Chapter 1: Old Friends

Killian Jones, scoundrel, scallywag, blackguard, rogue, knave, convict, charlatan, pirate captain, and several other terms of durance vile even less worth repeating, considered himself something of an expert on the female condition. After all, he was the acknowledged connoisseur of them in several worlds over, having collected the wives of worthless men wherever he and the crew stopped to make port – along with their daughters, sisters, maids, matrons, crones, and whores. That, after all, was the customary life of a pirate: pillage a few towns, bury a few treasures, bed a few wenches, drink rum and hell-raise to the tune of the dead man's chest, and make a few extra of those dead men if they were inclined to protest the treatment. Killian didn't bed half as many wenches as he used to, not after Milah, and the one dead man he wanted to make most of all, he hadn't yet. But he was confident that his wait – his very long wait – was nearing its end.

While he couldn't reckon up how much buggering time, exactly, he'd spent away, he thought it was approaching three hundred years. While Neverland had admirably served its purpose in giving him the same unnatural long life as his target, it did run a bit short on the entertainment after a while, not to mention the women. Once you'd been tormented by the damned pixies, ogled at the mermaids in their lagoon before realizing they were all lunatic bints who'd drown you and bite your unmentionables off the instant they had the chance, and accepted that any kiss borrowed from a fetching Indian maid ran a very high risk of being concluded with a tomahawk through the skull, a man was mostly left to shift for himself. None of their provincial charms really appealed to Killian anyway (or at least, so he told the crew) and so in consequence, even his matchless instincts of the fairer sex (sharp as a blade, or rather his hook, and he said so himself) were not quite as keen as they used to be.

In some cases, at least. In others they were quite a bit more attuned. But he hadn't chucked the magic bean into the waters of Lake Nostros, to open up a portal and sail through in fine flaming fettle to bloody Storybrooke, in order to think about her.

Besides, there was another woman at the moment – a raging fury, siren, fatale, or other dangerous creature of your choice – who required his attention, did he propose to get through this adventure with unmentionables, hook, person, and other sundry valuables intact. He snapped shut his spyglass and glanced sidelong at her; it was always a bad idea to take your eyes off Cora for a moment. But the witch was still gazing at the approaching shoreline: the harbor containing a bobbing assortment of fishing boats, the streets, the strange buildings, and the clock tower. The lot of it was currently shrouded in cloud, as Cora's spell had had that effect; it was also supposed to disguise their entrance, as it would otherwise be quite difficult for a three-master such as the Jolly Roger to slip in unnoticed. But time is already ticking away. Killian had cause to pay attention to clocks more than almost anyone. He shot another glance at that tower. No. Nothing. Nobody had even bothered to post up a lookout. They must have thought they were safe after using up the wardrobe dust. Deplorable lack of diligence, Mr. Smee.

"Storybrooke," the witch repeated. Her mouth twisted. "In the very same wonderful world as Nebraska indeed, though I understand this part is called New England. I must say, after all this time, I was expecting something. . . grander. Mysterious and peculiar? Hardly."

"Legends are always a few doubloons in debt to the truth," Killian drawled, sauntering over to the rail to watch as his beauty drew into the quay. "Except for mine. I'm worth every penny."

Cora turned that perpetual amused little expression of hers onto him, a sensation like insects crawling up the nether parts. "Yes, Captain. I'm aware of how highly you value yourself, but before we go ashore, we are going to have a small talk. I brought you here with me on the assumption that we both share the same goal: of revenging ourselves upon a certain crocodile and taking certain other advantages that this new world might offer. Correct?"

Killian bared his teeth in something that would have caused a real smile to curl up and die squeaking. "Perfectly."

"And yet, Hook, do not think I failed to notice what happened before we left." The witch looked motherly, almost. Like a mother that would shove you in the oven and eat you with gravy, but it was the thought that counted. "You had multiple opportunities to make an end of Miss Swan. It should have been simplicity incarnate. You are Captain Hook, legend feared across every corner of the world – "he didn't think he was imagining the irony in her voice, which insulted him – "and she is a raw beginner who only recently learned which end of a sword to hold."

"One that isn't the pointy bit. That goes into the other man. Fairly simple."

Cora held up a hand. "Please. That whole business was a mockery. You couldn't have made it more obvious that you had no real interest in harming her, and you even saved the princess' heart, when she was a tool that had concluded her purpose. The Swan girl was right, you know. Soft spot, no matter how you wish to call it a fair fight. So I wish to ask, Hook, and I shall be very interested in the answer. Are your loyalties quite certain?"

Killian was tempted to respond with one of his usual scintillating quips. But ever since he'd wound up in Wonderland and she'd taken that mask off, plunged her hand into his chest and seized hold of his heart beating in her palm, he had known that he was at a distinct disadvantage when dealing with the sorceress. And now that she had gotten him where they had so long wanted to go, he knew as well as she did that she'd have absolutely no qualms in getting rid of him if he too had concluded his purpose. Unless I do it first. But you had to be careful what you even thought around Cora.

