Chapter 30

Breaking worlds apart with his bare hands had been, thus far, much easier than expected.

Not, if you wanted to be a pedant about it, that it was precisely bare hands. After all, he had only one, though the hook was quite useful for breaking, entering, battering, stealing, skiving, and any other sort of havoc-causing activity he chose to put it to. But it was his tongue that had lately featured as the most dangerous part of him, after all the sweet-talking he had done to convince the Home Office to let Cora out of her cell and trot her up for an audience with Mordred. Hook himself didn't remember half the bill of goods he'd attempted to sell; most of it must have sounded like the outrageous lie that it was. Yet he finally achieved stirring success. Mordred grudgingly agreed to remove the cuff from Cora, under strict supervision of course, and permit her to use her magic long enough to speed Hook on his way up the beanstalk, on his all-important compass-retrieving mission.

That had been. . . quite something. He had not underestimated the prospect of filching a heavily guarded treasure from a badly tempered giant, but as his only option for a sidekick was Smee, he elected to go it alone, not trusting his weasely first mate at his back in a fight until he had a far better idea of just where the man's notoriously inchoate loyalties lay. Well. Not quite alone. Climbing up the tough, towering stalk that vanished into the clouds, as the ground grew smaller and smaller below, Hook was unable to think about anything but Emma. He could almost see her there with him, and reminded himself stubbornly that she was what this was ultimately about. Once he had made up his mind that he wanted her, every option could and would be taken ruthless advantage of. He knew a thing or two about survival, guile, fighting, and fortitude. After this long, he should.

He felt more like Killian when he thought about her, and less like Hook. He wasn't sure, exactly, if he enjoyed it. Killian Jones was the man she had known – an urbane, polished history professor with a dark past, a sharp tongue, and a quick temper, but still not remotely a black-hearted, pilfering, infamous pirate bastard. Depending on what Emma had or had not worked out, or chose to believe, his reappearance in this alter ego was liable to come as rather a shock. But why let that stop him? This was also who he was, as much or more as that tweed-jacketed toff in Oxford, and she'd have to deal with it. She'd understand. Eventually.

Maybe.

If he wasn't just deluding himself that anything he had been to her, anything they had been to each other, counted at all. It had taken him time to fall for Milah; he had fully expected her to go the way of all the other women who periodically came aboard to service his crew, in exchange for a chance to see the world and a few silver pennies. But she'd made herself matter to him, made herself part of him, without him even noticing at first. Their love had been like nothing he'd imagined, their connection deep and true; gods knew that you didn't spend three hundred years trying to avenge someone you thought you could live without. But it had still been her initiative to come with him, her choice. He had merely been man enough to respect it.

It hadn't been like that with Emma. From the moment he saw her, even as a shy sophomore in his introductory history class, he'd been attracted to her. Yet it had been so uncomfortable, so strange after shutting himself down and isolating himself from all other women, that he'd gone completely the wrong way about it. It would have been best for him to have left her alone altogether, but that had never been a viable option. They had been too tangled in each other from the start, too sparked, drawn into each other, drowning. There had never been a moment of his life when he didn't know that he wanted Emma – Nolan or Swan or whoever she was – like he wanted to breathe, and that was terrifying.

Yet if there was one thing he did know, it was that that alone would not be enough. Anything they had truly shared was limited to that one night and day in London. Forty-eight hours of a fever dream, before he was snatched away by the shadow and it ended. He had no idea how many years it had been since, but it had to be a fair few. Time got away from you in Neverland. And if Emma didn't remember him, or didn't want him, or was horrified that he had emerged from the shadows of her past to confront her again, he was going to have to face it. He could fight for her from now until eternity (which was, considering his present lifespan, a very long time) but if she did not want him, he'd have to let her go. And he couldn't stand the thought.

It was a long climb to the top of the beanstalk, but a far shorter stay. There was a bit of a scrape with the giant, who was as pleased to have his castle invaded as one would expect, but nothing beyond Hook's capabilities. He knocked the bugger out, searched him, found the compass, and scarpered back down the beanstalk straightaway, along with as much treasure as he could carry (come now, he was a pirate). As he said. Easy. Easy enough, in fact, to pique his suspicion. He flattered himself that he was a professional of exceptional skill, but no matter how much the Home Office claimed to be afraid of Cora and her magic, if it truly was this simple to nip up here and make off with the compass any time they liked, they surely wouldn't have needed him for the job. He'd expected the entire affair to be a setup from the start, of course, but it felt a bit too obvious, even for such mustachio-twirling, card-carrying villains as this lot appeared to be.

