Chapter 6

Attempting to take a test on differential equations was bad enough at the best of times. Attempting to take a test on differential equations with the hangover from hell was clearly Satan's favorite sitcom. "Ideas in Mathematics" was the soft option, the one designed for liberal arts students who'd woken up one fine morning, realized they needed to take a math class to graduate, and had a panic attack, and until now, Emma had been muddling along at more or less a B average. Staring at the squiggling symbols on the page, however, she might as well have been trying to read ancient Coptic. She scribbled a few aimless answers on the ones she halfway recognized and completely bullshitted the rest. No more drinking on weeknights. No more drinking period. At least, not if it involved Neal. Whatever the fuck the motherfucker had thought he was fucking doing last night, he was in for a really big fucking surprise.

Emma handed in her test with the sour, sinking sensation that she'd just completely flunked it, and fled into the breezy midmorning. Tamara – she'd never gotten a last name – had refused her offers of money or any other repayment for giving her a ride back to campus, and Emma wondered if there was any way to track her down, at least send her a text or something. But the other young woman had already vanished, and Boston was a big city. The chances of accidentally running into her again were pretty small.

Well, I'm not going to put myself in that position again, anyway. Emma strode down the path, having some notion of dropping by the Eagles' Nest, the deli in the Commons, and grabbing a sandwich, even though eating was the last thing she felt like doing. But just as she was turning in, she heard the sound of a motorcycle revving down Beacon Street. A man's voice called, "Emma Nolan?"

What the – ? Adrenaline spiking, she spun around, just in time to see him bringing the bike in to idle at the curb. He was clearly straight from central casting for bad boys: leather jacket, distressed jeans, boots and dark stubble and blue eyes and cleft chin and some kind of weird wooden box strapped on the back of his ride. Seeing her staring, he said again, "Emma?"

"Oh no. I don't know who the hell you are, but I have nothing to say to you. Get lost, weird stranger." She took several large steps backwards, eyeing up the location of the nearest emergency phone. Had Neal sent him after her to – or had Mr. Gold, or someone –

He shook his head. "That wasn't very polite."

"I'm sorry." Emma reached into her book bag and took a firm grip on the can of mace in the bottom, sensing that it was imminently about to be called for. "Do we know each other?"

"No," he said frankly. "But we were supposed to. My name's August."

"It's nice to meet you, July. And you just suddenly decided that today was a great day to come prancing into my life?" Mary Margaret would despair if she heard her only daughter being such a smart-ass, but Emma was in no mood to suffer fools right now. Especially mysterious men who rode up on Harleys and somehow knew her name. It was too much coincidence to swallow. "Did Neal send you? Or one of his roommates?"

Mr. Month's confusion was plain. "Who's Neal?"

"My boyfriend. Actually, not really my boyfriend anymore, I don't know, but – " Emma flapped her free hand in total disbelief. The hell was she doing, chatting about her love life with this flake who could be from anywhere, to do anything? Her parents had warned her it was a dangerous idea to mess with Gold's business, but she would have remembered if she'd ever seen this guy before in Storybrooke. Unless he wasn't from there, but knew something, and –

"Emma, this is going to sound strange." August killed the bike and dismounted from it, turning to face her. "But it's why I'm here. I'm the only one who remembers."

Emma squinted at him like a suspicious hedgehog. That struck an uncomfortable note in her, especially considering what had happened last night, but she had recently not been doing well for herself by getting mixed up in the business of scruffy, mysterious heartbreakers. "I don't have anything I need to remember." A lie.

"That's a lie."

Fuck.

"All right then, amigo," she said. "That proves it. You're definitely one of Neal's buddies."

"Seriously, I don't even know who this Neal guy is!" His frustration was plain. He pushed off the bike and started toward her, holding out his hands. "Like I said, there's no good way to say this. But I need you to know who you really are and what you need to – "

That, however, was one crazy utterance too far. Emma closed her fingers around the can of mace, whipped it out, and unloaded full in his face, swinging her arm like a lawn sprinkler to ensure maximum exposure. He yelped, toppled backwards against his Harley, and went to his knees, coughing and sputtering, whooping and wheezing and swearing. While he was thusly incapacitated, Emma took the opportunity to make a break for it, and didn't stop until she'd reached her dorm, galloped up the stairs to her room, and crawled under the covers into bed. She pulled them up over her head, and did not get out again until that evening.

