Chapter 13: Playing With Fire

Emma Swan couldn't remember the last time she had seen something that could verifiably, quantifiably be called light. Even glimmer was pushing it. There was just enough of a weird, slippery luminescence to make out the outlines of herself, her companion, and the wet, dark abyss around them. If she looked back, their footsteps vanished into the blackness after a yard or two. It made her wonder if they would still be there if they retraced the way they'd come, or if it was a trackless void, erased like waves washing the sand. She was exhausted, thirsty, and starving, and she really wanted to sit down for just a second. Every time she did so, however, she was booted unceremoniously in the back by the fucking, fucking pirate.

"Keep moving, love." His face was pale in the witchlight, and fresh blood was visible on the black leather of his jacket. "Sit too long, you'll never get up."

Emma glared at him. At least this method was better than the one he'd used when she first attempted to take a drink from one of the springs that trickled invitingly at their feet. She'd knelt down, pulled her hair out of her face, and prepared to scoop up the cool water, already imagining how delicious it would taste in her parched mouth. When out of nowhere, Hook slapped her hand away so hard that she thought he'd broken her fingers. "Are you out of your bloody mind?"

He had to be angry indeed to not bother calling her some stupid pet name, but she was just as angry back. Shaking the sting out of her hand, she bounced up and had some notion of taking a retaliatory swing at him, but he caught her wrist in his hook and trapped it there with a flick of his stump. "I'm doing you a favor," he informed her. "Ever heard of the river Styx, princess? You want to snuff it, just go ahead and drink that."

"Why don't you, then?" she snapped, heart still screaming off the rails at 1) the realization that it was poison, 2) that he'd reacted so violently to stop her from drinking it, and 3) in so doing, scared her half to death (har de har har). "All your bitching and moaning and melodrama about how I should have just let you die? Fine, go for it!"

The look he gave her back made her shiver. "Is that what you want?" Displaying his usual knack for doing the most outrageously inappropriate thing in any situation, he lifted her hand and began mouthing her knuckles, his lips warm and wet against her skin. "If that's the case, you're mixing – your – signals. So much that I don't quite believe it. A word of it, in fact. What if I did get down and try to drink it? Would you stop me then? Would you like to find out?"

"God, no. Cut it out, just cut it out." Again as usual, whenever she tried to get away from him, she ended up closer. He was warm, all of him, here in this godforsaken damp pit. Especially when she somehow got twisted all the way around so her back was against his chest, and his arms were linked hard around her. "Look, can we accept whatever point you're trying to make, consider your sexual harassment quota fulfilled for the day, and get the hell out of here?"

"What if it is hell, love?" He let her go so abruptly, with a little shove, that she stumbled, wrapping her arms around herself; it was cold in all the places his body had been just a moment earlier. "We're neither of us saints, you and me. I got shot, and you. . . well. Some unchivalrous nincompoop chucked you into a tornado. Could be we're both dead."

"Then why did you stop me from drinking the water?"

He laughed, not pleasantly. "Maybe you still want to go back."

"Then you – Hook, please. Where are we?"

He did that one-shouldered shrug thing of his again. "In the space between," he said at last. "You were close, bang on actually, when you called it Davy Jones' Locker. Space between life and death, one world and another. Limbo, I suppose. You can go on, or you can go back. So could I, for that matter. We'll both make our choice."

She stared at him. "We could go anywhere?"

"Close enough." He started to stride away, and she was obliged to run after him. "You, it'd be best for you to go onto Oz. I'm fairly confident you can find Cora's heart there, and do the squashy-squashy thing." He made a demonstrative gesture with his hand. "Problem solved."

"Best for me to go onto Oz?"

"Of course." He gave her the teeth-bared expression that, even down here, still didn't look remotely like a smile. "Asked you that, didn't I? How much you wanted to get rid of her?"

"Yes, but if I go through the boundary – "

"Have you considered it was the only thing what stopped the tornado from hitting your family?"

She had, unfortunately. "So?"

