So I'm going to go through this again in the morning but I figured y'all wouldn't mind an update. BEHOLD THE ANGST!
Part Two: Begin Again
There is something to be said for the heart's authority over the mind. Scientists claim that the brain is the organ which controls anatomical functions but, as Emma learns with every day that slips by, there's something about the muscle caged between the ribs that seemingly overrides it at the most inopportune moments.
She's angry – hell, she's furious.
With him, with herself, with the Snow Queen.
They do not yet understand the source of his personality revolt, nor have they identified the anchor for this memory charm. And she tells herself she doesn't care (it's at times like these that she hates her ability to sense falsehoods). Logically, his actions aren't inherently irredeemable; she and her family know that this version of him is a distortion and someone he was working hard to destroy. The Killian Jones they know would be appalled and ashamed of the past week. So they can't hold it against the person they had been gradually integrating into their family.
But that is little consolation for Emma.
It certainly doesn't erase the scar tissue in the cavity of her chest that's being rubbed raw.
And so comes the battle between her heart and her brain. The former urges her to hold hope in a voice that is startlingly reminiscent of her mother; it begs her to stay resolute, to fight, to embody the same patience he exhibited with steadfast resilience. It duels with the latter, the disembodied tone of reason reprimanding her for her foolishness. That voice, in all its orotund glory, is the same one that has dictated her actions since she was an orphan in the foster system.
But for the first time in her life, it does not instantly drown out the more dulcet tones of her mutinous heart. For that, she half-heartedly blames her parents and their contagious optimism.
So while she may try to fit herself to the safety of a mould which is devoid of emotion, she simply cannot do it. Every single time she thinks she has perfected the science of taciturnity, angling herself to mimic the strong outline of a woman unaffected by his absence, she'll remember something. Like the way he smiles when he is sincerely happy; the dimples that pull at his cheeks, the wrinkles that form by his eyes, the way he sways off-kilter like a bird readying to take flight.
It's an expression she's not seen in an exceedingly long time (she should have cherished it when it was freely given to her).
Try as she might, Emma cannot relinquish his hold on her. Which means, for all that she feels indignant and betrayed (oh, the irony of role reversal), she cannot bring herself to let go. She may have told him she was done, she may say to herself that she is done, she may even broadcast to her family and the entire population of Storybrooke that she is finished with the never-ending ache that his mental oblivion prompts.
The unfortunate truth is that he is far too deeply ingrained within her to even attempt to remove. She pretends she's succeeding anyway.
Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.
8888
"What do you want, Miss Swan?" Gold asks coldly when she sweeps into the pawn shop, shaking off the snow clinging to her as she walks across the threshold. Raising her head, she notes that he is standing opposite his wife and it appears as though they were in the midst of an argument when she interrupted. Emma stills momentarily, weighing up whether she should backtrack or trudge on with what she intended to ask him.
Belle, however, speaks before she can say a word, a gentle insistence in her soothing voice. She hasn't taken her attention from Gold, "Hello Emma, I was just telling my husband here that we've got work to do. So," she roughly yanks a heavy book from his hands, holding it at arm's length when he tries to snatch it back, "I'll need this."
Emma frowns, unsure whether the appropriate response is amusement or bemusement. She settles for a combination of the two.
The pawn broker's frustration manifests in an indignant expression, his glare softening as he turns it on Belle.
"No, we won't. I refuse to pursue this nonsense after what happened. I'll not have his actions go without consequences," he growls, reaching for the thick manuscript and failing to grab it when she takes it out of range. It wouldn't surprise Emma entirely if the man stamped his foot in vexation at any minute but that thought is overridden by realisation. She quickly pieces together the root of their disagreement.
Belle glares at him, "You should know by now not to tell me what to do so if you don't want to help, fine. But you can't stop me from looking – we need to help him –"
"He tried to kill you –"
"It's not his fault. And besides, he didn't succeed– "
"Only because Miss Swan managed to scrounge up a magical miracle from her severely deficient skill base –"
"All the more reason we should help. You owe her my life – you haven't even thanked her yet."
At this point, they both turn to Emma. Belle is smiling amiably. Gold simply purses his lips. Though obviously unimpressed, he visibly struggles to counter his wife's logic when he returns his attention to her, opening and closing his mouth to respond several times before groaning and pivoting again to address Emma. The brunette takes it as her cue to leave and grins victoriously, patting him on the shoulder as she disappears into the backroom – throwing Emma a reassuring nod before she leaves.
"What do you want, Miss Swan?" he asks again as he leans on the glass counter, exasperated.
She takes a second to reply, especially after having witnessed the lovers spat directly involving her. But the man either ignores that fact or dismisses it entirely, quickly growing impatient when she says nothing. There is no need for preamble – there never is with this man. Not that it's something she's terribly resentful of, she's actually grateful that she isn't forced to endure small talk with the decidedly unpleasant sorcerer.
Emma drops his gaze out of nervous habit and bites the bullet, "I wanted to ask - why haven't you tried to kill Killian yet? Why didn't you kill him at the docks when you had the chance?"
His eyebrows ascend sceptically, "Are you assuming I haven't tried or succeeded?"
She glowers and he rolls his eyes.
"Belle would never allow it, dearie – your pirate is safe from me so long as she deems his existence necessary," he answers with a hint of sarcasm but the half-truth is obvious in the way he flits his eyes away from hers at the last second. He doesn't offer her another answer, and she leaves without pushing it.
She thinks the honest answer might be too confronting for them both.
8888
Her head is down as she exits her apartment building later that week, thoughts scattered like leaves across a cracked sidewalk. She follows her every step, watching the way the she leaves a snowy imprint with each shuffle forward. Unfortunately, with her focus otherwise occupied, she has no way of noticing the figure walking directly towards her until, with a loud oomph, she comes into contact with his chest.
Stumbling back and looking up, a dumbbell drops on her chest.
Killian watches her warily, no doubt preparing for another unprecedented emotional outburst. Emma instantly folds her arms across her chest and takes a measured step back; the pain is still fresh. And, as she bitterly recalls, he wants to be left alone.
