I swear I am not uploading these to rain on your parades on purpose. It is pure coincidence that this fic always seems to update in the wake of fluffy episodes. I swear. (On anther note: holy hot damn that episode)
Warning: the f-bomb is dropped a bit in the last parts of this chapter (*yes there is an intense confrontation scene*)
Part Three: Blindsided
You would think that, considering the anarchy currently gripping the coastal town of Storybrooke, the residents might try to make her job easier. But that is simply not the case – a fact she learns one evening, sorting through the seemingly endless pile of domestic complaints and police reports that have been filed in the past month. Heaving a sigh, she blinks several times as she reads, writes, and drinks her stale coffee, repeating the tedious process with unmatched precision. She has had enough time now (hours) to perfect it. With a jaw cracking yawn, Emma leans back to stretch, throwing her arms out wide when her eye catches on movement by the entrance.
In a surprisingly fluid series of actions, the blonde has her gun out and aimed at the door as it is cracked tentatively open. She is prepared for anything (has become accustomed to surprises simply by living in this town), yet it still steals every last breath from her lungs when her eyes land on Killian. Done with him, my ass a voice taunts in the back of her mind.
Suddenly, it's as though someone is sitting on her chest but she doesn't lower the gun, narrowing her eyes as she demands, "What are you doing here?"
He raises his arms in a placating gesture, taking a slow step further into the office, "Wait, Swan. Before you shoot me, hear me out." But she's past exhausted, having crossed that line a long time ago so it's a mere speck of a realisation in the distance. Emma shakes her head, holding the gun a little higher as she assesses him and the unthreatening stance he has adopted.
Shaking her head, she lets her arms drop and places the firearm on her desk, moving to take her seat again as she bites back, "I'm not in the mood, Hook. Get out."
She's taken to addressing him by his moniker again (one step forward, one hundred steps back). She tells herself the namesake doesn't taste like bile on her tongue. As she waits for him to leave, she busies herself with re-organising the random assortment of legal paperwork masking the desk from view.
His shuffling is audible in the quiet office and he sighs. In her head, she imagines him lowering his arms and dropping his gaze to the floor since she won't actually look up at him.
"As you wish."
Emma stiffens; memories flood her brain and she desperately wants to shove them away because they don't matter anymore. But the way he says it, his voice curling around the words in such a familiar way; it bypasses every single wall she has resurrected since this debacle began.
"Don't follow me, go get some more firewood."
"As you wish."
Her fists clench.
"Let's get out of here."
"As you wish, my lady."
She chews her lips, the paper stack a blind mess of black scribble. David's words ring in her head.
"You can't give up on him."
Goddamn it. God-fucking-damn it.
Before he can fully disappear out the door, she spins on her heel.
"What do you want?"
Killian looks over his shoulder at first, watching her warily before moving around to face her and walking forward so only a few feet separate them. The door shuts behind him with a click of finality and she tries not to let the air stifle her – the room feels small with him in it only a short distance from her. But that's how it has always been.
He scratches the spot behind his ear in a mannerism that is so undeniably him, she almost asks if his memories have returned. "I came to… apologise, I think…" his confusion at the semi-sincere sentiment befuddles her just as much as it appears to puzzle him. But that is something to be dwelled on later when she has Belle and Gold to satisfy her queries. He swallows and continues, "…and inform you that my allegiance with The Snow Queen has finally expired."
The last sentence is a rushed admission and Emma cocks an eyebrow in bitter speculation.
"I was under the impression it had passed its used-by-date after you agreed not to go after Gold until this was over?"
His expression is guarded, his stance defensive when he retorts, "I never said that –"
"You certainly alluded to it," she counters sharply, studying his face so that when guilt glitters in his face for a fleeting moment, her throat constricts. Again, he swallows (she can't know that he is subduing the natural sourness that collects there whenever he is forced to confront an emotion other than rage).
"I am not in league with her any longer though," he tells her firmly, "Permanently."
And while anger has certainly made a temporary residence in her soul at having been so grievously lied to (for weeks, an acidic voice reminds her), she knows he is trying. She's seen the taut contortion of his features before, is familiar with the development it denotes. He wore this same expression when he chose to take them to Neverland; when he relayed the news of Neal's survival; when he revealed his secret in the echoing stillness of those caves.
Again, her father's voice implores her.
So, as much as she yearns to voice the thousands of curses and creative insults spinning like yarn in her head, she restrains herself. She cannot, however, let him see that – broaching his revelation with a far less hostile response. Emma shrugs, schooling her features into an expression of apathy, "Great. You had an epiphany and I'm happy for you but that doesn't explain what you're doing here or why you're telling me this."
"I know where she's keeping Elsa."
He holds her gaze evenly and her jaw tightens.
"And how do I know this isn't just a set up?"
"You tell me; am I lying?" he entreats, eyes wide and genuine and the nostalgia has an increasingly heavy stronghold on her heart. It isn't the first time he has asked her that, prompted her to use her self-designated super-power. Apparently, she notes dryly, history always has a way of repeating itself (or so she can only hope in the depths of her being).
Emma stares for a second, sizing him up; but he is telling the truth. She continues to scrutinize him anyway, because she is well past the naivety it would take to simply accept his admission of guilt and travel, gung-ho, wherever he leads. This is not Neverland and he is not the same man that risked his safety for her son.
"No… you're not lying," she says, "but that doesn't mean you're telling the truth either."
He sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead roughly with his thumb and forefinger and it is only then that she notices the dark circles under his eyes. Whether his exhaustion spawns from a lack of sleep or something infinitely more complex is rooted entirely in a place she can no longer reach in him (that damn ache returns on the troubling thought). His eyes are scrunched closed and his words come through grit teeth, "Look, I'll tell you everything I know and you can do with the knowledge what you will."
Killian opens his eyes and catches her gaze, intensity crackling between them in a primal dance as old as time, "You don't have to like me, Emma, you just have to listen."
