A/N: I said I would, so here you are. Two chapters in less than a week. I hope you're happy. Reviews make me happy *nudge nudge wink wink* Please note that while some scenes seem familiar, this story is not canon, and will continue to veer off-canon as it progresses.

Disclaimer: I don't OUAT, or the characters, or the locations, but they are fun to play with.

Chapter Three

"Killian? Are you ok?" Emma's voice sounded panicked as she tightened her grip on his upper arm. He tried to control his breathing, to get a hold on the pain that threatened to make him throw up, to answer her, but he couldn't. His back spasmed painfully as the fire from her innocent touch raced up and down his spine, sending involuntary shivers through his body. Head bowed, he wheezed slightly, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut. He could feel her beside him, her hand on his cheek, turning his head toward her. He couldn't look at her.

She waited, her grasp on his arm relaxing as she rubbed circles on his shoulder, thankfully staying clear of his back. The pain eased slowly, the tight muscles of his back releasing as he sagged slightly in relief. He let out a shuddering breath.

"You're hurt, let me see," she whispered gently. "Let me help."

Tears threatened the corners of his eyes. He shook his head, blinking quickly.

"Not here," he murmured. Slowly he opened his eyes, looked at hers for a moment before he broke eye contact and looked away. "Not in front of your boy."

She looked around. "Alright, crew's quarters then." She reached out a hand. "Can you stand?"

He nodded, pulling himself up slowly, back stiff. Henry was just emerging from his hiding place below deck. "Everything ok?" the boy called.

Emma turned to him. "Yeah. Killian was about to show me the food stores below. You okay handling the helm?" She glanced quickly at Killian, met his eyes briefly, then back to Henry.

"Sure!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, and ran over to the wheel. "It's the exact opposite bearing as the way here, right?" Killian nodded to him. "Exactly," he managed to reply hoarsely.

Emma silently nudged him toward the ladderway. He lifted the hatch and slowly, gingerly, made his way down the wooden steps. He heard her call to her son, "we'll be back in a bit," before she followed him down. He quickly led her to the quarters he shared with half the crew and busied himself getting supplies she might need.

Why am I letting her help me? he thought angrily, yanking clean strips of cloth from a satchel under his bunk. I'm already a coward, now she'll see me at my most vulnerable. This beautiful, capable, woman, who shouldn't have to bother with me, a damn... baby. He stood and turned, almost colliding with her a second time. Blushing furiously, he handed her the cloths.

"Um, might need these, and, um," he stammered, cheeks flaming. "I'll get water, I don't –"

She put a hand on his arm. "Killian," she said quietly, looking up at him. The look of concern never left her eyes, but there was something else, something more that he just couldn't place. She nodded toward a pitcher on the small desk. "There's water right there. Just tell me that you're ok."

He swallowed, hard, his throat suddenly dry. "I'll be fine," he whispered. "Nothing I haven't survived before." She nodded, then turned toward the tabletop and busied herself pouring some water into a bowl nearby. "It's your back, right? Can you take off your shirt?" she asked, looking up at him.

He blushed again, looking down. "Yes," he managed.

Killian began fumbling with the buttons of his vest, his fingers trembling. He knew re-cleaning the wounds on his back was going to hurt, but the fear he felt was different than simple fear of pain. He was… nervous. Nervous to bare his shame to her, his weakness. Never before had he felt so ashamed of who he was, of just how low he'd allowed himself to fall. He used to be part of something, proud of what he had accomplished, with Liam and his crew, following regal orders, travelling the realms. Then the capture by Blackbeard, when the crew was offered the choice to join the pirate captain or walk the plank. He watched, frozen in terror, as Liam, brave Liam, refused to turn over his vessel to a lowly pirate. He watched, frozen in horror, as Blackbeard ran his brother through with his cutlass. He held Liam close as he breathed his last. He had been so afraid to die, so afraid to stand up to the man who just killed his brother. He joined, became a cabin boy once again, the ship's whipping boy, and every trace of his once noble beginnings had long since disappeared. And he had allowed it to happen, stuffed down all feelings of shame and regret, and became the coward he was today.

In all that time, in all those years, no one took an ounce of interest in him, except to ensure he was doing his job. No one cared how he felt, no one tended his wounds after yet another public lashing. He had been alone for so long, ignored for so long.

And now, she was here, a woman radiating sunshine and strength, who just defeated a bloody dragon, who truly wanted to help him, to take care of him. And now, all he wanted was to be strong for her, but he didn't remember how.

His hand slipped just then, jarring him from his thoughts. "Damn," he cursed softly, as the button refused to slip into the hole. Emma stood and walked the two steps to him, and put her hand gently on his shaking fingers. "Let me help," she said. He lowered his hand and let out a breath he didn't even realize he had been holding.

Quickly, deftly, she managed to open the buttons on his vest. She carefully slipped it over his shoulders and down his arms. He hissed as the thick fabric bumped the sensitive skin on his back. "Sorry," she murmured. His vest removed, she helped him untuck his shirt and lifted it over his head. Now free from his clothing from the waist up, she led him toward the long bench and guided him to sit at the edge, his back to her.

"What happened?" she said gently, carefully unwinding the blood and sweat soaked cloth from around his chest. His hand gripped the bench tightly as she slowly peeled the fabric from his bloodied back. "I hadn't finished the day's chores," he answered in a whisper. He grunted as she tugged a bit too hard, where blood had dried the bandage to the wound. "It was the third time this week."

He couldn't see her face, couldn't handle the thought of seeing pity in her bright green eyes. "Three strikes and you're out, eh?" she replied, her tone biting. He wasn't sure he understood, so he said nothing. She finished removing the blood-stained cloth and tossed it to the floor.