Avoiding his eyes, she makes to step around him but his hook catches her elbow. She recoils from the touch like she's been burned and pivots to face him, expression already schooled into monotony.
"I have to get to a town meeting - what do you want?" she demands as his gaze dances across her face. If he is searching for any signs of residual hurt, he is going to be sorely disappointed. It is buried deep beneath her pride, a headstone of emotional walls resting atop the fresh grave she's erected for her vulnerabilities. After a short moment, he stops trying to scrutinise her and inhales deeply.
"As a matter of fact, I was seeking you out," he says, surprising her so much she falters momentarily.
Emma regains her composure with a slight shake of her head, forcibly reminding herself of his cruel demeanour when he told her, in summary, to 'bugger off.' With the memory of his scowl vibrant in her mind's eye, she easily adopts a strident tone when she retorts, "That's strange. Just the other night you asked me to avoid you from now on." His features twitch in something close to a wince, but she simply ploughs on, "So if you're working for the Snow Queen again, let me save you the trouble." Again, she attempts to take a step away from him but he simply tugs her back.
"Actually," he says, clearly uncomfortable with any interaction that doesn't involve cursing, spitting or insulting his arch nemesis, "I came to inform you that I've made a decision regarding my unfinished business with the crocodile."
She stiffens, eyes widening in confusion until he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. Killian scratches his wrist with his hook.
"I've decided to temporarily refrain from any attempts on the crocodile's life until your town's foe has been dispatched."
She is unashamed of the way her jaw drops in visible disbelief. But he's being completely honest, which is why alarm bells toll in her head at the outwardly hospitable decision. Tilting her head down so she can scrutinise him through her eyelashes, Emma asks, "What prompted this?"
The pirate shrugs, "I've realised the error of my ways in indirectly aiding her cause."
Lie.
It is to her infinite lack of surprise that he withholds the truth, but it still disappoints her – dousing the irrepressible flame of hope that appeared at his initial resolution. She tries in vain to disregard the harsh blow it delivers to know that he has lied to her more in the past twenty-four hours than he had since he met her. Heaving a sigh, Emma shakes her head, "Try again. Or did you forget about my super power?"
He frowns, narrowing his eyes in a gesture that completely augments his previously open demeanour. His shoulders curl forwards slightly and his features tighten in distaste. "A magically acquired skill, no doubt?" he leers.
Thankfully, by now she is practiced in the art of disguising her reactions to him; having perfected it hours ago as she sat physically and emotionally enervated in her bed just thinking about this.
Emma glares, "Actually, I've been able to detect bullshit since before I even knew I had magic so piss off." She spins on her heel to stalk away, under the impression that distance will give her some superficial brand of protection from the pain he's inflicting every second he doesn't remember her. But he won't even allow her that and pursues her – and she wants to hate him for it, even if it encourages the tiny, insignificant voice that still clings to the faith he will, at the very least, one day remember how it was to care about her.
His footsteps are loud as they land in the snow behind her and he manages to stop her when he stands directly in her path. The fire in her eyes doesn't diminish when she raises her head to look at him again.
"If you're trying to distract me from another calamity or kidnapping or something, I'm going to punch you in the face - again," she warns him with palpable scorn. A ghost of a smirk crosses his features at the threat so the ache in her chest returns tenfold – every time he unwittingly does something familiar to her, it hurts. She chews on the inside of her lip to keep from grimacing.
Killian shakes his head at that and inhales deeply, "I'm not intentionally keeping you occupied for the Snow Queen's purposes, but I thought it was necessary to tell you so you may focus your efforts on the icy sorceress." It's the truth but something still smells off, she just can't put her finger on it. But she'd also rather blind herself with cotton buds than try to figure it out right now.
"Whatever," she says dismissively, giving him a wide berth so he cannot bodily stop her this time.
"You're not curious as to why?"
"The more you talk, the more I think you're trying to distract me," she throws over her shoulder, watching him shrug.
"Well, I'm sorry about Elsa."
She stills – and not just because it is an apology. Because he's lying – and every iota of her self-control flies away on furious wings. He doesn't care about what he did; he's more concerned with finding a grinding stone for his hook than what happened the other day. She doesn't know what he's playing at but her tolerance levels have been grievously surpassed. Turning slowly to face him, she shakes her head.
"Stop lying to me," she breathes, dangerously quiet, "Say what you want, do what you want and do it for whatever godforsaken reason you want… but stop lying – because I don't trust a thing you say anyway."
He considers her silently, drinking in the image she presents – fists clenched, eyes deceptively calm so as to artfully hide the inferno that rages within, mouth set in a thin line. Emma holds his gaze for a long second, a silent exchange passing between them, a wordless acknowledgement of the tension that's gradually building just waiting for detonation.
When she finally spins on her heel and heads towards the station, without him, her own words play on repeat in her head like a broken record.
I don't trust a thing you say.
The worst part is that it's true. She no longer trusts him, she no longer knows him.
And it's as though a piece of immaculate embroidery is gradually becoming unstitched. The threads falling loose from the fabric, unspooling to fall in a coiling pile on the cold hard ground. Something beautiful is being painstakingly destroyed.
8888
For a town with a baffling penchant for disaster, they still manage to treat each new villain with a level naiveté and inexperience that makes it impossible to staunch the frustration pooling in her gut. They are gathered in the Sheriff's station and the topic of discussion has moved on to the plan for the Snow Queen's defeat. Leroy takes centre stage first, belligerently declaring that they must hunt her down and send her back to Arendelle or some other vacant realm (as if they haven't already tried that).
Anna protests immediately to the plan, as does her male counterpart Kristoff, insisting that they must focus on retrieving her sister safely. Emma's mother and father suggest they try to reason with the villainous woman, maintaining the stereotypically liberal view seemly of two democratic rulers. It takes only a moment for the voices to grow louder, tones turning to whetting stones for words as the room descends into argument and Emma's fists clench at her sides.
