Chapter 36

"I'm sorry," Emma said, as the distant sound of falling rocks thundered down the passage, clouds of dust starting to rise like marsh gas. "Did you seriously just say a dragon?"

"Didn't say the Tooth Fairy, now did I?" Killian tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Old. . . friend. I can attest that she is most monstrous."

"She? It's a girl dragon now?"

"Terrifying and yes, female witch that can turn into a dragon, to be very precise." Bloody hell, he didn't have time to give her magical bestiary lessons. "And I'd draw that sword if I were you."

"Think I'll stick with the gun, thanks. How do you know so much about this, anyway?"

"I did do a bloody lot of research on the curse, if you'll recall. And trust me, the gun – "

"I don't even know how to use the sword, I'd probably lop my head off. If anyone has to do it, I guess that's what I brought you along for."

It thrilled him that she would, even obliquely and while stubbornly deflecting the rest of his advice, admit that she needed him in any capacity. Their reunion was still too fragile and new, still hot from the forge, something that might crumble as soon as stand, but this was – at least he hoped most desperately – a start. Still, however, neither of them had time to dwell on it. The crashing sounds were coming closer and closer. The darkness was too impenetrable, falling over like a shroud, as Killian and Emma stood shoulder to shoulder, staring in all directions as if their heads were on pivots, he with sword in one hand and her pointing gun with both.

"Where is it?" Emma whispered. "Is it even – "

The rest of her question was cut off as a huge amber eye flicked open behind her, slitted and baleful. Killian had just enough time to shout, "DUCK!" before the dragon reared above them, screaming, great leathery wings accordioning up a furious gust of wind and an equally furious gust of flame exploding from between its jaws. Iridescent scales gleamed witchily, claws raking up furrows of choking dust, and as she threw herself into a somersault across the rocks, Killian heard Emma moan, "Oh, no. No way. You have got to be kidding me."

Alas and alack, no. Killian stared up into the monster's face, trying to recollect even a scrap of his legendary savoir-faire. He'd had dealings with the witch in the past – not good ones, precisely, but there had once existed a business relationship. Perhaps they didn't have to be entirely barbaric about this. "Maleficent," he said charmingly. "Love you in earth tones."

Maleficent responded by attempting to turn his own tones into the "scorched beyond all recognition" variety, and was only prevented from stirring success as he dove behind a stone pillar. Clearly, diplomatic negotiations were going to have to move to the aggressive phase, and he took a better grip on his sword, a long breath, and a mental shake. Then he flung himself out from cover, baiting her, trying to draw her away from where he'd seen Emma fall. "Oy! You there! Don't you think that tail makes your arse look big?"

The dragon howled. In any world, in any shape, women never appreciated the intimation that their posterior was outsized, and Killian sprinted, fireballs vaporizing the rocks to either side, as she lumbered after him. Her evil, triangular head oscillated mesmerizingly, as she tried to decide which was the best angle from which to roast him alive. A fascinating contemplation, no doubt, but one which was rudely interrupted. From somewhere behind them, Killian could hear the sharp, popping reports of gunshots as Emma emptied an entire clip into the dragon's hide. At such close range, and with such a large target, she could scarcely miss. Unfortunately, just as he'd warned her, the bullets did less than no good.

"Seriously?" he heard Emma gasp, as Maleficent wheeled around and took aim at her instead. There was nowhere for her to run, he heard her scrambling backwards, running full-out across the rocks, he couldn't get to her with the bulk of the dragon in the way, and then –

"Emma?" Totally heedless of the fire-breathing death machine hard on his heels, he ran frantically to the edge of the rocks. "Emma, where are – "

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Maleficent's huge, spiked tail swinging toward him. He tried to get his hook up, or his sword, or anything, but it was too late. It slammed into him, lifting him bodily into thin air. For a moment he hung suspended. Then he plunged.

