While Emma tended to dislike the copious amounts of nature that surrounded their house, she had definitely grown to appreciate the middle-of-nowhere feel of it. Tucked away on the far end of Mr. Portobello's property (which was huge in and of itself), no one could really accidentally stumble upon them. Not without stumbling onto Mr. Portobello first. Nor did they have to worry about obnoxious neighbors that felt some social obligation to say hello whenever they crossed paths. And while their house didn't actually sit in the middle of nowhere, it was out of the way. People who visited tended to have a purpose and never outstayed their welcome because no one wanted to drive the windy country roads after dark.

So it made – Emma squinted wearily at an antique cuckoo clock Neal had repaired – surprise visitors at ten minutes to midnight the worst kind of anomaly.

"Fuck," Neal hissed, running a weary hand through his hair, groaning unhappily when Emma hastily threw on his shirt.

She shared the sentiment.

"Wait," said Neal, a hopeful look crossing his features as he grabbed at her arm, "Maybe they'll go away."

Emma raised a brow because, if anything, the doorbell ringing and obnoxious knocking (bang, bang , BANG ) had grown more persistent, Phang barking, running at great speeds between the door and the kitchen in his attempts to alert them and defend his territory against this sudden intruder.

"Doesn't sound like it," she said wryly, getting to her feet, "besides it might be the O'Neils. I told you Carina was nervous when I dropped her off."

"So they hate us now," he muttered disgruntledly, Emma disappearing out of the kitchen, gathering abandoned clothes, then returning and dropping them on his chest, bra included.

"Those go upstairs. I'm gonna need," she grabbed at the skirt that he had set aside in search for his pants, "these. And see if you can spot my underwear, would you?"

(They must have gotten tossed somewhere during their earlier activities.)

Neal groaned. "Tease."

Emma winked and grabbed the half-melted container of ice cream, dropping it in the sink, the spoon they had shared joining it with a clatter, nudging Neal with a toe as she passed. "Gotta move it, babe."

She half-jogged to the door, Phang hot on her heels (nearly making her trip) she looked through the peephole, nerves clawing at her stomach as she realized, for one horrible, agonizing moment, that only cops tended to knock on doors at this hour with bad news and both of her children were out of the house.

(Surely someone would have called.)

But the person at the door, if she squinted and cocked her head, only looked vaguely familiar but certainly not someone she actually recognized.

No badge, thankfully. Not even a police car.

"Can I help you?" Emma asked, voice severe, mouth and eyes all hard lines, keeping a secure hand on Phang's collar as he whined pitifully, opening the door just enough to peek out, her sudden irritation only increasing as the smell of alcohol reached her nose, the stench strong enough that he might as well have dunked himself in it.

"Emma," he tried to step closer only to stumble and, with a surprised look about him, he grabbed at the door frame in the effort to find purchase, "Swan?"

She raised a brow, letting out a short, harsh, "Yeah?"

She should call the cops.

She would have already done so gladly if the kids were in the house.

"My name's August W. Booth," he told her, pausing, clearly expecting the name to mean something to her, and when her gaze failed to waver, he continued, his words blurring together drunkenly, "I need you to come with me."

"Mr. Booth," said Emma after taking a moment to survey him. A long, critical look that, in no uncertain terms, said she could find nothing remotely impressive about this man. "I'm only going to say this once and then I'm going to call the cops. Please leave my property.

August frowned and blinked rapidly, looking quite put out, as if he had obviously expected this to play out differently.

"I can't do that," he insisted, a plea full of desperation and regret, Emma growing increasingly unnerved by the wild-eyed look he had going on. She moved forward, ready to slam the door in his face, but even in his state he managed to catch on, using his foot to stop the door, the quick movement causing his to teeter dangerously. " Please. Just listen."

"Mr. Booth," she said, voice containing a level of threat she hadn't had to use in nearly a decade, " now ."

"I know you," he continued, the words pouring out of him rapidly as he used all of his strength to keep the door open, "I found you. When you –"

"Please leave. "

" – On the side of a highway." The words caused her to falter, just briefly, but enough to give him an edge.

"A little seven year old boy found you," he continued, eyes wide and glassy. "That was me. I brought you to this little roadside diner. In Maine. Here –"

Having jammed his body as far as he could into the doorway, he felt comfortable enough to dig around his pocket for a bit. Emma sniffed distastefully, Phang straining, teeth barred, desperately waiting for that moment when her grip would give him just enough slack to go after the stranger, while she glanced behind her, searching for Neal until before a hand, smelling strongly of pine and alcohol, shoved a newspaper clipping under her nose.

