Cheer for Your Sins

by ChinkinArmour11

A fallen prince, a broken sheriff, and a trapped queen embark on a journey to atone for the wrongs they've committed? Will they be successful or will their efforts be for naught? Is all that's transpired their own doing or is there a much darker force at play stirring the pot? Dark!Henry. AU. Beginning of the End.

21. Chapter 21

"Remember when the air had this dreariness to it with the sky a melancholic grey, and the idlest of clouds sweeping by as if the world was on the verge of mourning? No? Oh, come on! You have to remember the… the weather… ooh! Let me put it this way: recall you as a child just eager to play with your new, polished toy in the clement weather, when suddenly dark clouds rumbling start rolling in from nowhere. From such high hopes and expectations you only just had, now comes forth feelings of dejection and disappointment and utter resentment. Your dismal feelings from within are shown through your slumped posture and vacant stare through your window at the grey horizon of your boring resident street—casting a shadow of gloom as the pestering rain prevents your cherished playtime, your freedom. That… that is what today feels like! Yes, yes it's absolutely invigorating in some unlovely manner I cannot explain, but oh the wonders of today that can be wrought!

"Listen! Listen… do you hear it? Do you hear the whispers of the wind in the distance? Or the howling of the air from its bitterness? Or perchance the brevity of Gaea's breath against that whistling trash can? No? Ah, you don't know. Well then, close your eyes and count to ten, that is if you can; before then I expect you to have extract a sound so soothing and relaxing that your heart beats along to it as one. What? Still naught? Ay, do not worry my friend… I conjecture it isn't your time. Fear not, though…, at the most unexpected time you will feel at peace and one with the greatest enigma around us…, nature!"

---

~PART I~

---

When your feeling dark and stormy, let me sing a song for you…

If she keeps thinking this over then she can't run, and if she can't run then she won't breathe, hence fainting. So why the hell would she want to keep thinking this? You can't keep thinking this, that's the thing. Keep thinking this and you'll reveal something that shouldn't come to light. Keep heading in the direction of this then unfortunately the upside down will become the true reality. Keep following this then—

"Stop! Stop… stop." A detective hung up on a case inevitably leads up to something disarraying; however, an ignorant one is more prone to fault from every facet.

"Or…," her hands carefully turn the picture, "I could just tell him…. I can—" Ludi-fuckin'-crous, Swan! You can't just load that on him!

"No… no that won't work. But maybe I can tell—" No one!

"But he'll—" Never understand! You can't tell anyone. It's you or Henry.

"…Or it can be neither…. Our relationship can still be salvaged. I can still be his—" Emma's words jumble on her tongue as she scrutinizes on the faint writing on the back of the picture, "…mother." But that term lacks the intended endearment when she focuses on letters 'JB' scribbled in the bottom corner. A signature?

No more than minutes ago did Emma Swan stop her sporadic jog to catch the dim gleam that caught her eye, moreover the object later in her hand. The gloomy weather seemed to stimulate her mood, hence offering an excuse for both to 'mingle'. She lets the harsh air cool her skin while in return victimizes herself to the droll ambiance humming. Hardly a soul was outside, which made the jog all the more worth while, even to the point when she considered going on the path close to the woods. This then led her to the scenic route littered with barren trees barely protecting her from the seaside wind with the random scurrying of a squirrel.

'All seems to be fair,' one may say concerning the day thus far, but that's only regarding the tangible. The weather, squirrel, and likes didn't impend Emma's way on her jog, but rather her marathon thoughts. Thoughts too repetitive and jarring to keep singly replaying them on her phonographic mind. Each thought was scratched and tampered with enough to be deemed as a collector's item rather than the other way around. To go over them is to basically tire herself out, and this run is suppose to do the opposite. A heaving chest and burning rib-cage is a much better alternative than focusing on scratched thoughts.

Yet only if those scratched thoughts could be further mutilated into oblivion where nothing's recognizable, she had thought, would be everything. Though, a reality where all her problems are non-existent wasn't even her next go-to thought before that mentioned gleam caught her eye, discoursing her jog. Rather than the picture faced up, it was actually the back that initially took her attention with a message reading, 'Continue forth the investigation and this will become your reality,' reacted by not a gasp, nor a scream, but a very genuine baffled face and skipping thoughts. That tune she tried to ignore wanted to be heard, yet through a more expressive way, and here it is before her eyes as she turns the picture over.

Beautiful, marvelous, exquisite are words chosen for such fine art, but none, not even a word, captured the freight of feelings crashing into Emma's faint heart. Unfortunately, that same heart was fault to her skipping thoughts making nonsense, since it was failing to course blood to her brain. Although, blaming an organ for improperly functioning isn't par for Emma Swan. Technically it is herself, she is her own impediment, and because of so she is preventing herself air from this breathtaking picture of her. In fact, a faint was due—faint of heart—that she indeed almost acted upon, holding for dear life on the nearest tree.

Following her tree hugging was a racketing round of applaud from her heart for her sharp intake of breath. Elating her further was the swimming sensation in her head adding more to the dysphoria, giving her fifteen second stardom of damsel in distress—though, presumably and figuratively, she doesn't need a male hero, so really fifteen second stardom of coward in distress was her role. The cherry on top would have been for Rumpel to appear, like her Dark One days, and be a cameo.

Cowardice: They do it right 👌

A swaying stomach and looping thoughts urged that desire to vomit. If only she had eaten before the run could she then withstand buckling knees, a sheen of sweat only a Bounty towel could absorb, and a burning esophagus rivaling a smoker's cough. Forever she has had this feeling to expel something she knows is vile within her but has never had an excuse for it, and the idea of making herself wretch wasn't a solution she was willing to do.

So there she was for an enduring minute in a purgatory between hot-n-cold flashes and looping thoughts, looking emptily at her surroundings before glimpsing at the picture.

Now though, minutes after, Emma looks squarely at the picture calculating her next move—seemingly a game she didn't know was in session nor apart of.

And what could it be? In a predicament like this, what can possibly be her next move? She's stuck… in a fixed position… checkmate!

"This… this has to be a dream. No way is this happening." Her eyes roamed wanting to bear witness with anyone. "I can… I'm dreaming," she firmly nods. "I'm dreaming and this isn't real, so I'm just going to rip this apart and—" Voila! You're too chicken to rip the picture.

"No, no, no. I should burn it. Th-that's it. Burning… burning will solve this problem." In Hell. Your problems will vanish when you're in Hell. Burn baby, burn!

Emma fidgets with the lighter in her sickly pale hand and has trouble flicking it on. It must be out. You know that isn't it…

"Shush, it's… it's the wind." The air was perfectly still. "C'mon, light dammit!" Honestly this is good acting you're doing. Almost have me fooled—oh, wait…

"Gah! Fuck it! Just—" she chucks her flimsy Bic lighter yonder. "I can… okay. I can… okay. I can okay? That doesn't even make sense!" Another snide thought was making headway until she interrupts. "No, no. I can 'okay!' I can… I can OKAY. Okay? Okay." She avidly nods. "Just resume your jog Emma and okay-ness will envelop you, okay? Okay." Don't… don't keep saying it. "Okay… okay." She keeps nodding, working herself up to pick up where she left off.

And where did she left off? She left off on rotary thoughts. Looping thoughts that is, thoughts regarding—

"Okayity. I left off on the tepid feeling of okayity… or okayness. You're okay Emma, you're okay. Fine even." She chuckles at the word.

Mere seconds thinking over her newfound word's definition surely didn't prompt her on the vibration her phone buzzed, causing her to jump like a startled gazelle and notice the quivers of her intestines. Okayity has yet to encompass her it seems.

Checking her phone with great hesitance as if it was a bomb, Emma sees a text from Killian. Please no nude photos. Fingers crossed no nude photos.

Or worse! Another pic of her s— "'So what's for dinner?'"

Dinner? "Dinner. Whew!" An airy chuckle, very shaky at that, deflates her. She texts back saying anything he wants is fine, then hunches over catching her breath. She has to let the torrents of her stomach reduce before she can let the flow of okayity course through her. Just the thought of languid, fluid movement belonging to the word's meaning and feeling was enough to stabilize herself and mimic that thought into her jog. An okayity jog… a jokayity! Again this makes her chuckle from its nonsense.

Hey, you know what's a 'jokayity?' You. Her face scrunches from where this is heading. Yeah, because it has the prefix 'jok-' which is notably in the word 'joke,' that of which you are. And it's totally base since you just laughed from its nonsense, acknowledging that it is nonsense. Haha, nonsense things are funny, especially cos it's not a real word. Hahaha. That means you made it up, and you know why you did that? You know where this nonsense word's origin comes from? From you not acknowledging the picture of your suicide on it. Hahaha. So funny.

"…"

Ha-freakin'-ha. LOL even!

Her jog stops and eyes widen.

You're not okay. "I'm not okay." Far from. "Lord help me." Haha! That's funny—nope, we're on our own. But it's okay… the tepid feeling of okayity will envelop you. Just in the form of alcohol.

"And self-deprecation…." And self—hey! I'm gettin' the hang of this. It seems you have a rational mentality when despaired—active at that, too.

Drearily shuffling herself over to the nearest bench with such 'fluid' mobility, Emma sits and stares off in the distance. The weather must be mustering a storm, that or she's really seeing the world before her in the tone she feels.

So someone knows she killed herself.

Someone is watching her and her every move, not only putting her in danger, but her family as well.

A harmless investigation of her son's jumper and her hypothetical 'murderer' is actually an obstruction to someone else's agenda, given from the direct threat on the picture, 'Continue forth the investigation and this will become your reality.'

"But why wouldn't they want to be caught? What did they do?" Why do they feel the need to have leverage with a picture? Why did his jumper return?

"And for what purpose? Oh this isn't good." She tucks her head between her legs, but they're jutting too wildly. "What can…," she helplessly looks around and fails to rake her hair cos it's put away. "I-I can't, I can't—" her agitation is only sharpening and her movement becoming antsy. "I need to… I just—I just—I just—"

She needs to run, and if she keeps thinking this over she can't run, and if she can't run she won't breathe, hence fainting. So why the hell would she want to keep thinking this? You can't keep thinking this, that's the thing! Keep thinking this and you'll reveal something that shouldn't come to light! Keep heading in this direction then the upside down will become the true reality! Keep following this then—

"I need a drink! I-I need a run and I need a drink. Okay?! Just run, Swan. Okayity is in a beer at home. Run and… run and, uh, drink. Drink! Run and drink. Run to drink!" Her legs take their own volition as her mind continuously loops over:

Run to drink
Run to drink
Run to drink…

---

"Remember when those eyes were harsher than a desert storm as her tired irises dazzled brilliantly than a sea of sand? They were such full of wonder and spontaneity of a child that it was futile to look away from such doe eyes. But then… she hid them. She hid them and it split my heart she done that. Instead her eyes were subjected to the polarity of sunglasses, and although the frame accentuated her obvious beauty, it didn't hide the sadness that flashed quicker than the eye. And the fact that she hid them because she was ashamed of herself just anguished me. How dare she try and avert my gaze to the most capturing irises yet seen, in trade for the burgeoning pain humming within her.

Yet…, if she feels this so adamantly, wouldn't I be able to see it through our unobstructed gaze? If she feels it so adamantly, would it be ideal to let her be?

Or would it be self-centered of me to indulge my adoration of everything about her—dewy eyes and all…?"

⇐•⇒

Jay Bexton… "Don't…" was feeling— "just stop."

