Hi there!

I was rewatching the OUAT parts with Jefferson, and since Sebastian Stan happens to play two different characters in these franchises, I naturally said "*gasp* bUt WhAt iF tHEy WErE ThE sAmE pERsOn."

I grappled a lot of how to start this, but eventually I landed on this. I'm very unconfident about publishing this, so please be nice when you give constructive criticism. I figure that this (assuming I don't abandon it) will probably rotate between Emma, Steve, and Bucky/Jefferson's POV (though initially I planned on it being solely Bucky). This story will probably spend more time post-curse, since I really love the idea of Bucky in Storybrooke. (Another reason behind me making this, I love Bucky in Storybrooke and I love Jefferson, so why not combine the two.)

Oh yeah, and the ending (you'll know what I mean when you get to it) totally just came to me as I was writing it. I thought, "Why the heck not?" I laughed too hard when writing it.

Hope you enjoy! Or not, I don't really care.

.::. .::. .::.

Emma stared at the man leaning up against the bars of his cell. The dark circles under his eyes stood out even more these past few days—did he ever sleep? If he didn't, that would explain at least a little bit of his madness.

The man himself was… interesting, to say the least. Emma's first impression of him was that he was just a rich, attractive hermit. So you can imagine her surprise at learning that he was actually an insane psycho who believed in fairy tales—he thought he was the Mad Hatter, for heaven's sake. [Henry would say it was magic. Emma would say that he managed to jump into the bushes while he was falling, and they were just unable to spot him.]

She had tried to go a few days trying to forget her and Mary Margaret's little run-in with him. Didn't work. After all, it's not every day you get kidnapped by a guy with a fetish for top hats and a vivid belief in fairy tales. [As much as she tried to ignore it, their conversation still stuck around in her head—even though she knew they were nothing more than the delusional words of a psychopath. "Story? What's a story?" "The issue with this world is that everyone wants a magical solution for their problem, but everyone refuses to believe in magic." "A world. How arrogant are you to think yours is the only one?"]

When Mary Margaret had (finally) been proven innocent, it gave Emma a reason to go back and find Jefferson—since Mary Margaret wasn't known as an alleged murderer anymore, no one would bat an eye at learning Emma followed her to Jefferson's ridiculously large house. [Of course she wouldn't say she was kidnapped; she'd lose her job to one of Regina's minions—no one wants an incompetent sheriff, especially after the Kathryn Nolan case.]

She found the kidnapper in his mansion, and—other than his disheveled hair and untucked scarf—looking way too calm for a man who just kidnapped and attacked the Sheriff a few days ago. [For about the millionth time during her reign as sheriff, Emma had wished that Storybrooke had an actual police department. It's really surprising that Storybrooke isn't overrun with crime.]

Whatever Jefferson had wanted to say to her, Emma will not ever find out—she'd put handcuffs onto him before he could have gotten a single sentence in. He didn't even resist as the Sheriff led him to her police car. [Jefferson's lack of a fight worried Emma—it was as if he had a whole scheme planned out or something. She shook the thought out of her mind. Henry's stories about the Evil Queen were getting to her.]

[When he'd been taken into custody, Archie had suggested therapy sessions for Jefferson, but Emma shut him down. Archie didn't deserve that burden, and there was no way of telling when the other man would snap and try to harm the psychiatrist. Emma believed he was a lost cause anyway.]

So here she is, staring at Jefferson behind bars through the safety of her office. She felt sick every moment that she was in the same room with him. Thank God for doors, or she'd have to listen to him as well as watch him—and she didn't think she could take any more of his preaching.

Emma sighed and leaned back into her chair. Said man had stopped staring at her, and was currently pacing around his cramped cell. She squinted at him. Ever since Jefferson had kidnapped her, she couldn't stop shaking the feeling that she knew him from somewhere. That was impossible, though—Storybrooke was the most secluded place that she'd ever been to. Their technology was the latest in an 80s catalog, and their people as knowledgeable about current events as a rock. [She didn't think it possible for a town to be that cut off from the world. She might as well believe Henry in Operation Cobra, because it would at least explain the outdated atmosphere of the town.]

The sheriff tore her gaze away from the prisoner and onto her computer. The relic was still loading, only about 49% done. Emma sighed again. She was going to be here a while.

.::. .::. .::.

3 hours later

The computer had taken nearly an hour to load, unsurprisingly. Ironically though, it had taken Emma all of 20 minutes to do what she needed to get done. Her shift was over now, anyway.

She got up, stretched a bit, and opened the door out of her office space. The lone prisoner, who had previously been leaning against the cell wall, stirred a bit at her activity, but didn't say anything—for which she was thankful.

As she turned into the hallway that led outside the building, she came face-to-face with a man that she'd never seen before. Which was a bit odd, since Storybrooke was a very small town—you would think that after almost a year spent at the town, she'd (at minimal) be familiar with everyone. [And her last encounter with an unfamiliar man didn't exactly go so well, so you can understand if she's a bit skeptical of this one.]

She continued to stare at the man in front of her. His eyes traced their way to her holster, where her hand now laid.

The man was attractive, like Jefferson, but in a warmer way, less unstable. His blonde hair was unkempt, telling Emma that he'd had much better things to do than take care of his hair. Blue eyes scanned her, though not calculatingly.

"Can I help you?" she asked finally, cringing slightly at the harshness at her voice.

Blonde Guy cleared his throat. "Yeah. Uh, can I please speak with B—" he stopped himself, then began again. "Jefferson?"

Emma blinked several times, a bit confused. As far as she knew, Jefferson didn't have any family in the town (well, he would claim otherwise, but that's a whole other topic), nor any friends. People in the town only knew him from the rare occasions where he went out for necessary things such as groceries. [To be fair, if Emma had a house like his, she'd probably be spending most of her time there as well.]

"Can I ask why?" she retorted, confused and on edge.

"I can't answer that."

"Then no, you can't talk to the insane convict."

Blonde Guy's face tightened slightly at her last couple of words. "Sorry about this, then." Instinctively, Emma made to aim her gun at the man, but found that she couldn't—his arms had somehow gotten to hold hers down (how did she not notice that?).

She kicked his shin, trying to get out of the guy's grip, but was unable to—it felt as if a truck were holding her down. [Jesus, just how strong was this guy?]

Before she even knew what was happening, Blonde's head came down on hers, causing a piercing pain. Mentally, she kicked herself so many that she was close to getting a bruise on the inside of her head as well as out. She was better than this, for God's sake.

She felt the man step around her to Jefferson's cell. It sounded like a giant stomping underwater—getting knocked out (even if she wasn't unconscious yet) tended to do that to one's hearing. The muffledness, combined with the ringing in her ear, made it hard to hear the next bit, but it sounded like Blonde Guy said something like "Bunny?". [Whatever that meant.]

Then everything went dark.

.::. .::. .::.

Before you shout at me that I made Emma weak or whatever, please keep in mind that Steve (whoops, spoiler) is a Super Soldier and Emma is not. If she were fighting someone like August, then she would totally kick their butt, but she—like all other mortals—is no match against a Super Soldier.

Also, I know I suck at writing action, you don't have to tell me.

This is my first time writing in this type of style (specifically, with the brackets acting as Emma's third-person inner monologue), so apologies if it's a bit off. Constructive criticism is appreciated (especially if it's grammar-related), but if you're going to flame, please don't. That's a waste of both my time and yours.

Have a great day! No idea when the next update is going to be!