It was fifteen or twenty feet straight down. He hit the rocks with a groan, catching his right leg beneath him with a blaze of agony, and couldn't get up, couldn't breathe or move to save himself, as the dragon bore down on him. This was it, this was the way all the stories ended, with him becoming a piece of marvelously handsome and very raw steak somewhere under a –

But then, out of nowhere, Emma was there. She planted herself above his fallen body, and drew the sword from its sheath on her back, clutching it in both hands. It was plain that she had no idea what to do with it, just as she'd told him, but that didn't stop her. As Maleficent's head plunged down, going for the kill, Emma hacked madly at the dragon's neck, drawing it off, slashing and cutting as she kept it barely at bay, dodging another gust of flame. In its light, Killian could see that her face was battered and bruised, blood running from a gash above her eye, but she scrambled away across the rocks, leading the beast on a wild dragon chase just long enough for him to wheeze in a pained breath and roll to his feet. Sword in hand, he charged.

Emma turned just in time to see him coming. Side by side once more, they exchanged a split-second glance. And in that, was enough time to decide on their strategy.

"HEY!" Killian, wincing as he put weight on his leg – it definitely felt as if he'd cracked something – ran out at full speed, belting across the rocks, then spun to brace himself and fight Maleficent back with his sword – straight toward Emma, who had to duck again as another blast of fire fried the dark air above her. For some moments there was an utter chaotic confusion of running and fighting and explosions, as Maleficent buzzed back and forth like a demented hornet, unable to decide who she should focus the brunt of her wrath on. Rock exploded, showering burning stone chips everywhere, and the darkness was lit by violent orange gales as Killian and Emma battled in deadly earnest, Killian covering for Emma when her rudimentary sword fighting skills left her open to danger, Emma covering for Killian when his bad leg went out from under him. Both of them were dripping in sweat, breathless, but not daring to take their eyes off the beast. They had vexed it, but were still no closer to bringing it down than –

Maleficent was, at least, getting dizzy. It was hard for her to keep her evil yellow eyes on both of them at once, or fend off one from the back when the other was attacking from the front, and Killian's only hope at this point was that they'd somehow tie her up in knots, the great bloody nuisance. Just like Regina to keep a sodding dragon down here, and just like Rumplestiltskin to pack them off to fight it. It crossed his mind that that might be exactly what the crocodile wanted, sending them off to perish in some godforsaken dungeon, but Bae – he'd told him about Bae, that he was in Neverland, not even the bastard would throw away his own son like that – unless he didn't believe him, thought Killian was just pulling it out of his arse to get him to –

Still no time to dwell on it. Maleficent was coming hard, wounded but angrier for it, and Emma had lost her sword, fingers clawing madly in the dirt. Killian shouted and threw himself in the way, tumbling head over heels – not the most graceful or elaborate entrance he had ever made, but beyond doubt one of the most effective. As he rolled over to see the dragon towering above him, clearly prepared to revenge herself and then some for his impolite remark about her nether aspects, he heard a voice shout, "HEY!"

Killian cranked himself painfully over on an elbow just in time to see Emma raise the sword above her head in both hands – apparently, his distraction had allowed her enough time to get it back. And then, the crazy bloody woman, she went and let go of it again. She threw it like a javelin, hard as she could, directly at the vulnerable, armorless underside of the dragon's belly.

Maleficent bellowed in pain as a fiery wound blossomed across her scales, racing outwards like cracks in ice from the place where the sword had lodged. Brighter and brighter and brighter, turning the entire eerie, rocky underworld into something from the pits of hell, as Killian scrambled to his feet and tackled Emma just in time. The explosion deafened him completely, hot ashes pelting his back like strange snow, stinging and burning and bellowing as flames tore apart the darkness. Emma lay completely still beneath him, except for the mad flutter of the pulse he could feel in her throat, close to his, as they lay there, clinging to each other for dear life.

At last, the tumult subsided. Pushing himself cautiously off her, Killian looked around and saw that nothing remained of their foe but a heap of steaming ashes. In the middle, like a phoenix that could not quite get up the gumption to hatch, sat a heavy golden egg, glowing and lambent with heat.

"Is that it?" Emma's voice was croaky as she sat upright, wincing and touching a trickle of blood seeping from beneath her hair. "Is that what Gold wants?"

"I imagine so." Killian moved gingerly toward it, knelt, and picked it up carefully. It was still hot to the touch, but the glow was fading already. "Let's get out of here before she comes back."