She wants to believe him, so much so that she doesn't trust herself. She regards him narrowly, "Why would you even want to help us?" She takes a step forward and folds her arms across her chest, sharply adding, "You know I'm not going to let you kill Gold."
"Does it matter why I'm doing this?"
His frustration clips the end of his words, each syllable a jagged spike on his tongue. But Emma is resolute, staring him down, "Yes."
There is a long moment where he stares at her, an unfathomable mixture of befuddlement and admiration swirling in his vibrant gaze. It's oddly comforting to have him look at her with something familiar; even if she hasn't seen such begrudging respect since their venture up the beanstalk. Since then, his approbation had always been plainly obvious, lathered across delighted praises so often she'd foolishly conditioned herself to take it for granted.
Should the day ever come where he is once again forthcoming with affection, she will not make that same mistake twice.
Killian shrugs, but his face doesn't change and his eyes are still locked on hers.
"Maybe I'm doing this to spite her."
"Maybe," Emma shakes her head, scrutinising him, "but that's not it."
This time, the silence bears a weight that physically drags on her. Neither one move as the stillness stretches out, filling up the room with a litany of words left unspoken. That same tension, the one that saturates the air like a fuel waiting to be kindled, begins to crackle so gooseflesh erupts across her skin.
Eventually, this will end; this dancing around each other and skirting the bottomless pit of unresolved issues between the two of them. But today is not that day and he drops her gaze, settling instead for the safe option: staring over her shoulder.
"…My reasons are my own, do you want my help or not?"
Faced with the daunting decision of whether or not to trust him, she finds her heart has picked up its pace. It beats as though it would erupt from her chest and escape the room. A voice in her mind, probably the incarnation of reason, reprimands her for even considering the notion, taunting her with the past weeks, reminding her that this man just admitted to betraying them.
But her heart drowns it out, drumming a steady beat; reminding her which of the two (head or heart) she should truly follow. She will likely regret this.
Emma takes a deep breath in an attempt to regain some composure.
"Start talking."
8888
By the time he finishes, they are no longer standing in the middle of the station. Instead, he is perched on the edge of her desk as she leans against the opposite wall, eyes intent on his every movement. His voice drifts off and he watches her warily. The wealth of information settles over her slowly, seeping into her brain and fermenting there for a long minute.
The Snow Queen's plan, Elsa's involvement, her part – and, more importantly, his part.
Quiet rage simmers within her; who it is directed at, she is not entirely sure just yet.
"You were going to put Henry in danger."
To his credit, he does appear at least marginally ashamed of that as he nods, "Aye." Unfortunately for them both, it doesn't end there, and Emma bristles at the simple admission. Especially when it is the first of many.
"And my parents."
"Aye."
"And –"
"Let's keep this succinct, I was going to put everyone in danger for my revenge," he interrupts sharply, frowning at the ground as he kicks the linoleum floor self-consciously. Emma stands, desperately attempting to quell the fury winding beneath her skin and coiling around her bones. It is the Snow Queen who is to blame, and she reminds herself of that on replay as she slowly approaches him.
Restraint was a trait Emma had never truly embodied.
Her face is unreadable and she waits until he looks up to throw her fist into his face. The desk skids slightly as he lands against it, and he grabs his chin instantly. Unlike the last time, however, he does not appear indignant in the slightest when he meets her cool gaze again. Instead, there is a begrudging acceptance laced into the way he cradles the bruise appearing on his jaw with his good hand.
She did tell him she would punch him again if he pulled a stint like this.
Physicalizing her anger has a strangely therapeutic effect and, although the broiling rage for the Snow Queen's dire designs still lingers over her head like a dark cloud, Emma's discord with Killian seems subdued for the time being. Withdrawing her hand, she moves around her desk to retrieve a first aid kit.
"I probably deserved that," he mutters, rubbing the sore spot and watching her carefully as she returns to stand beside him. They do not speak as she pulls out an ice pack, cracks it, and places it against his jaw. He merely winces and lets her apply the pouch, all the while trailing her movements with curious eyes. She avoids looking anywhere near his penetrating gaze, focusing on her task, drinking in the quiet moment while she still can.
Electricity shoots through her veins when he touches her wrist, nudging her hand away from the ice pack so he can replace it with his. Her skin brushes his as she lets her hand drop, tingling in the wake of his contact. So she shoves her hands in her pockets and shuffles back, wisely putting some space between them.
"So what's the plan now?" Killian asks.
Emma shrugs – it's just another mission, another day in the life of the saviour.
"Save Elsa."
8888
Finding the goldilocks trail Killian left is quite simple, his scratches imperceptible to the untrained eye – but to those searching, they are glaringly obvious. With her father and her pirate in tow, they navigate the route prescribed by the markings in the thick tree trunks that tower over them. When they find the decrepit shoebox, nearly shrouded by overgrown bushes, Emma wastes no time in jogging forwards.
Distantly, she is aware of her companion's protests, their synchronised hissing falling upon deaf ears as her focus narrows down to the first friend she's had in a very long time. Killian had been her friend, but that was different (for one, she has never wanted to drag Elsa aside and pretty much devour her face) (yeah, definitely different).
She draws her gun as she moves forward, crossing by the window to check the room's interior – but it is too dark to see anything. It could be a trap, she knows that. But she also knows there's no way to find out without entering the shack. Emma reaches for the handle, only for a silver hook to snag her wrist and yank it away sharply.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Killian growls, David not far behind him looking similarly unpleased.
Her face deadpans and she rolls her eyes, nodding to the door exaggeratedly, "Going in."
"And if the Snow Queen is lying in wait for you?"
"How is that possible if she doesn't know you've changed your allegiance?" she counters.
Baring his teeth, he leans forward, "She doesn't know but you might want to start acting with a tad more forethought if you're going to survive the beady-eyed wretch." For not the first time, she is tempted to ask him to elucidate: explain why he even gives a damn that she outlasts the freaking dairy queen. But, alas, her ability to stifle such automated rejoinders has improved immensely over the past weeks.
