Chapter 33

Emma woke with warm light on her face, sprawled in the quilts and pleasantly sore in unfamiliar places, smelling of sweat and woodsmoke and something essentially masculine, sex and musk, low and earthy. All the classic symptoms of the morning after, in other words, and she lay very still, deciding that she could enjoy the dream while it lasted. It would fade when she opened her eyes, and she'd be alone in her apartment again as always, David running in to excitedly chivvy her out of bed – was it Thanksgiving? Oh shit, it was. He'd want to watch the Macy's Day Parade and then the football game, and she had to meet up with Mary Margaret and start cooking dinner, remember whatever the hell it was you did to gravy that made it thicken, and try not to otherwise totally embarrass –

"Morning, love."

Emma's insides seized up as horribly as if someone had attempted to feed them to a woodchipper. That voice – it was just part of the illusion, it would vanish as well, though it was clearly one of its more realistic iterations. After all, she had the heavy, dreamy post-coital afterglow, the hair falling loose, the distinct sensation of a hickey on her neck, and –

Emma's eyes flew open. Then she squinted, shielding them against the strong, purifying sunlight slanting through the small cabin's grimy windows. Apparently the storm was over. And standing there in the hot white glow, leaning with as much affected casualness as he could muster on the doorjamb, as if he had nothing better to do than wait for her to wake up. . .

"Morning," Killian Jones said again, sauntering across the ragged carpet and grinning down at her. She had rarely, if ever, seen him look so blazingly happy, so tousled and unconcerned, so utterly at peace. She could sense the particles that he charged in the air, the way he owned the space, the echoes of his body near hers, every moment driving out every hope or dread that this was just a dream. Real. He was real. Last night had actually happened. Him. Her. Together. At long, so very long last. And now he was standing here, smirking at her.

"You," Emma said, instinctively pulling the covers up.

"Who were you expecting, love? The Spanish Inquisition? Not the most romantic sorts of blokes, I've always thought." He grinned again, his happiness pulsing off him like the sky after a good hard rain, luminescent with color. "Are you hungry?"

"I. . ." Emma blinked. "Is there food?"

"Bit," Killian said, with magnificent nonchalance. "Dried stuff and things, you know, hoarded away in the cupboards. I may or may not have fixed us pancakes. And coffee."

"You. . . made me breakfast in bed?" It might be cliché, but nobody had ever done that for her.

"Technically, I made both of us breakfast in bed. I'm not quite so selfless as all that."

Despite herself, she laughed. "All right, fine. How much snow is there?"

"Quite a bit. Your car's practically buried, and the road hasn't been plowed. Two feet, I'd reckon. Might have trouble getting back to town. Might have to stay here."

It was plain that this prospect delighted him inordinately, and he vanished again, where she heard him clattering down the hall to the kitchen. A considerable degree of banging later, he came sidling awkwardly through the door, trying to balance a breakfast tray on his hip with one hand. "This is a bloody pain in the arse, just so you know," he informed her matter-of-factly. "Don't suppose you'd consider giving me my hook back?"

"Maybe," Emma said, somewhat more flirtatiously than she meant to. "If you behave yourself."

He quirked a dark eyebrow salaciously, then lowered the tray down onto the covers. The plates contained a stack of golden-brown pancakes, drizzled lavishly with syrup and accompanied by two mugs of piping-hot black coffee. She was, in fact, ravenous, having had quite a workout last night, and dug in with an appalling lack of table (bed?) manners. It seemed ridiculous, ridiculously perfect, that they were now sitting here, chowing down, alone together in a snowbound cabin. As if the rest of real life was far, far away. Almost as if within Storybrooke, which existed as a world unto itself, they existed unto their own.

At last, when they'd scraped the last bit of syrup off the plates, swigged down the last drops of coffee, he put the tray on the floor and leaned back, hand and stump behind his head. "Well, lass," he said. His tone had changed from its carefree flirtation, become more serious and hesitant. "I. . . I don't suppose, whenever we do get out of here. . . that I could meet my son?"

Emma tensed. "I don't know about that."

"Why? Love, I know we haven't kissed and made up – just the former – but I swear. . . I will behave myself, just like you asked. I. . ." He swallowed. "I won't even tell him that I'm his father if you like. Just if I got to see him a few moments, talk to him. . ."

