Sorry for the delay. . . as I noted in my other fanfic, my sister is still in the hospital and I'm back in grad school with a redonkulous workload, so updates are going to be a bit thin on the ground. But I had some unexpected free time tonight (hooray for homework efficiency) so I decided to crank this out. Also, since the show's started up again, this is obviously now AU, and my canon-y purist-y sensibilities feel weird about writing a story that's becoming more non-canon every week. But I *will* keep going with this, have no fear, and will probably incorporate some events from the new season as is appropriate. Please do have patience! I am so addicted to Captain Swan that I couldn't stop if I tried. Grazie, merci, thank ya, etc etc. The support of my readers has been instrumental in this tough time.

Chapter 11: Runs in the Family

Stupidly enough, the first thought Emma had was to make a break for it.

Like that was going to make a difference. She knew about tornados. Giant whirling screaming incidences of Mother Nature throwing gang signs and saying, "Fuck you, bitch, your argument is invalid." In Boston you didn't get them, you just got sideswiped by the occasional slow-moving Atlantic hurricane or perfect-storm nor'easter, but she'd seen pictures of their aftermath, miles of matchsticks and overturned cars and torn-up tarpaulins where perfect white-picket-fence suburbs used to stand. And knowing that, her second and equally stupid thought was to jump back in the truck and try to outrace it back to town, try to give them the barest warning. But that was absurd. It would pick her and the truck up, and fling them away.

"This is your last chance!" Her scream tore up her throat. "GOLD! STOP IT!"

He'd said it wasn't him. Her little superpower wanted to agree, but as she'd already proven, it couldn't be trusted anymore. And now they were face to face with the monstrosity tearing up the ground, exploding dust and tree branches into eerie towers, roaring like a jet engine on steroids. Panicking, she stared at the sword still clenched in her fist, the dawning awareness of what she was going to have to do with it if Gold – if the Dark One – didn't stop –

But why would he want Storybrooke destroyed now, before he'd had a chance to send Hook through the boundary and understand what would happen if he did? It was too all-out murderous, far too likely to inflict collateral damage, and definitely going to harm Belle and the library and the pawn shop and everything else. And that meant –

"Cora." Emma wasn't sure if she said it aloud; she certainly couldn't hear herself over the scream of the storm. But she knew it beyond doubt, could see the faint purplish sparks shedding off the funnel cloud as it roared down the quiet two-lane highway, straight toward all three of them – her, Gold, and Hook, entangled in whatever the hell Gold had tied him up in. Gold was, for that matter, pointing something that looked a heck of a lot like her own gun at Hook's head, as if the situation needed any more inducement whatsoever to go up with a bang, and Emma turned and waved her arms frantically. "No! No, don't! It's her! It's Cora, Cora!"

"Looks that way, dearie," the Dark One answered matter-of-factly; it must have been some magic that she was able to hear him at all. "I'm glad you realized it in time to prevent yourself from slandering my reputation. Now, if you'll give me just a moment, I'll be with you in a jiffy. I have waited so very long to do this, it's cruel to make me wait."

He cocked the gun. Emma stared at him for a – despite the roar and whine of the approaching aforesaid meteorological fuck-you – totally paralyzed moment. So this was what it was. Stop the tornado and save her family and Storybrooke, or stop Gold and save Hook.

She didn't know what was worse: that this was even a dilemma, or that she was so perilously close to choosing the latter. But no. She couldn't.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing neither of them could hear it, not wanting them to, not knowing why she said it, not daring to think why. Then she turned around and sprinted headlong toward the storm.

Now. Of all moments, it had to be now. Wrenching, concentrating, pulling up that magic in her, born at the uttermost end of need. Flinging out her hands, feeling her skin ripple and distort, her hair blown out as she struggled against the sheer weight of the behemoth bearing down on her. She could definitely feel it, the energy circulating and snarling, feeding on itself, whirling and gnawing and devouring like a rabid giant. Oh god, speaking of things I never, ever want to meet. But inch by inch, she shoved her own bright glowing thread into it, feeling almost sick from the force of the dark magic crashing against her shields, the dark magic that was propelling it so perilously close to everything she knew and loved.