"Huh?"

"Nothing…," she huffs out, agitation entwining with smoke.

"You know," starts her brunet friend, "that those kill."

"Yeah, nothing like starting the day off with intense heartburn leading to cancer, am I right?"

"Heartburn?"

"Dunno how that stuff works Henry," she lies as she lights another cigarette, but has trouble with the lighter.

"Well I read somewhere that smoking usually leads to holes in your face." He comes up with a lighter of his own—"Don't ask"—and holds it steady for Jay while trying to peek over her sunglasses. They look nice on her, he thinks, and keenly defines her features.

"Yeah," she mutters, peeking at him as well. "What else you read?"

"Oh nothing worrying y'know… just other stuff saying mini guys controlling your life whenever, peeling skin, creeper jeepers jumping out your pack, and a usb mouth."

"Hmm, so lowkey stuff?"

"Mmm, and regrets, with tar in your lungs."

"Gotta love that black goop, Henry. It's what makes us, us." She takes a long drag.

"What, tar?"

"No, regrets," she simply says with a stream of smoke hitting Henry's face, him scrunching.

"Come on, you know Emma's gonna raise brows." He waffs the air, too.

"Then move," Jay challenges.

"No," he skeptically replies. What is with her?

"So…"

"So?"

"You grew."

"Uh…"

"You're taller."

"Um, no…? It's only been two weeks since we've actually hung together. Already you're forgetting me?" He chuckles with a smirk, ignoring the uneasiness rocking in him.

"Oh," is all she says as she ashes her cig before going in for another pull. "It only felt like a few days."

Ouch, constricts Henry's chest. "Yeah, guess time's past you, huh?"

"Hm?"

"Well, erm… cos y'know?" he hints. Compared to the weather, it's a sauna steaming in his jacket, especially the longer she awaits his added response. "You know, cos there's no time where you're from and… I was—I was also doing a time pun."

"Oh, clever." She turns away for a pull.

With her back turned, Henry deflates a bit and fans himself trying to feel the chill of the air. He's never felt so anxious around Jay before, so why now?

"So you and Ahijah, how's that faring?" lolls her head as she ambles, her ears ready for whatever.

"Um, uh…"

She stomps on the burnt out cigarette and brings out a new one. "I know that he's been unavailable for a bit."

How does she make smoking look cool? "Uh, fine I guess?" He leans on the bridge wall. "You?"

"I've been better," she mutters as she, too, leans on the stone and reviews the steady stream trickling below the Toll Bridge.

A distant agreement hums from Henry as he drops his head while also picking a spot to blankly stare at, too. It's weird how blasé his friend is acting suddenly. Not that she was always expectantly erratic, but between the two of them it was usually Jay that leveled the mood for the both. Thinking about it, she's been acting pretty off since the day they were detouring for their study session. Was it because he openly talked to her about his feelings about the warehouse incident? Or maybe because I denied her offer on running away together? Whatever the case, Henry wasn't all that eased thinking that his friend's malaise derived from him. If Jay's hurting then why won't she just confide? Are they not to that point in their relationship yet?

"Hey, so what's up with you? Real talk."

"…real talk…," the brunette mutters with a small smirk—He sounds cute. "Uhhh, I dunno." She loosely shrugs. "Truthfully speaking, I don't know."

Henry nods, feigning he understands. Albeit Jay is private about herself, it doesn't go unnoticed by him that something's amiss. "Well, I know you've been bumped in your classes, so that's good."

"Is it?" Her head tilts. "Rowdier teens and 'stick-my-dick-in-a-girl's-ick' fever? I dunno if that's defined 'good,'" she air-quotes, and huffs another puff wishing that the cigarette was 'huff-n-puff' stuff.

"Well erm—y'know," that 'ick-dick' part threw him off, along with any other time Jay's vulgarity shows, though that's what he admires about her most: lack of filter. Emma used to be like that…. "'Good' is very loosely defined by high-school standards."

"Then I guess it's 'good' I'm exposed to another aspect of English during English. Wanna know a new meaning to cheese-whizz, a.k.a. cheese-jizz?"

"Err, no thanks, the name explains itself. Yeesh, you sure we attend the same school?"

Another shrug. "Probably just exaggerating here, y'know, like a guy's pe—"

"Don't finish there, please! I'll do anything if you stop there!"

Jay chortles. "First, that's what they all said. Second, here."

"Huh?" Henry befuddles from the toxic offer. "You know I can't," he says with a concern face fading by the second.

"Come on," she eggs, "just a hit."

The other looks askance instantly. "Shouldn't you be saying that about the other stuff? The stuff that'll elate me and is total opposite from this, by like… everything?"

"Smoking me doesn't seem your forte, at least for now, it'll happen when it happens; and til then, this is the closest you're gonna get, so come on, take it." She flicks the ashes and prods the burning vice to him. "Come on, what harm? You did say anything." Her sunglasses hides the fixed, ineffable stare she's aiming at him.

"Um… addiction is harmful, yeah? I mean, it's nicotine." Currently Henry's body is amidst a state of uncertainty and perplexity slowly brimming with curiosity. He's never been peer pressured before. Should now be the time he relents?

"Just a taste, for real, you'll be fine." Again she prods, to which prods his mind. His eyes are a camera lens constantly shifting focus on the cigarette, focusing that he should take it, but perhaps shouldn't from it unfocused again. Eh…, does he take it or doesn't he? Repercussions could be dire if he does take it. But then again maybe— "You know what, it's cool." She repeals and resumes smoking it. "Another time maybe. Sorry if you weren't ready."

What?! No! Dammit, I'm too late! I mean, did I even want it? Will she view me different now cos I wussed out? Well no, tobacco's bad. But… she did offer just a taste, so it couldn't have been dire…. Ugh! "Oh no, it's alright. Thanks anyway." To which Jay responds with a sluggish grunt, Henry not able to discern if it was a scoff or truly an understanding response. Damn peer pressure! He should've done it!

"So, anything up with Violet? Swan-a-roo told me about you two."

Agh! What's up with her today? First aloofness, cigarettes, and now this? Or he's paranoid.

Or there's something wrong with both of us, something more with her though. "Nothing, we're done. Why, you jealous?"

To that a heavy chuckle and laced scoff was Henry's answer. An answer that stings. "Ick-dick isn't my priority right now, Hershey." How that sounded, Henry also can't discern. However, he can confirm his theory that something's indeed amiss with his friend, provided that she's futilely lighting her third or fourth cigarette, to which he attempts to aid her with again, but instead is bashfully swatted away with murmurs how she can handle it herself. On the outside he knocks a cool shrug to that, inside he feels the intense swinging of an organ for practically being chided away. Then again, I could just be overthinking this and feeling too much.

Shuffling a bit away from her, he chances a glimpse at Jay and crumbles again. Why does she have her glasses on when there's barely any sunlight? Does she not want to look at me…? "Hey, so—"

"Where she from?"

"Wut?" With extra force and concentration Henry keeps his appearance baffled rather than letting mild irritation show from Jay's constant interruptions. "Who?"

"Your ex. Like what's her story? Is she in the book?" Jay indicates with her hand. "What's up with her?"

What's it to you? "Nothing. She's from Camelot, I'm sure Emma told you." Swiftly he turns away to regain his composure and steady the bass of his voice from accusation.

"Yeah, but—" pause for the huff, "she said it's best coming from you. So what's up?" Discard the cig then puff.

His jaw begins winding. Why is she asking all these questions related to him and close encounters? "Like I said, nothing. She's from Camelot and her father is a knight of King Arthur's table. Nothing much, nothing else."

"Wow, from your tone it sounds like the breakup was shit." All nonchalantly said while she pulled out another fresh cigarette.

"What?! I didn't—ah, never mind!"

"No, no," she continues, putting the vice between her lips. "You seem pissed. I don't know if…ugh, work dammit!" She scolds her lighter, flicking hastily. Already she shoos her hand away from Henry, before he has chance to even approach her, and resumes struggling.

This crosses Henry the wrong way. "You know… there's probably another reason why I'm pissed, just sayin'," he retorts with a small head jerk.

"Aha!" Jay exclaims from her lit cig.

Henry's jaw stiffens. Deep breath Mills. Deep—

"I dunno, dude…," disrupts Jay, again, "This girl sounds like she screwed with your emotions. If it were me then—"

"Thing is it is you!" The teen fumes and effortlessly pivots toward Jay's face, yanking the cigarette from her mouth, and stomping it out. "What the hell? You're a chain smoker all of sudden, and ignorant of other's feelings? This isn't you!"

"…"

"What? You can talk crap about Violet, but now you're mute?"

"Whoa, okay. First off, ever pull that shit with the cigarette again, Mills, and you'll see yourself over that bridge quicker than it takes your panties to wad from your 'feelings,' 'kay? And if you can't handle the smell, Then Fucking Move." The last asserted with menacing steps forward.

"Ah, see! Right there! You're so quick to make threats to me than consider my feelings? You're so quick to act and say rude shit and even progress an uncomfortable topic you can see I clearly don't wanna talk about than regard my feelings?! You're quick to act an ass than be my friend!"

"Watch yourself."

"No! Watch yourself!"

Saying she was taken aback is an understatement. "The hell does that mean?"

Henry scowls down on Jay for enduring seconds, then simmers down. "Nuthin'…, " he shakes, "It was nothing," and turns away, scuffling.

"Right," she, too, blandly says and turns to herself also.

What is happening with us? the brunet thinks. Everything was all innocent when he came to hang with Jay today. Yet…, he doesn't know. She seems to be acting odd and distant lately. Was it something he did last time they were together for her to be acting this way? If only he knew…

If only he knew, gosh! Why did you even call him up here today? What was so special about today?! "I can't—I just…," Jay squeezes her eyes shut and centers on the pain erupting. You were alone. You were alone and miserable and missed him and just wanted company. "No, I—" You wanted to see how he was from that night. You wanted your friend.

Perhaps he can ask her, Henry thinks. He can be direct and just plain ask if there was anything he done wrong to have her acting like this. He can— What is she doing? Why is she jittery? "Jay…"

"I just… I just need a smoke, okay?! Just… just…," she manically rants as she hastily digs in her bag.

"Jay—"

"Hush! Just…," she stops and aimlessly points as anyone perturbed then turns in a circle. Next she pats herself anywhere there's pockets only to come up short. Being shortly deprived of the nicotine she craves, Bexton pulls out another fresh cigarette and puts it to her lips, ready to delve back into her bag. Despite her interests, the bag's pulled away from her. "What are you—"

"Smoking's bad Jay, especially for you apparently." He raises the bag up high, feeling slight satisfaction of the helpless face Jay's conveying. But barely a second is it seen before something else shadows her features.

He can't interpret it but only see it. It's all just a nonexistent yet potential question mark over him in these fatal seconds. To clarify, what's in the bag… that flickering mark over his head, is the demise of everyone—at least this operation. And Jay knows all too well than to further jeopardize it. She's cautious of her actions from hereon. "Put down the bag," she prompts, shamming a regular person not able to have a smoke.

"You could've just asked if you needed a lighter, I literally just helped you, y'know."

"I know, I know," she concedes. "But you gotta know I don't like asking for help."

He understands, sort of. "Alright, tell you what—" I can't stay mad at her long. "Answer me a question and you'll get this back," he teases the bag.

Oh, please don't. "Yeah, okay—whatever. Just—" her arm extends for the bag.

"Nope." He pulls it further away. "Answer me this: What's your actual name?"