"I don't know," Emma said again. She bit her lip. "Killian, I. . ."

"You don't trust me," he said quietly. "You're worried that with temptation so near at hand, I'd decide to have another go at offing Gold, and then David would get caught in the crossfire. You don't think the crocodile would balk at hurting a child."

"Yeah, exactly." Emma couldn't decide if she was annoyed or relieved that he'd read her so clearly. "And until I can be sure that you won't – "

"If you're waiting for me to become perfect before you allow me to meet my son, lass, I'm afraid you're going to be waiting a very long time."

"Just. . . Gold knows, all right? He knew the second he laid eyes on David whose kid he was, and he's already made it perfectly clear that if push comes to shove, he'd have no problem acting on it. Now you've pissed him off even more, and David told me he saw you two about to come to blows in the pawn shop. I appreciate that you were honest with me last night. Seriously, I do. But to just act like these seven years haven't happened, that we still are who we were. . ."

Killian looked momentarily uncomfortable. Then he said, "Emma. . . we don't have to stay here, you know. I still have a post at Oxford, a flat. . . it's liable to be quite dingy, assuming the landlord hasn't rented it out to someone else, but we could fix it up. Make a home. If you and the lad were willing to move to England with me. . . I could support us. We could be a proper family. Far away from Gold and far away from this place."

Emma said nothing. She couldn't deny that she was fiercely tempted; she remembered how she thought that she could be very happy in Oxford. It was a beautiful city, Killian had a real and respectable teaching job there – of course, there would have to be an excuse for his years-long disappearance, but he'd surely come up with something – and it would remove one of her chief objections to allowing him and David to meet. Not to mention the fact that after so long scraping along on slave wages, working her ass off, she didn't object to allowing someone else to be the breadwinner for a change. Raising her son in Oxford's lovely parks and gardens and historic cobbled streets, bells pealing out at twilight and ancient college spires among the shady trees. . . coming home to Killian, going to sleep in his arms every night, waking up beside him every morning. . . it sounded like twice as much a fairytale as this place was.

Killian could apparently see from her face that she was thinking about it. "Well?" he said again, nervously. "And if you wanted. . . you know. . . to make it official. . ."

"Wait." Emma's head snapped up. She felt short of breath. "Are you. . . are you asking me. . ."

She couldn't get out the rest of the sentence, and he glanced away, a flush stealing up his high cheekbones. "I. . . I just. . . there's no one but you, Emma. There never will be anyone else. I'm not going to change my mind. I'm not turning back. You know. . . knew. . . how long I devoted myself to the memory of Milah. And I just thought. . . if you wanted. . ."

"You've been gone for almost seven years, you turn up, I arrest you, you confess, we sleep together, and now you're asking me to marry you?" Emma's laugh sounded unhinged to her ears. "Don't you think we should, you know, get things like an ordinary conversation down first?"

Killian glanced away again, clearly hideously embarrassed. "I was just thinking about what you said. About how you were alone with David, struggling to stay afloat. . . I could offer you a home, Emma. Financial stability, a good place to live, everything you didn't have when I was gone. And love. I don't know if I've said it, but I love you, I love you, I love – "

"Shh." She put her hand to his lips. There was a strange tightness in her chest, halfway between joy and grief, almost close to tears. "Later, all right? Later."

"No!" he said vehemently. "I've done my waiting. All those years, all those nights in Neverland, when I would have given my other hand to see you, to tell you that. You were right. Of course you were right. But now I have you with me, I have you again, and I'm not going to wait a bloody moment more. I love you, Emma Swan. Marry me. Let's take our son and go home."

Emma looked away from him, not sure what expression was showing on her face, as she restlessly toyed with the ratty bedspread. It seemed hypocritical of her to take this tack, after her firmly stated desire to keep Gold, David, and Killian away from each other, but she had to. "The curse. Storybrooke. After why we came here. . . after why I came here. . ." She thought of August's book, of how Graham didn't remember, how it might be her mother and father, cursed, oblivious, closer than they'd ever been and yet so unutterably far. "There's a reason. And I can't just throw away the rest of my life, my responsibilities, my. . . my destiny, to run off with you."

"That's what it would be? Throwing away your life?" His lips had gone grim, the spark dimming in his eyes. "Emma, please. . ."

