Chapter 27

"My dear William." Killian's smile turned, if possible, yet more alarming. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, it has." Smee's eyes darted from the sword at his throat to the man holding it there, then back again, seemingly unable to decide which was more threatening. "But this isn't much of a position to do business from, Captain. . . if you'd. . . be so kind?"

"I'm thinking about it." Killian made no move. "First you're going to tell me how you find yourself in this line of work, again."

"Well, you have been gone for years. Some of us need to make an honest living. I've taken a good job with a certain organization, and whatever you're looking for, I'm sure we have something to suit your interests. You may even suit ours. We're looking for subcontractors – hired local talent, if you will. They chose me to expand operations into Neverland, and they'd be more than happy to take you on."

"I don't need a bloody job. I have one." Killian removed his sword and let Smee see him sheathe it, but in case his former first mate was under any delusions that he was out of danger, he casually drew a single drop of blood before he did so. "These employers of yours. . . who are they?"

"Proprietary information."

"Ah." Killian cocked a dark, expressive eyebrow. "So loyal. I can't recall that being one of your valorous qualities, but well. Time has passed. Are there more of them waiting out there, or did they truly send you in all alone?" He stalked closer. "If you no longer consider yourself bound by any sort of loyalty to me, surely it's understandable that I feel the same lack of it toward you?"

"Now, Captain. Let's not be hasty." Smee mopped his face with what appeared to be a pair of his grandmother's bloomers, touched the pinprick wound on his neck, and winced. "If you didn't want what I have to offer, you wouldn't have arranged this little rendezvous at all."

Rather than concede the point, Killian snorted.

"So, then." Smee, apparently encouraged by his head remaining in its accustomed place on his shoulders, sat up. "What can I procure for you?"

Killian hesitated, but of all the idiots to do business with in this or any realm, Smee was more or less the idiot he would have chosen. He knew how the man thought, which was a signal advantage, and while his reticence to disclose his current employer was frustrating, it was no more than a minor irritant. If they could get Killian back to his world, back to Emma, they could be Rumplestiltskin's entire family for all he cared. "I'm looking for a way out of here."

Smee glanced at the dark silhouette of the Jolly Roger anchored in the inlet, clearly puzzled as to why that would not solve the problem.

"Doesn't have the enchanted timbers anymore," Killian said tersely. "I used them to leave last time. And besides, even if I did have them, she needs a portal to sail through, and I have no way to make one. Can your mysterious friends help me with that?"

"Actually." Smee brightened. "It so happens that I know the location of a suitable quantity of magical wood."

This was more than Killian had expected, and he had to keep his heart from racing. "Where?"

"In the Enchanted Forest," Smee informed him, "in the ruins of Snow White's old castle. This is a closely guarded secret, of course, but my contacts in the industry have been running some tests on it, and could be it's just what the doctor ordered for everyone."

"What is it?"

"A wardrobe. They can't figure out how to work it, exactly, but if we used the wood to build into the Roger, then. . ." Smee's grin broadened. "Then we wouldn't have to, would we? We could just hop aboard, fix up a portal, and sail to the land without magic, free as a bird."

Killian had to take care. He had to, but it was dangling before him, fat and tempting as a low-hanging fruit. "Who's we? Last I looked, the ship was mine, and nobody's getting on it without my leave."

"About that, Captain." Smee scratched his beard. "In exchange for me getting you to the Enchanted Forest and procuring the magical wood for you, you'd be expected to take a few of the organization's agents with you when you go. You see, there's a small situation in that world. Two of their best operatives disappeared some years ago, and they're trapped. There's also the minor complication of a curse, preventing any of the normal channels from reaching them. This case needs to be handled, and – Captain – you'll watch – what you're doing. . .?"

Killian twisted his hook further in Smee's grubby neckerchief, causing his former first mate to emit a strangled wheeze. "I am watching very carefully what I'm doing. If you don't stop talking out both sides of your mouth, you'll have no sides to talk at all. Explain. Now."

"You didn't need to be so threatening about it," Smee sniffed, as Killian dropped him like a sack of potatoes. "All right, here. The organization I work for is very interested in retrieving its two trapped agents from a place called Storybrooke, Maine, and completing the mission on which those agents were assigned. The eradication of that town from the map, and everyone in it."

"Really?" Now that, Killian hadn't seen coming. "What do your apparently very terrifying employers have against the place?"

