The rating has in fact been changed to T for now, although I anticipate changing it back to M later... interpret that how you wish!

Chapter 9

Ludicrously, Emma's first thought was to run for it.

She could still make it. Leave the sword and bust out the back door, sprint across the yard, shinny up the fence and run away into Storybrooke. This was her home turf, she could definitely find somewhere to hide out until the heat blew over (and then. . . what?) She was sick of being busted by association and framed for shady guys' crimes, and God knew Killian had been stupid enough to deserve whatever was about to be unloaded on his leather-wearing, hook-slinging, bald-facedly-lying ass. But somehow, in the half a minute she had to do so, she didn't. It had been thirty seconds that convinced her to come after him, and thirty seconds that convinced her to stay. Whether it was right, easy, or none of the above, she had no idea.

Still, she didn't intend to be caught red-handed. She dropped the sword and kicked it under Gold's elegantly upholstered davenport, then turned to Killian and hissed at him, as heavy footfalls crossed the hallway and turned toward the parlor. Tell her he wasn't going to –

"Sheriff!" the voice called again. It was followed moments later by the sight of Graham Humbert, Storybrooke law enforcement in the flesh, in the doorway.

Emma swallowed hard. She'd had a ridiculous crush on him as a teenager, of course, which had only been curtailed by virtue of her leaving town to go to college, and one glance made all those old feelings rush up, the kind she'd spent many a late night angstily venting to her journal while listening to Evanescence. He looked the same as ever, with the mop of sandy curls and blue-grey eyes and perma-scruff, a talent he apparently shared with Killian. He was sporting his usual duds of jeans, jacket, and badge, although the latter was in his left hand so he could flash it in their faces, and his right hand was aiming a cocked and loaded gun. On sight of her, however, he holstered it like it was hot and put a heroic effort into answering the question of whether he could ever look stupid with shock. "Emma?"

"Um." She gulped. "Hi."

"Who are you now, mate?" Killian had clearly already taken notice of the way she had reacted, and he scowled suspiciously at the sheriff. "Was expecting someone a bit less. . ."

Graham raised an eyebrow.

"Of a ponce," Killian finished deliberately. "Can I bloody help you?"

"Matter of fact,you can." Graham, recovering from his discomposure with a professional's alacrity, removed the handcuffs from his belt and advanced menacingly on the pirate, apparently put off by the ponce comment. "You're breaking and entering, and I don't think I've ever seen you in town before, so there are quite a few questions I'll be needing to ask you."

"Actually," Emma blurted. "He's a. . . a friend of mine. This is just. . . it's just. . ." Oh fuck, what was it? "A really. . . bad game of Truth or Dare," she settled on at last, hideously embarrassed. "You know. . . college parties sometimes get carried away, and there, um, might have been some of the good cheer involved, and you know, he's Irish. . ." As if that explained everything. "I was actually following him here to. . . put an end to it, before anyone got hurt." She leveled a narrow glare at Killian, who gazed back without apparent perturbation. "Wasn't I?"

Graham's expression remained patently dubious. "When your mum asked me to patrol for intruders out here, I can't say I expected it to be you."

"Uh. No. Probably not." Irony, like karma, was a bitch. "But I promise, I can explain and – "

Ignoring her, Graham held out a hand. "Sir, I'll see some identification, please?"

Killian dug in his wallet and produced a Massachusetts driver's license.

"Bit old to be a student, aren't you?" Graham turned it over, studied the back, glanced at the photo on the front, and frowned, as if trying to compute how the mild-mannered, bespectacled academic, somehow managing to look like a dreamboat even in the DMV, could bear any sort of resemblance to the leather-clad schizoid of present acquaintance. "You're from Boston?"

"Live there, aye."

Graham scrutinized it a moment longer, glanced around the house (nothing was amiss except for the fact that they had broken into it, that had to count for something) and then made an executive decision. "Could be this is only a misunderstanding. But if so, I want to find out exactly how. If you'll just accompany me back to the station for a quick chat. . .?"