Her father's sword was glowing like an electric farm in her hand. She feel the channeling, the loop closed in her own body; no wonder she was shaking so hard. It was slowing. It was slowing. It wasn't going to –

The tornado hit the Storybrooke boundary, and stopped dead.

Emma stared at it, gasping, sweat drenching her hair and trickling down her back. It was still whirling and churning and grinding into the pavement just six feet from her, if that, but it wasn't going any further, as if it had slammed up against some invisible wall. Or because the curse is the only thing protecting us. If she went through it now, if she broke it. . .

But her magic –

It was tied up with the curse, had been from the start –

"You look puzzled, my dear." It was a horribly familiar voice that spoke, and the curtain of cloud parted to reveal Cora, not a hair out of place, stepping out as if disembarking from a plane. She was extremely careful, Emma noticed in her current state of numb stupefaction, not to touch the actual boundary itself – which had to mean something. "Can I assist?"

Emma didn't dare look behind her. She hadn't heard a gunshot, but that didn't mean anything. "Yeah, actually. How are you always fucking everywhere?"

"Because I don't play by your sad little rules." Cora gave a sleek shrug, gauzy cobalt shawl rippling in the unhealthy glow. "Someone with less motherly patience than I would have gotten quite tired of your continuing attempts to do so, especially when your awakening to your true power is dependent on you. . . not."

"On me doing what? Turning to the dark side? I'm sorry, Darth Vaderette, but in this case, you're not my father and this is not happening. I'm going to take a cue from our mutual friend here, and ask if you'd like to make a deal."

Cora laughed aloud. "Oh, this will be rich. Your Highness, I am all ears."

"Fine." Emma stared at her. "You shut off your little wind tunnel there, and buy a car or some rollerblades or even a damn horse and donkey like a good fairy-tale woman, so you're not popping out of thin air whenever you feel like it. It's getting old."

"That's one of the rules I don't play by, princess. But how uncouth of me to interrupt. Continue."

"Yeah. You get rid of that storm, and in exchange, I won't jump through the boundary right now."

She was watching Cora's face very closely as she said it, and she was certain that the witch flinched, ever that little bit. But if so, it was quickly washed away in scorn as she laughed. "That's such a bargain. You won't commit suicide if I don't destroy Storybrooke and everything in it? Either way, princess, I win, and I win in spades. You have nothing to offer, so just – "

"I wouldn't count on it."

Both Cora and Emma turned sharply, just in time to see Gold step away from Hook – who was still tied up, but didn't seem to have been shot – and stroll toward them, casually flipping the pistol and placing it through his belt. "The tornado is a nice touch, dearie, very nice. I suppose it's a little homage to where you came from, though after what you promised me to get away from there. . . you do disappoint me."

Where she came from? Emma stared a moment more, before it clicked. Gold had already told her that Regina's grandfather, Cora's father-in-law, was the Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and she herself had speculated that that made Cora the Wicked Witch from some damn direction or other. And tornadoes were supposed to get you to Oz (that was, if they didn't just do the usual thing, and bust your shit up). Thus far, with the exception of the brief moment of when Emma had stopped her from taking her heart, Cora had seemed all but invincible. But both Wicked Witches had been killed by apparently pedestrian means – one by a falling house, the other with a bucket of water. Maybe it wasn't a bucket of water from here, but a bucket of water from there. . .

A horrible plan started to form in Emma's mind as she stared at the still-immobilized tornado. No. No, she couldn't. It was the epitome of selfishness, leaving her family behind again, to face Cora on their own. No more portal jumps. No. No. Especially since it would mean –

"I don't think you need those, my dear Captain," Cora remarked, waving a hand negligently. Emma, twisting around, saw the writhing black cords vanish from Hook's limbs; he straightened up with a look that would, if it was a person, currently be awaiting incarceration for first-degree murder. Step by step, like a great hunting jungle cat, lithe and elegant and totally deadly, he started toward them.

