Disclaimer: I do not own the show or the characters of Once Upon A Time. There's no profit except writing practice being made here.


Emma really didn't want to deal with the question of Henry's wish. All that mattered is he'd made one. Something about it was different this time, as opposed to all the others they'd tossed into this fountain, that mattered too. But Emma couldn't focus on the questions swirling through her head. She'd been so focused on being away from magic, away from parents who swore they weren't replacing her and a co-parent who happily admitted to replacing her. Emma didn't want to deal with the way Storybrooke made her feel, or the way its inhabitants, particularly the prince who wished he could protect her and the pirate who openly wanted to know all her secrets and vulnerabilities and was so open himself that she felt herself letting him.

But she'd forgotten the son that was more important than her.

In all her fears of people getting too close in Storybrooke, Emma had been distracted from how Henry felt about the places they had lived and the family they had gained.

Regardless of what it was he'd wished for, or why it was he'd wished it, this wish had been more potent and heartfelt than his others - of which there had been many.

August had said "if anything in this world had magic, it'd be water." It looked like he wasn't wrong.

"It doesn't matter how Henry managed it," she called over her shoulder. All that mattered is that now they had a magic bean.

Emma bolted for the fountain, her eyes never leaving the spot she'd seen the glittering legume plop into the water.

She pressed her hand into the stone ledge and gingerly she hopped into the water.

A hand grabbed her arm but Emma wasn't surprised that Killian would try to pull her back from the fountain, seeing as the other him had just been pulled from it and arrested.

Her left arm pulled backwards a little painfully, twisting in the socket at an odd angle, too roughly for Killian's usual touch but if he was worried that urgency didn't surprise her too much. His thumb pinched just beneath her armpit and his palm was smacked against her outer arm in a tight squeeze.

Emma whipped her head back to glare at him, let him know he was holding her too tight and it wasn't as thrilling as she'd secretly imagined it would be if he manhandled her.

That was when she saw it. His fat pinkie was pushed into her muscle, the nail bitten to the quick and the skin around it mangled like he'd picked it nervously. As far as she'd seen, Killian picked at his hook but not as his fingertips with the metal or his teeth. He wasn't wearing any rings either.

A bolt of horror shot through her. That was her left arm.

That was a left hand.

"Ma'am," The voice was familiar but not the soft, rolling syllables she had expected, having been sure the man who grabbed her had been the man with the eyes and voice and scent of the ocean. She'd heard this man telling a few moments ago. The real tell-tale indicator was the pronunciation of the word, which wasn't nearly as posh or proper as Killian said it when looking at her mother but that harsh American way of saying it that Emma hadn't even realised was wrong until Hook showed up. "Ma'am, you can't steal from fountains. We'll have to take you down to the station."

Emma twisted around, her boots slipping a little on the slippery tiles of the fountain. Her eyes caught on Killian, who had followed her part of the way out from their hiding place but was keeping himself slightly out of view of the police officer.

"What? I wasn't..." Her eyes remained on Hook, utterly lost as to what was going on. All she'd done was run toward the wishing well and bent low to grab the bean.

Oh.

"I was just picking up something I'd dropped."

An indirect point in Killian's direction that the officer's eyes, thankfully, didn't follow. "You dropped it from all the way over where you were, did you?"

"No. I-"

"You're coming down to the station with us."

That sweaty hand tightened around her wrist and yanked her out of the water, pinching the skin around her wrist and catching the zipper of her sleeve against her wrist bone.

"Hey!" A different voice bellowed.

"Hook don't!" Emma shouted, attempting to dissuade him from drawing his sword or knife or hook or pistol, whatever it was that was in his back pocket, hidden by his long coat, that she could see him reaching for.

"Swan!" Hook cried. "Where-?"

He wasn't ducking behind passers-by or crawling back behind the concrete wall around the stairs, or even hiding on the other side of one of the two cop cars or the trash can nearby. The man had no self preservation inclinations.

She cried out again to dissuade him from coming closer.

It was then that Emma realised Killian's distress. He didn't know this town, didn't know where they were taking her. He'd probably known people who were executed for similar crimes of theft with a corrupt police force like that of the Evil Queen's, or King George's or whoever had been the king when he was growing up back in the Enchanted Forest.