Thus, Hook occupied himself during the descent not with thoughts of Emma, but rather with concocting a plan to outwit his unwanted associates. He had already made up his mind that as soon as he had the magic bean in hand, he was going to jettison them as quickly as humanely possible. Double-cross the double-crossers. It was nothing they wouldn't do to him if they got the chance, and he wasn't at all interested in taking Cora or the Home Office with him to Storybrooke, thanks very much. The trick was to schedule the betrayals so they didn't catch on at the same time, otherwise they might take it into their heads to join forces and hunt him down. But his burglarizing and backstabbing experience were nearly equal, and as the former had been nicely demonstrated, it was time to do the same for the latter.

This, at least, was the plan. Simple. Easy to remember. And then he reached the ground, and things began to get complicated.

"Such a timely return, Captain." It was raining, a gentle but relentless silvery mist that seemed to have been designed expressly for the purpose of allowing scheming witches with parasols to make atmospheric entrances. There was no telling how long Cora had been waiting at the foot of the beanstalk, if she had timed for his return or just fortuitously happened to drop in right as he did, but either way it was an unpleasant surprise. "You do have the compass, I trust?"

Instead of answering, he smiled charmingly. "And what is a well-bred lady such as yourself doing out so far without her minders?"

Cora looked bored. "Those peasants? Please. As if they were any match for me, once you so eloquently persuaded them to take the cuff off? It was one of my finer displays."

"I am quite sure. By the by, you do look especially lovely tonight. And smell it as well. Is that a new perfume – eau d'evil? Exquisitely you."

"I suppose you think you're terribly clever? That pretty face does buy you a great deal, but it is a pity that the gods, having done so well at creating a pinnacle of beauty, saw no reason to spoil the lot with brains. I understand you're a professor in the other world. Educational standards must be even more appalling than usual." She smiled sweetly. "Now. The compass?"

"Don't have it."

Cora's eyes narrowed. "You what?"

"Don't have it," he repeated. "Details of the affair are a bit of a bore. If I'd had someone to climb up there with, I could have pulled it off, but – "

"You were offered Smee."

"And you, my dear, have been offered a swift kick up the arse, but I don't see you taking it."

"I don't recall that I have."

"Oh. Well, consider me offering it by proxy, then."

"Are you out of your mind?" the witch demanded. "Standing here and japing at me like a circus monkey learning tricks? You're lying. Give me the compass."

"What compass? I told you, I don't – "

Cora raised a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. A burning sensation engulfed the inner pocket of Hook's long black leather jacket, and a brief puff of acrid-smelling smoke. She then held out an elegant gloved hand in demonstration.

"Ah," the pirate said. "That compass."

"Really, your mind-boggling incompetence is the one thing they leave out of all the stories. Though I understand. You have an ill-gotten reputation to maintain, and the fumbling Captain Hook doesn't have quite the same ring, now does it? Now come along. It's long past time we got back. Some of us don't live forever."

"I have every confidence that you shall, darling."

"Oh, save it." The witch slipped the compass into her sleeve. "Shall we renew acquaintances or not?"

"I thought you said you'd already dealt with the Home Office?"

"I have. But we still do need the magic bean to open a portal. Oh, and by the way." Cora had started to glide away, but turned. "Who's the woman you're trying so hard to get back to?"

It wasn't the cold night that sent the chill down Killian's spine. I didn't say a bloody word about that. How in hellfire does she know? "What woman?" he said, feigning amiable incomprehension, but showing his teeth in his smile. "The only one I cared about died three hundred years ago. Can't quite get her back now, can I?"

Cora scoffed. "Please," she said again. "I know you, Captain. The only reason you ever do anything is to martyr yourself past the point of sense for whichever woman you're irrationally devoted to. That, like all love, is a weakness, but you mustn't think that I disapprove. It was time for you to forget Milah, after so long."

Hook's fist clenched. "I will never forget Milah."