"So. They're worth nothing to me. But might be something to you." He was managing to hold this entire conversation without appearing visibly out of breath, but considering he'd gone as long as she had without food, drink, or rest, and been shot in the bargain, it was just another act, that stupid thing men did to look like they didn't need any help. Like never asking for directions. Which would be useful down here, if there was anyone to ask. "How much?"

Emma narrowed her eyes at him. "I do not like the way you said that."

"Oh, the princess has decreed? Time for me to tremble before the throne? Well, I seem to have neglected to put on my groveling bloomers today. Either way, it's immaterial to me."

"Why?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm going back to Storybrooke, love. I'm not resting until I shove that bullet down the crocodile's throat. I'm going to kill him and finish what was bloody started with Belle, and mark my words, it won't be pretty."

It wasn't as if she could stand him ordinarily, but that just made it ten times worse. "Like hell you are!" She put on a burst of speed to catch up to him and grabbed him by the shoulder, the unwounded one. The other one had been through enough. "You are not hurting Belle or Gold or any of them, I don't care what – "

"No?" he breathed. "No, love, you really don't. They've just proved how much they don't want to hurt me, haven't they? You don't care. So stop pretending that you do. Stop inserting yourself where you don't belong, or it's not going to be pretty for you either." The cold metal of his hook traced across the pulse point at her throat, the sharpness terrifyingly close. "Admit that you're going to run after me wherever I go. Don't fret, it's common among the women I know. But kindly stop lying."

They stared each other down, neither blinking. Emma's entire body was hammering, not just her heart; it felt horribly near her skin, in her mouth, as if a touch would reach out and snatch it, crush it to powder, bring her to her knees for good. What made it still worse again was that Captain Drama Queen was correct. If he did go back to Storybrooke (however the hell he planned to do that) of course she would have to follow him. She didn't trust him there for a second. Not with her family, not with Gold or Belle, not with himself – he'd gotten shot for Christ's sake, and by the time they (he! He!) showed their (his! His!) face again, that was going to be on the milder end of the spectrum of the things which Gold would do to him.

But what if this was their only chance to find Cora's heart and defeat her? Portals weren't exactly popping up like mushrooms, after all (then again, maybe they were) and she'd have to go onto Oz by herself. And aside from the leaving Hook part, she wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Enchanted Forest without Mary Margaret. She flattered herself that she had picked up a trick or two, but the essential fact remained the same. Hook had told her to trust him, but what the hell did that mean? Trust him to get them out of here? To go on alone? To not drop a giant atom bomb into the middle of everything and everyone she knew and cared about? Into her?

Yeah. Fat fucking chance.

They stared at each other evilly a few moments more. He wasn't as good as he thought at this whole villain thing; she was even doing the death glare better than him. That was when she scoffed and turned around, and started to walk. This place couldn't go on forever. And if she couldn't rest, or take a drink, or any of it, the smartest thing was to just get it over with.

That had been – well, it was really hard to tell, but several hours ago at least, and the enervating dark fog was getting worse. It felt heavy and sticky in her chest, closing her throat, weighing her feet down as if each step was being pulled out of a tar pit. No thanks to the periodic boot of Hook's reminders not to stop, she was stiff and sore, and she hadn't been the one who was shot. Not that she was worried if he was all right, because she wasn't, she was just. . .

(worried if he was all right).

Exasperated, Emma stopped in her tracks. "Hey," she shouted. "Hey, you. It might be just me, but this place is starting to freak me out. And maybe invincible manly pirates can keep going forever, but I'm about to drop. We need to find a way to get out of here."

She braced herself for his inevitable smart-ass retort, but he didn't even seem to have heard. He was staring vacantly into the mist, motionless, and she hesitated, then finally stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He spun around with a wild look on his face, and his hook flashed up so fast that she jerked her head back and snatched it by reflex, a pretty impressive maneuver if she did say so herself, even if it had been executed totally out of self-preservation – she wasn't used to dealing with people who had a lethal weapon attached to their left arm, who were in fact lethal weapons themselves. Their gazes both flicked to it, but he didn't say anything. He just cocked a dark eyebrow interrogatively, waiting.

Emma swallowed. "Yeah, so. You're the expert here. And just so you know, I'm trying that trust thing. Take advantage of it, it's probably not going to happen again."