She knows precisely what she would like to do to the frosty bitch: and it's definitely something her parents would consider unorthodox of a leader.
Her attention floats to the world outside the station, watching the occasional passer-by through the window as they dawdle down the snow-covered street. That's when she sees him, his black leather a stark contrast to his bleached out surroundings. His face is devoid of any traceable emotion, drawn and tight. But he's not heading in the direction of Gold's shop so she doesn't feel any predominant sense of alarm (he may have told her he would no longer be making attempts on the pawnbroker's life but that does not extinguish the threat he still presents).
In fact, all it does is re-establish the thick blanket of fury smothering her where she sits, the other night's confrontation flashing in her mind's eye. She's already cast off the crippling need to make him care; severing every connection days ago (her wounds are raw enough that it feels like mere hours have transpired since her voice cracked and her eyes stung). A voice in the back of her mind chuckles scornfully, mocking her for thinking she could ever simply terminate what she feels for him.
It aggravates the bubbling pit of emotion in her gut; at the unacknowledged fact that he should be here, in this room, murmuring some stupid comment in her ear about the town's tendency to attract not only danger but apparently stupidity. Her lips twitch involuntarily at the mere thought. But he's not here – she is alone in this cacophonous hub.
The voices around her are suddenly too loud, the walls closer than before, the air thicker to swallow. The room is in a state of chaos that she cannot contain nor tolerate.
"Everyone shut up!"
Emma's words boom through the station and, strangely enough, they are effective. Several pairs of startled eyes fly in her direction and the voices swiftly die out. She schools her features to maintain the indomitable facade and stands, pulling herself up to her full height.
"Yelling at each other will do nothing, and Anna is right – our first focus has to be on getting Elsa back first. So here's what is going to happen…"
Her instructions are brusque; they will scour the town and surrounding woods and, if any traces of Arendelle's rightful queen are found, they will be reported back to Emma or her parents. Under no circumstances is anyone to engage the Snow Queen should they encounter her (that honour is reserved for Emma alone). After they have located the missing woman, they will restore their attention to their latest foe.
The dwarves appear slightly cowed by her governing stance in the group, but no one protests and they form several smaller clusters. Certain that they can handle the small, menial task she has assigned without wreaking havoc, Emma exits the Sheriff Station.
No one has mentioned Killian or the dilemma he presents – and she doubts they will (it's a small respite but she's grateful for it nonetheless).
For once, the cold air is welcoming; it stings her skin slightly, biting at the tips of her nose and ears, but it carries with it an invigorating sensation that cannot be imitated. Gulping down a lungful of the pure atmosphere, she closes her eyes and leans against the rough brick wall. It doesn't take long for someone to breach her solitude.
With a loud click, the door beside her opens and shuts. She can feel a presence beside her but does not bother opening her eyes to see who it is, so she waits as the person walks slowly towards her, their footsteps crunching against the heavy layer of snow that has become a permanent fixture across every outdoor surface in town. A shoulder brushes hers, the newcomer leaning against the wall beside her.
Although she wants to maintain an air of intimidation (enough that people will leave her alone), she cannot help her curiosity when the person doesn't speak. Eventually, she gives in to her baser desires, cracking one eye open to identify the man beside her as David.
He's watching her carefully and Emma sighs, irritation flaring up without warning.
"What's wrong? Has Leroy tried to stage a mutiny?" she remarks bitterly, screwing her eyes shut again. Her father merely sighs.
"No, they're sorting it out," he pauses and clears his throat, lowering his voice tenderly, "Are you okay, Emma?"
Snorting, she shrugs with great exaggeration and shakes her head – eyes still closed against her glaringly white surroundings, "Yeah, I'm great." Even though she knows it's not his fault by any reasonable measure, his unfortunate timing has placed him directly in her crosshairs. She knows he won't take it personally, but the fact that she's directing her anger at him still provokes guilt in her.
David's eyes are hot on her face and she doesn't need to open hers to know there are sympathetic lines creasing his forehead.
"Emma, I… I know you don't want to talk about it," he begins hesitantly, "but I know what you're going through."
The revelation is enough to make her eyes break open, and she turns her head to shoot him an incredulous look. Her father nods, reaffirming the statement and she waits for him to explain.
Emma doesn't say anything but she drags her eyes away from him, looking out across the street and anywhere but him. David's voice already holds enough weight that watching his facial expressions would be a pointless exercise. With rough vowels and calloused consonants, he tells her hesitantly, "I know what you're going through – with Killian, I mean."
"How could you know?" she croaks weakly, marginally appalled by the smallness of her voice.
But David just takes it in his stride, wisely refraining from commenting on her vulnerability.
"When your mother thought we could never be together, she took a potion from Rumplestiltskin that made her forget me and it nearly blackened her heart – she lost sight of love. She was darker than I've ever seen her – she was going to murder Regina, nearly did as a matter of fact."
He takes a deep breath.
"Anyway… when I tried to remind her of who she was and who I was… well, she knocked me unconscious with a rock and tied me to a tree."
Against her will, the image of her mother binding her father to a stump is amusing enough that it tilts the corners of her lips ever so slightly up. They never have been a functional married couple. David pretends not to notice and persists in his anecdote, a smile in his voice when he rolls his shoulder and winces reminiscently.
"I had to take an arrow to the shoulder to get her to calm down enough to recognise that I was genuinely in love with her and that what we had was real."
A beat of quiet stillness follows and, from the corner of her eye, Emma notes the fond, nostalgic smirk he wears. It's only when she finally offers him her full attention, looking directly at him, that he adds, "My point is… I never gave up on her." His next words are a surprise to say the least.
"And you shouldn't give up on Killian – not yet, anyway."
Not that she'd been chronicling the state of affairs between the two men but she couldn't recall the moment they clearly became close enough for her father to unwittingly admit his approval. She knows that Killian saved him in Neverland and she knows that they had discovered a bucket-load of common ground since then.
