"You need me alive."

"Why?"

"Who are you?"

"…most people have taken to call me by my more colorful moniker: Hook."

"As in Captain Hook?"

"Ah, so you've heard of me."

"What the hell is that?"

"Rum, and a bloody waste of it."

"Try something new, darling—it's called trust."

"I thought you didn't care about anyone but yourself."

"Maybe I just needed reminding that I could."

"I can't lose you, too."

"We both want the same thing."—

Something shook him—surely the Earth, itself. Though, he couldn't recall an incident in recent memory wherein the Earth called him "Dad."

He groaned, waving her arms away.

"You're having a nightmare."

"I'm fine…Love. Go back to sleep."

"It's almost noon."

Killian's eyes opened and instantly closed at the sunlight searing its mark upon them. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Saturday."

Wonderful.

He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"Emma's called three times—were you supposed to work today?"

Shit.

He sprang to his feet, retrieving his coat from the foot of the bed. He was half-dressed and fully out the door when he looked down to see Beth at his side, mirroring his actions.

"Where is it you think you're going?" He asked her.

"I'm going with you." Wide eyes stared back at him, not as innocent as they'd have him believe—but he'd be damned if they didn't tug at his heart. "You weren't going to leave me here alone, were you?"

"The sheriff's station is no place for a child."

She pouted without remorse for his blackened soul. She was really making it difficult, if not impossible, to deny the blood they shared. She was him, repackaged and reborn, and—she was bloody brilliant, wasn't she?

Killian turned his gaze heavenward, imploring any deity that would deign to take pity on him. "You may come along—"

Beth squealed with delight.

"But…" Killian donned as stern an expression as he could muster. "I'm putting in a call to Grace as soon as we arrive."

"But Dad…"

Taking to one knee, he gripped her arm. "I won't put you in harm's way, Elizabeth. Your mother wouldn't want it. You understand that, don't you?"

Her frown deepened. "I guess."

"That's a good lass."

—

"Emma!" Beth shot through the entrance as though fired from a cannon and latched her arms around the sheriff's midsection.

"Hey, kid." Emma smiled over at Killian, who massaged a forming bruise on his elbow. Someone was supposed to hold the door for him.

"Dad told me you almost died."

The scene stirred something in his mind—his thoughts rattled like a locked gate. Some part of him tried to break through but met only with resistance. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was right—the three of them, together.

"He overslept." Beth informed Emma.

"I noticed." Emma, in what Killian could only guess to be a mockery of his not-always-subconscious tick, quirked her brow. "Long night?"

"Not nearly long enough."

Emma turned to her desk before Killian could confirm the tint in her cheeks. "Call came in this morning—any guesses who from?"

"Mr. Gold." Killian tried not to growl the name—a feat not easily accomplished.

If his suspicions proved accurate, and the Crocodile had indeed infiltrated this idyllic hamlet, no contract with the queen would save him.

"Says he waited all night and why didn't I show?"

"Is he daft?"

"Gold?" Said Beth.

"You know him?" Said Killian.

"Um…" her eyes moved about points in the room, never settling, "…no. No, I do not."

"You sure about that?" Emma checked the child for lies.

"Mhm. So what's for lunch?"

—

Emma covered her mouth to keep her laugh from spilling the bite she'd just taken.

"The smell went away…eventually." Said Beth. "But I'm not allowed to cook breakfast anymore."

"That's probably for the best." Said Killian. "What simpleminded sod gave you run of the kitchen?"

Beth giggled. "You did."

When the blazes was that?"

Unless she was keeping up appearances by spinning tales of culinary catastrophe.

Clever lass.

Emma laughed again, and the sound was quickly becoming one of Killian's favorite things—second only to the child sandwiched between them.

He was getting attached—the one thing he couldn't afford. Three days he'd been free of his windowless prison. Three days he'd been faced with the reality of being a father. Three days he'd been bossed around by someone half his size—and he'd be damned if they weren't the brightest of his miserable existence.