Smee shrugged. "Nothing, but the town owes its entire existence to a curse, built and sustained of the very blackest magic by the Evil Queen and Rumplestiltskin. It's wrong, unnatural, and evil, cannot be allowed to continue. If it went down. . ."

Killian began to see a multitude of possibilities. "Then so would Rumplestiltskin."

"Exactly, Captain." Smee grinned. "I knew you'd come around to my point of view."

Killian was silent, considering. This looked almost too good to be true. There was absolutely nobody in Storybrooke that he gave a damn about, and if his return could be accomplished by sending Gold to hell in a spectacular fury of flames. . . why not? It wasn't like before, he told himself. It wasn't as if he needed it to live, couldn't exist unless he saw it done. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to seize the chance if it was there. Take down Storybrooke, kill Gold, double-cross the agents (he was starting to think that he might just know who they were) and then book it to Boston to search for Emma (assuming she was still there and hadn't moved across the country, for which he couldn't blame her if so). Like as not he'd find her involved with some other man, shocked and unhappy by his return from the dead, but he didn't care. He had to see her. Even once. Even if only to bid her farewell forever.

Yet if not, if there was the slightest possibility. . . A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets. And he wanted her. Badly. In addition, if he helped dispose of Storybrooke, he'd free her from the burden of the curse. Allow her to live a normal life without a terrible destiny, rid of the crocodile's malicious shadow. What she never knew would never hurt her.

"You know, Mr. Smee," he said consideringly. "I do believe that I find myself persuaded."

"Excellent."

"So. By what means are we getting to the Enchanted Forest? I want to see it."

"I didn't bring it with me. Otherwise, you'd knock me over the head and nick it for yourself."

"Come now. Am I really so untrustworthy as all that?"

"Quite a bit more so, saving your pardons, Cap'n. But I promise you won't be disappointed. So here's the plan. You ought to be able to sail the Roger through a portal from Neverland to the Enchanted Forest – there's enough magic on both sides that it should make up for the lack of enchanted timbers. It's just if you tried to sail it to the land without magic that the complications would come in. To avoid that little pitfall, we'll head to the Enchanted Forest together, salvage the wardrobe, get the new wood installed, meet up with Home Office, and send you all on your way to Storybrooke. Easy as pie."

"Perhaps." Killian turned. "You said that there's a curse preventing everyone from finding Storybrooke. How do we get around that minor loophole?"

"Ah. That." The grandmother bloomers made a reappearance, swabbing Smee's forehead as he had generally failed to swab the decks. "There may be one small part of the story I left out."

"Spare me. I nearly died of shock."

"It happens there's a compass. Valuable item. Useful, naturally, in navigation."

"And let me furtherly surmise that your employers do not have it in their possession, otherwise they would have gone onto Storybrooke by now. Hence requiring a mercenary sort – a pirate captain, perhaps – to volunteer his services to retrieve it."

"Very eloquently put, Cap'n. Far better than I could."

"Slippery bastard." Killian thought about seeing what Smee would look like with a hook planted between his eyes, but didn't want to burn his ticket home. "So that's the other wrinkle? Once we get to the Forest, I risk my neck to fetch the compass, then take several agents of uncertain temperament to Storybrooke in order to destroy it? Seems a bit too expensive, doesn't it?"

"In exchange for taking you back to that world and killing the crocodile to boot?" Smee shrugged. "No, I don't think it's too expensive at all."

Once more, Killian had no ready-made counter, and pushed away the inkling of guilt he felt at the idea of turning the entire town, fueled by the crocodile's unholy magic though it might be, over to the rapacious jaws of Smee's home office. No. I'm not going there for them. I'm not going there for anyone but Emma. Innocents might get caught in the crossfire, but he was not about to let such things stand in the way. I'll make it up later. If I have to.

"Very well," he announced. "I accept your bargain, Mr. Smee."

"Very good, Captain. Shall we prepare?" Smee crammed his hat back onto his head. "Let me make a quick trip back to retrieve our ticket out of here, and then I'll join you on the Roger."

"Aye. There's the one small thing I need to do myself, before we depart."

"And that is?"

Killian's smile turned downright maniacal. "Load the cannons."

Smee was somewhat disconcerted by that, but departed, and Killian adventured back to the Roger and swung aboard. It was a bloody pain in the arse loading the cannons and running out the long nines with only one hand, and he had only gotten half of them done by the time the sound of huffing, puffing, and splashing presaged one of Smee's usual completely conspicuous entrances, pulling up in a small rowboat alongside the pirate ship. Could he be any louder? Killian did not want to have to use the guns, but if the mermaids decided to surface for a spot of investigation. . .