She cut him off. "I've heard what you had to say, all right? It's a generous offer, it's wonderful, but I don't know. This is too soon. I need time."

"I don't understand. What do you want from me? First I was gone, and you hated me for it, now I've come back and I'm trying to make up for lost time and you don't want that either. Emma, please, help me understand – "

"I don't hate you." Far from it. "I was hurt. I was angry. Alone, heartbroken. That's not the same as hating you. But you have to see, I can't turn off that part of me overnight. I can't just blissfully reunite with you and live happily ever after. You've changed, Killian, and so have I. We have to work with that."

"Then how?" He rose suddenly from the bed, his warm weight leaving her side, as he stood to his full height, good hand clenching into a fist. There was a cutting, bitter tone to his voice, pleading and desperation and confusion and grief. "You want to be 'just friends?' I can't do that, Emma. I can never just be your friend. I can never look at you without wanting you, wanting all of you, as my wife and the mother of my child and my lover and my partner and my soul. I'm sorry if that's too bloody frightening for you, but I can't turn off that part of me either, ever – "

"Calm down." She pulled the covers up again. "If you think yelling at me – "

"If you think ignoring me – "

Their voices clashed in midair like sabers, clanged horribly, and fell just as horribly silent. They stared at each other for a long moment, both striving to regain their control and shaken by its lapse, and he inhaled sharply through his nose. "I'll go dig the car out. Bathroom's down the hall if you want to shower, it may be possible to get hot water but I'm not sure. I'll clear this up." Swooping up the breakfast dishes, he balanced them awkwardly once more and stalked out.

Emma sat watching him go. There was a sick, unpleasant knot in her stomach, where just minutes ago there had been uncomplicated happiness, and she didn't know what to say or do. She wanted to call him back, she wanted to apologize, she wanted to make love to him again and stay in bed with him all day, but she didn't trust herself to do any of it. Couldn't he see that she was trying to deal with him the only way she knew how, was trying to be fair, was trying to think of herself and her son's best interests? It wasn't as if she never wanted David to know his father. Wanted it more than anything, in fact. But if Gold caught wind of it. . . if Killian fell back to the dark side that was patently ready and willing if he slipped up again. . .

Emma rubbed her temples, trying to dislodge the rapidly forming headache, then threw aside the quilts and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She gathered up her discarded clothes and padded down the narrow hall to the bathroom, which was about the size of a closet and illuminated only by a fizzing, spitting bulb. After about ten minutes of running the tap, she gave up on getting it anything more than lukewarm, and stuck her head under to wash her hair, shivering and sputtering. There wasn't really a towel, so she wrung it out and finger-combed the worst snarls, staring at her indistinct reflection in the mirror. Now what?

She took her time dressing, and Killian had already finished digging out the Bug by the time she emerged into the cabin's small living room. He cleared his throat on seeing her, and said formally, "You can make it out of here if you're careful. Sun's melting most of the snow on the road, it'll be slushy and slow, but nothing terrible. You'll not want to miss the holiday."

"I. . . yeah. We should probably get going." Her cell phone coverage was patchy at best out here, and she needed to call and check up on her kid; she was sure that he was fine, but Mary Margaret might not appreciate overnight babysitting duty. "Come on."

"When you say that, I assume you're taking me back to jail?" His face was pale and tight.

Emma gaped; she had completely forgotten. She didn't want to, didn't want to at all, but what else was she supposed to do? "I. . . I need to stop by Dark Star Pharmacy on my way back into town," she said at last. "The general store's right next door. If you don't have any money, I can give you some to buy normal clothes. You're not going traipsing around town in that."

He glanced down at his black leather ensemble. "Unusual, isn't it? Striking. But that, alas, does not answer the question as to where I'm going."

Emma hesitated. "You. . . all right. You can come to my place and have Thanksgiving dinner with us. I'm not going to leave you out in the cold under a bridge. My. . . friend, Mary Margaret, she'll be there. . . and David."

His eyes widened as he took this in, and he was briefly struck speechless. She knew she wouldn't have to tell him to mind his manners, thank heavens for small mercies, and quickly added, "We'll play it by ear when it comes to telling him who you are, all right? I'll just say you're a guest over for dinner and leave it at that. If it comes up. . . maybe."