Then there was the matter of Emma Swan. He supposed she was always meant to be an obstacle, separating him from the vengeance he so craved. Thinking back to his escape, it'd been uncomplicated to the point of being ridiculous. The queen wanted him to think he'd accomplished something, lest it be painfully obvious that he'd fallen into her trap like the pawn he clearly was. After all, with him locked away, who would solve her Savior problem? For some reason, she couldn't eliminate the Swan girl on her own.

Emma sucked a spot of mayonnaise from her thumb, and the same gate rattled in his mind. Why was such a negligible reflex so familiar to him?

"Isn't that the reason your realm invented napkins?"

"Are you calling me uncivilized?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Love."

A symptom of piracy, he supposed, was that with every pocket picked, every tankard emptied, every woman bedded and rival bested, one's conscience dwindled to a point of nonexistence. He'd not felt true contrition over any one act in ages.

Why was this deal any different?

You know the answer, Hook.

"Well, I'm stuffed." Emma leaned back in her chair, hands on stomach. "Anyone want my apple?"

"I'll take it." Beth reached for Emma's plate. "My dad's allergic."

"To…apples?"

"Okay, not allergic. But definitely traumatized."

Killian gaped at Beth, not following her statement, but he didn't make any spoken argument. What sane person was afraid of apples? Unless they were Snow White.

—

The only thing Killian found more curious than the name Rabbit Hole was the high concentration of patrons it boasted at three p.m. on a Saturday.

If he hadn't known of the curse prior to reentering the pawn shop, the lack of recognition from the woman operating the till would've only helped him along. Her expression had been completely blank when informing them that the elusive Mr. Gold had left the establishment for another, on private business. Killian remembered his time before the Enchanted Forest was taken captive as though he'd been a prisoner for days, not years. But Belle, by all evidence, had no recollection of him breaking into her cell at the Evil Queen's castle.

Perhaps equally perplexing had been the yellow carriage Emma had employed as a means of transportation.

"That's…quite the vessel, Swan."

She tried not to laugh too loudly at his disinclination to climb inside. "You coming, or what?"

The ride across town had him questioning, and not for the first time, what the queen had done with his ship. And again, a cloying voice interrupted his thoughts to insist that he knew full well where it was.

"They are if you've got something of value to…trade."

"And what was that?"

"Why, the Jolly Roger, of course."

His eyes had wandered from the road ahead to the woman seated behind the wheel. Was she truly oblivious to the dark forces encroaching upon the town? Was she ignorant of the queen's curse, and Killian's identity outside of Storybrooke?

"As in Captain Hook?"

Suddenly a drink hadn't sounded so bad.

"What can I get you, Swan?" He turned on his barstool to face her.

"I'm on the clock, so…club soda?"

"A woman of sound moral judgment." Killian said with a smile. "Fortunately for you, I don't adhere to such strict conventions. Rum," he ordered the barkeep, "and leave the bottle."

"Bad day?" Asked Emma.

"Nothing to fret over, Love."

"Hey," he looked up at her caress of his arm, "you okay?"

"You are acting strange."

"I'm fine." He pulled away, seizing the glass that arrived just in time. He downed the inebriant liquid in a single swallow, and winced for the trail it burned down his throat. How long had it been since his last drink?

And how many would suffice to drown out the visions too real to be dreams? They'd begun haunting his waking hours, as well as robbing him of sleep. Indeed, scarce was the instance in which he looked at Emma without slipping into a life he hadn't lived, one that featured a version of himself he didn't recognize. Not anymore, not since…

He made quick work of his second serving, and his third.

"You might want to slow down." Emma cautioned. "I know it's your first day, but as of eight this morning, you're officially employed by the county, so—"

Killian slid his glass across the bar when she reached for it. "Bad form, Swan."

Emma sighed. "Maybe if you told me what's bothering you, I could help."

I have memories that don't belong to me. Memories that include you, include us. From another life or time or alternate universe.

And sometimes when I look at the child I know is mine, it isn't Milah's face I see.

That would go over smashingly.

"Apologies, Swan." He pasted on a grin. "Just a touch of bad luck, is all."

She searched his eyes, as though capable of conquering the deepest fathoms of a man's soul with naught but a glance. "Killian—"

"Miss Swan," interrupted a voice that had Killian clenching his fist, "I believe you were looking for me."