"Rumpelstiltskin. Now let off."

"Haha, Jay. That's not how it even goes. What's your name?"

"Uh, 'Jay'. What kinda question is that? Now come on, give me."

Henry takes a square step back, feeling a weird sensation like he's been in this predicament before with Jay. "You're lying. I know you are, even your father hinted that's not your name."

Bafflement then skepticism strikes. "Did he really? What he say?"

"He said… he said—"

"Bullshit! You're lying!"

"No!" Henry laughs from the double meanings. "He didn't say that, but he did hint to me that—"

"Liar, liar, give me my lighter so I can set your pants on fire!" With quick agility and pace Jay was able to snatch her bag back. "You wasted an opportunity, Henry," taunts she with a smirk, "the one time you had the chance to know me and you wasted it on that? Ha! Next time why don't you—"

The honest grin on her face, the raise of her cheekbones and playful tone, and every other lively aspect about her was too much of a moment for Henry to pass—their natural bond awakening with a spark. It was like when they really got to know each other; it was like how they always act; it felt how it's supposed to be. They're supposed to feel this happy around each another. And because of that strong, ardent feeling tugging at Henry's chest and straining his face from his wattful smile, he did what any impetuous 17-year-old would do in his predicament. He acted… because it felt so right. It felt so right, and yet…

As if in slow-motion revealing to the spectator's eye, Henry playfully dove for Jay's bag and with success was able to draw it. Though, before he could triumph a smirk, Jay as well lunged for her bag, unaware of the playfulness fleeing from her in that moment, instead the dread filling, and pulled a bit too fervently resulting a spill of things flying away from the both into the air—the items just volleying their way across the zenith.

Across the zenith they soared, then to Earth they fell.

A hairbrush, her missing lighter, gum, some white bottle (maybe lotion), hygienic stuff, and a tidbit of other stuff Henry's eye skipped over were the items of her bag—normal things.

But there's nothing short of normal with that eerie, vexing mask jubilantly laughing and agonizingly screaming over yon. And the detail to it… astonishing… amazing… marvelous, even. So marvelous Henry had to gawk at it. Such juxtaposing facial expressions melded together so naturally. One of a kind it must be… one of a kind it is.

An airy or spacey distant, satisfying fog is happening in his head. Satisfying because… but then not. At least not with her. "Uh," his head sways, " um…." It makes sense. "It's you…," he cruises a nod, riding this out. "Yeah, o-of course… why didn't I…? …yeah." He's unaware of Jay scrambling around retrieving her belongings, who long ago stuffed the mask away. It's just oddly satisfying what he's feeling. The betrayal, deceit, synonym feelings hadn't hit him yet. Saying it was a lot for him to take in was another thing indescribable.

"I'm—I'm so sorry you had to see that," she still scrambles around like a mouse, picking the crumbs. "I know a…a…a guy like you doesn't—doesn't wanna see, you know," she indicates, "tampons and other feminine hygiene crap. My bad, just major—

"It was you. You—"

"Iiiiii screwed up. I fffucked up and…," flail of hands for lack of words. "I…I…, Henry please say something, please." His stupefied stance is frightening her.

"I need a…," his eyes aren't even on her, nor anywhere really; they're pinpointing nowhere. "I need—"

"A smoke! A-a smoke! You need it, I got it! Give me a second and I'll…," Jay's agitation was so out of hand that her own hands were having a melt-down of their own as she searched for her lighter again in the wondrous bag.

"No, I don't need that. I need…," the rest of anything on his tongue vanished, his eyes glazed.

"What? You need what? I'll give it to you, anything you need, just tell me and I'll get it!"

He doesn't respond.

"Look at me, Henry, look at me." She pulls her glasses off and directs his face to hers. "Look at me, it's just us. Just us here on the Toll Bridge. Tell me what you need, plEaSe just tEll me." The crack in her voice….

He looks at her, unfazed by her bruised eye. "What happened to your…?"

"Nothing. Just some, uh, branches I didn't see a-and—t-tell me what you're feeling. Tell me—hey, hey!" She centers their vision again. "What are you feeling? What are you feeling?"

"That…," eyes wander over again, "that it isn't my fault. But that it is. And you told me it wasn't." His eyes return to hers, only instead of the soft jade irises glazed, they were hardened. "You were there… it was real."

Her will to muster up the courage to at least nod was nothing short. "Y-yeah…, yes." She gulps. "I…I was there. B-but how are you feeling? Please, Henry, tell me."

"I feel—" he doesn't finish, but instead shakes his head. "There's two of you, I know there is. Where is he?" So simply he says it all, so calm. "Is he your boyfriend? Is he your…," another head shake fills the air.

Jay bewilders at this, or at least feigns it. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't—I don't know."

"You're both in on this. You both want to… to expose me or something…, I dunno, but—" he stares directly back, trying to decode anything in her face; it's all lost.

"You don't know what? Just tell me, come on, please, just tell me. Henry…, hey look at me," she doesn't pull him in this time, but relents in letting his vision wander. "Just tell me what you don't understand. I'm here."

"Are you?"

That spins her off. "Y-yes, of course—always," she simpers weakly.

"Well, I'm not." Gently he detaches her hands from his face, "What I need… what I need from you is to just stay away from me," and steps back examining her, blatantly.

"I…," the exposure she feels! My glasses, w-where are my—

"I need to go. You just… go back smoking your regrets." How alien that sounds doesn't escape her!

"No…, no, no. Henry, don't."

"Bye, Jay."

"Henry, don't! Please—please." She lunges for his hand to pull at it, him facing away from her with an indiscernible countenance. "We can talk about this, come on."

"Let go."

"No…," she adamantly shakes, "No. Let's talk about this, come on."

"Let go…"

"No! We need to—"

"LET GO, Jay." Their hands are linked with opposing passion in their grips, and arms maximally extended, symbolizing incongruity.

"No, you can't do this. Y-you can't… you can't—" Don't say it, Bexton. Don't say it. "You can't just walk away! You can't abandon me!"

Their grip tightens—instantly tight as a vice when Henry wrenches her in, Jay crashing into him. The cold defiance crystallizing in his eyes spoke volumes than can be heard. Their entwined hands displayed in both their faces showed their union, friendship, bond— "Watch me," be dismantled vigorously with fervor by none other. Henry's tone graver than the point of no return.

"Don't do this…, I'm begging you don't do this. Stop!" She walks after him, a fair gap between both. "Hear me out! All I—" 'You… do… nothing! Do you hear me? Do those words ring the emptiest of bells in that eggshell mind of yours? Huh?' "All I want to do is talk this out with you. We can—" 'Listen and comply; you do nothing… leave.' "Hershey?!"

As quick as it was for him to stop was as easy for him to keep walking, not a glance back.

Follow him! You follow him, Bexton!

'He'll be alright, just leave.'

"What do I…," she presses her temples.

You follow him, follow him down.

'Listen to what I'm telling you for the millionth time, Kai: Leave. Now. Even a pelican-minded exaggerated oaf like you can understand to Listen and Comply. That is what I have taught you! That is what we have all taught you!'

FOLLOW HIM.

'You do not go near him, Jay!'

First it's a shaky step, then another, followed by a stumbling jog—full out sprint from the boy to the woods with Jay's heart beating ferociously with the course of blood rushing through her ears dismissing any sense of logic, again.

~Cfys~

You'll be alright.
You'll be alright.
You'll be alright.

*Ringing of phone (calling)*

Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system, 207… is not available. At the tone, please record your message.

(Now) "Uh… hey Lawrence, it's… it's Jay."

(Shortly Prior) 'Where is the—' She dropped to her knees and pulled the duffel from beneath her bed.

"I know that you're not gonna probably get this for a bit, what with you and technology [weary chuckle], but I, uh…"

Articles of clothing are flung maniacally with a sundry sort thrown carelessly in the duffel.

"I wanted to let you know…"

'You'll be alright, Jay.
You'll be alright.
Alright.'

"That I'm fine… and cool, y'know, chillax and stuff—"

'I can't. I can't. I can't. I ca—' intense pacing and spiraling thoughts ensued a vociferous scream of her's muffled into a pillow.

"but uh… I just wanted to let you know that I'll be going camping for a little and yeah…, don't worry and stuff [another distressed chuckle]."

'Do I take it or don't I? Pro: … Con: …'

"Oh, and I um, I won't be with my phone in case you call, this or the other. So uh, I dunno, y'know? I'll be back whenever, so, uh… until next time I guess."

(Presently) Not a glance is given toward her cabin as she treks away from it now.

"Also, I know that you're laying low from the case debacle and just wanted to say, uh, to say stick to it. Y'know, why rush? …there's nothing much going on anyway as you like to say, and heaven… heaven forbids I, uh, have to see your face so soon [strained laughter]. Anyway… [clear of throat] yeah, 'til next time."

Message recorded

---

"Do you remember…, do you remember a time in your life when such prominence was felt with every beat of your heart? That finicky muscle that fools even the best of us actually gave me the purpose I needed in that chapter of my life. My dreary heart crooning the sky's color, pumped to the rhythm of Motown and gave me that soul deep revival. I was a changed man, and my heart pumped in a different way from thereon. Every single feeling I felt, no matter how minuscule, was animated with such vigor and ardor that there must've been a symphony in my chest.

I was esteemed. I was venerated. People emulated me…

Feared and loved and lusted…

Men wanted to be me—

She wanted to love me—

He and I were supposed to go on adventures—

I was supposed to be happy.

…

And then it crumbled… my gods, it all crumbled… so effortlessly and effectively between my two accursed hands!

But just know that I never meant for any of it to happen.

Know that I tried. Know that I endeavored to be the man you knew I could aspire toward.

Just know that I am truly sorry to the darkest depths, and that I am sorry for how my heart beats now.

Feelings that I have felt, regardless how teeny or passionate, are now tainted cos of my selfishness… and because of you.

Because you didn't want to love me; cos they didn't want to be me; cos he didn't want that relationship.

And cos I… I didn't want to perceive what I did have, opposed to what I wanted—desired.

A need is more significant than a want, and I had let the latter consume me. I should have seen that I had what I needed all along.

And I am truly… sincerely, truly, sorry that I didn't."

⇐•⇒

"Eh," he squints at the paper, "the lad's a… 34 by 32 waist. Anything of the sort?"

"Yep, just go around the back and you should see the slim, straight, and bootcut for men."

A brow raised. "What? No, skinny?"

"Sorry, no. We're still in short supply of that. It seems to be a trend now, I guess," says the retailer subtly hinting Killian and his skinnies.

"Pardon, but they're not a 'trend' if ye're naturally born for them," waggled his brows.

"Uh-huh, right. I'll be here if you need anything."

The pirate mutters a mere thanks and heads for the jeans, already overwhelmed from the options; but only a few fretting minutes are wasted before he jumps the gun and picks whatever interests him most. It's difficult to shop for a teen, yet more challenging when it concerns spiteful ones like Henry.

"…ayyyy…," he drawls while circling a rack of shirts, "'tis best not to think of the lad, Jones. 'Tis best to—" he grabs a shirt and begins inspecting it like he's in awe. "'Tis best to add some color in this misfortune…." From the corner of his eye was the display of hats, one of which he eagerly swipes, then making a beeline for the nearest mirror. "Alright, this right there and… that ov' here… and this can—ugh, bollocks. Miss?"

"Yes, sir? Having trouble?"

"Aye, be a dear and, uh, hold this." He hands her the clothing in search for something else direly needed. This goes on the duration of his shopping experience.