"No closer." Gold removed the pistol from his belt, clicked the safety off, and aimed.

"This is what you call a rock and a hard place, mate?" The pirate spread his hands – well, hand and hook. His grin was downright insane. "Like you, I'm disappointed. I was hoping for more from the all-powerful Dark One. A plague of locusts or a rain of blood at least. Instead, just that wee toy?"

"You think it's a toy, do you?" Gold took better aim at Hook's chest. "Take one more step, laddie, and we can find out."

"Men." Cora rolled her eyes at Emma. "Always think they know best, don't they? Only one way to solve every problem. Shall we step back and let them get on with it?"

"Actually." Emma raised the sword. "You'll never hear me say this again, but I think Gold has the right idea in this case. At least when it comes to what should be done with you."

"You're never going to hurt me with that dinner knife. It'll just break it, and that would be a tragedy. Not to mention – " Cora raised a hand – "it would certainly induce me to send the tornado into Storybrooke."

"Too bad. I guess I'll just have to jump."

"Into that? Be my guest."

Emma hesitated, staring at the wall of seething cloud. This was an awful, unconscionable bluff to call, and if she got it wrong, the repercussions would be literally cataclysmic. If the curse was what was keeping this beast out, and she jumped in. . . well, on the bright side, no more Storybrooke, so it was a fond hope that Cora would think her work was done, then pack up and go home. On the bad side, no more Storybrooke. No more anything, all too likely including her.

But if this was it, the choice –

At that moment, Emma Swan was completely at a loss. Fifty-fifty. Toss of a coin. As likely to die as to live, as likely to win as to lose. Stay here. Or go – God knew where. Yeah, jump into a tornado, that was really fucking smart. Even in her ridiculous life, it would still make the top five stupidest moments. Last time it had been the portal, and look at that. She had to stay here. It was the only way to defeat Cora. The only way. None of this bullshit about Oz and finding a weapon there. It was here. Her heart was here. Emma's, at least. As for Cora's. . .

No. Her mind was made up. She wasn't running away again. Even if fucking Neal was here, she would deal with it, reasonably and competently and sanely and like an adult. There was no power in the world that could make her budge. Confident, at last, in her decision, she set her feet and held the sword tight and smiled.

And then fucking Killian Jones turned and started to sprint hell-for-leather (which was kind of what he was, hell in leather) directly at her.

Emma opened her mouth to scream.

The gun in Gold's hand went off with a monstrous bang.

Hook staggered, but he didn't stop. He kept on coming, then lowered his head, and Emma felt her fingers jerk open on the hilt of the sword, felt it fall away, as he hit her full-on, in a flying rugby tackle. His arms went around her, pressing her face into his neck, wrapping her into his body. She could feel a wetness seeping into her shirt from his shoulder – blood, oh God it was blood, Gold had shot him, what was he doing, the hell, the fuck was he doing –

The next instant, they hit the tornado with a howl, with whiplash a hundred, thousand times worse than a car accident. The wind snatched them up, a tasty morsel, whirling everything into greyness and nothingness and shock, and they were gone like smoke.

(8888888)

"Snow?" David Nolan reached up in sleepy concern to pull his wife back down next to him in bed; she'd just sat bolt upright and screamed like a banshee, which was no doubt going to wake up Henry and everyone within a six-block radius. "Sweetheart! What's wrong?"

"It's her." Mary Margaret's voice was a moan. "It's Emma. She's – she's in terrible danger, I saw it. Oh God, we never should have let her out of our sight – oh God – "

"Calm down. Calm down." David kept hold of her. "It was just a dream. Just a dream, I promise Emma's still here, just down the hall, and everything's all right. She promised us she wouldn't go anywhere tonight, and we have to trust her. She's our daughter, but she's a grown adult and we can't treat her like a little girl." Considering what he had been doing earlier, this was potentially a bit hypocritical, but he had jumped off the Jolly Roger and left her behind, when every nerve ending in him, every pore, every atom, had screamed at him to stay and defend his daughter. But she'd ordered him, and he'd kept that promise. He had to trust that she had done the same.