"Well, good. I was starting to worry. You certainly haven't forgotten Rumplestiltskin, I trust?"

"Never."

"Then you are still resolved to kill him? If you truly loved Milah, you can never give up on revenge for her, not until the job is done. And it, I scarcely need to remind you, is not. Only then can you hope to go hat in hand to – what's this new one's name?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about."

"Pity." Cora sighed. "But I suppose it's for the best this way. When I cross over to the other side, I'll know that there's no one I need to look out for. That the world is, in a word, fair game. Well then. It'll be the rest of the night back if you keep standing there. Come along."

It was not, in fact, the rest of the night. Cora's magic had them emerging from the woods surrounding the castle within an hour, and Hook gazed down to the dark harbor where his ship still rode at anchor. Cora instructed him to get aboard and start making preparations for departure; she herself had to fetch the bean. He refused to comply, however, until she returned the compass, as he trusted her not at all to have both the required items and not take advantage of it by leaving him behind. She agreed, far more graciously than he'd expected, and vanished.

Compass clutched tight in his good hand, the pirate went down to shore and made his way aboard the Jolly Roger. There wasn't much to do, and he was leaning insouciantly against the mast, tapping a booted foot, for the sole purpose of annoying Cora whenever she rematerialized, which she did in a puff of purple smoke about fifteen minutes later. She held up her hand to show off the glimmering clear bean that, despite himself, it gave him quite a turn to see. The last time he'd had one was when he and Milah had stolen it from her murdering arsewipe of a husband, and he'd sailed to Neverland. Seemed only fitting to be doing it in reverse this time.

"You got it. Excellent." He smiled and made a languid gesture, telling his girl that it was time, and the sails unfurled, the lanterns guttered to life, the knots tying themselves and the cannons rumbling out as the capstan began to creak, the skull and crossbones running up to the crow's nest. "Oh, and I should ask – you did see to installing the enchanted timbers from the wardrobe? Smee promised they'd be here, and loathe as I am to take his word for anything, I must do so on this occasion. Otherwise this will be a very short trip indeed."

"Of course I did." Cora pointed to a patch on the deck where the old boards had been ripped out and the new, magical wood built in instead. "I don't suppose you know what use that wardrobe was originally intended for?

"Should I?" Hook said carelessly, moving take his place at the helm.

"Oh, I thought you might – this being Snow White and Prince Charming's old castle, after all. The wardrobe was intended to spirit their daughter away to another world before my daughter's Dark Curse could catch her. There was a prophecy, you know. That she was the savior. And after twenty-eight years, she would break it." Cora shrugged. "But of course, she was swept through to this newly created Storybrooke with the others. Impossible to say what's going to happen now. What was her name – Anna? No, no. Ah. . . Emma. That was it. Emma."

Killian Jones remained as utterly stock still as if carven from stone.

"I don't suppose that name means anything to you?" Cora's eyes glittered.

He found his voice. It sounded hoarse. "Can't say that it does."

"Worth a try." She held out her hand. "Give me the compass. I'll navigate us through."

"Ah." He raised a dark eyebrow. "Funny you should say that, pet."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, well. . ." He shrugged. "When I left Neverland, I rather savagely betrayed the mermaids, and they didn't thank me for it. Doubtless they were hoping I would learn from my mistake, but I am rather a slow learner. So. . ." He shrugged again, clicked his fingers, and watched as the ropes sprang up from the deck like possessed serpents, twisting around Cora from head to toe and suspending her in midair. "Oh, and my name is not the 'fumbling' Captain Hook. Still 'fearsome.' Just so you know. So I wouldn't change any business cards quite yet."

"What is this – are you – " Cora struggled and clawed at the ropes, to no avail. Now that the Jolly Roger was restored to full power, it had a few tricks up its sails, and when he was on it, he felt confident going head to head with anybody you cared to throw at him. "How dare you – "

"The bean, love. Now." Hook held out his hand. "Or the next one goes around your throat."

"You'll regret this."

"Oh, I expect I will. I regret a great deal of things, and it has somehow not stopped me yet."

She looked livid, trying to wrestle her hand free to perform a curse. He'd like to see her try. The Roger reacted quite adversely to incoming hostile magic – well, you didn't think he'd survived this long, making quite a few powerful enemies, entirely with luck, charm, and dashing good looks, now did you? Nonetheless he directed the ropes tighter, still with a pleasant smile, until Cora growled through her teeth, gave a final abortive wriggle, and dropped the bean on the deck.

