Killian never imagined he'd miss the hook should fortune ever see fit to return his hand. As the situation stood, there was a particularly bothersome nine-year-old boy he'd taken under his wing who refused to cower at a single threat Killian had issued. Good shake of his hook would've shut the lad up quite nicely, he had no doubt.
Either the boy wasn't easily intimidated, or Killian had lost his edge.
Couldn't be the latter. Killian scoffed at the very idea. No, this lad—this Henry—was of a different stock.
"What did this guy do to you to make you want to kill him?"
"He took my hand."
Among other things.
Henry nodded. Added this to the checklist in his mind, Killian could only assume—of what, he had yet to deduce. "Ever thought of just…moving on?"
"Moving on?" The very notion was an affront to Killian's nature. "One does not simply move on from—how about I take your hand right now. I'll even give you a choice of right or left. Hm? No?"
The lad shook his head, mumbling under his breath as he continued forward.
Move on, indeed.
"I love you."
It hadn't been the first time those words were exchanged between them. Milah knew how he felt about her. But in her final moments, just before that beast crushed her heart with his bare hand, Killian had been too shocked, too dismayed to say them back.
"I love you, too," had hung over his every waking moment in the centuries since he'd held Milah in his arms, had felt the last breath leave her body.
Revenge could not come swiftly enough.
The thirst for it had become his lifeblood.
He did not need rest or sustenance or companionship—they were the pale offerings of a comfortable life. A contented soul. Killian was a ghost of his former self, he had no delusions about that. He was a phantom, doomed to walk this mortal plane until the villain of his tale was made to answer for his crimes.
"Where the blazes are you taking me?"
Henry stopped outside a building with glass doors. People milled about inside, talking into colorful square objects they held up to their faces, laughing, scowling, holding those same objects out in front of them as they walked. It was then that Killian saw a strange reflection. His face from younger years stared back at him from the glass. He was dressed much like the people inside that structure, much like Henry. Gone was his long coat, his jewelry—everything that'd become part of his signature. He felt around his garments and was struck by a most disturbing thought.
He was one of them.
His hand closed around something hard and rectangular in his jacket pocket, what he held out before him. The device lit up with line after line of text, so fast Killian couldn't keep up.
Alistair
She doesn 't have much time
Alistair
Jones, please. If you get this—wherever you are, whatever you 're doing...
Alistair
Answer your bloody phone. I know you 're familiar with what constitutes an emergency.
Alistair
I 'm serious, Jones—whatever the hell you're up to can wait.
Alistair
Jones, where are you?
Alistair
Jones, pick up.
Alistair
Jones, we have an emergency. It 's Emma. Call me back.
Killian didn't have the faintest idea who this Alistair person was. Or Emma, for that matter. Seemed as though they were in dire straits, to be sure, but Killian didn't see how that was his problem
He had bigger issues at the moment. Starting with how he'd come to be in a land that grew curiouser and curiouser by the moment. Was this some sort of spell? Had the crocodile found him first and performed dark magic on him?
He had no memory of any of this, but…
What other explanation could there be?
"I just need to make a quick stop," said Henry as he entered the building and joined the crowd.
Killian was once again assaulted by the racket rising around him. He followed Henry to another set of doors, these appearing to have been fashioned from silver. Killian reached forward just as a sharp bell sounded and the doors parted, disappearing into the walls on either side. Henry walked into an empty box and turned to face Killian.
"Well?" He said. "Aren't you coming?"
"What devilry is this?" Killian eyed the contraption as he would a trap.
Henry smiled. "It's an elevator. It's safe, I promise."
Killian tested it with one foot—seemed solid enough. Then tried the other. Steady. He stood at Henry's side and held on to a conveniently placed rail as the doors closed and a peculiar sensation overwhelmed him. Like floating through the air. Killian looked down at his feet—still firmly planted on the floor.
Magic of the darkest kind. There could be no other explanation.
He eyed Henry with mounting suspicion—who was he? Who had sent him?
Tad young to be a wizard, but Killian had seen stranger things.
Another bell sounded and the doors opened. When they did, it was unto a different sight entirely. Where moments ago there'd been a swarming foyer, Killian and his young friend now looked upon a corridor with numbered doors on either side.
Henry journeyed down the narrow hall without a hint of alarm. Killian stepped out of the elevator and turned back to watch as the doors closed behind him, unable to account for the sudden queasiness in his stomach.
Three hundred years and not a touch of sea sickness, but one ride in a metal box had done him in?
Killian wouldn't allow it.
He squared his shoulders and followed after Henry, refusing to let his last meal make a fool of him.
The lad rapped lightly on a door numbered 205 and looked up at the prematurely greying man who answered.
"Does Emma Swan live here?" He asked.
The man answered with a curt no and slammed the door in Henry's face.
The boy knocked again. "This is listed as her last known address," he said loudly. Not shouting, not yet. "The records I found were current up to six weeks ago."
The door swung open and the greying man stepped toward them. "Yeah? Well my word is current as to this moment. There's no one here by that name. Now, off with you before I lose my temper."
"There's no need to be so gruff with the lad." Killian stepped to Henry's side, a surge of protectiveness swelling inside him—the sort he'd not felt since Liam was still alive.
The greying man recoiled as though he'd seen a spirit. "Jones, thank the gods—where in the fuck have you been? Emma's in a right state and I haven't the first clue what to do."
"Hey!" Interrupted Henry. "You said she didn't live here."
"I lied. What's it to you?"
"I'm her son."
"Congratulations. I'm her fairy godfather."
Henry frowned. Crossed his arms.
