FINALLY - this one took a little bit to get out but that's only because I felt like I needed to make sure that all of the descriptions of what they're feeling (Killian in particular) are understandable even though it's all quite complicated (goddamn Snow Queen amiright?)
Anyway, this one is important because there's a clue as to where we're headed in Part Five. And because there's quite a bit of development for our babies. Bon Appetit.
Part Four: The Emotional Pendulum
He doesn't happen upon them deliberately. In fact, he literally stumbles upon them, Mary Margaret's petite figure slamming into his chest as she dashes down the street with blind eyes. David follows behind her, his strong arms reaching to steady his wife when she jerks away from Killian, and he is greeted with a familiar shade of green drilling into his face.
The usually serene features of the royal woman contort and twist into anger, her eyes darkening as she launches herself forward.
"Where's Emma?"
And just like that, something heavy settles over Killian's lungs. Apprehension has already begun a measured path through his veins, and he frowns down at her – especially when she jolts herself out of David's attempts to restrain her. For a woman so small, she certainly knows how to exude intimidation when she crowds him, eye blazing.
He shakes his head, "What do you mean? Where is she?"
The heat dissipates from her face quickly, replaced by frustration, "You mean, you don't know where she took her?"
"Why would I know?" he glares, her underlying accusation prodding his sore spots – it is only overtaken by the realisation that Emma hasn't so much disappeared as been abducted, her choice of wording seeping into his bones. His eyes widen slightly and he searches her face, "Wait - did the Snow Queen take her?"
Mary Margaret blinks several times. She doesn't shrug off her husband's comforting hand on her shoulder this time, and Killian picks up on the note of well-hidden fear in the blonde man's voice when he murmurs to her, "We'll find her, it's okay." The gentle affection stirs the pit of worry slowly deepening within him and he waits for the woman to gather herself.
Calmly, she tells him, "We think she did – she never came home last night and there was a trail of ice near our apartment. We found Emma's phone on the ground where it started. We're about to meet with Regina and some of the others to see if we can find her before…" He doesn't have to ask to know that her throat chokes on the end of her sentence, the notion that the Snow Queen is hurting Emma enough to shoot something frantic through his own bloodstream. Again, the box in his chest rattles – more violently than before, he'll admit.
He doesn't spare a thought to the sudden onset of determination as he steps out of their path, "Then, by all means, lead the way."
Emma's parents eye him warily for a long moment, something akin to astonishment playing out across their features. He is reminded momentarily of his hostility for the past weeks and scratches behind his ear, waiting for them to move so he doesn't have to suffer under their scrutiny. Thankfully, time is of the essence and they simply cannot spare the hours needed to psychoanalyse his motives. They move quickly and without comment, reaching the Sheriff's station shortly thereafter.
Several of the townsfolk (the majority of whom he does not recognise or care for) are gathered outside the brick edifice, concern stamped across nearly every face. An unfamiliar brunette woman, who Mary Margaret addresses as 'Ruby,' steps forward instantly.
"I tried to trail her but her scent ends about a block away from your apartment," she laments apologetically. Mary Margaret's lips tilt sympathetically, and she pats her friend's shoulder lightly before she makes a beeline for Regina. David and Killian follow her without hesitation, the latter pointedly ignoring the residents gaping at his sudden and apparently unexpected appearance. Even Regina does a double-take when she sees him, disdain flickering once in her sharp eyes.
"What is he doing here?" she asks Mary Margaret, "And how do we know he wasn't involved?"
The distrust is palpable in the air, and Killian grinds his teeth together, addressing the haughty woman directly, "I was under the impression Emma had told you about my change of heart but, evidently, your hearing must have been eroded by listening to the grating sound of your own bloody voice."
Regina pivots to face him, unruffled, "Oh trust me, Emma told me about it. If it weren't for her, I would have obliterated you where you stood after you risked Henry's life by siding with that woman."
"Guys," David chides harshly, stepping in between them. Killian doesn't drop the Evil Queen's gaze, dark brown clashing with ice blue. Eventually, she steps away and brushes some ebony hair from her face. Turning her attention to the others, Killian takes the chance to subdue the urge to bury his hook in the woman's neck – he's been shoving down his violent tendencies for days now (now, he has a reason to store the red emotion) (the Snow Queen will rue the day she decided to hurt Emma).
Why do you care so much?
Killian's eyebrows furrow, the coldness eating up his resolve where he stands. The confusing sentiments swirl around his chest, throwing him off-kilter so he has to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger to come back to himself. When he does, they are midway through their discussion and he pays swift attention.
"I've already tried a locater spell but, unsurprisingly, I got nothing. The Snow Queen must have used a buffer to impede any attempts to find Emma using magical methods –"
"How did she even get to her? Emma's not stupid and she's certainly not defenceless."
"I'd say she caught her off guard on her way home from my crypt. If she was unprepared, the Snow Queen would have had a rather large window of opportunity to take her without a fight."
"What time did she leave to come home?"
"About eleven – we decided to call it a day and she left –"
"What the bloody hell was she doing out alone that late – let alone with you?" Killian interjects angrily, glaring at Regina who narrows her eyes knowingly. She is about to answer when Mary Margaret shoots her a warning look, silently ordering her not to respond. It perplexes him to say the least and he directs his attention to the petite woman responsible for the held tongue. They aren't telling him something and it grills against his nerves like sandpaper.
Mary Margaret's voice is deceptively composed when she responds, "It doesn't matter what she was doing there – we just… Hook, where are you going?" He is already half-way to the door, his aggravation dismantling any attempts he might have made to work in tandem with these infuriating people. Spinning on his heel, he glowers at them all, daring them to stop him.
"I'm going to find her."
The congregation of people simply gape at him. David's face twitches imperceptibly, recognition and shock masking his concern for an iota of a second.
"How? There's no trace of her anywhere, we've got her phone and we don't know where the Snow Queen is," Leroy adds harshly, folding his arms across his stout chest in a reproachful gesture. But Killian simply continues his path towards the exit, a fire in his step and an inferno in his belly.