She didn't take it.

(She knew exactly what it said, the words having seared themselves into her brain years ago.)

"Congratulations," she said drily, shoving his hand away, "you know how to read."

Booth ignored this.

"You were wrapped in a hand-woven baby blanket," he said, his words suddenly lacking any signs of his drunken slur, as if this knowledge somehow sobered him, "with your name embroidered on the side."

That hadn't been in the article.

She nearly faltered again. Nearly . Before she realized that no, it didn't actually matter. She gave the door another hard shove, deciding that, even if he did have himself wedged in there pretty good, she could at least gift him with a couple of nasty bruises.

"That doesn't mean you know me," she retorted.

"No?" He asked, fixing her with shrewd eyes, "Because I know who your parents are. I can help you find them. Tell you everything that you've ever wondered about them –"

Emma lifted her lips in a half-smile, pitying, as if she almost felt sorry for him.

"Except I don't care," she told him, "I stopped caring about them a long time."

She meant every word.

August frowned, seemingly baffled by this. "Why ?"

" Why?" Emma repeated harshly, "You supposedly found me abandoned on the side of a road, Booth, you tell me."

He shook his head frantically, the force behind the motion causing him to sway a bit.

"No," he breathed, the single word holding a certain intensity, as if he had just shared the secret of life with her. "That's the thing. They didn't abandon you, Emma. They were trying to save you."

The notion made her laugh, loud and harsh and not remotely amused. "You're not making a very good case for yourself, Booth."

He seemed to understand this because that desperate, wild-eyed look returned, chasing away that short spark of clarity.

"You have to save them," his words jumbled together as he pleaded with her. "You have to come with me. It's the only way."

She couldn't hold the door and remove him from her porch, but she had finished entertaining his drunken rambles. He knew her, somehow , but she didn't feel a single ounce of curiosity as to how or why. Only fear. It drowned out her annoyance, the fact that this drunken, sorry excuse of a man knew where she lived. Where her children lived. That along allowed the fear to morph into something much more useful: anger. She used this leaning heavily against the door, finally releasing Phang so she could use all her strength to push him out.

(Phang, sensing her mood, snapped viciously at the man, jumping in his attempt to match his height, clearing defending his territory.)

But, somehow, he used her strength against her, giving the door a final shove, the momentum of it knocking Emma to the ground as he weaseled his way into the house.

"Neal," Emma called, a warning as she scrambled to her feet, grabbing an umbrella from the coat stand as Phang barked violently, his nails scratching across the floor as he zigged and zagged in front of the intruder, desperately trying to cut off his progress.

(She officially loved the dog.)

The sudden interruption had been a bit, uh, painful at first but it did little to detract from his mood as he gathered the abandoned clothes, and trotted up the stairs, pulling out an old pair of sweats from their dresser, the lover's knot brushing his arm (they really needed to trim it again) as he passed through the door to the bathroom where he splashed a generous amount of cold water on his face, desperately trying to will away the last of his arousal because Neal definitely didn't want to greet his daughter in his current state.

He took a deep breath in and then out, did his best not to think about Emma sprawled out on the counter … her skin flushed (and, okay, he failed miserably), and then headed downstairs grabbing a thing of juice out of the fridge, taking a swig right out of the bottle because damn, that workout had left him feeling deliciously parched.

Phang's growls carried into the kitchen, and Neal wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, the sound of Emma calling for him interrupting his thoughts to gather up the dog. He tried capping the juice before a bang caught his attention, the sound immediately followed by another call, his name this time, dripping in Emma's desperate panic, causing his heart to thunder violently in his chest. The juice clattered to the floor, splashing his sweats and leaving the smell of processed grapes in his wake.

In his haste he nearly collided with an unfamiliar figure, Emma following closely behind the stranger, wielding an umbrella like she would a weapon, and this, her panicked shout, and the sudden stench of alcohol hurried Neal into action and, on nothing more than instinct, Neal took a swing, his fist connecting with the man's unshaven face, a harsh crack accompanying the punch.