She maintains his gaze steadily, "Well we can't just sit out here – I've already checked the window and it's dark in there so either we turn around and make a plan, giving the Snow Queen time to figure out you've betrayed her, or we go in now and blindside her."
Killian breathes through his nose, shaking his head faintly – a glitter of unwilling approval appears and disappears in his eyes in the same heartbeat. He steps back, gesturing with a dramatic flourish to the handle and releasing her wrist, "By all means, then. Blindside her."
When her hand lands on the rusted knob, she hears him murmur absently to himself, "Should've been a bloody pirate." His words land warmly against her back, and her lips twitch against her will in spite of the pang it stirs deep in her chest. That's not the first time he's made that observation.
Gripping the handle, Emma jerks the wooden door open so roughly the hinges screech unpleasantly in a sound that grates on their ears. Lifting her gun, she scans the room and proceeds to drop her weapon when her eyes land on Elsa. The woman's meticulously decorated pale blue dress is torn and smudged with dirt and she cowers, frightened, in the corner of the room. When they enter, her unusually large eyes fix on them and recognition floods her features – but so does fear.
"Emma, he's with her!" Elsa crows, pointing behind the blonde to where Killian waits at the threshold.
Emma kneels in front of her, eyes soft and reassuring as she places a comforting hand on her pale, trembling shoulder, "I know – but he helped us find you. He changed his mind."
"You can't trust him," Elsa whispers, eyeing the man in question disdainfully.
Emma's eyes drop to the hard-packed ground, answering quietly "I know."
Sidling up to the other woman, she starts to lift her as David appears on her other side, dragging her up carefully, "Come on, let's get out of here."
8888
To say Anna is relieved when they carry Elsa through Granny's is a gross understatement. The strawberry blonde races towards her sister before they have fully crossed the threshold, a thousand separate sentences flowing out of her uninhibited at once in a waterfall of jumbled apologies and profuse expressions of gratitude. The two sisters embrace, David and Emma stepping back to allow them this moment. A second later, Kristoff joins them, wrapping both women in his strong arms.
It is a heartening sight, but one Emma cannot bear to behold with her own life a raging hot mess. She drops her head, studying the pattern of the diner's floor while she waits for the merriment to end. The calm lasts about a second (of course).
There's a gasp, a cry of surprise and by then Emma has snapped her head back in the direction of Elsa – just in time to see the pallid woman's eyes roll into the back of her skull as she collapses into Anna. Kristoff helps to pull her limp form up, but she is out cold and the entire diner stiffens at the unconscious queen.
The previous warmth of relief drains from the room in a matter of seconds, leaving it frigid with fear because something is very wrong with Elsa.
In a hastily acquired room at Granny's, she remains unconscious and, as Anna and Kristoff fawn over her, Regina levels Emma with a genuinely anxious glance. Her stomach churns when the Evil Queen tells her that their most recent foe has employed the urn's enchanted remains to cast a powerful neutralizing spell on Elsa. The parasitic curse eats away at her strength as well as her magic, disabling her as a threat and incapacitating her all at once. It seems the Snow Queen has a penchant for multitasking, Emma notes bitterly.
Before they can say any more, Belle calls and Emma's heart seizes when she asks to meet her at the apartment, departing on a revelation that has a brick sliding down through her ribs.
"I think I know what's wrong with Killian."
8888
Gathered in the apartment, they watch Belle enter the room with a stack of books balanced deftly in her hands. Gold follows behind, muttering under his breath something about her refusing his attempts to help – it prompts the woman to smirk over her shoulder at him before striding to the table to unload them. They slam against the table with a loud crack and everyone takes that as a sign to congregate around the dining space.
Their small group is made up of the usual: Emma, her parents, her son, Regina, Gold, and Belle. Killian's absence is obvious, or it is to Emma. The room feels too large without his larger-than-life presence. She should be used to it by now – but she's just not.
Shaking off the way it hooks into her, she focuses her energy on Belle as she proceeds to spread the heavy books. When they are all spaced across the table, she picks up the first one.
"Okay, so I've been examining grimoires all week and I finally found something yesterday…" she flicks through the pages until she reaches one that has been earmarked. Opening it wide, she turns it around to face them; the page is covered in alien script and images of strange indescribable things. There is, however, one thing that Emma recognizes: a snowflake circled by a plethora of strange patterns.
"This," Belle says, pointing at the symbol in the top corner of the right page, "marks the section on ice magic and a female sorcerer who bore its origin centuries ago. It says in there that she was the first ever Snedronningen – or Snow Queen."
Everyone at the table nods and swallows, processing the information as Belle turns the thick yellowed page, "Now, this book didn't have anything on her spells of choice but it did say that, like all magic, hers is born from emotion. However, because she's kind of a sociopath, most of her emotion is rooted in manipulative tendencies. So, a lot of her spells are manipulative in nature which led me to look specifically at spell categories."
Moving the book to the side, she picks up another one – this one heavier but less tattered. Again, she flips through the decaying pages until she reaches one that has been tentatively earmarked. Displaying the contents to them, she pats the pages down flat and underlines a paragraph of cursive writing with a perfectly manicured finger.
"Where normal magic creates or destroys, manipulative magic changes. And then," Gold already has another, smaller book ready for her to use and she takes it from him with a coy smile, "by luck, I found this little guy hiding behind some books on weather-based magic spells – it's pretty much an encyclopaedia on different types of manipulative enchantments-"
"Can we just cut to the chase about what spell she used on Killian?"
Several pairs of eyes land on Emma, whose arms are folded impatiently (self-consciously) across her chest. Chewing her lip, she shrugs off the looks she is receiving and instead meets Belle's gaze. The young woman, unlike her glaring husband, simply appears sympathetic and nods, grabbing a small book and handing it to Emma directly. She taps the important page.
"You said there were glass shards in the spell she threw at you?" Belle reaffirms.
Emma nods stiffly, tracing the scribbled handwriting numbly with her eyes. Evidently, this is the response the brunette was expecting and she sighs, takes a deep breath and waits for the woman opposite her to look up again, waits for them all to look up, before she speaks in a heavy voice.
