He exits the house, not bothering to close the door behind him. Blasted house can be consumed by fire for all he cares, which isn't much. He has to tell himself it's a good thing, a very good thing indeed, to see Swan with her family and Elsa at the end of the front steps, or he would have deemed it good if she wasn't turning toward him, her eyebrow arched, mouth wide and rounded.

"What is it?"

"This. This ribbon here. I can't get it off. Neither can Elsa," she gasps in one breath, holding her wrist out to him as if she'd fallen and broken it. Leaning down, he squints at what appears to be an ordinary yellow ribbon, delicate and flimsy, a harsh contrast with the thick, rough bootlaces she wears just above it. Without speaking, he takes her hand and steps back so her arm locks out. She inhales only once when his hook attempts to slice through it. It might as well be metal.

"They aren't coming off. Elsa?" The tips of her hair nearly smack his cheek, she whips around so fast. He can't see her face, but he knows with absolute certainty it matches the panic-stricken one on Elsa's.

"Ingrid's done this. I can barely..." Elsa trails off and turns over her free palm. Each fingertip dips one at a time into the indentation of her palm, quicker and quicker. "My magic's gone. She's harnessing it. For what?"

"The spell," Swan breathes.


Purple smoke is his least favorite kind of smoke. Even without a heart, a lingering feeling similar to dislike takes shape, firmly enough he recoils at the sight of it. The fleet of cars leaving the house had driven back into town with sporadic lightning snapping above them. Thunder rumbled, wisps of purple mist wafting around them.

"That's fine. Just meet us at the clock tower. We need to know what direction it's coming from," Swan says into her phone. It's a tighter fit in her car than usual, Henry and Elsa taking up the back.

"Are we sure we want to be confined in so small a, a 'car' with people who will be affected by the spell?" Elsa asks, her head bobbing in his and Henry's direction.

"My guess is we still have a little bit of time. Ingrid didn't go to all this trouble so you and I would get wiped out by everyone else." She glances over at him, her knuckles vibrating against the steering wheel. "Are you feeling any different? Killian?"

It's a pointed question, and her one eye remaining on him as the other returns to the road says more than if she had continued to talk. He wants to hope...

"It's Storybrooke. I'll feel different when there isn't any imminent threat," he says.


Her parents and Regina have picked up Leroy and didn't wait for them to ascend the clock tower. The steps rattle as they make their way upward and echo all around them. Anxious faces greet them at the top. A distant thud, thud, thud hammers in his chest, but it's only from the exertion. Dread doesn't accompany it. Nor does anything else except the memories and knowledge of what he should feel. Such worried faces on them, on her, should elicit something, anything out of him other than this...this flatness.

"Belle was right," Elsa sighs, peering out at the horizon with a dual spyglass of some kind. "My aunt is actually doing this."

"The spell of shattered sight," Snow gasps after taking her own glimpse at the purple tempest closing in on them, so stunned she doesn't react when David slips his hand in to take the spyglass from her.

"We open the mines and the vault. We take shelter there," he orders.

"This is magic. It doesn't care about ceilings. It's started." Regina's tone veers from exasperation to something too close to resignation for his liking.

"How long?" he asks.

Regina reaches out her hand for the spyglass. She wastes no time in bringing it up to her eyes once David hands it over.

"By sundown. By sundown, everyone in this town will start...tearing each other apart." She shudders. The Snow Queen's taken more into account than they thought she would, their mistake. His eyes find Swan as they always do, wondering how he'll hurt her, wondering if the spell will trump any attempts he makes to steal himself away, ignorant of where she'll be. It could make him single her out, Savior versus heartless pirate whom the Dark One has conveniently stripped of all emotions except utter hate currently in transit.

"Okay. The answer is simple," she mutters to herself as much as to them. "Let's not be in town."


"Who is this?"

"Where are you right now? Tell me."

Rumpelstiltskin's voice blares from Killian's phone. His mouth opens before he even ponders trying to resist the order.

"I'm at the harbor. How did you bloody call me?"

