of the moment. To make a point (damned if he knew what) he turned sharply and started down the street, unable to stop himself from stealing a glance over his shoulder when something rustled in the trees. He didn't think that crocodiles were able to move very quickly on land, but that assumed that whatever was after him was actually a crocodile, and that it had stayed in that form.
Up ahead, he could see the spire of the town library, and quickened his pace, eyeing it evilly enough that if he'd caught sight of himself in a mirror, he should have turned to stone. No, I shot the looking glass. But something or someone was definitely following him. And if so –
Running away had never been his style. He burned to a halt, drew the pistol from his belt, and whirled around, ready to blow sky-high anything that dared to so much as twitch. Look how well he was doing in this godforsaken world – he'd learned its tricks, he was brandishing one of its weapons. And someone was definitely there, two of them, emerging out of the shadows beneath the library, and all he had to do was –
A light went on above him, from the black iron pole, silhouetting him in yellow glow. He snarled, pulled the trigger, and heard only a pathetic, empty click.
Two men stepped into the street directly in front of him.
"There you go," said Neal Cassady, pointing. "That's him."
"You have been very helpful, dearie," a familiar voice replied. "Now run along. It's going to get messy. You won't want to see."
Obediently, Cassady turned and skedaddled.
The Dark One raised his cane with a ghastly grin.
Killian dropped the useless gun, drew his sword, and lunged.
(8888888)
Emma put one foot down and tested her weight cautiously before she added the other. The steps in this old house were creaky bastards, and the last thing she needed was to wake up her entire family before she got out the door. She felt guilty that she had to sneak out like this, but the alternative was worse. She'd toyed with the idea of leaving a note, just in case things went really badly, but ultimately decided against it. If she didn't do this, they would all have far bigger fish to fry. Possibly literally, she thought, remembering the warnings of monsters in the ocean.
She reached the bottom of the stairs without any incidents, and stole across the dark foyer, pulling up the zipper of her leather jacket and crunching down a beanie over her blonde curls. Then she stealthily opened the cabinet, and reached inside.
She felt awful about this part (even more than the rest). Really, she did. She wasn't planning to leave her parents without a way to defend themselves or anything like that. But having seen how handy Mary Margaret was with both a blade and a bow and arrow, she somehow doubted they were going to be sitting around and wringing their hands. And her first magical battle in this world, against the dragon in the library basement, had happened with this weapon in hand. She wasn't going up against something that might be her last without it.
Carefully, Emma eased her father's sword out of the cupboard, then buckled it around her waist. Maybe it's not magic I need, as much as trust. But if so, shouldn't she have trusted herself to walk up to David, tell him what she was doing, and ask to borrow this, instead of filching it from the cabinet at midnight like a thief? But I am a thief.
She pressed her lips together. No, she couldn't wake him up and inform him that she was taking his sword and heading out into the night to battle a horde of unknown enemies while not knowing what would happen once she went across the boundary. Trust couldn't get in the way of the right action. She'd told herself that back on the beanstalk as well.
No. I will get Captain Hook out of my head right now. She should have had something more colorful to call him, but she was having trouble coming up with quite as good an insult now, after he'd saved her life. Another encounter with him was certain to provide one, however. Not that she wanted it. Really. She didn't.
Too bad her gun was still missing. God knew what Cora had done with it after stealing it from the sheriff's office, and even as much as she liked the weight of the sword around her waist, Emma fervently hoped that she wasn't bringing the proverbial knife to a gun fight. Then again, she'd seen just how much use her gun had been against the dragon and the ogre – in a word, zero – and this sword had come from that other world, Fairytale Land. If magic was going to be involved, as it almost undoubtedly was, this was her best bet.
Everything was ready. Emma clenched her shaking fists to steady them, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. If she was the religious type, now would have been the time to pray, but she wasn't. Still, it didn't feel right to totally blow it off. "Okay, God," she muttered. "Not gonna ask for things to go well, since I know they won't. Just don't let me screw it up too badly, and don't let my parents lose their shit and do something dumb. And please keep Henry out of danger. Yeah. Okay. Amen, or whatever."
