Nearing sunset, anyone who ventures out of a building does so only to flee to their idea of a haven somewhere else. Except himself. It had started with holding his breath so no one would hear him from behind the counter, and then, as they'd left, a shooting pain in his chest, tightening more and more, the message all too clear—he was being summoned.

He finds the crocodile locking the pawn shop door and then sprinkling it with a sickly yellow mist emitting from his fingertips. No one will be able to bust in and take all their grievances out on the town librarian, and, he thinks with more irony, Belle will not be able to get out.

"Is it done?"

Lies, secrets, literally defeating all her attempts to help...and it didn't end there. If she only knew, if she could only somehow find out he'd discarded every person and every principle she'd held dear and still claimed to love her.

Because I still see good in him. Because I believe he's changed! Because his heart is true! And yours? Yours is rotten.

Perhaps Rumpelstiltskin considers his wife more than Killian had originally assumed, for that's what he'll present to her once this is all over, wherever they've gone—a good, heroic man who fled with his wife and grandson before some spell could end their lives. She'll be seeing precisely what she wants to see, what love has inexplicably told her is there.

"You know, she truly loves you. You could have her forever, or all the power in the world. It's your choice," he says, unsure why. It's not as if any hope remains his words will be heeded.

"I don't need to choose, thank you." He looks bloody insulted as he snatches the hat from him. "I can and will have both."

"Now that it's settled, are we done?" he growls at him.

"No, no. I'm not going to give up control of you just yet, not until I have everything I need," he pants, not from the magic he's just perfomed, not how Swan's breath hitches when she exerts herself. There's desperation in the way he sets his jaw, the way he jerks back away from the shop. Not even the Dark One can gain immunity from doubts and fears. Another step in his self-serving scheme means another chance for everything to collapse in on itself, and yet another step means more trapping, tricking, killing...

"What's left?" What could possibly be left?

"That's my concern, not yours. But by morning, all should be complete, including your life," he snaps. "Now run along, dearie, and enjoy your last day in this, or any land." He marches off, perhaps to compare notes with the Snow Queen or make arrangements to go up in one of those flying tubes he saw so often in New York; he doesn't care, not that he could. So this is it. Death is part of a pirate's life, a more dominant part than a seasoned pirate would care to admit. The loss of crewmen to fights, disease, drowning—the sum is actually quite staggering if one takes the time to calculate it. Even in a remote tavern somewhere, just sitting and allowing the rum to put you at ease, you knew that any lone traveler could just be someone waiting to catch you, cart you off and hang you. Death surrounds a pirate and he had distanced himself from it by calling it danger instead. It's the punchline to a cruel joke, finally dying here in this little town in another world, quietly, so quietly it feels like a secret, just when he'd at last wanted to stop chasing death.

He needs to go see the reason why, before her Savior duties demand her full concentration and she has to dodge her own friends and parents in order to save them. She and Elsa won't succumb to the Snow Queen's power; really, allowing them this opportunity to work together against her will be her fatal mistake. Probably blinded by "love" for the two of them, this Ingrid hadn't seen it that way, but that provides him little comfort. Swan and Elsa will succeed, but what they'll lose in the interim...well, he won't be around to find out. She'll lose him first...when only days ago she said she couldn't...

He drags his feet down the corridor that leads to the sheriff's station. Every inch toward her is a step toward losing her. Tucking his lips into his mouth, he swallows. It's still a muted feeling, but his hand shakes as it edges away from him to open the door.

It's more crowded than usual, Snow and David each locked in an individual cell with tears in their eyes. It would be heartbreaking, watching their eyes dart from each other to their daughter to their son and start the pattern all over again. Elsa clings to a red-haired woman with braids and clothing that is obviously out of place here—Anna. He doesn't recognize the man with them, but he doesn't put much effort into trying to. He has eyes only for Emma Swan who is tearfully attempting to rock her baby brother and steady herself for the upcoming mission.

"Swan? A word?" he asks, just over the wind howling outside.

"Elsa, can you hold my brother?" She's trembling all over, eyes glassy, her nose and cheeks reddening, and if he had his heart, he'd tell her how beautiful she looked anyway. The most beautiful creature in any world, and he should let her know one more time how wonderful she is, that someone, whose opinion stopped having much value a long time ago, could spend any number of years in any world and still long for her, long for a future together.

"What are you doing here? You know what's about to happen," she admonishes him. She tries to harden her face, but to make him leave rather than conceal how she feels. She's done doing that. He needs to memorize it before he goes.