~Cfys~

Ahhh, and it was nice—today was nice, thinks Hook. He was productive in something other than nefarious, and can honestly say that he enjoyed it. Also, Emma texted him that anything went for dinner tonight, and already there were an array of meals flitting through his mind he'd enjoy preparing. Possibly he can put to use the knowledge he has from those late-night cooking shows. In addition, the household itself has been relatively calm and peaceful; praise the mighty heavens for the lack of Jay around Henry this last fortnight! Honestly, what a buggy bitch she is to Hook! Good riddance he thinks, the lass was inevitably going to sod off Henry sooner or later. Better it is now rather than the prescient future concerning the boy's fate.

Granted, Henry has been reclusive lately and a bit morose… but none the worry. The boy will be fine. At his age there will always be some immaculate girl he'll fancy then forget. It's just how things are. Jay most certainly the least impressionable.

Emma! Hook's dearest and loveliest Emma on the other hand… ew, where to start?

Gradually the pirate's heart is clenching from the thought of her.

Where to start is nowhere and everywhere. There's barely a connection, physically or emotionally, between the pair anymore! It's been a fair amount of time since Swan's incident and convalescence, enough for him and her to rock the boat, like they use to—preferably on a continuous basis. Although, she's been heavily enamored in these cases to catch her and Henry's suspects. Indignation isn't the correct feeling the pirate himself feels toward this situation—no, no, no. Himself, too, isn't informed the identity of Henry's attacker and would very much like to witness justice be brought down on the little shit, regardless that he was informed that a little shit would beat the shit out of his shitty stepson. HOWEVER…, how-the-hell-ever, there is indignation lowly rumbling within the pits of Hook's stomach pertaining to Swan's case, moreover, the same fucking case she keeps pursuing like the bloody shite happened! It didn't happen! What the hell is she doing?!

Everyone pitying her—pitying himself—pitying Henry—just dropping pity of their thoughts everywhere! It's rubbish, utter rubbish skewed all over. Can't anyone see this?

"Hmph!" grunts Killian as he pushes the folded clothing deeper in the suitcase. The day is beginning to tire and night awakening as he packs away everything he bought earlier into a suitcase personally for Henry. Vermont is going to be as smooth and comfortable a sail for the lad as much the pirate can make it. This will be for everyone's benefit and will entail them to face a reality they all seem to adamantly shun: the Queen's death.

Oh, the Queen fell alright, but only from the hands no one expects. Who would believe such slander that Henry killed Regina? Who would take heed to Killian's words that such an act happened in the broad of day? Delusional they'd call him! Paranoid! They'd probably lynch him if anything! They'd probably—

What was that? That sound…

Get the gun. He's not paranoid, far from. It is called the right to bear arms and stand to those who intrude on private property. Trespassing is a serious felony citizens unfortunately have to face, himself now included. His rights will—

Emma?

"Oh, thank Poseidon it's just Swan," relieves Hook as he regains his breath and lowers the gun. Next he chuckles at the silly thought of using Swan's gun against her. How folly is that? "Aye, it certainly is," he smiles at the weapon, turning it in the light and coming to thought, " 'specially cos it's Swan's…"

Not to mention that he's also in Henry's room with a suitcase packed with new clothes for him.

"Right then, to dispose this here." He raises the weapon and heads where to put it, but then scuttles as his brain loads on where it just was. All of it innocent movement until he realizes that it originally was on him, and due to his jacket being downstairs, no way to conceal it. Also, he's about to prep for dinner, so no excuse for wearing a jacket from his closet. Now he's pacing.

He's pacing cos there's no place to put the gun! He can't hide the gun in him and Emma's room because it's him and Emma's room and Emma will find out, and like her nature, she'll inevitably figure that it's him that has her gun, which makes this whole operation futile and— "Keep it together, sailor."

The keys can be heard jingling.

"Bloody hell!" Under the pressure, Hook barely examines his surroundings before noticing the suitcase again. Relief and trouble swarms him as he concludes that he can hide the weapon in the case, but where the case?

Hurriedly he trots over to the window and peeks at a frazzled Emma constantly dropping and fumbling her keys; and if he remains perfectly still he can hear his wife grumbling and profaning a slew of things. "Her heart seems deaden upon the guile of keys…," he squints, "rough day it must've been."

He deserts away from the window and back to the suitcase where he embeds the weapon beneath everything haphazardly, trying his best to obscure any telltale sign of metal and bulk. Now, where to hide the case? Not him and Emma's room, and not Henry's, unless…

Dazed already, Killian draws back his stepson's closet in such haste that it takes a hearty minute for his composure to settle. By then he dismally realizes that such space in Henry's closet is nonexistent along with any other place in the room.

It has only been mere seconds and minutes since Swan's arrival and already Hook's— "That's it! Closest space—" tumbles out his mouth as he, without waste, grabs for the case and speeds for the one room practically nonexistent to everyone.

Trumpets blare! The choir sings! The sporadic holy glimpse of sunlight triumphs! All of it happens when you enter a room like Her majesty's. Moreover, taste doesn't have taste until it meets Regina Mills, but even then just a morsel is indulged, because dayuuum… is what Killian felt when he first entered the Queen's room.

Yet with this being the third or fourth, maybe fifth, time of him entering (or trespassing) that awe sensation is dulled, just a bit. He still without fail is able to slightly gape how uncanny it is that Her smell still lingers and is not overpowered by his musk.

And with the fervor of a child hugging their precious relic (him the suitcase), Hook intrudes the room and hunches for the closet. Such a closet it was!…when he'd first seen it, now though it is the perfect place to hide the suitcase.

He watches his steps to ensure nothing of the Queen's belongings are marked by him, and from there carefully hides the case with any natural obscurities—things in the back no one will notice.

Emerging from the wondrous closet, the pirate can't help but twirl around from the sight before him while exiting. This was Her chamber…, this was where she was most vulnerable in all aspects…, this is where Regina Mills was just that, Regina Mills.

This whole room…, this room was truly a piece out of time. Regardless frozen for 28 years, and truly out its era of innovation from when and whence the Queen is from, nothing however, stands to the inner workings of the Queen's mind behind these walls. A man's chamber is his refuge, it's where his heart lies and mind reels unapologetically—the walls his witness, the silence his crowd, and himself the judge.

And as for Regina's, it has yet to live through its most interesting case. Out of time it'll remain until her return.

Long gone from the room and upstairs altogether, Killian now ties an apron around his waist and gets the door. "Swan!" He brightens. "How is, luv? Didn't expect ye so soon."

"Uh," baffles Emma from the greeting and scene of Hook. "Did you not hear me with the door?"

"Apologies, I was in the loo. Come now, you look cold." He ushers her in and takes her jacket in switch for a blanket.

"Hook, no, I'm fine."

"What is a husband," his voice carries over, "to his loving wife without the care?"

"Uh, I don't know, what?"

"Nothing." He states, appearing with a blanket and offering it to her. "We're a team, Emma. In sickness or health there will always be care."

"Oh, Hook…," she sighs, but is interrupted.

"That is only the tip of the iceberg, luv. Tonight I will cook for you and the lad both you're own meals. So what'll it be?"

"Erm, maybe a drink to start it off?"

"Ah, yes! Ye can't mark a memorable night without a slight buzz. I'll get the wine—"

"Actually, can you make it a beer? I just need to feel the rush right now, cos y'know I'm still, uh, cold."

"Right on it!" He delightfully hums opposed to his irked expression. Always drinking is the lass. "Here go," he slides it over the islet and watches his wife take a seat. She seems enough in the mood to tolerate him, so that's good.

"Thanks," she nods and chugs the beer.

"Hoy!" He censures, "Quick to drink but not to think; you'll spoil your appetite," and ducks from her view to grab a pan, only to miss her glare. "Right then, tell me what ye want."

From the clinging of the pots and pans, Emma mutters something he can't hear, but he knows along the lines what it is. "Huh? Apologies, what was that?" He directs his full attention to her, waiting for her wise quip just muttered.

"Nothing, it was uh…"

"Sorry, a little louder will ya?" He lends his ear.

Emma clears her throat and shakes her head. "Nothing. It was just—I was just giving ideas, and uh, nothing." Eyes avert and sips are heard.

"Oh, ye sure? Cos if there's anything ye wanna say, just say." Nonchalant shrug. "Nothin' much to converse if one is always quiet…."

"Hold up…, are you trying to be petty?"

"Pettiness is child's play, Swan," scoffs Killian as he rummages through the fridge and slides his wife another beer, himself ingredients for a dinner already planned. "I just want to know how your day went."

Before answering, Emma lazily sips her new drink and studies her husband's stance. He seems to be grating the zucchini a little too passionately. "Thought you was making what I wanted? I don't recall zucchini part of the meal."

"Mmm, who said this wasn't Henry's?"

A patronize sip and remark follows, "I don't think he's gonna like that."

"Ayyy, and what reason behind that?" He continues grating, "Hmm?"

"Well, for starters, he doesn't like zucchini. He said—"

"He said it tastes like soap or something other, yes, I remember. Yet he fails to recognize the last two dinners I've made contained it, so why tell him if he enjoys it?" Not a glance Hook gives before he sets the pan on simmer. "I'm aware of his feelings, Emma."

"I know."

"Do you? Cos from here it seems you don't give a damn of anything important."

Confusion displays. "What does that mean?"

Cool your temper, Jones. "…Nothing. Pardon for the eruption…. How was your day?" Now he chops the vegetable. "Notwithstanding your early return, any records beaten on your run?"

"Uh, no. Had to cut it short due to the weather." She folds within the blanket more with a wary eye on him.

"Ye're right, the seas seem to be brewin' a mighty storm, eh? I reckon quite a blizzard followin'. So, how go the lad's case? Any new leads or such?"

Emma shakes her head irritably and takes a lush swig.

Hook nods his understanding while dumping the chopped veggies in the sizzling pan. "Must be hard, what with double cases?"

"Mmm, you've no 'deaaa…."

"No, I don't." Cautiously he surveys her and infers her mild inebriation. "So?"

"Hmm?" She lays her head down, focusing on the crackling of the pan.

"What with yours?"

"What with mine what?"

"Your case, luv. How's it going?"

Her head pops up with a smile. "I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"Y'know that's not what I meant," he grins back at her and pauses. Is she going to answer or…?

Emma's head sways back down like a feather.

"You all right, luv?"

A small tweak to her beer she gives, but that can mean anything. "Emma…? Emma?" Hook crouches to catch her eyesight, but bears nothing. She must be dozing off. Perhaps I should move her for safety. "Come on, Swan," he reaches for her. "I think it's best you—" yet before his hand fully throttles her to wake, Emma mumbles something. "Come again?"

"A picture… they sent me…."

"A picture?" He would've settled that he's imagining what Emma said, but from the tweak of her beer bottle again he can only conclude he was correct. "Of what?" Eyes look searchingly for an answer.

Gradually Emma sits back up eschewing eye contact, or any response for the matter, and takes another wholehearted swig from her drink. When that's done she places the bottle down a fine distance and just rotates and stares at it. Adding to the pensiveness, she leans on her other hand and remains this way for seven whole bottle turns. It's the approaching eighth that urges Hook to pry again.

"Emma, what picture?"

"…"

"Emma, what—"

"Henry's not home you know," she drawls, still toying the bottle. "So that means we can…," and hints with a nod.