"By which remarkable utterance you mean what exactly, darling?"

"You told me to trust you. We got interrupted earlier. So fine. I'm giving it a shot. Tell me how we get out of here." The horrible thought crossed her mind that he might not know how, but he was something like half immortal and a pirate who'd had all kinds of misadventures in his day, and he'd said you could go anywhere from here. Not to mention, Davy Jones was his cousin. It beggared belief that he'd never ended up in the Locker before.

Hook grinned. "Well, then. The thing about these traps, these in-between places, is that they turn you into a ghost, until you wander in circles forever and have forgotten any desire or memory about how to get out. You can prove you're not, that you're still alive, in one of two ways."

"And those are?"

"Blood is the oldest of curse-breaking materials, lass. Give me that lovely wrist, and. . ." He eyed it with a professional's éclat. "I'd be careful, of course."

Emma flinched. "Yeah, uh, I'm not too eager to let you slice me up." She glanced up at him. He was still grinning. Fuck. "Do I dare ask what my second option is?"

"I was hoping you would," he said, with nauseating self-satisfaction. "You can let me cut your arm, or you can come here and give me a kiss."

"Oh for the love of. . . Be serious."

"I'm being extremely serious. Blood or true love, that's what it boils down to. Those will always shatter a curse. In this world or between them or outside them."

"But I'm. . . look, I'm not your true love, all right?"

"No," he said mildly. "You're not. My true love died a long time ago. But it might be possible we can trick it."

"So what?" The hurt from earlier bubbled up. "You're going to close your eyes and pretend I'm Milah?"

"So what's it to you if I do? You've been trying everything but stripping off your clothes in front of me – no, wait – to prove just how uninterested you are, princess. It's nothing to me what you do or don't think, but I wasn't lying when I said we were in this together. I will get you back home safe. Unless you're going to Oz?"

Emma hesitated.

"Go on." He waved at her. "Shoo."

"I'm not going by myself."

He raised an eyebrow. "So I can't go back to Storybrooke without you, and you can't go onto Oz without me. That about sorts it?"

"Looks that way," she mumbled.

"Fine, then. We're doing it my way, hence going to Storybrooke. And once we're there, I will be perfectly happy to leave you alone and never speak to you again, if that's what you so deeply want. Contingent on you leaving me alone to finish what I came to do."

"Like hell," she said. "Not happening, Neal."

Hook looked like she'd hit him in the face. "What did you just call me?"

"Oh, what did I?" She looked up innocently. "Must have slipped out. I don't know, I thought I was talking to someone else. Of course it doesn't mean anything to you?"

He looked so frightening just then that she wanted to put more distance between them. Back on his ship, Cora had insinuated that Hook had been the one who sent Neal after her, and when she'd asked, he'd given one of his usual weasel answers that it wasn't true and wasn't a lie. She was taking bitter pleasure, however, in the fact that he looked so that it was really smart to bait him. Not here, not now. If she'd been capable of acting rationally around him, reserved, like she wanted to be. . . but she wanted him to feel that same hurt, and didn't even –

"Give me your wrist," Hook ordered. "Now."

Emma pulled it back. "Yeah. . . still passing on that."

"Then do you expect to just – "

Emma took two sharp strides across the space between, and kissed him.

It had, she was satisfied to note, the effect of catching him utterly off guard. She felt exceedingly tempted to bite off his lips, but instead her hands came up on either side of his face and slid around to the back of his neck, up into his dark hair, holding him, cradling him. We have to trick it, she reminded herself. Although how you faked true love was entirely beyond her; wasn't that the point of Gold's little potion heist that had almost cost Henry's life? But that didn't matter, not at the moment. Her eyes were closed (she just didn't want to see if it wasn't working, that was all) and she opened her lips, felt his arms rise up around her waist and the point of his hook at the small of her back, his hand running up her spine, tangling in her dirty curls, at the nape of her neck, turning her mouth, both of them making faint noises, soft wet sounds. If anything else felt like what his mouth felt like, it was beyond a doubt ten different kinds of illegal. It seemed like the sort of thing a sheriff should be aware of.