Most recently, she knows that they worked together when she was trapped with Elsa in the ice cave before the Snow Queen was even on their radar (it occurs to her that while she was freezing to death, her father may have observed a thing or two about him). Yet, it is still somewhat befuddling to hear the prince speak of the pirate's internal restoration with such determination.
Especially since he knows as well as she does that he was an accessory to Elsa's disappearance.
Although, his encouragement may also simply be a case of her family's irritating proclivity for instilling hope in every living, breathing thing they encounter.
"David, I can't keep doing this. I can't keep…" the words die in her throat and Emma lets out a heavy breath, searching the ground for answers, "I can't keep deluding myself into thinking –"
"Emma, can I ask you something?" he cuts her off.
There's an undefinable tilt to the words but she nods and waits intently for his impending inquiry. He holds her gaze.
"If this situation were reversed – if you lost your memories and rejected him at every turn - would he give up on you?" David asks and Emma's chest collapses in on itself because she knows the answer. Not only does she know the answer, she's lived through the answer. It's still fresh in her mind, the way she'd treated him in New York when he was just some crazy guy with great eyes and a pirate get-up.
In an identical situation, when Emma even went to the extent of having him arrested, he still refused to give up on her (stupid, determined idiot). Autumn leaves sway and rustle in the back of her mind, a golden-lit park teeming with life and colour as ice blue eyes implored her to believe. Tears burn her eyes without warning and she turns away from her father again, facing the empty street and tightening her grip on herself.
She blinks back the tears and bottles the emotion the same way she's been bottling things for the past week. It probably isn't a healthy approach – but it makes things easier to compartmentalize. The tears dry up, but the ache in her chest lingers.
David doesn't need her to answer, her reaction is enough, and his voice returns to the soothing timbre to which she has become accustomed at times like these.
"You can't give up on him just yet."
Her father, ever the optimist.
If only she had inherited that particular trait.
8888
Another snow monster stages an attack on the town – this one twice as large and, as she quickly gleans, twice as easy to provoke. And by that, she means the thing destroys everything in sight. This time, when she chases the sounds of people's screams towards the city centre, she doesn't have someone at her back and she certainly doesn't have someone to land on when she is blown off her feet by a sudden gust of wind.
Brushing herself off, Emma continues to make a path down the main road to where the giant hulking figure is loitering. Mercifully, most of the residents of Storybrooke have made the astute decision to remain indoors.
She chases it cautiously, jumping into alleys when it turns around and ducking behind signs when it tilts. She generally stays out of its line of sight as much as possible, drawing her gun even though it probably looks foolish (it's a safety-blanket thing, she swears – it's not like she's ever actually had success using the modern weapon on magical creatures).
When she's not far from its feet, she tucks the gun away and flexes her fingers. Regina taught her a little something shortly after the first case of a rampant snow monster. At the time, the woman had given her the lesson under the guise of frustration, claiming she refused to be the only competent magic wielder in future situations of a similar nature. Tapping into the severely diminished reservoir of power she has available (it's been difficult to call on since…well, she shoves that confronting thought away), Emma focuses her energy on producing heat in her palms first.
Her fingertips are just beginning to tingle when she is jerked backwards, a strong arm coming around her waist as a hand clamps down over her mouth to muffle the startled cry that tries to escape. She wrestles with her captor until she is released, spinning around instantly and groaning inwardly.
"What are you doing here?" she hisses under her breath and Killian's eyes flick from her to the mass of snow and ice clumping away from them.
"Saving your arse, apparently," he responds irritably, rubbing his chest where she elbowed him.
Shock reverberates within her for several beats, jaw slack with it, but then she's shaking her head and pointing in the opposite direction, "I don't need you to save me – get out of here!" It should hearten her that her safety has somehow made an appearance in his severely limited list of priorities, but she's not stupid or naïve enough to be lulled into a false sense of security. If he's doing this, there's an ulterior motive – she just hasn't defined what it is yet.
When she makes no move to follow him, he stares at her like she's grown a second head.
"What do you think you're going to do? You may have magic but you're as skilled with it as a bloody infant," he reprimands sharply, "Wait for Regina or the Dark One."
There he is – there's the insufferable ass hole that woke up in place of her boyfriend.
She's still baffled though; in what universe does this version of Killian give two shits about her well-being? His mindset completely revolves around revenge and scheming, or has done since the moment he opened his eyes and asked her who she is.
His words do sting, of course, especially since the last time they were confronted with a snow monster he was encouraging her with a soft tilt of his lips and a shine in his eyes. The belittling way he tries to dissuade her now is enough to convince her she is dealing with someone separate to the man she knew.
Emma shakes off the depressing thoughts, focusing instead on Killian who is glowering impatiently.
"If you want to leave, leave – but I'm not going anywhere until this thing is down," she sneers and, just because she wants to wound him, adds fiercely, "I'm not a coward." It's petty and spiteful, but it provides her with a cruel satisfaction when his expression falters. He gawks at her like he's been sucker punched, but then the fire returns to his features and he straightens, jaw locking stubbornly.
"Fine then, how do you suppose we kill it?" he spits sharply, following her when she jogs down the street again (there's a split second where she forgets about his lost memories, where it feels like just another day hurtling after disaster). Emma stops cold when she sees it starting to turn its bulbous head, frantically searching for a crevice they can disappear behind.
Killian is two steps ahead of her though, his hand wrapping tightly around her elbow and yanking her into a doorway after him. Before she can fully process what is happening, he has her pressed bodily against the pane of a glass door, shrouded from view within the indent of the doorframe.
She holds her breath, waiting for the snow monster 2.0 to send them careening with a deafening roar (she was sure it had seen them that time). But a minute passes and nothing happens – and neither one is game enough to crane their neck to confirm that the monster's attention has returned to its trail down main street.
Another minute passes, and then there's a distant thump – and then another, and another, and they sigh a simultaneous breath of relief as they listen to it move further away. Only then does she register how little space exists between them.
She can feel his breath on her face.