Emma stared at the ashes. "But I – I thought we – "

"I seriously doubt we actually killed her, lass. Sorceresses that old and that evil generally don't go down so easily. But you gave her enough of a shock, it looks like, to do the trick for now. You are bloody brilliant. Amazing."

Emma flushed, the color of her cheeks visible even in the dim, smoky, scorched light, as she moved to retrieve the sword. "Dumb luck."

"Call it what you will. Dumb luck's gotten me out of more than one tight corner."

With Killian still shooting wary glances behind them, the two of them hurried across the rocks, clambered back up the cliff they'd tumbled down, and crawled over the edge, Emma reaching back to pull Killian after her. Both of them were coughing and gasping, wiping sweat out of their eyes, as they arrived at the elevator cage and piled in. "Hey!" Emma shouted. "Let's go!"

There was a pause just long enough to shred their nerves, and then the cage lurched into motion. Up and up and up it bumped, slowly, slowly. . . and then, out of nowhere, screeched to a halt. Silence dwelled for one minute, two, three, five. Nothing.

"Hey!" Emma shouted again, banging on the side. "Hey! David! Let's go!"

"David's gone." A voice spoke calmly from the top of the shaft, echoing. "Acting sheriff, you know. Had to run off. Must have forgotten all about you. Sad, isn't it? Here, toss the egg up to me, and I'll start to work on our defense."

Not knowing how much time they had left, perhaps only minutes, Emma readied to toss the golden egg – but then, Killian's hook jerked her arm sharply down. "Oh no you don't," he growled. "As if I don't know precisely what you're thinking, you rotten son of a shit-eating snake. You're going to steal whatever's in here, double-cross us, and scarper. Don't even deny you were going to."

"You have a very suspicious mind, Captain." If it was possible to make what should have been an honorific into the vilest of insults, Gold succeeded spectacularly.

"I've been fighting you for too long. If you want it, you're going to crank us up."

"Me?" Gold looked utterly revolted at the prospect. "Do you really think I – "

"Should have thought of that before you sent Nolan haring off, eh? What did you do, incidentally?"

"Break-in at Regina's house." Gold grinned and waved something at them – a tattered old black velvet top hat. "Stealing this. I don't imagine she'll be all that pleased to discover it's gone, but what can you do? It will certainly put her on her guard to fight whoever's coming through."

"That's all very well and good. Now get us out of here."

"What's the magic word, dearie?"

"Get us out of here or I'll – "

"Please!" Emma shouted angrily. "Can you please get us out, Gold? Before we all die some ridiculously stupid and preventable death and my son is lost in Neverland forever?"

"All right. I'll accept that. For your sake alone, Miss Swan." With a martyred shrug, Gold vanished, and finally, they heard the wheels and gears start to crank, grating them up the shaft until they reached the top. Killian was tense all over, fingers aching to reach for his sword, but forced himself to think of David, his David, the young lad abandoned and alone in the weird and wild wastelands of the island where you never aged, where the shadow held sway, where all the beauty and all the stars and all the splendor held a dark and unforgiving curse. Thought of the mermaids, how their loveliness likewise masked their lethalness, and how he himself had brought it about. For once, he minded his manners.

Gold, apparently recognizing as such, gave him an extremely sarcastic salute and ostentatiously wiped his brow on the sleeve of his smart suit jacket, as if to demonstrate what a burden it had been hauling them all the way up. Then, with the ratty black hat still tucked under his arm, he beckoned them to follow, and they hurried out. The day, as if portending something wicked this way coming, had clouded over to a dark iron-grey, and snow spat from the frowning clouds.

"You'll consent to drive us, Miss Swan, I'm sure?" Gold helped himself to the passenger seat of the police cruiser, leaving a fuming Killian to crawl into the caged-off back as if he were some sort of bloody small-time thief. "I'll instruct you where we're going. It isn't far."

Emma shot a sideways look at Killian, but got behind the wheel and pulled out. The streets were still icy, requiring her to pay close attention, but she plowed up the hill to the copse of forest that Gold indicated. Everything looked like a Christmas card, trees glazed with icicles and gingerbread cottages buried attractively in white, but they plainly had not come up here for the view. She jerked the brake, and all three clowns piled out, Gold in the lead, as he led them to a small stone wishing well set back among the fallen leaves.