"I'm standing on this ship, aren't I?" he said at last. "My ship. And you're standing next to me. On my ship. That should serve as fairly reliable proof of my intentions. And tell me why, exactly, I should have killed the Swan girl. She would have been no good to you if she was dead. The savior, the one they're all desperate to protect, and you'd leave her four feet up on the shore of a dried-up lake? I can think of a thousand better uses."

"Indeed you can, Captain." Cora smiled. "Your imagination being both fertile and morbid. Which is why I am placing you in charge of acquiring her for us. Her heart has the potential to be the weapon for our attack against our crocodile. He himself told me once, long ago, that true love is the one power that cannot be contrived, repelled, or withstood, and since I could not remove it from the Swan girl's chest myself, we'll have to find a better way. Again." She rose her brows at him. "I trust to your imagination."

"I'll enjoy it," Hook said savagely. "Though if you're planning to ask me to do it myself, I'm afraid your dear daughter only gave me the capacity to extract one heart in my time. And now that I've used it up on the princess, I'll have to – "

"You've forgotten who you're dealing with already, haven't you?" Cora gave him that look again – half pitying, half condescending. She reached out, and a shimmer of magic encased her fingers as she touched them to Killian's hook, which glowed for a few moments and then faded. "Although I doubt that you'll have any more success than I did if you merely attempt to wrench it out of her. I know you wouldn't have given my protection spell to just anyone to climb the beanstalk and risk my wrath, throw away an alliance and a revenge years in the making. And please. Spare me any platitudes about how you're done with her."

Killian had been opening his mouth to remark on how if Cora thought that, she didn't know him at all, and then shut it sullenly. He didn't like being outwitted, and liked even less to be manipulated, partly because he'd done it so often himself in his time. But the Jolly Roger had almost reached berth, and in a few more moments, it was going to fade away. Keeping their secret for them. Not even Cora could feel confident rushing headlong into battle against the crocodile, he noted grimly. They had to lie low. Stay undercover. Bide their time.

And he had to find the Swan girl. More specifically, her heart.

"As for you?" he asked flippantly. "While I am slaving night and day in pursuit of our deeply devoted common goal, how will you be passing the time?"

Cora gave him that smile almost like his own, that smile to make you feel sorry for any smile ever smiled in any world for the eternity of anywhere. "Catching up with my daughter."

(8888888)

Eaten with gravy didn't come close to covering that, Killian decided half an hour later, as he was tramping down some back alley and hoping that no one would catch sight of him before he had time to change his clothes. Cora had supplied him with a wardrobe which she deemed more suitable for the clandestine nature of their work, as Killian's usual sartorial-swashbuckler flair – leather overcoat, sword, scarf, vest, boots, and breeches, accessorized with the occasional dangly bit or oddment of jewelry – would paint a target on his back before he even got his feet wet. Nor was he, under any circumstances, allowed to sport his hook. Cora, if she had her way, would have kept it with her as a hostage, but when Killian pointed out that he certainly wouldn't be able to do any heart-snatching without it, she had grudgingly relented. He'd have to keep it hidden, until the moment came.

Killian looked furtively side from side – there were all sorts of noisy sodding machines on the streets around here, and he had no interest in being run over by one – then darted into the rear of some establishment named, according to its sign, as Clark's Drugstore. There was a necessary in here, and he sidled into the gents', locking the door shut behind him. Luckily, he had no company, and he helped himself to a stall, setting down the sack containing his new clothes and staring at them for a long moment before starting to remove his old ones. Here, in this strange new world, it felt like peeling off his skin.

His mind kept returning, like a tongue at a sore tooth, to the sight of the Jolly Roger vanishing into the fog, dissolving away as if she had never even existed. Killian was perfectly aware that this was necessary to maintain any sort of secrecy about their mission, as well as the fact that it was utterly stupid to care about a ship at all, but he couldn't help it. She had been his boon companion, his only woman for a long time after Milah died, who'd outsailed and outfought krakens, crocodiles, sirens, maelstroms, other pirates, and irate husbands any time he'd asked it of her, any perils of the deep the gods could throw at him. He always felt better with her deck under his feet, her sails to the wind. To be leaving her now. . .

Killian shook his head, annoyed, and returned to the vexing question of the clothes. There were a pair of trousers of rough blue fabric, which Cora, in response to his incredulous question, had called jeans, as well as a checked long-sleeved shirt with buttons, a white shirt without them, stockings, and a pair of stringed menaces called sneakers. There was also a jacket and knit woolen cap to ward off the sea breezes, neither of which he expected to find sufficient after experience with real ocean storms, but he could critique the fashion later. Good God, he could do with some rum right now.

Nonetheless, Killian managed (to his own surprise) to more or less insert himself into the new garments, and replace his old clothes in the sack. It was a chore with one hand, but there you had it. He cocked his head, studied himself critically in the mirror (he was always just that bit nervous of them, after various comments Cora had casually made about looking glasses and the things that happened to people who displeased her) and decided that it might just work. He barely even recognized himself. Now actually walking out into the rest of Storybrooke and putting it to the test. . . the Swan girl would know him beyond a doubt if he was careless, along with her bloody mother. And as he'd also told them his real name when they'd "rescued" him from the "ogre" massacre, it might also behoove him to think of an alias .

