A/N: Hi everyone! I know it's been forever but I have not abandoned this story—it's just been a crazy year. I'm determined to post more frequently going forward and finally finish this fic. Thanks to everyone who still reads and comments. Happy New Year :)


Rain had always been Henry's favorite. Whenever there was a storm, he'd sit and stare out his window and imagine a different life. Sometimes his mother had long flowing hair, dark like his. Sometimes it was short, like Miss Blanchard's Sometimes his father was tall and strong and steadfast, the way Prince Charming was depicted in the fairytales. Sometimes the three of them would huddle around the hearth as a fire crackled to life, warming the room as mugs of hot chocolate warmed their hands.

Sometimes they were a family.

But in all Henry's imagining, he could never get their voices right. Would his mother speak softly, soothingly as she read stories aloud? Would his father have a hearty, booming laugh?

Would his father be the one to tuck him in at night while his mother was out saving the world?

These questions never failed to poke holes in his daydreams. He'd sigh against the glass as raindrops trickled down. In his dreams, he was wanted. And though it only lasted a moment, that feeling was worth the inevitable heartbreak that followed.

It'd started raining by the time they entered Emma Swan's room to see her posed like the sleep-cursed princess she was atop a comforter white as snow. Hands folded at the waist, not a single golden strand out of place. Serene expression. All that was missing was a coffin made of glass. And a prince—

"Isn't it obvious?"

By their blank expressions, it was not.

In Henry's experience, adults were more often a hindrance than a help. Always taking the longest routes to the simplest conclusions. So pessimistic, so hesitant to act.

The elder of the two men huffed, raking his hand through his graying hair while the pirate cleaned his nails with a pocket knife he'd picked up somewhere between the sidewalk and this moment.

Henry plopped his book of fairtales on the bed. "True Love's Kiss can break any spell, right? Even this one—Snow White drank a potion that erased her memories of Prince Charming and his kiss still brought them back."

Technically Snow had kissed Charming, Henry knew, but technicalities weren't going to win the men over to his rationale.

The one who'd answered Emma's door said a slow, humoring yes

The other looked bored with every new development that delayed his quest.

Henry stared, unblinking, at the older man, whose train of thought seemed to follow his own, albeit reluctantly.

"Anything's worth a try," he finally said, gesturing to Killian and then to Emma. "Go on, Jones—pucker up."

Killian looked up from his nails. "Pardon?"

"Don't be so abashed—hardly your first time, is it?"

"You want me to kiss an unconscious woman?" Killian scoffed, standing straight as he tucked the knife into the front left pocket of his jeans. "I may be a pirate but even I draw the line somewhere."

"A peck on the cheek, then."

Killian's gaze moved to Emma as he considered this option. A smirk turned up the corners of his mouth and he approached the bed.

Henry felt a twinge of regret at having prompted this entire thing. He went to protest—they'd think of another way—when Killian reached for Emma's hand and pressed the back of it to his lips with a gentle reverence that took Henry aback.

The room was silent as the three of them waited. For what, Henry couldn't say. His book described a pulse. Bounding forth, spreading outward. A rainbow of light. But that could've been creative license taken by whoever had documented such events, exaggerated for dramatic effect. Still, if the curse had been broken, surely they would've felt something. A rumble under their feet. A swirl of air around them. A hum or a crash. Anything but soul-crushing silence. A quiet so absolute it shattered—even for a split second—Henry's hope of better, brighter days. Of reunion and forgiveness and family.

Killian lay Emma's hand back at her side with more care than Henry would've expected from someone boasting the darkest of hearts and deadliest of intents. If Henry didn't know better, he would've called the look on Killian's face disappointed.

Henry knew better.

Not a moment later, Killian fell back into a cavalier tone and a demeanor of pure bravado as he said, "Now that's done, shall we off to more fruitful pursuits?"

Henry didn't take his eyes from Emma. He new what he'd promised, but there had to be something else they could try. What battle was ever won by giving up? Circumstances were always most dire right before the heroes pulled through.

He just had to think.

"You said Emma was in some kind of netherworld, right?"

"There's no way to know with any certitude," said the older man, "but that is the current working theory."

"So what if we brought him," Henry inclined his head toward Killian first, Emma second, "to her?"

"How do you suppose we go about doing that? Got a spare sleeping spell handy in that there peacoat?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Maybe where you're from that sort of thing grows on trees, but here…" the man shook his head.