Emma immediately followed on the heels of his action and, even though the man was already wobbling on his feet, groaning as he rubbed his cheek gingerly, she swung the umbrella like a bat, aiming it right at his stomach. The guy went down immediately with a loud thud, seemingly (hopefully) out cold, Phang approaching him, sniffing, whining pitifully as he looked between the stranger and them as if awaiting orders.

Neal scratched his ears approvingly, commanding him with a gentle, "Sit," that the dog followed dutifully, the lines of his body tense as he remained alert.

"Where were you?" she asked accusingly as Neal shook his hand, wincing a bit because damn, that hurt.

Neal snapped the waistband of his jeans in reply, his brow furrowing as he looked down at their unwanted guest, "What the fuck?"

"We need to call the cops," said Emma, all business-like as she marched to the kitchen, shoving the umbrella at him as she passed.

"Em," he called, trying to catch her attention because that didn't really tell him anything and then, because he couldn't follow her without leaving the creep unattended, he turned the word into something a bit harsher, " Emma."

"He's some sort of," she gestured wildly after she had reappeared, phone clutched in her hand, "some sort of stalker. He knows my name and about my blanket. And he claims to know who my parents are."

Neal blinked, desperately trying to process the words, before softening into something akin to awe. " Your parents? Emma –"

"He could know the Pope for all I care, Neal," she snapped, shooting him a wholly unimpressed look, "this is not a man I want knowing where we live. Where our children live."

"Right. You're right," he agreed, his jaw tightening at the mention of Porter and Carina, the bigger picture moving into focus, and he gestured to the phone as if to say go ahead, Emma softening briefly as she flipped the phone open.

" Baelfire."

The word, nothing more than a pained, slightly slurred whisper, cut through the room like a knife, causing them both to freeze, the only other sound Phang's unhappy growl as Emma looked up in alarm and, for a moment, the world stopped as Neal felt his blood run cold.

That wasn't possible.

Emma reacted first, returning her focus to her phone, stating harshly, "I'm calling the cops."

But Neal shook his head, holding up a hand, desperately telling Emma she needed to wait. Because it was impossible. He couldn't know that name. Not unless –

"What did you call me?"

He had heard wrong. That was all. That had to be it.

"I called you Baelfire," the stranger said, the threat of the name somewhat lessened by an unsteady cough, "That's your name right? Bet you didn't even bother to tell her that, did you?"

Neal ignored the jab.

" How do you know that name?" he demanded, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the umbrella tightened.

"He's a stalker, Neal," said Emma flatly and wholly unimpressed, but Neal's skin itched in a sudden desperate need for answers, fear clawing at his throat, demanding that he get rid of the sudden threat. Something Emma impatiently waited to help him with. He wanted to give the go signal. More than anything. But the man knew the impossible and now Neal needed to know how.

How else could he protect his family?

(Nothing good could come out of something possibly knowing that name.)

( Nothing. )

The stranger wore a sardonic smirk. "Let's just say a little fairy told me."

Neal caught the meaning well enough, even if it lacked any sort information he would deem useful.

And suddenly, perhaps oddly, feeling strangely exposed, he wished he had thought to put on a shirt.

"Neal," Emma asked, voice low, close , and he realized she had approached him, standing at his side, a hand on his shoulder blade. "What does that mean?"

"I," he faltered a bit because stating the full meaning of the man's statement would only complicate things further, but he also refused to lie. Not to Emma. Not now. He sighed, fear and a certain weariness weighing down his next words, "It means that he knows my father."

Concern coated her features, "What does –"

"I've been looking for you a long time," The stranger said, the words bursting out of him, interrupting Emma, causing hard lines and set features to snap back into place, and Neal wished the man had known enough to just keep his trap shut. Provoking Emma would only draw this out and while Neal loved her fierce protective streak (and, when not directed at him, he even found her temper kinda sexy), he desperately needed to get to the bottom of things. Now.

" Neal ," she prompted harshly.

"I don't know, baby," he said gently before turning hard eyes on the man lying on their floor, "but I intend to find out."

His father was many things, most of which had stopped making sense to him a long time ago. But Neal did know, with absolute certainty, that … thing that had taken over his father's body never did anything half-assed. So, even if Rumpelstiltskin had, somehow, managed to find him, Neal couldn't think of a single scenario where he'd risk sending a loose cannon such as the drunk in front of them to play messenger. It was too messy.

So what he knew and how he knew it? It came from someone else.

(Which only caused the lead weight twisting his stomach into knots to tighten even further.)

