A/N: A lot of references in this one. I want you to know I do not own The Sound of Music or The Maltese Falcon. The chapter title is from Irene Hunt's Up a Road Slowly. Also, the talented Alexandra Lyman was gracious enough to let me borrow the title of a book that was very special to Hook and Liam when they were growing up. If you have not read "Beyond the Horizon," I highly suggest you do so. It is in my Favorites for good reason, just exquisite.
He sits at one of the desks at the sheriff's station, watching David scratching out a quick note to Emma that he's gone to answer a call about someone "stealing cable" from another house...a rather minor incident, really. Aren't cables rather easy to come by? They nod to each other, David lifts his coat off the hook, and saunters outside to the squad cars.
"Where's Dad?" Swan returns from the bathroom, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. Swinging the chair around so he faces her, he smiles.
"Answering a call. He didn't consider it worth troubling you."
"Good." She nearly breaks into a run heading over to the second desk. She kneels down and unlocks the bottom drawer. Peering down, he spies a small wooden hoop with a sinewy substance strung around it in an intricate, spiral-like pattern. As she pulls it out, her fingers massage the beads and feathers hanging from it.
"What's that?" he asks.
"Oh, I know something about legends that you don't?" she gasps in an exaggerated fashion, smirking at him, her head cocked. He mirrors it, lifting both eyebrows.
"Technically, in my case, it's history and not legends. Now what is it?"
"'The stuff that dreams are made of,'" Swan states in a low, ominous voice before bursting into a short giggle fit.
"That's a quote from something."
"Yep. But...it's appropriate. This is a dreamcatcher." Strolling over to him, she lets the object lay in both her hands so she can display it for him. "There's a Native American story of a spider woman who used to take care of all the children, but as the population grew, she couldn't reach them all. So their mothers and grandmothers wove magical webs for them and hung them near where they slept. The dreamcatchers catch all the bad dreams, leaving people to only have good ones." Setting it in his lap, Swan goes back to the drawer and pulls out another one, incomplete, parts of the web design looking looser than they should.
"Who's having bad dreams?" he asks.
"Well, Henry, for one...and my dad...and my mom, and occasionally me," she says quickly, opening a small box filled with beads. "I don't know if they work or not, but when I was younger, it was the only kind of magic I believed in."
"Why is that?"
Sighing, her shoulders seem to lift of their own accord, as if bracing themselves for a heavy burden.
"Neal, uh, well, he never liked them much, but he knew I did, and so he got me one. Bought and everything and we weren't exactly the types who bought anything back in those days. I never had a bad dream when we hung it up in the rearview mirror of the car. There were times when, even when we were able to get a room for the night, I wouldn't want to leave the car." Her voice fading into the most muffled of whispers, she shakes her head and laughs away the pain. "Whether they work or not, the power of suggestion...and the thought, might make everyone sleep a little better."
"Let's hope so," he says, seeing the question on the tip of her tongue, if he wants her to make one for him. Nightmares plagued him less and less, but they still lingered, waiting until the moments of sleep when he felt the safest, the happiest, and then they would strike. Images of glowing hearts, endless jungles, and blue, frozen lips seemed to slice away at him at times, until he would wake up and let the creaking of the Jolly Roger lull him back to sleep. And yet, he harbors no desire whatsoever for one of these to hang in his cabin. Not yet anyway.
Her phone ringing breaks the silence. Stuffing her crafts, labors of love for her family, back into the drawers with one hand, she positions her phone between her cheek and shoulder with the other.
"Sheriff's office." She listens to the speaker for longer than he anticipated, her furrowed brow no hint as to what the matter could be. Folding her arms, Swan opens her mouth, but looks over at him instead. Shooting her an impatient look, he pushes off the floor to wheel his chair closer to her. She swats him away and presses her palm into the back of his neck and starts rubbing it, the most silent sign of affection she could summon...not that he's complaining.
"We could," she says to her conversation partner. "Yeah. No, no, I think I've got it covered. See you tonight." Hanging up, she smiles down at him and continues to rub his neck as she reaches for her keys.
"You don't have plans right now, do you? Not meeting up with Belle this afternoon?"
"No. I was thinking about going into the library alone today. She was going to help out in her father's flower shop. What did you want to do, love?"
"That was Mom. We're all invited to a party, it seems."
"A party?"
"A birthday party, Doc's. The dwarves have been planning something for a while and keeping it under wraps, but I have to go get a present. Want to come with me?"