"God, Killian, what did Gold do to you?" She sighed. He could feel her hand hovering over the deepest wounds on his back, so close he could feel the heat from her palm, but she didn't touch him.

"Gold?" he wondered. He twisted his head to look back at her. "Who's Gold?"

She picked up a scrap of clean cloth and dipped it in the bowl of water. "It's a long story."

Killian turned away again, took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for what he knew was coming. "I'd appreciate the distraction," he said, his voice wavering a bit. "If you wouldn't mind, that is."

"I'll try," she said, her hand grasping his left shoulder, steadying him. "Stay as still as you can."

The cloth touched his skin and Killian immediately reacted. His back arched, his body trying to escape from the blossoming pain, his fingers and hook digging into the wood of the bench as he let out a sharp gasp of pain. He fought to stay still as she cleaned his back. He knew she was being as gentle as she could, but he couldn't stop his body from shifting away from her touch, or the low grunts of agony that escaped him.

"Gold is from my world," Emma said softly, her voice even and soothing as she worked. "Our world, really. The real world. He hates you, he blames you for destroying his life." Killian tried to block out the pain by listening to her voice, holding onto her words. "He helped create this world, this version of reality, I guess you'd call it. And he couldn't help but use the opportunity to take revenge on you."

"Revenge?" Killian gasped sharply, twitching to the side slightly. "What did I do?"

Emma sighed. "His wife ran off with you," she replied, continuing to dab at his raw back. "About 300 years ago."

Killian let out a quick laugh. "That's ridiculous."

"What about the tattoo on your arm?" Killian glanced down at the heart with 5 letters in it. Milah. He couldn't quite remember exactly when he'd gotten it, but there had been a reason. Hadn't there?

"I've had it for as long as I can remember."

Emma stopped wiping his back for a moment. "Gold's wife was Milah, Killian."

He didn't reply.

"Like I said, it's a long story." She continued cleaning the long gash on his left shoulder blade.

He was quiet, as quiet as he could manage under her ministrations. "I'm from this other reality? And you? Your boy?" he asked.

He felt her shift on the bench, reach to pour more water into the bowl. "Yes," she answered. "Everyone. This whole place isn't real." He heard her dipping the cloth into the fresh water. Sweat had broken out across his forehead and at his temples and he was sure the rest of his body was covered with a similar sheen. He took her pause as an opportunity to try to catch his breath.

He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder at her as she squeezed out the wet and bloodied cloth over the bowl. "What about all my memories?"

She shrugged. "Gold. And the Author. They were writing the new story together, I assume they created an interesting history for you." He started to turn back, then felt her hand again on his shoulder, her touch light but insisting.

"Killian," she said softly, "Gold hates you. He would have written something terrible for you, and for that I'm so sorry." She looked directly at him, her gaze gentle. "But it's not real. None of it is."

"My back?" he whispered. "The wounds you're cleaning? Those aren't real?"

Emma sighed. "No, that's real. I think that must have happened after the story already started."

He turned away from her again, readying himself for another round.

"What about the scars, from other lashings over the years?" he said quietly, words coming slowly from his lips. "Did he create those, too?"

"No," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "He didn't. I can only assume you've had them from your pirating days."

He nodded, but didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't know what to say. Killian Jones, whipping boy for Blackbeard, wished desperately that what she was saying was true, that he had a real life somewhere, with people who cared about him, who knew him and wanted him around. But he couldn't wrap his head around the idea that everything he remembered, everything he knew, wasn't real. He wished he had some proof, some way of knowing, besides the word of a boy and his mother who looked at him as if they knew so much more about him than he did.

She finished cleaning the rest of his back and had him raise his arms so she could wrap another length of cloth around his torso. He actually felt a little better, now that he was properly cleaned and freshly bandaged. It was still odd, to have someone taking care of him. Something he wouldn't mind getting used to.

Emma stood suddenly, heading toward his satchel. "You have a clean shirt in there?" she asked as she knelt beside it and began rummaging through the various articles within. "Aye," he said, turning in his seat on the bench. She found another tunic and vest and tugged them out of the satchel, spilling a small pile of papers. Killian blushed, and would have rushed over to gather them up had he been able to move that quickly.

She scooped them and straightened the pile. Glancing at the top one, she looked at him, then back at the remainder of the pages. Emma held up one of them.

"I didn't know you could draw." She seemed genuinely surprised at his meager skill. He looked at it, a sketch he had done months ago when they were marauding off the coast of Misthaven.

A swan, floating on a lake.

He knew the rest of the pages held similar images, swans in flight, on the water, nesting on the shore. Emma flipped through the pages again, a strange look in her eyes.

"Are you ok?" he said quietly. "You seem… upset."

She looked up at him quickly, shook her head, then replaced the papers in his satchel. "I'm fine."

She reached over and handed him the clean shirt and vest. He slipped the shirt carefully over his head and struggled into the sleeves.

"Why swans?" she asked abruptly, turning to face him.

He tugged the vest down over his torso, grateful for the thick bandages that bound his chest and dulled the ache in his back.

"They're loyal," he answered shyly as he concentrated – probably too hard – on buttoning his vest. "They don't leave or run off. And they don't back down from a fight when they're protecting their family." He finished the last button and looked up at her. "And they're beautiful."

She blinked, then nodded and turned toward the doorway. Killian could almost swear he saw tears in her eyes, though why a badly done sketch would make her cry was beyond him.

"Henry's probably wondering what's taking so long," she said, turning back to him, all trace of emotion now gone from her features. "I'll check for something to change into, raid the galley for some food, and then go up. Are you ok to join us topside?"

Killian nodded, and watched her walk out. He shook his head and stood, slowly making his way back up the ladder to the maindeck and the waiting lad whom he had taught to sail a pirate ship.