Killian was still staring into the mirror, attempting to cudgel his genius into action, when there was a knock on the gents' door, which he'd left locked. "'Scuse me? Occupied?"

Startled, he whirled around, picked up the sack, flung it over his shoulder and moved to unlatch it. "Sorry," he said, with a winning smile. He'd had cause to observe that it worked quite well on men and women alike. "All yours."

"Thanks, man." The newcomer hastened past him to one of the porcelain bidets mounted on the wall, where he – to Killian's shock and fascination – proceeded to undo his trousers and perform his business right there in bloody public. Not as if pirates were known for modesty, but still. "Had a long drive."

"That so?" Killian had no idea what a drive was, but if it was a journey, he'd had the same. "New in town? Happens I am myself."

The man reconstituted his trousers with the handy contrivance that Killian thought was called a zipper, and moved to stick his hands into one of the washbasins, which surprisingly produced a stream of water on command. "Yeah. Up from New York, actually. I. . . was meaning to come sooner, but. . . stuff with the feds, making sure they knew what was up, where I was going. . ." He shrugged uncomfortably. "You know."

Killian only half heard him, as he was staring at the washbasin and realizing with a sinking heart just how very much he was going to have to learn about this new world. In his own element, feared pirate captain of the high seas, with wheel in hand and hook and the wind in his face, he was invincible, but here, a little thing like advanced sanitation was going to throw him for a wicket. At a bloody disadvantage indeed. Still, damned if he was going to show it. "New York," he said confidently, pronouncing it with every appearance of knowing exactly what it meant. "Of course."

"Yeah." The man exited the necessary, Killian following a few steps behind him. He glanced back, looked surprised, then said, "Nice eyeliner. You go to a lot of concerts?"

"What?"

"Um, never mind. Just trying to be friendly." The man rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. "We're both new around here, and you know, from what I heard, this place doesn't get a lot of visitors. I was actually going to. . ." He hesitated again. "Hey, you hungry? I'll buy you a bag of chips or something. Storekeepers get nervous if they see me hanging out around their places. I guess I have the look, still."

Look? Killian scrutinized him critically. No more than of medium height, utterly unremarkable in aspect. Then, with the instincts born of several lifetimes of piracy, he got it. "Ah," he said, smiling. "A thief."

The man stared at him. "How'd you – "

"Always a pleasure to meet a fellow master of the craft." Killian offered his hand.

The man shook his head adamantly. "No, no. I've shaped up, I'm not going to be a crook any more. I want to fix my life, I'm not going to get mixed up with that stuff. I've served my time, I don't want to. . ." Clearly in distress, he cast about, then grabbed two bars wrapped in bright paper off a shelf, reading Snickers. "Here. I'll just go pay for these and. . ."

Killian observed this transaction like a hawk, the strange money handed over to the sneezing, diminutive shopkeeper – one Messr. Clark, apparently, who had been giving them both the evil eye – and then the man returned, thrusting one of the Snickers at him. "Hey. You're not going to. . . say anything, are you? I'm cleaned up, I'm a different guy now."

Killian raised one shoulder, then lowered it. "Who would I say anything to?"

"Dunno. Just. . . I really don't want my reputation preceding me, you know? Before I have a chance to find her, and talk to her. I already have so much to explain to her, she's the best thing that ever happened to me and we. . . she wrote once from the jail, she told me there was going to be a kid and accused me of running away and leaving her with it and she was going to give it up for adoption and hoped that served me right. . ." The man shook his head, looking close to tears. "I'm really sorry, man. You don't want to hear my life story."

"No," Killian said, as they exited the shop into the crisp wind of a late New England – was that what Cora had called it? What was old England? – afternoon. "I confess myself fascinated. Who was this elusive temptress of yours? Perhaps I can help you find her."

"She. . . if she didn't change her name or anything. . . Emma. Emma Swan."

Killian felt the Snickers crack in his hand. "Emma?" he repeated involuntarily, half in a snarl, suddenly reassessing every thought he'd had about the use of an alliance with this stumble-witted, ordinary, unmenacing mortal. But by the time his companion had looked at him in alarm, he was once more the picture of solicitous, neighborly concern. "Doesn't ring a bell, sorry. But if I come across her, I'll be sure to think of you. Where will you be staying?"

"I looked it up on the Internet, it said there was a bed and breakfast? Granny's or something?"

"I'll need such a place myself. I'll follow you there. Oh, and." Killian moved sleekly and sharply into the other man's path, just enough to be threatening if the bastard had had the wits to notice it. "I don't believe I caught your name?"

Again, the man looked alarmed, but answered readily enough. "Neal. Neal Cassady."

"Peter," Killian said, deciding on the name on the spur of the moment, a name from somewhere far back in his memory. He smiled. One of those smiles. "Peter Williams."