"I – no. I have to go look." Mary Margaret was already putting on her slippers, like a new mother with a fussy baby. We never had that chance, Charming thought with a pang. Never a chance to wake and walk with Emma in the night, or see her first steps or hear her first words. But that was another old guilt he had to get rid of, for even if the beginning had been missed, there was still a chance to write a new ending. "It was so clear, I saw her. . ."

"All right." He wanted her to see, if it would soothe her fears. But, deciding to be a supportive mate, he crawled reluctantly out of his warm, comfortable nest of quilts – that fight today had taken it out of him, twenty-eight years was apparently not insignificant even if he had spent most of it in a coma – and put an arm around his wife's waist. Together, they walked down the dark hall to their daughter's room, and Mary Margaret opened the door.

Sure enough, there was a lumpy, shapeless form tucked into bed, breathing slowly and deeply; Emma had somehow managed not to jerk awake at her mother's scream. It did seem to David that the hair on the pillow was too dark, and the sound of the breathing somewhat different, but then, he'd never had a chance to watch Emma sleep before. He told himself to savor the moment, not quibble over details.

Mary Margaret sagged with relief, and David kissed the top of her head. There was an unfamiliar suitcase on the floor, which he didn't remember Emma owning, but then again, he had respected her privacy and not gone snooping through her possessions, even while he and his grandson were living in the apartment together and praying for their women to come home. So they simply stood there, reassuring themselves, then shut the door and started back to their own room. Just as astoundingly, Henry was still asleep too.

The Charmings tumbled back into bed together, and David smiled at his wife. "There. Do you feel better?"

"A little," Mary Margaret admitted, but there was still a line between her brows. "It was just. . . so clear. She was caught up in a horrible dark cloud, falling, and falling, and there was blood and someone clutching her, and. . ." She shook her head. "No, you're right, it was a dream. Let's go back to sleep. It'll be all right in the morning."

"Mmm-hmm," David murmured. Soft oblivion was already reaching up for him, and he didn't resist.

(8888888)

Emma was falling and falling. The horizon had no meaning and was over and over and over and sky was ground and ground did not exist and Hook was still holding onto her like grim death and whenever this acid trip stopped she was going to kill him and kill him thoroughly. They were never going to stop, however. They just kept falling, over and over and over. His dark stubble abraded her face and said face was still in his neck and arms around her and well that made sense because she couldn't let go of him either if she wanted and over and over and over and yeah she wasn't even going to be able to stand up at the end of this and that would be a problem since she had to kill him and over and over and over and over and

The bottom smashed up out of nowhere. The fall was never going to stop, and then it did, hard enough that Emma couldn't figure out, with what few bedazzled brain cells remained to her, why it didn't just kill them and break all their bones then and there. But they were rolling, flailing, kicking, still entangled, lurching and spinning and swearing at each other – or at least she was swearing, and he was answering in wheezing gasps that sounded vaguely like swearing. They hit something, although she couldn't see what, and spun off, and then finally, finally, almost anticlimactically, came to a halt. Just for a final insult, she was pinned under him, and he was sprawled out on her at full length, which really could look compromising if someone came along. Anyone. The last place she wanted to be was under Captain Hook.

Which was really why she should move.

When she got there.

After a few useless heaves, Emma shoved at his shoulder. "Get. Off."

"So kind of you," he murmured. Something sounded wrong about his voice, and not just the lack of breath. "To think of my pleasure."

"Shut up." She was going to lose it herself, have a psych-ward-worthy breakdown, just give her a second. But she could feel the wet warmth still pulsing into her shirt from his shoulder, and remembered. Oh. Damn.

Emma jerked, shoved him off, and saw him fall with a grunt, far more heavily than he had fallen when she'd punched him back at Lake Nostros. And saw the neat bullet hole in his leather jacket, and the color of his face. Not to mention the color of his shirt.