She felt him pull just a fraction away, his nose brushing her cheek, his forehead still touching hers. If he'd said Milah at that moment, it would have broken her in half.

He didn't. She could hear the rough sound of his breathing, uneven, ragged. His lips ghosted over hers again, but he didn't bend in for another kiss. Instead he said, "Open your eyes, lass."

Almost afraid to obey, Emma nonetheless did so.

It was still dark, and for a moment she felt a sinking certainty that nothing had changed, that they were still trapped. But it was a different sort of dark, and as she blinked, she saw the moon stitching through the trees and realized that they were in the dark woods of Storybrooke, right where they'd been before the tornado hit. But not entirely so. There was still a filmy black veil around them.

"What the – "

"Shh." He stepped back and let go. "We're still in the space between. Just. . . closer than we were. Should be able to get out, though, if we try. It's not as easy as it looks."

"So tell me what we need to – " She didn't know if she was up for a repeat performance. Her knees had turned to water and her heart to flame. Her lips felt swollen, her throat closed, her breath short and painful. Another kiss was going to be really, really bad.

He cracked a twisted grin. "Far be it from me to leave a lady unsatisfied," he said, with such dark, seductive noir that it felt like an actual punch in the gut. He was reaching for her hand, as if they were about to step out together – then froze.

"What?" Emma said urgently. "What?"

"Stay here, love," he said. "Somebody's coming."

And with that he backed up, took a running start, and threw himself headlong through the black veil, into the forest. In a few moments he was out of sight.

(8888888)

Belle and Henry were waiting when David and Mary Margaret returned home. Gold had informed them that he required the afternoon to effect preparations, and that they should meet him that night, 10 PM, at the town boundary, at which point their partnership would commence. The deal was made, there was no going back, but the Charmings nonetheless continued to disagree as Leroy drove them home; David's truck had vanished along with their daughter. They were, for obvious reasons, disinclined to split up again, but the fact remained that with Cora here, something had to be done. But who? How? Where?

Belle had been forced to explain the whole sorry situation to Henry in their absence, and she was even less pleased to hear where they had been. "You made a deal? For what?"

"To find Emma," Mary Margaret sighed. "I'm sorry, but – "

"What did he ask?" Belle interrupted. "In exchange?"

David and Mary Margaret exchanged one of those old-married-couple glances that they were relieved to find they could still do, in which the transmission of unpleasant information was faced up to and silently delegated. "He asked to be allowed to kill Hook without interference," David said at last, "and frankly, I think we got off pretty light."

"No!" They'd expected Belle to have no objection to this, but the young librarian looked even more distressed. "I. . . no, he can't! Rumple told me what happened, that Hook stole his wife and that she died, I know he's a bad man, but if Rumple kills him in cold blood, it's going to be the end of it, the end of him. The Dark One will take over again."

"I'm sorry?" Mary Margaret blinked. "Belle, you were the one who just left him on grounds of that possibly happening."

"Yes," Belle said steadily, "and I did it because I thought Cora was right. Now I see, however, that that was exactly what she wanted me to do. For better or worse, I'm the only person in this town that Rumple truly, deeply cares about, and I'm the only person who can keep him from going. . . bad. Which he will, as long as Hook is here. I need to go back to him, I need to fight for him. Cora wants him to turn into the Dark One again, and as soon as good people stop fighting evil, evil wins. It's not weakness to do that, it's not being a doormat. It's making a choice to live like a human, and not. . ." She paused. "A beast."

"In that case," David pressed, "you should let him kill the bastard. Hook's a danger to every single one of us, Belle. We can't let some tender concern for Gold's conscience – something which I'm not really sure exists in the first place – stop us from doing what – "

"Listen to me!" Belle stamped her foot. "I know you're worried about Emma. I know everything that's said about her, that she's the savior, and that she's your daughter. But there are other people in this town, and they're important. Their lives matter. Including Rumple, including the people who would be hurt if he became a monster again. Including me. Getting Emma back doesn't mean you can just trample on the rest of us."

"Belle, I don't think you – "

"And besides, look at your family. Look how often you two have lost each other, and found each other again. So many of those – even if it was for his own reasons – were thanks to Rumple." Belle's eyes were welling with tears, and she backhanded them away. "Please."