"Aye. I know. I just needed to see you..." he trails off, promising her, no matter what the crocodile's plans, he will not be back here to hurt her. "Before I chained myself to the dock for the protection of all, I, I needed to see you one more time."

Yes, he infinitely prefers it this way, saying goodbye now, while he's himself. Once the spell takes him over, he knows how it will go—Rumpelstiltskin waking him from it just to let him know he'd done something terrible and then delivering the final blow.

"Killian, I'm...not a...tearful goodbye kiss person," she sobs. He'd thought...he'll ask for one anyway, just this once.

"But maybe just this once." Finally breaking down, she cups his face and kisses him. Not so much a kiss at first as just her lips smashing, burrowing, into his. Closing his eyes, he remembers how stirring it always is. It always feels like sunlight circulating through him and cleansing him. Her breathing grows shaky, so he pulls back and kisses her cheek, then the base of her neck, and then just holds onto her, waiting for the sensation of her hands roaming over his shoulders and hair to mean something to him. He knows she's trying to draw some strength when her forehead falls against his, and he wishes he had some to give.

"Goodbye," he says quickly, tearing himself off of her and charging out of the building without looking back. The thunder and wind await him as he recalls the day at the town line when all she could utter was a choked good when he'd promised her she'd be in his thoughts every single day of his life. His heart had been breaking too sharply for him to step inside of her then, but he can now, and he knows why she didn't dwell on anyone. She'd slammed her car door shut and driven off and had shown no sign of hesitation once her feet had crossed that red line.

The purple clouds have taken over the sky, night falling at a supernatural pace. Breaking into a run, he banishes the idea of being too late out of his mind. If he focuses on that, he'll run slower. A glint of something catches his eye—a shard of glass reflecting the streetlight. Another. Halting, he cranes his neck to gaze up at shard upon shard cascading down like a gigantic chandelier.

Fine time for his phone to be ringing. Bloody hell, what if it's Emma? He, he can't talk to her if he's about to change, dying notwithstanding. Fortunately, the screen does not show her name with their picture. He knows who it is.

"What? What could you possibly want right now?"

"The spell is taking effect," Rumpelstiltskin says.

"Oh, I'm aware, crocodile. And everyone else is too, if you'd bother to look past your own interests for once."

"A novel idea, but you need to get yourself into the shop. I've temporarily lowered the barrier for you and would rather not have Dr. Whale come running in hoping to stab me with a syringe. I don't need to take your heart out of my case and make due with it as a stress ball, do I? I didn't think so."

With a click, he's ended the call, leaving Killian to count the silhouettes between him and the shop. He holds his breath out of instinct and trudges on.


"Where's the missus? She turned homicidal on you yet?" Packing. It doesn't surprise him in the least. The crocodile scarcely looks up at him.

"None of your business. What kept you?"

"Well, it's like swimming with sharks out there," he says, stepping further into the shop. He hears the faintest sound, an audible sharpness, of the protection spell over the building climbing its way back up around them. They'll need it, he thinks, the sound of breaking glass just outside reminding him of the brawls he'd maneuvered through on the short walk over. "The minute one of them tastes blood, they'll tear each other apart."

"Well, count your blessings you're not one of them," Rumpelstiltskin advises, finally glancing up from his work and looking like he's just done him a favor. But in his twisted mind, that may be indeed what he thinks, Killian corrects himself. He feels a forced smile creep upon his mouth, mad thoughts entering his head of how he'll at least die as himself, how he's grateful to not be caught up in the midst of...whatever the cricket and the repairman with the accent considered themselves doing. Gods know it wouldn't pass for a fight at any tavern...

"Why was I spared the cloud's curse?"

"Because your heart wasn't in your chest, dearie. It was here in my shop with me, in protective custody, so to speak," he says, patting the attache that never strays too far away from him. Unlike Mrs. Dark One...probably holed up in the back room throwing everything she could for lack of decent literature to occupy her.

"What is it you need, crocodile?"

"Once I finish packing, I'm going to take Belle to the town line. I need you to find Henry and do the same thing." He pulls a painting back from the wall, revealing a hidden safe and retrieving some magical nonsense out of it. Ah, the hat and the dagger.

"So you still think you're leaving?" It's his own thought, he's certain, but it arrives to him so suddenly he almost feels like he could laugh. He's played games with a stacked deck, loaded dice, before, and any pirate must become adept at odds and probability to survive. And, with the Snow Queen and all her unpredictable passions still in the works, the entire town ripping each other's jugulars, and Swan and Elsa still thankfully in full possession of their faculties, the Dark One should know when the cards are not in his favor. Of course, the most damnable evidence of all lies in the fact that he's the Dark One, custom-designed to bring misery to not only those around him, but himself.