"Conscientious man of the law, aren't you?" Killian did not sound altogether approving. Not at all, in fact, and he made a motion to his breast pocket, where he had managed to hide the hook before Graham appeared. But Emma hissed at him, and he reluctantly dropped his hand. "What if I say no?"

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to use the cuffs." Graham held them out with a wry half-smile. "Just keep in mind, this is me asking politely."

"Fellow gentleman? Well, I'm not adverse to being tied up, in certain circumstances." Killian's eyes performed the briefest of sideways flicks toward Emma. "But I'll have to take the mulligan on this one, mate. No need even to go to the station."

"Very well. Then you'll explain right now." Graham put a hand casually on his hip, next to the gun holster. "As for you, Emma, I can't understand how even a college party could get so out of hand as to drive four hours here, but surely you need to get back to school?"

Emma squirmed. "I – don't have classes today."

"You'll be giving your parents a ring, then?"

She opened and shut her mouth far less intelligently than was to be expected of a student who'd gotten as much scholarship money as she had. "I don't think they're home."

With every feeble answer they gave him, Graham's eyes narrowed further, the unmistakable look of a man who had located a rat, but was still failing to nab it. "Why are you really here?"

"An accident," Emma insisted, at the same time Killian said, "The curse."

Graham looked utterly blank. "Come again?"

"The curse," Killian repeated. "The reason nobody can remember who they are, the reason I couldn't find this bloody place without Emma. Can't be sure if things are changing or not, and I can't reckon who you'd be, exactly. You do look faintly familiar, but I can't think why."

Graham was clearly waiting for the end of the sentence just so he could deny it, but instead, an extraordinary expression crossed his face. He started to say something, then shook his head. But Emma, exceedingly against her will, remembered what her mother had said, when she had called home in an attempt to get Graham patrolling out here (which was, of course, currently biting them smartly in the posterior). Mary Margaret had said something about Graham having strange dreams, and his apparent conviction that she, Emma, had something to do with them, that her presence or absence from Storybrooke had triggered them. Also that because of said dreams, he had helped her parents get into the locked records office, against legal protocol, in futile search of dirt on Gold.

Glancing at his face, she could see that he was likewise putting two and two together. "A curse, that's. . ." He shook his head again, but wasn't denying it as vigorously as might be expected. Instead he said, "Emma, why are you and your family after Mr. Gold? It's dangerous."

Killian looked stunned. "What, lass? You'reafter him too?"

"Too?" Graham glared at Killian. "What are you getting her mixed up in, mate?"

The scent of testosterone in the room was almost overwhelming – Graham and Killian in identical belligerent postures, one casually reaching for a gun and the other for a hook, and Emma saw that this was on the brink of getting out of hand. "Look," she intervened. "Graham. You did my parents a big favor the other day, with the records office. My mom said you took care to honor my request when you heard that I made it. And I was just wondering. . . why?

The sheriff, like all men of the law, had not expected to have the tables of questioning turned on him. He blinked, running a hand through his sandy curls. "I. . . it's not important, I'm sure, but ever since you've been gone this year, I've had these. . . these dreams."

"What sort?" Killian and Emma said in unison.

"Just. . . dreams. About wolves. Sometimes I'm with them, sometimes I'm only watching, but they're always there. They want to talk to me. Make me remember something. I. . ." At that moment, Graham recollected himself and cleared his throat sternly. "None of your business."

Killian grinned. "Ah. At least one of you in this place is starting to realize that nothing is what it seems."

Graham stared at him suspiciously, but Emma, who'd known him for most of her life, could tell that he desperately wanted to ask more questions, that he wasn't nearly as skeptical as he pretended, and that something the pirate had said was having an unfortunate resonance. She still had no idea how to get them out of this, however, and was just calculating the possibilities of acting sick or starting to cry or faking a faint, when Graham's face went suddenly and strangely slack. He jerked, pressing a hand to his chest, then said, "Actually, come on. I'm going to take you to the station after all."