Considerations for her soul concluded, Emma tiptoed across the hall and reached the front door, holding her breath. She undid the deadbolt, twisted the latch, and opened it, then stepped out.
And almost ran directly into the dark figure standing on the front porch.
The shock gurgled up her throat, desperate to escape as a scream, but she choked it back with a terrible effort. She clawed at the sword, wondering madly which of them it was, but then hands emerged and clutched back at her, a voice hissing in her ear. "Please! Please don't! I'm sorry! I didn't know anywhere else to go!"
Sense belatedly trickled back into Emma's numb brain. "Belle?"
"I'm sorry," the young woman said again. Tear tracks were visible on her cheeks, and she was carrying a bag that appeared to contain all her worldly goods. "I went to your apartment, but nobody was there. So I was hoping to come over here. . . Ruby's on wolf time, I couldn't go to her. I won't stay long, I promise. Just one night. If they – if your parents – "
"Belle." Emma gripped her by the shoulders. "What are you doing here?"
Belle bit her lip. "I left Mr. Gold," she blurted out at last. "He was. . . tonight, there was no reasoning with him, he was monstrous. He boasted that he was going over to Granny's to get something to make a tracking spell, for – for him. Hook. He's going to hunt him down and take him to the boundary, he's ready to test a new spell for getting across it, and – "
"And he's going to use Hook as a guinea pig," Emma finished. "After I stopped him and ordered him to get off the ship today, to prevent him from going through that very boundary. He knows there's something up with it, and he's going to break it."
Belle looked miserable. "I'm sorry. I don't know what it is."
"No, that's all right. You've been. . . very helpful. How about you just. . . go in and up to my room? Keep the door closed, and your head under the covers. . . and they'll just maybe. . . not notice." Emma turned Belle back toward the house. "Be careful. The stairs creak."
"Wait – you're not going after them?"
"What did you expect me to do?" Emma jumped off the porch, and broke into a run across the wet grass, stuffing the key into the driver's side door of David's truck and wrenching it open. "And one other thing. Please don't tell my parents."
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Killian Jones had tasted his own blood before, but never in quite as humiliating circumstances as these. The Dark One had caught his blow as easily as if swatting aside a gnat, twisting his cane in order to send Killian's sword cartwheeling out of his hand, and then spun said cane around like a quarterstaff to block the second incoming blow from his hook. Rumplestiltskin had not been able to rip it out of its brace, but he'd decided not to waste time with such trifles. Instead he pulled the cane back, and smashed Killian across the face.
While Killian was still trying to feel with his tongue to see if any teeth had been knocked loose, the crocodile clicked his fingers. Magical black lashes twisted up Killian's arms, and when he tried to take a step, they slithered around his legs as well. He wavered on the spot, then crashed headlong, unable to break his fall.
That had landed Killian, trussed and tied like a hog for slaughter, in his current position in the back bench of the Dark One's sleek black automobile. He'd been gnawing on his bonds, trying energetically to free himself, until at a further languid gesture from Rumplestiltskin, they almost crawled down his throat. He spat them out, twisted his head around and snarled, "Fucking Neal Cassady? Of all people? You must be getting bloody desperate."
He saw the Dark One smile unpleasantly in the mirror. "It was a fortunate coincidence. It didn't take much work to find out that you'd rented a room at Granny's. When I came by to collect items for a tracking spell – it was very careless of you to leave those clothes there, by the way – our shared friend Mr. Cassady was present as well, and very eager to assist me in my search. He was happy to tell me that you'd lied to him, manipulated him, and threatened him at swordpoint, and validated when I told him that you did that to everyone. Particularly to hear that your worst designs were upon Miss Swan."
Killian tried to think of words bad enough to respond to this, but even his capacious linguistic abilities were falling short. "Oh," he growled. "Aye, of course. Because I was the one to tie her to the mast and try to kill her."
"She broke a deal. It was a warning." Rumplestiltskin shrugged. "I certainly wasn't the one to slash at her with a sword and force myself upon her while mumbling an old lover's name. I'm sure she found that terribly romantic."