"Oh, ye of little faith," he chuckles. "Tomorrow night, when the stars in the sky align with the stars in the hat, I shall finally cleave myself from this dagger and be on the other side of that ice wall before dawn."

"Are you saying there's a bloody way out of here?" he asks.

"Dark One always finds a way," he sings. Killian shakes his head. Doesn't he know how ridiculous he looks? The broken, exaggerated gestures, all these schemes with this magical object doing this or that, but this magical thing is required first, but only if yet another magical object is procured via such and such circumstances...bloody posturing coward and nothing more.

"Well if the Dark One is so powerful, why doesn't he magic his grandson to his side?" he challenges.

"Because that would require me knowing where his mothers have locked him away for safekeeping," he explains, ambling his way parallel to the counter with an answer for everything. Swan's tried telling him how it worked before, how it all demands a vivid picture of the present and future without sacrificing the focus of what one actually wants to accomplish, and he supposes he should relish that magic operates by some laws or else Henry would already be here.

"Now," he hisses, stepping ever closer without any sign of relenting. "Unless you really, really, have no need for that tongue, I suggest you slither back outside into the hostile current and find Henry. You'll be needing this." He holds a jar of red powder out to him, its use to remain a mystery until he needs it. Gods, always the theatrics. An enchanted lock pick might be more useful.

"You won't win," Killian warns him, pocketing the jar. "Villains never do."

"Don't be ridiculous, dearie. When Belle and Henry wake up tomorrow morning in New York City, they won't remember a thing about tonight. I'll tell them the Snow Queen destroyed Storybrooke, whilst I saved everyone I could. I won't be a villain. I'll be a hero."

Coward, he thinks, over and over again, until he feels the now-familiar override of his heart shoving him out the door and down the street.


Henry had gone off with Regina, which dwindles down the places he needs to look. It makes the task rather easy, he thinks, pinning himself up against the buildings to avoid being accosted from behind. The dwarfs have turned against each other, a few people already lying unconscious on the curbs, poor sots. If nothing changes they might be the first to die. At least Henry's not part of it, either at the vault, the house, or the mayor's office. Swan would rely more on her cunning than her magic if she currently had it anyway, whereas Regina will be counting on her magic to protect him...accompanied by the instinct to place him somewhere familiar to create some illusion of comfort. Narrowly missing the tip of Granny's crossbow, her disgruntled "move it" something he'll gladly take over anything else she might feel like serving out tonight. He'll try the mayor's office first, the closest one.

It becomes easier and easier to wash out his own thoughts and let what his heart's been ordered to do take over. If he could liken it to anything, stepping into the corridor to where Regina's door lay hidden past the overhead lights in shadow, it would be a dream—how every footstep takes an eternity to make, how the very air around him hums, and not in anticipation of anything good; it's not that kind of dream. It's the kind of dream where he knows he's heading toward horrors, knows something will pop out and cause him to run blindly through a mist, and yet he keeps walking because he's in a dream and is only vaguely aware of the fact.

He tries the doorknob knowing it will be locked and squints into the opaque glass of the window knowing the most he will be able to decipher will be a silhouette.

"Henry? I know you're in there, mate. I need you to come with me now," he says, shaking his head at himself.

"There's no way I'm going anywhere with a dirty pirate!"

"Dirty? I bathe quite frequently, thank you very much!" Perhaps a lucid Henry would be easier to cooperate with. It's an unfiltering spell, he reminds himself, and one on a precocious twelve-year-old at that.

"I never liked you! And I like you even less now that you and my mom are...together!" He bites down on the last word hard. Just how did that conversation go? Oh, Swan's face trying to explain to her son that she's...that they...ah, he likes the label "together" more than anything he can think of...quite the opposite of cursed Henry's feelings. Her cheeks would be redder than he'd ever seen them.

"Emma used that word? "'Together'?"

"Go!"

"Okay, Henry, I need to bring you somewhere safe." It's not a lie at any rate, he thinks, reaching into his pocket for the powder jar. Mumbling to himself, he unscrews the lid with one hand and dumps the contents over the door, prepared to watch it melt or burst into flames. No visual change. So it is an enchanted lock pick.