"Technology, dearie. It is its own brand of magic." There is a pause, a clattering noise in the background. He raises an eyebrow at the muffled conversation going on between the crocodile and someone else, possibly Belle, a woman, at any rate. With a much-lowered voice, Rumpelstiltskin continues. "I will be meeting you there. It's time for a chat. When you get there, do whatever it is you were going to do while you wait. You won't be leaving there without me."

"I'm not certain taking a stroll with the Dark One isn't going to arouse anyone's suspicions," he argues.

"By the time we leave, everyone will be in a mad dash to prepare for the spell of Shattered Sight." He can visualize the monster's teeth grinding together, eyes so unreadable, what the disdain is aimed at remains a mystery—the Snow Queen, or the bother that is dealing with her handiwork. The phone clicks, orders expressed. The Dark One makes for a most efficient master, he'll give him that. His actual instructions are to see if anyone can leave via water, but that seems to be too easy a solution.

Not that the harbor has ever been much of a bustling place, but he finds it strange no one else has thought to evade the spell this way. Boats aplenty, he had expected the townsfolk to be sailing for the ice wall in an attempt to scale it as David had. They hadn't known his attempt had been in vain, after all, and it wasn't out of the realm of possibility for one of the dwarfs to think ramming a vessel into the wall might do them some good.

But no, it lies deserted. With his own spyglass, he closes one eye and watches the tide flow, normally crystalline water crashing against the ice. Rather than melting, it rebuilds itself, growing higher and higher, turning the waves a chilly green in the process.

"Unusual weather we're having," sings a familiar voice. He won't do Rumpelstiltskin the courtesy of turning to face him. He hears his footsteps and the clunking of his cane well enough to sense him approaching and taking a seat on the bench next to him. If a rather specific organ were where it was supposed to be, he supposes he'd crack a smirk and confess he'd prefer looking at his own harbinger of doom to the face of the Dark One.

Unfortunately, they are one in the same.

"No fleeing by boat then," he sighs. There's no reason to call Swan. Doing so would only give her false hope, dashing it the second he told her what she had probably already guessed.

"This Snow Queen's good, isn't she? Sit, lad. Don't forget where your heart lies." Going from his cane tapping the bench to his hand tapping the attache, the sneer never leaves his face. Bloody coward. Crocodiles never seek out prey. They wait in hiding, blending in with the logs, and strike only when they are sure they'll succeed in a kill. If only another animal knew just how to catch him off-guard, knew how to deliver a blow those shrewd eyes would never see coming.

"Now, I have a job for you." Rumpelstiltskin shifts just a bit to make room for conjuring up the hat, the one that had been in Killian's jacket this entire time.

"The hat?" Gods, no. He'll have his heart crushed first. "Not Emma."

"No, no, not this time," he chuckles. "I have a better plan. Granny's Diner is being converted into a temporary hive for the vilest of creatures, the pious little fleas."

"Pious? The fairies?"

"Just like any flying pests, if you want to eliminate the infestation, it's important to get them all. Doing so will infuse this hat with enough power to allow me to cleave myself from the dagger and then leave this town with my powers intact, a suddenly urgent undertaking." He glances over at the violet clouds fusing together above the ice wall. "Now will you assist me?"

"You have my heart. You know I can't refuse," he says, and it still all feels so flat. He can still want. Oh, that, he has retained all too well. He wants just enough freedom, just enough slack in his puppet strings to lurch out and strangle him, and he knows his pulse wouldn't even feel any remorse until he crammed his heart back into his chest.

"Indeed, but here's the rub, dearie—my wife has just informed me that she intends to spend the day sequestered amongst said fleas. So I need you to wait while I get her out of the way."

Sequestered with them? Swan and Elsa had said they were going to the pawn shop for ideas for what to do next. If Belle had stayed back with them, there had to be a lead on how to stop this thing.

"The fairies are working to stop the spell." He sits up. "You're killing the cure?"