"All right," Killian said immediately. "Whatever you want, lass."

"That's the question, isn't it?" Emma muttered to herself as she led the way out to the Bug. It was reluctant to start the first few times she twisted the key, but persistence and a few choice curses finally encouraged it to sputter to life; she really needed to get it tuned up one of these days. Ruby knew a guy named Billy who worked at the auto body place, who would probably give her a decent discount. But all she required from it currently was that it ran, and they were soon sledding along the access road, taking the curves very slowly to avoid sliding into a tree. Continual mini-avalanches as melting snow cascaded off the branches added that certain je ne sais quoi to the whole proceeding, and both of them let out a long breath when they finally rolled onto the main highway. This had been plowed and salted, and their going got easier into town. A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the pharmacy.

Emma let out another breath. She had been afraid that it would be closed for Thanksgiving, but she could see the proprietor, Clark, inside; apparently he had decided to stay open for a few hours and profit off the panicked last-minute shoppers. She jerked up the handbrake and turned to Killian. "Do you need a few bucks for clothes?"

"If you don't mind, lass," he admitted, "I'm rather skint right now. Pay you back, of course."

"Yeah, fine." Emma fished around for her wallet, opened it, and gave him five twenties, which ought to be enough to buy him a decent outfit. "Meet you back here in fifteen."

She got out of the car, glanced in every direction shiftily, then headed in. She dearly hoped that Gold hadn't decided to run out and pick up a few things for dinner at this exact moment, but she couldn't really see him having a party. Unless he and Regina had some evil club they went to on occasions like this. Whatever. But the fewer people who saw Killian out and about, the better.

Emma glanced around once more, then proceeded on the walk of shame through the aisles, throwing a few things she didn't need into her basket so she wouldn't be blatantly obvious about buying a box of condoms. She wasn't planning on them being necessary, not really, but, well. . . things of a certain nature tended to happen without her planning them when Killian Jones was involved. It would be stupid not to at least be prepared. Which was why she next had to stroll as casually as possible up to the pharmacy counter, and get the morning-after pill. She and Killian hadn't exactly used protection while they were going at it multiple times last night, and dearly as she loved David, she was not at all ready to embark on motherhood for the second (third?) time in her life. She paid for her things, requested a paper bag, and headed out.

Killian hadn't emerged yet, so she put it in the backseat and pulled out her phone, dialing. After a few rings, Mary Margaret picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey. It's me. I'm, um, sorry about leaving David with you overnight." Emma could feel a flush creeping up her neck; there was plainly only one reason she would have done that, and she hurried on. "But we're actually, well, going to have an extra guest for dinner. Is that all right?"

"A guest?" Mary Margaret said keenly. "Killian?"

"Um. . . yes." Emma's flush heated further. "We've decided to bury the hatchet for now. So you know, if it's all right – "

"Of course it's all right!" Mary Margaret sounded delighted. "I'd love to have him over! Are you – " She lowered her voice. "Are you going to tell – "

"No, no," Emma said hastily. "Not yet. We're just going to introduce him as Mr. Jones, an old friend of mine, okay? It's not the right time."

"All right," Mary Margaret agreed, although she sounded slightly disappointed. "Well, are you two on your way?"

"Yeah, we'll be over in about fifteen or twenty. See you then."

"Okay, see you."

Emma hung up and slipped the phone back into her pocket, then stole one more nervous glance around the sunny, snowy Main Street, paper turkey chains hung up in shop windows and festive wreathes of colored autumn leaves bedecking doors. Still no one suspicious larking around. Just a beautiful holiday late morning, in a little New England town that almost looked normal. That almost looked like home. Like nothing was wrong.

The door of the general store opened, and Killian Jones strode out.

Emma's jaw dropped. She couldn't help it. She had not been at all prepared. He had found an elegant pair of slacks, and a black dress shirt, jacket, and tie, which he had somehow managed to do up with one hand. With his artfully disheveled hair and obnoxiously perfect perma-scruff, he was the image of the dark, debonair scholar she'd first met, as if he hadn't aged a day since then, and he was the most knee-weakeningly, head-turningly handsome man she had ever seen. He had a bag draped casually over his arm, in which he must have stashed his pirate getup, and if anyone had been walking by, they wouldn't have glanced twice. Or rather they would have, but to stare at him, not his clothes. Frankly, Emma was shocked he hadn't caused a traffic accident.