Glancing up to his eyes, she sees him studying her – a note of curiosity laced subtly between the pillars of apathy which support his elaborate façade. And god, deep down does she want to stay like that, to simply let him watch her and perhaps figure out that he knows her (that he, at the very least, cares about her). But his gaze drops, he steps away and she clears her throat as she brushes past him, cradling her bruised heart. Her skin prickles where he touched her.
They chase the snow monster another two blocks until she has another window of opportunity to sneak up on it. His eyebrows draw together the moment she begins her approach and she turns, exasperation written across her face.
She cannot help but throw his own words back at him (even if he doesn't remember them), "Try something new. It's called trust."
She waits a second, waits for even the slightest inkling of recognition. Her heart sinks when she is met with a blank stare. Emma dismisses the way it stifles the drum of the magic beating in time with her heart, silently making her way forward. But this time, when she tries to call on the warmth, her fingertips don't prickle. Nothing happens and panic races through her entire body.
It's not working – it's not working.
The snow monster chooses that moment to turn around; it's graceless figure shuffling slowly until its colossal shadow falls over her. Its eyes are red this time, glowing bright and deadly in its misshapen skull.
"If you're going to do something, best to do it now!" Killian yells from where she left him.
She flexes her fingers, stumbling backwards. Still nothing.
"I can't!"
Behind her, she can hear him curse just before the animated element's incomprehensible voice thunders a bone-rattling cry. The ground disappears from beneath her feet, wind whipping her face as she is thrust backwards. When she hits the snow-shielded ground, winded, she tilts her head to the side automatically and is met by the slightly blurry image of Killian racing across the street towards her.
He yanks her up without preamble and she can hear the high-pitched keen of ice scraping against ice. His face is set in a scowl, but he still slings her arm over his shoulder before he darts off with her in tow. Looking over her shoulder, the blood solidifies in her veins.
It's chasing them. And it's gaining.
"Bloody idiot, you are," he mutters furiously just before they are both thrown off their feet. Her arm escapes his purchase as they fall forward into the snow, and Emma grunts at the impact.
Whipping around, she expects to see an abnormally large fist decorated with icicles raining down towards her.
Instead, she's met with an image that makes her blood curdle.
The snow monster is plodding leisurely towards Killian who sailed through the air at a different angle to her and thus landed a fair distance to her left. He is just pushing himself into a semi-reclining position when it stands over him and wrenches back its bulky arm, unintelligible noises falling from its jagged mouth as it prepares to crush him.
Her heart lurches and, somehow, that kick-starts the flow of power through her body. Unthinkingly, Emma reaches forward. Something sizzles in the air and then the Snow Monster is collapsing, a toiling ball of fire melting it from the inside out. It is a puddle on the ground in a matter of seconds and she stares at the space where it used to be with wide eyes.
On the ground, Killian shifts to face her with an equally confounded expression.
She drops his gaze and stands, brushing herself off and limping towards him. He is standing when she reaches him and she folds her arms across her chest, a new question already racing around her head.
"Why?"
Killian frowns in obvious confusion and she stares up at him.
"Why did you try to save me at first? And again, just then? Why do you care?"
His eyes dart away from hers but her sights remain locked on his face as it goes carefully blank. There is no reason for him to want her alive, not when he thinks of her as a despicable magic-wielder under Rumplestiltskin's thumb. But then, maybe even in this state he abides by good form. She's sceptical of that though, because it didn't stop him from making a crude attempt on Belle's life (she refuses to believe that the man who shot a dozen flying monkeys didn't deliberately shoot her in the shoulder all that time ago).
Not for the first time, Emma senses something is off.
Killian shrugs.
"Can't help myself when there's a damsel in distress," he lies and she just shakes her head.
"You know, I'm starting to think you're deaf because you're still having a hard time getting the whole 'I can sense lies' thing," she bites back, irritation flaring up inside her. Like a rash that climbs her neck, she can feel the flames of indignation licking their way across her ribs. They climb higher with every passing second.
His glare returns and his eyebrows ascend his forehead, "You can't just say 'thank you' and leave it at that?"
"Nope," she answers, "I saved your life. We're even. Now, why?"
He never answers her. Another beat of silence passes and he just shoots her a dirty look before he pivots on the spot, striding angrily down the street. She chooses deliberately to ignore the thick layer of misunderstanding that was hidden deftly by his anger. If she weren't so buried in her own divine shit-storm, she might say his irritation is rooted in the same lack of comprehension plaguing her. Like he can't quite grasp the precise reason he'd tried to save her either.
In the same way, she can't quite come to terms with her inability to just let him go (it had never been this difficult before).
Instead she focuses on the surface emotion, which is ignorant on her part, but it's safe. She'd rather try to understand his ulterior motive than ponder the suggestion that he might not actually know why he cared enough to save her.
That would make her hope. And Emma Swan can't afford to harbour hope.
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When she asks Regina why her magic didn't initially work the second time, she is reminded that magic is inexplicably linked to emotion. Her eyes drop and she doesn't lodge any further inquiries, nodding meekly and shuffling away. The Evil Queen doesn't need to say anything else – because Emma remembers the way her power dulled when he couldn't remember the phrase that was almost a hallmark for them. It was the disappointment linked hand in hand with his unfamiliarity, the flame dying out within her that prompted the mollification of her magic.
The only reason she was able to eventually employ her skills was because his life was in jeopardy. In that moment, with Killian's neck in a figurative noose, her natural response had been to cut the rope and destroy the threat to his life. She does not wish to inspect the emotions that were linked to the reaction, but she is all too aware of them: true desperation, true fear, and something else.
Emma scorns herself for her stupidity.
Magic is emotion.
Heedless of the facts, she tries all afternoon to do something, anything – staring at cutlery until her eyes sting and her forehead throbs, her attempts to teleport the tiny metallic pieces to the table inherently fruitless. When Gold told them that Killian was a target designed to cripple her emotionally and thus magically, it hadn't occurred to her just how deep the ribbons of that particular ramification would reach.
Now she knows.