"I don't care. I'll find her."
8888
He heads straight for the forest that lines the town, navigating the thick underbrush with rough swipes of his hook. He focuses on the tedium the overgrown greenery provides, taking great care as he swings his arm back and forth to push forward, his destination already cemented in his mind. It helps him ignore the churning tempest of foreign feelings slicing their way through his entire being.
It distracts him from the fury coiling around his bones; because she shouldn't have bloody well been out so late with the Snow Queen's vendetta still very much in play and those imbeciles at the Sheriff's station were getting nowhere fast and the sorceress will pay dearly for trying to steal the only source of warmth from this infernal town.
It takes his mind off the frantic edge to his concern; because who knows what the Snow Queen is doing right now, or where Emma is, or why she has taken her? Her plan was to cripple the blonde first, using her family and friends (make her weak), not outright maim or murder her. That thought alone has him increasing his pace, the muscles in his arms and legs burning from the effort.
Mostly though, honing in on the monotony of his movements allows him to ignore the way the frost is struggling to swallow the newfound emotions. There is a whirlpool in his chest, but for once the sentiments do not instantly fall into its abyss. They match the monolithic strength of the cold, pushing back against its frigid grip so he feels everything with a muted fervency that nearly has him keeling over.
It's overwhelming, but it's also what is driving him forward.
There's a voice in his head that has him convinced that if he can just find Emma, these things that are crushing him will subside.
With one last well-aimed cut, he reaches the clearing the Snow Queen had previously designated as their rendezvous point. As with every other time he had arrived there, she is already standing in the centre of the small field, statuesque amongst the bleak edges of the forest.
Her white dress appears to melt into the same downy substance that coats the dead, leaf-strewn floor and she turns to face him, a haughty smirk fixed across imperial features.
"What did I tell you about love, Hook?" she tuts, faux disappointment crumpling her brow as she considers him derisively, "It's weakness – which makes you both predictable."
He does not waste time with preamble, striding forward until he stands a short distance from her – he knows it would be imprudent to stage an attack on the woman with her attention solely on him.
"Where is she?"
If his stony demeanour affects her, it doesn't show. For all of his efforts to appear domineering, the woman simply examines her perfectly manicured nails, holding out one delicate hand and tilting her head. Her arctic eyes do not rise to his as she chides him, voice just on this side of tormenting, "You know, even after everything you have put her through, she still can't let you go. You really got under her skin, didn't you?"
The Snow Queen grins lecherously and finally snaps her gaze up to pierce his, "But then, I guess she got under yours too," her eyes narrow, and it's like a serpent shedding its skin when her voice thins to a needle point, "Why else would you betray me?"
Killian's fists clench and he knew he would suffer the consequences for throwing her allegiance back in her face. But he couldn't have foreseen that the woman would attack Emma – he hadn't even considered her a liability (now, with an infuriating mixture of emotions boiling up inside of him, he knows that was far from the truth).
"What did you do?" he hisses, struggling to maintain his composure when his companion merely laughs.
"Temporarily neutralised her - nothing terribly lethal," she assures him, leaning forward, a glint in her eye that has alarm bells ringing violently in his ears, "but that's not the problem, is it?" The way she says it, tongue curling around the words with lascivious glee, chewing down each vowel only to spit it back in his face, raises the hairs on the back of his neck.
Dread weighs on him already, and he doesn't even need to know the details to her new plan, the one which he will most definitely not be privy to.
His jaw locks with the effort it takes to keep his voice at least partially composed, "Where is she?"
The Snow Queen senses his hostility instantly and glides towards him, all dulcet tones when she falsely tells him, "Calm down, darling – I'll tell you." There's a pregnant pause and he waits for her to add with a nonchalant shrug, "It's just up to you who you save."
"I beg your pardon?"
The Snow Queen leers, starting a slow path around him, a predator circling its prey, "A choice: I'm giving you one – the girl or the town. It's completely up to you." The glint of smug satisfaction shining in her pale blue eyes is cold and unappealing, driving splinters into his already fragile patience. Realisation is trickling uncomfortably down his ribs as he absorbs her words, drinking in everything they denote.
"You bitch."
"Name-calling is so childish, my dear," she quips, and he rotates to keep her in his line of sight. He is not so imprudent as to give her his back, unattended and unprotected.
Shaking his head, he glares at her, "Why are you making me choose? I thought you eventually wanted Emma as an ally, not a casualty."
"I still do, but I'm quite good at adapting to my surroundings so I don't necessarily need so much as want her... and you betrayed me and I'm awfully spiteful in matters of duplicity."
She cackles manically, sighing deeply before she tilts her head towards him, a smirk cast about her lips so they curl delightedly around her words, "If only you could remember, you would be particularly sympathetic to that plight." It confuses him for a moment, but then Henry's voice swoops in, relaying a fantastical tale about a magic beanstalk, a sleeping giant and an act of unforeseen deceit (metal chains rattle unnervingly familiar in his ears).
Killian's face is still contorted with misunderstanding – her motives don't match her crimes. She wants to hurt him so…
"So why not punish me?" he verbalises the thought without hesitation and regrets it the very second the words tumble from his lips. Pulling to an abrupt halt, the Snow Queen pivots to face him directly, her eyes manic, voice rising an octave higher.
"Oh, but I am! Although you mightn't remember a shred of your history with that girl – in your head or your heart – the feelings are still there, buried and dormant under that cold façade you cling to so desperately," she chuckles to herself, "Although, that may also be partially my doing – you have had a great deal of trouble feeling emotions even resembling happiness, haven't you?"
She knows.
She only took his memories so how does she know?
Really, it shouldn't surprise him so much that she is aware of his emotional impotency. After all, she is the sole cause of his amnesia – why wouldn't she also be the culprit to the cold encroaching on his heart whenever the barest hint of warmth creeps in? It still throws him off guard though, red lining his vision when he registers the taunting edge in her tone.
She is the reason for his affliction.
His teeth grind violently together, "What game is this?"
"No game, I could kill everyone but I'm feeling sentimental so I'll be lenient."