Seeing her gaping, Killian came to a halt and spread his arms. "Well?" he said smugly. "Pass muster, lass?"

"It's – not – bad." Her throat was as dry as chalk. "Come on, let's go."

With another of those infuriating eyebrow quirks, he shrugged and climbed into the passenger seat, and Emma started the Bug. It was only a short drive to her apartment building, and as they sloshed up to her customary parking spot in the back, she noticed that Killian had gone as taut and tense as a guitar string about to break. She found herself wanting to think of something to comfort him, but couldn't. "Hey," she said. "You're going to be okay. Fine. Promise."

"Aye," he said weakly. He exhaled, then unbuckled and reached for something in the bag, tucking it under his arm. "Right. Let's do this, shall we?"

She gave him a soft, understanding smile, then stepped out and led the way into the building, up the stairs to Mary Margaret's apartment. Killian now looked as if he was about to faint, and she slipped a hand under his elbow, forced to admit that she might be reacting the same if it was her long-lost child she was going to meet after six and a half years of not even knowing he existed. (Though that would be quite a bit harder, in her case.) Nonetheless, she knocked.

"Come in!" Mary Margaret called.

Emma took a steadying breath of her own, then opened the door and stepped inside. The apartment was already delightfully warm and full of savory smells, and Santa Claus must have officially rolled past in the Macy's parade to open the holiday season; Mary Margaret had put on Mannheim Steamroller, which was the only kind of Christmas music Emma had ever liked. It made another involuntary smile creep to her lips – she was here, she was having Thanksgiving with something like a real family. Maybe she could do this after all.

"Welcome, welcome!" The apron-clad Mary Margaret put down whatever she had been stirring and hurried over to greet her guests. She kissed Emma quickly on the cheek, then turned to Killian, clearly pretending that she didn't know who he was. "I'm Mary Margaret Blanchard, Emma's neighbor. It's so nice to meet you."

"Killian Jones," he said, then coughed, clearing his throat. "Here, these are for you." He removed the package from beneath his arm, revealing it to be a bouquet of autumn flowers, tied with a gold ribbon. "Thought they'd. . . they'd be nice for the table."

"They're perfect!" Mary Margaret exclaimed, winking at Emma. "We're so glad you could join us. The more, the merrier, right?"

"Sure, aye." Killian's attention was only half on her. He was staring across the room at the small, dark-haired boy happily playing with several toys Emma was quite sure he hadn't had before; it looked as if Mary Margaret had taken him to the store and told him to pick out what he wanted. "And. . . that's. . .?"

Emma had to clear her throat herself. It still felt thick as she spoke. "David?" she called. "Hey, buddy, come over here and meet Mr. Jones, all right? He's a. . . a friend of mine."

David looked up, then sprang to his feet, round-eyed. "Oh gosh! It's him! You're the guy I saw at Mr. Gold's shop the other day!"

Emma tensed, and saw Killian do likewise, faint tremors running through him from head to toe as David trotted over. "Hi, Mom," he said, hugging her around the waist, then turned to Killian and solemnly stuck out his hand, trying to look suave and adult. "How do you do, Mr. Jones?"

"F-fine, lad." Killian looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His eyes were riveted to his son, taking in every detail, every trace, and Emma saw Mary Margaret watching them avidly as she cut the flowers and put them in a vase. "I – you're – so you're how old, now?"

"Almost seven," David said proudly. "In May. I like to play baseball and I'm in first grade. I'm really good at English and history, but not so much at math."

"Dear God," Emma heard Killian whisper under his breath, his hand making an involuntary motion as if to cross himself. He had to close his eyes, hard, then open them and smile at David, who was looking rather worried. "That's – quite nice. I'm. . . I'm rather partial to those subjects myself. Used to teach them, actually. At college. That's where I met your – met Emma."

"Really?" David looked fascinated. "That's cool! But why don't you like Mr. Gold?"

Leave it to small children to march up to bulls and take them firmly by the horns "That's. . . adult stuff, lad. Story for another day. How – how about you show me what you've got, over there?"