"What's your name?" Neal asked, using the same harsh tone of his earlier demand, forcing one of his hands to break the vice-like grip on the umbrella to reach blindly behind him, finding Emma's hand and squeezing it tightly. Both to reassure her and ground himself, her presence never failing to help him battle his demons.

"August W. Booth."

"That your real name?" he questioned skeptically.

"No," he said amiably enough, "back home I went by Pinocchio."

He heard Emma snort and couldn't help but imagine the sarcastic eye roll he knew she would partner with the derisive sound.

"Fitting," she said, moving, standing between the two men, breaking their pointed glances as she fixed Neal with a harsh look of her own. "He's a drunk, Neal, and clearly delusional."

Neal found himself completely tempted to voice an agreement that he only half-believed so that, together, they could remove the stain currently blemishing their home. But he couldn't. The unspoken threat still hung in the air, Booth's answer telling him two things: He had, at some point, lived in the Enchanted Forest and therefore throwing him out on his ass without draining him of every last drop of information he contained was more of a risk than actually entertaining his story.

But whatever August happened to know? Neal didn't want Emma to hear it from anyone but him. He would tell her. Everything. But not like this.

"Em, I think I need to," he started, adamant in his decision, even when his tone and features held the distinct air of reluctance, as if he wanted to do anything but.

She caught on and immediately cut in, "Neal, you don't."

"I do," he insisted, squeezing her hand, "I need to talk to him."

Emma blinked and then grabbed his face between her hands, leaning her forehead against his, and, in a clear attempt to shut August out, spoke in nothing more than a low murmur, "Babe we should be calling the cops. He's clearly sick. A stalker. That's it."

Neal squeezed his eyes shut, the extent of her faith in him suddenly painful, and, after swallowing thickly, he pulled Emma out of earshot, keeping his eyes trained on August as he spoke.

"I've told exactly one person my name in the last decade, Emma," he told her, a hint of his growing fear lacing the words despite himself, "but somehow he knows it and I need to know how."

"Why?" Emma asked, mouth pressing down in a thin line.

"Because," Neal said intensely, "if he knows my father that may mean he's not far behind. And that's nothing good. For any of us."

Emma had that look. That look that said she wanted to ask a thousand more questions but couldn't decide where to start.

"I just need a minute," he assured her (or tried to), "to suss out what he knows."

She bit her lip, harsh lines fading into something that broke his heart as she asked, voice suddenly small and vulnerable, "You want me to leave?"

"No," he said firmly, cupping the sides of her face, pressing his lips gently to her temple, before resting his own forehead against hers. "But there are things that I have to tell you – things that I'm going to tell you soon as we're alone. I swear. But not in front of this guy. That's not how I want to do it."

Neal telling her was about them , not whatever agenda Booth needed to push. August's presence would only continue to agitate her, Emma growing increasingly defensive, her temper and need to protect blocking everything out, hampering her ability to listen with any sort of open mind.

(Asking her to leave, of course, would accomplish a different result, trapping Neal in a lose-lose situation that, really, he only had himself to blame for.)

Emma furrowed her brows together before her features shifted, taking on a look Neal hadn't seen in years, her face becoming completely blank.

"You wouldn't have said anything at all," she stated harshly, "if he'd never shown up."

She didn't say it as an accusation, not exactly, but more just a simple statement of fact. He could see her building walls inside her head and around her heart, already preparing for the worst, trying to protect herself from the inevitable. And as much as Neal wanted to reassure her, he absolutely refused to tell a lie.

"No," he agreed, the word forcing Emma's eyes closed. But he wouldn't have. He didn't want to. Not when he considered it completely irrelevant. Unimportant to who he was now and the life he had built with the woman in front of him. And he knew Emma. Knew that she wouldn't be able to wrap her head around magic and other worlds and fucking fairytale characters. Not without proof. Which he didn't have. Not anything more than his word. So he told the important bits. The stuff that made him him and sidestepped everything else. Because it didn't matter.

"It's … Emma," her eyes opened and they blazed with anger and unshed tears, "It's heavy shit, Em. Shit I left behind me a long time ago, and honestly? I'd sooner keep it there.

She didn't say anything for a long beat and then she deflated, her features softening, hard lines relaxing.

"You don't have to tell me," she insisted, "and you don't have to talk to him either."