"I'm hesitant to believe that, especially since you're not notorious for your altruism."
She laughs at him, shaking her head admonishingly, "Oh, please, now you're just wasting valuable time to make your dashing rescue." A lump forms in his throat, the blood in his veins thrumming with a new brand of conviction. Her words ring in his ears, and he can almost hear himself saying them – he squeezes his eyes shut momentarily to block out the way the phrase "dashing rescue" lingers, echoing around the walls of his skull before it slips through his fingers like fine sand.
"What?" he grits through his teeth, rubbing his temple in an attempt to alleviate the aching sensation that has slowly crawled up through his chest to claim the space behind his eyes.
"Emma is in a lovely little ship by the docks – too bad the ship she's in seems to be faulty. Last time I was there, it was sinking. Not to mention the water's a tad nippy at the moment, not that I mind it but she might."
And suddenly, he feels a sense of clarity – like he is the one who has been thrust into glacial water. Breaking his eyes open, he thinks about the image the Snow Queen's words depict. His mind's eye is overcome with images of Emma succumbing to the same sea he has called home for longer than he can remember.
He doesn't hesitate when he begins running from the clearing, calculating in his head how long it will take to reach the docks. But the Snow Queen appears in front of him, halting his path with a toe-curling grin. She tilts her head mockingly.
"Ah, ah, ah Captain – are you forgetting about the town?"
"What about it?" he growls.
"If you concentrate your efforts on her, you'll not be able to warn the town of my impending attack," she reminds him. And it should abhor him, strike some kind of guilt in him, that he is dooming the town but…
"I don't care."
The Snow Queen's eye glitter, her lips pulling further apart so her smile grows to something that resembles the baring of teeth, "She will. She'll hate you."
Killian swallows the thickness in his throat, dodging around the woman as he answers again, "I don't care." With that, he runs. He all but flies through the trees, ignoring the chilling drop in temperature and especially the way her delighted cackle pierces his skin.
"Good luck Captain! You'll need it!"
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The world sways beneath her feet and, as Emma's eyes snap open, she remembers very quickly that she is not on land. That revelation is followed swiftly by the distant recognition that not only is she still seated, but she is still strapped down – intricate knots holding her limbs and joints to each crevice and corner of the hard, wooden chair.
Staring blindly into the darkness that smothers her, she tries for the umpteenth time to free herself. She strains against the ropes, hissing when the rough texture rubs against her already tender, chafed skin. Sighing, Emma drops limply against the chair and shivers - it's getting colder.
Or perhaps it's just her feet that are cold, they are stinging from the frost that bites her toes and gnaws the back of her ankles.
It is then and only then that she registers just how much colder her feet are than the rest of her body. As dread ploughs a relentless tunnel through her chest, Emma forces herself to peer down through the low light in the boat's cabin. Her heart stops.
Frigid water is swirling around her feet and, looking to her left, she sees that the Snow Queen's renovations to the vessel seem to finally have taken effect. The only indication that this is not a natural occurrence is the water's stillness – it doesn't rush into the brig with a deafening churning sound. No, it bleeds silently in, lapping gently at Emma's feet when she struggles again (more frantically this time because her feet hurt from the cold and it didn't hurt this much when she was dying at the ice wall with Elsa).
The overwhelming feelings of fear mix with her anger, and thinking about the icy grip on her lower calf now has the Snow Queen appearing firmly in her mind. She glares at the ground, gritting her teeth and making a fruitless attempt to tap into her reservoir of magic.
She knows it won't work – the Snow Queen told her so the first time she woke up.
Among other things.
"Rise and shine, dear," a velvety voice whispers.
The thick blanket of exhaustion lifts like a shroud; coherency slamming into her full force so she gasps for air as she wakes, eyes blown wide open, fingers gripping the edge of the chair like an anchor. Her gaze darts frantically around the unfamiliar room until, through the intrinsic lack of light, she makes out the distinct silhouette of a woman. Paired with the familiar voice, she knows who it is.
And her memories return in a staggering flash of images: walking home, seeing the ice, blacking out.
When the fury swells hot and quick through her blood, Emma moves to stand and feels her stomach lurch when she is unable to move. Staring down at herself, she growls – ropes are looped around seemingly every bend in her body, holding her steady and immobile against the chair.
"And don't bother with your magic, Emma dearest – I've neutralised it," she explains sweetly, stepping forwards and swaying slightly. Not of her own accord, Emma realises, scanning her surroundings and the tilting floor beneath her feet: she is on a boat. But why?
"What the hell am I doing here? What do you want?" Emma spits, glaring viciously at the other woman when she finally comes to a stop a short distance from her.
"I'm just settling a score. In this case, you are merely a pawn," she tells her, tilting her head to the side. Emma studies her pallid features, confusion marring her face in a fleeting expression. Then the Snow Queen is speaking again, and her throat constricts painfully tight when the situation clarifies in her mind – like melting frost on glass, the transparency slow but sure when she realises what is happening outside of this cold, tilting bubble she inhabits with the Snow Queen.
"The good captain betrayed me, as you no doubt know. This is my way of reminding him that duplicity has a price," she explains, "You see, I'm giving his already bruised conscience a bit of a work out. I'm going to give him a terribly vexing choice, one that will define what happens from here on out."
Trepidation settles low in her gut as Emma asks, "What choice?"
"I intend to stage a little skirmish on your beloved town. I've been patient enough and it seems I have the perfect opportunity waiting at my feet - with you and our Arendellian friend neutralised, I'll have little resistance. Your beloved family will fight – and they will die. Elsa will break, and so will you. That is all you need know of my plans for them." The Snow Queen walks slowly forward, the space between them diminishing with each step. The floorboards of the hull creak and groan against her weight, and Emma takes that as a bad sign as to this boat's structural integrity.
The woman kneels in front of Emma, holding her gaze evenly with pale eyes, "So his choice, my dear, is whether he warns the town – perhaps gives them a chance to prepare, maybe save a few insignificant lives… or saves you."