"You know I'd go anywhere with you, Swan. I'm quite certain shopping for a dwarf isn't as dangerous an adventure as a few others we've had." He stands up and starts for the door, only to see her scurrying back to the filing cabinets and retrieving the Snow Queen's scroll. Catching up to him, she stands on her tiptoes and pecks his lips.
"I thought pirates considered uncharted territory plenty dangerous," she purrs into his cheek.
Two hours from the town line, but not the way they came from New York, Killian looks out his window at building after building, car after car. It's not as cramped as New York, or as affluent, but it's a good deal more, well, urbane than anything he's seen in Storybrooke.
Swan seems to know where she's going, taking one final sip of her bottle of water before turning right into a hard black field of parked cars. A long brown building with a red target on the corner—and the red word "Target" next to it—appears to be their destination.
"So any guesses as to what this is?" Swan sweeps around the front of the car and throws her arms around his waist as he inspects their surroundings more.
"Something tells me you can purchase more than targets from this place." Grabbing her hand, they walk up to the doors, people pushing bright red carts on either side of them, although with everything in bags, he can't see what they've bought. The doors open for them to a warm, well-lit shop with shelves and signs everywhere. From everywhere and nowhere, a steady drum beat and an odd guitar arrangement accompany a male voice so morose it seems in awe of being uplifted.
"So..." Swan says, recapturing his attention. "We can stand here and listen to the Cure, or we can find a present for Doc while we're here."
"What does he like?" Uncharted territory indeed. The various pillows and clocks to their left indicate a furnishing section, women's clothing just ahead. No need for a cart, they walk along the aisles, passing by quite the provactive display of undergarments. A faint buttery scent travels with them, all the way into a section marked "Housewares."
"I'm not sure..." Swan trails off, meandering into an aisle filled with boxed cooking items, some of which he recognizes from the apartment and from Granny's—blender and mixers amid the peelers, spatulas, tongs...the expensive set of knives Swan is standing in front of holding her chin in her hand.
"That's more a Regina type of gift, isn't it?" he tries, suddenly holding his breath. Casually debating whether or not giving knives to the Evil Queen is a good idea when the whole reason they came here was for a bloody dwarf—the singular oddity that is his life now.
"Yeah. I don't think we'll find anything here. The only thing I know Doc really likes apart from, you know, mining and drinking, is his car. You think we'll look cheap if we just put together a gift basket?"
He can't answer, something cinching his throat shut, so much so a swallow turns into a hard gulp. It shouldn't be a big deal, should it, that she wants to give someone a gift that is from the both of them? In something of a daze, he watches her collect leather cleaner, air fresheners, various rags, a book of road maps, sponges, and a half dozen items he's not familiar with. A mischievous grin breaks out across her face and she hurries into a section that must be for children as they're soon surrounded by dolls and miniature barns and ships. He looks up to where her fingers are skittering from one packaged toy car to another, shaking her head at all of them.
"There has to be one that matches his."
"Hot Wheels?" he enquires, reading the bold lettering.
"Just for fun," she says with a shrug. "Found it!"
Tempted to fight for more time to learn just what constitutes as playthings for children in this land, his tongue curls up over his top teeth to keep him from speaking. Just as well. It's a two-hour drive back and they have a party to attend. Together. To give a gift from both of the them.
Killian learns a dwarf birthday party is precisely what he imagined it would be—boisterous, beer everywhere, everyone giving up on distancing Henry from the obscene jokes permeating the long tables that have been carried out into the street. After the Crocodile and the Snow Queen, the town could use some old-fashioned merriment, and that must be why the dwarves have invited the entire town to "Doctoberfest," a play on words that he doesn't quite understand but everyone else seems to, taking swigs from large steins while Granny apologizes again and again for it being the first time she's ever made "jagerschnitzel." But every single guest shook their head at her and insisted the breaded meat dish to be absolutely delicious, and it is.
One of them—Sleepy, he thinks—arranged for live music to play, reminding Killian of the balls of the old world...only at this one everyone is a bit tipsy and he has his family with him. He shifts around so his back hits the table, watching Swan and Henry trying to figure out the dance off to the side of the other, more polished dancers. It's a waltz of some kind, but he hasn't seen these kinds of steps before, something more yearning about this one. A waltz could be the stiffest, least enjoyable dance of an evening, but this one—the couples weaved, arms twisting. Still restrained, but always on the verge of saying "to hell with it."