David and Mary Margaret looked at each other and sighed heavily. "We'll keep it in mind," David said at last, "but you also said that Hook stole Gold's wife back home, and that she's dead. What do you think happened to her? Hook killed her. That must be why they hate each other so much. And you've already admitted that he tried to do the same to you. He's like Ted Bundy in eyeliner. Can you please understand why I don't feel any hesitation going after the real beast that has my daughter, and why I think it's just fine if we let Gold wipe the floor with him?"

Belle set her mouth and shook her head. The ensuing silence was hideous, broken at last only by Henry speaking up.

"Don't worry," he said confidently. "My mom's going to be okay. If Captain Hook tries anything bad, she'll kick his butt."

"I hope so." David tousled his grandson's hair. "I really, really hope."

(8888888)

After spending the rest of the afternoon in a tense, protracted standoff, a further course of action was finally hammered out around nightfall. Nobody had seen or heard from Regina all day, putting the kibosh on their intention to billet Henry with her, and their backup plan, Archie, hadn't picked up his phone either, which was strange. Henry himself, of course, wanted to come along, and after he (awfully shrewdly for a kid) suggested that he could stay at his classmate Grace's house instead, complete with her unstable psycho father, they finally and grudgingly agreed. As long as he stayed in the car, and under no circumstances exited it. If it turned out that they were leaving Storybrooke, they'd make sure to say goodbye to him, and he'd go home with Leroy. He would assuredly learn a few things he shouldn't while in the dwarves' company, but it was the best option they had.

Henry agreed cheerily, and with that, their willingness to take him into potential danger now established, they couldn't exactly turn down Belle when she insisted on doing the same. There was really no one for David to blame but himself, and he finally gave in, but stipulated that she likewise was bound by the same conditions.

Belle agreed, but with an expression that plainly said if she thought it necessary to interfere at any point, she would be doing so. It was with an already sinking heart, therefore, that David ushered the women and Henry into Leroy's waiting truck at 9:33 PM.

"Want me to wait around, chief?" Leroy asked, as they sped toward the edge of town. "In case something goes fishy?"

"I can't see how that would hurt." David rubbed his temples, then touched his sword yet again, just to remind himself that it was there. He shot a glance at his wife; Mary Margaret had brought similar instruments. If they were going across the boundary into the real world, for the first time in their lives, they didn't intend to go unarmed. How they would explain the swords, David wasn't quite sure, but he'd think of something. Say they were medieval recreationists, or eccentric collectors, or method actors. Something.

Gold wasn't there when they pulled up. Leroy cut the engine, and they waited in taut, anticipative silence for five or ten minutes, until headlights strafed the bend and the old black Cadillac appeared out of the night. Belle's face was drawn, her lips white, as she watched her erstwhile lover open the door, climb out, and beckon at the truck.

Leaving Leroy, Henry, and Belle inside, David and Mary Margaret got out. The wind was cold, and they both pulled their jackets up as they faced Gold. He eyed their swords and their rucksacks, and smiled. "Ah, so you've packed for a journey. Smart of you. Well then. Time to see if this works. I apologize for the delay, but I had to collect a new test subject after my first one. . . got away. If you'd give me a hand?"

"A hand?"

"If you don't mind." Gold escorted them around to the trunk of the Cadillac, from which both David and Mary Margaret thought they heard a faint yelping. They frowned, but before the question had time to get to their lips, Gold unlatched the boot to reveal its passenger: a roly-poly, bearded cherub in coveralls and a red knitted hat, tied up and gagged.

"What the – " David frowned. "Gold, who is this?"

"A certain irritation for the both of us." Gold smiled. "He was the one who kidnapped Belle, and he also kidnapped your daughter after happening upon her in a compromised situation outside Granny's diner. Was happy to confess to all sorts of things, in fact, once I began. . . asking. So it's only just, you'll agree, that he's the one we'll be trying it on first."

The Charmings exchanged a troubled glance, but didn't protest, and David assisted Gold in hauling the prisoner out of the trunk and hauling him to the spray-painted red line on the pavement. It was there that Gold cut the gag, ripped off the man's unassuming chapeau, and dangled it before his crossed eyeballs. "How long have you had this?"

