He didn't wait for anyone else. With a clear path between himself and the door, Killian dashes out of it, still clad in the heavy black coat.
"She won't be out there!" Regina shouts after him, but he knows that. If Emma had wanted him to follow her, she would have merely turned and walked out, rather than vanish in a puff of smoke. Emma embracing the Darkness—unthinkable.
Outside in the empty street, he glares up at one particular sign, Mr. Gold's Pawn Shop. So unassuming. Large windows against a dusty turquoise exterior...straightforward sign...bloody hell, it should be a law against nature for someone so sinister to be behind it!
"Killian!" he hears Belle's heels clicking against the street, but her small frame and her long gown are no match for him. Reaching the shop's door, he paws at the knob in a vain attempt to ignore the fact Belle probably locked the place up before they left. Drawing back his hooked arm, he finds his dark reflection in the glass and takes aim.
"Stop! Killian, stop! What are you doing?" She hurdles into him, her arms cinching his waist so that he stumbles forward. Leaping up onto him, she grabs him even tighter.
"Let go!"
"No! You can't go in there like this! I can't let you hurt him! It's not his fault!"
"It bloody well is!" he cries, groaning at how Belle strains his back. Fighting an impulse to just throw her off him, he leans backward, listening for her feet to touch the ground. She still restrains him, her short stature putting him in an awkward-enough hold to keep him in a constant state of imbalance. Above them, the streetlight flickers on and off, encasing them in light one second and the abyss the next. Grunting, he snaps his eyes shut. "If he'd just stayed over the town line, he'd have died, and the magic in him would have died, too! But no, he did the cowardly thing like he always does and snuck his way back into town! It's his fault the Darkness got loose! It's his fault Emma had to take it on in the first place!"
Expecting more frantic pleas to spare the Crocodile's life, he feels Belle's arms loosen around him, lowering just a fraction. He hears her feet finally touch the ground. He flinches at the sensation of her head pressing against his back and her body, adjusting until they're in something akin to an embrace. Here he is, prepared to break into the shop and strangle the life out of Rumpelstiltskin, and she's hugging him?
"This isn't you, Killian, not anymore," she sighs. Her cheek is pushed so hard up against his back it distorts her voice. She chokes back a sob. "How are you supposed to help Emma if you give into darkness, too? Please. Please don't hurt the man I love."
A snapping sound above them cuts a feral growl short. He's all too familiar with the odor of burned something looming in the air. Shuffling the two of them out of the way, he pulls her off of him as shards of glass from the streetlight rain down onto the sidewalk. Stepping into the light of the next one, he sweeps his hand down her arm and inspects her.
"Are you okay?"
Nodding, Belle squints at him, head cocked. Gods, he thinks, running his hand through his hair as he glances past her at the undamaged door and the glass fragments on the ground in front of it. How close he'd been to losing his temper completely; so close to hurting a woman he'd pledged loyalty and services to. Emma had embraced the Darkness. He'd failed her...somehow...and not even remembering how...
"I'm sorry," he says in a raspy voice, raising an eyebrow slightly at how quickly she'd caught her breath. Instead of panting, she purses her lips at him and folds her arms.
"Maybe instead of pursuing an enemy, you should be supporting your family right now," she scolds him. "Henry, Mary Margaret, and David are back there just as lost and upset as you are."
Aye, he should. They are his family, after all. He should go back to them and be reminded how much misery is supposed to love company, but, if he is to be honest with himself, he fears facing them at the moment. He'd lost Emma once and couldn't bear the sight of her parents, riding away and rallying what he remained of his crew instead, trying to relive the old days. It's not as if they would know of any immediate solutions of how to fix this, either...and wouldn't that be the best comfort to everyone? Finding a solution?
"Let me back in," he says.
"Absolutely not!" Belle argues.
"No, lass. I-I'm all right now. I...the books we poured over about the Dark One, when Bae was missing-"
"You're hoping there's an answer in there," she finishes for him, her mouth rounded in thought. She'll let him in now, he assures himself, the corner of his mouth threatening to twitch up into a smile. Leave it to Belle and her books.