David looked surprised, but obligingly led Killian over to show him the castle he was building out of Legos. As they occupied themselves, Emma slid over to Mary Margaret and threw herself rather too enthusiastically into helping her cook. When David vanished for a bathroom break, Killian sank onto the sofa, looking pale and stunned. "Christ. He's. . . he's just like me."

Mary Margaret eyed him sympathetically as she stirred the stuffing mix. "Are you going to be staying in Storybrooke?"

"I – I don't know." Killian shot a wary glance at Emma. "It's quite a delicate situation. Haven't really decided all that much."

Mary Margaret looked as if she was about to say something else, but at that moment David reappeared, and all three adults started guiltily to attention. Clearly heedless of the tension, he made straight for his fabulous new friend again, and they continued to chat until Killian glanced up guiltily. "I could, er, help you ladies with supper if you'd like?"

"No, you're doing fine keeping him out of our hair, trust me." Emma basted the bird and carried it toward the oven.

Killian looked patently relieved, and she could tell he hadn't wanted to waste a single moment with his son. She bent only half an ear to the conversation as she and Mary Margaret continued to work, but then went stiff. David, all innocence, had eyed Killian interestedly and asked, "How'd you lose your hand, Mr. Jones?"

"David!" Emma hissed. "You do not just – !"

"No, lad, it's all right," Killian reassured him. "Natural for you to be curious. If you come here, I'll tell you a secret, aye?"

David squirted up eagerly. "Yeah?"

Emma saw Killian shudder again at the nearness of the little boy, how fiercely he must ache to put his arms around him and pull him close, to breathe the scent of him, to hold him close and never let him go. He swallowed visibly, but managed to keep his composure. "You know," he told David, in a stage whisper. "As a matter of fact, Peter Pan lopped it off."

"Peter Pan. . .?" David's mouth dropped open. There was dead silence. Then, nearly overcome with this information, he gasped, "Oh gosh. That – that means. . . you – you're Captain Hook!"

There were tears in Killian's eyes as he smiled. "It's our secret, remember?"

"Oh my gosh." David kept staring. "Oh gosh! That – is – awesome!"

Killian made a small, choked noise, bending over and having to take several moments before he straightened up, and Emma's heart went out to him. David, meanwhile, was in transports of delight. "Oh wow! I love Peter Pan! It's my favoritest favorite, and I always knew it was really real! But Hook was mean and scary, and you're not. I bet you were sad about losing your hand and leaving Neverland, and that made you nicer, right?"

"Aye," Killian croaked. "Something like that, lad."

"I knew it!" David crowed, getting up to skip triumphantly around the living room. He was overflowing with excitement for the rest of the afternoon, and dragged Killian outside for a snowball fight, from which they both returned soaking wet, red-cheeked, breathless, and looking as if they had never been so happy in their lives. By the time they'd dried off and made themselves presentable, it was time to eat, and everything smelled delicious as the women laid it out on the table. Mary Margaret asked Killian if he'd like to say grace, and clearly as shocked as he was pleased, he obliged. Then they began to carve up and eat.

Emma kept having to resist the urge to pinch herself as she looked around at them. Here together. Like a family. A home. So happy, so achingly happy that it felt like a mortal wound in her chest. She wanted to bottle it, to hold onto it forever, and she knew at once that she was more terrified of losing it than she'd ever been of anything in her life. This was too dangerous, this was too much. But how did she make it stop now? How could she protect herself? She was no longer sure that she could, and that was even worse.

After supper, everyone had to let it settle before Mary Margaret dished up the pumpkin pie, and the adults chatted after David had been excused to watch the football game. Mary Margaret was clearly dying to know the details, but to her credit, she didn't pry, and they managed to keep it to topics of general interest. After dessert, the tryptophan was kicking in, and they were all yawning as they cleared the table and started to wash up. And then, while she was up to her elbows in soapy water, Emma's cell phone rang.

She rolled her eyes. "Just one sec, guys. Let me get that."

Extricating herself from the sink and hastily drying off, she picked it up from the counter and saw that it was Graham. That was surprising. Had some teenager boozed up on celebratory beer gone out and crashed his car in the snow? Shit. But duty beckoned.

She picked up. "Emma."