"Oh. . . shit. Shitshitshitshitshit." It was suddenly the only word she seemed capable of saying. Her hands were turned into two blocks of wood and killing him was going to have to wait, just a minute until it would be more sportsmanlike. She ripped off her jacket, then realized that leather wasn't going to work very well at soaking up blood. "Shitshitshitshit." She jerked off her shirt; thank God she was wearing a wifebeater under it. The snarky comment opportunities were awful, but she tore off the shirt, rendered it into strips, and turned it into an impromptu bandage, pressing hard on his shoulder. The bastard had taken a bullet for her, right before apparently attempting to kill her himself – taken her away from stopping Cora, saving her family –

Hook stirred under her ministrations. His eyes were almost rolled back in his head, but his good hand came up and tried to knock hers away. "Just. . . leave it. I've. . . lived too long. . . I'm a bloody worthless human anyway, don't pretend otherwise, I won't. . ."

"Melodramatic son of a bitch," Emma snapped, switching out the blood-soaked strip of shirt for another. "You really should try out for Hamlet."

"Who's Hamlet?" His long eyelashes fluttered.

"Never mind. Rate things are going, I'll meet him before too long."

"Ah." Hook's bleary gaze focused on her, and a crooked grin spread across his lips. "I knew. . . I could get you. . . to take off your clothes for me, love."

"One more comment like that, one more love or sweetheart or darling or misogynistic infantilizing pet name since you're completely incapable of dealing with women who aren't total psychopaths and/or imprisoned and helpless and/or being suckered in by your pretty face, and so help me God I will get up and let you bleed to death right here."

"Go for it." A taunting gleam passed through his blue eyes, then was blurred out by pain, but the smirk remained. "Love."

Emma growled. The proper thing to do, of course, was to carry out her threat, to get up and walk away in this otherwhere, wherever the hell she was. . . but she didn't know, and she'd get lost, and she wasn't going to let go of the satisfaction of ordering him to account for why he'd just tackled her into a tornado. Oh fuck, where were they?

It was dark to every side, and endlessly so. Just soft nothingness. No Storybrooke, no harbor, no trees, no road, no car – and, it went without saying, no Cora and no Gold. There was a faint sound, however, like distant waves. A smell of salt. Something soft and spongy underfoot, like silt. . . like the very bottom of the sea.

"Oh Jesus Christ on a cracker," Emma said aloud. "Are we in Davy Jones' Locker?"

"What?" Hook looked surprised.

"Davy Jones. . . oh Jesus, don't tell me he's a relative of yours."

"First cousin. . . once or twice. . . removed. Frightening fellow. . . even before he turned slimy." Hook looked even more surprised. "Tried to avoid him, m'self. Sort who always ruined. . . family get-togethers. How'd you. . . know that?"

"Lucky guess," Emma muttered, feeling sick to her stomach. Not that this meant they were in Davy Jones' Locker, but it wasn't an encouraging sign. Aside from the fact that Davy Jones' first cousin once or twice removed was still bleeding heavily under her hands, and it was increasingly plain that the flimsy strip of her fruitlessly sacrificed shirt wasn't going to cut it. "Scurvy seadogs, huh? Both of you?"

"Runs. . . in the family." Hook managed a weak grin, then frowned. "And I can't remember. . . how I remember that, since I haven't. . . in centuries. Too long. As I said. I'll have it over. You haven't. . . stormed away yet. . . depriving me both of my death. . . and a fine parting view. . . of your exquisitely shaped backside."

"Motherfucker." Emma would have punched him again. If he was in any shape to take a punch, even a fake one. "You are not going to die on me."

"Why not?" Hook asked, quite practically. "You have. . . no use for me. Let me. . . snuff it, then get back to your life. . . your son. . ." His face twisted in agony. "No more reason for the crocodile to go. . . on the prowl. Everything back to normal. Isn't that. What you want?"

