Killian Jones was no stranger to the improbable, but as he stared into the emerald eyes of a child who claimed to be the product of an affair that took place three centuries prior, he was nearly unmade. His own physical age negated the argument he might've made in regards to hers—by all accounts, he shouldn't have lived long enough to fall victim to this new curse. But, gods, how was it possible?

"Okay, first thing—the leather has got to go."

Killian eyed his attire, seeing nothing unfavorable, but before he could utter a retort, the child took off walking.

"And we're going to need a place to live if we're going to break the curse, so you'll need to get a job—"

"You know about the curse?"

She stopped in her tracks, her face scrunched up in contemplation. "Sort of. I mean I know there is a curse—what other explanation can there be for—" Her eyes flitted briefly to his, and she took up her previous pace. "Do you have any money?"

"I've a few doubloons in my purse."

"Gosh Dad, could you sound more ancient?"

He sucked air through his teeth. "I know you're a bit worked up, Lass, but Killian will do. Or Hook, if you prefer."

"Oh," she slowed, her gaze faltering momentarily, "right. Sorry." Brushing the hair behind her ear, she blinked away the emotion clouding her eyes. "Do you have enough for a room at Granny's, you think? Temporarily, of course. We can't stay there forever—"

"Beth, was it?" He halted her with his hand on her arm, persuaded her round. "We can't…"

We can't pick up like we're family.

We've only just met.

All I have is your word and a fantastical tale of curses and Wonderland and—

Why couldn't he voice any of the thoughts commanding him to run? What was she to him other than an inconvenience? He hardly broke out of that wretched windowless prison to be burdened by a precocious seven year old, no matter her resemblance to his younger self. Gods, she even bore the same birthmark on her brow as the brother he'd buried at sea.

Bloody hell.

"We can't…draw further attention to ourselves. If we're to do this, it'll serve to be a bit more cautious."

Beth smiled at him, and he was reminded of a childhood spent following Liam around as though he'd hung the stars by which they navigated the realms. How could so small a person harbor so much adoration—and for a man she didn't know?

—

She was quiet, seated at the edge of a large bed, twiddling her thumbs.

"Sorry, no twin beds available." Said the unreasonable old woman operating the till.

Beth had been quiet on the walk to the quaint establishment, her eyes downcast the entire way. Indeed, the lass hadn't spoken a single word since they'd encountered the strange man on the main road—Nolan, if memory served.

Killian had known her scarcely an afternoon, and still, the silence left him unsettled.

"You seem vexed, Love."

Some of the previous light returned to her eyes when she looked up at him. "I'm okay. Just tired, I guess—it's been a long day."

"Exceedingly." Killian agreed.

She hopped down from the bed. "I'm gonna shower, if that's okay."

"Aye." He watched her trudge to the lavatory, unclear on when it was he'd learned the term shower. "Ten minutes."

She flashed him a wide smile, lingering a moment before shutting the door.

—

Swathed in gold, with eyes of pure emerald, she wore the grin of a predator sizing up her prey. "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret: I'm pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me."

The sound of his responding voice rang flat in his mind, failing to achieve the same level of confidence as the woman leaning forward to level a hardened stare. "I'm telling you the truth."

She didn't believe him, that much was evidenced by her slow stance. But Killian continued with his ruse.

"I know this land well—I can guide you."

His head was wrenched back by an iron grip on his hair. "You're not gonna guide us anywhere until you tell us who you really are." It was then that he felt the cold steel of a dagger against his throat—

"Killian?"

The first thing he saw was a set of emerald eyes looking down at him from the mattress edge, and it took him a moment to remember who they belonged to. "What is it, Love?"

"I can't sleep."

"Try."

Killian closed his eyes but felt her gaze fixed on his face.

"Could you tell me a story?"

With a sigh, he ran through the countless tales of which he was an integral part—all inappropriate for a lass of seven. "Er…I'm not much for storytelling, Love." He glanced at her sad eyes, unmoved from their mark. "Why don't you tell me about your adventures in Wonderland—been there once, myself. The details are a bit of a bore."

The corners of her eyes crinkled with a smile the bed deftly concealed. "We should really make a plan, you know." She said, sitting up. "This curse isn't going to break itself."

Humoring her, Killian asked, "What do you have in mind?"

"True Love's Kiss."

Smart lass.

"Between?"

"Emma and Henry—that's how it worked last time." Her face was stricken by panic. "I mean…I've heard of curses being broken by True Love's Kiss between mother and son."

"The sheriff has a son?"

"Yes, but they don't remember each other."

"And your plan is what? To make them?"

"Precisely."

Killian smiled. But the moment was brief, as the finer points of his agreement with the queen resurfaced in his sleep-addled mind.