When the alarm went off on Wednesday morning, Emma – despite still feeling like a run-over bag of dog poop – didn't immediately maul it into oblivion. Instead, the realization hit her broadside that if Killian was back, she had his class in an hour. If he was there, it would answer several burning questions, while causing several dozen burning more. If he wasn't. . .

Either way, she had to find out. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and hurried down the hall to the suite bathroom; she hadn't had a shower in three days. But no matter how hot she ran the water, or how hard she scrubbed with her bath gel and lavender loofah, she didn't feel clean. There was some sort of grime that went deeper than her skin, no matter how much she insisted to herself that she was fine and she could take care of this and it was just a stupid teenage mistake, the sort of thing you'd laugh with your kids about in twenty years. Not something that made you think you really might be –

Emma's hand froze in midair. Oh God. Kids. Oh God. In the middle of everything else, she'd completely forgotten to ask if they – if Neal, to be accurate – had used protection. They always did, so she couldn't think why this time would be any different, but she'd been drunk out of her mind (drugged?) and he had been none too sober himself. She certainly hadn't taken her pill for several days, and she couldn't remember how late was too late to get Plan B. She'd have to call and ask him, and kill her if that was the one thing she couldn't stand to think of doing right now.

It's all right. It's fine, it has to be fine. She repeated it in her head like a mantra, frantically scrubbing shampoo into her scalp and combing conditioner through her ends. If she just got a little cleaner, if she could just take this skin off, if she could go back, if she could not make this mistake, if she could be smarter and grown-up and wary and on her guard, to build up walls and see through guys' bullshit and know the way the world worked. Anything.

And that, suddenly, was what did it. She slid gently down the wall to sit on the floor of the shower, almost embarrassed by the noise she was making: gulping, wrenching, backbreaking sobs. She hadn't cried like this since. . . since ever. She'd always been emotionally self-controlled and reserved and had never been into throwing fits about things; she just shrugged and moved on. If it hurt, tough titties. It would get better. But this hurt in a way she didn't even have words for, couldn't understand, and all she could do about it was cry. It made her even angrier.

Emma sobbed for a few minutes, letting the tears wash down the drain with the soapy water. Then, still biting her lip, she crawled upright, turned the shower off, and staggered out into the steamy bathroom. She'd noticed that a lot of girls who professed to be completely unconcerned with their looks, or had gone au naturel before, had started styling their hair and wearing full makeup and jewelry to Killian's class. Much as it annoyed her to admit, she was guilty of the same thing. But today she only had time for eyeliner, mascara, a few spackles of foundation, and a sloppy French braid. With that, seriously wondering if she would drive home today if he didn't show up, she groaned and gimped out.

Mist was rising among the trees, giving the golden morning light a translucent quality as if it was shining through a looking glass. Emma belted her black woolen jacket tighter and tucked her scarf in, then headed down to Gasson Hall, heart pounding so loudly that she was sure everyone could hear it. She expected to be shocked as she reached for the classroom doorknob. She'd step in and he would be –

He was there.

Emma sucked in a breath she hadn't even known she needed, feeling her lungs expand painfully as she stared at him. He had his back to her, writing on the chalkboard, wearing a casual sport coat and a pair of jeans that did sinful things to her imagination (and everyone else's, to judge from the half-dozen undergraduate female gazes fixed lustfully on their professor's ass). She'd never noticed before, or else he hadn't worn it, but there was a silver earring dangling from his right ear, a tiny flake of ruby catching the light. Likewise, there were at least three rings on his right hand, chunky vintage things that would have been snapped up instantly at a garage sale. He couldn't have looked more like a rock star masquerading as a professor if he'd tried. Or a pirate.

Emma remained in the doorway long enough to give herself a stern lecture on the utter necessity of not getting entangled with any more of these disturbing and exquisite male creatures that were popping up in her life right now like Whack-a-Mole. She'd seen the hiding place for that hook. If anyone had killed anyone, it was probably him. But she was already emotionally vulnerable from everything earlier, and so she had no time to guard against the thought that she had never in her life been so relieved to see anyone. Whatever had happened. . . but maybe she had been completely mistaken, and he had gone to Ireland. After all, there was no proof to say it was Storybrooke. Just her guess, her paranoia, her awareness of him, breathing the same air.