Magic is emotion and it seems that he is both the key to her control and the catalyst to her undoing.
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It is late in the afternoon, almost evening, and the boy is seated neatly on the curb outside the grand white abode, a large leather-bound book in hand. His expression is drawn in concentration as he reads, brown eyes tracing the page before he turns it with the scratch of paper against paper. In the early stages of adolescence, his lanky limbs present no threat – yet Killian still finds himself uncertain as to how or even whether he should approach him.
It's ludicrous that the child manages to have such a profound sway over him, but nevertheless he does. Whether that is because of his parentage or because of the unabashed approach that all children seem to take, he's not entirely certain.
Eventually, however, Killian takes the plunge and makes a quick path down the sidewalk towards Henry. The kid looks up at his approach and, as his brown eyes assess him, he suddenly regrets his decision. For a fleeting second, he almost feels like he should sit down and ruffle his shaggy brown hair affectionately – but it passes when it is swallowed by coldness, leaving idle curiosity and innate discomfort in its wake.
As he comes to a stop before Henry, the pirate opens his mouth to speak. But the words get caught in his throat as the boy just continues to stare. That's how the first ten seconds slip away, in cold silence. Henry clearly does not have any affinity for him – evidenced by the distrust etched into his youthful face.
But he's not here to explain himself – he's here for something else entirely, something that's been plaguing him for days now. Well, he's here for that and one other thing that, for some reason, brings forth the same feelings of guilt that made a brief appearance the other night.
"I need your help," he says pithily.
Henry raises his eyebrows sceptically, "Elsa's missing because of you."
Killian won't deny the child's accusation, "Aye."
"And you were sided with the Snow Queen."
"I know."
The anger in his small voice shouldn't affect him as much as it does when he says, "And you really hurt my mom."
That same niggling feeling that's been grappling with him for days returns with full force as Emma Swan's pained expression haunts him not for the first time (he's lost count and it infuriates him). The barest lilt of shame curls his voice and he has a greater difficulty smothering his wince when he returns with, "I know."
Henry's eyes narrow marginally, scrutinising Killian's face and subsequent reaction to the strange preamble. The silence stretches out and the pirate prepares to turn around and leave, internally muttering this was a preposterous idea in the first place. However, whatever the kid was looking for in his expression, he apparently finds because the scowl fades into an endearing sort of arrogance that only children can successfully wield.
"What do you need my help with?"
Killian's eyes widen in surprise but he's quick to the uptake – life on the seven seas enforces that trait on a man. With his gaze darting around on the ground, in a similarly scattered state to his hazy mind, he finally makes his request (even if it does take longer than usual with Henry's penetrative gaze fixed on his face).
"I… I need you to, uh, help me with… well, I'd appreciate knowing what exactly it is that I've forgotten."
His entreaty is met with the ghost of a placated smile on the boy's face. However, it passes before the older man can truly comprehend its meaning. Henry's face twists in thought and he purses his lips in contemplation. Having sailed many a port, he recognizes the prelude to extortion well and braces himself for the price of this assistance. This is definitely a child born from within the lineage of the Dark One.
Of course, Henry is only a child so the trade will not be obscene. But, unexplainably, it still makes him anxious enough as he waits.
Finally, the lad raises one thin finger, "One condition"
Killian nods, wordlessly asking that he name it.
There is a startling amount of protective resolve in Henry's eyes and he doesn't stutter once on his words. "Don't ever hurt my mom again, directly or indirectly." Killian stares blindly at him for a moment, but he doesn't flinch so the pirate nods stiffly. He thinks, perhaps, that the price could have been far steeper – though he won't acknowledge it, refraining from hurting Emma Swan is a condition he finds himself all too eager to uphold. Something about that woman's anguish makes him feel physically ill (it aggravates him to no end that he has no control over the involuntary reaction).
"Aye, of course lad," he concedes gruffly.
But Henry is determined, brow crunched on his tiny forehead when he stands in an attempt at intimidation, "I'm serious – David's been teaching me to handle a sword."
A smirk begs to break across Killian's face but he knows better than to wound the poor boy's ego. He adopts an impressed stance and lifts his hands in a placating gesture, "I'm sure you're wielding it with the same finesse he displays - consider me warned." He will not be fooled though and Henry maintains a steady frown, waiting for something in particular in the agreement to his sole condition.
The lad's defensive approach to his mother is admirable. It also suggests that his mother has been broken enough times that he is unwilling to watch it happen yet again. That thought in particular pierces him Killian unusual fervency (but, again, the coldness sweeps it away before it develops).
He lowers his voice sincerely and holds the boy's gaze, "You have my word, Henry."
Henry inspects him a moment longer and then, features softening, says "Okay. Well, I don't know everything because my mom didn't tell me too much about how the two of you met but there are some things I can help you with." Instantly, he is reaching for the book he was studying when the pirate first arrived in search of his help, ushering him to sit down on the snow shielded curb. Although slightly perplexed by his abrupt friendliness, Killian does as he is told and falls seamlessly into the rhythm of Henry's voice.
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Henry points enthusiastically to the image spread wide across the page, "That's you and that's her – you can take the book if you want? Just read those pages and then you'll be caught up on just about everything you've forgotten."
The picture to which he refers depicts a ballroom, but the focus of the artwork is undoubtedly the couple foregrounded by their central positioning. A woman with blonde hair and a scarlet red dress and a man wearing a brown jacket and a bright grin are pressed close together, hands and arms entwined in the midst of a dance. Killian recognised the woman as Emma the instant the page was turned, but, regardless of how long he looks, he cannot quite reconcile himself in the man opposite her.
That man is happy – elated, even – and the way he stares at her, at Emma…
Killian's chest stirs with something that feels familiar even though it should be foreign. It's a sensation that's been building with every vague explanation of their escapades from the boy sitting to his left. Everything feels different, feels wrong and augmented; even his own mind.
Anticipation stitches its way through him and Killian feels like he's standing on the precipice of some great realisation. He's just not certain what it is yet – he has all the evidence in front of him, he knows what it means (really, he needn't look further than the expression on his face as depicted in that image), but every iota of his being purely rejects it. And it feels wrong.