"You're a hard man to track down." Said Emma.

"On the contrary, Miss Swan. I'm nothing if not eager to perform my civic duty. Hence my numerous calls to your office regarding the recent string of break-ins."

"You claim to have been at the pawn shop last night, but I saw no sign of you. Neither did Killian. Can you explain that?"

"Killian?" The Crocodile looked his way. Faced with his mortal enemy, grinning like the reptile he'd shown himself time and again to be, Killian's abhorrence was rekindled.

"My new deputy."

Amusement curved his vile mouth, and he extended his hand, frail and old and not at all like the last time Killian had seen him. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"We've met." Killian couldn't keep from snarling.

"Is that right? Well, you'll forgive an old man his memory. Must not have left much of an impression."

The demon was on his back and Killian crouching over him, lining up his next assault, before awareness caught up with him. It was Emma's grip on his arm, anchoring him, her voice in his ear, calling on his humanity.

Killian leaned forward to growl in his ear. "This isn't over, Crocodile."

"I'd tread carefully, if I were you, Captain."

—

"You really save his life?"

He couldn't quite look at her. Not yet. Gods, why had Dave told them? Sodding prince was too honorable for his own good. Or anyone else's.

"That surprise you?"

"Well," she held his flask out to him, "you and David aren't exactly—how do you say it? Mates."

"Doesn't mean I leave your father to perish on this island."

She looked him in the eye, her gaze unwavering, and sincerity taking sarcasm's place in her tone. "Thank you."

She was bloody breathtaking. Like looking into the sun—unable to turn away, but blinded to all things beyond its radiance.

He was beginning to sound like the lovesick sailors once under his command—swearing by the gods that if the others had but seen, they'd know. It was no siren's scheme, but the pull of True Love that'd drawn the mermaids hence.

"Yeah, well," he scratched behind his ear, "perhaps gratitude is in order, now." He tapped his lips and unleashed a smirk he'd oft heard described as "devilish."

To his relief—and unending surprise—Emma didn't knock him on his arse. Contrary to his every expectation, she smiled. "Yeah, that's what the 'thank you' was for."

"Hm…" Killian chanced a step forward, "…is that all your father's life is worth to you?"

"Please. You couldn't handle it."

"Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."—

He rolled over with a groan, the bedsprings protesting his movements as much as his own limbs.

Emma was seated outside his cell, waiting for him to regain consciousness. When it'd been lost, he couldn't quite recall—sometime shortly after he'd realigned the Crocodile's jaw. By the darkness outside the station, he'd been out longer than he would've preferred.

"Hey, beautiful." He sat up slowly, massaging his throbbing temple.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?"

"Wouldn't want to bore you with the details."

"Details are part of my job."

Killian's jaw clenched of its own accord. "Just had an off night, Love. It's best left unexamined."

"Maybe I'm worried about you."

"Maybe I just needed reminding that I could."

The more he looked at her—the deep set to her frown, the furrow of her brow, every physical assertion to support her claim—the less he could stomach his own traitorous heart.

What would Milah think if she could see him now? Ready to cast her memory aside, and for what?

The four-letter word he'd worked so hard to quell resurfaced in that moment. But Killian couldn't suffer its optimism, its assurance that life could get better, that people could move on from the things that broke them. He didn't want to move on.

Love brought nothing but wasted years and endless torment.

"I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine."

"I can't force you to share." The earnestness with which she spoke threatened to unravel him. "But I'm here…if you need to talk."

"Generous offer." Killian scoffed. "I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

"You don't have to be an ass about it."

"What was I thinking? Gods know I wouldn't want to insult the illustrious Sheriff Swan. Liable to lock a man up for all manner of offenses—or worse, stop speaking to him outright, and where would the world be without such a rapier wit?"

She stared at him for several silent minutes before standing. Retrieving the keys from her coat, she unlocked his cell and held the door open. "You're free to go."

Killian got to his feet with no little pain, but as he brushed past her, he couldn't ignore the guilt that washed over him. It wasn't her fault he was losing his mind.

He turned back at the exit to find Emma standing close. "Swan—"

She pulled him forward by the collar and cut off any apology he could've hoped to voice.