How he just sits there basking in his own cleverness, Killian can't comprehend. Without his heart, he can see a cold logic to trying to usurp Swan's magic. One wants magic, she has it and wants to rid herself of it anyway, make the self-serving decision. But actively sabotaging the efforts of everyone else...he had nothing to lose by them finding the cure, nothing. Something pulses in his neck, but his temperature can't rise. All he can do is just stare, wondering how it all culminated in such a level of cowardice...if he helped create such a monster.

"You do this, you condemn the entire town, and even your own grandson, to whatever happens."

"No, I'm not leaving Henry," he counters. Ah. Well it's good to know you've thought things through, he thinks. "I will take him, and I will take Belle, and I will leave this town to its fate," he says, gesturing to the streets behind them.

"But Emma and everyone else..."

"I don't have time for everyone else," he says as if the very notion leaves a foul taste in his mouth. "And if I have to choose between everyone else and me, ha, 'me' wins every time."

He, he can't. He can't look at him. A coward, beyond anyone's understanding now. Bae had spent decades running from him, Milah, well, he would spare her the thought of connecting the two of them. If Belle only knew. He'd said it once in anger, that everyone that had ever known her love had been driven away by him one way or another, but it doesn't make it any less true.

"You can clench your jaw and flash your eyes all you wish, because it doesn't change the fact that we're in this together," he laughs, preparing the hat for everything to come. "There we are. Come with me."

Killian stands and knows the order that will follow, but he refuses to be preemptive about any of it. Instead, he rests his hand and hook each on a belt loop.

"Oh, did you not think you'd be carrying that with you?" Rumpelstiltskin asks with a sneer. "I'm not the one built for doing the grunt work in this situation. Pick it up, that's it. Now you'll be walking with me to Granny's as inconspicuously as if we were lunching there together."

His footsteps aren't heavy. With the hat behind his back, they feel light and casual as they've been ordered to feel. It's not as though it's a long walk to Granny's from the harbor, but he knows the last sensation he should be experiencing is a spring in his step. If only something would come along and prompt him to change his commands, that at the last minute, the fairies will burst out of Granny's door in an excited swarm having already bottling the cure...

"Go around back and wait. You'll know when you're needed," become the only words he can concentrate on, his former train of thought gone in an instant.


"Well, it certainly doesn't look like medicine," Killian says. The vines at the top of the summit don't offer much in the way of optimism. Their leaves boast a different, darker shade than the rest of this strange land's foliage, not to mention the black inky substance oozing from the thorns.

"You choose to believe that boy over our king?" Liam laughs, circling the thorns, examining the best place to cut. In spite of no wind, a chill fills the air, nipping at the back of his neck in the relentless way a small child might enjoy poking an older sibling. They'd left their coats at the base of the peak. The air had been so sweltering down there every rock and branch had felt sticky to the touch.

"'That boy showed us the path to the dreamshade. Why would he lie about its nature?"

"To keep it all for himself," Liam says without hesitation. It makes no sense. The boy appeared to be alone. Had he actually feared anyone robbing him of this plant, regardless of its use, there would be more than a peak to guard it, wouldn't there? Guards, traps? His very tone had suggested it wasn't something to take lightly, and two grown men in stark white uniforms climbing up to it in broad daylight? They'd had ample time to be stopped by something, anything.

"You actually think our king would send us to retrieve something so dangerous?"

He hangs back. The very sight of the plant's...juices sends his stomach reeling.

"I would hope not. This is not what I signed up for," he says, folding his arms.

"You signed up to listen to your king," Liam states, head snapping in his direction, away from the thorns.

"Because I thought he was a, a man of honor!" he sputters. Gods, when was he going to become his own man? Giving the right orders on a ship came easy to him, but Liam had such a way about him, so upright and confident it rendered him tongue-tied whenever his instinct told him something different. Certainly it didn't help that Liam was never wrong...man had made it his life's mission to be so ridiculously efficient it left little room for error. But this...hang the facts and hang the circumstances. When one feels a pull this strong, it makes no sense to fight it.

"He is!"

"If this is a poison, it won't just end a war. It will obliterate an entire race!"

