(tw: non-con)

(there is also a homage to niniadepapa in this chapter, because I love Nini)

Chapter 5

Emma couldn't concentrate for the rest of the evening. She wandered off for a distracted dinner, then wandered back to her dorm, checking her phone neurotically for the text from her parents telling her that they were home. She got online and checked traffic and local news sites, as if in expectation of finding coverage of some horrible accident, and calculated over and over again how long she could possibly expect it to take. When it finally came, making her phone clatter and buzz on the desk as she was valiantly striving to proofread her Core essay, due tomorrow for the cranky Jesuit (he'd already warned them that he'd be marking a point off for every grammatical mistake) it scared her almost out of her wits. She snatched it, scrolled the message open, and was hitting "call sender" before she'd even read it.

After a few rings, her mom picked up, sounding surprised. "Hey, sweetie. Yes, we just walked in the door. Did you need a – "

"Hey," Emma interrupted, unable to think of any remote way to play this cool. "Hey, this is really important. I know you just got home and you've had a long drive, but could either you or Dad go out and just, you know, casually pass by Mr. Gold's house?"

Mary Margaret hesitated; Emma could hear her breathing. Then her mother said, "Honey, what is this detective mission you're on? We told you at school, there was nothing to find and we don't think it's such a good idea to keep looking. Why is this so important that we – "

"I just want to see if someone's maybe broken into his house. If you don't want to do it, can you at least call the sheriff and see if Graham will investigate?"

"Graham. . . honey, we're not going to make prank 911 calls on the hare-brained idea that anyone in this entire town would be crazy enough to break into Gold's house. He's probably got a lot of other things to do, and you know that if we told him, Regina would hear about it. And – "

"This is Storybrooke, voted World's Most Boring Town eighteen years running. What else does he have to do? There isn't even any graffiti for him to clean up."

Mary Margaret's hurt was plain. "Is that really what you think about it? That it's boring?"

"I. . ." Emma hated making her parents feel bad, but her perception of their hometown had always been different from theirs. Where they seemed content to stay there, aside from a few vacations to New York for Christmas when she was a kid, she'd always had a searching, restless sense inside her, like something wasn't quite right, like she should be doing something else. "Never mind. Can you please call Graham and just ask him to make a routine patrol out there? It's important. Please."

Hearing the openly desperate tone in her daughter's voice seemed to make Mary Margaret relent. "All right," she said quietly. "I'll let you know." And hung up.

Emma sat tapping her fingers maniacally on her desk, heart pounding in her throat. She cursorily finished editing the essay (if there were any mistakes in there she hadn't caught, so help her God) ran it out on her crappy HP printer, and rammed a staple through that motherfucker like it had personally insulted her. Then, when she was running out of distractions (thank God Wendy was out as usual, or this would definitely be attracting attention) the phone rang again.

Emma snatched it up with trembling fingers. "Yeah?"

"Nothing," Mary Margaret reported. "There's nothing wrong. Graham drove by twice to make sure, when he heard it was you who'd asked me, and absolutely everything is fine."

"No. . . strange cars or anything? He hasn't seen anyone new in town?"

"Nope. Nobody." Mary Margaret's concern was plain. "Honey, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah." Emma fought the embarrassing little flutter her stomach had done, when she heard that Graham had taken special care to honor her request. She didn't know what to say or do next, but one conclusion was clear. Either Killian Jones was the world's foremost expert in covering his tracks, or he hadn't actually made it to Storybrooke.

(What did that mean? Had he crashed his car somewhere? Had Gold made him disappear?)

At the moment, Emma had to fight an absurd urge to grab her keys, race out, and get into her own car, a secondhand yellow Bug that she'd scrimped and saved to buy with her earnings from her summer job at Granny's. The transmission stuck, the window crank was broken, and the zero-to-sixty had to be measured with a calendar, but it did at least get her wherever she was going faster than walking. And four-hour drive or no four-hour drive, she couldn't ever remember being as gut-wrenchingly worried about someone as she was about Killian right now.

She'd also been too silent for too long, her mom's question still echoing down the phone line. She cleared her throat and coughed. "Yeah," she said weakly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thank Graham for me, will you? I'll talk to you soon."

And with that, not leaving Mary Margaret time for another word in edgewise, she hung up.