Killian redoubled his struggles. "Untie me, you poxy whoreson, and let's see who – "
"Temper, temper, Captain." The crocodile steered around a curve in the dark road, and a green sign appeared in its front lamps. Now leaving Storybrooke. "Almost."
With that, Rumplestiltskin stopped the automobile, set the brake, and climbed out, then came around the side to seize Killian by the hair and drag him out, still tied hand and foot, onto the pavement. "As for your intentions towards Miss Swan, even a blind Cyclops would be in no doubt. But as it happens, you're going to help us both."
"I wouldn't count on it."
The Dark One casually removed Emma's pistol from his pocket, the same one Killian had tried to shoot him with, and cocked it with a click. "Wouldn't you?"
"Oh, please. Like you're really going to shoot me." Killian wriggled around, trying to get his hook in position to saw at the black cords around his wrists. Blood was still running into his mouth from the ragged gash along his temple, where the heavy bronze tip of Rumplestiltskin's cane had caught him. "You're very brave, to only dare approach me when I'm tied up. You want a contest, then? Take these ribbons off."
"I am not interested either in your bluster or your fighting prowess, dearie." Rumplestiltskin flicked his fingers, and the cords tightened and jerked around Killian's legs, forcing him to his feet like a badly strung puppet. "Here's what we're going to do. Childishly simple. When I say so, you're going to walk to that sign there, and step over the edge."
"You realize I'm a stupid bloody choice for this demented little experiment, don't you? I was never affected by your curse in the first place, so however I react is going to tell you nothing about how anyone else – "
"I thought you'd say that." Rumplestiltskin indicated the dark, writhing cables knitting up most of Killian's available limbs. "That there is a remnant of the magic I used to create the curse in the first place, so it will admirably simulate the effects on you. Dearie. So if you black out, or lose your memory, or incinerate into a small pile of ashes, I'll know what to refine. You can take comfort in that I feel the formula is mostly complete."
"And then what? You kill me?"
The Dark One's smile this time was, in fact, a crocodile's. "More or less."
"You're out of your bloody mind, and I wouldn't piss on you to put you out if you were on fire, much less this. Go on, then. Shoot me. But Cora placed an enchantment on me, so that if anyone tries to kill me. . . well. . ." It was an utter bluff, but Killian was running out of ideas.
"That's a bluff."
Fuck.
Killian could hear the boundary somehow, crackling behind him. Hear the night wind blowing harder and harder, rising to an eerie, whining pitch that raised the hair on the back of his neck. The trees were bending almost in half, and his leather coat was flapping like a gunshot against his legs; it might be a real gunshot in a second. And then, something else.
"Let him go, Gold." The voice came out of the darkness just behind the automobile, hard and flat and utterly resolute. "I'm not going to ask twice."
A faint expression, unreadable, passed over the Dark One's face. Then he turned with one of solicitous, false concern. "Miss Swan. Playing with Daddy's sword again? That's quite dangerous."
"Yes, you son of a bitch. Especially since you tricked me last time, stole the true love elixir, and would have killed my son to fulfill your own little plots." Of all the impossible things, it was the sheriff herself, advancing out of the night with both hands clutched tightly around the hilt of her father's blade. She had never, to Killian's eyes, looked lovelier.
"Miss Swan," said Gold – it was Gold this time. "You are doing what here?"
"Aside from the fact that I told you earlier today to think long and hard about what you were going to do next? I hate to break it to you, but this was a really dumb decision." Emma jerked the tip of the sword at Killian. "Even dumber than some of his, and that's saying a lot. And as to how I knew where to find you, it happens that Belle told me. When she turned up on our doorstep."
That did throw Gold. "Wha – Belle?"
"Yes!" Emma was having to scream over the howling wind. "She wasn't too pleased with what you were up to! So you better turn off this storm you're conjuring up, and let me do the thing you ensured that I was born for! Now!"
"Miss Swan – it's not my storm – "
Emma started to shout something back at him, but Killian didn't hear it. All he heard now was the strange moan, see the bare trees peeled back, see the automobile rocking on its wheels, see dust rising in a vortex, and see the dark clouds reaching, grasping, cycling down toward the ground and all three of them. And just then, suddenly, he understood.
A tornado.