"Miss Swan," he said. "If you please."

Emma hesitated, then put the golden egg on the ground and split it open.

Killian instinctively tensed, expecting that no good whatsoever could come of anything that Gold felt necessary for putting up a defense of Storybrooke. But no smoke monster or shadow or other vile beastie streamed out. It was only a vial containing a glowing purple substance – something that, as he looked at it, made him realize that they might just have made a very colossal mistake.

He took a step forward, intending to say something, but too late. Emma handed the vial to Gold, and he uncapped it, held it poised for a moment over the well, and dumped it in.

The effect was immediate. At first tendrils, then clouds, then rolling gusts of violet smoke began to erupt from the well, choking and billowing as it engulfed the forest, the fallen leaves, Gold, and Killian and Emma, who reflexively clutched onto each other. "Crocodile!" the former bellowed. "The bloody hell are you doing?"

Gold turned and gave them a merry, manic smile. "Just what I promised. A way to shield this town, for the time being, from our Home Office friends. The only way I could. With magic."

Magic. The word felt cold and dark and terrible, like a blow to the stomach. Aye. Killian could see it now. Give his enemy back the ability to become the Dark One? The greatest weapon he possessed, the power that tipped the scales unevenly? As long as Gold lacked magic, he was – more or less – an ordinary man, forced to rely on his wits and wiles and deals to survive and manipulate, but with magic, he was an opponent so terrible that his legend still scarred the lore of countless realms. With magic, he was a monster.

Killian, coming to this conclusion, and realizing that this could only end one way, lunged.

Gold had been waiting for it. He skipped out of the way, hand flaring up, and a pulse of unseen energy knocked Killian back on his heels. Emma was still staring, clearly trying to wrap her head around the speed with which all laws of reality had come undone before her eyes in the space of seconds, and didn't yet comprehend what had happened. She stood motionless, then ripped the sword from its sheath, but couldn't seem to decide what to go after – the well, or Gold.

Killian fought to his feet, snarling, and tried to charge Gold again, but the other man negligently flicked him aside as if swatting a fly. Then the crocodile balanced the tattered black hat on the rim of the well, and began to spin it.

Something old and dark and roaring flew out, as the hat grew many times its size, sucking and whistling and whirling a sinister and shrieking portal into nothingness. Green lightning flashed and crackled around the edges, dancing up Gold's fingers and arms and entire body, pounding Killian in the chest like cannonfire when he tried to break into it. The magic continued to spin and scream, a tornado set to lift off and carry them to Oz, or somewhere even stranger. And then, at the height of its churning, crashing energy, when the abyss at its center was nothing but darkness and more darkness, Gold took a running start and jumped.

Killian shouted. Emma swore. Both of them picked themselves up, still dazed, and ran as hard as they could, but the green lightning crackled out again and tossed them like dolls. Emma was the first to recover her feet and her sword, but then, the lights and sound and magical madness died. The purple smoke continued to roil and spark, a giant cloud of it now engulfing the entire town, but silently. The wishing well was just a wishing well.

The portal was closed.

Gold was gone.

"I'll kill him!" It was the first thing Emma heard as she stood there, shocked and heartbroken and unable to believe her eyes, trapped and stranded here completely on their own. "I'll kill him!"

She remained rooted to the spot. She hadn't really thought Gold was going to keep his word to the bitter end, but the sheer flamboyance and magnitude of his betrayal was a cherry on top of the shit sundae. Instinctively, she rushed forward and picked up the hat, tried to spin it as Gold had, to reopen whatever dark door into the netherwhere he'd just used to make his fuck-you-and-your-little-dog-too villainous exit, but it only sparked feebly a few times and went out. Panicking, she spun around. "Killian? What do I do? There has to be another way! There has to be!"

He had been much slower than her getting to his feet, and his face contorted in pain as he tried to put weight on his right leg. "Lass, I. . . I don't. . ."