"I'm choosing to be proactive," he adds. They stare at one another, and while he cannot in good conscience call himself an expert when it comes to reading Belle's face, it's not often that he needs to, the lass far more inclined to wear her feelings outwardly than others. The suspicion dancing around in her head peters out and images of commencing some research take over. Dusting off her gown—hunter green, he notes, now that they stand in the light—she slips back toward the door, hopping over the broken glass.
"I left the keys back at the house," she says with all the calm she displayed back when they were researching the Sorcerer's Hat. "I'm going to go back there, change...possibly burn this dress since I have no idea where it came from...and I will unlock both the shop and the library for us. But I won't if I find you here still in those clothes or hearing that you haven't at least made eye contact with Mary Margaret and David. Do we have a deal?"
"As shrewd as your ex-husband," he snorts, lowering his head a little to allow her to see a small smirk. "Although your deals are far more agreeable."
"Yeah, well...I'm going to add sweeping up this mess, too," she says, walking backwards and pointing at him before she turns all the way around and runs off into the night.
"Belle. Belle?"
She'd fallen asleep on the card table they'd set up in the middle of the shop somewhere in the night, a loose piece of scrap paper sticking to her face as she lifted her head. The sharp oranges and pinks of sunrise had mellowed into an inconspicuous blue, more and more pedestrians crossing in front of the shop window. Killian hadn't slept. Rubbing his eyes, he runs his hand through his hair, the pads of his fingers dragging along the scalp. Not one blasted iota of help in all the books from the shelves, and yet he hadn't exhausted himself. He knows why; the dreams that would plague his sleep right now would prevent him from resting anyway. Maleficent's spell-induced nightmare would pale in comparison. Emma dark, memories gone, no one with any idea of what to do...
"You didn't go to bed?" Belle yawned, staggering to her feet and venturing into the back room, presumably to check on her indisposed Crocodile.
"Surely there has to be something else," he calls to her, slamming the cover of another book shut.
"I'm sorry the library's selection is nothing compared to what all you have on your ship," she says on her way back to the counter, something snippy about her tone. "But that's all we've got."
How fares your ex-husband, he considers snapping, but declines, the fact that Rumpelstiltskin lies in a helpless, death-like state just one wall over strikes Killian as something that crossed the line of irony a long time ago and treks into ridiculous territory.
"Killian, you should get some rest."
"I can't rest. I don't want to try while...I can't right now." He senses her approaching and looks up to see her with the shop's ledger tucked into her chest, ready to resume business. It's the gentlest method he's seen of how to kick someone out.
"At least go eat," Belle tries again. Before he can even shake his head or crack open another book, she adds, "If you won't go for yourself, you could go get me some breakfast. Nothing extravagant, though. I'd like oatmeal with blueberries and an orange juice. Here." Shifting her weight, she digs into her pocket and pulls out some of the folding money of this land. "Here's some cash."
Perhaps unwilling to declare it part of his debt to her for attempting to break into the shop last night or—Killian sighs—trying to harm her a few times, Belle just nudges him until he stands of his own accord and pushes away her hand.
"I shall buy you breakfast," he says, trudging out the door. The rays of the sun create blinding patches of light in a few corners of the shop, culminating in one piercing haze the moment he steps outside. His brain reminds him it's a normal day in Storybrooke, but the more imaginative side of him remembers a pulse of absolute whiteness radiating out of Regina and Henry's kiss at the harbor. The light pouring out of them, the love between them personified, returned everyone's memories to them, and just in time since that had been the day of Neal's birth. It was one thing to conceive a child and not remember the pleasant details, but to actually give birth to the little one without recalling a bloody thing...
It was included in every story about Snow and David, how True Love's Kiss woke her from her sleeping curse and enabled them to fight the Evil Queen together, or live happily ever after depending on how much time one had to listen. True Love's Kiss could break any curse, and he'd already tried it once. An infernally stupid choice, that, but Emma hadn't even remembered him then. Now was different.
I love you.
