Emma blinked the ceiling into focus for a few seconds before the pain set in. Everywhere, all at once. Her limbs throbbed. Her head ached. Her skin felt as though it'd been torn apart. Ripped from her bones. When she moved, she felt sticky wetness all over and looked down to see her previously white sheets stained red.
She limped to the bathroom, leaving a trail of bloody footprints across her apartment.
Her cabinets were dishearteningly light on supplies. A few scraps of gauze, a nearly empty bottle of antiseptic, and an all-but-used-up roll of medical tape.
She bit her lip while she washed her hands, but it wasn't enough to stymie the string of curses she'd held in since realizing the Director had hijacked her mind.
Was every magical being so fucking dramatic?
A shadow in her periphery made her jump, her heart taking longer to settle at the sight of Killian's face than it would've a few hours earlier. Some part of her still hesitated to let relief take over. Some larger-than-she-wanted-to-admit part of her questioned if it really was Killian. Or if the Director, unsatisfied with the way they left things, had followed her to the waking world.
She read the answer in his incredulous eyes. The open set to his mouth. He was struck speechless by the sight of her, and it was the first thing in her entire day that put her mind at ease.
—
She was halfway through a bottle of Scotch whisky and not a single sign of drunkenness to be detected, thank you very much. She felt a little wobbly, seated at the edge of the bathtub as Killian tended to her wounds, but that could've just been the world spinning beneath her. Ever content to keep her on her toes.
Killian was quite serious. Emma poked a finger to his furrowed brow to massage the skin smooth again, and earned herself a slight smile. Then he came to a particularly deep cut and Emma sucked the air between her teeth and pulled away. Killian silently implored her to trust him, his blue eyes never seeming more like Kryptonite than in that moment, and she held her arm out again.
"So I'm to take it this person got away?"
Emma frowned as the Director's dark smile flashed across her thoughts. That haughty laugh. And she swore to herself that it did not matter what mask they wore, or what their true face turned out to be—Emma would find a way out of this mess. Out of all these rules and stipulations and loopholes that only benefited a select few.
"Not for long," she said. And she'd never been as sure of anything in her life as she tossed her head back with another swig of whisky straight from the bottle.
"Any more of that," said Killian, prying the numbing agent from her hands and setting it out of reach, "and you'll sleep for a week."
"I see no problem with that." To demonstrate, Emma closed her eyes, let her limbs go slack at her sides. How did the saying go? To sleep, perchance to dream. She'd dream up a better reality than the one she currently faced. One where she didn't wake up each morning wondering which Killian would greet her. A Killian broken by tragedy and bent on revenge, or a Killian whose path had splintered off course, just like Emma's. Interrupted by an offer neither of them could refuse. I'm here to deliver your happy ending.
A Killian who loved someone named Milah, or a Killian who loved her.
Weightlessness descended upon Emma and she surrendered to it, coming back to herself when Killian's arms encompassed her and persuaded her upright again. She laughed as she held onto him for balance—okay, so maybe one sign of drunkenness. He wanted to laugh, too, but he held back.
"We'll be here all night, you keep that up," he said. "Is there a place on your body that didn't sustain injury?"
"You think this is bad, you should see the other guy."
"The window, you mean?"
Emma snorted. "I don't know why you're so grumpy—I'm the one who almost died."
Killian's grip tightened on her arm, his jaw clenched, with a look of terror in his eyes that drove out the good humor the whisky had spawned. He'd had another dream, she could read it all over his face.
He took a deep breath and schooled his features into something more agreeable, his hand loosening on her arm, and continued with his task.
"I knew this woman, once," said Emma. "Not very well, but…"
A connection had formed, nonetheless. In less than forty-eight hours, she'd caused a rift between the future Emma had accepted as the only conceivable course her life could take and a future that was pure possibility. She'd been the first to revive that dying ember of hope after Neal, and her death had left a scar.
Emma blinked back the sting in her eyes as she said, "I know how much worse it could've been."
How much worse it could still be.
If the Director was right about Alistair—
If the visions Emma had seen were true—
If signing away her wish was the only way to help Killian—
If she truly was on her own in all this—
Emma swallowed the emotion welling up in her throat. What the whisky had only quieted, not erased.
"Do you ever feel like some things are too heavy to handle on your own?"
"Aye." Killian reached for a fresh cotton ball and dabbed at another wound. "But you're not alone, Swan."
Emma smiled sadly. Would he even remember this conversation tomorrow?" "I know."
—
An asterisk only ever meant trouble. One that appeared suddenly at the previously blank bottom of a page, followed by a line of rapidly appearing text was downright unsettling.
She held her breath and braced herself for the worst.
She had three days to make up her mind, or else.
If, at the end of three days, a decision had not been made, the council would be within their rights to carry out any penalty befitting the situation.
Emma was lost to the implications of this new addition to her contract when the knock she'd been waiting for finally came. She closed the contract inside a desk drawer and crossed her apartment, pausing for a beat with her hand around the doorknob. Maybe two.