In his head, he knows that Henry tells the truth and it is only perpetuated every time he reacts in a way that doesn't correspond with what he's come to recognize in the mirror every morning. But his heart is a whole separate matter; every time he thinks an emotion is taking shape, it falls through his fingers like sand. The only residual feelings that ever linger are rage, betrayal, hurt – festering emotions that beg to be picked and re-opened.
And it's frustrating him to an inexpressible degree.
Staring at the ground, Killian takes the book from Henry's outstretched hands, tucking it carefully under his arm and standing up.
"Thank you Henry," he says tonelessly.
His companion isn't cowed in the slightest and he smiles, "No problem." With a heavy feeling in his chest, Killian turns to leave – intent on clearing the haze that muffles the very beating of his heart – but is stopped by the same voice he's listened intently to for the past hour.
"Just one question before you leave," so the pirate turns to face him as Henry reveals the root of his curiosity with frighteningly perceptive eyes, "Why now? Why do you only want to know about everything now?"
There is no answer to that question that will satisfy either of them so Killian simply returns with, "It's complicated."
Henry nods in apparent understanding, "Okay." As he pivots to return to his house, Killian poses his own question.
"Why did you agree to help me?" he asks, genuinely befuddled by the boy's willingness to help a man he knows to have committed innumerable atrocities (breaking his mother among those). Henry's grin is infectious and all-too-knowing as he looks over his bony shoulder and shrugs nonchalantly, playfully echoing Killian's earlier response.
"It's complicated."
Affection skirts its way through Killian's veins as Emma's son jogs quickly through his front yard, the corners of his lips twitching until the frost in his heart inevitably eats it away. This time, though, the irritation that takes its place is not directed at the boy.
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The Snow Queen marches gracefully through the forest, dragging her fingernails along the bark occasionally and relishing in the sound of nature sizzling in dissent under her deathly touch. She grins when she hears footsteps, rotating slowly to face the newcomer. The night sky makes it near-impossible to see, but the moon has provided just enough visual aid tonight that his silhouette is easily identifiable.
It is not unusual for him to take his time when meeting her – after all, he must ensure that the town (that Emma Swan) doesn't know his allegiances still rest with her. He has shrewdly alluded to a more fleeting arrangement. Little do they know just how much help he's been in the past weeks; instigating distractions, scoping the townsfolk, supervising the saviour.
Killian Jones leans against a tree, his typically stoic expression particularly antagonistic this afternoon as he files his hook. She tilts her head as she regards him with an unfriendly smile, "You're late."
"Astute observation, your majesty," he returns dryly, flicking his eyes up to meet hers once.
The Snow Queen lifts a thin eyebrow, startled by the sarcastic quip. She narrows her eyes and glides slowly towards him, studying him carefully, "Where were you?"
Killian's answer falls seamlessly from his tongue, "Avoiding the townsfolk's prying eyes," he looks up at her, a challenging glint in the icy blue depths of his gaze, "unless you want them to know I'm still sided with their current arch-nemesis?" The rhetorical question is barbed and her expression darkens momentarily – she does so tire of having to remind people that she is not to be trifled with.
However, there are more pressing issues at hand and she lets the thought slide. Playing absent-mindedly with a leaf, leaving it solid and cold in her hand, she crushes the icy remains to dust.
She paces wordlessly for several moment, all the while watching him from her peripheral vision. As she circles him, she notes the rigidity of his posture and her face becomes tighter. There are several methods she can use to extract the source of his change in demeanour. She feels merciful tonight and employs the simple yet effective use of her words.
"Did you get around to speaking to Emma's boy? Re-establishing some trust?" she asks, eyes intent on every minute variation in the slant of his features, "I need you to infiltrate their circles, Captain."
He appears deep in thought for a long moment. But he doesn't react, and a second later he merely shrugs and lifts his head to meet her scrutiny, "Unfortunately, I could not find the lad." Unlike Emma Swan, the Snow Queen was never blessed with the ability to distinguish truth from falsehoods. Yet, he appears to be just as indifferent towards Henry's part in her plan as he was when she first spoke to him in the days following his amnesia.
She shrugs and traces patterns on the trees with her nails, "Disappointing but I'm sure you can remedy that tomorrow."
She simpers at him, startlingly clear eyes watching him through ebony-black eyelashes. He hums noncommittally and continues to aimlessly pick at his metal appendage. She dislikes his distance this evening.
"By the way," she says, continuing her circular route around him, "excellent work on the Saviour this week, Captain. I need her in one piece so, many thanks for keeping her safe for me. I think you may have even convinced her that you're well on your way to rehabilitation." When he remains silently expressionless, apprehension weaves a tantalising path under her alabaster skin. While she is intolerant to defiance of any nature, she senses that it isn't petty insolence that prompts his behaviour.
Something else is troubling him, so she distracts him with menial questions, "Do they believe you are still aligned with me?"
He shrugs and shakes his head, voice monotonous, "I've no clue – most weren't the wiser in the first place but the ones that were, strangely enough, still treat me with partial favour."
The Snow Queen snorts vindictively and smirks at him when he raises his head, irritation written clearly across his face. She isn't moved in the slightest by his aggravation, "That's probably because in their eyes, your still Emma's pet pirate." His brow furrows marginally – she notes the confusion it denotes and files it away for later consideration. The glimmer of an emotive reaction unsettles her and she steps abruptly forward, forcing him to look at her when she says, "I assure you, by the end of this fiasco, you'll have the Crocodile's life."
Killian's eyes never waiver from hers, but his voice becomes gruff.
"So you keep telling me."
"You made the right decision coming to me, Captain. I can get you what you want," she tells him sweetly. Still, he does not drop her gaze and finally she sees it. The indignation aimed at her, like a dozen knives hidden in his eyes, poised beneath a deceptively calm ocean of blue, ready to slice her skin at a moment's notice. His jaw is hard and he is no longer touching his hook in an idle pattern.