"Captain," a silky voice sounded from across the room as he shut the door behind him, "you're looking well."

"Wish I could say the same, Your Majesty."

She grinned, but there was no trace of humor in her immaculate features, pristinely painted. "How did you manage your escape? I was assured such a thing was impossible."

Killian brandished his hook. "Pirate."

"Hm…" she pushed back her chair, unimpressed. "This does present a problem. You see, as mayor, I can't have an escaped psych patient running rampant in my streets."

"And as queen?"

She removed her thick, red-rimmed spectacles, and let them fall to her breast, suspended by thick thread on either side. "As queen, your presence outside the sanitarium puts quite a damper on my plans. But," she sauntered toward him, exaggerating the sway of her hips, "I've always prided myself on being open to negotiation."

"I'm not here to negotiate." Killian hissed.

"I gleaned as much from the way you swaggered in," she gave what Killian could only guess was an imitation of his gait—grossly flamboyant, if you asked him, "slamming my door like the uncultured degenerate you are. Mm," she ran her fingers along his upturned collar, "my guess is you've come harboring ill will—twenty-eight years is a dreadful long time to be left to one's thoughts."

"Twenty-eight years?"

Her fingers worked their way farther down his coat. "I'd wager you intend to jab your hook into the side of my neck." She shot him a devilish grin. "Am I correct, Captain?"

Killian gritted his teeth. "Indeed."

"Go ahead." She tilted her chin to one side, pulled her long red hair across the opposite shoulder. "Give it your best shot. I won't even put up a fight."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"I guess you're right. No fun at all. Considering it wouldn't have worked anyway." She stomped back to her desk, pulling an item from the top drawer. "Do you know what this is?"

"A scroll."

She tapped the tip of her nose with her forefinger, the nail painted bright red to match her lips. "Not the witless pirate, after all. Yes, my dear Captain, this is a scroll—more importantly, it's a contract. Penned, in point of fact, by the very crocodile you've made it your life's pursuit to fillet."

Killian clenched his jaw, fisted his hand at his side.

"And here, at the bottom," she pointed to an elaborate signature, "is my John Hancock." She lay the parchment out across the desk. "Have a look."

Taking calculated steps, Killian approached, reading over the script with masked curiosity, and cursed violently come contract's end. "It appears we are at an impasse."

"Oh, quite the opposite, Captain. What we have here is an opportunity to be beneficial to one another."

"I'm not interested."

She pouted—another hyperbolic display. "You haven't even heard what I have to offer."

He looked her over and scoffed. "I doubt you have anything that could tempt me."

"Milah will be so disappointed to hear that."

"Wh…what?"

She tsked three times, shaking her finger in conjunction with the sound. "First things first. Are you familiar with a woman by the name of Emma Swan?"

"Can't say that I am."

She grunted, appearing truly annoyed for the first time since his arrival. "Seems she's something of a Savior. And as such, her very existence threatens the curse I've worked so hard to enact." Her eyes glossed over and she was lost in thought for several moments before turning to him with fresh vigor in her voice. "You are going to kill her for me."

"And then you'll…?"

"If you play your part like a good little puppet," she smiled, "you'll be reunited with your True Love before you can say Neverland. And the two of you can live happily ever after in this new utopia."

Disregarding the quiet voice that cautioned him against trusting the woman who'd locked him away for—gods, had it truly been twenty-eight years?—he held out his hand, "We have an accord."

"So what do we call it?"

"What's that, lass?"

"Our mission."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"It needs a name. Like Operation Cobra."

"Er…okay. How about Operation…Swan?"

From atop the mattress came the single loveliest sound he'd heard in ages—his heart ached as it broke upon his ears. Beth's shoulder's shook with the echo of her amusement. "That's a terrible name! You can't have Mo—uh…Emma's name in the operation. It has to be something unrelated to what the mission entails. You know, to throw off suspicion."

Killian smiled up at her, thinking she was possibly the greatest thing to ever happen, before remembering himself. He wasn't a father. He couldn't be the sort of parent she needed—not without Milah. Once his oath was fulfilled and his love returned to him, then perhaps they could be…

His chest constricted as a word that hadn't pertained to him in three hundred years raced across his thoughts.

Family.

Until confirmation came, he couldn't get attached. For all he knew, it would turn out to be some grand hoax, and he the donkey's arse who fell for it—or worse, it was all part of the queen's curse. The lass could have false memories implanted of him and Milah and the connections they bore to one another.

The next thing he knew, Beth was climbing down the side of the bed and helping herself to his covers. "Operation Second Breakfast." She said as she nestled against him, draping her arm across his stomach.

Killian lay there, awkwardly still and uncertain of how to proceed. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, wrapped around her, and in no time at all, she was fast asleep.