"I don't think those were ordinary glass shards. Danish folklore tells of a story where… well, there are shards of an enchanted mirror which reflects everything as ugly and distorted, the story's called 'The Snow Queen.' And I… I think perhaps she infused a rather archetypal memory spell with those shards. And I think she managed to lodge one of those shards in his heart… and that's the anchor for the memory spell and..." Belle's gaze lands on Emma and she shifts sheepishly from foot to foot, as though this entire dilemma is her direct responsibility. It's one of the things about Belle that is both endearing and infuriating – that she feels personally linked to everyone's problems and, by extension, becomes easily invested in finding solutions.
Something hard is lodging itself under Emma's breastbone as she takes a moment to process before asking, "What does it mean for Killian?"
Belle frowns sadly at Emma, "It's why he's been so unresponsive to… well, to you. He hasn't just lost his memories – she's manipulated his heart. He's lost his ability to see the beauty in things, in everything."
The petite woman doesn't need to elucidate for it to dawn on Emma, for everything to click suddenly and painfully into place. It's why, when he awoke and met her for the second time, he found no joy in teasing her, sourced no amusement from throwing innuendos at her, was simply unmoved by her.
A memory charm wouldn't do that.
The person he's been over the past weeks is barely the pirate who tried to trick her in the Enchanted Forest, and he is nothing resembling the dilapidated man who seduced her as a wench when they travelled back in time. Both encounters occurred after Milah, before he'd sated his desire for revenge. Yet, in both encounters, he'd been enamoured by her.
She can still remember the utterly unaffected way in which he'd considered her at the hospital. Honestly, it probably hurt more than the distaste with which he'd beheld her after the confrontation with Gold – because at least that had been an emotion (granted, a skewed one). Since then, he'd changed; he was less cold, certainly, but he was still unfeeling at the most inconvenient times.
Coming back to herself, she notices quickly the way everyone's eyes are trained on her. Like a trigger, everything starts to crumble around her – the walls closing in, the neighbouring bodies pressing too closely to her shoulders, the air too thick, the lights too bright.
He hasn't just forgotten her; he's forgotten how to find beauty.
He's forgotten how to love.
She's jostling roughly away from the group before she's even decided to run, deaf to her family's shouts as she escapes the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time only to jump over the last five steps so she lands with a loud thump and her knees nearly buckle. Her eyes are burning as she tears away from the building, the sobs already building in her chest so she only makes it to the docks before she's tripping on her own feet. Leaning heavily on the railing, she holds the cool wood so tightly splinters become embedded in her palms.
The first sob wracks her body on a silent gasping intake of breath and Emma struggles to stay standing, keeling over and wrapping one arm around her midsection.
'Idiot' the voices whisper in her head, the same voices that had been dormant for months. They tell her how stupid she is for letting this happen to herself again – for letting someone in when she knows the consequences, for even trying to find her own happy ending when her life's purpose was literally outlined from the beginning as bringing back everyone else's true north. The fault of this mortal blow falls squarely on her.
She should have known better.
Which is why it hurts so much, and god does it hurt; culminating in an uncomfortable hollow feeling deep within her while her chest is squeezed by an invisible vice. Each undignified sound is quiet and, she thinks, at least she has that. Emma Swan has never been a loud crier – she learned to keep her emotions silent when she was in the foster system (nobody cares for whimpering children).
Too bad the lesson of emotional independence never stuck.
8888
The library is quiet and warm, the atmosphere just as welcoming as its owner who stands discreetly behind the front desk despite the immense lateness of the hour. She looks up when Emma enters, opening and closing the heavy door quickly enough that the frigid air only breaches the room for a moment. Before she can relay her sympathies or attempt to make pointless preamble, the blonde is walking towards her and posing the question that's festered in her mind from the moment this entire shit-storm began.
"How do I fix it?"
Belle chews her lip and walks around the reception counter but Emma does not have the patience nor the tolerance to endure any more pitiful looks or empty reassurances. Words and feelings were never her domain; she was a woman of action.
It was why Killian had made an unwilling home within her heart. Because he not only understood the hollowness and fragility of promises, but he was of the same mind when it came to the importance of showing someone you cared rather than telling them.
"You traded your ship for me?"
"Aye"
Emma closes her eyes tight enough that a kaleidoscope appears behind her eyelids, wrestling down the vivid memory and gritting her teeth to repeat the question before Belle can say a word.
"How do I get the shard out of him? How do I… how do I…" she doesn't have the adequate vocabulary to communicate what she needs to know how to do. For all that Killian was a man of action, his manipulation of the English language was something she'd always envied. He could weave a sentence like a talented tapestry artist, design soliloquies that encapsulated the world with greater detail than a painting, voice the truth in such a way that no one could deny it let alone reject it.
Her jaw locks thinking about it, thinking about him, so she forces herself to stop by digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands and focusing on the stinging pain that blossoms there.
"I haven't found anything specific yet but I had an idea when I came back from your apartment to look into the folklore – I mean, it's been fairly accurate so far." Belle's peculiar accent wraps around the words in such a way that they come out timid and Emma mentally chastises herself.
The other woman is trying to help and she's just entered the library making demands. Forcing herself to consider these facts, Emma pointedly relaxes her clenched fists, attempting to soften her features and half-succeeding when she feels the cleft between her brows lessen.
Belle chews her lip nervously, "I'm still researching but, in the story, the young boy whose heart and eyes are affected by the glass shards is saved by his best friend when she kisses him and then weeps over him." She pauses and studies Emma, visibly weighing up whether she wants to impart the final key to this puzzle. Her expression is reminiscent of those goodhearted people in videos who are cautious to approach startled wildlife and it causes weights to pile up in the blonde's stomach.
She waits patiently and eventually Belle speaks.