Neal swallowed thickly, wishing it were that simple. He might have gone along with it if it were just him and Emma. But: "I need to know what he knows, Em," he murmured. "It's the only way we can be sure the kids are safe."

Something akin to fear and frustration flashed in her eyes, a fierce gaze that returned to hard as she opened her mouth speak, turning hard and she opened her mouth to speak, probably ready to demand answers because he had pulled on the right string. But, even if it pissed Emma off, he needed her to understand this. Needed her to see that situation had grown, surpassing the drunken man half-passed out on their floor, and into something that they couldn't solve with a punch and phone call.

It was bigger and it was, he had no doubt, dangerous.

"We don't have time for this," August cut in, making his presence known, Emma's jaw tensing at the sound of his voice, "I came here for her. She needs –"

Emma turned around, eyes blazing. "Here's the thing, Pinocchio," she spat his name out cruelly, "you don't get to come into my house and make demands. In fact –" Emma managed an intimidating step forward before the phone in her hand lit up, exploding in noise, one of those Disney songs Carina so adored (" Under the sea, Under the sea." ) cutting through the tension, changing her entire demeanor as easily as pressing a switch, Emma answering immediately as she temporarily abandoned the trials of the night and focused fully on their daughter.

"Care?" and "Shh, sweetheart." and "What's wrong?" followed between bits of Carina's muffled (but clearly fast and frantic) speech, Emma trying her best to soothe her with words of comfort, Neal stepping forward, itching with need to hear the other end of the conversation, to know what had his daughter so obviously upset so that he, too, could comfort her. "Yes … twenty minutes … tell Mrs. O'Brian … I love you too, sweetheart … I'll be there soon."

Emma hung up the phone.

Immediately, Neal asked. "Is she alright?"

"She's fine," Emma said shortly, her hard demeanor snapping back into place, "She and Susan just had a fight. But she wants to come home so here's what's going to happen."

She took another step toward August, raising her voice, an unspoken threat riding the undercurrent of her tone. "You have exactly one hour. By the time I get back I fully expect you," she jabbed a finger at Booth, "to be gone. And Neal?" She turned around, steel eyes capturing his gaze, his tone deadly serious even as her voice lowered to a whisper, "I don't care what he tells you. Under no circumstances do I want him in the house with our children. So if he refuses to leave then do whatever it takes. Call the cops if you have to."

And Neal understood that if he didn't, she would.

He nodded, expressing his full agreement

"One hour," she stressed, the words carrying both a threat for August and a promise for him. She hesitated and then dropped a light kiss on his cheek in, for her, a rare show of public affection, murmuring, "love you."

"Love you too," he said quietly, following her as she walked to the door. She grabbed her keys, slipped on a pair of flip-flops they hadn't bothered to pack away yet and slammed the door behind her.

The force of it caused Neal to wince.

He hated himself in that moment, for not telling her everything, before, when he had the chance. And maybe (almost certainly) she wouldn't have believed him, but she would have at least had the truth. But now? Neal knew Emma. Leaving her alone with her thoughts would only cause her to spiral faster, her thoughts spinning out of her control as she plummeted, heading straight for the worst case scenario, destroying her faith to such a degree that would be beyond reach by the time they did have a chance to talk.

He gave himself a moment, taking a deep, cleansing breath that, really, did nothing to calm the drum pounding in his chest, before he retraced his steps back to August's side, fixing him with a harsh glare, nudging him with the tip of the umbrella as he barked out a short, "Start talking."

August didn't seem in much of a hurry, sitting up slightly, and asking, "Got anything to drink?"

Neal snorted derisively, his jaw tensing, before he forced himself to let go of the building explosion, for now, while he focused on his goal.

"What do you want?" he asked tersely, "Water?"

"Something stronger might be nice," said August, hope lining the words.

Neal wasn't in the mood.

"Look, man," Neal said, near now to the point of shouting as he pointed the umbrella, using it to add emphasis to each of his words as his anger began to boil over. "If I have to I will call the cops. And, y'know, there's a good chance Emma already did the second she walked out the door. So spit out whatever is so damn important and then get off my property."

"Throwing me out won't make this go away," he warned. "You can't outrun this. She can't outrun this. That girl of yours has a destiny. And you've done nothing but hold her back."

Neal swallowed thickly, the words striking a nerve, doubt and fear threatening to overwhelm his righteous anger, but he stood his ground, the deep-rooted instinct to protect his family allowing him to harness the fierce energy that lingered in the wake of Emma's threat to stare down both August and his insecurities.