"Very good, pet." He picked it up, smirking, and dangled the compass from his hook. "Now, of course, you'll understand that this is a necessary parting. Don't wait up for me."

And with that, with another gesture, Cora was launched out into thin air as if blown from a cannon, blue dress flapping like a pennant as she soared most beautifully. Hook, however, didn't wait around to watch. He was already throwing the bean out to sea, cudgeling every drop of speed from the Roger's magical timbers – not for nothing was it known as the fastest ship in this or any world – and steering toward yet another blazing emerald-green maelstrom. One more rabbit hole. Almost home. Almost there. Just him now. Just him.

I'm coming, Swan, he thought, half in anticipation and half in apprehension. Coming for her, and for Gold. To live with one and kill the other. Strange, but those were the cards that fate had dealt.

The Roger reached the edge of the spinning green vortex, blasts of eerie light strafing the dark sky like a searchlight. He gritted his teeth, holding the wheel steady with the hook as they plunged over, sails and ropes and timbers screaming, and grasped the compass in his good hand, focusing on Storybrooke as hard as he could, painting the image in his mind, stark and clear as ice. He could see it. He was coming. Now. Now. N –

And then a wall of darkness came boiling up from the deep, howling like the tormented souls of drowned sailors as it slammed into them broadside, and he remembered nothing more.

As the pirate ship vanished down the portal in a blaze of roaring green light, Cora rolled over and brushed herself off, with a look of grim but gleeful satisfaction. She could already hear footsteps hurrying down the dock, and an anxious voice above her. "My lady, you're not hurt?"

"Not much." Cora reached up, took Mordred's offered hand, and allowed the young man to help her to her feet. "Were you watching? That was really one of my finer performances. You would actually think he'd gotten the better of me for once."

"Oh, I was watching." Mordred kept his hand beneath her elbow, steadying her. She didn't push him away, though she should have. She wasn't quite as young as she used to be, and truth be told, she hadn't expected that bastard's trick with the ropes. "So he's gone then?"

"He's gone." Cora smiled. "It did work just as we planned, now didn't it? He thought I betrayed you, then he thought he betrayed me to get the bean, and now he's on his way to Storybrooke. It's so nice when people are predictable. Heavens knew I was never planning to sail directly into the teeth of my daughter's Dark Curse. Hook can take the brunt of it for us, and then our way will be open to follow without any such inconvenient obstructions."

Mordred smiled. "I never doubted you for a moment, my lady. I am so sorry for that scene with the cell and the cuff, though I'm sure you understand the necessity."

"Don't be," Cora said breezily. "I played that quite well too. Oh, dear, you should have heard all the horrible things I said about Home Office. Hook was eating it up with a spoon. He's desperate, and it's making him careless. And even better, now I know why."

Mordred clearly knew that she was waiting for him to ask. "Which is?"

"This." Cora held up a vial containing a glowing-silver thread. "It was practically stinking on him. You see, after three hundred years, our dear Captain fancies himself in love again. Even better. With the savior."

"The. . . savior?" Mordred's eyes widened. "Snow and Charming's daughter?"

"The very one. Emma. So you can see how advantageous this is for us, of course. He chose her, and my daughter's curse will soon be broken for good. The curse that is, so ironically, keeping Pan from finding Storybrooke. Pan, and everyone else. Their lives are surely quite awful now, poor dears, but end the curse, and the only protection they have is gone."

"Terrible," said Mordred, in a voice of utterly unconvincing sympathy. "Well, come on. He's here."

"They found him, did they?"

"Of course they did. Now that we have a plant in Earth law enforcement, it was simplicity itself. Agent George used to work on his case, so he helped us put the pieces together and send a hit squad through to retrieve him." Mordred was hurrying up toward the castle, and Cora trotted to keep up with him, as they passed through the great gates, the hall, and down the twisting steps into the dungeons, toward the cell where they'd pretended to imprison her to fool Hook. There was someone else inside it now: a man. Unremarkable. Brown-haired, scruffy, somewhat paunchy, dressed in strange clothes: jacket and odd blue trousers, scarf, shoes.