Emma's eyes widen, but the Snow Queen is not finished, dragging a nail under her chin so she can tilt her head up towards her. She leans in close enough that Emma can feel the unappealing chill of her breath as it fans across her face.
"He can do one or the other, but he cannot do both."
Flicking her finger back towards her, she drops Emma's chin – but it leaves a mark, the skin under her jaw raises red from where the woman's pointed nail caught. The Snow Queen stands and spins on her heel, calling gleefully over her shoulders as she disappears into the shadows, "I do hope he chooses correctly."
Not for the first time, she beats away the panic that is gripping her. Her headspace is an indecipherable tangle of strings, a thick ball of emotional yarn lodging itself resolutely below her breastbone. On the one hand, she cannot fathom a world without this town let alone the people in it. They are integral to her, and the mere idea that her family might suffer – might die – causes something disconcerting to ripple down to her back (it feels uncontrollable, feral and raw – the dark magic that winds its way through each vertebrae at the notion).
So she wants him to choose them even if it means she will perish in a cold watery grave.
But a small, selfish fraction of her soul yearns for him to save her. And not purely because the idea of drowning makes her skin crawl and her heart pitch urgently against her ribs. But because it would mean that there is a small part of him that still cares; even if she has already resolved herself to redeem him regardless of his current disposition.
There won't be any cause left if you're an orphan again, the voice of reason dictates. It chides her for the foolish wish, aggressively reminding her that her life comes at the price of her family's imminent death and that is one exchange she cannot accept. Unfortunately, it isn't up to her.
If it was, she knows what she would choose. It's the same choice she would make every time: her family, her loved ones, her only sources of light in this incessantly cruel world. In that moment, she desperately wants Killian to warn them of the Snow Queen's impending attack. She hopes that he knows it is what she would want and prays to a thousand deities she doesn't even stock faith in that if he even has a scrap of compassion left in him, he will do that for her. He will warn them and, by extension, possibly save them.
Emma grips the chair as her body's natural response to the descending temperature begins to take effect. She shivers against the wooden frame of her seat, gritting her teeth harshly together as she tries to hold herself still. It is to no avail, and soon the soft sounds of the water are joined by the clacking of her teeth.
The water has reached just below her knees when she hears it.
Heavy footfalls sound directly above her head right before her heart comes to a stuttering halt in her chest. Stiffening, she listens to the person pace quickly over to where she assumes the hatch is at the end of the room she is in.
But the water is flooding faster now and by the time the light of day filters in through the open entrance, the gentle waves lap at her hips. Peering at the beam of sunlight, she watches with an undefinable feeling as a black silhouette drops into the room with a loud splash. The water ripples in his wake, reaching her in a rhythm that beats in time with her rapidly pumping heart.
When he turns around, Emma feels a bout of uncontainable fear. Names run through her head, names that belong to people who are now in danger because he's here and not there: Henry, David, Mary Margaret, Elsa, Anna, Ruby, Kristoff, Granny, Archie, Henry, Henry, Henry.
Killian's eyes lock onto her shivering form and she swears she sees relief sag his features before his face cements with angry resolve and he begins wading through the waters towards her. As much as she wants to rejoice in his appearance, she cannot.
For one thing, Emma's waist is bearing the brunt of the ocean's icy caress now making it difficult to think about anything other than breathing properly.
For another thing, her family is in inconceivable danger. The Snow Queen is not merciful, even though she claims to be, and she will not spare them not when her endgame is Emma's destruction.
"What are y-you doing here?" she stammers, frowning up at him as he approaches. His movement through the rising waterline makes it churn and crawl further up her torso, licking her skin with icy tongues of water so she shivers uncontrollably. "You shouldn't-t-t be here! You c-can't be h-here!"
He doesn't answer.
His eyes flit to hers (they are unreadable in the low light) and he uses his hook to cut through the ropes at her wrists. She instantly rubs the skin with gently probing fingertips, hissing when the salt water stings like acid being poured directly into her muscle tissue. But the Snow Queen was thorough and he has to drop further into the water to snag his appendage through the restraints coiled around her waist.
"You're not supposed to be here," she repeats in a whisper, her mind racing with images of her son, her parents, her friends. She wants to be angry with him – but she simply cannot muster the energy for it. Not when she's so cold and so tired.
"I'm exactly where I'm needed," he tells her stoically.
His good hand holds her hip steady so he can tear through the ropes with a sudden jerk before ducking completely under the water. She can feel him searching for her ankles and has to tamper down the panic she feels when she notices the way the water now sits at her collarbones.
She doesn't realise her ankles are released until he rises from the water, soaking wet and obviously freezing. He blows out a hissing breath as she numbly tries to remove herself from the chair and fails miserably, struggling to make her paralysed muscles move. Annoyance briefly crosses his features and he drags her up unceremoniously, looping an arm around her waist as he casts her arm over his shoulders.
She reiterates the same frantic statement as he pulls her bodily through the frigid water, their limbs meeting heavy resistance with each slow step forward through the semi-submerged vessel. She maintains her grip on him but turns to face him, "My family needs you m-more… the Snow Queen t-told m-m-me about your choice – y-you need to save them."
They are directly under the hatch when he rotates to face her directly, his fringe hanging wetly over his forehead as he holds her gaze, eyes positively glittering with the sunlight streaming down over his damp features.
"I don't have to do anything. The choice was mine for a reason, sweetheart. Not yours."
Her dumbfounded expression quickly turns into a muted glare, even as he helps her up out of the hull with disjointed movements. She lands on the deck with a wet slap, coughing and heaving at the effort but at least the sun is warmer than the water. The air attacks her skin as she waits for Killian, shivering violently at the exposure.
With a similar sound of skin smacking wetly against wood, he lands beside her.
"We need to w-w-warn them," she stutters, painstakingly pushing herself into a semi-reclining position, "We n-need to s-s-save them b-before she… b-before she…"
Finishing the sentence becomes impossible when there's a very sudden, very potent pain in the centre of her spine. It feels as though someone has struck her hard with something blunt, and she arches and gasps at the unanticipated pain that disappears almost as quickly as it appears. Beside her, Killian splutters momentarily before standing, his movements jerky enough to bely his own feelings of physical discomfort. He offers her a hand which she gratefully takes, holding her arms around her torso as they move as quickly as they can from the sinking vessel. It drops down below the waves soon after they set foot on the pier and Emma drops to her knees with exhaustion.
