His mind was of a singular thought. His body moved of automatic reflex, repeating the same movements as every day of his wretched existence, but this day was infinitely worse than the darkest among them, and so removed was he from the steps he took, that they were merely an extension of him. A subconscious response to his panic. He needed to get to her, and his body bore him hence.

Emma.

His chest tightened at the whisper of her name across his heart.

If it couldn't be reversed—

Gods, he'd not survive this one.

He came to the small clearing as instructed by the demon wearing a shopkeeper's face. The crowd parted for him, making a straight and unobstructed path to the place she lay, her skin colorless and cold, her chest unmoved by breath.

She wore her red leather jacket; it glowed like a beacon in the rain.

He should've been here—he should've been the one to take the hit. He'd escaped every curse to come his way, it was only fair that one should catch up with him. Not—Gods, not Emma.

—

"You never told me how you got this one." Her fingertips traced the scar on his cheek with a delicate caress, as though the wound were still fresh.

"I only know the tale as my brother told it to me." Beneath the covers, his hand roved the curve of her hip, and she leaned into his touch. "When I was a lad not much older than Neal is now, Liam and I pulled into port—not far, in fact, from the very one that boasts a quaint little tavern, wherein a rather brazen bar wench helped herself to my rum—ow."

Emma giggled when Killian recoiled from her pinching fingers. "I was not brazen—and as I recall, you couldn't ply me with rum fast enough."

"Let's not forget who was sent to seduce whom."

"I did not—I wasn't going to seduce you."

Killian winked. "Your secret's safe with me, Love—ow. Bloody hell, Swan, would you quit doing that?"

The corners of her mouth turned down in a mock frown. "Sensitive, are we, Captain?"

Her laughter rang out when he rolled her onto her back. "Admit it, Swan—you're a bloody minx."

"Mm..." she adjusted her position beneath him, situating her hips at the most enticing angle. "I may need further incentive to admit something of that magnitude."

He groaned, his head falling forward, burrowed in the crook of her neck. She laughed at his reaction as she shifted her position, lining herself up for a second round of the evening's festivities.

"You'll be the death of me, Swan."

—

"Hook, it's over. We should get her out of here, take her to—"

"Have you tried True Love's Kiss?" Killian asked, not taking his eyes from Emma. "Where's Henry?"

"It didn't work—nothing's worked." David closed his hand around Killian's arm. "We can't save her this time."

"Like hell." Killian shrugged off the prince's hold. "Bloody do something—you can't just let her…she can't…"

David said nothing further, but Killian heard the quiet sobs he tried to contain.

"May I have a moment?"

With a pat on the shoulder, David joined the crowd come to see the Savior perish.

—

Bloody insatiable woman.

Scarcely had he caught his breath when Emma began nibbling at his ear and forging a downward path along his jaw and neck and—gods would he ever get enough?

"You never finished your story." She looked at him with a mischievous smile. "About your scar."

"My last attempt was interrupted rather abruptly."

"I didn't hear any complaints." Emma's smile widened.

Killian laughed before continuing on with his account. "When we were boys, our father took us to a cottage by the sea, where we'd spend the day, just the three of us. Later, it was just the two of us, Liam and me, and one day I swam too close to the rocks in a place where the current was too strong. It dragged me under. Liam saved me from being carried out to sea, but not before one of the rocks had carved a sizeable fissure here." He ran his forefinger along the scar's edge. "My brother said I was marked that day, that the sea had claimed me, and I'd never be free of it."

"And here I thought there was some sort of duel involved."

"I wasn't always a pirate."

"So I'm discovering."

Emma's humor faded to a grave expression.

"What is it, Love?"

"Nothing, it's…nothing."

"For someone who can so easily spot the lies of others, you're quite the rubbish liar yourself."

"Only with you." She smirked then fell serious again. "I was just wondering what…happened to your father."

Killian swept her hair from her shoulder. "That, Mrs. Jones, is rather a different tale."

—

"I'm sorry, Swan. I should've been here, I should've…"

He shook his head. The list of things he should've done was infinite. The things he should've said and didn't, the things he shouldn't have said but did.

He shouldn't have yelled at her.

At that moment, a voice from his past came to taunt him. "Perhaps you shouldn't have goaded him into it."

Blinking back tears, he leaned forward, whispering against her skin that which had been on his heart from the moment he met her, "I love you, Emma."

A brush of lips, a rush of wind, a sudden pulse of power.

Emma sat up with a gasp, grasping his hand.

Killian woke to an empty bed, unable to breathe. He sat at the mattress edge, clutching the side of his head. Would the dreams never end? Seven years they'd been constant, but lately they were relentless. He couldn't remember the last night he'd gotten proper rest.

His shirt was sodden with the evidence of his unconscious struggle—he cast it into the laundry bin on his way to the lavatory. Remembering too late that the mirror was gone, he gripped the countertop, leaning his head down to catch his breath.

This time, instead of his reflection staring back at him, a stark contrast to the man he'd been most of his life, it was the portion of painted flesh along his forearm.

"Daddy, who's Milah?"

He'd seen the destruction wrought by lies, and so he vowed to himself, and to Emma's memory that he'd never lie to his daughter, or his stepson, but this was one instance in which he'd been tempted to go back on his word. What good would it do to tell her about the woman he'd loved before her mother?

But tell her, he did—with as little inclusion of his own misdeeds as he could manage.

With Milah, it'd been different. He'd known precisely who was to blame for her untimely passing. Revenge was the obvious course, from whence he couldn't have strayed in the earliest years if he'd tried. But with Emma…

What would slake his unquenchable grief when the reason for her demise was also the reason he got up in the morning? How did he take pleasure in being a father without feeling as though he'd traded one love for the other?