Emma slept badly that night, and awoke red-eyed and restless, which was just a fucking great way to start a fucking Monday. She was out of bed and dressed before she remembered that she didn't, after all, have Killian's class this morning, and was tempted to sink down, discard her clothes like snakeskin, and crawl back under the covers for the rest of the day. But instead she was speared through the gut with a sickening, seductive idea. If he was missing, she had to go back to his office and see what else was in that envelope.

To the accompaniment of a sleepy mumble from Wendy, telling her to keep it down, Emma grabbed her satchel and hurried out. It was the first of October, and the campus was now in the full flush of its autumnal glory, so crisp and picture-perfect that she fully expected to run into a promotional photographer working on the next glossy brochure – and, in what would have been more amusing if she wasn't in such a hurry, she was indeed corralled by just one such individual asking her earnestly to pose for a few "candid snaps." This wasn't the first time this had happened; Emma, being tall, blonde, and quite pretty, apparently made a good reason for prospective students to consider BC. She couldn't think of a good way to turn him down; besides, being a film student, he was probably one of Jefferson's buddies and Alice would want her to be nice to him. So she sat under a golden-leafed oak and pretended to read a book while he snapped a few shots, thinking the entire time how much she would like to kill him.

When that was finished, Emma gave him a fake name and bolted off, reminding herself not to run like the cops were after her as she veered up to the front doors of Stokes Hall. She bought something at the vending machine to dispel suspicion, then drifted casually up the three flights of stairs to Killian's office, gnawing at the Apollo candy bar.

It was locked again, of course, but this time she'd brought the heavy-duty stuff, the pick Leroy had given her for her eighteenth birthday (on strict injunction not to tell her parents about it). It hadn't been that hard to get in with the credit card, so this was even more cake. The door swung and clicked open, and Emma, after a nervous glance down the hall – she couldn't be entirely sure that someone hadn't stuck their head out in curiosity – sidled into the office and shut it smartly.

Killian hadn't done much more unpacking than the last time she'd been in here. He seemed to be extracting oddments from boxes whenever he felt the need for them, and then putting them back or not as it suited. It gave her the strong sense that this man had spent much of his life in flux, rarely putting down roots somewhere, always ready to pick up and move again at the drop of a hat. If he'd gotten a job here, that might imply he was intending to stay. . . or did it?

Emma swallowed down a fresh surge of nervousness, then moved across the floor and knelt by the desk, industriously picking the lock on the bottom drawer. She was relieved that he hadn't installed any more high-tech security, which meant either that he didn't fear a repeat appearance from her, thought she would be all too eager to be done with him, or that –

She pulled the drawer open, and felt her heart drop like a stone.

It was empty. Where the manila envelope had lain, there was nothing. Not even a –

Wait.

There was something that made her frown and squint at it. It looked like there might be a false bottom to the drawer; a look at the outside and then the inside confirmed (possibly the first time all semester she had been grateful for the required math class she was slogging through) that the volumes didn't match up. She slid her hand in and ran her fingers delicately around the edge, groping around until she thought she found –

Yes.

A click, and the catch sprang, booting up the panel. She removed it, looked down – and stared again.

There wasn't anything here either, but what had been there was extremely visible by its absence. A specially molded velvet box, like the kind you'd put a flute in, except this was no flute. It was shaped to fit a. . . she touched it as if to be sure. . . a hook.

Emma could feel her brain attempting very hard to shut down, and she struggled just as hard against permitting it. It wasn't a little fishing hook either, but a serious hook, like something that a pirate would wear in a cheesy film, like a. . .

And just then, as she struggled to assimilate the evidence, it fell on her like a rock.

Oh God. This was way worse than she thought. The fact that he'd labeled his file "Crocodile," the way he was convinced that Mr. Gold was a killer, the reference to how he'd been looking for Gold much longer than Emma could imagine, the way he was fascinated with her research project about pirates, the mysterious, broody air, the strange scar around his left wrist, and now the fucking hook. . . he was actually crazy. He had some kind of psychotic delusion about actually being Captain Hook, maybe some kind of persona he'd taken on in his grief at losing Milah. . . Milah Gold, the pawnbroker's wife, the woman who might not even exist, who – Emma was now sure – Killian was convinced that Gold had murdered. She'd watched Peter Pan endlessly as a kid; it had been her favorite Disney movie, her favorite fairytale. She wasn't sure how exactly this worked, but Killian had somehow borrowed that entire mythology to deal with whatever trauma had happened to him. . . Captain Hook, the pirate who wanted revenge on his crocodile. . .