"I'm s-safe – now go h-h-help them… p-p-please Hook," she manages in between gasping breaths, staring up at him with a tangibly pleading tone. Ice blue eyes like bullets propel through her head and she repeats the supplication, her desperation thick smog that distorts the air, "P-please."
Eventually his eyes leave hers – but only because he cannot meet them as he lifts her limp figure into his arms bridal-style, a begrudging look on his face.
"We don't need to do anything," he says coldly. It is the last thing she hears before she gives in to the blackness lining her vision, despair already gripping her heart.
8888
Bodies litter the ground, glass and snow and people.
Everywhere.
Everywhere she looks.
And she can smell the smoke, it rises from the ground like steam, clouding the air and pervading her skin, sinking into her pores so she coughs and splutters and heaves a sob as her eyes land on familiar face after familiar face. They line the street; clutter the road; send grief spiralling down her chest and into the core of every nerve.
Emma holds a horrified hand over her mouth as her gaze finally falls on one small body.
It sits propped against the brick wall of one of the broken buildings. His face is slack, his wide brown eyes open and unseeing. She runs to him, kneels at his side and places her palm against his face. Henry is covered in blood – and she screams for her son.
The world comes into focus in a split second as she jolts upwards, the mattress of her bed familiar and soft beneath her as she heaves and gasps and clutches the sheets. The scream is lodged in her throat, the emotions thick enough to choke her. Seconds turn into minutes as she sits in her bed, trying to calm her rapid breathing. As she does, she takes note of the quilts piled up on her small frame, weighing her down.
And everything comes rushing back; blacking out, the Snow Queen, the boat, Killian's choice.
She scrambles out of bed and runs towards her bedroom door, already preparing to tear out of the apartment in search of her family and friends (even if it is already a futile effort). Yanking the door open, Emma squints against the bright light of the living room, blinking rapidly as she strides forward and comes to a sudden halt.
Everyone in the apartment is looking at her: and the fact that there even is an 'everyone' makes her shoulders sag with relief. She almost wants to sob when she sees her parents and Henry (she also spots Killian in the corner of the room, leaning up against a banister, arms folded across his chest as he stares at the ground). Her son jumps up from the couch to run towards her, wrapping his wiry arms around her in a tight embrace. She returns the gesture with equal fervour, clutching at his small body and willing the grisly images of her nightmare to disappear.
"Mom, we were worried you were going to get pneumonia or something," he says, burying his face in her shoulder. Emma pulls away, ruffling his hair and shaking her head with a tremulous smile.
"I'm fine kid."
Keeping an arm around him, she looks up to the people that clutter her room. Some are bruised and they look worse for wear but nonetheless alive. Walking forward, Emma's mouth opens and closes around a thousand questions. Finally though, she verbalises her thoughts.
"What happened…? I thought – I thought the Snow Queen…?" It's barely cohesive but it's enough that her parents' faces are shadowed by sympathetic understanding. They don't answer her though, Henry does. His voice is high and wispy with youthful eagerness.
"She did, she tried to attack us but we were ready! Killian warned us!" he says, grinning up at her.
Emma's mouth drops open, she looks up and seeks him out with her eyes. His gaze flits up to meet hers.
"But I thought… Wait, she told me you couldn't do both – how the hell did you warn them and get to me in time?" she asks, a strange brand of anger rising up in her because he could have told her and saved her a whole lot of heartache and fear. Killian sighs heavily, the room is quiet and everyone is looking uncertainly between the princess and the pirate.
"I happened to run into the boy on my way to you and managed to impart enough details for them to prepare."
There is a battle between warmth and irritation thriving in her stomach. She is grateful and shocked and awed beyond belief that he somehow managed to outwit the Snow Queen. But she is also furious that he let her believe they were going to die. The least he could have done was tell her they had a fighting chance before she passed out.
Her eyes narrow marginally and he holds her gaze evenly, silently daring her to yell at him.
Her parents cut in before anything can come to a head. Mary Margaret rocks baby Neal back and forth in a gentle sway, voice low and delicate so as not to wake the sleeping infant.
"Before you ask, there were no casualties – unless you count the bookstore. It got pretty torn up," she tells Emma with a reassuring smile. The heaviness on her shoulders dissipates so she feels almost weightless in its absence, the relief strong. Across the room, Emma's eyes meet Killian's again (they meet several times in the lengthy conversations about the battle that follow: how they held her off, how they defended the town, how David even managed to strike a blow to the evil bitch's back with the butt of his sword).
Later, when the Charming family is alone in their kitchen, they tell her the exact details of the story. Henry explains how Killian found him, told him – in summary – what was about to happen. The boy regales the moments that followed his return; with her pale and blue and soaking wet in his arms as he carried her through the apartment and deposited her on her bed (how he dragged the various blankets across her shaking limbs, how he stayed, how he waited until she was secure to care for his declining state of warmth). Her son cannot sing the pirate's praises any higher, or with any greater esteem. Her parents glance at her occasionally, knowing and probing all at once.
She keeps her face unreadable, her eyes fixed on Henry.
8888
The clean-up takes a week, and the Snow Queen is relatively dormant during that time. She doesn't reappear to strike when they are preoccupied with sweeping off the broken glass, replacing the windows and shovelling the mountainous piles of snow that dot the main thoroughfare. Something about that doesn't sit well with Emma and she ignores the burgeoning need to act.
She is unashamedly bitter about the woman's personal attack on her.
So when he returns to taking lessons with Regina (thankfully, unlike the sickly Elsa's, Emma's neutralising spell wares of quickly), the sentiments are thick and potent enough to fuel her power. She learns quickly – in between searching for an alternative cure for Killian. They read and practice, read and practice, read and practice some more. It is a never-ending cycle but one that she sources comfort from.