"Apologies, Mate," said Killian. "Have we met?"
The greying man let loose a string of obscenities Killian wouldn't have noticed were it not for the way he looked down at Henry immediately afterward.
"If you think that's bad," said Henry, not the least bit disturbed, "you should meet my mom."
"Right. Listen, why don't you wait somewhere else whilst the grownups have a chat?"
"I'll have you know this lad is in my employ. Whatever you have to say you may say to us both."
Killian winked at Henry, who smiled back in a way that only young children can. Killian felt a sudden pang of guilt. Perhaps he'd made a mistake by involving the boy in his vengeful plot. Henry would learn the harsh truth of life soon enough—surely it would be better to let him enjoy what innocence he had left.
Before either of the adults could say another word, Henry said, "What's wrong with Emma? Is she sick?" He lowered his voice and leaned in close to the strange man at her door. "Is it a curse?"
"And just what would you know about those?" Asked the man, taking a step back to look Henry over.
"Are you kidding? I practically wrote the book—ask me anything."
"How do you break a sleeping spell?"
"Easy. True Love's Kiss—at least make it a challenge."
"All right. Let's say, hypothetically, that an unnamed party of no relation to anyone here fell under a curse of indeterminate origin. And let's say that their True Love—" His gaze locked briefly on Killian then moved back to the boy. "—has been recently relieved of all memories pertaining to their life together. How might you proceed in saving them both, if you're so clever?"
"Does she have any family?"
"Assuming this person is a she, no. At present, she does not."
Henry pondered this information, his mouth drawn into a taut line. "I have a feeling this might take some work. But…we're gonna have to get his memories back." He inclined his head toward Killian."
"Right on both counts, I'm afraid." The man sighed and stepped back, opening the door wide. "Come on, then. I'll put the kettle on."
—
Everything was so white, so…bland. Touches of color here and there, but for the most part, Emma Swan could've done with an interior decorator.
Despite his lackluster surroundings, Henry couldn't believe his eyes. His plan had worked.
He'd done what no one else in his entire life had done—he'd left Storybrooke. Entered the real world. A world not run on magic. Shrouded in lies. A world where his wishes might actually be answered, his heart's deepest desires come true. A world where belief in the impossible might actually pay off.
He'd come in search of a miracle.
And there she was, lying atop a snowy white comforter, waves of blonde hair outlining her face. Her hands were folded across the front of her red leather jacket, and her boots were done up to her knees. She was as peaceful as the illustration in Henry's book—the one where a princess lay awaiting True Love's Kiss. But the state of her attire suggested she had not been looking to take a nap when she fell prey to this particular curse.
His heart could've broken simply by looking at her. Half of his origin story, there in the flesh. The woman who'd borne him. The woman who'd sent him away.
She couldn't have known the mother he'd be stuck with instead—could she? If that were the case, she wouldn't have given him up…would she?
He'd gone round and round his own head too many times—in the past months especially—and had gotten no nearer the answers he needed. Endless questions still plagued him. The flames of curiosity that only Emma Swan could put out.
Flames that Emma Swan, in her abandonment of him, had ignited.
Henry blinked back tears, bit back a swell of emotion he hadn't anticipated at the outset of his journey. This wasn't the first time he'd met his birth mother, after all. He should've been prepared. But suddenly, he was the epitome of every stereotype ascribed to persons his age. Nervous and sentimental and filled with resentment. At that moment, what he wanted most to do was to stomp his feet and clutch his fists and ask, why?
Why did this have to happen to him? Why should he be made to suffer for someone else's selfishness? Why, in spite of everything, did he look upon the serenely sleeping Emma Swan and want to weep for a surge of affection she hadn't earned?
Why hadn't she wanted him?
Were her reasons the same as those of her own parents? Was it all a big misunderstanding? Had there been some issue outside of her control?
Why had Henry left one curse only to be hindered by another?
Why was it all so unfair?
"Look, I don't know what the boy promised you, but there are no crocodiles here—only the love of your life. I'm sorry if that's not enough for some people! Bloody typical." The man who'd opened Emma's door spoke animatedly with Killian—who Henry had a sneaking suspicion was a certain pirate captain of ill repute. "Gods, why am I not surprised? The Director is behind all of this." He rubbed his chin as he walked back and forth along the side of Emma's bed. "But to what end, I can't figure. One would assume they'd want the Dark Curse broken more than any of us—after all, Gwen is not the only inhabitant of value trapped there…"
The more he talked, the more it seemed like he was merely giving voice to unfiltered thoughts.
When he said this last bit, Henry's roving eyes landed on a familiar object lying open on Emma's dresser. He went to it, flipped through the pages that'd brought him so much comfort, elicited so much hope during his darkest days. Everyone else in Storybrooke may have been stuck living the same day over and over, but Henry…
He was trapped by a different kind of curse. He was free when no one else was. He watched them, day in and day out, his entire life. Having the same conversations, going about the same mundane routines. The only variable seemed to be him. Or his mom. They could interrupt the repetitive flow of things by choosing to engage—like a surreal sort of interactive game. A twisted virtual reality that was only too real.
"This is all fascinating, truly," said Killian, "but if it's all the same to you, I've been delayed long enough. If you haven't got anything I can use against the Dark One, then I really must be going."
The man sighed. "I forgot how revenge-obsessed this version of you could be."
Just as he said this, Henry came to the part of Snow White's story where Charming jumped in front of an arrow to keep a memory-less, revenge-obsessed Snow from killing the Evil Queen. He turned to the two men, book in hand, and said, "I have an idea."