Mordred stopped short. "Ah. How rude of me to treat a guest this way."

"I tell you!" the prisoner shouted. "You've got the wrong guy! I don't know anything about this, about anything at all, just let me go and I'll forget I ever – "

"Please stop shouting," Mordred drawled. "It's not going to do you any good. And likewise, we mean you no harm. Considering your history, it must have been extremely traumatic to be snatched off the streets and dragged through a portal back here to the Enchanted Forest, but we aim to erase that injustice."

"You're crazy, you're all fuckin' nuts, just – "

"As we understand it," Mordred went on, completely ignoring him, "you had to flee your previous home of New York after some old crimes of yours came to light and a bounty hunter's warrant was put out on you. You don't want to be arrested, now do you? And we know who you are. We know what you want. You want to get rid of magic, you want to stop it from ever hurting people again. Well, my friend. So do we. You've fallen into exactly the right company. Help us. We want to destroy a curse, a terrible curse. A curse dreamed of, nurtured, created, and cast by none other than your own father."

There was a long, endless, hideous silence. Long enough for even the echoes to fade. Then, at last, the man lifted his head.

"All right," Neal Cassidy said roughly. "I'm listening."

The sound of dripping water finally woke Killian. He had been sprawled on the deck, dead to the world, chased through the dark and twisted precincts of his head by half-memories, half-nightmares, and faint, endless screaming. He was cold as utter blazes. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple, and when he rolled onto his back, his vision lurched and swam as sickeningly as if he was about to pass out again. He stared up through the rigging and the spectral sails – the Roger was still in one piece, and, more or less, so was he. He barely remembered what he'd hit, but it must have been some effect of the curse, trying to blow him back or blow him apart, and he'd only just made it through. Even with the compass, he –

The compass. Killian sat bolt upright and stared around. His ship was bobbing at moor, among a thousand other ones, and snow was falling heavily out of a pitch-black sky, a low, murky fog making it impossible to see more than a few yards. But he could see enough, recognize enough. There was no harbor like this in the Enchanted Forest. He had made it to Storybrooke.

"Fuck me," he muttered, staggering to his feet. He had to grab onto a shroud to avoid falling flat again, and his legs felt like water as he made his way below, to his cabin. It crossed his mind to wonder if any of the citizens had noticed that a pirate ship had just appeared out of thin air in their peaceable New England enclave, but he remembered all the research he had done on curses similar to this one, back at Trinity when everyone thought he was working on his dissertation. They wouldn't be able to see it – not because it was invisible, per se, but because it was not part of their oblivious new identities. They could stand right there, but unless they believed, unless they knew, their cursed brains simply would not register a strange ship that had just jumped over from the very world they had been exiled from. He was safe. Enough.

Except for the crocodile.

"Fuck me," Hook muttered again, with far more vehemence. Everyone else in town might not notice it, but there was no doubt that Gold would. And thus, might come after him before he had time to lay his plans. He could not deny that there was a fizzing, nervous exhilaration in him, desperate to get this over with so he could leave to find Emma. He wanted it done, he wanted it settled, and impatience was going to make him sloppy. As far as he could tell, there was still no magic in this place. And thus. . .

He tried to sleep, it being dark as Cora's absent heart out there and thus buying him a few more hours of secrecy, but couldn't sink under. His head throbbed, his chest ached, and he was conscious of an utter, terrible longing gnawing out his bones. After so much trying and so much agony and so much betrayal, he had finally made it back to Earth. If he chose, he could sail the Roger across the Atlantic, to London. Think up some explanation for his missing hand, and reappear as Professor Killian Jones. Go back to Oxford and the life that he had been so violently ripped from. Everybody would be delighted to welcome him back, not look at him askance and curse his name. He could still go. He could.

Hook groaned aloud and rolled onto his side, pulling the quilts up over his head. He had been alone so long now that it was almost second nature, but he was unable to stand it. Emma. He tried to picture her face, terrified that he would have forgotten it as he had Milah's, but it was clear enough to haunt him. Where are you? Who are you now? Oh God, oh Christ, he'd left her. Failed her. Abandoned her. So easy to say that it was through no fault of his own, that he'd been abducted by the bloody shadow, but he refused to grant himself absolution so easily. And the things he'd done to make it back. . . the mermaids, Cora, Home Office. . . made so many enemies, as if he'd needed more, fallen down into the darkness where he forgot even the memory of light, the breath of life, the desire that had once burned in him to be a better man. . .