"Want to try it?" Snow asks, tapping him on the back. Not risking a rejection, she hands the baby to Leroy and holds her hand out.
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with this one, milady," he says.
"That's because it's not from our world. It's a Laendler. You'll get the hang of it."
Well, lest he be accused of not taking his own advice and picking a partner who knows what he or she is doing, he rises and lets her lead him out to where the dancers are, watching them circle each other.
"How is it you know it?" he asks her, letting her take his hand and hook and start out an arm's length from each other just like the rest.
"I've seen The Sound of Music one too many times," she sighs. It has more bounce to it than the standard waltz, the tempo changing here and there, demanding some discipline. Snow giggles as they wind around each other, and, as his hand tries to maneuver around hers to keep them from getting twisted, she breaks away and starts waving over at someone.
"Look at you two," Swan chuckles.
"Here. Dance with your boyfriend before I throw my back out," her mother jokes, rubbing his back to assure him it's not his fault they don't make the best of partners. He waggles an eyebrow at Swan before she tries to fit right where Snow left off, looking over at her mother to make sure she has it right.
"There you go. Just watch everyone else," Snow coaches, beaming as she admires them. He's always known Swan is about an inch or so shorter than her mother, but he feels it now, having to bend a little more to weave their backs to each other and then back around. He breathes a sigh of relief when the steps call for him to just take her waist and stay in a tight circle. It forces their faces closer, not that either of them mind.
"So when do I get to hear a story about you at a ball?" she murmurs to him when the dance allows them to be closer, just a few too many spins for his liking.
"You mean like the time you were dragged off by the Black Guards," he says, mirroring her eye roll.
"Nothing eventful at any Navy Ball ever? You didn't get drunk and start belting out 'That Lovin' Feeling' or anything?"
"Oh, I got drunk, all right. Make no mistake, love. In those days, I bloody couldn't attend my first one without having a few flasks' worth."
"And now here you are," she notes with a proud eyebrow, muttering in a much quieter voice, "Here we are."
Blushing, she gazes back up at him and continues the dance, the need to talk apparently evaporating. He's tried so hard all day to forget about the wizard-tree out in the courtyard or where Regina might be keeping the dagger at any given moment...and now he can.
"Regina!"
Bodies hitting the floor. The clanging of a sword. They jerk around to find the couples backing away from Robin and one of the knights before scuffling on the floor. Music stopping. People screaming...
"No, Swan! You can't use dark magic!" His hand springs up to grip her wrist, her entire arm drawn back to hurl something at the brawl ahead of them.
"I can help!" she growls at him, struggling for only a moment before she begins to just look on as helplessly as everyone else. Edging in front of her, he crosses his arm over his torso to draw his own sword, only to spot David rushing in to drive the sword the knight has in his hand away. It happens all too quickly, as swordfights tend to do—the clangs and grunts replaced by a sudden gasp and oozing blood.
"He's run through. They both are," he breathes more to himself than to her, shoving his way through the onlookers to where Regina has bent over Robin, sobbing his name.
"Regina, we have to move him. You have to move," David directs her in a firm tone, nodding over at Killian to help him. Pushing the body of the knight out of the way, Killian judges by the angle the man truly lies dead, no longer posing any threat. He positions his hook arm to where the heel of Robin's boot presses into the crook of his elbow, his hand grabbing the other ankle. He hears only the swishing of gowns and scraping of shoes on the dance floor as he hustles backward into the recesses of the castle.
"In there!" David shouts, nodding at a door that must just be right behind him. Snow bustles ahead of them and ushers in the ladies, Regina wedging herself into David's side so she can see Robin.
"Robin, hold on. Hold on. Please!"
"Get him inside."
They've waved everything off of a table, reducing it to what he hopes won't be a slab for a corpse. They heave him onto the table with a thud that fails to rouse him back to consciousness. The blood stains on his shirt reveal a hit between ribs, a pierced lung. He won't make it. Killian's seen more than his share of that kind of wound in the past. Once they stop responding, it's a matter of minutes.
"Can you heal him?" Snow cries. Regina rushes to the side and holds her hands out, fingers splayed. They glow a dark pink, not the rich purple that accompanied all her previous spells. Robin bolts up, and everyone jumps, fixated on him as he gasps for breath. His eyes rolling back into his head, he collapses back down onto the table, Regina unleashing a feral cry.
"Why didn't it work?" David asks.