Smee clambered aboard, managing not to wake the dead, and together, they finished the project. Killian wanted to try a test shot, just to be sure that the powder hadn't gotten too damp for use, but that would definitely tip off the mermaids that something was amiss, and they'd be up here before they could get safely out into the bay. He doused the lanterns, stationed Smee with a lit fuse so he need only run to each cannon in turn to set it off, and steered away from the shore, heart pounding. He was on his way. He was starting his journey home tonight. It wouldn't be fast, but he was doing it. Once more.

The Roger left a white wake on the dark water as they caught a current and a strong wind off the jungle, and he had to work hard to keep them on course. Picking up speed. Almost ready.

"Now, Smee!" Killian shouted. "Go!"

His first mate cocked his arm back, and threw. Something small and clear – something that looked remarkably like a magic bean, in fact – skipped out over the ocean, and hit.

The effect was instantaneous. An eerie green glow kicked up, spiraling down and down and down, a high-pitched humming vibrating on the edge of sound. The sails snapped, the lines strained, the timbers creaked, and the veins on Killian's neck stood out as he wrestled the helm around to bring them square about to the maelstrom. And here we go.

The Roger sliced across the waves toward the portal. If Smee's not right about the magic in the Enchanted Forest making it possible to cross, we're in for the shortest trip of all time. And what was more, in three – two – one –

He caught the first ones out of the corner of his eye, surfacing by the bow, reaching up to try to snatch at the ship, to arrest its momentum. Nets were flashing from their hands, their screeches shattering the peace of the Neverland night. "No! You're not going anywhere until you pay us, Hook! You owe us! You owe us!"

"Sorry, ladies." He'd have sarcastically doffed his hat if he had a hat, or a free hand. As it was, all his attention was devoted to keeping the ship plunging forward. "I'm afraid I'm leaving early." And with that, to Smee: "FIRE!"

For a moment, no answer, and Hook had just enough time to curse the bloody unreliable bastard anew. Then an explosion of flame lit up the forward starboard guns, blasting mermaids away as they tried to scale the side. Following it up almost immediately, the long nines spoke like thunder, scattering a writhing horde of them, hands still clawing as if to rip the bottom out from the Roger. They'd likely succeed, if he gave them the chance, but he didn't intend to. He braced his feet, laughing out loud, adrenaline surging cold and crystal and glorious through his veins. This was it, this was how he lived, how he fought. There was no match for it, survival balancing on the edge of a knife, night and battle and death and life and blood and fire, as he hauled on the wheel, the very edges of the portal now lapping eagerly at the ship. They'd make it. They were going, going, going –

"Hook!" It was the mermaid queen herself, eyes alive with fury, racing alongside. "You promised! You promised!"

"I lied." He brought the wheel about sharply, shaking off another swarm, and Smee, displaying an admirable knack for not having to be told what to do, set off the aft guns. Now they only had the port side, and perhaps one more round from the long nines – if the mermaids stopped them before they reached the portal, they were dead. But Hook did not think so.

On the deck, just ahead – one of them crawling over the side, bloody murder in her eyes and a bronze knife between her teeth –

The pirate captain looped a lashing of rope in place around the helm, holding them on course, then vaulted onto the deck below, kicking the mermaid hard in the face just as she was flopping over the railing. Then he seized her by the hair, jerked her head back, and slashed her throat from ear to ear with his hook, flipping her thrashing corpse overboard into the frothing, screaming sea. The fury of her sisters raged like a tumult in his ears. Bloody good thing I'm never coming back to Neverland. Forever would be not long enough to make them forget this.

"You will PAY!" The mermaid queen again. "Our vengeance will be written in your blood, in the blood of your children, of your children's children!"

"Too damned bad for you that I don't have any of those then, eh?" He grinned rakishly down at her, and the port guns went off like a bomb. The night was blown apart in a white-hot explosion, and with the knowledge singing in his blood like whiskey, like salt, like sex, like the blood of his enemies and the beauty of his escape, Captain Hook steered his beloved Jolly Roger into the blazing portal and vanished from Neverland for good.