Her implication is persuading, thinks Killian as he regards the stairs' way. It's been fairly too long since him and Swan had intimacy with each other…, intimacy he craves nonetheless. What he give for—

Thoughts come to an alarming halt when suddenly soft lips are felt against his own. Excitement is rousing inside him from this dear reality he long imagined: Swan initiating first. As always it's a drunken haze when he kisses her and hopefully she to him. Her long golden locks practically the sun's rays bountiful in his hands, her lithe body pressed against his and yearning for his affectionate touch, her small waist perfect for his hand to snake around and possessively tug at—followed by the itching sensation to lift her and ravish her exposed neck, for which he does. Gods, just everything about her is perfect! Her brilliant sea green eyes that seem intent to remain close, her death grip on his jaw to stay focused on her, and her smell all intoxicating, even more than usual. Everything is more passionate, more forced, more… toxic.

Hook's eyes bug.

She keeps kissing him. She keeps kissing him the more he slows and realized what's to become but instead clutches on.

He pulls her off and catches his breath before saying, "You're drunk."

"So?" She pants. "Come on," and reaches for him at which he steps back.

"No, no. You're drunk and using me. This isn't right."

"Honestly what's the difference if you do the same?"

"What?!" he astonishes.

"Hook, calm down. It's nothing," Emma walks back around the islet and finishes her beer with her back to him. The lack of light but instead darkness sets the air and portrays her as a silhouette.

"No, no I will not calm down, Emma, cos I bloody right know it's something. Ye've been shruggin' it off for days—weeks even that it's 'nothing!' I am tired of the same crap comin' out yer mouth! I want the truth: What is goin' on? What is this picture you mentioned, Swan?"

"…"

"Emma, look at me. Tell me the truth, love; what's goin' on with ya? Ye're not tellin' me anything and I don't… I don't know what to do, please."

"…"

"Emma, please."

"…you're lying."

"W-what?" His face breaks, also voice. "Love, look at me. What do y—"

"You know exactly what I mean," her tone dims.

"No, Swan, I don't! I don't—"

"Where is the gun, Hook? Where did you put it?"

A pause. A pause and involuntary gulp. "I've not a clue what you speak about. But I do know—"

"Know what?" she interrupts, back still turned and choler rising. "You know that a false investigation will still continue from your omissions?"

Omissions?! That alone vexed him enough to allude, with his voice becoming taut. "The only omission there is pertains to what you have done and its neglect—to it and to me."

Emma scoffs. "Why didn't you just say something? Why… what… what was your purpose?" Finally she turns to him with fatigue written all over and arms crossed. "I don't under—"

"No!" He slams the counter with fuming ire. "Don't you dare turn this on me and proclaim your daftness on this!" He seethes at her stone face. "I… I…," he repeatedly jabs at himself, "I am the one to cry victim here—not you! You…you…y—" this time he strips his face from hers and grips the counter behind him, channeling his anger through impenetrable marble as the words struggle to come forth.

"Just say it. You know you want to."

"That doesn't help!" he barks.

"Just say it!"

"No," he avidly shakes. "No. No, no, no! There's something… there's something wrong—" He rocks to and fro on the counter, any way to— "There's something wrong with us… w-with you. There's something wrong with you!"

"That's not true, Hook; you know that's not what you want to say. Come on, say it. Say what you saw that night."

"There's nothing I want to say! Not after you…you—"

"I what? After I what?" Emma cynically chuckles. "Just Say It!" she opens her arms, beer in one hand. "Stop rocking like a bitch, and just say that I had the balls to—"

"To what?" emerges Henry. "You had the gall to do what?"

~Minutes prior~

Ugh! This is effin' disgusting! Why in the freaking kitchen where there's food!?

Henry peeks at the gross couple in the kitchen getting their freak on. Any brooding and ill and so forth thoughts and feelings are forgotten from this atrocity frolicking before his eyes.

It's like their trying suck each other's face off.

Emma was sloppy and arguably eager in her actions, and Hook was too submissive then to dominate—or at least try. And that was only from Henry accidentally walking full-pledge in on them the three seconds.

I should probably leave and come back later.

A curtain with its windows opened caught Henry's eye and informed him on the weather's conditions outside—conditions that seemed undesirable. All he wants to do is lock himself in his room for the rest of the day, or possibly lifetime, and sulk. Sulk and admonish every good thing that's happened in his life so far, like Jay.

"You're drunk."

Ha! What's new?

The teen suppresses a laugh from the thought. It seems Hook is the one to complain this time, but if Henry recalls, Hook was the complainer of him and Emma's marriage, so it isn't really surprising. Though, for him to decline sex with his mom—Really gross just thinking that—is saying something, mainly because she's drunk. How… noble, thinks Henry.

Yet, despite this oddity showing through his stepfather, Henry starts building the mindset to depart without making sound. He tiptoes his way toward the mansion's entrance and detours to the coat closet beside it in order to retrieve his scarf. As old the scarf is and how much he'd love to chuck it out his life, it just reminds him too much of the good times he had with his mother, both of them actually, before the main one's death. So despite his loathsome feelings toward it, it was still a staple and a significant piece apart of him.

Instead of turning on the light and giving any hints of his presence, he blindly touches around until he contacts the bittersweet scarf. His hand ventured over a hat or two, some umbrellas, a jacket, and—oops! He accidentally dropped what must've been Emma's jacket and something along with it.

The object first looked like a card before he realized it was a picture of something, but because it was dark and he didn't want to jeopardize himself opening the light, he let it be and put everything back.

Only a few more blind touches he's away from leaving until something catches his ear.

"Where is the gun, Hook? Where did you put it?"

Gun? squints Henry. The only gun Emma's interested in is— "Ohhh…, but—" if she's asking him where it is, then that could only mean…

A pause.

A long and deafening pause trilled from Hook.

"No…," appalled Henry. "That doesn't sound right, Hook would never—"

"I've not a clue what you speak about. But I do know—" Why does he sound guilty?

"Know what? You know that a false investigation will still continue from your omissions?"

Omissions?! What omissions? Hook didn't… it was Jay! Her or her boyfriend tried to kill Emma! She has it all wr—wait, neglect? He draws out the closet from this magnetic pull. She's neglecting that he did it? Why would Emma do such a thing? She can't love him that much if she's confronting him…. What was your purpose, Hook? From here it sou—

"No!"

Such an eruption startled Henry, who's now out the closet and gradually inching toward the kitchen for better sound. It can't be. Hook wouldn't just—

"I…I…," flustering is heard, "I am the one to cry victim here—not you! You…you…y—" then anguish.

Henry, now considerably close to the kitchen, is all ears and clicking thoughts on the reality of everything. These naysay thoughts of Hook attempting murder on Emma are making sense. Jay doesn't seem the character to kill someone, let alone Emma, unless she's twisted…, yet it doesn't seem likely, no matter how ruthless the woman is; and with such a liking she takes to Emma, regretfully (and then not) Henry feels it wasn't her. Personal bias aside, it wasn't Jay, he settles. But the only other person that was there that night in the warehouse was Hook, no one else. And if Henry remembers correctly, himself was unconscious by the time Hook arrived, so it is highly possible Emma and Hook got into a fight and things went wrong then to lead to her death. Not to mention that Nurse Lionel did explain to Henry that his mother's head shot wound was fairly fresh when they arrived at the hospital that night. Also, she mentioned that his stepfather did get something of an incision from glass cleanly entering his abdomen.

Then again, Hook did remark a cut he acquired from saving Henry and Emma.

Yet, he could've been lying.

And with these current loud yells of Emma telling Hook to admit to something, Henry can't help but think that it has to do with her death, moreover Hook trying to kill Emma.

"There's—there's something wrong with us… w-with you. There's something wrong with you!"

The man's voice is breaking like he's been caught. He sounds as guilty as Jay…

Thus convictions are set. Hook's a suspect, more than likely The Suspect, he just has to be. The guilt riddled on Jay's face was too distinctive to not envision on Hook's face just from his spiraling tone. The guilty are shining out on this grim day and it couldn't be a better time, settles Henry on all of it.

"Just Say It! Stop rocking like a bitch, and just say that I had the balls to—"

"To what?" emerges Henry, who's ready to face this head on. He doesn't need Jay, nor Emma of Hook, for them to live their lives. "You had the gall to do what?"

---

~Cfys~

"Henry," voices Emma, startled. "I, uh, I didn't hear you come in. Um…," she casually walks over to the sink and sets her beer down, her voice now relatively small. "How long… how long were you here?"

"Not long. I just came in and heard some shouting and thought I should check." His eye wanders over to Hook, who looks anguished. "Everything alright?"

"Uh, yeah," leans Emma against the counter beside Hook. "All fine, kid. Right?" she pats her husband for affirmation, his response a grunt.

"You sure?" queries the teen as he heads toward the fridge. "Looks like Hook's gonna puke…."

"Nah, he's fine, just a little queasy from stuff. So how goes your day? Any signs of Jay? Haven't seen her lately."

"Nope, she's still a no-show; it'll probably be like that for a while. Hey, by 'stuff' do you mean the argument you guys just had?"

"Uh…"

"Cos honestly," Henry seats himself on the islet across from Emma, and glimpses at the burning pan and teases Killian. "Hey, Boyardee, I think your food's burning."

With the grayest of shadows shadowing the pirate's face as he mumbles cusses of the food's misfortune, Henry notices a build of red on Hook's face. A face riddled with guilt.

"So erm, how much did you hear?" Emma crosses her arms and feels the racketing thuds of her heart, as well as the fogginess of her brain. "Henry?"

Unexpectedly, the driest of tones emits from Henry when he says, "How much do you want?" And with his head cast aside and directed at Hook—whose's whole stance is rigid with his own head bowed—it only made the air tense.

A pause…, a pause…, a pause—I gotta say something—, a long and deafening pause is what Emma offers.

Her faint heart skipped a skip from the utter dread it felt after hearing Henry. She felt so overwhelmed that a response wasn't even feasible for her to muster. With a wary eye she observes her son's suspiciously relaxed posture opposed to Hook's building one. Then she hears the emptiest bells ringing in her mind as if she was forewarned about this.

Cogs are turning in his mind, but short-circuiting in hers. There's a boldness defining in every wakening breath of his, but draining rapidly in hers. A truth wants to be heard by him, but not from her. "Hook," directs Henry to the man whose jaw is noticeably bulging, "what was Emma saying about her having the gall to do what?"

Said woman steps in, "Henry, Hook has nothing to do with—" but is halted a with raised finger from her son.

"Emma, please. I'm asking Hook and not you, so hush." He ignores her scowl. "Hook?"

What do I say if there's 'supposedly' nothing? "Aye…," the pirate starts with his head low and movement slow as he chops something else, "ye might want to refer to yer mother for answers, lad. Only she knows…."

"Yeeeaaah…, but I'm asking you."

"And I'm tellin' you I know nothing. Ask your mother."

"Listen to Hook, Henry. It's me you should be asking the question to, not him."

"Yeah, but," the teen turns and reviews his mother, blatantly, "you're a liar."

"…that she is…," mutters Killian, still chopping slowly.

A mutter Henry apparently heard. "'That she is' what, Hook?"

"…a liar…." Chop…. Chop….

"A liar about what?"

…chop…

"Hook, don't."

"'Hook, don't' what, Ma? Hm? What don't you want Hook to say about your deceit?"

"Henry—"

"'Tis not deceit…," Hook quiets, "but rather omission…."

"Henry," begins Emma, "I think you should go to your room."