"In essence… this little boy was saved by her love... True Love," she hurries to move on, rambling and speaking as though her new words might paint over the picture of a solution she's just depicted, "That and her tears melted the shards but – I mean, it's only a story so it mightn't be too accurate –"
"Technically, in this world, you're allstories," Emma says numbly, gaze fixated somewhere on the monochrome tiling, the truth dawning on her like the sunrise of a day she knows will leave her ruined. True Love can save him – the only problem, of course, being that both parties must be emotionally invested.
And God knows Killian Jones does not love her anymore.
8888
The docks are quiet, the only noise coming from the gentle lapping of the ocean as it attempts to crawl up the wooden supports. A cool breeze sweeps through the open space, ruffling his hair and catching on the thin fabric of his shirt so it moulds to his chest. Seated on a wooden bench, he studies the horizon.
The urge to commandeer one of these poor excuses for a vessel is near overwhelming. His need to be on the sea, with a deck beneath his feet and sails over his head, swaying in time with the tantalising beat of the ocean's wild heart, is rooted in his soul. The sea is an integral part of who he is, anchored deep, woven into the very marrow of his bones.
And yet, for all that he wants to leave this wretched town and every confusing iota of his forgotten life, he cannot bring himself to the act. His legs lock every time he approaches a boat, his heart stuttering in his chest every time he thinks about sailing off into the distance until Storybrooke has disappeared and the open ocean crowds him on every side. For all that he yearns to escape the torment that this place presents, there is something keeping him here.
Clenching his lone fist, he focuses on the feelings burgeoning in his chest.
It is as though something is trying desperately to escape, a locked box rattling between his ribs. But the key is unreachable and the decipher is unreadable and so he sits at the docks, tearing himself apart from the inside out, wishing he knew… wishing he knew what he was.
Because Killian Jones doesn't know who he is, let alone what he wants anymore.
A broken voice echoes in his mind, "I probably know you better than you know yourself – and that's what makes this all so much worse; that you don't remember who you are…"
His lips twitch – Emma Swan is an enigma in her own right.
The sudden onset of warmth at her name is fleeting and, for the umpteenth time, he growls to himself. Why can't he feel anything other than black on the colour scale of emotions? Why does he only ever feel for her in the first place? Why does he still care what happens to her when he doesn't even bloody well remember meeting her for the first time? How is he supposed to explain the sickness that claims him whenever she cries if he cannot ever recall having felt so deeply as to sacrifice the only home he ever had; his ship?
He should just leave, he knows it. Now that he is no longer aligned with the Snow Queen, every minute he spends in this miserable little settlement is a minute spent with a guillotine hovering above his neck. Suffice it to say, he knows betraying the Snow Queen will cost him dearly – he knew it the moment he stepped into the harsh light of the Sheriff's station. Regret, however, is yet to claim him over that particular decision.
He doesn't know why he isn't concerned about his choice to stick his neck out, or why he made it in the first place. There was literally nothing to gain from aiding Emma and her family but he did it anyway. A cold voice slithers wetly around his heart, whispering 'the Snow Queen lied to you – it has nothing to do with Emma.' But that's not the reason he did it and claiming that would only be lying to himself.
Frustration boils up in him and Killian stands abruptly, striding towards a moored boat with the intention to pilfer it and vanish into the sunset.
But that same pesky tether jerks him back and, with a curse, he turns and stalks away from the vessels bobbing on the choppy waves. He doesn't stop when he reaches the bench that has been his lodging for the past weeks (he's slept in far worse places for far longer durations).
Instead, he keeps walking with one destination in mind.
8888
Huddled beneath a swath of blankets on her couch, Emma lets herself do something she's refrained from for weeks: wallow. She lets herself cry, display every sign of weakness that's been plaguing her and just waiting to detonate. It only took finding out that the shard of glass was essentially irremovable for her to crack – and crack she does. There is a wine bottle on the coffee table which has been half-demolished and she's pretty certain that she will never be able to remove the mascara stains on these pillows, but she's relatively calm.
Her breath comes in stuttered hiccups now, and she just stares at the blank monitor of the television. The disillusionment is heavy in the room, but Emma cannot disentangle herself from its greedy hold.
Mercifully; the Snow Queen is yet to stage another attack, Elsa is in the more-than-capable hands of her sister, Henry is staying with Regina, and her parents are at a 'Mayor's Meeting' or something of the like so she needn't worry about being interrupted.
Or so she thinks.
"Swan?"
Of-fucking-course he would turn up.
The front door creaks open and she curses, jumping up from the couch and scrubbing roughly at her bloodshot eyes. She really should have locked the door – but he should also really learn to knock. Facing away from him, Emma moves quickly and quietly to the kitchen as he enters, wincing when her voice comes out uneven, "I'm not in the mood, Hook. Can you just leave me alone?"
There's a pause.
"What's wrong?"
The almost indiscernible underlining of concern in his tone drags sharp nails across her still tender wounds, drawing a bark of harsh laughter from her lips before she can restrain it. She tilts her head over her shoulder towards him ever so slightly, her hair shrouding her blotched face from view.
"Why do you care?"
Silence answers her and she is reminded with stunning clarity why she was just drowning herself in cheap wine and fluffy blankets. A deranged laugh bubbles up out of her painfully constricted chest.
"Oh, that's right, I forgot – you don't care about anything."
This time when he doesn't reply, she thinks he may have left without closing the door. Her shoulders relax and she bites down on her lip to stop its trembling. However, that thought evaporates when she hears his voice directly behind her – gruff and frustrated and unsure – so she stiffens and clenches the edge of the kitchen counter tight enough that the skin of her knuckles blooms white.
"I need answers," he says.
Emma snorts, whirring to face him before she can fully contemplate the consequences, "And I don't give two shits."
His face contorts for a split second, readying to retort, but he never does.
She hates that she must look broken in his eyes, hates that he probably doesn't care, hates everything about this. Her face feels swollen with tears she hasn't even shed yet, chest aching the way it always does whenever she's alone with him: as though there is glass in her chest and it's slowly creeping into the tender flesh of her heart with every glance he spares in her direction.