Emma's chest felt tight. She sat back on her heels, half-wishing she hadn't looked at all. If this was true, and Milah Gold had actually existed, and had been in love with Killian. . . and then Gold had killed her and removed all the evidence. . . her parents were right. This was way over her head. Neal and his Russian roommates were nothing against the dangerous waters, the stranger tides, she was now wading into. She should just quit while she should, call the police, and unveil whatever clandestine gears were grinding under the surface here.

She really should. Even if it was uncertain when or if she'd see Killian Jones again, she couldn't let that stop her. At best, he was a masterfully charming con man who had operated by a mercenary's sensibilities for most of his life, fixated on a long-ago murder that might not even have happened. At worst, he was a ruthless killer and schizophrenic manipulator living under a completely assumed identity, no better than the man he was apparently devoted to taking down. But what he'd said to her. . . "Why didn't I phone the police, or the FBI, or any one of a thousand other commonsensical solutions? I would like you to ask yourself that question, my dear, and then several dozen more."

Emma shut the drawer with a bang. She felt like she was going to throw up, and didn't want to do it on his things. But as she was getting to her feet, the office door opened.

For a horrifying, heart-stopping moment, she was certain that it was Killian Jones (was that even his name?) himself. But it wasn't. It was that other professor, the one who'd caught the two of them alone together in the classroom on Wednesday. He was looking confused and suspicious, and his expression only grew darker upon viewing Emma. "Miss? May I help you?"

"Uh. . . hi." Emma tried to retrieve her lock pick with her foot. This was not good. This was so not good. "I was just looking for. . ."

"Miss," he said again. "Professor Jones is off campus today. His class is canceled."

"I. . . should have checked my email, huh?"

"That," the other professor agreed, "or let a locked door stop you." He paused, then said, "Miss, if you'll consider taking a bit of advice. . . I, well, I saw both of you the other day. I'm sure you're a promising student, and you have a bright future ahead of you. I would just. . . be careful about your choices."

"That wasn't what it looked like," Emma blurted, mortified. Especially since it very nearly had been. "I'm so sorry, Professor. . .?"

"Isaacs, Jim Isaacs. All right, you seem like a nice girl and I don't want to jump to conclusions. So how about you just leave this here, and I'll let it go this once?"

"Yes, sir," Emma squeaked. "Thank you."

He nodded in acknowledgement, but didn't quite take his eyes off her. She could feel him judging, weighing up, trying to decide if he had made a mistake or not. Then, after the longest, most nerve-shredding moment of her life, he turned and left.

Emma was so frazzled after that that she barely remembered to make it to Core and turn in the paper soaked with her sweat, blood, and tears. When she got out afterwards, even though it was Monday night, she didn't care. She fished out her phone and called Neal.

He answered on the last ring, sounding wary. "Yeah?"

"Hey, um, it's me." Emma bit her lip. "How about we just forget about the talking thing for now, and go somewhere tonight and get drunk?"

Neal sounded as if he couldn't believe his luck. "Really?"

"Yeah. Really." Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. "You choose. I'm game for anything."

"Sweet! I knew you'd come around! Okay. Pick you up at eight."

Emma killed the call with her thumb, then went to dinner and tried to make at least an effort to eat something; she didn't want to drink on an empty stomach. Then she somehow managed to make it back to the dorm without walking into any fellow students or lampposts, and put the expected effort into doing her hair and makeup. She felt like a caveperson, peeling off layers of primordial grime.

Any hour specified by Neal always meant that he could be trusted to show up at least twenty minutes later, and Emma didn't bother heading out into the chilly night until 8:17. The wind nipped at her legs in their sheer black pantyhose; she'd decided to wear something to show them off. Maybe it was just wanting to run from her worry, but she was feeling a little reckless tonight.

Sure enough, it was 8:24 by the time headlights belted into sight on St. Thomas More Road and rattled to a halt as Neal's car, an early-eighties Plymouth that Emma had taken one look at and promptly dubbed Puff the Tragic Wagon. She dashed across the grass and ducked into the passenger seat, then pulled the belt over her shoulder as he accelerated. "Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise, babe." Neal grinned. "But I think you're gonna like it."