"What do you know of any of this?" Liam asks, only waiting a beat. Because he knows he won't get an answer, Killian thinks. "I'm your brother and your captain. You will listen to me."

"No." It's out of his mouth before he can weigh the consequences. Liam surely wouldn't strip him of his command, would he? Insubordination, treason, perhaps? A few times, a nagging voice in his head teased him that the life he was really meant for awaited him somewhere else, beyond the Navy, and he'd put forth more effort than he should have to love it with as much passion as Liam did, but if he took it away from him, what would he do? It wasn't that bad a life—making a difference, being part of something, his older brother's constant presence and support...the black ooze dripping down onto the rocks reminds him of blood.

"I'll fight my enemies, but I'll fight fair," he says. Liam rolls his eyes.

"Then allow me to disabuse you of that notion." Drawing his sword, Liam hacks away at part of the vines, holding it out as if it were a prop for a magic trick. Extending his arm, he turns it over and clenches his fist, locking out his elbow.

"No, brother, don't..."

Pressing one of the thorns into the pale, softer side of his arm, he cringes, more and more of the skin ripped. But other than a dark cut, he looks no worse for wear. It doesn't alleviate the sense of foreboding he feels, though, he realizes, not even knowing just how much Liam actually detests blood. It had always been a comfort in their youth, when Killian fell out of a tree or the rigging...which was often since he was so fond of climbing...Liam would brush him off, wipe his tears, and scrape his own knee or snag his own finger on a splintery piece of wood to show one could survive it.

"You see? Perfectly fine. I told you, our king would never lie to us. Now, let's collect our specimens and get off this..." He seizes.

"Liam?"

His head bobs down so violently he wonders if he's passed out standing up. He turns, though, his eyes widening in horror at the cut. Thin black lines sprout from the wound, as rapidly as the split second glass takes to crack before it shatters.

"Killian..."

"Your arm!" He catches him just as Liam's legs give up on him. They tumble to the ground together, his skin scorching.

"I'm sorry, brother," he whispers just before his eyes roll back.

"Liam! Hey, hey!" He shakes him, jostles his shoulder as hard as he can. He takes it all back—that whatever it is he wants that could be seas, worlds, away, is nothing more than a distraction, that everything he has, had? Has, he settles on, is right here. He can't lose it. He can't lose him. "Hey, let's get you back to the ship. Come on. Come on!"

He has to scoop him up and carry him down the summit. He's broader than Killian, though, and in too deep a swoon to help. Rolling him just a bit to gain some leverage, he hears a sniff.

"I tried to warn you." The boy stands there with his arms crossed, and then is suddenly ambling toward them. "He'll die as soon as the poison reaches his heart."

"Please. He's my brother. He's all I have left!" he cries, maybe to the boy, maybe not. Whatever will help them. This island can't be just a nightmare full of these kinds of things. There has to be something on it that can help, that does something good. There, there has to...

"Well maybe you shouldn't have goaded him into it."

No. No, no, no, it's his fault! Had they gathered it up and taken it back to the ship, there would have been no need for a demonstration. He knows Liam, knows him better than anyone. He'd have secured it, locked it in a chest and then locked that into a larger chest for good measure, and ordered the crew not to go near it until they'd returned. But he'd had his pride, just had to be heard...

"He's so stubborn. I didn't mean to! Can you help me?" Please, please, anything but his own stupidity... He looks up at the boy and sees, sees disgust. And bafflement. There's something about the situation that just fails to register with him. An ordinary child should look horrified, shouldn't he? A man lies dying, and not just any man, but the best one who ever lived. Best friend. Best brother...

"Well, it might not feel like it, but today's your lucky day. There is a way to stop him from dying."

"Tell me."


All magic comes with a price. Worry had dominated his brain then, blinded him to just how costly a price it was, and then revenge. Revenge had dominated his mind for so long, and when it and his body needed a reprieve, he damaged both of them. Rum, fighting, whores—bloody waste of a life. Then, then, when he finally feels he's attained a shred of wisdom, when he's finally figured everything out, he went and listened to the villains all over again.