A very long pause, as she listened. A small frown started between her brows and drew them closer and closer together until they were nearly locked. "Oh," she said. "What the hell? Yeah. Of course. No. No, we have to. Give me a minute to change and get my badge and gun, and then I'll meet you there. Okay. Yep. See you soon. Bye."

Mary Margaret and Killian glanced up with identical expressions of concern. "What was that all about?"

"I'm really sorry, but I've got to head out. You know how we found those two people under the library? Seems like that's not quite the extent of it. Graham and I have to go check it out."

Killian's expression tightened when she said Graham's name. He didn't look at all pleased. "Well, of course," he said stiffly. "If Humbert's the one summoning you. . ."

"Hey." Emma pointed at him. "Jealousy does not look good on you, buddy. He's my boss and this is my job. Not to mention. . ." She glanced over to ensure that David was still distracted. "Graham says he got a tip that someone else is down under there. That it's a woman. A woman you know pretty damn well. Having shot her in front of her lover's face."

There was a pause. Killian's face went very still, as if he was wrestling very hard with something inside himself. "Belle?"

Mary Margaret, who was putting dishes away on the other side of the kitchen, peeked over.

"Nothing," Emma told her hastily, then lowered her voice, turning back to Killian. "Yes. He thinks it's Belle. And I don't know about you, but I will be damned if I give Gold another reason to hold a grudge against us. If it is her, I have to save her or die trying, and if you do anything to screw it up. . ."

"I won't," he said coldly. "Much though it may surprise you, I am capable of rational thought on occasion. I quite agree that it would be most advisable to get a leg up on the wretched reptile for once. Put him in our debt."

"No," Emma said, quietly and very angrily. "This isn't about your little power play with Gold. This is about doing the right thing. If Graham and I do get Belle out of there, and I fully intend to do so, she continues to be completely off-limits. You keep saying you want to change for me, Killian. All right. Fine. Let's see how much you can."

He flinched, but she was already stepping away. To Mary Margaret she said, "I'm so sorry, but I'm going to have to leave David with you again tonight. I'm going to run up to my place and change, and then head out. I have no idea when I'll be back."

"That's all right," Mary Margaret said. "We'll manage."

"You're such a lifesaver. I don't know what on earth I'd do without you." Emma blew out a breath, went to give her son a quick hug, and then, feeling Killian's eyes on her back like lasers, turned to him. "You can go where you like, but take care. Rent a room at Granny's or something. Just don't sashay around town while Belle's in danger, or it'll look really bad."

He looked as if he wanted to fire something sarcastic back, but swallowed it down and nodded. There were other words she wanted to say to him, other things she wanted to tell him, but she was in a hurry, and there would be other times, other places. So they exchanged a terse nod, eyes lingering on each other's. Then Emma took one final look around the apartment, and stepped out, shut the door behind her, and went.

After that awkward end to the evening, there really wasn't much point in Killian loitering about. He'd have stayed far later, just to scrape all the time with his son that he could, but it would have looked strange, and Mary Margaret wasn't the sort of lass who'd want to be caught with an attractive rakehell such as himself in close proximity. So he bid her a polite good night, bent down to David and told him to keep out of trouble, and almost felt sick with his desire to snatch the lad up and hug him. He barely managed to get out of the door and head down the dark steps beyond. He barely managed not to turn and run back.

He retrieved his things from the Bug, then started to walk. It wasn't snowing, but the night was clear, calm, and bitterly cold. He supposed he'd go back down to his ship, where he felt the safest; besides, he had no money to pay for a room. His thoughts kept drifting to Emma, to David, to everything that had happened in the extremely eventful past twenty-four hours. He had been Killian, completely and perfectly Killian, and yet as he trudged down to the harbor, he felt it peeling away again, leaving the dark hard shell of Hook beneath. He could not stop dwelling on the fact that Emma had rushed away at Graham bloody Humbert's beck and call to rescue the crocodile's woman. He meant to keep his word and not interfere, knowing that he was on the very shreds of his last chance, but it still made him feel sour and sick.