"No!" Emma screamed, and threw the ruins of the hat away from her, kicking it into the snow. "He can't just leave us here! He can't just do this!"

Killian's laugh was agonized and sardonic. "You truly didn't know who you were dealing with, did you? You really thought he was going to do this for us from the goodness of his heart? I doubt he even bloody has one. If he does, it's rotten through."

Emma wanted to completely lose her mind, but she had the bare minimum of composure left to realize that this would get her, them, and David absolutely nowhere. Her first reaction in most bad situations was anger, and this was ten thousand times worse, but she forced herself to bridle her temper, to keep herself under brutal control even as the full reality of their predicament set in. "There's. . . magic here now. There has to be another way to Neverland. Has to be!"

"I. . ." The blank terror on Killian's face made her heart turn over. "I don't know that. . ."

And then, he stopped.

"What?" Emma said desperately. "What?"

"I've. . . just thought." He raised his hand to his mouth. "There might be a way. . . London, the shadow can get to London, it took me from there in the first place. . ."

Emma felt her stomach turn to lead as the implication sank in. "Oh my God," she said weakly. "So if we can get to London. . . bait it out of hiding, it might come for us?"

Killian nodded.

"Then we have to do that." There was no question in her head. "Oh God, we'll have to get the car, drive down to Boston – what's the quickest flight that can leave, we – "

"Flight? To fuck with a flight." He grimaced. "I've got my ship here. The fastest ship on this realm or any other. We can sail before sunset."

His ship. His pirate ship. Emma felt almost numb with a mixture of disbelief and relief. They could. It could happen. Hope that this noxious purple fog and its attendant magic would keep Home Office out – had Gold actually done anything with it besides stab them in the back, or was that just another lie? – and run like hell. But something even worse occurred to her, and she spun to face him. "The compass, you said something about a compass, that's how they can find Storybrooke. But we don't have it! If we leave now, is there any guarantee we'll ever get back?"

Killian's face was pale and tight. The silence crackled. Then he said, "No, lass. No, I can't guarantee it. But you're the bloody savior. I'd say there's a fair chance."

"A fair chance? That's all?"

"This entire venture is a lunatic thing to do, love. You know that. You have to take the risk."

"I just. . ." Emma had never been more torn in her life. She stared down the hill, thinking of David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard. She was now almost sure that they were in fact her parents, that her family might indeed lie buried here, whatever fragment of Emma Nolan could still be retrieved from the rubble of time and space and distance, of ashes and smoke and grief, loss and love and memory. "If we could just take them with us, if we could. . ."

"David and Mary Margaret?" Killian's voice was gentle. "They can't, lass. They can't leave. Not with the curse. It's only you and me. We have to."

"Then I want to break it!" Emma screamed. She spun in circles, desperate for something to hit, to shatter, to take it down, to make it end. "If there's magic now, I should be able to! You're the one who did all the fucking research on this! How do I do it? How? How?"

"That's the one thing I don't know. I'm sorry." White-faced, he limped toward her. "But we have to go. We have to find our lad. We can't leave him in Neverland. If we do, we'll lose him forever."

"You're right." Emma's voice cracked, mortifying her. "I guess if the magical shield doesn't work. . . if they do come through. . . David and Mary Margaret need to stay here. And fight."

She resolutely ignored the thought of anything else that could happen, could happen very easily. Something such as Home Office breaking in and taking down everything in its path, at the very moment she finally believed, finally wanted and trusted that she might find her long-lost family. Instead, she strode to Killian and pulled his arm over her shoulders, helping him hobble back to the police cruiser. Then she slammed the door, threw it into gear so hard that the engine whined, and floored it down the hill into town.

Not twenty minutes later, they were running down the docks, Emma still having to support much of Killian's weight, as they reached the ship – holy hell, the real and actual ship – tied up at the end of the quay. She could see the name painted on the bow, and had a moment where she was finally forced, once and for all and unquestioningly, to face the fact that this was true. All of it was true. He had been in Neverland these long years. He hadn't left her because he wanted to, but because it was an old and dark part of him that seductively dragged him in, held him captive, had cost him his hand and his heart and his home. Had cost him her. And though he'd told her that, and though she'd started to believe, she finally understood just how terribly much he'd paid.