Shaking her head stupidly, like a concussed rhinoceros, Emma edged inside and took her usual seat. But she couldn't look away from him, and when he finally turned around, sparking an instant rush to pretend they hadn't been staring on the part of the female students, she wasn't quite fast enough. His blue gaze caught hers. He stared at her coolly, and the ghost of a smile curled his lip. Then, as she was starting to overload from the possibility of whatever the hell that meant, he glanced away and calmly called the room to order.

Their research projects were supposed to be turned in on next Monday, but he told them that as they had missed a session, he was extending the deadline to a week from today. This was cause for a lot of relieved sighs, and he proceeded to teach a completely ordinary class. Emma kept her head down again, dutifully scratching notes, reminding herself to actually start typing that project before all her papers disappeared. The last thing she needed was another 4 AM freakout in the computer lab.

When it was over, she stuffed her things into her backpack and once more tried to summon the stomach to call Neal and press for details about Monday night. Failing, she tried not to have visions of the other weirdo rolling up on his motorcycle the instant she set foot outside, hell-bent on revenge for having gotten a faceful of pepper spray. Fuck, this was already shaping up to be the worst week of her life, and she hadn't –

"Miss Nolan?"

Oh God. It had just gotten worse.

"Oh," she stammered, calculating the likelihood of a Tunguska event in the next ten seconds. Slim. "Hi."

He studied her without immediately answering. The impact of that intense blue gaze was no joke; she could barely look him in the eye. Surely he wasn't going to go crazy or turn into a werewolf or anything like that in the middle of Gasson Hall. "Do you have a moment?"

Fuck. No. This guy was worse news than that August character. "Okay."

He smiled. "Come, lass. You'll walk me back to my office?"

Emma was unable to think of a plausible deflection at short notice. "Okay."

They started down the stairs, not quite looking at each other. She could hear the chatter of fellow students, the chiming of the great bells in Gasson's gothic tower high above, her own breathing. It would be extremely awkward to run into Professor Isaacs right now; she hoped he was already safely in the classroom. She tried to think of something witty to say, then reminded herself that the more distance from Killian – Professor Jones, god damn it! – the better. So she just stumped along beside him like a mute, as they reached the ground floor and emerged into the broad plaza of Middle Campus. Fallen leaves were starting to cover the steps in a fractured golden mosaic, and they crunched under Emma's boots, making her feel slightly better. "So, I hope everything was taken care of with your family emergency?"

He shot her a narrow look – then unexpectedly grinned, but with an edge. "Actually, no."

"Oh?" She hadn't succeeded in keeping the biting undertone out of that, and to judge from the way he glanced back at her again, he'd noticed. "Why not?"

"Something we can talk about in a moment, aye?" He waved to someone, but didn't break stride as they headed down to Stokes, inside, up the stairs to his office. She hesitated, hanging back on the threshold, not knowing entirely what it meant to step across it, but knowing if she did, something was going to seriously and permanently change.

"Come, lass," he said, seeing her expression. "I don't bite. . . much."

Emma took a deep breath. They could keep skirting around each other, dodging in a way that was certainly going to fan the suspicions of Professor Isaacs or anyone else who had taken note of the far-from-chaste glances they had been shooting at each other, or she could pull herself together and try to deal with this like an adult. She stepped in.

He shut the door behind her, and turned toward her as if about to accuse her of something, but instead he frowned. Softly he said, "You've been crying."

"H-have I?" She thought she'd done well enough with the makeup to disguise the evidence of her nuclear meltdown in the shower, and she was startled at how easily he'd seen through her mask. "It's. . . not important."

"Come on," he said again, that Irish lilt he put into it making it sound halfway like a croon. "No hurry. You look as if you could use an ear to vent to. And since I'm the one that's dragged you here, it seems the least I can do for you in return."

"Just. . . relationship drama," Emma answered at last. "Nothing I want to bother my professor with."

He gave a small, crooked smile, acknowledging the fact, but a darkness swept over his face like a thundercloud. "That Neal bloke again?"

"Yes."

Killian shook his head and muttered something extremely uncomplimentary under his breath. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the swan necklace on its chain, dangling it in front of her and jerking it back when she made a grab for it. "Ah, Miss Nolan. Gently there. I'd give it back, but you broke our deal."

"Our d – ?" Smart, Emma. Really smart. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you?" He smirked, flicking the tip of his tongue along his teeth in a way that made her lightheaded. If he was aware of how many taboos they were transgressing right now – something which she would bet anything he was – he seemed to be taking deliberate pride in doing it. "Broke into my drawer again. That ringing any bells?"