He tossed and turned restlessly until it began to get light. Then he rolled out of bed, crossed the cabin, and retrieved a particular vial. He stashed it in his jacket pocket, pulled down a cloak, and fastened it over his shoulders, tugging up the hood against the continued snow. Wood creaked as he descended the gangplank, jumping lightly down onto the dock. He couldn't help but suck in a few great deep gulps of the air, tainted with the reek of fuel oil, fisheries, and other grimy industrial smells that had been completely absent in Neverland and the Enchanted Forest. Home. Not here. This place could go down in flames once he was done with it, for all he cared. But he felt less than no desire to return to any of the magical realms. Earth was where he belonged.

Hook strode up the pier and into the deserted streets of Storybrooke. It was still very early and snowing like the dickens; shutters and blinds were closed, the drifts of white untouched by any foot except his. Good thing he had been here before, knew where he was going. Up and up. Mr. Gold, Pawnbroker & Antiquities Dealer.

He reached the front door, considered it, and then delicately twisted his hook into the lock. After a moment, it clicked open, and he stepped inside. Now. This ended now. He –

"Can you read?" a voice enquired from the rear of the shop. Light and lazy, unconcerned. "The sign did show 'Closed,' didn't it? Come back in an hour or two, dearie, and I'll be glad to – "

"Oh no." Hook threw down the hood of his cloak, scattering snow. "I don't think you will."

The pawnbroker's slight figure went utterly still. There were a few heartbeats where they both held in check, and then Gold revolved on the spot, eyes burning like supernovae in his deathly pale face. "Well, well," he breathed. "What a surprise."

"I'd hope so. One of my better ones, if you ask me." The pirate stalked forward, raising his hook. "Daresay you weren't expecting me, now weren't you? Crocodile."

Gold's eyes flicked to it. He appeared amused. "Going to stab me?"

"Truly, your keen intellect shames us all."

"Go ahead." Gold spread his arms. "And I'll remind you that only the Dark One's dagger can kill me, as you are very well aware. This clumsy half-arsed assassination attempt is pitiful even by your depressingly low stand – "

"You want to take that risk?" Hook breathed. "Maybe I can't kill you, no. But I've poisoned this with some of the very special stuff from Neverland. You'll forget. Everything."

"Really?" Gold's knuckles went white on his cane. "I wouldn't advise that."

"Oh?" Hook snarled. "Give me one good reason. One good – "

And at that moment, as they stared each other down, as the silence crackled like a living thing, the bell on the pawn shop door jingled again.

Gold broke Hook's gaze and glanced over his shoulder. An extraordinary expression flashed in his eyes, one that the pirate did not like at all. He grinned. "David, lad," he said, cajoling, friendly. "Whatever are you doing here? Don't you have school?"

"It's Thanksgiving break," said a young boy's voice. "You're busy, I can go?"

"No, no, not at all." Gold's grin broadened. "Does your mum know you're here, my boy?"

"No, she doesn't." Bloody hell, witnesses? He couldn't murder Gold in front of some wretched child who'd run off to spill everything. "She's busy with the people they rescued from the library last night. I wanted to ask if – "

That was when Captain Hook turned.

That was when he saw.

He could feel his heart crumbling to cinders in his chest, could feel his breath stopping, was briefly and mortifyingly certain that he was about to faint. It was like looking at his own ghost, from a thousand years ago when he'd been young. The boy had a mop of black hair, blue eyes, a light spattering of freckles, and even that confident set to the small shoulders, the way of standing – No. No. No. It was impossible. Some vile trick or illusion of Gold's, not a –

"Hi," said the lad curiously, his bright, eager gaze taking in the pirate's strange clothes and snow-dripping cloak. "Are you new in town? Us too."

Killian Jones opened and shut his mouth without a single word emerging. Finally, what made its way through the stranglehold in his throat was not at all what he'd planned. "Father?"

The boy – Gold had called him David – cocked his head. "What?"

"What's – your father's name?" Oh God, oh God, oh God, no, no. Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.

