"Anyone ever called you a strange bird, Swan?"

Emma craned her neck to look at Graham, her blond ponytail swirling behind her. She'd just been ready to put the cask back over her ears, her grip tight and ready around the handgun she'd freshly emptied and reloaded. Colt 45. The small object had felt surprisingly heavy in her hand, blacker than anything Emma could remember seeing. The safety glasses she'd been given at the entrance were a strangely pink tinge. All the while that Emma had been shooting, trying to aim for the standard man-shaped target at the other end of the field, there had been that French song playing in loops in her head, La vie en rose.

"What?" She shot a startled glance at Graham. The sheriff stared back, looking very much serious. Yet again, Graham never knew how to smile so as to hint he was making a joke – one of the things for which kids at school targeted him for cruel derision. In truth, right now, it was probably more appropriate for Emma to think of him as her friend, rather than the sheriff – he wasn't on duty after all – but she couldn't bring herself to.

"A strange bird," he repeated, his brown eyes oddly solemn.

Though she didn't recall anyone actually calling her that, Emma's bare arms inexplicably covered with gooseflesh. It had been a hot day, and learning to take the recoil with every bullet she fired had seemed to make it that much hotter. A strange bird. It made her think of Killian Jones, for some reason. It sounded like something he might have said.

"Why would you ask me that?" She wondered, startled not only at the question but that he was asking for personal information at all – true, she had asked him to come here, as a favor, because she didn't see who else might take her shooting range and, though she could have gone alone, Graham felt like an appropriate teacher.

He shrugged his shoulders. Wearing a plain black tee-shirt instead of his police uniform, Graham looked disturbingly like he had in high school.

"I don't know. I guess I've never met anyone who developed a hobby for shooting targets just a few days before their wedding. It's scheduled on Saturday, right?"

Emma nodded, taming her discomfort. Graham hadn't been invited. She'd meant to, although she and Neal always wanted a small wedding and it wasn't as if either of them was close to Graham in high school. But in the end, Neal had concluded with a shrug that maybe they could do without "every weird kid that had a crush on you in tenth grade".

"Well, I mean," Emma tried to think of a safe answer. "I've been thinking of getting a gun for a long while."

"You have?"

"Yeah. I suppose we've all been proven that even Storybrooke isn't such a safe place." She added, as it was hopeless to persuade him that it had nothing to do with Killian.

"It's safer for some than others," Graham remarked. Emma wondered exactly what he meant by that. "Anyway. Let's go again. It's best you know how to handle these before you get one of your own. Accidents happen, you know. More often than you'd think."

…

It had been a strange moment, and Emma couldn't be sure whether it was because Graham was there or because she was shooting things. By the end, she was at a loss to determine how to feel about that afternoon, or how Graham had felt about it. She hadn't seen so much of the sheriff since he had teamed up with her in biology, in their first year of high school.

Emma had finished class early that day, and even after an hour and a half learning the basics about handling a gun, it was still only four thirty p.m. Neal wouldn't be home before six. Just then, she wondered what she'd say if he asked her what she'd been up to today. No more lies, she'd sworn, but maybe he'd be alarmed – Emma hadn't said anything about wanting to get a gun precisely for that reason. It was best to wait after the wedding, give him time to get used to the idea.

But part of her couldn't help but think, from the darkest depths of her: A gun won't make a difference after the wedding. It'll be too late, by then. Much too late.

Emma's telephone rang just as she was getting inside her car. Please, don't let it be Neal, she thought, as if just talking to her on the phone, he might see where her car was parked, in front of the store that praised itself on providing its customers The Finest Guns in the Land! If he asked her, later that evening, if she'd done anything special, she'd tell him – would not lie to him again – but omitting the truth wasn't really the same as lying. She hoped.

Instead, the name Mary Margaret lit up on the caller ID. Though she never called her anything but mom when she was with her, her name sometimes popped out when she wasn't thinking, and on her cell phone, she'd never been anything else than Mary Margaret.

The two women traditionally called each other every Monday evening. Emma couldn't remember how or exactly when this had started. She only knew that those easy conversations with her adoptive mother were the quietest moment – if not the high – of her week.

"Hey," Emma picked up casually, a little relieved. "I didn't expect you until a few hours. Is it okay if I call you back? I'm just about to drive home."

Something about the silence that followed stiffened the down on Emma's arms. It was odd, brutal, unexplainable.

"However much I hate to be rude, sweetheart," came the reply, the haunting voice, "especially to you, I rather think we should talk right now."

The breath in Emma's throat felt like something solid, like ice. "Killian."

"Before you get the chance to call me an evil bastard – and I'm sure you'd love to – your mother is safe and sound. Honest to God," he chuckled at the mention, his laughter honey and hell. "I didn't touch a hair on her lovely head. I do hope you'll take this as a compliment, Emma – you've suspended my interest in killing women."

She wanted to talk, even say simple words, but it was like having her mouth full of rocks.

"I was actually very surprised," he resumed, "seeing your mother. Don't you marvel at how utterly unlike you she is? There's no darkness in her, honey, no darkness at all. You can tell when you meet someone whose heart is not the least bit tainted. How rare." That laughter again, wicked, liquid night, ringing with the charms of boundless passion and insanity. "And how boring."

Emma's voice seemed to unjam. "If you've hurt her –"

"What, you'll kill me? Interesting. Spare yourself the trouble of devising some creative threat. You can't beat me at this game, Emma," he chided, as if she were an overly-ambitious pupil. "Not yet. No, darling, your mother's quite unharmed. I stole that cell phone right out of her purse, there was no violence – I don't think she even felt me. That's rather merciful of me, don't you think? Most of them do. Feel me."