Emma held her tongue as they left campus, heading out into downtown Boston. The Red Sox were in the playoffs, and Game 1 of the ALDS was happening tonight, so there were plenty of people out, congregating in sports bars or restaurants or clubs, and Emma hoped that Neal's surprise didn't have something to do with that. She liked baseball, but didn't want to hover at his side while he tossed down beers and insulted the manager's pitching changes. This being Boston, spectator sports were the chief factor in determining the civic mood, and believing oneself far more capable of performing the job than highly paid professionals was the civic pastime.

It, however, looked as if something different was in the offing. They headed into the hipster section of downtown, with its avant-garde industrial tenements, organic food stores, fair-trade clothing boutiques, and hole-in-the-wall clubs (none of which, God forbid, played mainstream music). One of these, apparently, was their destination. Neal inserted the Plymouth into a parking space that on first view should not have physically been able to contain it, and as they headed inside, Emma caught a glimpse of the headlining act. Tiger Lily and the Lost Boys.

After everything that had happened earlier, her guess that Killian thought he was Captain Hook, this was just the thing to unnerve her. She stopped short on the sidewalk, having a wave of second thoughts, but Neal already had her by the wrist and was pulling her inside.

A wave of solid noise hit Emma broadside, so she had to lip-read the bouncer when he asked for ID. Her twentieth birthday was in three weeks, so Neal had made her a fake, and it was always a slightly tense moment when it went under the blue light, but someone who sold weed was crackerjack at covering his tracks. The bouncer handed it back and motioned them in.

Strobe lights swept and flashed, and the sheer wet heat of the crowd assaulted Emma from every side. She thought she liked the music – the lead singer was a bombshell, a tall girl with flawless chocolate skin, dark eyes, and straight black hair swept off her neck in a gilted clasp. She was wearing a faux-Indian outfit, apparently in nod to her stage name, and her bandmates were a bunch of grungy adolescents whaling on the drumset, acoustic guitar, and synthesizers; these, then would be the Lost Boys. Probably introduced with some joke about never growing up, since that was what you tried not to do in college. Flying back to Never Never Land.

A queer, giddy lightheadedness took hold of Emma. It was still stifling hot in the club, but she felt cold all over, and didn't protest when Neal handed her a drink. She tossed it down in a few slugs, feeling the alcohol burning her throat, and reached for another. She drank that one as well. Untouchable and untouched, floating through the sea of people like a dreaming butterfly. The lights fell through her as if she was made of crystal. The band spun out their notes like silvered threads, piercing her skin and lifting her up toward the ceiling. Not caring, not thinking, turning into the tide of humanity like a starfish swept out to sea. Heat. Brilliance. Crescendo.

And then, as simply and easily as a candle being blown out: darkness.

Everything hurt.

Everything hurt like a bitch.

Oh God, had she ever been that drunk?

Slowly, shakily, trying to ignore the sunlight beating with personal malice on her eyelids, Emma fumbled to either side of her, finding sheets and quilts. She was in a bed, she was in someone's bed. She couldn't remember what had happened last night. She knew she'd been drinking a lot, probably more than she should, but someone must have – this wasn't her bed, and her panic started to increase, banging in her skull like an irate dwarf with a pickaxe.

With the greatest effort known to man, she opened her eyes.

The light speared through her like a pneumatic drill, and she whimpered and shut them again. Her throat was as dry as a bone, her tongue thick and cottony, and she doubled up and tried to retch, but there wasn't anything to come up. Her bare legs felt like noodles, and. . .

Fuck. Fuck. What? Fuck.

Emma groaned, whimpered again, and forced her eyes open long enough to tell that she at least recognized the bed: it was Neal's. Her bra and panties were on the floor, and her clothes as well. Had she. . . had they. . .? Nothing. It was all a terrifying blur.

"Hey babe, you okay?"

His voice from the door startled her so badly that it made her jump almost off the bed, making her head hurt even worse. She moaned and covered her eyes, falling flat on her back, feeling like she had been beaten. "Neal. . ." Her voice was thin, a husk. "What did. . . last night, what did. . ."

He looked confused. "What about last night?"

"Did I do that?" Emma pointed to her things scattered on the floor. "What happened?"

Neal raised both hands. "Okay, quit yelling at me, all right? You said yes!"

"I did?" Emma didn't remember saying anything. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't even know this was a problem." Neal was starting to look somewhat panicked. "We bailed around 1 AM and headed back here, and you were wasted and being all flirty, so I asked you if you wanted to and you said yes. What was I gonna do, give you a questionnaire? I was happy you were finally in the mood again, after all the run-around you were leading me on earlier. I thought it was fine, okay?"