In a daze, Regina sways around them, searching, hands still tensed. Holding out the sword, Snow looks up at her with a desperate hope that it will help. Passing her hand over it, the pink hue returns even paler than before.
"This sword was enchanted to kill me." Her voice grows more hoarse with every word, her eyes drifting nearer and nearer to Emma. Gods. He doesn't want to be the one to seal the man's death, but he'll have to be if she dares ask it of her. "My magic can't heal him. But maybe yours can."
"No," Killian argues. "No, we can't let her use dark magic."
"Regina, this was the whole point of your pretending to be the Savior..." Snow starts.
"The whole point was not for Robin to die!" she shouts. "And I'm not asking you! I'm asking-I'm asking her."
Emma reels back, trembling, hunching into herself like she always does when she's on the verge of tears.
"I don't know what will happen if I use my powers again," she warns in a shaky voice so low it's barely audible. Gods, give her the strength to resist the Darkness, he prays, closing his eyes. Because she'll agree. Because she won't let someone die if she can be the Savior and actually save them. Of all of them, Emma Swan may be the one most sure of the unexpected happening.
"I can use that dagger to make you do this, but I'm not!" Regina begs. "I'm asking you! I've lost love before, and I won't again. Please! Save him."
Emma pauses. "All right. I'll try." She checks behind her to see if he's right there, and he is, but he can't promise her everything will be all right. He can only hope. If anyone can cancel the pull of the Darkness out with saving the life of a human being, she can. It reminds him of the "slow motion" effects on the television screens at home, an entire lifetime for her to position herself at Robin's side.
"What are you doing here?" she snaps. His head angles around her to see who might have stormed in unnoticed, but an empty chair appears to be the object of her scorn.
"Emma, who are you talking to?" he asks.
"No one," she snarls, not at him, but at the chair, perhaps where the Darkness has chosen to feed its lies to her, and if it's there...
"This is too much for her!"
"I'm fine. I can do this." She already sounds strained. He wonders if he should take it as a good sign she loathes it, but then should she hear anything at all? What could it possibly be tempting her to do? Save Robin? Not save Robin?
"I won't take one to save somebody," she speaks to it again, actually pausing like she would in a normal conversation. It can't start this way. It can't start by her listening to it at all. It must be ignored. If for no other reason than Robin doesn't have enough time.
"Fine. I'll pay it."
Pay? Pay a price. Magic always comes with a price.
"It'll be different," she argues with it. "I'm the Savior."
"Emma, who are you talking to? What's going on?" Regina calls to her.
"It's okay," she says, at last returning to Robin. "I can do this." Her fingers flutter over Robin with waves of yellowy-green instead of her usual white. The smell of cinnamon doesn't fill the room; neither do the summery scents her magic always floods him with; only nothingness. An odorless, stealthy brand of magic sends a shiver down his spine, a stronger one than any putrid smell might have. She lingers over his wound and he watches it disappear.
Robin suddenly inhales like waking from a deep sleep.
"Robin!"
"Regina," he coughs out, straining to lift his neck so he can meet her lips. All of a sudden, he feels a powerful tug down, Emma's hands on the collar of his coat, cinching his hair between her fingers, cradling his jaw—all of it with such a ferocity it drives the fear into him that it could be their last kiss. He has to reel his head back to pull her off of him, just enough to see how heavy her eyes appear, how exhaustion and worry vie for dominance.
"Emma, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she whispers, still with a death grip on him. It's not the steely tone from before. "I feel a little woozy. I think I'll lie down for a bit." Her fingers drift down his arm on her way out, still in a haze. Glancing back only to check on Robin once more, she closes the door behind her.
Killian lurks the corridors, leaning forward on the balls of his feet to check every room he passes for Emma. Wondering off after everything that just happened... She hadn't retired to her room; that had been the first place he looked. Nor had she hidden herself away in her parents' or Henry's rooms. Her parents had stayed behind to explain the situation to Arthur, as best they could anyway. He distracts himself by piecing together in his head how they'll let him know the Savior did heal Robin—that part true, and that Regina might have acquired a few enemies in her time. That Arthur would buy the Evil Queen and the Savior being one and the same, Killian could accept, given the man's shoddy leadership capabilities.
Bracing the archway as he stops, he spies her in the library, so absorbed in one of the shelves the tip of her nose touches the spines. About to call her name, she senses his presence, blinking and ushering him inside and placing a finger to her lips for him to be quiet.