Storybrooke

Their boxes had arrived. How in the hell, Emma had no clue, but it was one of the low-level irregularities she'd decided not to worry about – now that she was officially staying here, she had a feeling that there were going to be plenty more. But she'd called her neighbor in Boston, dropped the bombshell that they were moving to some little town in Maine that no one had ever heard of, and asked if she would supervise the packing company coming in and shipping the minimal amount of shit they actually owned. Her neighbor agreed, though she sounded quite taken aback. Emma couldn't blame her. Almost five years in that apartment, and then they were gone like the wind, leaving barely the decency of an explanation in their wake.

She would have returned to Boston herself to supervise the move, but she was terrified of leaving David behind in Storybrooke and not being able to find the town again, or them both leaving and then. . . God knew what. She had phoned the relevant law enforcement personnel and informed them that the Amber Alert could be called off, but she got a distinct vibe of bemusement from them as well: she'd found David and was moving to. . . the town the kidnapper had taken him to? In fact, nobody in what was very suddenly her old life could understand why she'd jettison the bright lights and big city, and she was forced to resort to platitudes about wanting to raise her son in a small town and get out of the rat race and the usual other reasons why people suddenly upped stakes and went to "reinvent" themselves in the country. Bryan, when she called to put in her notice that she was quitting at AFA in order to take a gig as a deputy sheriff in the ass-backwards of beyond, openly wondered if she'd lost her mind. Emma couldn't entirely disagree.

Due to the downtime between paychecks, however, and her finely honed frugal instincts, she'd rented the cheapest apartment available. It would have been considered très chic in any of the parts of Boston (which was to say, all of them) gentrifying at the speed of light, with its vintage décor and exposed brick wall and loft, but here, she got the sense that it had lain empty for a long time. The kitchen was very eighties, with fake wooden paneling, and the shag carpet was some hideous shade of vomit; Gold, eyeing it critically, remarked, "I've been meaning to get that removed." Apparently he had. Within the day, as soon as Emma signed the lease, a man showed up to do the job, revealing unexpectedly beautiful hardwood floors – with an energetic six-year-old in residence, new carpet would be stained and dirty all the time anyway. But it made her strangely suspicious. Gold didn't strike her as a guy who turned down a chance to make money, and this apartment had just been vacant, offensive carpet intact, for decades? There had been absolutely no one else to rent it to?

Nonetheless, she was satisfied. It was on the top floor of the refurbished old brick building, and there was a kitchen, a bathroom, a sleeping nook for her, the loft for David, and a small living area. The school bus stopped right at the corner, and once she convinced the district back in Boston that she wasn't going to sue them and got his records transferred, he was going to start at Storybrooke Elementary. Assuming they arrived. The boxes of their stuff had – the packing company had probably just scrawled the address on there and said, "Screw it" – but public schools were enough of a quagmire even without potential curses in the equation.

Who knows. What the hell. Emma sat back on her heels, dismayed at how much somehow remained to be unpacked. Yet their possessions looked awfully scanty; she'd let the thrift shop haul off the beds and chairs and couch, as this place had come furnished. David had been "helping" her, but after an hour of his brand of help, she yelled at him to go outside and play. He'd sloped out, miffed, and while she was making better time on her own, now she felt guilty instead. Graham had also offered to come by and lend a hand, but she'd given him a funny look and told him that he could back off. She had it covered.

Still, her chances of finishing before Christmas were starting to look pretty thin. She wanted to stop for a snack, but they hadn't gone grocery shopping yet, and she should probably go down and check on David, who was in love with the expansive green backyard and was already busy having all sorts of adventures. She didn't think there were any perverts hiding in the bushes, but it would take her a long time to lose her Boston instincts, even if this place actually was as safe and sleepy as it looked. And considering the way both Regina and Gold had been eyeballing her son, she wasn't sure. If either of them got even the barest idea that they were –

"Excuse me? Are you my new neighbor?"

Emma jerked up, staring at the open door. Poised awkwardly in its frame was a young woman with a short black pixie cut, a demurely buttoned white sweater, and a paisley-print skirt, holding a plate of cookies in front of her like a peace offering. "I'm Mary Margaret, I live downstairs. I can't believe someone's actually moving in!"

Mary Margaret. Emma was going to have to get used to this, the pain of almost thinking it was possible, before remembering that it wasn't, that August had probably just cribbed names from local residents to use in his story. It was safer than actually believing. Then she'd want it too much, she'd be too vulnerable, and Emma Swan was all out of wanting, of thinking that anyone would come back to her – her parents, Neal, Henry, Killian, anyone. David was all she had.