After so many weeks of chaos, it is nice to fall into a routine. Especially when that routine involves strategy meetings that he attends. He's always hiding in the corner, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle as he silently listens and occasionally (sparsely) makes comment.
It is small.
But it is something.
8888
"How are you fairing?"
She is half-way out the door when he asks. Pausing, Emma turns and distantly notes that they are completely alone for the first time in what feels like a long time. Ever since he saved her (chose her, her mind corrects hopefully), he's been subtly avoiding her.
She thinks it might be something to do with what the Snow Queen said.
"…You see, I'm giving his already bruised conscience a bit of a work out. I'm going to give him a terribly vexing choice, one that will define what happens from here on out."
Several things about that statement still ring in her ears, unnerving in all its high pitched tenor. For one, she wants to know what was defining about that particular choice. Considering her plans were foiled, she should have retaliated by now – but she hasn't. So either something went wrong, or something went terribly right (both thoughts are distressing because both mean trouble).
That isn't the part of her comment that sticks with her though – the part about his conscience does. And it somewhat explains his distance from her; if he was confused before, she can only imagine the inner turmoil wreaking havoc on his heart and mind right now when he's been forced to confront a deeper facet to his person.
Emma tucks her hands in her back pockets and shrugs, "Better now."
He is quiet for a moment; seemingly unsure of what to do (it still aches, how painfully out of synch the Queen has made them). But then he scratches the spot behind his ear with his hook and nods. His eyes flit to hers and he starts to walk towards her, giving her a wide berth as he heads for the door.
Two words escape her mouth before she's even aware she decided to speak.
"Thank you."
Killian pauses and turns, face impassive. It is an obvious mask and one she knows well. Unfortunately, it is also one that she can no longer remove. So she settles for the indecipherable set of his jaw as he asks indifferently, "For what?"
Emma shrugs again, feeling awkward with him so obviously scrutinising her.
"You saved everyone," she says earnestly, holding his gaze meaningfully.
But Killian merely shakes his head, "No, I didn't. I damned them. I saved you."
His tone suggests an underlining of irritation, enough that it conceals most of his self-loathing. Not completely though, because she notices both items as they appear momentarily in his arctic eyes. Taking a breath, Emma steps closer to him.
"You warned Henry," she counters.
"Only because I happened upon him by complete coincidence. I didn't make any external efforts, let me assure you."
There is a bite to his voice, enough to make frustration flare up in her belly. Emma rolls her eyes and grits her teeth, folding her arms across her chest. She tells him sharply, "Just accept the damn gratitude, Hook."
"Not when it isn't deserved."
A long pause stretches out where she simply watches him.
"Why are you so desperate for me to think the worst of you?"
"Why are you so desperate to see the best in me?"
His response is instant and exasperated, a short insight that tugs at the dusty strings of her heart like an ancient guitar being strummed to life. She recognises his misunderstanding, his inability to comprehend (she remembers conversations – they feels lifetimes ago) (she remembers telling him, showing him, making him believe that he was what she wanted – still wants) (she remembers a lot of things).
He drops her gaze after a long moment, storming out the door in a whirlwind of black leather. The room echoes in his absence.
8888
"So… Killian's changing."
Henry chomps happily on his cereal as Emma stiffens, hand half-way to the cabinet above the stove. Her back is to him, so he cannot see the dumbfounded expression on her face. Hopefully, he is too consumed by his Cheerios to realise that she has stilled.
Mentally kicking herself, she hums a non-committal response and continues putting the cereal box back in the cupboard. She moves to the fridge, the only sound in the too-quiet kitchen the loud crunch that resounds every time her son bites down on a little golden loop. Leaning over to pull out the milk, his voice drifts over to her again – the optimism in it is a tangible thing.
"He'll come back, you know," he says, taking another bite and forming the words around the mouthful of milk and cereal, "With or without his memories – things always have a way of just… regressing to the mean."
Emma shuts the fridge and turns to him, leaning against it and folding her arms with a raised eyebrow.
"What does that even mean?" she asks, watching the boy carefully as he smirks. The smug tilt to his lips is a little too familiar for her liking but she ignores that in the face of his eyes sparkling with mischief. It's probably got something to do with the fact that this pre-pubescent boy has one-upped his mother in philosophical gems. It never ceases to amaze her how dysfunctional her dynamic with her family is.
"Basically just that things always have a way of evening out," Henry says proudly, spooning another golden heap into his mouth. Emma frowns and walks over to the kitchen island to stand directly opposite him. She leans over it and narrows her eyes.
"Where the hell did you get that from?"
"Teen Wolf."
Rolling her eyes, she takes his empty bowl and spoon, pouring the leftover contents down the sink as he jumps off the chair and makes a quick path towards the couch. The lightness she feels in the light of his naïve advice is foreign after weeks of isolation in this apartment with no one to talk to and not a soul to coax her from her shadows. She calls out to him with a soft, affectionate curl to her mouth.
"Remind me to pay more attention to your Netflix purchases."
Henry merely laughs.
8888
Sleep eludes him.
He tosses and turns in the too soft bed in his new lodgings at Granny's diner - courtesy of Emma's family's good graces with the innkeeper. The mattress is damp with his sweat as he clenches his fists in the cool cotton at his sides, bunching it up and whipping his head from side to side.
His entire body is being seized by fire – an emotional inferno that consumes him. It's been getting worse for days now; ever since he saved her, ever since he was forced to choose, forced to run his bruised and battered soul through the ringer. It wants to erupt from his chest with his heart in tow, both entities roiling painfully with the turmoil that eddies beneath his skin. But they are rooted too firmly within him to escape, and he can do nothing but wait until the sensation passes as it does every night.
This night though, this night is different.
He watched her today; he's been letting his gaze linger for longer durations of time. The cold voice in his head screeches at him when he does, but he's growing to ignore its presence. Whenever he can, he glances her face; studies the slope of her cheek, the vibrant colour of her eyes, the waterfall of her hair down her leather-clad back. He takes note of her expressions, of the minute variations that indicate exasperation, anger, happiness, frustration, exhaustion. He's learning her the way a sailor learns the sea, and he cannot fathom why it feels so important to do so.