This was not a conversation she relished having. Despite the brevity of her encounter with the Director, she'd come away with the unshakable impression that such a being, so consumed with magic, could not be taken at their word. And her worst fears had the unfortunate habit of coming true. Something deep inside, though it inched its way closer and closer to the forefront of all she tried to suppress, warned her to be wary of anyone claiming to be her friend.
Alistair took one look at Emma and let out a low whistle. "You look like hell, do you know that?" He shook his head and pushed past her into the apartment. "No matter—I think I've found a solution to our Jones problem. Not the most elegant, I'll admit, but we can't afford to be choosy now."
When Emma didn't respond, only followed silently after him, he paused in the middle of his next sentence—something in line with his previous mention of sleeping spells—to look her over. "Everything all right, Darling? Aside from the obvious, I mean."
Emma reached for the chain around her neck and held Killian's ring up for his inspection. "Did you give this to me when I was a baby?"
Simple question to start. But somehow yes and no had never seemed so far apart. Opposite sides of a coin, tossed high in the air—when it landed, Emma would know which path to take.
Alistair crossed his arms. "I don't know what you mean. What is that? Some trinket? You mortals and your keepsakes, I'm sure I'll never understand. We've more pressing matters to discuss, haven't we?"
If Emma wasn't mistaken, her guide had begun to sweat. Small beads forming first along his hairline, then between his brows.
"There's no need to get upset."
"If I'm upset, it's because you're wasting what precious little time we have—"
"Something easier, then," said Emma. Cool and collected as ever, held together by a steady and simmering indignation. A righteous anger. "Did you turn me into the police when I was a teenager?"
Alistair's mouth hung open but no answer, no excuse, came forth. "W-Where would you get an idea like that? Honestly…" he laughed a quiet, nervous laugh, "…you sound as confused as Jones."
Maybe Emma had it wrong—maybe that was Alistair's plan. She trusted Killian more than she trusted anyone in the world, and he'd tried to warn her about Alistair. What if Alistair was the villain in all this? What if the Director and the council were on the side of good? Alistair had only ever been sketchy from the moment Emma met him—keeping his secrets and speaking in half-truths.
"Why do you use bottled magic?" She asked next. "Is it so the council can't find you?"
"Why do any of us do anything? Why do you still drive your ex-boyfriend's car?" As soon as he said it, he seemed to know it was the wrong choice of words. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "Why do you wear leather jackets in the summer? Who can say, really? All a matter of preference, isn't it?"
"I have a theory," said Emma. "Want to hear it?"
Alistair didn't answer.
"You lost your daughter to a curse and needed a Savior. The night I was born, you stole me from my home and hid me here." He shook his head, prepared to interrupt, but Emma continued. "You interfered with my life, manipulated events—my relationships—so that when the time was right, I'd be all too grateful and eager to help. You reinserted yourself into my life, got me to trust you. You messed with Killian's mind as some sort of petty revenge. You're a liar and a murderer. You aren't even a guide anymore, are you?"
"Emma please, you don't understand—"
"We had an agreement, and I've held up my end. Now it's your turn."
"If you'd only allow me to explain—"
"You swore that if I didn't come around to your way of thinking, you'd leave and never come back."
"Don't do this, Emma. You have no idea what you're up against."
She had no doubt that was true. Whatever her role ultimately turned out to be, there was no longer any question as to whether or not there were supernatural forces at play. She'd seen too much to be as wholly cynical as she had been at the start. But whatever enemy came for her, whatever she faced, she'd face it alongside people she could actually trust. Even if, in the end, that meant she faced it alone.
She'd grown accustomed to relying solely on herself, and the world seemed intent on reminding her why this was the best option.
First August, now Alistair. How many others had come and gone in the same way? Checking she still had a pulse and then vanishing before she could start to depend on them?
They'd been there. They'd seen the places she'd lived—sometimes no place at all—and had done nothing to improve her situation. Content to let adversity shape her. Harden her.
In that moment, for the first time, Emma regretted the name she'd chosen for herself after she'd been inspired by that blue-eyed boy. She'd thought he was like her. He'd given her hope that her circumstances could improve, back when hope was all she thought she'd ever need.
But hope didn't fill an empty stomach. It didn't keep her warm at night when her clothes were so threadbare she might as well have walked the world without them. Hope didn't dry her tears, didn't soothe the ache of longing for a family that didn't want her. It didn't sing lullabies by her bed at night.
Fuck hope.
She'd needed someone—anyone. A person of flesh and blood to care whether she lived or died, and not because she harbored some dormant ability to break a curse. Because she was Emma, and that was enough.
"Leave," she said. She squared her shoulders, turned up her chin. Surrendered the last shred of sympathy she would ever feel for the man in front of her. "And never come back."
—
The call came in at midnight. Not that she'd been sleeping. In truth, she couldn't remember the last full night's rest she'd gotten. She was too anxious. Too weighed down. Too preoccupied with Killian's alter ego and his obsession with the tombs at Rolling Hills Cemetery.
"Yeah, I'm looking for Emma Swan."