"Let's cut past the cryptic bullshit," he said, voice low but harsh, Neal using the umbrella to gesture at the bruise forming beneath Booth's eye. "Unless you want to complete the set."

Like he had told Porter, Neal didn't approve of violence, not even as a last resort, but August was a different kind of threat that jeopardized everything he cared about.

August sighed, wobbling a bit as he climbed to his feet, Phang standing with him, eyes watching him like a hawk.

"Twenty-eight years ago the Evil Queen cast a curse," he explained, leaning heavily against a wooden pillar, "a curse that brought everyone in the Enchanted Forest here , to this world."

Neal's hands shook, the force it causing the umbrella to vibrate, a painful limp forming in his throat, his voice hoarse and tight as he asked, "Rumpelstiltskin?"

"Probably," said August, shoulders forming an unconcerned shrug as he pushed off the pillar, approaching Neal, Phang and the stench of alcohol trailing behind him. "Her parents are though. Trapped with no idea who they are. Forever . Unless she breaks the curse. They didn't abandon her. They saved her. And now she has to save them."

August might believe this, but Emma, who didn't necessarily place equal emphasis on intent and a person's actual actions, would likely form a different opinion.

He fixed Booth with a critical look, asking, "How do you fit into this then?"

"My father was tasked with crafting a wardrobe out of a special tree that would be used as a portal to this world. Only its magic was finite. So he cut a deal with the Blue Fairy – he would only build it if I got to go through too. Everyone thought Snow would –"

"Snow?" he asked in confusion.

"Y'know? Snow White," said August impatiently. "Emma's mother."

Well, fuck.

(Neal half-wished he actually had the time to appreciate the humor of this.)

"We all thought Snow would get to go," August continued pointedly, "that the wardrobe would be finished before she gave birth, but –"

"Shit happens," he interrupted flippantly, "and somehow it seemed like a good idea to send a kid to a foreign land with an infant? Yeah, got it?"

That , Neal knew, he couldn't pin on Booth, but that didn't mean it didn't still piss him off. Two kids had to grow up alone because of someone's thoughtlessness. That was never okay.

"My father carved me from wood," explained August, a defensive note carrying his tone, "he didn't know what would happen to me when the curse hit. He made me promise though. I promised to take care of the Savior. To make her believe and help her break the curse."

Neal choked out a cruel laugh, "I'm sure you've made him real proud."

"I thought she'd be safe inside the system," August insisted.

Neal raised a skeptical brow. "Did you?"

He found this hard to believe, the pained look that crossed August's features only confirming his suspicions. Booth knew exactly what Emma had suffered in the system because he had endured it too.

(Except August, at least, had been armed with the knowledge that someone, somewhere out there, loved him.)

August swallowed thickly and said instead, "I figured I could catch up to her when she was out. I managed to track her down to Portland, but she disappeared before I could do anything. It took another year before I found you both in Tallahassee, but by then she had a kid and I figured, well, there was still time, so why lay this at her feet too."

Well, at least he had some sense.

"I'm not," he continued, almost hesitantly, shame written all over his face, "this world, y'know, it's full of temptations. I got caught up in things I shouldn't have."

"Like alcohol," Neal noted flatly.

"That's one of them, yeah," Booth agreed, running a weary hand over his face, before looking up, a hint of an apology in his eyes. "I knew I had screwed up by not staying at Emma's side and the guilt of it ate away at me. I got lost and by the time I looked up, I realized I was out of time. And then I found out you two had moved house again –"

"You didn't think to clean up though?" Neal questioned, cutting in as his umbrella whipped down in a fierce display of renewed anger. "You knew we had kids and you still thought it'd be a good idea to knock on our door in the middle of the night, drunk of your ass."

"I was desperate," Booth said pathetically, half-pleading with Neal, as if willing him to understand. "She turns twenty-eight in two days and I don't know what happens if she's not there."

"Why twenty-eight?" Neal asked brow furrowing in confusion. "Seems like an odd number."

August shrugged. "I just know that it was foretold that she would return on her twenty-eighth birthday."

You don't mess with magic. Neal knew that (probably better than anyone). And he also understood that prophecies had a way of happening regardless of the measure taken to prevent certain undesirable events from unfolding. But even now that Neal couldn't fathom how anyone, even him, could hope to successfully convince Emma all of this was true and get her to play along. Not ever. And definitely not in two days.