"Stop talking," Emma ordered. "You're not dying because I'm the sheriff, and I say so. Also because I don't do what Gold says, and also because you saved my life. And also because you're not daring to die until you tell me why the hell you tried to kill both of us."

"Bossy bint," Hook murmured, coughing blood. It showed black on his lips, in the shine of whatever eerie seaweed phosphorescence lit this place. "But fetching. Very fetching."

"Yeah, well, that runs in my family." Emma tried to get her fingers to match the glow. Come on, magic. I just had you. Unless whatever she had done to stop the tornado had been a total lie, but she didn't think so. Her power was here, it had just manifested, but she'd been thinking of saving her family when it did. Not Hook, not him, but. . .

She could still get up and walk away. Or just stick with the bloodsoaked shirt. Either would, in fact, eventually kill him. It would probably hurt. No one could say Hook didn't deserve it.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Emma closed her eyes again. Concentrated as hard as she possibly could, shutting out the turmoil about how she was God knew where, again, with the worst possible person to be stranded with. About how he'd kissed her and her stomach fell when he breathed, Milah. All of that. Just her. Emma. Just her prickly, flawed, vulnerable, angry, passionate soul. Just hers.

Just his.

She felt the glow crackle down her fingers before she was consciously aware of it. Then it was coming faster and faster, as if a dam had been broken, so much that she was actually frightened of frying them both. Then Hook jerked and moaned, and she felt something cool and metal pop into her hand.

Emma held up the bullet, somewhat mashed and deformed by its adventures through the pirate captain's right clavicle. "Want it for a souvenir?" she panted.

"I'll pass." Hook spoke through gritted teeth, then pushed himself upright, rolled to the side, and retched.

When he finally straightened up, wiping his mouth, Emma saw that the wound certainly wasn't healed all the way – it was red and angry-looking, would leave a scar, a new one, as he probably had quite a few. Not that she wanted to go searching for them. But it was neatly sealed shut, the bleeding had stopped, and he had recovered enough to start swearing properly, which was –

Encouraging? Good? Had she really been about to think that? She was sitting in an undershirt in the middle of neverwhere, and she had to get back. They had hit the tornado before they hit the boundary, which meant that she hadn't gotten through and broken it. Yes, it might have kept the tornado from hitting Storybrooke, but she still needed to go through, that wasn't an excuse –

"You." She wheeled back on her no-longer-quite-as-in-imminent-danger-of-death companion, and stuck a finger under his nose. "Start talking, amigo."

"You do know just how to woo a man." Killian's breathing sounded better as well, less as if there was blood in his lungs, and the cocky smirk was returning to his face in full force, so she took that as a sure sign that he was, for better or worse, going to live. "Can't you just sit there and take off that other shirt of yours? Doesn't suit a beautiful woman like you."

"Look, Hook. I'm trying to have a conversation that doesn't involve constant inappropriate sexual come-ons to someone who is not interested. I know that's hard for you, but make an effort." Her voice cracked unexpectedly, and she had to smudge the back of her hand hard across her face. "Please."

His eyes flicked up to hers, and she could see that he had a whole arsenal of sarcastic comments loaded and ready for bear, something about how the lady doth indeed protest far too much. But something about her tears seemed to reach him, and he sighed. "Fine. I was getting you out of there for two reasons. One, because I was hoping you'd go through the boundary, shatter whatever nasty curse is on it, and spare me the need to serve as the Dark One's test case. Quite obviously, the tornado got us first, a misjudgment for which I sincerely apologize. Two, because even though we did end up in the tornado, all hope is not lost. I was rolling the dice that we. . ." He paused. "That we could get to Oz."

Emma's stomach turned over. "Well then," she said lightly, trying to disguise it. "Looks like that one came up snake eyes, gambler. And why were you doing that? Exactly?"

His gaze held hers, very seriously. "How much do you want to get rid of Cora, love?"