"I. . . figured out a few things, yeah."

"And?" His gaze was more intent than ever. "What was that?"

"You think you're a pirate. Captain Hook, to be exact." Oh God, were you supposed to confront a madman with his delusions, or would that make him violent? Why hadn't she gotten the dean involved or something? "You're hunting a crocodile, but you really mean Mr. Gold."

To her astonishment, this didn't occasion an angry denial or a weak attempt to cover his tracks. Instead he cocked his head and stared at her, just stared at her, until a broad, dazzling smile flowered on his face. "Bloody hell, lass. You are a sharp one."

"What?" That wasn't what he was supposed to say. And somehow she had moved back toward him, instead of away. "I've just told you that I think you're potentially psychotic and have a personality disorder, and you're my professor and this conversation is ten kinds of wrong already, and you aren't going to. . .?"

"Aren't going to do what, love?" His accent was broadening again, as if he was perfectly comfortable – perhaps too comfortable, considering the easy way that endearment had slipped out. "I suppose you would know it, considering you're from there."

"From where?"

"Storybrooke." His smile slowly faded to a frown. "I presumed that since you'd sorted it about me, you'd got an inkling as to the rest of it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"So it's true." He regarded her curiously from under his long dark lashes. "None of you remember."

I'm the only one who remembers, August the bad-news-bears Harley-rider had protested. Before she pepper-sprayed him.

"I remember just fine." Emma needed to get out of here, but she was still transfixed, caught in his eyes like a snake charming a bird. "I haven't forgotten anything. Look, this is all. . . very. . . fascinating, but. . . tell me. Did you go to my hometown this past weekend?"

She was caught completely off guard by another of those dazzling smiles, which she really shouldn't have subjected herself to at such close range. "Ah. As I said. Sharp as a blade."

"What? So you were?"

"I tried," he corrected. "I thought the necklace would be enough. It wasn't."

"Enough to. . .?"

"To find it. But it wasn't. Drove up to where it should be, right where your da said. But all that I saw was an empty road and a lonely wood. It's still cursed, then."

"What." Emma felt like she was submerged, moving in slow motion, suddenly aware that the known world was on the verge of crumbling out from under her. "Are. You. Talking. About?"

"The curse," he repeated deliberately. "When I said earlier I'd have gone to Storybrooke if I could, didn't you think there had to be a reason for it? It must not have worked precisely the way it was meant to, if you're here, if you grew up normally. But it still keeps outsiders away."

"What curse? What do you think you're talking about?"

They were even closer now, leaning against the end of his desk and facing each other, as she looked up at him and he down at her, an unspoken, wordless sympathy in his gaze. "I know," he said, barely above a whisper. "I've forgotten as well."

Emma opened and shut her mouth like an idiot. He was crazy, he was trying to turn her crazy, he was spouting off crazy things faster than Fox News, and yet, in bald contradiction to everything she had expected, she didn't feel threatened. She didn't feel wrong. The danger that was so thinly veiled under his professional persona had come to the surface more than once in the short time she'd known him – more than once in this freaking conversation – but she'd caught it, deflected it, played it back, with an assurance that seemed to be completely lacking in the rest of her life right now. She didn't feel like an idiot with him. She didn't feel like she should dumb herself down, hold her tongue and be grateful for her loser boyfriend, like she did with Neal. She didn't feel inadequate, like she often did with Wendy no matter how much she loved her. She didn't feel like the little girl who needed her parents to hold her hand. She just felt like. . . Emma.

Academic ethics, honor codes, and common decency shrieked as they were swept aside. His fingers were ghosting along the back of her neck, and she could almost feel the crackle in the air as he fought not to actually touch her. She realized then that whatever this attraction was, it was decidedly not one-sided. He must have women from every walk of life throwing themselves at him, yet from all that, she was the one he'd taken notice of. He saw a spark in her, a potential, that she was only beginning to discover for herself. A strong woman, not a shy girl, not a –

"Miss Nolan," he mumbled, sounding as if he was drunk. "I think you should go."

Emma thought this was quite true, approaching critical status in fact, and she opened her mouth again to tell him so. Instead, through absolutely no fault of her own, it moved forward and crashed into his.