—

The refrigerator cast its light upon the small kitchen, illuminating appliances, the names of which Killian was certain would never stick—the world could be content with him knowing the term refrigerator. A throat cleared behind him as he poured himself a glass of orange juice—practical name, Killian had always thought.

"Can I pour you a glass, Dave?"

"Please." David pulled a stool up to the bar. "What's kept you up this time?"

"Same as ever. And yourself?"

"Mary Margaret." David reached immediately for the juice that Killian set before him. "She's worried about you—we all are."

Killian scoffed. "Never thought I'd hear those words uttered."

"We were discussing the situation with Beth."

"And what pearls of parental wisdom did you produce?" Killian looked down at the glass in his hand, its contents untouched. "Apologies, Mate."

David nodded his acceptance. "Do you remember when Henry told you he no longer believed in happy endings?"

"He said there were no heroes or villains, and we're all doomed to suffer no matter our efforts, so why bother trying."

"For the first time in longer than I can remember, Henry seems…hopeful. Of anyone, he'd be the first to dissuade Beth."

Killian didn't answer.

"If he says he saw her, I'm inclined to believe him."

"And you're not the least bit biased?"

"Aren't we all when it comes to Emma?"

Killian swallowed thickly, swishing his drink around its tumbler. "You've got me there, Mate."

—

The first thing that struck him was the undisturbed bed. Second, the window cracked open on a winter's night. Crossing the room, Killian peered outside, his gaze following the tangle of bed sheets touching ground.

In an instant, he was at the front door, pulling his jacket hastily over each arm, and reaching for his keys.

"Where are you going?" David called from his kitchen stool.

"Beth's gone." He tugged on his boots. "She's run away."

David didn't try to keep him, only promised as Killian took the stairs two at a time that he and Henry would cover Main Street and Granny's, knowing Killian's mind was on the docks. When they turned up no results, he scoured every inch of Storybrooke from the library to the town line before panic truly settled in.

Just as a lump formed in his throat, the phone vibrated in his pocket, Mary Margaret's name flashing on the screen.

"Killian, she's here—she's home."

The return journey was spent, in its entirety, developing the proper admonishment. For the foreseeable future, his daughter was a nun—cut off from every luxury on which she was raised, chief among which were television and internet, and he'd be damned if she was stepping foot outside before she turned eighteen. First thing when he got home, he'd confiscate her books, including that blasted electronic tablet David talked him into purchasing last month. She would sit at her desk and formulate the most effusive and heartfelt apology known to this or any world. And then maybe, just maybe he'd consider letting her experience human interaction again.

But when he crossed the threshold and saw her standing there, safe, every ounce of anger faded and he fell to his knees, hugging her.

"You scared the hell out of me." He said. "Don't ever do that again."

"I found Mom."

He pulled back slowly, trying to temper his wrath anew. "Beth, sweetheart…we've been through this."

"I know, Daddy, but this time I have proof—I found her. She's trapped and she needs our help. There's this mansion deep in the woods. I had to escape before the Sorceress caught me, but Mom's still there."

"Come on, Killian." Said Henry. "What's the harm in finding out?"

"Beth, to your room."

"But, Daddy—"

With a look that warned against arguing, Beth's face twisted with a frown. She stomped away to her room without another word spoken.

Killian turned to Henry. "Lad, I'd appreciate it if you didn't say things like that in front of her."

"And I'd appreciate it if you stopped acting like my father. You marrying my mom doesn't make us family." With eyes that could've melted flesh, Henry stalked away, the sound of his slammed door echoing moments after.

"Killian…"

"Dave, don't."

"Henry's right."

"What happens when it isn't true? What happens to my daughter when this is all over and we're back where we started? You may be willing to risk her heart, but I'm not."

"Is it her heart you're protecting?"

Killian clenched his jaw, any sarcastic retort dying on his tongue.

"If there's a chance my daughter's out there, that she's been…imprisoned by some evil sorceress, I'm not going to sit here and do nothing. What if it were Beth?"

Killian met David's knowing gaze.

"What's the harm in knowing for sure?"

"I can't…" his voice shook with unwanted emotion, "…I can't let myself…" he shook his head.

That blasted hand of his, ever eager to soothe, found its way to Killian's shoulder. "You're not alone in this."

—

When she didn't answer his second summons, Killian felt a swell of terror at the thought that she'd run off again. He opened her door to find her facedown on her bed, crying into a pillow, and his heart sank at the sight.

Seating himself beside her, he said, "This…mansion. Do you remember how to get there?"

She sat up in a flash. "We're going to get Mom?"

"You're staying here. Grandpa's the sheriff, so he and I will go and…investigate."

"But that's not fair! I have magic."

"As does Regina. I've apologized for my outburst and she's agreed to help us. And with her so far from town, someone will have to look after your grandmother and Uncle Neal, hm?" He tucked his hand under her chin.

She crossed her arms, not falling for it.

"It's safer this way, Love. Promise me you'll not follow us."

Frowning, she grumbled, "I promise."

"That's a good lass." He kissed her forehead, drying her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"Daddy, before you go, can I show you what I learned during my last lesson?"

He eyed her skeptically. "I'm rather fond of my eyebrows, Love."

She giggled, leaning forward to sit up on her knees. "No, silly. Watch." She closed her eyes, placed her palm flat against his chest, just left of center. A temporary tingling sensation later and she looked up at him. "In case she tries to take your heart."

"Did you just…cast a protection spell?"

Her smile was the widest he'd ever seen. "Yep."

"Bloody brilliant. Just like your mum."