Emma rolled onto her stomach and felt around for the light switch, closing her eyes against the first few seconds of blinding light. She was already rummaging for the jeans she'd tossed on the floor and trying to remember where she'd left her keys when the voice on the line said, "Got a guy here at the Liar's Den needs to be picked up. You acquainted with a Killian Jones?"
She pulled up outside the bar at half past twelve. The neon sign in the window said CLOSED, but the front door was wide open. The last time she'd been there was when she'd brought Charlotte to see Killian. Kid had been in and out and down the street before Emma had gotten out of the car.
A guy with a full beard and a warm smile greeted her when she walked in. "Emma?" He gestured toward a table at the far end of the all-but-empty establishment. "Your boy's right over there. Been like that for the past hour."
A woman with bright red hair to match the bartender's cleared away glasses and coasters and dishes half-filled with peanuts. Just past her sat a man talking animatedly with the air.
Killian perked up at the sight of Emma walking toward him. "Swan! What brings you here? Come," he pushed a chair out with his foot, "sit, sit."
"Who're you talking to?"
"You remember Charlotte." Killian indicated a third chair across the table from him. "We were just discussing the effects of magic withdrawal."
"Is that right?"
"Quite." Killian finished off the last inch of amber liquid that'd lined the bottom of his glass and held it above his head. "Barkeep! I'll have another."
Emma took the glass from him and set it aside. "I think its time to go home."
"Pray tell, Swan—what shall we do once we arrive?" He flashed her a wicked grin that Emma might've found impossible to resist in another attitude. What felt another life entirely.
She smiled past the sting in her eyes and said, "Whatever your drunken heart desires."
When she offered her hand, Killian gladly accepted. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, thanked his hosts for a lovely evening while Emma paid his tab, and turned back to bid "Charlotte" safe travels back to HQ.
Emma helped him into the passenger seat while he sang a song about really bad eggs and urged Emma to join in. "Come, Swan—where's your sense of whimsy?"
He was out and snoring before she'd driven two blocks.
—
The next day as Emma was leaving for work, she heard muffled banging coming from Killian's apartment and expected to walk in on him rearranging furniture. In truth, rearrange was putting it mildly.
His living room hadn't been updated so much as upended. His coffee table lay on its face near the window, his couch was turned on its back halfway to the front door, and the recliner was nowhere to be seen. Books were torn apart and scattered, every drawer in his kitchen either open or removed. There were holes in the drywall, each one at what she estimated to be Killian's eye level. And in the center of the apartment, ripping the spine off another hardback and grumbling quietly to himself about finding "it," was Killian.
Emma called his name and he turned toward her with a look she'd never seen before. Somehow light and dark at the same time. Strange and intense—a glimmer in his eyes that epitomized the phrase, "on edge."
His gaze drifted to a spot on Emma's chest and he stalked toward her. Emma fought the impulse to retreat. For the first time since she'd met him, she felt something akin to genuine fear. She tried to push it down, rationalize it away. This was Killian. What was there to be afraid of?
Then again…
Maybe this wasn't the Killian she knew. Alistair had lied about too many things to count, but what if he hadn't lied about this? What if what'd taken hold of Killian was so much bigger than a little memory tampering? What if he was slipping into the darkest, most revenge-obsessed version of himself?
How was Emma supposed to bring him back?
He stopped directly in front of her and smirked. It was all Emma could do not to flinch when he reached up and plucked the silver chain from her neck. He held it up so that the ring dangled between them and relief washed over him, almost eradicating that menacing sneer.
Almost, but not quite.
He took the ring off its chain and placed it on the pinky finger of his right hand, closed his fist, and sighed.
When he looked at her again, he was calm and collected. But a disconcerting air remained, a thick and palpable atmosphere inside that disrupted space.
"Was there something you needed, Love?"
Even the way he pronounced that last word was off. What'd always felt like a nickname landed like an overused term he employed when a person's true name eluded him. Detached and empty, and not at all reserved solely for her.
"No, nothing." Emma backed away and out the open door, not fully able to breathe until she reached the elevator.
The doors parted and she stepped inside, not registering the man attempting to step out until she bumped into him. She uttered an apology, her mind reeling.
"Emma?" His voice, too, though distantly familiar through the haze of panicked thoughts, failed to spark any recognition.
She blinked him into focus, but felt lightyears removed from her own body. All she saw was the wrath in Killian's eyes. All she heard was a ringing in her ears.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine," she managed to spit out, as though by autopilot, not sure if she should be grateful or disturbed that small talk was one of those things—so deeply ingrained in a person it hardly warranted being present. "How are you?"
"Emma? Emma, what's wrong?"
It all came crashing back at once. Wishes, curses, betrayals, contracts. She looked into the man's blue eyes and the weight of a dozen fates pressed down on her. No matter what she chose, someone suffered. She'd chosen to believe Alistair, and now Killian was a shadow of the man she'd given her heart to. She'd chosen to cast Alistair out, knowing it meant separation from his daughter, possibly forever. She'd chosen to make a wish on her twenty-seventh birthday and set all of this in motion.
"Everything."