As his crystalline eyes scan her face, absorbing the way she looks utterly wrecked, the first inklings of sincere apprehension form in his features. The change is subtle, but it's there, and his eyebrows fuse together as he scrutinises her.
"What's wrong?" he asks again, firmer this time.
Emma rolls her eyes and tries to move away, "Nothing."
But he thrusts his arm out to stop her so she is trapped in his presence, staring into the face of the same person responsible for the never-ending fucking ache in her chest. His good hand grips her chin and he forces her to look up at him when he says (with a gentler cadence than he has in weeks), "Now who's the liar?"
It should make hope blossom brightly within her to know that he cares (even if it's only a little bit), it should soften her, it should make her more pliable to see him emotionally invested for the first time in what feels like forever. It should do a lot of things to her, but his touch stings and his eyes burn and her chest aches.
She jerks away from him, irrational anger boiling away at her insides as she manages to duck under his arm, "Just let me be alone, please." She only stops walking when she reaches the table, gripping the back of one of the chairs and waiting for him to leave. But he doesn't, and it's like pouring gasoline on an already raging inferno.
Emma turns to where he still stands, cemented in place.
"Get out."
Killian frowns at her, and she stalks forward so she stands on the opposite side of the kitchen island, fingers taut around its edge, "Get the fuck out!"
He flinches before he can fully mask his reaction, walking around her and towards the door without another word. Again, the door doesn't click and she only needs to glance over her shoulder to see that he's stopped at the threshold, held suspended by some unknown force. She waits for him to just leave.
Instead, he turns around to face her.
(How ironic that even now he won't just leave.)
(He never leaves.)
(He always stays.)
Bracing herself on the kitchen counter, knuckles cramping from the strain, Emma can almost convince herself that she despises him. In a way, she does; she loathes what he's done to her without ever having tried.
For some unfathomable reason, that's what makes it worse. Losing his memories of her wasn't his choice, nor was the manipulation of his heart and mind and soul. The Snow Queen inflicted this on him and she did it because she knew it would cause far more damage than outright killing him. So Emma knows, without a doubt, that had Killian ever been given the choice he would never have made a decision that gave her pain.
It's taken this long for her to admit but now she knows for sure that he would have gone to extraordinary lengths for her happiness. He would have died for her.
More than that, she can only imagine how much he'd hate himself for ever hurting her. And it's all of that which breaks her – at least if he'd left, she could blame him. If he'd deliberately wounded her it would be a simple matter of reconstructing the walls around her heart and fortifying them from any more imprudent disclosures.
But no, she doesn't even get that. He never even tried and he broke her beyond repair.
"I hate you," she croaks, staring at the kitchen counter-top. A minute passes and she can hear him shuffling closer to her.
"That's a lie," is his hoarse response.
Emma swallows thickly and turns on the spot so that their eyes lock. And the thing is, he's right; it is a lie. How he knows that, however, befuddles her because he shouldn't still be able to read her so well with a frozen heart. She's aggressively punching down the urge to cry, replacing it with the only emotion fervent enough to have a chance at substituting it: anger.
Her glare is weak, but she still finds the strength to grind out through clenched teeth, "I want to hate you."
The look on his face when her words filter through the air is indescribable: partly because she can barely see it through the wetness in her eyes. But also because it's so at odds: fluctuating between despair and determination and anger and frustration and she swears she sees a flicker of guilt. She feels as brittle as chalk, especially when he drops her gaze to stare at the floor.
"Why don't you?" he asks quietly, visibly confounded by her, "I have done nothing but cause you pain and yet you still can't find it in you to loathe me." His fist clenches and he searches for words, gesturing blindly as he gapes – at a loss. It is painfully reminiscent of the day that he lost his memories, when he pulled her into the alley and tried to vocalise his need for her to be safe. She bites down on her lip hard to keep it from trembling.
"In all my outrageously long life, or what I can remember of it, I have never once met a person so unwilling to accept what is right in front of them. But you persist."
Killian lifts his eyes from the floor so that they land on her face and she can feel her breathing becoming short under his scrutiny. She doesn't know how to reply – how can she reply when she can't even explain it to herself? For some reason, her silence breaks something in him.
She knows it is his patience, because it couldn't possibly be his heart.
"Why?" he repeats firmly, but she doesn't answer. She can see the exact moment that the anger bubbles up in tandem with his frustration, combining with the melting pot of emotions already swirling visibly in his mind. She's too preoccupied with trying to maintain control over this confrontation to notice how vulnerable he looks right now.
"Why?" he crows, taking a step towards her. She frowns when she hears a lining of desperation to his voice.
"I don't know!" she yells back, fists clenched by her sides.
At her words, he bursts forward, voice ripping through the apartment so she is faintly concerned with waking the neighbouring tenants. "Don't lie to me!"
Killian crowds her space, the action so familiar it hurts but she can't retreat because there's a kitchen counter behind her.
She doesn't even flinch, holding his stare relentlessly with a fierce scowl of her own.
The acid in her tone is palpable, "Why do you even care? I'm just another ignorant bitch to you – another witch – another – another stupid, corrupt thing! One you had no qualms about taking advantage of to get what you wanted!"
"So why don't you hate me? Why do you continue to tolerate me, defend me, care about me?" he rebukes furiously and something in his tone acts like a match, setting fire to a fuse that's been lying dormant for weeks. It sparks and sizzles and everything inside her ignites. Both eyebrows ascend her forehead, voice rising until it cracks.
"Wait, are you angry with me? You think I enjoy this clusterfuck of a situation? You don't even remember me! And you're upset with me?"
But he is relentless.
"Do you think I enjoy having no sodding clue where I am or how I got here?"
"You sure as hell act like it doesn't affect you!"
He barks a mirthless laugh and takes a step back, running his hand through his hair, "Are you joking?" His attempt at sarcasm does nothing for the inferno raging to life in her veins (it feels like magic, tingling at her fingertips). Emma takes a step forward. Her eyes are narrowed as she stalks him with his shortcomings, livid voice ricocheting off the empty apartment walls.