He wasn't wrong. If Henry was right about his adoptive mother's true identity, her magic quite literally grew on trees—

"Spells are like recipes, right? All you need are the right ingredients." The man went to answer but Henry cut him off before he could make any sound arguments against what he was about to propose. "What ingredients would you need to put Killian to sleep?"

"I'll be damned if I let some wizard catch me in a curse," said Killian. "Now I've played along with this nonsense quite enough—do we have an accord or don't we? If you are to go back on your word, Lad, tell me now. I'll find the crocodile on my own."

The older man turned to Henry as though he hadn't heard a word Killian had said. "This sort of thing was never my expertise, but if I recall correctly we'll requite an item belonging to the intended victim—" he cleared his throat, "—that is, the…chosen individual."

"Done," said Henry, brandishing one of Killian's rings.

"Hey, when did you—"

"Something of a more physical nature, I'm afraid—lock of hair, perhaps?"

"Good bloody luck—ow!"

Henry handed over the requisite item, freshly plucked from Killian's forearm.

"Listen here you little—"

"Next we'll need a carrier agent," said the older man.

"Like an apple?" Henry couldn't help noticing all the ones crowding Emma's apartment upon arriving.

"Apple would do fine." The man drummed his fingers against his chin, appearing lost in thought. "Lastly, a bit of magic…"

"Isn't that where you come in? I can't do everything around here."

The man smirked. "The amount required for such a spell—I dare not chance it, not with the Director watching my every move."

"You keep saying that name. Who's the Director and why are you so afraid of them?"

"Though…the risk in this case might just be worth it." The man paced, working silently through scenarios. He'd open his mouth to share with the group then shut it just as quickly with a shake of his head. "We would need some sort of protection on the apartment, which in itself could draw unwanted attention. The Director has been ten steps ahead at every turn…"

Henry felt a pang of guilt as the man smoothed out the finer points of a plan. A Hail Mary Pass. He hadn't meant to lie to Killian. When he'd seen him on the sidewalk, crying out and clutching the sides of his head, Henry had been drawn to him—at first to help a man in great pain, and then for another reason. One he could never quite define. The same pull he felt when he was around Miss Blanchard or Mr. Hopper or Sheriff Graham. Something that told him this person was more than they seemed.

It was this pull that had him thinking Killian might be like the inhabitants of his home town. Lost outside his story somehow. Until that moment Henry had assumed this condition, this curse, only affected the citizens of Storybrooke, but now…

Feeling every second more assured of the idea that he was in fact the pirate captain Regina forbade Henry from reading about because the tale was "too mature," for him…

He wasn't sure who this crocodile might be, having assumed it to be a metaphor for a foe less corporeal and more psychological when watching the cartoon.

Maybe he was right and the demon Killian sought to destroy was one of his own making.

Whatever the truth, Henry hadn't intended to lie. He'd meant it when he said he'd help. Just one quick stop, he'd said.

But Emma Swan wasn't supposed to be in this state.

They were supposed to meet properly. She was supposed to come back to Storybrooke with him.

She was supposed to recognize him and to want him and to realize the mistake she'd made in giving him away.

If only she knew…

If only she saw

If she met Regina and the others—really met them.

If she met her mother—

Henry looked up to see the older man eying him, expectant, and Killian glowering like a scolded child.

"What say you, Henry?"

"I say absolutely bloody not—"

"Well no one asked you. The question was directed at the boy—"

"The boy isn't the one who'll be knocked bloody unconscious—"

"Tone down the theatrics, Jones—no one's going to assault you—"

As the adults argued, Henry turned back to the woman he'd talked to only briefly, seated side by side at Granny's diner like she'd been any other stranger. He hated himself for not realizing at the time how important she was. Who had ever come to Storybrooke before? Wandered in like it was any other town.

Not a single soul in the years since Henry had started paying attention to the strangeness of his everyday reality.

He didn't look like her.

Maybe if he squinted hard enough there was some similarity in their chins, the shape of their eyes…

Would his hair lighten as he aged? Would he inherit her height? Would any of these things matter if she never woke up?

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

How could he leave her? Go back to Storybrooke, aid Killian's search for someone or something that might not even exist? Act like his mother wasn't suffering, trapped by magic like Henry had been his whole life?

He hadn't meant to deceive Killian, but Henry knew in his heart that whatever the plan, whatever lengths were required to bring Emma back, he wouldn't lose her again.

"I'm in."

"So what now?"