"But at what cost?" he inquires lowly, focused entirely on her.
She steps back, clasping her hands in front of her in a demure gesture.
"I beg your pardon?"
"All due respect, your highness," Killian spits, taking a step forward, "but why did you take my memories in the first place?"
The Snow Queen's glare is murderous in a heartbeat, reminding him that the woman is temperamental on a good day, "Why do you care?"
Apparently, he does not intend to dance with fire tonight because his jaw unlocks and his shoulders rise and fall in a tactful shrug. He steps away, milling around the open space while she watches him.
"I don't. I'm just curious," he excuses himself.
A long pause follows where she concocts a suitable response. Eventually she does, and she delivers it in a voice reminiscent of a snake, slithering through the air on strange, drawn out sounds.
"I needed an ally. You'd forgotten your purpose. I helped you remember it." Each sentence is punctuated by a step, the sorceress indolently trailing the path taken by the pirate. However, he walks with his back to her so she cannot gage his facial expression and match it with an emotion.
"I seemed fairly content with my life's purpose before you altered everything," he responds, attempting a tone of inconsequence.
But she can feel the resentment resonating within the words, and bites back, "You were weak."
Killian stops walking, his fists are clenched by his side and his voice is gravelly with ire, "You didn't tell me everything."
"Say again?"
"You didn't tell me the Swan girl and I were," he pauses, searching for the right words and failing when he gestures blindly with his good hand, "whatever it is we were."
The Snow Queen's face is devoid of mirth when she smiles at the back of his head, "I didn't think it mattered."
"Well, it does," he snaps.
"And why is that, Captain?"
He sighs heavily; an exhale that sounds like a leaden weight has been dropped upon his shoulders. She observes him as he brings his good arm up and, though she cannot see it, he is surely rubbing his scrunched eyes with calloused fingers, "I deserve to know if I had prior relations to these people –especially if I was…" his voice drifts off and a long pause follows where she continues to approach him from behind, stopping only when he eventually grinds out between clenched teeth, "…intimately involved with them."
The unencumbered laugh that bubbles up and out of her chest sends a waft of white smoke billowing into the air and the Snow Queen does not bother to attempt stifling herself. Instead, she presses a delicate hand to her neck and shakes her head derisively, eyeing the black mane of hair since she does not possess the effort to make him face her. The fact that he stiffens when she chortles is enough indication as to how he feels.
"Oh, you were more than involved with her," she tells him slyly, inwardly mulling over the blonde imbecile's inability to shield her weaknesses. How could she not have realised that her boyfriend would be the first order of business? If she really believed the sorceress above such malevolence, she will have learnt her lesson by now and learnt it well.
If there is one thing the Snow Queen cannot tolerate, it is pure imprudence.
Cocking an eyebrow, she picks at her nails, "I suppose I did you a favour with that one."
Killian's face appears over his left shoulder and, while he has turned his torso just slightly to accommodate the stance, he isn't looking at her. His eyebrows are drawn tight.
"I beg your pardon?"
The Snow Queen's glassy features twist into a haughty smirk, and she crows disdainfully, "She's a broken toy, Captain."
Finally, he turns to face her. There is a minute flicker of outrage, and she catches the emotion before he can hide it carefully behind a meek display of annoyance. Killian takes a deliberate step forward, his fist clasped in a tight ball. With startling blue eyes, he maintains her gaze and the corners of his lips twitch threateningly, "People aren't toys, your majesty."
She watches him as an elder would a toddler, with raised eyebrows and a tangible air of condescension. If he is trying to intimidate her, he has clearly not spent enough time around her; like a dog, he must be reminded of his place, compelled to obey her every whim. Luckily, she chose an especially secure location for the anchor of her enchantments over him – exploiting the parasitic frost she has infected him with is far too simple a task.
Before he reaches her, she uses her magic to vanish and appear directly in front of him – so abruptly that he is mid-step and their chests brush. He instantly backs away to put space between them. It doesn't injure her self-worth in the slightest to have him physically recoil from her proximity. It empowers her.
The Snow Queen maintains a cool exterior, a deceptively gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Agree to disagree – but are you going to tell me you honestly don't agree that she was merely a trifle? Anything else would be disrespectful to your dear Milah, wouldn't it?"
He flinches and drops her gaze, eyes darkening to a reassuring degree. Satisfied that he will not test her patience again, she lets him mull over the surely traitorous emotions flooding his brain. Hopefully, the reminder of his dishonoured dead lover will reinforce what she needs him to think, feel, and believe in the dark, infernal fissures of his soul: that he does not love Emma Swan, that he never truly did, and that he never truly will.
So long as she can manage that, she may yet secure her victory.
Swaying closer to the pirate, the Snow Queen grips his chin to force his face back towards hers, "You're not discontent with my gift, are you?" she asks pleasantly, eyes widening in a poor attempt at innocence, "Because I don't need you. I'm acting of my own volition to help you." Altruism isn't a naturally inherited trait for her yet the lie flows easily – she scrutinises Killian's closed off expression.
A beat of silence follows, and she waits for his response.
Finally, he smiles and lifts his head with a wicked smirk. Her answering grin is inanely smug.
"Aye," he nods, "I apologise, your majesty. What is our course of action from here on out?"
The wind rustles lightly around them, her power surging in rhythm with her arrogance, "I thought you'd never ask." She gestures for him to follow and they forge a path through the trees for a long while until, eventually, they reach a small wooden shack. Dilapidated as it is, it bears an air of foreboding that sees Killian visibly shuddering beside her. Using her magic to wrench open the door, revelling in the creaking protest of the wood that screeches in the calm night air, she tilts her head to study the slim figure cowering in the corner.
"Elsa, my dear, how are you this evening?"
So consumed with the pale woman crouched in on herself, she doesn't see the expression of consternation crunching Killian's forehead – nor had she noticed the way he had scratched nearly imperceptible marks in the trees as they walked.
Pretty please with pumpkins on top - review?