With every day that passes, he can feel the war raging in his chest intensifying. That locked box rattles with more fervency, the frost struggling to swallow let alone conceal the sentiments that blossom from his heart and unfold outwards, encompassing his entire body so it is as though he is being continuously submerged in hot and cold water: warmth one minute and frigid indifference the next.
And while he has an overwhelming desire to block it all out, to once again welcome the cool grasp of whatever has beheld him for the past weeks, he is so close to evading its clasp forever he can almost taste it. He needs to remember, he needs to understand why this woman is so important to him, why he dismissed his revenge for her, why he traded his ship for her, why he changed for her.
Grinding his teeth together, Killian struggles in silence. His heart beats at an alarming rate, his brow is coated with sweat and he turns again. His mind roars at the onslaught, a particularly sharp pain in his chest erupting with the precision of a needle. Then suddenly, several images flash behind his lids, blinding in all their brightness and unfamiliarity.
They are surrounded by oversized treasure and she is jumping towards him, reaching out, yanking him bodily away from a tripwire that would have left them both trapped. He responds by trapping her in his arms, relishing in the feel of her warm curves pressed against his hard lines.
Her eyes are blazing and they stand in Granny's deserted diner, her family behind her, her friends behind them – she is a leader and a saviour and a force to be reckoned with. She is holding her hand out, words echoing in his ears 'be a part of something, be a part of something, be a part of something…'
There is green everywhere, it is humid and the air is thick and his ears are tickled by the sounds of insects that are dually beautiful and dangerous. She is smirking at him and then she is yanking him forward – for what, he doesn't know. The flash ends abruptly, interrupted by one last one – it stretches out for several seconds where the others were mere iotas.
Wind is whipping around them; they stand in the middle of a long stretch of road. A modern vehicle, her modern vehicle, is parked behind her. There are tears in her eyes and the inexplicable promise of 'good' on her lips. Then he is pulling away, and with it the darkness clouds his vision until the last image disappears into the smoke of his hazy mind.
Killian wakes with a gasp, sitting up abruptly and releasing the sheets all at once. He cannot yet attribute any emotions to the strange flashes, but they are irrevocably carved into him. They are a random assortment of fleeting seconds that stay in his mind long after his breathing has calmed and he has wiped the sweat from his brow.
He still cannot remember, and the icy hand drains the emotional potency of those brief recollections so their context and significance is lost. But they are his memories of the life that the Snow Queen erased – of that he is sure. And with every minute he spends scrutinising them in his mind (how she looked at him, how he could feel himself looking at her, how they moved in tandem with each other), he feels the tide of the battle within him turning.
8888
She's got to wonder when she lost her mind. After all, why else would she have agreed to this?
They are trekking through the woods, searching for any sign of the Snow Queen, and she refuses to feel uncomfortable around him. It's a futile effort though, her mind is still whirring unco-operatively in response to the morning's strange turn of events. When Killian volunteered to take the morning route with her through the forest in search of clues to their icy foe's whereabouts, she was certain she had been in some strange convoluted dream.
Now though, navigating heavy logs and thick underbrush and dense snow, she regrets staying silent (although, that had been more of a by-product of her shock than anything else). It's been silent since they started, a copious amount of tension hanging precariously in the cold air between them.
And it's as he glances her way for the fifteenth time since they began that she decides to turn towards him and pull to a stop. Her frustration bubbles up into her voice unintentionally.
"Why did you volunteer to come with me?" she asks.
Killian is pulled up short and he pauses momentarily, and she can tell from the way he studies her that he is deciding whether or not to lie. Recently, he's become more adept at making the right choice in that department. He takes a deep breath, folds his arms across his chest and nods curtly.
"I still have questions."
The inadvertent reminder of their confrontation all that time ago pulls her up short. Rivulets of apprehension run down the gradient of her mind, pooling in a deep crevasse in the pits of her stomach so she too folds her arms protectively around herself. Emma swallows and straightens, masking her vulnerability with a hard façade (even with it, she still feels raw and exposed to him – like a nerve).
"What do you want to know?"
He takes less than a second to respond, tone brazen even if his eyes flicker with apprehension, "I want to know what we were."
Any attempt she may have made towards schooling her features flies away on wings of astonishment and perhaps the tiniest feathers of hope. It takes a moment but she does gather herself enough to reply lowly, "Don't act like you don't know, Hook. You've got enough of the information by now – you don't need me to tell you what we were." She turns to walk away by catches him nodding gently to himself and stops.
"Aye. I suppose you're right… but there are some things I don't – uh – I don't know and no one but you can truly tell me…"
He scratches the spot behind his ear and Emma narrows her eyes. What could possibly make him feel so uncomfortable that he can barely choke out the question? He's never had trouble weaving an innuendo out of nothing before, let alone making a simple inquiry. When he's still silent a minute later, she sighs, stepping closer and catching his gaze to hold it steadily.
"Spit it out. There's no one else around," she shrugs, looking around them as though to emphasize the point.
"Did we… was it ever confirmed that we… Were we true love?" His eyes search hers and her face drops. She shuffles from foot to foot, and it feels like someone just dropped a dumbbell on her gut.
Shaking her head gently, she tells him, "No. We weren't… I mean, it was never confirmed that we – uh – well, we never got to test it out so I don't know."
He nods, absorbing the information before he asks, "How long had we been together when this all happened?"
For some reason, that question makes her smirk as she thinks about the extensive preamble to their long-awaited relationship. He notes her smirks and frowns but is patient nonetheless, quiet as he waits for her answer. It feels strange to be so frank about their relationship – especially when they're decidedly not in it anymore. She wasn't even this calm about confronting their dynamic when it was happening.
Dismissing that thought, she swallows her reservations and answers – still smirking lightly.
"Well, to be honest that's a complicated question. We've known each other for about a year in total but there was also a year in between that where I forgot everything and we didn't see each other and we only got together a little while ago but a strong case could be made for even earlier than that to be honest."