Alistair, as the older man had introduced himself, didn't answer.

Killian lay sprawled across the chair next to Emma's bed, limbs splayed, head back, mouth agape. Alistair hadn't knocked him out—not technically. Not by physical force, anyway. Having growing tired of Killian's reluctance to cooperate, he'd looked toward the ceiling, sighed, and snapped his fingers. Next thing Henry knew, Alistair was dragging an unconscious pirate across the floor by the feet. Despite a horrified expression from Henry having him abandoning feet for underarms, Killian's comfort clearly wasn't Alistair's highest priority.

"I know that look. Fret not—Jones and I go way back. Once everyone is on the right side of Happily Ever After, a magical bump on the head'll be the last thing on his mind."

Henry didn't care. He knew he probably should have. Heroes were about saving the day, yes, but never at the cost of their moral compass. He was finding, however, that the longer Emma remained unconscious and the farther away his own Happily Ever After slipped from his reach, the less he was concerned with the means as much as the end.

His heart clenched at such a Regina-like thought, but Henry shrugged it off. Who was Killian to him? No one. A stranger—

His mother's True Love?

Maybe they should've taken more care with him.

"You don't think he'll get…lost, do you?"

Alistair stood at Emma's nightstand, mixing ingredients together in a ceramic bowl. "I have a way to ensure that very thing doesn't happen. Here, take this," he reached into the breast pocket of the long coat he'd been wearing since answering Emma's door. Something a fisherman might wear. Or a pirate…

Alistair held a glass bottle out to Henry. Inside was a substance like red sand that sparkled when he turned it over in his hand.

"What is it?"

"Thought the son of the Evil Queen would recognize magic when he saw it."

Henry studied the substance more intently before Alistair's words registered. "Wait. How'd you know my mom's the Evil Queen?"

He'd never mentioned his theory out loud to anyone, aside from a strange blonde woman he'd met at Granny's one night. And Miss Blanchard, who always listened to Henry talk like he was the sweetest, most naive boy she'd ever met. Never discouraging, but never buying into the things he said.

I hope you find what you're looking for, she'd say. Henry knew she meant it. He also knew she didn't mean it the way he needed her to. The way she might if she were her true self.

If Snow White was anything like she'd been written in his book, Henry imagined they'd get along quite well.

"Do yourself a favor and spread it around the perimeter of the room."

Henry asked, "Why?" even as he did what he was instructed, beginning at the door and working counterclockwise.

"So no harm will come to you while I'm gone."

Henry froze. "Gone? Where are you going?"

"Someone's got to lead Jones back to the world of the living once he's found Emma, liable as he is to wreak havoc in his present…mindset."

What did that mean?

As Henry understood it from Alistair's rushed explanation, broken up as it was by Killian's incessant interruptions, the Netherworld where cursed souls were sent was more like a dream state than a physical plane. What possible havoc was there to wreak?

"What aren't you telling me?"

Alistair didn't answer. Just kept stirring. Adding ingredients. A pinch here, a dash there.

Henry continued his task of lining the room with magic, wondering, not for the first time, if they weren't, all of them, out of their depth. Setting things in motion they couldn't possibly control.

When the concoction was complete, Alistair removed a medicine dropper from the same breast pocket—what reminded Henry more and more of Mary Poppins' purse with every new item it produced—and walked over to Killian. He squeezed three drops of crimson liquid into the sleeping pirate's open mouth before lying on the floor, propping his head with a pillow he'd snatched from Emma's bed, and administering the same amount of tonic to himself.

"If all goes to plan," he said, "you'll hardly notice we three were ever gone."

"And if it doesn't?"

Alistair didn't answer. Could've been the spell taking effect, as his eyes drooped closed. Could've been his continued avoidance of subjects he didn't wish to expound upon.

It didn't really matter. Henry was alone again. Locked in by magic. In over his head. Far from home and yet feeling somehow like he'd never been closer.

Nothing to do but wait. And read.

The stories never changed, no matter how many times he returned to them. Yet they were always able to offer the exact encouragement he needed for a given upset.

Maybe he'd sought their comfort one time too many. Seated at the foot of his birth mother's bed while she lay victim to a curse no one seemed all that confident they could break, the familiar prose was no better than spots of ink, randomly dotted along the page. He stared at an illustration of Rumplestiltskin, giddy at having fooled another desperate soul into making a deal they didn't understand. Beside him stood his son, wearing a disappointed look Henry knew well.