Still, she realized that not to answer would be rude, and contorted her face into a smile. "Hey. I'm Emma. This is a big event, apparently. Is there something horrible about this place that I should know, like it's haunted or there's a dead body in the couch or carbon monoxide in the filters, and that's why nobody ever rents it?"

Mary Margaret looked startled. "Oh no, this is a great building. It's just that nobody's ever lived up here as. . . as long as I can remember. I didn't even know this unit existed."

Weird. And something to run past Gold, oh-so-casually, when she saw him again, as she was sure she would. Nonetheless, Emma wiped her grubby hands on her jeans and got to her feet. "Oh hey, cookies? Sweet, I'm starving. My son will love them too. David."

"That must be him I saw in the backyard." Mary Margaret bustled in and set the cookies on the bare kitchen counter "How old is he?"

"Six." Emma had endured enough of these conversations to know that Mary Margaret would either notice she had said nothing about a husband or boyfriend and tactfully not mention it, or else go straight for the "where's his dad?" haymaker. "Getting into his new first grade class soon, I hope."

"Really?" Mary Margaret beamed. "I'm a teacher at the elementary school! I'll see him there?"

"Probably. I'll be working most of the time. I took a job at the sheriff's office."

"Deputy?" Mary Margaret guessed. "You don't look like the kind of girl to sit behind a desk."

Despite herself, Emma was grudgingly impressed. "Yeah. Um, hey. About Graham. He doesn't have a. . . reputation or anything, does he?"

Mary Margaret looked startled. "What?"

"You know, cops sometimes have rumors about them, especially in places like this, and I was just wondering if he was. . . all there. He's never tried to hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it, has he? He's never tried to hurt, like, you?"

The other woman looked even more taken aback. "No, Graham's never tried to hurt me – or anyone, as far as I know. He's a perfect gentleman, and from what I saw of the two of you coming out of the station this morning, he certainly wouldn't hurt you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I just. . ." A flush was creeping up Mary Margaret's pale cheeks. "Oh, I'm sorry, I just thought. . . it was obvious that he. . . that he. . ."

"Yes?"

"That he has, you know. Eyes for you." Mary Margaret cringed. "I am so sorry. You are probably convinced that I'm the snooping spinster with too much time on her hands, who pries into the personal lives of her neighbors before they've even moved in. I'm not, I swear."

Eyes for you. Emma couldn't say she was surprised. By a purely objective metric, she was an attractive woman. She got a lot of male attention, and most of them were a lot less subtle about it than Graham Humbert, handsome, scruffy sheriff of small town and possible psychotic double-personalitied killer. But considering that he was now her boss and all. . . "Yeah, that's sweet, but no. I don't date."

"Is it because of – " Mary Margaret, realizing in the nick of time that she was about to transgress far beyond the boundaries of polite getting-to-know-you conversation, stopped dead. "Oh God. I'm making this worse. I'll go. I'll go."

"No, it's all right." Despite herself, Emma felt an awkward liking for her shy schoolteacher neighbor, and schmoozing her up couldn't hurt for the inevitable late nights she'd have to ask her to look after David. "I take it you don't go out much either? What's the deal around here? Good men hard to find, hard men good to find, or what?"

"I'm single. Not really a hot date." Mary Margaret flapped a hand self-deprecatingly. "Whale flirts with me – Dr. Whale, look out for him, he'll go for anything as long as it's female and breathing – but yeah, no. Actually. . . there is someone else. Sort of. Not really. Funny, he. . ."

"Funny, he what?" Emma prodded.

"Nothing. I just. . . just with your son, it made me think, this guy's name is David too."

Oh, Jesus. "David Nolan?" You were called Emma Nolan, then.

Mary Margaret looked stunned. "How did you – "

"Lucky guess. I met him a. . . while ago. But I thought you said you were single?"

"I am!" Mary Margaret's look turned to horror. "We're not actually seeing each other. He probably doesn't know that I exist. He's. . . kind of unattainable. Married. Very married."

"Sucks. Been there." Emma bit into a cookie, which was warm, fresh, and delicious. "Hey, these are awesome. You definitely need to stay and make sure I don't eat them all myself."

Mary Margaret was induced to do so, and then insisted on helping Emma with the unpacking. Emma wasn't about to turn down another pair of hands, and after a peek out the back window to see that David was still safely occupied, she accepted. "Yeah, that will probably go better than trying to get him to do it. I swear to God I'm not a Stepford robot that has to have everything perfectly clean and arranged, but I'm kind of on edge, and I guess I turn into a micromanager when I'm stressed, and. . ." Catching herself, she trailed off. Why was she baring her psyche to this perfect stranger – who, for all she knew, could be a good buddy of Regina and/or Mr. Gold?