In the wake of her convoluted explanation his jaw drops open.
"You weren't lying lass, that's fairly complicated."
"You're telling me."
His lips curl in a ghost of a genuine smile (the first one she's seen in an exceedingly long time) before dropping back down. All of a sudden, he seems very uncomfortable again as a thought visibly crosses his mind. He looks down and Emma's eyebrows lift in speculation.
"What is it?"
One minute, one failed attempt to speak and one bone-weary sigh later, he's scrunching his eyes self-consciously and walking around her as he forces himself to ask, "Were we ever… intimate?"
Emma's eyes widen, tracing his back as he continues to walk through the forest. She follows after him and struggles for a response, the answer quite definitive but his question nonetheless startling. She coughs and answers, "No, we weren't." When he turns on his heel, there's a confounded look on his face and she can just see him internally scratching his head, his thoughts all but written across his forehead: how was there relationship so prolific if it was unconsummated? Moreover, how did she manage to keep the notorious pirate captain celibate?
She chuckles slightly at his expression, looking down and stammering as she adds, "Not for lack of trying. There was just never time – there was always another disaster in this town. The Snow Queen kind of always found a way to put a chink in our plans." The smile on her face is tentative when she lifts her head to meet his gaze.
His eyes are trained on her and his features soften, the corners of his lips twitching up even as his eyebrows maintain their furrowed bearing on his forehead. The moment is warm in the frost of the forest and that pesky sliver of optimism flares uncontrollably in her chest because he may not remember but he's looking at her with a fondness the likes of which she remembers.
Unfortunately, as the second tick by, the blankness creeps back into his face – leeching the transitory affection until there is only apathy in its place. Her face drops too and a breeze tickles her skin, reminding her that they have a job to do (and that trying to reach him with the glass still lodged firmly in his heart is an exercise in futility). Trying to shove away the disappointment, she wraps her jacket tighter around herself and brushes past him. She makes it two steps before he's asking another question.
"What's wrong with me?"
Emma pivots slowly to face him.
Killian glares at the ground, lone fist clenched.
She shrugs lightly, attempting an unaffected air as she murmurs in a husk, "You've lost your memories."
He shakes his head vigorously, head whipping up to stare at her. His eyes burn holes in her face, a prodigious intensity resting in their icy depths. With his teeth grinding together, he tells her "No – there's something more. I can tell everyone else knows. The Snow Queen also made comment." He pauses, deep in thought for a second – reminiscing the exact sentence probably – but then he is shaking his head again, "And it's the only explanation as to why you all continue to treat me amiably despite my acting like a complete bastard."
It shouldn't be a surprise that he's figured out there's more to his condition than a simple memory spell – he's always been an observant bastard.
"I –"
"And don't tell me you don't know because you're like a bloody open book, love."
Her heart stutters on the familiar turn of phrase. It's not the first time she's been blindsided by that ticking sensation of déjà vu yet it never fails to steal the breath from her lungs. Emma drinks in his tormented features; she measures the dark circles under his eyes against her own and weighs the strain in his jaw against the tense line of his shoulders – he hasn't been sleeping. And now she knows why.
David and Mary Margaret had advised against telling him the truth with careful warnings that he mightn't take it well. But, looking at him and the silent plea carved into the creases in his face, she cannot deny him.
"You've got glass in your heart," she breathes, each word escaping her lips in a white wisp.
"I beg your pardon?"
Taking a deep breath, she looks anywhere but his face, picking at the sleeve of her jacket, scratching her nails against the seam where the leather folds into her wrist. A heavy sigh lands between them, piling onto the already crippling tension. Killian waits for her to elucidate though, his eyes never leaving her face as she manages to tell him.
"When… when the Snow Queen hit you with the memory spell… she also hit you with a shard of a mirror that got lodged in your heart. The mirror distorts everything so you can't – it's impossible for you to see the beauty in things," his face tightens momentarily at that, but she ploughs on – he wanted to know, after all, "or feel anything remotely positive… It's… it's why you…"
It's why you don't love me anymore.
Swallowing the words (they scrape and struggle down the column of her throat, thick and bitter and just wrong), she says, "Uh – it's why you aren't yourself. At least, not the man I met in the Enchanted Forest."
In her mind, that man is still grinning like an idiot, golden light soaking his teasing features as they scale a beanstalk (and her emotional walls in the process). It is the memory of that man that keeps her in the dead of night when the demons come out to play and her bed is cold and empty (they might never have shared a bed, but they should have). Whenever she feels the darkness encroaching whispering tantalising words of let go, she reaches for that mental image of him.
Dragging herself from her reverie, she notes the tightness in his features. Perhaps it was a mistake to tell him, perhaps she shouldn't have said a word – perhaps, she thinks, she should have simply lied and dealt with his anger (that would be easier than this man with furrowed brows, flexing fingers and a demeanour that screams tormented).
"So… when we met," he asks, interrupting her thoughts, "I wasn't like this?"
The way his says the last word is so utterly full of acrimony that her chest aches (it always aches – the least it can do is by unpredictable if it's going to hurt so goddamn much).
She gestures lamely to him before dropping her arms to her sides. Muffling the urge to reach out to him, she answers in a voice like glass, "No. You weren't – you were a bit of an ass hole but you weren't… like this."
Without warning, he's striding forward with determination. It sparkles in his eyes and lights flames where he walks, so potent she can taste it when he crowds her spaces and almost begs her, "How do I get it out?"
True Love's Kiss.
Something that can never happen in your predicament (how oddly ironic).
"Um…"
His eyes are wild as they dart around her face and she grapples for a response. Before she can say anything though, there is the sound of someone crashing through the trees. They both twist to face the possible threat, drawing their respective weapons and letting them fall when it's David who bursts through the tree line, breathing heavily but nonetheless okay.
Her father's blue eyes latch onto hers, and her stomach drops onto the forest floor when he manages to gasp out, "We found her!"
Did you pick up on the hint? Are we liking where this is going? I'm terribly self-conscious of my writing so tell me how you feel!