The idea that there might be some good in Regina, that her pre-Evil Queen self lay buried deep but not dead, had him feeling the stupidest, most gullible boy who'd ever lived more times than he could count.

It would seem young Baelfire could relate.

Henry slammed his book closed. If Storybrooke had taught him anything, it was that nothing ever changed by doing the same thing over and over again.

He'd read those stories so many times he could transcribe them from memory. They were a part of him, but they weren't going to help him now. He needed new information. A backup plan.

Alistair had allowed for the possibility that things might not work out perfectly—if all goes to plan—but what did Henry do when the worst happened?

When none of them woke up and he was locked inside that room with magic he didn't know how to reverse.

Emma's closet held no secrets beyond color preferences—neutral palette with the errant spot of red or blue. And she had an impressive collection of boots. Even though they weren't useful, Henry still tucked these details away. Something he knew now that he didn't this morning.

There was a mug on Emma's dresser, half-filled with cold coffee. Beside it was a tray where she kept her keys and her spare change, a couple receipts and an expired ID. Emma Swan. No middle name. Born in 1983. It showed an address for somewhere in Florida. Was that where she was from?

A book of fairytales lay open to the midway point and seeing it made Henry's heart flutter. Until he read the inside front cover: From the personal library of Killian Jones.

An old cigar box caught his attention next, and Henry poured its contents out onto the dresser.

The first thing that caught his eye was a strip of black and white photographs featuring Emma and Killian with painted faces. Emma was a pirate and Killian, the scruffiest bunny Henry had ever seen. They held in their laughter for the first few frames but failed in their attempts by the fourth. They looked happy.

Something about that happiness didn't sit right with the boy she'd left behind, so he moved on.

There was another, older photograph. A Polaroid of Emma with a different man. She wore dark-rimmed glasses and bright red lipstick and appeared much younger than when Henry had met her. Ten years younger?

Could this man be the missing piece? The other half of his origin story? Or was he simply a former love she had yet to move past?

Henry pocketed the photo and skimmed the remaining items. A cheap metal ring, those same dark-rimmed glasses, and—

Henry stopped and stared at what must've been a novelty item, something Emma had gotten from a vending machine as a kid.

Small, translucent, shaped like a bean…

When Henry held it in his hand, it felt…heavier than it should have. Like the bottle of magic dust he'd sprinkled around the room—

A sudden sharp, strangled sound made Henry jump. The bean fell from his grip as he turned and he watched it roll under the bed and out of immediate reach.

Alistair writhed on the floor, eyes closed, arms flailing as he struggled against an invisible force. Then he went still again.

Too still.

His chest no longer rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breaths.

Henry didn't have time to go to him, to check for a pulse or perform CPR or do any of the things he'd seen on TV because the room erupted with the sound of thunder. Lightning splintered across the walls. Winds formed and swirled around Emma's bed and in a flash, it was gone.

Emma with it.

Henry yelled her name and ran toward the vortex that'd opened up in the floor and without a second thought jumped in after her.

Henry sat up and rubbed his head, groaning with every move he made. His landing had been soft—at first. But the momentum of his fall had him rolling off Emma's bed and impacting the hardwood floor below.

They were closed in on all sides by the usual furnishings—bookshelves and side tables and lamps, an entertainment stand and television—one wall lined with square lockers like they had at school.

They were in an apartment, but not Emma's. And not in Boston, judging by the view outside the nearest window—smaller than the ones Emma had and leading out to a fire escape.

"What the hell?" Came a man's voice.

Henry jumped to his feet, moving into a defensive position in front of Emma who lay as serenely undisturbed as she'd been before their descent into…

Whatever had transported them here.

A figure rounded the corner from the room that abutted this one. He approached quickly at first, then cautiously upon seeing what'd disrupted the quiet of his day.

He wore torn jeans and a plain t-shirt. His dark hair was unkempt and his brown eyes narrowed as they beheld the occupant of the bed now crowding his living room.

Henry had never met the man in his life, but he recognized him instantly. The one from the Polaroid.

"How did you…where did you…"

His voice stirred something inside Henry's abandoned heart. The answer to a question that'd eluded him his whole life.

Henry couldn't count the emotions that crowded the man's face as his gaze locked on the lost princess, for all appearances blissfully unaware of her change in surroundings—shock and excitement, wonder and confusion, and a million others in a manner of milliseconds until finally he gave voice to his astonishment.

"Emma?"