"What?" Killian protested. "Here I thought we were bloody friends, not – "

"I don't have a choice!" Graham barked, startling both of them. "I just – I have to, all right? Come on, both of you. Let's go."

Emma shot a quick, desperate look at the sofa, under which she had kicked Killian's sword. She couldn't exactly bend down and pull out that thing, but if they left it here – a blaring siren to announce to Gold that someone, and a particular someone, had been snooping in his house –

Too late. They had to leave it. Oh God. That wouldn't come back to haunt them at all.

More or less compliantly, Killian and Emma followed Graham down the steps of the mansion to the sheriff's cruiser, idling at the curb. Compliantly enough, in fact, that Emma was furtherly mistrustful of what he was up to – did he want to get a better look at the station or something, figure out how to best plan for a break-in? But Killian behaved like a model citizen during the entire drive, radiating choirboy innocence, and when Graham pulled into the reserved parking spot, he exited the cruiser with no fuss at all. He offered Emma his hand, pointedly clipping Graham's similar attempt to do so, and after an eye-roll at both of them, she got out on her own.

The three of them headed into the sheriff's office, a place Emma had only been once in her life, with the awkward little underage drinking incident. It looked the same now as it had then; Graham was still bad at picking up his papers and files and used coffee cups and donut wrappers, and his brown leather bomber jacket was sprawled out on the desk. And behind it –

"Hello, Sheriff." Regina Mills rose to her feet, smiling. As always, not a black hair was out of place, her makeup was immaculate, and her business suit pressed and starched. "And. . . Emma? Emma Nolan! What on earth are you doing here, sweetheart? Who's your. . . friend?"

Emma had always been frightened of the formidable mayor of Storybrooke; she'd had too many childhood incidents with her, uncomfortably aware of the fact that Regina more or less openly hated her parents for no discernible reason, and she was promptly rendered tongue-tied. But Killian subtly shoved her behind him, an instinctive defensive maneuver that she didn't understand, and answered for himself. "Name's Killian Jones, my lady. Still."

Regina gazed back at him, so long and so coolly and so consideringly, that Emma found it suddenly impossible to believe that this was any kind of coincidence. Did they know each other? Was that what that look meant? It was certainly no kind of friendly, stopping an inch short of flatly challenging, loaded with old familiarity and open disdain. Killian kept his body between her and Regina, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet when Emma tried to get around him, and there could be no doubt that he was, consciously or unconsciously, shielding her from the older woman. But come on, Regina could be the Ice Queen, but she wasn't evil for God's –

Graham, meanwhile, had likewise noted their moment of mutual recognition. He glanced from Regina to Killian, baffled. "Did I miss something? Were you expecting him?"

"I wasn't. Last man in the world I would imagine turning up here. . . or perhaps not." Regina smiled again. "Well, as you can see, there's nothing here to interest you, and we'll make sure everything gets settled. No need to worry, just – "

"He was talking about a curse."

The voice caused everyone to look around in total confusion, until they discovered that the interruption had come from Graham. He appeared taken aback by his own brio, but doggedly forged ahead. "This. . . man, he was saying something about a curse. About something that made us forget who we are. And then this. . . compunction to come here, like it always is when you ask me to do something, I can never resist, I can only. . . it's a lie, isn't it? Or what? What is it, Regina?"

The mayor blinked. "Graham, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but I. . . things have been happening ever since Emma left town, and. . . I know it sounds crazy. Just tell me what's going on, and we can settle it."

"You've been working very hard recently, and you need a break," Regina said soothingly, patting Graham's hand. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Killian, cold and narrow. "Paid time off, rest and relaxation – it should do the trick. Storybrooke will be fine, it's not as if – "

Graham flinched, but seemed unable to pull away. Emma stared at all three of them. She wasn't sure why, but this had suddenly become a hell of a lot creepier than it was a moment ago, some dark, weirdly sexual undertone to the mayor's possessiveness, and how Graham couldn't look her in the eye. In a minute, she might even start to believe Killian's prattle about curses and things not being what they looked like and. . . no. It was still a lot of fancy tricks and nonsense.