He inhaled through his nose, a sharp shocked breath, and made a half-hearted attempt to shove her away. But instead it involved fisting his hand in the silky hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer with a sudden and shocking strength, her arms tangling around his back and her head turning to come into line with his, teeth scraping, lips warm and wet and open, tasting him like spearmint and smoke and something like sea salt, at home in his mouth, in his arms, breathing him in, the most exquisite and agonizing kiss she'd ever had in her life, the most –

And in that moment, behind her closed eyes, she saw something else.

Smoky, dreamy, faint and faraway, a hall lit by torches. Faceless soldiers in black – a man clutching her to his chest, brilliant flowers of blood on his white shirt – why was he so large, or she so small? Heard the roar and clatter of steel and something else, something coming, huge and dark and terrible, thundering toward them like a breaking wave – the man still had hold of her, he was crawling, he was crying – wherever he was trying to reach, he couldn't – something ahead of her, something like a tree or a wardrobe or both –

That darkness still roaring, tumbling, consuming, devouring, twisting into her flesh, blacking her out, and then she was gone and so was the man and there was nothing but –

Emma's eyes bolted open, and she ripped back from Killian with a gasp. "What the hell was that?" She lurched away from him as if he was radioactive. "The hell did you just do – ?"

He didn't answer. He was bent double himself, hands on his knees, struggling for breath. Had he seen it too, or – ? But she was so utterly unnerved by it, by everything, that she wasn't about to stay around for a pleasant game of Twenty Questions. Instead she fairly fled to the office door, ripped it open, and sprinted down the corridor beyond, fleeing from that terrible nightmare or memory, running from what had just happened between them, knowing that it shouldn't have happened at all. That was grounds for suspension at least, for both of them. As an untenured professor in his first semester on the job, it would be easy to sweep him aside, and for her –

Emma was panting as she burst out of Stokes, ran across campus, and hauled ass up the hill to Walsh. The first thing she saw was that there were something like five police cars outside it, making her, despite her current scattered mental state, roll her eyes; probably another fake fire alarm. They'd been going off with such regularity over the past two weeks that someone had started a Facebook group called "BC Students Against The Fire Alarms Going Off All The Fucking Time," which was not the most original name in the world, but conveyed the sentiment admirably. She was probably going to have to stand on the lawn until the fire department got here and cleared them to go back inside.

As she drew closer, however, Emma could see that there was some sort of checkpoint set up at the front doors. At least five uniformed Massachusetts state troopers were accompanied by just as many federal marshals, and one of them had Boston ATF stenciled in white letters across his navy jacket – Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Oh shit. This was serious stuff. Tell her that someone hadn't been stupid enough to brag to their dumb-butt buddies about –

"Miss." One of the marshals flashed his badge at her. "Special Agent James George. Can I see some identification, please?"

"Uh. . . sure." Suddenly nervous, Emma unslung her backpack, fumbled in her wallet, and extracted her driver's license. "Here."

He looked at it while she shifted from foot to foot, waiting for him to give it back. But he didn't. Instead he passed it to one of his colleagues, who inspected it, glanced up, and nodded grimly.

Agent George pursed his lips, reached for his belt, and removed a pair of handcuffs. "Miss Nolan, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to consult with an attorney and to have the attorney present during questioning; if you cannot afford one, one will be provided. If you decide to answer any questions now, you have the right to stop answering at any time. Knowing your rights, are you willing to answer my questions now?"

"I. . ." Emma was so stunned that she couldn't move, speak, squeak out a protest, anything, and she stood completely unresisting as he cuffed her. "I. . . I don't. . . I don't underst. . ."

"You are accused of trafficking with intent to distribute, approximately sixty-two pounds of marijuana, a Class 1 felony under Massachusetts state law. This carries a penalty of a mandatory minimum one-year jail sentence and a $10,000 fine." He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a warrant. "You are the owner of a yellow Volkswagen Beetle, make year 1962, Maine registration 221-STR?"

"Y. . . yes."

"We found everything in there. It's impounded for search. All right. Let's go."

"I – wait," Emma blurted out, panicking and dazed and the verge of tears. "I – I don't, you have the wrong person, I don't, I never have – how did you – "

"There was a tip called in last night. We've had a suspicion for a long time that somebody was running pot through here, but we could never find the ringleader. Not going to reflect well on the school, for sure, especially if the athletics program gets implicated. I'd say you're expelled." If there was even a trace of sympathy in the look he gave her then, it was gone at once. "Come on," he said again, escorting her to the cruiser. "Time to go."