He reached the docks at last, and walked silently to the end, onto the dark, deserted Roger. He went below to his cabin and shut the door. All his joy had evaporated, leaving only a leaden weight in his stomach. So what was he supposed to do, skulk about Storybrooke until Emma let him tell his son that he was his, dodging out of sight if Gold looked over, waiting for her to –

Preoccupied with his dark thoughts as he was, it didn't occur to Killian at first. But the sensation became stronger, and then stronger, until he glanced up and frowned. He couldn't be sure, but he had the distinct feeling that the place had been tampered with. That something, something very important, was missing.

His heart clenched. He started to search, turning things upside down, ransacking chests and shelves. Who had been here? Who had done this? Gold? Must have been. The bastard was the only one who could see the ship. Killian would wring his bloody neck. What on earth was he –

No.

Wait.

Killian caught up short, staring at the cluttered desk. It suddenly hit him just what was missing, and it made him feel a thousand times worse. The golden compass that had navigated him here from the Enchanted Forest. He'd just left it here like an idiot, not thinking to need it anymore – not thinking that someone else very well might. Someone had been on his ship. Someone had stolen it.

The missing compass. Belle. The library. Emma and Graham called away all of a sudden.

Killian stood frozen for a moment more, then shrugged on his heavy black leather overcoat and slid as many daggers as he could find into the sleeves. His sword was at the sheriff's station, his hook was with Emma, and he couldn't go unarmed. He should never have left Mary Margaret's, and he only prayed he could get back in time. His adrenaline was screaming as he lit a lantern and bolted up to the deck, jumping off the Roger and full-out sprinting back to shore. He tore up the snowy, silent streets like a madman, swearing under his breath, panic lacerating the edges of his vision and making his heart race sickeningly. Bloody hell, don't let me be too late.

His breath was stabbing like a hot blade by the time he finally reached the quiet street. He took the stairs three or four at once, and blasted into Mary Margaret's apartment without knocking.

For a split second, he thought everything was all right after all, and he was going to have some serious explaining to do as to why he had just crashed in here like a lunatic. Then he saw her feet sticking out from behind the kitchen island. She wasn't moving.

Killian wasn't sure if he was swearing or praying as he lurched over to her. She was facedown, unconscious, a slow trickle of red seeping through her short black hair. He put his good hand to her neck, found a pulse, and carefully rolled her over. Her eyelids were fluttering; she was coming around, dazed and confused. She stared up at him as if not quite sure who he was, then frowned. "Kil – ?"

"Never mind that," he said harshly. "Who was it? Who?"

"I don't – " She sat up slowly, wincing and touching the bump on her skull. "I – I was finishing the cleanup, there was a knock on the door, they. . ."

"WHO?" he screamed.

She flinched. "I don't know. I'd never seen them before. A man and a woman. The man was tall and going bald, the woman was black, she had a walking boot and long hair. . . they. . ."

Killian almost shook her. "They what?"

"They said they knew Emma and wanted to wish her a happy Thanksgiving." Mary Margaret looked miserable. "Then the woman went over to David and. . . and the man came over and. . . he must have knocked me out. I don't remember anything else."

Oh no. Oh, no. Everything was falling into horrifying place. It was them. Greg Mendel and his girlfriend Tamara, the terrible twosome. They had stolen the compass, they'd called Emma and Graham away on some false pretext, and then they'd arrived here and taken David. It was a trap, it was all a trap. They must be quite sure that Emma and Graham weren't going to return from wherever they'd sent them, set it up to get the two sheriffs tidily out of the way, and. . .

Every nerve in Killian's body was screaming. Right now, he had to make a choice, and if he got it wrong, his life would be over. He could go after his son, or he could go after Emma. But he could not go after both. And Mary Margaret couldn't leave Storybrooke. Not with the curse.

Killian rocked back on his heels, trying to fight the urge to tear this entire place down with his bare hand. That wasn't going to help, but he had not been so close to losing control in a very long time. If he left Emma behind in her hour of need, if he abandoned her again. . . how could he ever forgive himself? But his son, kidnapped by those bloody bastards, with God knew what in mind. . . Home Office, the curse of the mermaids. . . Greg and Tamara worked for Home Office, they'd gotten free, they had the compass, they could guide the rest of them here. . .

Killian's terror was screaming through him so viciously that he could almost hear it. So, then. It had come to this. Numbly, he rocked to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Mary Margaret clutched his arm. "Do you know – "

"Yes," Killian said. He had only one choice. He saw that now. He had to. "I know who it was."