No matter what had happened in Camelot, he would remember those words regardless of whatever magic crossed their path. So it stands to reason it would work now. He'd loved her in some form probably since the moment she held a knife to his throat, and she loved him.
Frozen in front of the pawn shop door, he stared at the sidewalk in thought. Was it too simple a solution? Even in Snow White and Prince Charming's tale, distance and circumstance had done everything in their power to keep them apart. He had to be overlooking something. Breakfast can wait, he thinks, turning on his heel and charging back into the shop. The bell heralds his arrival and Belle turns to him with a look not of irritation wondering why he had returned without her food, but one of pity.
"True Love's Kiss," he says, nearing her, stepping in and out of the light patches cast on the floor. "I need to know why it didn't work for you and the bloody Crocodile."
"W-well, it did work, the first time," she stammers after a beat. "It awoke the man behind the beast. But Rumple got scared of a life without power and...and he chose power over love. He pulled away from me, and in that moment, the Darkness forever regained its grip on him." Glancing up at him, her eyes dart for just a moment while she considers elaborating. "You know, a curse isn't a curse anymore when the afflicted wants it."
He should be insulted by her tone on Emma's behalf, but then he supposes if he had lived her life, he would be dubious about it as well.
"That won't be a problem for Emma." He'd seen her resist the Darkness before, when they'd gone after her. He'd seen firsthand how she'd resisted it with everything in her and refrained from crushing Merida's heart. She'd resisted the Darkness her entire life. She should have been a villain a thousand times over after living such a solitary, discouraging life, and yet she had maintained such selflessness, such willpower. As soon as he could show her she no longer needed to stay its victim, Emma would make the Darkness sorry it had ever existed.
"Killian, wait," Belle pleads. "I know you think you can handle a Dark One-"
"-I've battled him for centuries. I'm still here!"
"But you were trying to kill him, and, well, it's far easier to hate a Dark One than it is to love one." Biting her lip, her eyes brim with tears, probably recalling how many times the Dark One broke her heart. "Be careful."
For once, the hardest part is finding her. To the passersby, he must seem aimless, wandering from one spot to another. Outside the apartment, her little spot overlooking the harbor, her park bench—nothing, although he didn't know what he had expected instead. Swan hadn't exactly given them any contact information when she'd strutted into Granny's and then disappeared as mysteriously as she'd arrived.
Back on the main street, he sees the sun glinting off of her car, rendering the yellow almost blinding against all the surrounding beige. He places his hand on the...the—blast it, he can't remember what it's called—the front of the car. Somehow the smooth, warm surface gives him a second wind.
"Where are you?" he murmurs into the air. "Don't make me summon you, Swan."
"You just did," he hears after a quick whoosh of smoke. Turning around, there she is, giving him the most neutral expression he's seen on her in a long time. Her hair looks frosted with ice in broad daylight, her black cloak of a coat replaced with a simple black dress. Before he can even take a step toward her, black smoke surrounds him. When it clears, the noises from the street are gone, replaced with the muted, natural sound of birds chirping above them. Cocking his head, he finds a light blue, maybe gray, house looming over them. Large windows, a terrace, white picket fence surrounding the place... It gives no hints as to where they are or who it belongs to.
"I was looking for you, too," Swan purrs, gripping the lapels of his jacket. Letting go of him, she starts for the front steps, looking...out of place with her sharp features and heels in the fresh grass. "The new look comes with some other perks."
"Where the bloody hell are we?" he asks, watching her open the unlocked door.
"My place. Come on."
He follows her in and knows he could burn a hole into her with his stare as she veers into the kitchen on the left. She poses in front of it with her hands on her hips as if she made the thing herself...which she very well could have, given the circumstances.
"What do you think?" she sings with a grin she herself has described as "shit-eating" on more than one occasion. Back when she was herself.
"I think I'm surprised you invited me in," he says, scanning the downstairs. Sparsely furnished, he finds two chairs at every table, two candlesticks, two cushioned chairs. All so cold, and none of it her. Not that he found her rose-patterned bedding at the loft to really be her either, but the Dark Curse had decorated that apartment for Snow long before Emma had ever shown up. That, and it had bold red sheets underneath it. This place...