"F-forever. My grandmother made it for me. It's always given me good fortune. Please, please don't – "

Gold removed a vial of some clear potion from his breast pocket and sprinkled it on the hat. "You'd better hope it does. For it might just be the difference between life and death."

"No – I'm not going over that line, I'll lose my memories – "

"You were willing to do the same to Belle!" Gold roared, and David wondered what Belle herself was making of this from the truck. "Let me give you a small incentive. . . ah. Here."

With that, he reached into his breast pocket again and came up with a gun. A handsome weapon, surely, and also familiar in a way that made David frown. "Hey, that looks an awful lot like the gun at the sheriff's office. At least that was at the sheriff's office. And now – "

"It's being put to good use, I assure you. It served me quite well last night, while I was pirate hunting." Gold cocked it and aimed it casually at the cringing prisoner.

"Pirate hunt – wait, wait, wait a second. Quit pointing that thing at him, and tell us everything that happened last night. Do we need to cross this boundary? Or is this all something for you? When you said that we finally knew what it felt like to be unable to go after a child?"

"It's a bit late to start asking questions, dearie. Already done and made, that bargain of yours."

"Just answer it. What happened to Hook and Emma last night? Why is it all torn up on the other side of this line? What happened?"

"It doesn't matter. We're going over this boundary, or we will as soon as William Smee here obliges us." Gold made a sharp gesture with the revolver. "Unless he has a death wish."

William Smee was evidently no sort of hero. He crammed his hat back on, took a few faltering steps backwards, then fell over the line with all the grace of an overturned turtle.

David and Mary Margaret held their breath as the crackling blue magic engulfed him, as Gold stood motionless and the night wind sighed mournfully. Smee pulled faces as if he was being tortured, but for all his dramatics, he was still intact. Physically, at least.

"What's your name?" Gold demanded.

A pause. Then, "William. . . Smee."

"And what's my name?"

"Rumplestiltskin." A relieved look spread across the man's face. "I remember!"

If that was anything close to a smile on Gold's own lips, it was hard to tell. "Very good," was all he said. "Perhaps you'll even remember after what comes next."

Smee's triumphant expression faltered. "Scuse?"

"I can't have you squealing," Gold informed him. "At least, not in a fashion anyone would understand. You're quite a rat, aren't you? So this will barely be a change."

With that, before David and Mary Margaret had figured out either if they should intervene or how to, Gold clicked his fingers. A seething cloud of dark smoke gulped up the befuddled pirate, who'd barely recovered from the first application, and he certainly didn't have a hat to save him from this one. In fact when it cleared, the hat was the only thing left. For a moment. Then a large black rat scuttled into the woods as fast as it could go.

Mary Margaret gasped. "What did you – "

"Preventive measures, dearie." Gold didn't glance at her. "Pay that one enough, he'll do anything. Squeal to anyone. Now he can squeal all he likes, it won't avail him. I always cover my tracks." He removed the unremarkable, ratty brown scarf he was wearing from around his neck, doused it briskly with the potion, and replaced it, then held out his hand. "Your ring?"

Mary Margaret hesitated, then twisted off her engagement ring with its green stone. However, she didn't hand it over immediately. "You're sure this will work?"

"I just proved it, didn't I? Now, dearie. Tick tock."

"You know," a voice drawled from the woods. "Considering that you've already stolen my woman, my hand, my life, and now my first mate, I'm not so sure I'm going to let you steal my line to boot. Not any of it, actually."

A tall shadow stepped out directly in front of them, dark and raffish and roguish and clad head to toe in leather. Blood was still drying on his jacket, and his pale face was alight with mad vengeance. He raised his hand, and cocked his gun.

Mary Margaret shouted.

David went for his sword.

"Hello, crocodile," said Captain Hook, his smile stretching into a ghastly rictus. "Your Highnesses. Looking for me?"

A ball of fire bloomed in Rumplestiltskin's hand. "Not any longer. I see shooting people isn't quite as mortal as it used to be. I won't make that mistake twice."