"Omission…?" Brows knit. "Like something about her case?"

"I dunno," Chop. "Ask her," Hook lifts his face Emma's way—subtle red-eyes and defiance sharpening.

"Emma, what is he talking about?"

"…"

"Emma?"

"…nothing, kid, j—"

"OI‼ [stabs knife in cutting board] IT'S ALWAYS BLOODY NOTHING WITH YOU ISN'T IT!?"

"…"

"…"

"Henry, lad, ye wanna know somethin'? Ye wanna know exactly what yer mother had the gall to do that she accuses is my fault? That she accuses is OUR FAULT?!"

"Don't you dare!" venoms Emma who rounds the islet, but is evaded from. "Don't bring him into this, Hook!"

"Hush, lass! The boy wants to hear a tale and tale he shall get!" He dodges from her again. "Once upon a time, there was a coward named Emma—"

"Hook, I swear to God—"

"'Tis a false God if it's one you swear to, Swan!"

"That's it!" She pulls the knife out the board.

"'Twas a coward named Emma that had the gall to leave her loving husband and son behind!"

"Henry, don't listen to him!

"But there was only one way for her to escape! Guess boy, guess!"

"Hook, I'm gonna fuckin—"

"To runaway?" answers Henry with the shatter of glass startling him. He looks behind and blanches at the sight.

"No, 'twas death," says Killian with a jagged beer bottle in his hand aiming it at his wife for her to come any closer, Henry the barrier neither of them want to cross.

Emma alerts from the weapon. "You wouldn't."

"Of course I daren't, but step any closer with that look and thou shall find out."

"What do you mean 'death?'" puzzles Henry who's apparently unfazed of both sharp objects seemingly pointed at him. He's certain they won't hurt him, but to each other? It's obvious both aren't in their right minds and desperately need this situation averted. However, what Henry's hearing from Hook is captivating him more than the blood-thirst, glazed look twinkling in Emma's eye, and the formidable stance the pirate's feigning.

"There's a reason your mother troubles at the mentions of her case. Ever wondered why?"

"Henry, you know why," stresses Emma. "You know—"

"Lies through her chattering teeth!" Hook spat. "Don't believe a word from her, Henry. This isn't the same Emma I fell in love with, nor is she the same woman you long ago sought. She is nothing but a walking corpse!"

"Henry, back away!" commands Emma as she climbs over the islet.

"No, lad, keep still!" squabbles Hook as he ducks beneath the teen to get behind. Both adults back in the same position.

"You know you sound stupid, right? Of course he knows I'm a walking corpse," she points the knife at Henry, "hell, everyone knows! It's a fucking miracle I'm still here!"

"Keep tellin' yourself that, Swan! But everyone knows dead men tell no tales, and I can assure you, Henry, that there's a tale like no other yer mum keeps restrainin'. 'Tis an omission she refuses to divulge."

"The only thing that's going to be omitted is how this wasn't self-defense once I divulge this knife into you! Henry, room, NOW."

"…I don't think I'm comfortable leaving y'all here…," insists Henry regarding both hysteric adults. One is slightly drunk and ready to kill, and the other is…

Henry peeks at Hook and can see that the other is scared, but is putting up a good front.

This isn't making sense! Why is Emma afraid and hell-bent on Hook finishing the 'tale' about her case? And why do they want harm each other?! They're both asses in the respected ways, but there's no need for bloodshed. It's just not making sense, and the more it keeps drifting, the more frightened Henry becomes. Hook attempted to kill Emma and that's that. This dance around the bush and play of words needs to end.

"Hook…, this tale of Emma you're telling…," he turns to him with a stern visage, "does this have to do with her knowing her murderer?"

"Yes."

"No!"

"Lad, don't listen to her. She's not a clue nor handle of what's happening."

"Henry…, I'm begging you," she exhausts, "please don't listen to him. You were right! Y-you were right all along!"

What is she…? "I was?" he suspects.

"Mm-hmm," nods Emma fervently with a quivering knife. "Hook and I… Hook and I can't do this anymore. It's done, over. I want a divorce."

"Henry, she's drunk!" rings Hook with a trembling bottle. "She doesn't mean it. She won't even remember any of this."

"Henry, look at me."

"Don't, lad."

"Look at your mother, Henry."

"Don't!"

"Henry Daniel Mills, look… at… me."

He looks at her, unabashed—something Emma greatly respects and lifts her own head toward. This rivalry that's been between both son and mother for years has yet to cease, but is moderately evolving into underlying respect for the other's unwavering stance.

"It's over, Henry," she breaks after a pause. "The divorce is real and is happening."

He challenges, "You're lying," at which she shakes.

"I'm not. This… this is happening and is final. I'll get the papers tomorrow and we can—"

"Henry, don't listen to her!" quakes and sniffles Killian. She can't! She just can't…

"We can go to the courthouse together a-and—"

"Lad, plEaSe!" She can't leave me!

"Read it over from there, then situate—"

"Henry, her killer is iN THIS ROOM!"

"…"

"…"

No…

Hold your breath and it'll be over. Hold your breath…

She can't… she can't, she can't, she can't…

"I don't…," That only means—"What do you—"

"You're an intelligent young man, Henry," breaks Hook, "I know… you know exactly what I mean…. Open your eyes, lad," he reaches for Henry, "and see what's presented."

"No…," the teen dreadfully shakes, slowly grabbing for his hair, "no, no, no, NO! It's—that's not…," shocked eyes look at the one person that can actually deny this, but she looks away. "No…," he exhales and then chuckles. "No, just—" No. No. No. No. "You're lying and… and…"

"Open your eyes, Henry," Hook grabs for the teen who recoils dramatically.

"Don't touch me! Just—" he points with his eyes closed and cynically smiles and chuckles. "I know you're lying. You're lying and… and y-you're lying a-a-and just trying to get in my hand—no, head!" He yells the correction. "You're trying to get in my head and be the snake you are, okay?!" he declares, eyes still shut. "Y-y-you're doing what… w-what you did last time a-and—"

"Henry—"

"NO!" he cuts Emma off. "He—he killed you…. You—you…," he asserts at Hook, eyes opened. "You killed her! You killed Emma and that is what happened," he presses his palms together and leans his nose on them, awaiting Killian's response with every bone within him juddering.

I'm not going to look at her. I'm not going to look at her because she isn't the one being confronted. She is the victim here. She is the victim and will remain the victim because such a thought that she… she…

No. No, no, no! Hook killed her, that's it. He tried to kill her and—

"As much…," began the pirate solemnly, "that it would comfort you that I did try and kill Swan…," he dryly gulps, "I didn't. I didn't… and I'm sorry. But, lad, just know that—"

"…did you…?" whispers the teen, seemingly distracted. "Did you actually do it?" he still stares intently at the pirate in the same manner—crazed eyes and stinging chest.

"Son, listen to me: I did not—"

"Did you kill yourself, Emma? Did you actually do it?" Look at Hook. Just keep looking at Hook. Look at Hook and not her. Loop. Look at Hook and not her. Loop. Look at Hook and not her. Loop.

"…"

"…"

"…"

"No."

"…?" besides Hook's astonished face, it's Henry's that triumphs.

He peels his eyes away from his stepfather and beams them toward his mother, the only sound emitting are his feet turning.

He looks at her, but not in their rivalry way, and studies her. Everything about her—her rigid stance, acute posture, less threatening grip on the knife, flickering eyes, and slightest twitch of face—is his to scrutinize and probe. Such a fascinating, remarkable figure to gawk over…, since she's lying.

"Emma," Henry cautiously begins with a step forward, "did you or did you not try to—"

"No."

"Swan…"

"No…?" repeats Henry, surprised. "'No' as in…?"

"'No' as in I'm not going to answer that, Henry."

"So I was right then, Hook did it!"

"No, he didn't."

"But you just said—"

"I know what I said, and frankly it's none of your business." She raises her head justly, voice clipped and eyes focused… the betrayal flickering in them uncanny.

"But it is."

"It's not really."

"I don't…," What is she— "what you're saying is…," Why is she—" So basically you can have knowledge pertaining to my case, but I can't for yours…?"

"Yes."

"Of course… [nods to self] and—and why is that? Why do you get to be secretive about this?"

"I'm not being secretive," she affirms, "I'm just protecting you."

"Protecting me from what?"

"…yourself…"

"So my feelings?! [thickly scoffs] You're protecting me from my feelings? From feeling what?"

"Henry, I'm 'fraid she doesn't mean it that way…."

"From feeling what, Emma? Cut the bullshit and just—"

"Henry!" scolds Hook.

"NO! I just want the truth! Did you or did you not kill yourself, Emma?!"

"…"

"Why won't you answer me?!" a step forward.

"Lad, why don't ye simmer down a bit and—"

"Just say it! You did it, didn't you?!"

"Lad—"

"You had the balls to kill yourself and leave me! Is that what it is?! Huh?! You couldn't put up with me anymore, is that it?!"

"Henry, calm down."

"You shut the fuck up!"

"Oh, some sailor ye are with that foul tongue of yours, eh?! Much of a man ye are, aye?!"

"Hook—"

"Oh, so you can say his name, but can't answer a simple goddamn question to me? TO ME?! Your son you tried to abandon, AGAIN!"

"I never said—"

"Exactly!" he seethes. "You haven't uttered one real answer to me! But you'd rather have me feeling like shit, because of your shIT PARENTING!"

"I am telling you, Henry," enunciates Hook, "Watch Your Temper…"

"You're a shit mother—"

"You have 'til the count of 3 to—"

"You're a shit daughter!"

"1—"

"A fucked up wife!"

"2—"

"A drunk and impotent Sheriff that can't get shit right!"

"Emma, luv, do me a favor and lower the knife to lend a hand here—"

"Everything you're saying, Henry, is pathetic and disgustingly vulgar. What more you have, hmm?"

"Swan, don't."

"No, he's practically 18 and knows exactly what's he's saying, Hook. He can't talk the talk if he isn't gonna walk it."

"Meaning…?"

"You know exactly what it means," she rolls her sleeves up harshly. "So…, besides being shitty at every title, what else you got, Henry?"

"You're not goin' to hit him, Emma…."

"You're the worst savior in history!"

"Ah, there's the little shit-bag that's my son! What else you got? Come on," she gestures.

"Swan, you're drunk."

"Hook's right, you're a drunk! Worst than him or even Leroy!"

"Aww, c'mon, that's a compliment, Hen; it just means I can hold my liquor. Now come on, give me something better!"

"I HATE YOU!"

"The feeling's mutual right now, ta!" She winks at Hook. "Come on, boy! Use that mouth you're so fond of!"

"I HATE YOU!"

"[chuckles] You already said that, love. For real, Henry, show me your manliness! Grr!"

"I HATE YOU!"

"What are you? A broken record player?" she smirks.

"Emma, stop! Can't ye see the boy's—"

"Hook, shut-up, I got this. For years we've been taking his backtalk and smartass retorts feeling belittled and useless. I'm done, you're done, that's it. This shit ends here and now. We deserve better."

"We…?"

"Yes, Henry, 'we,' as in me and Killian. We deserve more respect than the little shit-drops you toss at us. Now come on, I'm waiting," she waves. "Cast some aspersions; slur out your slurs; degrade me, whatever the fuck ever, just get on with it."

"'We…'"

"Kid, were you not listening? Are you that deaf?"

"Swan, that's enough! Ye're being an arse!"

"What? All I'm doing is…" fades Emma's voice in Henry's ears.