Mary Margaret, however, was watching her curiously. "It's all right. Moving is stressful."

"Experience talking?"

"No, actually. I've. . . never left Storybrooke." A faint look of confusion crossed Mary Margaret's face, and she shook her head as if trying to remember something, then slit the packing tape on the last box. A photo fluttered out, and she picked it up. "This is you? Oh, that's cute!"

Emma recognized it as one of the exactly two pictures that had been taken of her when she was pregnant with David, and grimaced. "Don't look at that. I'm the size of a house."

"No, you're adorable. I – I'm not trying to snoop again, I swear. . ." Mary Margaret, however, was still frowning at the photo. It seemed to strike her that Emma was completely alone in it, that ordinarily the portrait of an expecting mother would also contain a proud husband or beaming parents or other family members, but there was only Emma staring belligerently at the camera, hair down, eyes reflecting the light, bulging under the flowered maternity sundress that she'd bought at Goodwill after she got fired from ATF and was living in the projects, just to complete the poor-girl look.

Who even took that? Emma couldn't remember. It hadn't been an easy pregnancy: morning sickness for the first three months, uncontrollable cravings for the next three, and nonstop kicking for the last three. She'd worked as the Mass General night janitor up until a week before her due date, unable to afford any time off, and her water had broken just as she was getting off shift at dawn. After eleven hours of labor, David was born at 4:02 PM in the afternoon. She remembered the time exactly because she'd been staring fixedly at the clock on the wall, trying to get out of her body, trying to be anywhere but here. There was only one nurse who even bothered to hold her hand. They told her that she'd forget the pain as soon as they laid the baby in her arms, but she was twenty-two years old, scared and alone and broke, and as she was lying sweaty and spent in the hospital bed, she almost wished she hadn't gone through with it. Yet then as she cuddled David, that red-faced little burrito in his blanket, as his tiny perfect fingers closed around hers, it happened nonetheless. He'd gotten hold of her heart, and never let go.

"Emma?" Mary Margaret's voice, as if from far away. "Are you okay?"

"I. . . yeah." Her automatic, stock answer. Always okay. Always fine. If that wasn't the case, nobody wanted to know. "Sorry. Trip down memory lane."

Mary Margaret smiled, but her expression remained concerned. "You've been alone a long time, haven't you?"

Emma wanted to shout at her for seeing through her walls so easily, but there was nothing she could say to that. She swallowed. "Yeah. That kid is everything to me, but now we're here, and. . . I'm kind of terrified that the only reason David's turning out even halfway decent is because I've had so little to do with actually raising him. I work practically all the time to keep us afloat, it's his teachers and the neighbor in Boston and the parents of his Little League friends who have taken most of the load. Like, it's my worst fear that once I'm the one really taking care of him, I'll find out that I'm a completely shit mother and he'll absorb my fucked-up-ness by osmosis or something. And he. . . I don't want him to grow up like I did. I want him to have the best, I will fight like hell to give him the best, but what if the best isn't me?"

Mary Margaret's eyes were very soft and very sad. She seemed to sense how unusual for Emma this burst of raw honesty was, and came over to hover at a comforting but respectful distance. "Don't be too hard on yourself. It's the world's most difficult job, being a mother, especially the way it sounds like you've had to do it. I always wanted to be one, but. . . I guess we play the cards that life deals us, huh?"

"Yeah." Emma bruised the back of her hand across her eyes. "I'm sorry. That was way more shit than you wanted to hear. More than I should have said, too. Don't hold it against me."

"Well, I've been the one inadvertently prying into your private life," Mary Margaret said wryly. "Hey, I know you're probably not the type for nail painting and gossip and shoe shopping, but if you need a woman's ear, I live right downstairs, okay? Please don't be shy about knocking on my door."

"I'll keep it in mind." Emma mustered up a smile. "Just have to remind you again that I'm not good at this. My default emotional setting is pretty much that of a fourteen-year-old boy. Don't take it personally."

"I won't," Mary Margaret promised, continuing to unpack. Emma herself drifted back to the window, but when she looked down, she couldn't see David in the thickets of greenery. No motion. No kid running around slaying imaginary dragons with a vorpal blade or sailing on a pirate ship or whatever. Nothing.

"David?" Emma's heart started to gain speed. "Oh Jesus, not again! I am going to get a fucking beeper for that kid!"