"I'm coming in!" he calls to him, stepping into the office and instantly sliding, his back slamming into the floor so fast his legs fly up into the air. Eyes shut tight, he winces at tiny hard objects digging into various places on his back. He opens them just in time to catch a flash of Henry dashing out the door. Gods, he can't let him run around loose out there. As long as he's with him, no harm will come to him...until he hands him over to his grandfather. Blast it all...

"Henry! I'm just trying to do what's best for you!" he shouts, scrambling to his feet, kicking out at the floor to push any of the...confounded marbles away from him. Running back into the corridor, he had expected to see the hem of the lad's coat or something, but no. Henry's disappeared. Wonderful.

"I've been looking for you, pirate!"

Oh, wonderful indeed. That measly thief that was overly fond of wasting wine now faces him, his chest puffed out and full of bluster.

"Come to pay you back for that shiner you gave me."

"Now's not the time, mate," he huffs.

"Oh, it bloody well is the time!" he argues, blocking the door and curling up his arms in the most laughable fighting position possible. "Silly" doesn't even begin to describe it.

"Now let's see how hard you are without your girlfriend 'round to protect ya," he slurs. He has no time for this. One little step to the side will let the twit run himself into the wall...but he'd prefer to help him along the way. Weaving his arm, he clasps the thief's back and lets everything fall into place, including the thief, out like a light.

He should move him, maybe drag him into the office and hide him behind the desk or something for the time being, but he doubts anyone else in town, spell or not, would find him worth the trouble of assaulting.

"Henry!" he calls out in front of him, knowing the boy won't answer, even if he's still near enough to hear him, which he doubts. Like a dream, he thinks, knowing every move will only lead to disaster and making them anyway...


The first rays of sunlight start peeking out through the tree branches. He tries not to imagine what would happen to David and Snow should they escape their cells, what would happen to their baby. He refuses to search there, to see them that way, to catch Henry lashing out at them for some exaggerated grievance. No, Henry would run for Regina and Emma; sometimes the people one loves the most are the ones who cause the most pain. Closing his eyes, he hopes, tries to hope, Henry will find Emma first, and that she won't let words beyond his control hurt her too much.

He knows the pawn shop door will be unlocked for him. The eye of the storm, which is a sad thought. This is where the dream ends, actually. This is the place where he knows too little rather than too much.

He dwells on that thought as something cold and wet hits a spot on the top of his head. Looking up, he blinks at fat chunks of snow flying on the breeze, each flake taking its time falling down onto the street. They're as natural looking as any other snowflakes, no green or purple hue hidden beneath the whiteness, but he senses something magical in each one, not quite the same scent as Emma's magic. Perhaps Elsa's...that would mean they've won.

"Henry got away," he announces to Rumpelstiltskin, who steps out from the curtain leading to the back room.

"So you failed. At kidnapping a child."

"Well, perhaps you could say my heart wasn't in it."

"The Snow Queen's plan also failed." That accounts for the silence outside, and the rather somber expression on Rumpelstiltskin's face. He's not that disappointed about Henry's absence. It's all about events unfolding differently than he had foreseen. "But mine won't. Enjoy this snowfall, dearie. It'll be your last."

"Then grant me one dying wish."

"I'm not in the business of making deals with you anymore," he winces, recoiling in disgust.

"Leave Emma, and the rest of Storybrooke, be. There's no need to harm them." It's more than her town, her home. With memories and curses flung around as carelessly as they are, it's a bloody wonder these people hadn't all rioted to the point of utter destruction prior to now. They're good, undeserving of being swept up in all these plots these villains conjure up. He remembers, doesn't feel, tricking himself into believing the people he hurt were nothing more than hurdles in the way of his revenge. They weren't, the cloying conscience that never quite left him would remind him relentlessly, but he'd convinced himself there had been no other choice, that his mission outranked whatever theirs was. They shouldn't all be recovering from this latest spell; they should be forming an orderly line and take turns beating the one responsible for its execution, but they don't.

Rumpelsitltskin gives a slight nod, a flash in his eyes conveying something that should be understanding, but Killian knows better.

"When I step over that town line with my magic intact," he says, gentler than the words need to be. "Emma and Storybrooke have nothing to fear from me. As long as they don't get in my way."

Killian closes his eyes, tilting his chin up to the ceiling. It's no guarantee at all.

"But I can't make that promise for the rest of the world," he adds, stepping out of the shop with the jingling bell heralding his immersion into the rest of the town. Emma, and she won't be the only one, will attempt to stop him, because they're heroes, because they're good, and then they'll all face his wrath.


A/N: So 4x15 may be one of my all-time favorite episodes ever. Coming up? I tackle a flashback I've never tackled before.