He hears Belle all but pleading with her husband to be patient. The first time he'd seen her, well, not the first time, but the first time he'd seen the two of them together, a rippling jealousy had coursed through him, that the crocodile had ended up in a land that gave him not only power and comfort, but love. He'd tried, tried so hard whenever he gave the matter any attention, to see it differently. When Belle had affirmed her love's heart true, when she crashed to the street in a heap of sorrow after watching her love die—he'd wanted to see a man that, that offered her something. Surely, they had something he couldn't see. He'd refused to see anything but revenge for so long that it was likely he was missing something.

But he wasn't. There he is in there, undoing all her hard work, keeping secret upon secret from her, not giving a whit to what she wanted out of life and who she wanted in hers. He imagines it as best he can without a heart—her waking up in a foreign city, confused, and having no choice but to hear her husband's explanation of what happened and not trust her instinct telling her it's flat-out wrong.

Attached to her, the Dark One may be, but he still can't see he's the one who has everything to gain in the relationship. She deserves better.

And still he waits, legs too magically heavy to move even a few feet from the door.

He waits as the Blue Fairy insists the Dark One keep his tainted hands out of their work.

He waits and listens to the sounds of steam hissing and pots clanging together.

He waits and hears Swan's voice and her family's grow more frustrated...apparently, Elsa has taken matters into her own hands, something about heading down to the mines in search of Anna. He waits, and the Dark One sits and does nothing.

He waits, hears that Anna will be on her way...Elsa's as formidable at finding people as his Swan is, he wishes he could think with pride, a swelled chest, and then he knows he's not going to wait any longer. It's a pull, a pull towards the diner where the fairies work. The hat glows with a brighter intensity, a sharp sound accompanying it that reminds him of drawing a sword. He wonders for a brief moment how they aren't aware it's so close to them. Poking his head out, he sees Rumpelsitltskin leaving with Belle in tow.

Now.

No. He won't do it.

Yes, he will. He adjusts the positioning of the hat so the opening faces the fairies just as the spell taking over the sky above them lets loose a clap of thunder. Light flashes, ricocheting off the walls. Screams. Frantic heels scurrying for the door. The deafening sucking sound returns in full force as, one by one, they convulse as the pale yellow vapors engulf them. His mind accounts for all of them with as much scrutiny as if he were engaged in combat against them. When the hat takes one, he rewrites the information the room gives him to keep track of where each one is, especially the Blue Fairy, who is crawling behind the counter.

For one second, everything freezes; he might as well be watching someone else's movements. She takes advantage of the moment, taking a breath so deep he can hear it, and skitters out from her hiding place and straight into him.

"I'm sorry. I truly am."

The whooshing and the rattling frenzy the air has sent the blinds into fade into a muffled blur in comparison to her screams. She holds up her arm. He's not sure if her violent spasms are from terror or the hat...and she's gone before he can even think to himself how little it matters.

Each one gone. Their work, all their hard, life-saving work, lies on the floor in broken glass, kinked blinds, boxes blown all over the place. The silence applies a pressure he can actually feel.

Staggering to the sink in the kitchen, he braces both sides and retches, spilling ghastly contents he doesn't remember digesting. As soon as he thinks he's done, a deep cough alerts him to the fact more is clawing its way up. The look on her face... Their screams... Flashes of terrible, villainous things swim around in his mind—the damned pirate setting ships ablaze, Ursula...ugh, Ursula, Ariel and her futile attempt to rally him to her cause...frightening, smacking, shooting Belle when he could have spared her this sham of a marriage... His father, Liam, Milah—all lost to his incompetence, weaknesses, and now Emma will lose her entire town because of him. You're a bloody fucking villain, Hook, he scolds himself, finding a blurred reflection of his face in the steel kitchen. It's not with anger or passion; rather a cold fact. The silent statement crashes down on him, pushing until he finds himself sinking behind the counter where the last fairy had shrieked for help. His head falls back against the steel. You've always been a villain and now you'll die one as well.

He can't even cry.


A/N: Coming up? Henry evaluates Hook's cleanliness.