"All you've done since coming back has revolved around your revenge and when it wasn't that, it was still about you – always about you, you selfish bastard!" he turns around in some thoughtless attempt to leave, so Emma naturally follows him, "Back to square-fucking-one!"
When he spins on his heel to face her, the movement is sudden enough that she jolts in shock. She is only standing a mere foot away from him but his words still come out in a bellow, a disconcerting mixture of frustration and resentment and, above all, grief.
"Because that's the only thing I remember! It's the only thing I have to grasp onto!"
There's a flash of pain in his eyes so potent it ripples through the air. But Emma's carrying enough of her own baggage without his so she settles on a reaction she's been slowly re-familiarising herself with; closing off. Schooling her features, she watches him bring his hand up, unclenching it so he can knead his forehead. He drops his hand after a second and drags his gaze up to hers again.
The imploring edge that lingers in his smooth lilt lets her believe that this is progress.
"Imagine feeling half-filled, like half of your soul has been vacuumed from your body and you don't know who you are anymore and the only things you can vividly remember are things that feel – they feel wrong, but it's all you can grasp onto! And that's just the beginning!" It's psychologically demanding for him, she can see it in every frown line that mars his forehead. Killian's voice rises and he shakes his head rapidly, stepping away, "I have feelings I don't bloody understand and reactions to things that don't make sense, I have – I have – I'm a stranger in my own goddamned body!"
Her eyes burn into him, thoughts jumping and dancing like a rock skipping along the surface of a pond. All things considered, she should turn on her heel and leave. It will do no use to keep picking at this festering sore but she is held by an invisible, indescribable force.
"And how do you think it feels to watch that? To be powerless to help the one person who never gave up on you? To have to stand idly by and let the person you love lay waist to themselves?"
There is only silence in the wake of her impassioned words and Emma swears the world stops spinning, even if it is only for a second. A pregnant pause falls upon them as she tries to calm her rapidly disintegrating control, her breathing becoming shallow as a tear finally tracks a wet path down the slope of her cheek. His eyes trace the moisture, eyebrows furrowing as his jaw locks. It's almost as though the display of weakness on her part angers him – or at least that's all she can assume, she won't herself be convinced that he cares.
Before she can second guess herself, she continues, so softly it's almost inaudible. "But that's not even the worst part," she says and swallows, "the worst thing about all of this isn't just that you don't remember, or that you don't care – can't care."
He frowns but she doesn't stop.
Emma's voice waivers, "The worst part is knowing this is my fault," she nods and steps away, choking on her own damn throat, "It's my fault this happened to you. The Snow Queen did this because she knew it would hurt me. I put you in her crosshairs because –"
Before she cannot afford to expose herself without reserve, she bites off the end of her sentence and stares at the wooden floor. From her peripheral vision, she can see that his jaw is slack with shock. His quiet cadence is like sandpaper, chafing gently on the air as it escapes his mouth, "That's why I can't remember anything after meeting up with Cora… Because –"
"She wanted you to forget me. Specifically me. Meeting me, fighting with me, fighting for me… loving me," Emma interrupts, finishing his sentence before taking a deep breath and pulling her gaze up to level with his, "It was the plan all along. To hurt me… and distract everyone in the process."
She laughs mirthlessly, "Multiple birds with one stone, as Gold so eloquently put it."
Vaguely she is aware of the way his breath hitches, "What?" But there's more that needs to be said and the filter she adopted young in life falls away. It falls alongside the walls he tore down, the walls he still continues to tear down even in his unkindly state. Nobody should have such control over a person – but he does. He probably always will. It's debilitating.
Without dropping his gaze, without stuttering, the words spill from her lips. A well-practiced hearse from a novel she's never read.
"Oddly poetic, don't you think? I was so, so afraid of losing you – it was why I kept pushing you away. And you always told me – showed me you weren't going anywhere if it was up to you – pulling the whole 'I'm a survivor' bullshit and, in the end, it wasn't up to you," she chuckles miserably, "I was so sure you would leave eventually – get sick of me, get sick of waiting, get sick of my brokenness, or die… but never… I never thought about this."
A heavy pause follows.
Even Killian appears startled by his next mumbled words, "I'm sorry."
For the first time in a long time, he isn't lying when he apologizes this time.
But there's no room left for anything other than indifference when she shrugs, as though it doesn't affect her that he has done nothing but reject her and hurt her and lie to her since waking up. Exhaustion has already begun an enervating path through her muscles, weighing them down. It's been a long time since she's felt so emotionally drained.
Emma shakes her head numbly, "Don't be. You saved me so many times… it's any wonder it took this long for something like this to happen."
Killian turns around, rubbing his chin and pacing quietly away for about three steps before he stops and looks over his shoulder at her. The apartment is still and dark, the sun having disappeared down over the horizon long ago so the only light in the room comes from the moon outside. It casts an ethereal glow over everything, including his silhouette.
"How many times?"
His question is near-inaudible.
"What?"
"How many times did I save you?"
It's strange that he cares enough to want some quantifiable measure of her debt to him. She doesn't see the look in his eyes as he asks the question, though. The darkness obscures the pained concentration on his face.
Shaking her head, she looks around the room, "I lost track." A phantom of a smile crosses her face and disappears just as quickly when she thinks of each and every unwitting time he managed to ensure her survival (not just physically), "Too many times."
He faces away again so she can't see his expression. "I must have loved you."
His murmured words don't process at first, but when they do it knocks the air from her lungs. She blinks and she chokes, "You did."
Finally, Killian turns around to face her, catching her eye and holding it steadily as he speaks. "And you loved me?" She assumes it's supposed to be a statement, but it comes out as more of a question, an incredibly sceptical inquiry.
The more prudent course of action, of course, is to deny it.
Emma Swan has never been overtly wise.
"Yeah… I do."
Her use of present tense isn't missed by either of them, the breath backing up into her lungs as the admission sears itself into her memory. Bewilderment doesn't even begin to describe the way Killian's face has twisted in the minute that follows the innocuous words.