It was astonishing to see the transformation that came over Killian when he was stationed before the helm. The commander and captain completely smoothed away the scholar and even the sword-wearing swashbuckler who'd fought a dragon with her under the library. He barked orders in prompt expectation of their fulfillment, and Emma raced around to obey. There was a surprisingly little amount to do to get them ready to make sail; the Jolly Roger seemed capable of taking care of much of it herself. Sails billowed out and were neatly trimmed with halyards, the mooring chain sliding loose, the timbers creaking and the capstan rattling as the anchor was raised. They began to back out of the slip, Killian's face still and intent, utterly consumed.

Emma could feel the cold wind cutting like a knife, but she didn't want to go below, not yet. If this was the last time she was ever going to see Storybrooke, she had to keep it in sight as long as possible, not forget a single detail, etch it on her heart. The purple cloud was still billowing, dissipating across the sky, and she had to trust that it would hold, that it would guard, that the magic would be enough – or if all came to worse, that a far simpler magic would do. The magic of strong arms and stout hearts, of fighting for what you believed in, of holding onto a single shred of good in the world and defending it.

There was a lump in her throat, and her eyes were unaccountably blurry. In all the madness of the last few days, she'd barely had time to take a breath, much less screw her head on straight, and she still didn't know that she was doing the right thing. Only that she had to get David back, no matter the cost. Only that she was here, with Killian, and that she – that both of them – would fight until there was nothing and no one left. And somehow, for the moment – to speak of a simple magic indeed – that was enough.

Emma kept Storybrooke in sight until it was nothing more than a grey smudge on the grey horizon, until it was indistinguishable from cloud or coast. Until the mist passed over it, and she turned away, as gulls called overhead and the ship was accepted by the sea.

They were well out in the Atlantic by nightfall, wake thrumming white as wind whistled through the lines. It was freezing on deck, but as long as Killian was tending the helm, charting a sure course through waves and water, Emma didn't leave. She assumed that this would be far faster than the average time it would have taken to sail a wooden ship across the pond – she definitely didn't think they had two months to spare. But she could feel the speed in the timbers, the way they almost flew, as Killian consulted a chart he'd draped over the wheel, nothing like any ordinary map Emma had seen before. His leg was now clearly paining him exquisitely, but he stubbornly refused to sit down, or stop, or slow.

At last, however, the cold was punching tears out of her eyes, and full dark had fallen. She couldn't help but keeping a wary eye out for icebergs, as she didn't think this thing had any lifeboats and she wasn't exactly keen on playing out the whole "I'll never let go, Jack!" scene. If the stupid woman had just moved over on the shingle, she could have saved her boyfriend too, not let him slip away into the deep for good, down into the dark water to drown. . .

She shuddered, and Killian glanced up. "It's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, love," he told her. "Go below."

Emma raised an eyebrow at his turn of phrase. "What, and leave you up here by yourself?"

It was plain he was touched by this; he blinked, as if momentarily at a loss for a clever comeback. Then he said, "I've sailed many hundreds of years by myself, lass, in all sorts of weather. I'll keep."

"No. Your lips are blue and you can barely stand upright. Get your stupid magical ship to take care of itself and come into your cabin before your freeze – hey!" Emma smacked at a rope that had shot out seemingly from nowhere and tried to trip her up. "The hell was that about?"

"Well, you called her stupid and an it," Killian said mildly. "My girl's a bit feisty. Of course she'd take offense."

"I wonder where she'd possibly get that from. All right. If your charming and wonderful magical ship would kindly consent to tend herself for a spell, can you come below?"

"That's a bit more like it." Killian let go of the wheel; it held itself in place, a rope lashing around the handle. "I'll not be able to stay away forever, but it'll suffice for a breather, aye."

Emma moved closer and took his weight again, helping him through the trapdoor and down the ladder to the narrow corridor below. There was a door at the end which he showed her through, into the captain's cabin, and she maneuvered him through the tight confines to the bed, where she laid him down with a grunt of effort. "We have to do something about your leg."

"That we do. I've already got one mutilated limb, I need a second like I need a hole in the head, aye?"