The truck door jerked open, and Belle screamed, "No!"

(8888888)

He hadn't come back.

What had she expected, really?

To be honest, to be totally frighteningly absurdly desperately honest – not this. And as time slipped by, Emma began to become aware that she had been tricked. Flat out deceived. He'd flirted with her and seemed to warm to her and led her to where she needed to go for mutual complicated reasons belonging to them both, and then in the moment when she'd been almost ready to go over to his side and trust him with her life, left her cruelly in the lurch. Because she was; the black veil around her remained. She was almost through it, almost back to Storybrooke, but not quite. She was still in the space between worlds.

And he had abandoned her there.

The more she thought it over, the more Emma realized how horribly it mirrored what she had done to him on the beanstalk, and with that, there went any shred of doubt that this was an accident. There hadn't been anyone coming. Stay here. He'd tricked her to get her out of his way, but had been honest with her, incriminatingly so, when he told her what he was going to do: go back and finish what had been interrupted. But why, why, did it feel like her heart was breaking?

(Or had he not meant to? Was she overthinking this? Had he actually meant to come back for her, keep the promise he'd made both in the cell and then on the Jolly Roger when he rescued her from Cora – but been unable? Fallen back? Or broken down?)

She had to find out. She started into a run, gasping. The mist swirled hungrily, trying to pull her in – turn around, and she'd be back in that wet black netherwhere. Why was it that she wasn't as furious at Hook as she should be? He'd used her, and she'd let him do it. All that malarkey about kisses and true love. . . if all that time he'd known how to escape, but had preferred to manipulate her instead. . . oh God, what had he. . . where was he. . . oh God, oh God –

There was something ahead of her. The road, and the green sign marking both the boundary of Storybrooke and where she'd been snatched away by (or let's be honest, unfairly ambushed into) the tornado. Had that been last night? Impossible to tell. But there were cars there, two cars, Leroy's truck and an unfamiliar black Cadillac, and there were peop –

Oh Jesus Jesus Jesus Christ. No.

"Where is she?" Mary Margaret was screaming. "What have you done with my daughter, you son of a bitch?"

"I'm here!" Emma yelled, waving her arms frantically. "I'm here! I'm standing right here! Help!"

Mary Margaret didn't turn, or any of them. They can't hear me. She wasn't in Storybrooke, after all. She couldn't get back, she couldn't get back. The black tendrils were pulling her harder now, swallowing her down into the Locker, and if she went in there again by herself, she was done for. She couldn't keep moving forward, either. All she could do was watch, paralyzed.

Emma saw, just then, someone running. To where Gold and Hook stood nearly nose to nose at the boundary line, Gold's hand filled with fire and Hook's hand pointing a gun. Whoever was about to get into the middle of that was the bravest person alive, or else the –

"No!" Belle wept. "Rumple, don't!"

Hook pivoted halfway, without even changing expression. And then, just as she had almost reached them, just as Gold was turning in shock at the sound of her voice, he shot her.

Belle staggered. But she had been running at full tilt, and her momentum carried her forward over the boundary, blue magic crackling around her as she slumped. Gold was already diving after her, cradling her frantically. "Belle? Belle?"

"Who's Belle?" she murmured, as David and Mary Margaret communally threw themselves at Hook. "Who are you. . .?"

"No!" Gold cried. "What you've done – it can't be undone!"

"Now you finally know how it feels!" Hook looked totally insane now, as the Charmings grabbed him by the arms and jerked them behind him, knocking the gun out with a clatter. "I was shot, she was shot! I've forgotten, now she has! You could have done what you did to me, but you did it to Milah! Kill me! Go on! Kill me! Then I'll finally be reunited with her!"

Emma was transfixed with horror. She couldn't have moved even if she wasn't about to be sucked back down to the Locker, and thence to Oz or more likely, death. She wanted to scream, but it was frozen in her throat.

And then, the night was torn apart by headlights. Coming from down the road.

But no one ever came to Storybrooke –

She could see the five of them – David, Mary Margaret, Gold with Belle in his arms, and Hook – dodging madly to every side.

Four of them got out of the way.

One of them didn't.