"Why?"
A watery smile tilts the corners of her lips and, despite the space separating them, she feels more exposed in that moment than she has since the very second he'd woken up in that sterile hospital room. There is an undeniable shallowness to the air they are breathing, the atmosphere between them thinning to such a degree that it is irrefutably intimate.
She never lets his gaze drop, "To be honest… I don't know."
Killian's eyes narrow marginally because of the untruth hidden within the statement but, wisely, he doesn't press it. For all that she cannot express it, Emma knows, with some clarity, why she loves him. Like a descent into madness, it flashes in her mind with excruciating detail.
She loves his determination, his resilience, his unobtrusive morality (although the latter has been sullied by the Snow Queen's doing – and if the Killian Jones she knows is anywhere in there, he'll hate himself for every line he's crossed). Neverland introduced her to his dual strength and vulnerability; showcasing his effortless dance down the line between arrogant façade and fragmented truth. It was in him that she was forced to confront a mirror image, which was terrifying and liberating all at once (or, it had been).
He takes a step closer, almost pleading, "How?"
The frown on her face deepens, "What do you mean?"
"How could you ever love someone like… me?"
As with everything about their relationship, it didn't occur to her suddenly or blindingly. In fact, it didn't truly dawn on her until that day in the hospital when his life was hanging precariously in the balance of science and magic.
Sitting in that waiting room, curled in on herself as she threaded her fingers in her hair and prayed to deities she had no belief in, Emma recognised the feeling purchased firmly on her soul. He crept up on her, wheedling his way past her defences and securing himself a place there before she'd ever noticed.
She sighs heavily, running a hand through her unkempt hair. It takes everything in her not to reach forward so she can smooth her knuckles along his jaw in an attempt to coax out the pain that resides in his tight, self-loathing expression.
"You aren't as much of a monster as you like to think you are. You never were – you were a shitty excuse for a villain to begin with," she snorts lightly to herself but he's still staring at her, arctic blue eyes sparkling with intensity. Pacing around the kitchen bench, she busies herself by placing her wine glass in the sink and restoring the alcohol to its rightful place in the cupboard – anything to avoid meeting his gaze. Yet the question still hangs in the air, unanswered by her vague deflection.
Contemplating, Emma recognises her inability to refuse him – it's only because, if there is one thing she still knows about him, it's his patience (although, some might call it stubbornness). She blows out a heavy breath and looks up at him.
"And you came back;" she answers simply, "you always came back."
Killian's face is pensive and the tension in the room dissipates with the closing stages of their discussion. He is deep in thought, she can tell from the set of his shoulders and by the definite brand of consternation on his face. The minutes pass and not a word is exchanged between them, until finally he shakes his head lightly and shuffles back in the direction of the door.
"I'm sorry… I…" he glances up at her and starts turning towards the door, "I'll go."
Emma watches him leave. She doesn't follow him, but something is definitely different… in both of them.
8888
To her upmost surprise, when she approaches Regina she is not met with scorn but understanding. The woman asks no questions as she helps her, scouring her magic supplies and personal selection of magical manuscripts written in a litany of foreign dialects Emma cannot make heads or tails of. There are no barbed quips or knife-edged words exchanged – only speaking when it is necessary.
She has reached an unspoken agreement with her parents - they have divvied up the responsibilities. While they try to help Elsa, dually attempting to uncover the Snow Queen's whereabouts (now that they know her plan, they don't need to scrutinise her motive which was power from the very beginning), Emma has been given the time to look for a way to save Killian.
If anyone asks, she already has an excuse prepared: that without him, she is magically immobilized and so, until they restore him to the man she knows him to be, her efforts against the Snow Queen will be an exercise in futility. Which is true – but it's not the reason for the sudden wave of resolve.
There is a new fervour swimming in Emma's veins, a brand of determination she has not experienced the like of since Henry's near-death experience with the apple turnover. Perhaps it was catalysed by what happened in the apartment (his voice rings in her ears) – or perhaps she finally woke up to the realisation that she needed to work harder. Regardless of what it was, she knows one thing with every last shred of her tattered soul.
Killian Jones deserves better.
He deserves to feel everything on the blindingly painful spectrum of emotions – deserves more than this taciturn thing that has infected his soul in spite of the transitory displays of genuine sentiment that suggest otherwise.
He deserves to remember, and not just because she needs to him to remember her - but because the man who crossed realms and fought innumerable obstacles just for an orphan girl deserves to understand who he is and who he became. She saw firsthand the pain inflicted upon him by the memory charm.
Guilt swarms her, crowding in on the space left vacant by her pathetic desolation.
All this time, she's been fixated on befriending her own misery. It hadn't occurred to her that, for all the indifference and misplaced anger and cruelty, he was suffering in his own skin.
"I'm a stranger in my own goddamned body…"
Emma grits her teeth and forces herself to read every mildly decipherable book sent her way.
Because she will find a way to save him from himself or die trying – her family, as her father once said, really doesn't like giving up.
Broken, she may be. But she will never accept defeat (not when it comes to him).
8888
She does not let the disappointment overwhelm her as she traverses the main street, the evening sky her only companion on the long walk home from Regina's crypt. After days of searching, they are still empty handed and though her resolve has not yet waivered, she cannot deny that the air is especially cold tonight because of the failure that traces taunting lines down her spine.
Emma turns the corner, tucking her hands further into the warmth of her pockets as she approaches her apartment building. Her breath puffs out in front of her, white wisps that disappear into the inky night – reminding her of the unseasonable spike in temperature. She counts her steps.
Five steps: she realises just how much the atmosphere is unseasonably cold.
Six steps: alarm bells pierce the veil of chaotic buzz in her head.
Seven steps: she notices the hand-print of frost on the corner of the building.
Eight steps: chilling laughter rings in her ears.
Nine steps: she reaches for her gun.
She never makes the tenth step, blackness blotting out her vision so she collapses – losing consciousness before she ever hits the ground.
I nom on your feels - review so I can have noms.