"I just. . . me being totally drunk didn't look like a problem to you?"

"Hey!" Neal jerked back. "Those drinks weren't jumping down your throat by themselves. I'm not the bad guy here, Emma. I asked and everything, and you said yes."

Emma opened and shut her mouth, at a loss for words. Worst of all, she couldn't confirm or contradict him; she simply did not remember. This barely felt like the real life, as if she was still in the hyperrealistic dreamscape from last night, floating off like a runaway balloon. She wanted to get up and flee, but she was still naked in his bed, her clothes on his floor where he had put them, and she couldn't think how. She just remained mute, stricken. Now came the part where he told her he'd make it up to her.

He didn't say anything. He stared at her. She stared back at him. And then, since she was hung over as almighty fuck and figured that if he didn't owe her this now, he never would, she went for broke. "Why are you scared of Robert Gold?"

Neal tensed. He wasn't very good at a poker face. "The fuck are you talking about?" he finally croaked.

"Robert. Gold." Emma shoved herself upright, fighting her reeling head, clasping the covers tightly over her chest. "You're scared of him. That's why you live here with your three Russian roommates. So in case he ever turns up, they can fight him off and you can make a break for it. I'm – I'm not stupid, you know. You flipped out when I mentioned his name at Hillside that one day back in September. I just want to know why – "

"Shut up!" Neal barked. His face had gone as pale as hers, his fists clenched. "I don't know who told you that, but they better stop talking about things they don't know anything about. I can't believe this, Emma. I thought we were over this, and now you're digging it up to throw in my face? Are you punishing me or what?"

"No!" Emma pulled the quilt off, wrapped it around herself, and half jumped, half fell out of his bed, gathering up her clothes with fumbling fingers and dodging past him to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her and locking it. She dressed in a shaking, shivering mess, hearing him yell at her from outside that this wasn't done, he wanted to know who had told her this, he wanted to know what she knew about him. She was sore and scared and angry, angrier than she could ever remember being, at anyone. How dare he. How dare he.

By the time she finally unlocked the door and edged out, he had stopped yelling and was looking contrite. Apologizing for scaring her, apologizing for last night, apologizing for pretty much anything under the sun he could think of, as if he was terrified that she was finally once and for all going to leave him, as if something about him was a lost boy in a very real and present way. She didn't care. She grabbed her purse and keys and coat, shoved past him, and limped down the stairs and out into the morning. Oh God. She had to get back to campus in forty minutes for her math class. She'd have to catch the train. There was a station four blocks away, which was normally no problem but sounded completely impossible in her current state.

Every step hurt. Emma walked hunched, bent over, wanting to just crawl into the gutter and die. Her hair was dirty, her teeth were unbrushed; there was a foul, unfamiliar taste in her mouth.

Smart lass, hard worker. You must be very proud.

God, if her parents – or Killian – could see her now. They sure wouldn't think that anymore.

God, where was Killian? Where was he?

Just then, as Emma was rocking on her toes and trying to work up enough momentum to cross the street, she heard a car behind her, slowing and then stopping. A power window rolled down, and a young woman's voice called, "Excuse me, are you all right?"

Emma turned, slowly and clumsily as a statue coming to life at midnight, and realized to her shock that she recognized the driver. It was the singer from the band last night, Tiger Lily, who out of her costume and makeup didn't look much older than a college student herself. She was wearing a casual track suit and her hair was scooped in a ponytail, but she still had that exotic, arresting beauty. Somebody, somewhere, was going to sign her to a record deal one day.

"Here." The young woman reached over and opened the passenger door. "Do you need a lift? I'll take you wherever you need to go. Get in."

The old axiom about not accepting rides from strangers had been drilled as thoroughly into Emma's head as any kid's, but right now she was dead on her feet, and the young woman didn't look like an axe murderer. Any excuse to curtail her current walk of shame would be gratefully welcomed. "Thanks," she mumbled. "I, uh, can you take me to Boston College?"

"Sure." The young woman put the car in gear. "Do you need me to call anyone for you?"

"No, I'm fine. Really. Thank you." Emma expelled a shaky breath. She had never felt less fine in her life. "I'm Emma, by the way. Emma Nolan."

"It's nice to meet you, Emma." The car rolled forward, up the hill, into the breaking morning. "I'm Tamara."