David looked surprised. "I actually was going to. . ." He shuffled his feet, gazing up shyly through his fringe of dark eyelashes, and Killian realized that he was about six or seven. "My mom just told me the other day. It's Colin."

Oh. Of course not. He felt as if he was dropping a hundred stories in an elevator, as if his stomach had been ripped out. Don't be an idiot. Of course there were other men in the world with black hair and blue eyes, men who were truly fathers, not someone like him. But for that moment, when he'd believed, it had almost torn him in half. He was trying to breathe, but nothing was happening. Even worse, Gold was watching every moment of this, taking it in with utter glee – that bastard, that bastard –

"Run along, lad," Gold said. "Just for a moment. I have some business to finish, and then I'll be delighted to help you with whatever you need."

"Oh. Okay. I'm sorry for bothering you." David grinned, a crooked smile that once more made Killian's heart stop. With that, he skipped to the door and vanished up the street in the snow.

"A shock, was it?" Gold asked lazily. "Didn't count on that, eh?"

Killian was still gasping as if he had been chased by a train, but at this, he fought his shock and fury under control to say something. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Dreadful liar. Still going to stab me?" Gold was all but rubbing his hands. He was enjoying this so bloody much that it must be his bloody birthday. "Fine. Then I can have the satisfaction of taking from you, as you did from me, your son and his mother both."

For an eternal moment, Killian only heard ringing in his ears. Then a sensation as if a small bomb had exploded in his chest. His voice was heavy, slow, and stupid. "You. . . what?"

"Dear me. Did I stutter?"

"You're – lying – "

"Am I?" Gold's grin stretched across his face, an insane rictus. "You saw him for yourself. As for the reason he thinks his father's name is Colin. . . well, that was his mother's doing. Lying to him for his own good. She doesn't want anything to do with you, and who can blame her?"

"Who?" He knew. He knew. Oh God. Oh God. There was only one woman he'd slept with on Earth, ever. His legs had turned to mud, his chest to ice. "If you – if you dare touch her – "

"Miss Swan?" Gold affected a look of surprise. "Oh yes, she's here as well. But she's quite safe from me. I do want the curse broken, after all. But if you don't turn about right now and leave forever, the things I'll do to your lad will, I promise, make Milah's fate look bountiful and desirable in comparison."

Killian couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Shock was coiling up his insides, melting them to sludge. Battery acid burned through him like an electric jolt. Oh God. Oh God. The mermaid queen. Our vengeance will be written in your blood, in the blood of your children, of your children's children! How gleefully he'd told her that he had none. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't even blame that on Gold. That was his doing. His. A son. I have a son. The one thing he'd wanted for most of his miserable life, and now –

He lifted his head. Slowly, slowly. Gold stood a few feet away from him, blazing in triumph. Smirking. Confident that this time, he had his enemy in a hammerlock for good.

"How," the pirate said.

"Sorry?" Gold cocked his head. "What was that?"

"How dare you speak Milah's name?" Rage such as he had never known was coursing through him like poison, like black blood and fermented wine, like an explosion of broken glass and a thousand burning stars. "How dare you threaten my son?"

"Taken to the idea of fatherhood already?" The crocodile's smirk turned insufferable. "I didn't peg you for the type. But as I said, leave, now, or I'll – "

"TO HELL WITH YOU!" Captain Hook roared, loud enough to set everything in the shop quaking. "DO YOU THINK I'M A BLOODY COWARD? DO YOU THINK I'M RUNNING AWAY? DO YOU THINK I'M EVER AGAIN GOING TO STOP UNTIL YOU – "

Gold drew a long, thin rapier from his cane with a flourish. "Remember our last duel, pirate?"

Hook clawed for his own sword, ripped it from the scabbard. The world was red, red, red, crimson, burning, burning, and so was he. "Die. You're going to die."

Gold giggled. "No, dearie. I won't be dying here. Just you."

Blades out, the two men circled each other, staring each other down so viciously that it was a miracle the shop had not yet spontaneously combusted. Outside, the snow kept falling. Faintly, there might have been shouts, figures approaching at speed. Hook didn't know. Didn't care. This ended now, all of it, once and forever. He was going to –

He lunged, and Gold rose to meet him. Steel tangled in a shriek of sparks.

And then, the running footsteps reached the pawn shop, and the door burst open.