It's happening again… it's…it's…

Why is it happening again?! Why… why… why just—

What did he do wrong? Huh? What Did He Do Wrong? Where did he go wrong? Why is it wrong? HOW IS IT WRONG?!

Why is it happening again?!

Why did he think that she would change? Why did he think that she would SEE HIM?

Why did he think that she CARED about him?

Why can't he see that he's Stupid?

Why can't he see that no one will ever care, or love, or see him?!

Why can't he see that everything's better off without him?!

WHY CAN'T HE SEE THAT HE'S NOTHING! He's nothing a-a-and he's nothing and no one cares for him and he's just garbage and useless and stupid—stupid, stupid, stupid, SO STUPID—and he's just… just…

Agh! Why is it happening again?! Why does he deserve to feel like this?! He—he's drowning and… and there's no air and it's just suffocation everywhere! It's dark and cold and scary because there's no one here to help him from the monsters that are always around him just lurking and waiting to assail. They keep brushing by him and he's thinking otherwise, but everywhere he turns there's always someone he's supposed to trust who isn't whom they say they are and it's just misleading. There words are misleading, their face is misleading, everything about them is untrustworthy and misleading… and it has to STOP! It has to—it has to just stop! No more! He can't—

He can't do this anymore.

He can't… he can't live like this. He can't. He just can't. And he needs someone. He needs someone so badly, so, SO BADLY, but yet there's no one because it seems no one cares about him. No one cares and so they just leave.

They leave and…

They leave and…

"…I hate you…"

They leave and never come back.

Mom is gone. Dad is gone. Emma is gone. Jay is gone…

Everyone's gone…

Their gone and he's left alone…

…

Why does he deserve to feel like this? Why does he deserve to feel the swell of his heart where it wants to implode in agony? He wants to cry out. He wants to bawl his eyes til there red and itchy, and let his heart bleed. He wants to let his aching sobs that'll racket his body be half muffled in his pillow with the other half reverberated by his own four walls. He just wants to shed from this shell he's in and emerge anew and innocent and carefree.

He just wants to let all his problems go.

He can't do this anymore. "…I hate you, I hate you…"

Why does he deserve to feel hurt? Why does he need to feel the pressure of his chest inflate and sting a thousand stings? Why does he need to hold back a guttering scream that's really a plead for help for anyone and anybody to:

Find me… Find me and please save me. Please. I can't…I can't—

It's not fair he has to conceal his feelings from feeling exposed.

Just why doesn't she care about him? Is he not lovable anymore? "…I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…," Is he really disposable like he thinks he is? "I hate you, I hATE YOU, I HATE YOU," Or is he really not part of this family and never was…? "I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE—"

There's one thing he does know that he is: useless, unwanted—

"IHATEYOU‼"

and broken…

"[sobs uncontrollably] I hAte yOu… I haTe yoU… I—" his legs become weak and he drops to the ground. Voice graveled and thick with fluid barely mutters, "…I hate myself…," before trying to muffle itself out with an arm from bubbling sobs.

Emma… Emma can't interpret the scene unfolding in front of her. This was all too familiar. This pain… this violent noise that shouldn't be heard, ever, is doing indescribable things to her. That sour feeling from long ago is now churning disgustingly within her, along with a plethora of needles prickling her heart. And the worse part is, or at least she thinks, is that these needles—these spindles delicately placed in the dank crevices of her heart that are supposed to be nonexistent to anyone, not even herself, are not torturing her enough. The cry… the cry of her baby boy—of her Henry—are manifesting the mother load of horrid emotion within her. What has she done?

This… this is unfixable. "Henry?" She honestly just shattered anything left between them. "Henry, please, look at me." It's done. "Sweetheart, please," her voice breaks as she lift his face, "look at me."

"Emma…"

"Henry? C'mon, kid, look at me. Please, look at me."

"Emma…"

"Henry? Henry?"

"…I hate you…"

"No, no you don't," she fervently shakes. "Everything's going to be alright. I promise it's all going to okay soon," she dives for a hug, "I promise I got you."

"…you're lying…"

"No, Henry I'm not. I promise I—" suddenly he begins pushing her off; Swan resists. "No, no! Henry, please!"

"Get off of me."

"Henry, please!"

"Swan, let him go," stresses Killian. "He'll be fine. He's strong."

"No, you don't understand! I'm not letting you go this time. I'm not making the same mistake."

"You're lying." Again he tries to detach her, much like Jay earlier.

"No! We need to talk about this, Henry. We need to clear the air right now."

"Just get off of me!"

"No, I—"

"Get off!" He roughly shoves her causing a loud thud to sound as her back meets a cupboard.

Confirming Emma's fine, Hook chastise's the teen and makes another reach.

"Don't touch me! Y-you're not my father, so just… just keep away!"

"Son, just calm down."

"Stop calling me—"

Emma intercepts. "Henry, please, let's just talk. All I wanna—"

"Stay away! I can't stand to—"

"Hear yer mother out, she knows—"

"Nothing! She knows nothing! Just leave me alone!"

"Henry, if you can just calm down for two seconds [grabs his arm] then I can—"

"LET GO!"

"No! I won't. I'm not gonna—"

"Son, calm down and—"

"Stop calling me 'son!' I swear, call me 'son' one more time. CALL ME 'SON' ONE MORE FUCKING TIME!"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Henry, please, just listen to what I have to say."

"You're a liar!" his voice breaks, as his skin heats from her tugging his arm. "You're a liar and I don't wanna hear what you have to say. So LET GO and—"

Henry…, chimes Her voice keenly, like a water drop echoing, I love you with all my heart and I can hear the pain you're in, but please sweetheart, for your own protection, calm down. I love you and I don't want you to get hurt anymore than you are.

Instead of questioning this, but wanting to retain the melody of Her voice, he gulps and whispers, "With all of it…?"

So much that it hurts…. So will you do it for me? Will you calm down so I can keep loving you?

"…" Lowering his arm from Emma, and reducing his anxious breaths, Henry feels his heart squeeze then steadies. He's calm. Every fiber in him is still and becoming relaxed. Everything is going to be fi—

"Thank you, son—I-I mean," It slipped. It slipped, dear god it slipped, "Henry, for listening. Now if ye can just—"

The knife? Out of reach and too noticeable to obtain. The bottle? Also unobtainable and can cause injuries if grabbed wrongly.

Jade eyes scan, what does he do?

His palm itches, what does he grab?

His muscles contract, heart beating ferociously, what is he doing?

The pan…

He's going for the pan and—

SWING!

Emma ducks. *Miss*

Dammit! A swing and a miss it hella was. Wait a minute… there's momentum gaining!

There's momentum gaining by excruciating milliseconds as the pan still swings full round and force, acknowledging the laws of physics as it becomes a blur.

Where's it going?

"What—"

What's he doing?

"Did I—"

Why isn't he calming? (Calm down!)

"Tell yOU—"

DING! and a SMACK! and a skin crawling SNAP! echoed horrendously through the air, slicing the particles themselves, hence causing immeasurable pure repulsive flinches.

"ABOUT CALLING ME SON?!" Ding! "You're a liar!" Ding! "Liar!" Ding! "LIAAAAR!" Ding! Ding! Ding! Crunch.

"MmmGghMm‼ My Nose! Jesus fucking—Get off of—fffffffuuuuUUUUCK! SWAN!"

"Liar!"

"EMMA?!"

"Liar! Liar!" Ding! "Liar! LIAR! LI—"

"Hook, grab his hands!"

"WHAT?!" Ding! "HELP ME!"

"Just do it!"

Hook has a gushing crimson nose spewing faster than Niagara. Emma has handcuffs. And Henry…

"Hold him down!"

"I can't! I have one fuckin' hand!"

"Henry, get off of him!" She goes into the fire and tries to strip him off.

"LIAR!"

"Get off of him!"

"You're all liars!"

"To hell with this!" By some miracle Hook is able to get a solid punch at the teen's jaw, putting an end to the beating and enabling Emma to yank Henry off.

"Henry!" she exclaims, but barely has a chance to utter anything else as he hurriedly stands and looks abhorrently at the scene before him.

Killian, soaked in blood all over his mouth, nose, and some apron, is flat on the kitchen floor moaning for his life and writhing. Emma, who looks drained and shaken and whose skin possesses an unhealthy pallor, is subtly panting, feigning to catch her breath, and is frozen staring up at her son.

"Henry…," she breathes, sluggishly moving her limbs to stand.

But all Henry sees besides this are spots of color and a tilted view of the world. Everything isn't what it seems to be anymore, it's disoriented. Instantly he drops the pan as if it were scalding hot and takes timid steps back, not fully aware his mother making a slow crawl and reach for him.

"Henry, don't move," cautiously rises Emma like a predator.

Jade eyes travel over to her, searching. It's in vain he asks, also emptily, but he does anyway. "Did you…"

"Yes…. I did. I did, kid, I did." Pause. He isn't moving. Okay, here goes. "But you have to understand—"

Nothing. There's honestly nothing to understand or comprehend since Henry stumbles over himself steps back and scrambles to flee. It's only a matter of time before Emma gains traction too and in a desperate attempt lunges for her son's ankle, both now on the stairs. Clambers, light kicks, and infinite grasps take place with distorted creaks and squeaks followed by rushed stomping as they make it to the top. Emma has a firm grip on Henry in a blink of an eye before he shakes her off again then makes a dash and dive for his room, succeeding.

"Dammit! Henry, open the door!" she harshly bangs. "Henry?!"

---

~Cfys~

"Henry, open the door. [knob jingles] C'mon, kid."

She killed herself.

"Please Henry."

With the gun.

"Come out so we can talk."

And lied the whole time.

"Henry?!"

Da doom….

"Henry, open the door!"

How could she?

"Open the door, please."

How could she?

Da doom.

[knob jingling] "Hen—"

"Why'd you do it?! Why did you kill yourself?!"

"…"

"…"

"Is it cos you don't love me?"

"No, god no. I just—"

"Then what? What did I do for you to do this?"

Pause followed by weary sigh. "Nothing…, you did nothing."

"…you're lying…."

"I'm not, I swear to you I'm not. Kid, you just… you just gotta stop thinking the world's against you and understand—"

"I understand that you lied to me and everyone for 4 months! I understand that you kept a false case going for 4 months! I understand that you knew that Hook knew what you had done for 4 months! I understand that everything has been a lie for 4 months! You lied!"

"Henry, please, just calm down and listen—"

"No! I am done listening and being told to calm down like a dog. You—you had all this time to tell me the truth. Me! Your son!"

"Yes! You are my son, and that's exactly why! I had to protect you—I had to, I had to, I have to. It is my duty as your mother to protect you from things that'll hurt you most! Henry, I love you! You have to see that! [knob jingles] Please, open the door [voice cracks] I have to be there for you, please."

"You lied though…," he rasps, noticing the lead ball in his throat yearning to become a sob.

"…I know. I know, god, I know." Her head lightly thumps the door. "What can I do? Huh? Tell me and I'll make it right, please Henry, I love you so much, just tell me what to do."

"I…I…"

"Please, just tell me."

"I need you…," he rakes his hair repeatedly. "I need you to stay away from me. You're… you're the thing that's hurting me most. I just— [sharp intake of breath] Stay away."

"Henry," Emma starts slowly, cautiously, "just let me in. I know you're hurting, and I'm sorry for that. But it's not me that's hurting you, okay?" Steady breaths. Steady. "It's you. I-I know that you use to cut yourself," Steady, "and you fee like there's nowhere to escape. But Henry, there's plenty of people to turn to that love you as much as me."