With a hint of hopeless resignation, he asked, "Return where?"

Another guilty look passed over August's face and he admitted, "I don't know."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he muttered, running a hand roughly through his hair, tugging on it, turning where he stood, desperately looking for a way to suppress the anger and frustration spurred on by August's complete ineptness before settling on glancing at his wrist, checking his watch and half-hoping he had no time left to spare.

He rubbed his eyes clearly, before squeezing them shut tightly, trying to focus on what question he could ask that would pull more information out of August (who obviously didn't know anything remotely useful), taking great pangs to avoid the single, overwhelming thought that followed the sudden crack that had formed in the life he had built with Emma and Porter and Carina. Because he knew, could feel it in his bones, that, with one wrong step, it would all crumble and everything that meant anything to him would disappear.

He really didn't expect an answer, but knew that he needed to ask anyway. "I don't suppose you know how she's supposed to break the curse."

"No," Booth confirmed, "But she needs – "

"Yeah, I got that," Neal snapped running another frustrated hand through his hair. "How'd you know? Who I was, I mean?"

August merely stared, a knowing look crossing his face, accompanied by the beginnings of a smartass smirk. Neal's fingers tightened around the umbrella again, his grip painful.

"Fine," he said shortly, a firm hand grabbing August's elbow, "the well's obviously dry so it's time for you to go."

Hand tight on Booth's elbow, Neal walked, pushed him really, the umbrella swinging between them, hitting August absently in the back as Neal tried corralling him in the direction of the door, Phang following behind them.

"I can't just leave," August pleaded, that wild-eyed look returning, "I need to talk to Emma. She needs to –"

" I'll talk to Emma," he said pointedly, the words anything but a promise. Neal's obligation was to Emma. Not this man. "It's her decision. She'll decide what she wants to do."

"You can't decide destiny," said August firmly.

"Emma would tell you differently," Neal told August, guiding him out the door with a firm hand, Phang squeezing out the door, hot on August's heels, causing him to stumble slightly. Booth fixed him with a look full of urgency, hurrying forward, Phang snapping at him viciously, August lodging his hand in the door frame, stopping Neal from slamming the door shut.

"You're pushing your luck," hissed Neal, absently adding a "down, Phang," to calm the barking.

"I know, I know," said August, and he almost sounded apologetic. "Just let me give you my number."

He trailed off, using the hand not currently sitting his door jam and absently, annoyed eyes landed on the bike, of the motorcycle variety, sitting in his driveway. How August had managed to get here in one piece given his state and the windy, country roads he would have to navigate, astounded Neal. And normally he would play the nice guy, tell him to sit while he called a cab. But he couldn't worry about that. It didn't even cross his mind. Not when his own family, once as strong and mighty as the Argo Navis, suddenly seemed as fragile as the rest of the ordinary ships that had perished at the Clashing Rocks.

"Please," August begged, shoving a crumbled piece of paper at him, "just take my number. If something happens you can call me. I know I screwed up, but I want to help. Really. "

Neal sighed wearily. Booth couldn't honestly expect to waltz into their lives at zero hour, turn everything they knew upside down, and then just play pals.

"You can barely stand up right," Neal pointed out, "what exactly do you think you have to offer?"

"I'll sober up," August said and then, at Neal's skeptical look, his promise turned insistent, "I will."

Neal had heard promises like that before and from people that had held a great deal more of his trust. They didn't follow though so why should he expect August would.

"Just please take it," August pleaded, shaking the paper at him once more, "and I'll leave."

Neal took it. If only to get rid of him.

"Thank you," he breathed, taking on the look of someone who had just been relieved of a great burden. Neal watched as August stumbled down the steps, quickly grabbing Phang by the collar before he could run after him. And, when he was certain Booth had left the property, he ushered the dog back inside before shutting the door and twisting the lock, falling heavily against the polished wood, pressing the palms against his eyes, dragging them down his face harshly, catching Phang's own worried gaze before turning and, with a frustrated growl, let his fist collide with the harsh wood of the door as Phang whined pitifully.

For the first time in years terror overwhelmed him, grabbing on, filling every nook and cranny of his body. It should be this wonderful thing, Emma finally on the verge of finding her parents. And it was. Save for all that followed in their wake.