"Just because I'm the Dark One doesn't mean we can't still be together," Swan says in a dismissive, careless sort of way. He also gets the feeling Swan wouldn't keep every door in the house closed, or the stairway darkened, or a bulky, ornate lock on the cellar door.
Killian Jones.
Tilting his head, he refuses to blink. He hadn't heard it, not really. He'd...felt it, something behind the door. Narrowing his gaze, everything around it begins to fade, like he's in a long, dark tunnel, waiting to hear it again. It must have been his imagination, and yet something, something still seems to be whispering to him, like a siren's voice carried away by the wind.
A glass of an amber liquid pops in front of him in the tunnel.
"I still also know the fastest way to a pirate's heart is through his liver," Swan simpers at him, holding a glass of rum in front of him.
Enough of this.
"There's an even faster way." He doesn't care if he pounces on her, or if their teeth crash together. He needs to give this kiss everything he has, every passionate fantasy that ever entered his mind, every vow he'd repeat at a wedding. Every action that he can remember that led the two of them to this moment replays in his head, so he kisses her harder. She moans into it, and he swears he can feel his own blood circulating through him as he always does when he kisses her, but something's off. The air feels thicker somehow, like they're atop a mountain. A scent he can't quite place permeates throughout the room, but it's not the scent of her magic. Nor is it pleasant. It's something salty, like sea spray, with a sulfuric undercurrent. He has a sudden vision of an ocean being overtaken by fire and brimstone.
"Now there's the pirate I remember," Swan nearly moans against his lips.
Suddenly it doesn't feel like the two of them. It feels like he's watching two strangers kiss. Breaking away from her, he dodges her lips chasing his. Her look of confusion doesn't match the horror that must be written all over his face, he thinks.
"It didn't bloody work," he breathes. He likens her vacant, stoic expression to a bucket of ice water being dumped all over him.
"You've been talking to Belle," she states after a beat, not with disappointment, but with awe. He knows her too well to be mistaken. He's impressed this dark imitation of her with the attempt. So that has to mean the real Emma is in there. Doesn't it?
"Why didn't it work?" he asks so quietly he's not certain he even spoke.
"It didn't work because there's nothing to fix. This is who I am now! Why can't you accept that? Why can't anyone accept that?" On the verge of hysteria, she suddenly locks herself back up and waits for him to answer her.
"Because this isn't you. What the hell happened in Camelot?" Emma Swan didn't cause drama, didn't change moods in the blink of an eye. She knew her own life provided them more than enough drama. A flash of resentment crosses her face, a slew of what have to be horrible memories flashing through her mind.
"That seems to be the question of the day."
No. No more walking away from him to avoid talking. They've been done with that for too long now. Emma practically jumps into his arms now, summons the courage to talk to him when she's troubled. And she knows the price of secrets.
"Then bloody answer me!" he demands, watching her back, watching the unnatural whiteness in her hair, the paleness of her skin.
"I wish I could," she whispers, and, in another instance of mood whiplash, she looks on the verge of tears, a deep, loathsome sadness taking hold of her. This, he believes. This is Emma. Gods, what had they done to fail her? What would have made her such a lesser version of herself?
Hurrying to her, he looks into her eyes. "You can tell me anything."
She searches him, and he almost believes she'll talk to him. Leaning forward, chest heaving, she stops herself. Adopting a smirk, she places her arm around him and throws out a hip.
"But that would be no fun. I'm tired of talking. Now do you want to stay or not?" She leans into him more, the space between them all but humming in anticipation. But if she thinks they're going to do anything more than talk in this closed-off, foreign house, she's sorely mistaken.
"Sorry, Swan," he swallows just as their noses brush. "This may be who you think you are. But this isn't who I am."
She lets him leave. He orders himself to not look back, lest he give in to her, but he senses her smiling behind him, basking in how proud of herself she is.
A/N: The chapter title is paraphrasing a line from Black Swan. Coming up? The scene I was the most nervous about writing in this whole arc, to include the multiple death scenes.