"No, there's not!" he shrieks. "They're all… [shaky breath] they're all dead!" He rests his hands atop his head, fighting against the pressure bubbling in his chest. It all just wants to come out; he needs to let it out.

"No. No, they're not. Henry, they're alive a-and well and just waiting for you to come to them. All you have to do is reach out. All you have to do is take that step."

"What step is there to take if you didn't take it yourself?! Huh?! A-at least I cut myself! You—" Breathe, breathe. "You committed—" Breathe. Pace. Breathe. Pace. "I can't! I-I… I can't!"

"You can't what, Henry? … Kid, please tell me. You can't what?"

"I can't—" his knees give out like putty, voice becoming straggly, and tears free-falling. "I cAn'T do ThiS anYMore! NO OnE lOvES ME anyMooRE!"

"No, no, no! [knob violently rattles] Henry—" she bangs the door intensely. "Let me in! I-I… You're not—"

"You think I'm a burden!"

"NO! Don't say that!"

"You committed suicide because of me!"

Doom! Doom! Doom! "Henry, please!"

"Everyone's gone because of me! You tried to leave me!"

"I swear I'm not tryna leave you now! Please, open the door. Open it, just open it, please!"

"Everyone's better off without me! It'd be better if I were dead!"

"NO! No, just—" He's breaking. He's breaking. He's breaking—I can't let him break. I just can't! "Henry, step away from the door."

It's been quite a while since she's done it, let alone by herself without Her. But for the sake of her son and their relationship, anything goes.

Emma steps back from her son's door, ignoring her frantic heart, and holds her hands out channeling every and any speck of emotion involving love and care for Henry, in order to break down the door. She can do this. She is Emma Swan—Savior; or more importantly, Emma Swan—mother. Henry needs her and that's that. Nothing else, nothing extra. Just pure unconditioned love for the little irresistible infant that caught her heart from day one and still clung onto it for the 10 emptiest years of her life. He chose to find her. He chose to bring her into his life and accept her for everything she is and will be. She wasn't just another plain and mundane statistic to him, nor a discarded sack of waste, no. She was his hero. She was what he idolized and gazed upon with such adoration like the moon does to the ocean 24/7. Always pulling her in, did he.

And she wants that back. Gods, she needs that back. Just look at her! Look at her…, she's drunk. She's drunk and is barely enduring the the wails of her son. She's drunk and tried to harm her husband. Hitherto she was only anxious and a bit paranoid, but since there's an entity that enjoys making already stressed situations more dire, here she is drunk (or moderately buzzed if honest) and playing the enemy. Christ…, her own son is spiraling into an unknown abyss cos of her! She is the one breaking their relationship, not Hook! Not anyone else. Just her. She did this and needs to fix it. She needs to fix the problem. That problem being her.

She yells out another assurance that she'll be by Henry's side in a second, ignorant and oblivious that the opposite is best for everyone.

Her hands out, eyes intent, mind focused and heart reeling leads to the tingles tingling her body all over. Palms begin warming and glowing the dimmest of white as the magic strengthens from there. Determination is nothing short in her as she concentrates on every cell in her body becoming uniformed and swept with the infinite love she has for this boy. It will work, it has to. Emma can't let him say such things where the world's better without him. That's just…, no! Shake the thought off! Shake the thought off!

Hands glowing, eyes intent, the thriving hum of magic coursing in her, everything is mixing dearly into the fascinating wonder called magic. And she's smiling. Emma's actually peeping a smile from something she hasn't been able to do right in so long. That's alright, though. It's all going to be alright and better once this door opens and she cradles Henry into her arms, soothing him like the infant he was and wasn't long back. Things are going to change. Things are going to get better. It's always darkest before the dawn, and right now she's going to provide the little glimpse that's needed to wake the sun from its slumber. Everything is going to be fine. Okay, even.

Everything is going to be o…

"Aaagh!"

'kay. "Henry?" No answer. "Henry, are you okay?" She presses her ear to the door. "Kid?"

"S-stay away! Stay… agh! Just stay away!"

What did she do? "What happened? H-henry, what happened?!"

"…my…my hand… gah!" he hisses. "Just stay away, you keep hurting me!"

"What? Henry—" right then she grabs for the doorknob, knowing well that it won't budge, and is smacked with the unexpected, literally.

From gripping the knob a quick flash of light flashes before her back fully slams into the wall behind her, then sliding down as she grits her teeth from the pain rippling. Her foggy head barely has time to discern the yelp ringing through her ears that wasn't from her, but from Henry.

Of who is also gritting his teeth trying to ride the pain flourishing through his ringed hand. He remains still, anguishing, but focusing on the physical torment he's in rather than the emotional.

Despite this, however, his mind too becomes dizzy as he hears Emma slowly rising and preparing another attempt at the door. It seems the more she tries to muster her magic, the more it hurts him.

"Stay away!" he yells, this time earnestly. He needs to get out of here. He needs to—

Doom!

"Agh!" he cries, succumbing to the pain. "Stay Away!"

"I'm not… not gonna do dat…," tires Emma.

"You're drunk! Just stay away!"

"Just open da door…," Doom! "Open the…," Doom! "Just open da door!" Doom!

"Stop!"

"Open the door, Henry!" Doom! Doom! "Just open it!"

"You're hurting me!"

"I'm not, no." She shakes her airy head, feeling lethargic in her movement and words. "I'm helpin' you…," she takes a step back, raising her leg. "I'm savin' you!" Another kick, giving a Doom! followed with another yelp.

Then silence.

Silence….

Silence.

"Henry?"

"…"

Reaching for the knob, but thinking better on it, she knocks. "Kid…?"

"…"

Something's not right.

"…"

"Henry?" Knock, knock.

"…"

"Henry, please say something. Tell me you're all right at least."

"…"

"C'mon, at most yell at me. Tell me to go away or something. Just… say something!"

"…"

"Okay…, okay on the count of 3 I'm coming in. If you're still there, say something, please."

"…"

"1…," Breathe. "2…," Don't hold your breath, just breathe. "3." Forgetting the consequences, she grabs the doorknob and immediately hears a hiss followed by a shrill cry, and then a piercing snap. All of it from Henry. The snap so crisp and shrill so piercing she can't help but let her mind grimly wander and breathing cease. This being her own consequence, cos now… now she's frenetic.

"Henry? Henry?! Henry! Henry! Please…." She rattles the brass knob in spite of the bass of her heart strumming against her ribs. Da doom. Da doom. The rapping bangs and kicks at the door making nothing but racketing noise anguishing her tenfold. Doom! Doom! And the despondent cries and snaps auditing through the air burdened Emma to possibly face a reality that seems sicker to the mind than her own suicide.

"Henry, open the door [knob rattles]. Open the—" Doom! "Open the door!" Doom! Doom!

Like mother, like son, yes?

"Open the door, Henry! Open the door!"

The Queen was just a wispy breath away from Emma. So why not him?

Doom! Doom! Doom!

Revelations dawn.

"Henry, open the—"

Especially for tragedies.

"Open the door!" Doom!

Has it dawned to Henry—

Doom! "Open the—"

that for him to escape his tragedy—

"Swan, whad happenin' up dere?!"

he must draw the red curtain? Bid the world a final adieu?

'Slam the door open!' "Henry!" 'Slam it open!'

Despite such ill thoughts, nothing withstands the notion that an addled mind, when justly despaired—

"The door!" Doom! "Open the—" Doom! Doom! "Henry please! PLEASE!"

is nothing short of fault.

"Hen—[she trips forward from the door unhinging]"

Yet it can sure as hell get you out when needed, as for Henry.

"Kid?! Kid where are you?!" stumbles Emma in the room centralizing there's no body. That is until she notices the open window and hears slight rustling from below.

And that's when her heart joyously swayed plummeting to its death. Bittersweet was it.

Henry—surely out and not limped on a noose nor draining red by his bed—taking solace in the somber sky and lying face up, bruised in the bushes with a broken tree branch beside him, widens his eyes from Emma's voice and head peeping out the window. Her shimmery hair causing a panic in his chest. He doesn't register anything she says, but is instantly adrenalized with the basic physiological reaction of them all: fight-or-flight.

What do I do?! She's gonna come for me! Do I stay or—
Run!
But I—
Run! Run! Fucking RUN!

Rising and struggling from the shrubbery, then wobbling and troubling a fine moment before catching some still sloppy footing, Henry dashes and from there is gone.

Not even wasting an outcry, Emma exits her way out the room, ignoring the trips and stumbles over the door, and glides her way down the stairs while reflecting off Hook's failed apology. "Henry's running, I'm going after him." She beelines for the coat closet not offering an ounce of attention to the pirate and grabs her jacket and the teen's scarf.

"Emma," whines Hook with an apron over his nose, but is clipped from the front door shutting.

["White Winter Hymnal" by Fleet Foxes]

Out in the muggy air, lurking fog, and biting wind, Emma zones the direction her son heads and takes off from there. She fully sprints, not even pleading for her random jogs to offer guidance, and in no time see's the back of her son's head.

"Henry!" she hollers, yards behind. She can see him swallowed in his jacket without his scarf stapled to his throat. But that's what she has it for! If he can just turn around and—

"Stay away!"

"But Henry—"

"Stay the hell away!" he bellows, turning his head and alarming how close she is. The street lamps shining their orange glow on both peoples running down the deserted road.

"Not until we talk! I just wanna talk!"

"There's nothing you can say!" He takes a sharp turn and almost smacks into a lady.

"Henry, please, you have to understand—"

"Just stay the hell away! What don't you understand?!"

On this goes for stretching seconds before they're on another street with Henry increasingly panicking how close Emma is. If he can just somehow maneuver his way out her sight, or be granted a damn miracle somehow!

'How hard is it to lose her?!'

"Kid, please! Slow down!"

Saying screw it, the brunet decides to detour, like his jump, and pray for the best where both persons get lost. This leads him from an alleyway to a backstreet. And as brilliant it seemed for someone to get lost, it truly didn't sink to Henry just how fit Emma was, regardless her zombic appearance. Literally she is feet away from clipping his heel as she frantically reaches out to grab his jacket. That is until Henry pulls a keen 180 and cuts 45 through (or trespasses) a resident's property and backyard, only to be brought back to another backstreet. Time falls by the grain as he thinks for the life of him on where to head toward in favor to ditch Emma. His eyes helplessly paddle from the endless, yet limited, routes to take; but to his avail, over yon jade eyes set upon their graceful safe haven. All he needs to do is floor it.

Emma, wheezing from the embers in her chest, also limitedly scrutinizes for her next route. Besides the dizziness flurrying around her, she's able to also settle upon where her chase will lead her, and from this cusses.

The fuck is in the woods?!

"Henry, please!" she croaks—rasps entwining with the wheezing. "You have to let me explain!" Her peripheral is blurring from aimed vision focused on Henry.

"Leave me alone!" Only sight in his vision is a barren wasteland that'll offer some coverage to escape this fucking nightmare.

Despite differing perspectives, this next part was the heart-palpitating fear of a seemingly never-ending path leading to something inevitably unanticipated.

It was him flooring it and her following. Then it was him stumbling and tripping—her heart leapt for his welfare. Next there was a burst and cascading flow of relief in both because he was fine. He was fine, and well… they resumed their chase.

They resumed their chase and—

Scuuuuuurrrk!

"Hen—"

BAM‼