Mary Margaret looked up in alarm. "What?"

"He's not in the yard." Emma was already pulling on her shoes and heading for the stairs, clattering down three flights to the back door and pushing it open. A quick glance confirmed that David was definitely not there, and when she ran around the side of the house, similarly nada. There was a car just turning the corner at the end, not August's, which was good for August not getting his balls tied around his throat, but –

"That's odd," Mary Margaret said from behind Emma, startling her badly. Apparently the other woman had followed her down. "Gold never comes around here unless it's rent day."

Emma turned with a jolt. "Gold? As in the one and only?"

"Yes. That's his car." Mary Margaret looked puzzled. "What?"

"Excuse me." Emma was already fumbling in her jeans pocket for her keys. "I've got to run."

The Enchanted Forest

Captain Hook and Mr. Smee emerged from their dramatic portal-jump more or less in one piece, although quite waterlogged, nerve-wracked, and in Hook's case, with several slashes in his long leather jacket where the mermaids' knives had done some moderate amount of damage. But the Jolly Roger was now anchored in the deep bay before the ruined castle, snowcapped mountains looming impressively to all sides and the call of gulls echoing in the clear, still, salt-smelling air. Sunlight slanted through the sails as the pirate ship rode at anchor, recovering.

Hook could barely believe that they had actually made it out of Neverland, and anything by comparison looked like paradise, but even in the short time they'd been here, his intuition was telling him that something was wrong. There was no discounting the damage the Dark Curse had wreaked on the land, but this was different. Something or someone – Smee's employer, apparently – had made the castle into headquarters, and was riding with a heavy hand on the reins. This did not look like a land peacefully settled, but rather ruthlessly subjugated, and as they lowered the longboat and prepared to make introductions, he was already firmly on his guard. I've got out of one bloody mess, but have I landed smack in the middle of another?

They rowed ashore, hid the longboat, and set off. They passed various checkpoints; the guards clearly recognized Smee, and some recognized Hook as well, if the amusing double takes they did were any indication. Well, he did have three hundred years of a reputation to precede him, and doubtless they'd heard hair-raising tales as mere tots, never expecting to come face to face with the genuine article. He did absolutely nothing to correct this useful impression. A pinch of terror went a long way.

They were escorted into the sacked great hall of the castle, the sky visible through the broken stone vaults, and Hook loitered obnoxiously against a pillar just to see if anyone had the nerve to tell him to stop. They did not, though they seemed right peeved about it, and tensions were starting to heighten when someone who was clearly in charge elected that moment to make his entrance. "Ah, Mr. Smee! You've returned!"

Smee snapped upright and snatched his hat off. "Sir! I have, sir!"

Hook eyed this with sour amusement, wondering if he'd ever got that much respect out of the bugger, then affected not to notice the man staring. Young, sword-slim and dark, with a dangerous smile reminiscent of the pirate's own. "And your guest? Can it be, Captain?"

"In the flesh." Taking this as his cue, Hook sauntered forward and made a bow just deep enough to look genuine and just shallow enough to feel sarcastic. "So you have heard of me."

"Indeed, I have." The young man's black eyes regarded him unblinkingly. "I'm the head of Home Office's operations around here, and I understand that there's a great deal of mutual interest on both sides. I am dealing, to be quite sure, with Professor Killian Jones?"

Now that was an unpleasant shock. He had had absolutely no forewarning that they knew about his Earth identity, which was starting to feel as distant and foreign as if he'd once read of someone else living it. "Aye," he said, extremely guardedly. What are you up to, arsehole?

"I thought so." The young man smiled. "Yes, we know all about you."

Hook shot an accusing glare at Smee, who was intently studying his feet. He did not at all care for the revelation that he had been manipulated as easily as a dog jumping for a treat, and brought into potentially a far more dangerous situation than he realized. "How?"

"Well, we do control the place," the young man said, as if it was obvious. It was, in fact. "Almost the entire Forest is under our jurisdiction now, and there's been quite a bit of interworldly commerce since we grew the beans. We've been able to send personnel back and forth, keep up on the state of things. We've had plenty of surveillance on you, believe me. You don't think it's a coincidence that we sent someone to Neverland, when we finally worked out where you must have ended up? This has been a long time in the planning, my friend."

"You're not my friend, mate."