"I don't know. I think you could be only improved with one." Emma stroked his dark hair out of his face, hearing the cold wind sigh and moan past the diamonded windows, searching for a way through the cracks, as the Roger rode the heaving winter swells. A few lanterns burned low on the walls, casting shadows, and she took the heavy quilts and pulled them over him, an oddly maternal, protective thing to do. Something came over her then, and before she knew quite what she was doing, she heard herself say, "Killian. . . can I see your stump?"

He tensed. "Why?"

"I. . . was just thinking. About the fact that you were, however long it didn't last, willing to work with him – with Gold. That you're going back to all these places you must never want to see again. It just. . . it can't be easy. I know you've paid a great deal. I just don't know how much."

His eyes kept hers. "Are you really sure you want to see, lass? It's not a pretty sight."

"There's nothing in the world that can squick me out, buddy. I've seen everything."

"No," he said softly. "You haven't." There was no bravado or braggadocio in his voice, and no false humility either. It was simply and honestly telling her that there were all kinds of things and places and people she knew nothing about, and that her experience was merely a drop in the bucket beside his, the far corners and strange comers he must have known in over three hundred years. "But if you really want to, lass. . ."

"Yes," she said firmly. "I do."

Killian hesitated a moment longer, as if very much hoping that she would change her mind. Then he nodded and began to fumble at the leather cuff with his good hand, undoing a fiendishly complicated contraption that slid off his forearm and lay on the bed looking like a torture device that someone had recently murdered. Eyes still on hers, waiting for her to flinch away, he carefully pulled aside the last piece of leather, and bared the stump.

Emma sucked in an involuntary breath. She hoped she hadn't offended him, but it was pretty gnarly; she could tell by the ragged flesh, the scars of removed stitches, and the general amateur look of the thing that it had definitely been a DIY surgery. She remembered him telling her that Pan had taken his hand and he'd had to deal with the aftermath himself, taking refuge in the wrecked Roger while struggling not to die of infection, sunstroke, thirst, blood loss, Lost Boys, or any of the manifold and one other ways in which one could buy the farm in Neverland. Hearing, however, was different from seeing. Looking at the ragged end of the limb, the elegant, callused hand on the other arm and remembering both of them as they'd been before, not wanting to imagine the pain he must have endured in losing it, the agony both mental and physical, trying to hang on, one more hour, one more day, even as they blurred into years and he could barely recall himself, for good or ill. She was rocked by the stark fact of how much they had both changed, how much they had both lost. Without a word, she lifted his stump to her lips and gently kissed the scarred, ruined flesh.

Killian jerked, staring at her in shock. There was a moment so pungent, so charged and depthless and fragile, that Emma was astounded the entire ship didn't catch on fire. Then slowly, as mesmerized as if they were in a trance, in an old dream at the instant before waking, they leaned closer, and closer. The kiss that met in the middle was as shy and chaste as a schoolgirl's.

At least, it started out that way. Their eyes fluttered closed, his good hand stroking her hair, and then he inhaled a sharp breath through his nose and pulled her down onto the bed with him. They rolled over and over, clinging to each other, the kiss deepening into a frantic exploration of lips and teeth and tongue, soft wet noises, gasping breaths, a slow-burning fuse bursting alight, curling close to each other in the half-darkness of the hold, as snow wept at the dark glass among the turbulent sea. He hung onto her for all he was worth, quite certain that nothing less than the bloody apocalypse could make him let go, and even then, he wouldn't. "Emma," he moaned, their faces warm and close and searching, lips still tasting, moving, opening. "Emma, lass. . ."

"Shut up," she mumbled, hand sliding low on his stomach. "Just shut up and kiss me."

"However dearly I would like to, darling. . . we can't be so carried away as all that, we. . ." He groaned again, with feeling, at the adroitness of her searching fingers. "Bloody hell, love, didn't we agree that we couldn't afford to destroy any further parts of me?"

"Is that what you think?" she breathed. "I. . . Killian. . . if we. . . if we survive, and assuming you don't do anything stupid – "

"Difficult for me, I know – "

She uttered a dry little laugh. "Exactly. But I'm willing. . . you know, what you asked earlier. . . I'm willing to consider it. You know. Maybe."