In her mind, she could see him smiling, as he did when he sat opposite her, through the glass, in Storybrooke Penitentiary.

"Don't I deserve a thank you for that, Emma? I should think I do."

The wait between them could have lasted ten seconds, an hour. Inside Emma's car, the heat was stifling, her breathing ragged with giddiness.

"Thank you," the words came out at last.

Her surrender wasn't followed by cruel laughter or other signs of amusement. Maybe he was disappointed in her for yielding – or ashamed of himself for making her.

"Don't worry," he said, as if he hadn't heard her. "I'm done teasing you, I promise. In fact, I didn't call to torment you at all – how unforgiveable of me, just a few days before your wedding."

Anxiety prickled down Emma's stomach. "Then why did you call?" She meant to sound strong. Killian appreciated strength, dignity even in the face of defeat. Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't eventually show up at her house and kill her. Psychopaths aren't known for being predictable. Come to think of it – she couldn't gather one reason why he hadn't done it.

"Well," he answered, "I'll tell you, Goldilocks, but I must admit I'm a little nervous. You must promise you'll be indulgent. This is new for me. And you're going to think it's unreasonable – maybe even crazy."

"I'd expect no less from you."

"That's the spirit!" Chuckling again. He sounded wild and mad and human. "Emma Swan, you're music to my ears."

"You might get on with it."

"Yes, I wouldn't waste your time." He sighed. "Here we go then. Run away with me."

Emma's hold tightened around the phone. None of the things around her – rolling cars, a few passersby, flies buzzing in the summer air – not any of it seemed to be real. The world crumbled under Emma's feet in an awe-inspiring silence. Reality wouldn't have been further from her reach if hell had suddenly opened its mouth and eaten her.

"Oh, honey," he said, "you really mean to make it hard for me?"

"Excuse me?"

"I will not. And I won't repeat myself more than once. Isn't it customary for a man to give the woman he's courting a gift of sorts? Well, there it is. I haven't harmed your mother. I won't harm your fiancé or anyone else you love. My gift to you, Emma. As to my offer, you've already heard it."

"You're insane."

"Yes," he didn't try to argue. "Don't marry him, Emma. He isn't for you. Most importantly, you aren't for him. So, come with me. Wait!" He added, the word stabbing silence. "Before you say no, you must hear me out. You must hear why you should go away with me."

"Why on earth would I?"

"Because you'll smother, dear, if you don't. Trust me, my black-hearted beauty. That boy will kill you as sure as I ever killed anything. You may think it's what you want, a peaceful marriage, an ordinary life in Storybrooke, and it might have even worked out for you, if you hadn't wanted to see the limits of that normal world, if you hadn't decided to know for sure."

"I don't understand you."

"Don't take me for a fool," the coldness in his voice cut through her defenses. "Of course you do. And let me tell you something else, Goldilocks. You only live once."

"If you think for a second –"

"No, you haven't let me finish. If you marry him, you'll smother. Isn't it better to throw yourself in those dark waters you've been craving to taste, to run the risk of drowning? If you had wanted ordinary, Emma, you would not have gone back to see me at that prison. You know that. If you hadn't awoken something in me, if I hadn't awoken something in you, you would have called the police weeks ago, you wouldn't have let me play games with you, and you wouldn't be trembling right now."

"Stop talking."

"Ah." His voice brightened up to a shade of musical madness. "So you do hear me. But that's only the beginning, sweetheart, I've only told you what he's got to offer. Me, Emma – I'll give you greatness. I'll go to extremes that'll shake what you think of the world. I'll make you see things, do things, your fiancé couldn't dream up in his darkest days."

"Stop."

"Come with me and we'll live together as you've never lived. I'll give you goodness and rapture and heaven and sin."

"You're a murderer."

His laughter echoed at the other end of the line. "Would you have taken even a scholar interest in me, darling, if you thought I was only a murderer? I've killed people. I've looked for passion in this world wherever I thought I might find it. Now, there's no use looking, because everywhere I go, there's only your face, your voice. I know you feel it, too – let's not call it love, Emma. Too many people have, and if they felt what you and I feel, they'd cry like uncomprehending children."

He didn't give her a chance to reply. Maybe he did, but shock was so heavy on Emma's mind, she never thought to take it.

"It's been hard, hasn't it, trying to live in their world, now that you've seen mine? Chasing me from your thoughts, you've been trying, I'm sure, but it's been hell, hasn't it? Stop fighting, Emma. Let me in. Let me take you away, and we'll do what you want. That'll vary my days. You've called me mad, but don't you hear the sense in what I'm saying? Don't you want to stop trying to find your place in a world that isn't meant for you? Careful, darling. Careful. If you won't listen to reason, I'll use violence."

His threat shook her from her state of bewitchment.

"No."

She heard the word before she was aware she'd say it. He must have heard it, too. The silence at the other end of the line was wild, burning.

"That's my answer to you," she swallowed, her throat dry, her head screaming. "No."

A few minutes went by. Emma sat motionless, her phone clung to her cheek. She was almost certain he'd hung up by the time he finally spoke – five simple words.

"Then God help us both."

…

AN: I've been wanting to write that conversation between Hook and Emma for SUCH a long time. I can't wait to hear what you thought about it. Please leave a comment to let me know your thoughts! I'll see you soon with another update.