"Perhaps not, but I should be." If you know what's good for you. The young man considerately left that part unspoken. "We sent agents up the beanstalk, got rid of most of the giants. While they tried to destroy the beans to keep them out of our hands, they didn't get them all, and one was all we needed. We've been growing our own crop ever since, able to coordinate our efforts and expand our operations across several worlds. Unfortunately, there was one thing we didn't count on. Two, really."

"Let me guess," Hook drawled. "The compass, and the curse."

"Well done. I see Mr. Smee has been talking too much again. I'll attend to that." The young man turned that viper's gaze on Smee, who was visibly wilting in his boots. "You see, two of Home Office's exceptionally capable agents got themselves into a bit of a mess several years ago. They're trapped in Storybrooke, Maine, and we can't get them out, because we can't find Storybrooke. Due to, yes, the curse. We can find it if we get our hands on the compass, but it remains in the custody of the last living giant, atop the beanstalk, and there's no way for us to scale it again."

"Really." Hook affected only the barest minimum of interest, but he was tense as a hound on point. "Why not?"

"It's been enchanted." The young man gave a rueful shrug. "And Home Office isn't particularly fond of magic. We do have a prisoner who could be induced to help, but she isn't someone to trifle with. Thus far, she has refused, in no uncertain terms. Aggressive negotiations have likewise proved fruitless at changing her mind, and resulted in rather costly losses for us."

"Torture, you mean." Hook flashed his leanest, meanest smile. "Let me ascertain if I am following you. You need me to get the compass from the giant. In exchange, you'll put the enchanted wood from the wardrobe into my ship and give me a magic bean, enabling me to sail to Storybrooke and destroy it and Rumplestiltskin, thus liberating your agents. Everyone's happy. Aye?"

"More or less."

"One question. You clearly have a mole on the other side. Someone who's been reporting on me and knows about my circumstances there. Who?"

"Do you really think I'm going to tell you?"

"Fine, then. Let's see if I can guess. Likely in American or British law enforcement, someone familiar with my case, my profession, my background, and the fact that I've gone missing in Earth for. . . quite some time now, I gather."

"Close." The young man sounded surprised. "American, in fact. He was a hard sell, but we eventually brought him around. His former lover did some excellent work for us as well. Jack Antonsson. I can tell you her name because she's dead. Died in the line of duty. Very tragic."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Best hope it doesn't ring anything. Well, Captain. Tick tock. Time is of the essence for both of us. You want very badly to return to Earth, and we want very badly for you to be there. Once you've taken care of the minor unpleasantness in Storybrooke, you'll want your job at Oxford University back. You could do a great deal of good for us there."

Killian laughed out loud, holding up his hook. "And I'll just stroll into the lecture hall with this and tell them I had a nice vacation, shall I?"

"It'll be a conversation starter. Cause the female undergraduates to swoon, most likely. I'm sure you can think of an explanation. Clever man like you. The pirate look suits you well, but you'll want to remember the professor. That's what we'll require of you."

"You seem to be taking it for granted that I'm joining your organization."

"You seem to be taking it for granted that you have a ride home if you don't." The young man smiled demurely. "Don't want to disappoint anybody. Especially those lovely blonde students."

Killian did not in the least like the sly implication that the bastard knew something about Emma. His spine stiffened, hackles raising, but he forced himself to affect a jovial smile. "Indeed, we don't. So it seems we have a great deal to get started on, and chief among that would be convincing this prisoner of yours to help us retrieve the compass."

"Oh, Captain. That's your job."

"Is it?"

"Indeed." The young man waved a hand; clearly the interview was over. "My associates will show you down to her cell."

Before Killian could think of a clever parting shot, solely for the sake of having the last word, he was being escorted out by a security detail that, to judge from both size and smell, had to be at least part troll. Already concocting various schemes in his head to get back at Smee for leading him into this, he followed them into the dungeons, which Home Office had clearly embraced to their fullest purpose. They already controlled most of the Forest, were expanding operations significantly into both Neverland and Earth, and gods knew which other magical realms. Bunch of run-of-the-mill would-be world-conquering despots. He wasn't all that impressed; he'd seen too many of them in his life. But be that as it may, he was going to have to be bloody careful. The game was on.

The guards turned a corner and descended another labyrinth of passages, lit only by torches, to the lone cell at the very end. A blue-gowned woman was gripping the bars, as if she'd been waiting regally the entire time, and Killian felt his gut turn to ice. Oh, hell.

Her voice came from the shadows, cool and taunting. "Hello, Hook."

What else could you say to that?

"Hello, Cora."