"What?" He stared at her blankly.

"What you said. About us having a place. A home." Her hand, so bold, suddenly stilled. "Together."

A sensation like a blast of dynamite went off inside Killian's head. All he could see was whiteness, hear a rushing in his ears, not daring to believe what she was insinuating in case he was wrong, and he thought that if it was, it might take him apart for good. "Do you. . ." he croaked, stunned. "Are you. . . saying yes?"

Emma gave him a crooked smile. "Don't get too excited. I could still break it off."

It was true. She could. At the moment, however, he didn't care. Could care about nothing but her, the scent of her, the warmth of her body against his as they lay together on the bed, the covers tossed half over her and half over him, the last snowflakes melting in their hair, their breath fogging the windows. He should have told her, then. Should have told her about the mermaids' curse and how they might already be too late to save David. Should have told her that Baelfire was Neal Cassidy, the old college boyfriend who'd caused her so much pain, who'd set her up and left her, and who was, insofar and however as Henry existed, her older son's father. He should. It was the right thing to do.

But Killian Jones did not necessarily, by nature, do the right thing. He was a selfish bloody bastard, a pirate captain, a loner, a survivor. And all he wanted now was to keep this marvelous woman to himself, to hold her, to have her, to breathe. And so, as the Roger sailed on into the night, he said nothing at all.

The green coast of England was visible on the horizon when they came above the next morning, causing Emma to stare and Killian to proudly pat the helm. He took it himself for the next leg, navigating up to the river estuary – Emma had decided not to ask how it was that no coast guard or navy patrol boat or other vessel ever seemed to come in sight of them. She supposed that Killian had learned a good deal about outrunning the authorities during three hundred years of pirating, but she couldn't quite see how they'd sail a fully rigged two-master up the Thames and expect nobody to notice. Killian, however, told her not to fret. "If someone does get a good look at her, which I doubt, this is bloody England after all. They've got history coming out their ears. Besides, my girl's enchanted. She blends in."

Emma supposed that this was as much sense as could possibly be made in the current situation, and elected to keep her mouth shut. As they sailed up the Channel, she kept looking instead at her left hand. Killian had promised he'd buy her a proper engagement ring when this nonsense was over – not as if she cared, she'd never been one for jewelry or bling – but in the meantime, he'd given her one of his, silver with a ruby set in it, which fit nicely on her fourth finger. She liked the weight of it there, the look of it. It felt unreal in a pleasant way. It felt like a promise. That he'd stay with her. That they'd find David. That they'd get back from Neverland in time to save Storybrooke and rescue her parents too.

London began to appear out of the mist: Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the Tower, Westminster, Southwark, the Eye, St. Paul's. She kept expecting the pedestrians bustling along beneath their umbrellas to turn and stare at the pirate ship cutting up the river, but they didn't. Even the sightseeing boats slipped past without a pause by the Cockney guides talking loudly to camera-clutching tourists. Nobody aimed binoculars (or a gun) at them from the deck of HMS Belfast. In fact, Emma had to admit, Killian (once more) was right. They simply were not noticed.

Killian found a suitable berth downriver, steered them in, and nodded to Emma to toss the rope, which she did; it raveled firmly around the pylon, drawing the Roger in. Killian made the wheel fast and beckoned to the sails to take themselves down, all of which Emma watched greedily. This was her first experience of magic, and she was determined not to miss anything.

Once everything had been shut, all hatches battened, they stepped carefully down onto the dock, sprinkled by a characteristic English fog. Emma held tightly to Killian's hand, not needing him to fall and smash his tailbone (that really would be adding insult to injury at this point) and helped him up to the street. As he hailed a black cab, she whispered, "Where are we going? Back to Mayfair?" The hotel where they'd conceived David, where the shadow had stolen Killian away. . . surely it would come back there again?

"No, lass." Killian's mouth was set. As the cab pulled over, and he opened the door, gesturing her down onto the seat, she saw a different sort of determination in his eyes, and a very old memory. "There's only one place we can be sure he knows. We're going to the Darlings."