"Look. Look, I need you to tell me what you see." Holding out one of the books to him, her sense of urgency compels him to look before he can even ask her any questions. It takes but an instant for him to squint down at the pale blue cover with seashells and tridents framing lucious gold letters before he gulps.
"'Tales of the Sea, Mermaids and Monsters and the Lands Beyond the Horizon,'" he reads, each word quieter than the last. Certain his expression is an odd mixture of happiness and sadness, he looks up at her to elaborate, but...tears well in his eyes. Damned sentiment.
"It's special to you," she whispers, her hand brushing over his.
Nodding, he inhales and means to speak. He really does. Evening out his breathing, he lets out a small laugh.
"The stories I told you Liam and I used to like...we, well, h-he would read these to me, you know, at night, w-when I'd-think-about-our-father."
"I wish I could see it," she says, holding the book so he doesn't drop it when she squeezes his hand. "I see A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens."
He snaps his chin back up and furrows his brow. "What do you mean you can't see it?"
"Well..." Taking a step backward, she points to the spine of one still on the shelf. "What's this one?"
"A navigation primer."
"Wuthering Heights." She points to another one and arches her eyebrow. What kind of game is this?
"A guide to understanding Elvish. I have one just like it on the Jolly Roger. What do you see?"
"Treasure Island."
"Now it at least sounds like we're on the same page," he says, unable to hide a grin. Scanning the shelf, he scrutinizes the titles and rolls his tongue around in his mouth. He recognizes all of them. "What does this mean?"
"It means I'm not the one doing it," Swan breathes, her eyes going wide. "I took a walk after...everything and came in here and started thinking about how I'd never been in a room like this and how it must be filled with all the classic books I've never read, and then here they were. Except this one." She drags her finger along the spine of what's a geometry book to him. "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It's my favorite in the series."
"If you see books from home..." He doesn't mean to trail off, but from the corner of his eye, he catches her melting at the word "home," so he tucks in a smile. "Then what are they really?"
"I don't know, but it's some kind of magic."
"Emma! I'm so glad I found you!"
Robin bounds straight toward her and scoops her up into a tight embrace, lifting her off the ground. A million thank-yous gush out of him.
"I never would have seen my son again! And Regina! I-I had made a promise to myself that I would do everything I could to never let her down, and I almost couldn't keep it tonight. Thank you, Emma."
"You're welcome. I'm just glad you're okay," she says in her modest way, placing her hand on the tip of the book he's still holding, whatever it actually may be. He'll wait until Robin leaves, however, before he opens it up and tests the pages. "We were just going to, uh, do some reading."
"Where the Wild Things Are?" he asks, giving both of them an odd look. "Roland likes that one, although I would have pegged you two more for The Tale of Peter Rabbit." The look shifts into something more knowing, his mouth forming a silent "ah" as he tilts his chin up and shakes his head at himself. "I'll, uh, just let you two get to it then. Thank you, Emma. If there is anything I can do to help you while we're here, just name it."
He leaves, and the image of him walking away alerts Killian to the fact he had gotten completely side-tracked in the purpose of searching for her.
"Are you sure you're all right in regards to earlier?" he asks, his hand reaching around and rubbing circles into the small of her back. Her gaze veers down to the floor and grows more unfocused by the second. He won't bring up her speaking to an empty chair, not yet, for she looks as if she could fall asleep standing up. "If you have to use magic, make sure it's only if something dire happens."
"Something dire is always happening," she exhales, leaning to the side and propping her elbow up on the edge of the shelf. Her head follows, resting in her palm.
"True, but I mean only the equivalency of what just occurred, life/death dire, and only..." he jabbers on, scoffing at how much like an idiot he sounds. "Only the direst of circumstances. All else will just have to be let go of until the Darkness is out of you." Gods, he doesn't mean to sound like some pompous buffoon throwing his weight around expecting everyone to obey him without question, but this one time has her about to fall into a swoon, and she'd saved someone, no less. If good deeds render her in such a state, he dreads finding out how the Darkness will try to take advantage of that.
"Will you stay with me for a little while?" she asks with her eyes closed. "Just to talk? You can read a story out of there for me if you want. If it's not too painful."
His eyes indicate a soft-looking sofa over by one of the tall windows, bathed in moonlight. Settling into it, he throws his arm over her and adjusts so she can lay her head on him. Licking his lips, he opens the book and finds whatever illusion they're under works for the pages as well, hearing himself reads sentences he hadn't read in centuries.
A/N: Coming up? Operation Light Swan kicks off!