It was Regina herself who broke the spell. "Well," she said, clapping her hands. "I don't want to cause a scandal for anyone, so let's just get this tidied up. Mr. . . . Jones, you'll go back to Boston with Emma, I'm sure? I know how much her parents have sacrificed for her college education, it would really be a shame if anything happened to ruin that. As you can see, there's nothing else for us to worry about, so. . . if you'll be on your way?" Then, as if just thinking of it, she added, "Oh! Let me get you something for the road. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Emma and Killian exchanged mystified looks, but waited as Regina disappeared down the hall and went out to her car. After about five minutes, she returned, with a piping hot pastry steaming up a plastic ziplock bag. "I was doing a bit of baking this morning, and I know it's a long drive to Boston. Here, my specialty."

Emma was furtherly puzzled, but took it. It looked like some kind of fruit turnover, it did smell heavenly, and if Regina was going to feed them and wish them well rather than press charges, she wasn't going to quibble with their miraculous good fortune. In fact, she was eager to get out of there before the mayor could change her mind, and although Graham looked as if he was desperately trying to signal Killian with his eyes, she grabbed him and pulled him out before the sheriff could ask any more incriminating questions. "Come on, let's go."

"So eager to go back, are we?" Killian stood on the front steps, still gazing back at the station. "You still think there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary here?"

"Okay, I'll admit that was weird, but Regina's weird. And she's right, you know. Gold's not here and therefore there's no reason for you to drop a firebomb into the middle of this place." What the hell Emma was going to do if her hypothesis was correct, and Gold was in Boston with her parents. . . oh God, no, she couldn't think about that now. "Can we please just go?"

"Suppose you can." Graham's voice came from the front door, startling them both. "Regina says so. Hop in the cruiser, I'll give you a ride back to your car."

Fifteen minutes later, Killian's black Audi had been retrieved from its parking spot on the street outside Gold's mansion, and under Graham's watchful eye, Killian and Emma obediently got into it and pulled away. Emma kept throwing glances back at the house, unable to forget about Killian's sword still hiding under the sofa, and then realized that this was in itself proof that something strange, some corrosive alchemy, had started to work in her thoughts during this long, surreal forty-eight hours. If it was all just a demented lie, if Killian was obviously not Captain Hook, if Gold was an innocent albeit brusque and hermitical eccentric, then why was she worried about him striking back? About knowing who that blade belonged to?

They headed out. Emma leaned back in her seat, wondering when this craziness was going to end, actually wondering if Killian's offer to make everything go away was still good – then reminded herself that it didn't matter. That offer was contingent on her stepping aside and letting him murder Gold, and she'd already decided that she wasn't going down that road. Not that it wasn't tempting, so tempting. But as bad as everything was, that would make it even –

Just then, they turned onto the main drag and drove past Storybrooke General Hospital. There was a car pulled up in front of the veranda. And in a day already filled with unpleasant surprises, Emma thereupon got another one.

Because she recognized the car. It was the silver Lexus that had picked her up when she was fleeing Neal's apartment on that miserable morning, after the concert and the club and the blackout and the fuckwit deciding it was a great opportunity to get some. The young woman named Tamara, the singer whose stage name was Tiger Lily, who'd given her a ride back to BC in time for her disastrous math test and then disappeared before Emma could thank her.

It was her. No mistaking it. The long black hair, the elegant, slender profile, the cool expression. Tamara was opening the back door and helping out another young woman, this one disheveled and dirty and confused-looking. A young woman with glossy brown curls and blue eyes, wearing a torn white hospital gown as if she'd escaped from this very establishment and tried to make a run for it. A young woman who, Emma realized in a further freezing blast of revelation, quite neatly fit the description for the person Killian had purportedly seen wandering in the woods, on their way into Storybrooke. The reason he'd parked and pulled over and gone to search.