She hesitated even longer. This was for some ulterior motive of his own. They were in unholy cahoots, he probably had to just say the word and the witch would fish him out of here. Perhaps literally, if they were in fact in the Locker. Blocking out the mental image of a giant worm on a hook (dammit! No hooks!) dangling down in the blackness above them, she said neutrally, "You can probably guess the answer to that."

"Maybe I can." His finger touched her chin. "And maybe you could look at me."

"Yeah, Mr. I'm-Done-With-You? Like the magic bean? That was how you got here, wasn't it?"

"Not here, strictly speaking, but to Storybrooke, yes."

"And you brought Cora with you. Forgive me if I'm not suddenly rushing to spill my plans into your lap."

"You can spill anything you like into my lap, darling. But now that we've saved each other's lives and ended up in our present soggy environs because of it, it does look like we're going to have to try that horrible thing, trust, if we intend on getting to Oz, Storybrooke, Wonderland, Neverland, or any other land of note at all." His smile was still amiable, but his eyes were savage. "Unless you want to leave me chained again?"

"Look. No chains." Emma made an expansive gesture. "You're in luck."

"And most acutely I am aware of it." The pirate pushed himself to his feet with no more than a faint grunt. When she made no move to do the same, he offered her his hook with a flourish. "My lady?"

Emma gritted her teeth, looked around for any other option at all including hara-kiri (off the menu – she had lost the sword, David was going to kill her) then reached up and grasped the smooth, cool curve of the metal, allowing him to pull her to her feet. After everything, her legs were a little wobbly. Which was the only reason she kept on holding on, probably somewhat more tightly than she needed. She wasn't going to let him run off and leave her here alone. And in that moment, that terror, she wondered what it had been like for him when she had, as far as he knew, left him to certain death to be dismembered by the giant.

Killian, seeming to read her thoughts – goddamn, he had an annoying habit of that – lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. "Don't worry. We're in this together now, love."

"Yeah." Emma should have let go of the hook after that, she really should have, but just like killing him, she'd get around to it later. "That's what I was afraid of."

He shrugged with one shoulder, as insouciantly as a Frenchman. Not that he was a Frenchman, he was a Fairytaleman. He shouldn't even be real. But he put one foot in front of another, and so did she.

They didn't die. They didn't sink. They didn't drown. Instead, step by step, water still dripping far off and the scent of salt in the silence, they moved away into the dark.

(8888888)

Prince Charming was awake before his wife the next morning. The early dawn was luminous and clear-washed, cool and perfect, and he stole down the creaky stairs as quietly as possible, whistling through his teeth. He stepped into his kitchen, deciding to make pancakes for his family, surprise them when they woke up. After the interruption of Mary Margaret's nightmare, they'd both slept deep and peacefully for the rest of the night, and he finally felt empowered to think, to do, something about this horrible mess they'd gotten into.

David tied on an apron and started to rummage in the pantry. He had just gotten the stovetop warmed up when he noticed something strange about the wardrobe in the hall, where he'd stashed his sword. It was halfway open.

He frowned. His eyes flicked to the side table.

His car keys were missing.

A stab of alarm went through him, hard and sharp enough to make him almost drop the bowl of half-finished pancake batter. He tore off the apron and strode across the hallway, slammed open the wardrobe, and –

The sight inside made him want to be sick. Precisely because there was nothing.

His sword was gone.

And at that moment, there was a knock on his front door.

Just someone, David Nolan told himself. No big deal. But he already knew that was a lie. Even as he was plunging across the foyer, even while he was roaring in his head, even while he was wondering how, how, they'd seen her there, they'd seen Emma asleep in bed, she was safe, she was supposed to be safe –

He wrenched the door open, and his world fell apart.

"Hello, Charming," said Cora with a genteel smile, holding out his own blade. "I thought you might be missing this."

He couldn't even breathe. The shock was freezing his lungs. "What – you – how did you – you didn't – you – "

Cora smiled. "Oh no, Your Highness. I didn't have anything to do with taking it. I'm just returning it now, out of concern from one parent to another. For you see, that's why. Your daughter stole it. And your daughter left it behind when the pirate killed her."