Emma's reaction must have been audible, because Killian turned sharply. "What, lass? What?"

"I. . . no. Nothing." God, she needed to get a grip. It was perfectly normal and reasonable that Tamara could have come here, found the young woman in the woods, and tried to help her as she'd helped Emma. Emma, after all, had said that to Killian herself. People could come to Storybrooke if they wanted. They weren't cursed. That was ridiculous, even if it looked like Graham had momentarily been on the verge of believing it. It was fine.

(Was that how Tamara had crossed the town line? Was the young woman from here? Had she been in the hospital? For how long? But Emma hadn't heard of any accident or someone getting hurt or. . .)

No. She wanted to go back to Boston. She wanted her life again. She didn't want this shit.

Emma turned away, tightened her seatbelt, and fixed her eyes on the road ahead.

It took the better part of the afternoon to drive back to Massachusetts. Emma hadn't said a word about where she thought Gold had gone, not wanting to encourage Killian's delusions, but how easily he was willing to leave Storybrooke hinted ominously that he might just have arrived at the same conclusion. A knot of slimy, hard anxiety twisted in her stomach, and she dug her fingernails into the seat, tearing out pieces of leather. Regina's turnover had been thrown in her backpack, but she still didn't feel hungry. She hadn't really felt right since waking up in Neal's bed on that godforsaken morning. Who could blame her, what with everything?

She was afraid that they would find a federal drug squad waiting when, having fought through rush hour traffic, they finally pulled through the BC gates around five-thirty PM. It brought tears to her eyes to see it again; it looked as if nothing had changed, and everything would be fine. Shaky-kneed after her whirlwind adventure, she got out of the car and stood in the golden dusk, taking deep breaths. Then she turned to Killian. "Are they going to. . . like. . . throw me out of the dorms?"

"Not if you don't tell anyone you're in them." He shrugged. "If you do have a problem, come to me and I'll get in contact with my student who works in the Housing office. She won't be sad to do me a favor, if you follow."

Emma swallowed, nodded, and then, not really wanting to have anything further to do with him right now or possibly ever again, set off across campus. It looked more beautiful than ever, but she cringed at every shout, every passing student, waiting to be caught and apprehended. Finally, however, she made it to Walsh, swiped her ID card, held her breath, and let it out in a rush as the access light clicked green. She headed into the dorm, up the stairs, and into her suite, praying that Wendy, Alice, and Irene (their fourth roommate, who was something of a ghost) would be gone, as she felt nowhere near explaining anything.

Thank God, she had the place to herself. She headed into her room and threw herself on her own bed, unmade as always, shivering even though it wasn't that cold. Does anyone know? Has the entire administration been told? Are they going to arrest me if I go to class tomorrow?

She lay there as it got darker and darker, slanting shadows over the ceiling. She didn't dare go out and get dinner, and she was finally starting to feel hungry. But a ransacking of her mini-fridge turned up nothing but a week-old container of takeout Chinese that was beginning to smell off, so she wrinkled her nose and chucked it. She was just about to grit her teeth and face the music when to her abject relief, she remembered Regina's turnover.

It was cold in its plastic bag by now, but still appealingly flaky and fragrant when she pulled it out, and she let out a long breath. Oh, thank you sweet baby Jesus.

Emma pulled on a pair of fuzzy socks and padded over to her computer, wondering when (never) would be a good time to call her parents and tell them what was up; her cell phone had run out of battery hours and hours ago. They were probably beside themselves with worry, but. . . if Gold was with them, the moment she called them, it would draw them here like a magnet, here with him, here to where Killian was, and she just didn't. . .

Emma shook her head. She didn't feel ready for any of this. She would just surf the internet and look at pictures of cats with stupid captions, and feel better. One day, she would. That was the theory. So she curled her feet under her, opened a browser window, and, picking up the turnover, took a big bite.