She arched her back against the officer who was dragging her away, turning back to see Killian who still appeared quite angry that she hadn't let him fight off the police in order to free her.

"Remember the station they kept you in. That's where I'll be," she told him, hoping his sense of direction was as good as he boasted it was. All evidence suggested it was. She hoped he'd remembered the place he'd been held, both times he'd been arrested on opposite sides of the park. "I'll be out in two hours," her body jerked as the officer pulled her toward the car. "And I'll meet you back here."

"Swan!"

"Shut up!" Emma hissed, a tremor of terror surging through her at his volume. Henry was still in the area, standing right by the fountain still, she could almost make out his silhouette. "Go check on Henry. Make sure he doesn't see."

A spike of fear lanced through her. Killian would be in the police car. She'd be in the seat beside him, it'd be a catastrophe if he thought this was her and gave up his search for the other version of Emma. What could she possibly say to convince him that she knew about magic and had returned with him and was now back in the past with another version of him? Why would he believe that?

Because his assumption about the truth, that she knew of magic and wasn't returning to Storybrooke by choice would hurt him. He'd play it off, sure, but his eyes never lied about his emotions, never omitted anything. Emma didn't want to watch his heart break.

Not again.

Unless he didn't baulk at the comment and figured she wasn't running from him and simply took his place in the city near to her, maybe joining her business even.

No, Killian would never do that. He'd happily forge a place for himself, he seemed to do that wherever he went - not quite home but a place he belonged and made a difference anyway. Her Killian, the one from her timeline, wouldn't follow her to the city. He'd give her space and wait until she came back, that seemed like the most logical thing for him to do but Emma could also imagine him visiting and checking in and gently being there - he tended to come back when any other sane person would abandon her, like that day at the hospital after they broke the curse. But this Killian, he'd probably stick around.

Emma let the cop push her head down into the car.

No. He wouldn't do that. Not now, not then. Not ever. He'd support her choice, Emma got the feeling he always would, but Killian knew the importance of breaking the curse and family. No one seemed to insist on family more than Captain Hook - maybe her mother, maybe Henry too - there would be no way he'd get halfway through his mission of giving her back to her family and then bail.

Emma found the cab empty, much to her relief and implored the officers to free her - she hadn't done anything wrong except for minor vandalism, if you could call jumping in a fountain vandalism - much to their aggravation, the entire trip to the police station. It was only ten minutes in the city traffic but Emma could see the eye rolls and huffing sighs from the officers in the front seat.

"Can you empty your pockets please?" was the first question they asked her after shoving her through the metal detector at the precinct entrance.

"Higgins," one of the officers grunted out, fingertips pressing against his eyes. "That's your job. You've got to empty her jacket."

Emma rolled her eyes. A rookie, as she suspected. Older, but still new. "I've got it."

Emma shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, twisting her torso one way and shoulders the other to get her hands to dig in to the folds while she was restrained. At which point the officers had a change of heart.

"Uh uh, Missy," the more outdated of the two snapped at her. "Let's get these off."

If he hadn't been so clearly married and libido-less from the looks of him, Emma would have happily pressed charges for the way he spoke to her, obviously referring to the handcuffs but easily misconstrued as her jacket and then the rest of her clothes. He didn't grin lasciviously or smirk at her, which helped his case and prevented a disgusted shudder from rippling through her.

Emma couldn't help herself rubbing her wrists when the officer freed them. She also couldn't take her eyes off the tray they tipped her pockets out into.

"Just a few scraps," the uniform assessed. "Phone. Not even keys, but there is a ton of junk here. How many tissues do you need? And a broken scrunchie."

She tried not to frown too deeply or else she be caught mourning the contents of her pockets suspiciously. She didn't even know why she did it, but Emma found herself unable to stop herself.

Without thought, her fingers darted out. She'd learnt a few great tricks from her homeless days. Two of which had proven handy today; quick thinking an pickpocketing.

Emma tucked the scrap of black material between her thumb and wrist, hiding it in her palm before she slipped it under the strap of her left-hand side bra strap under the guise of scratching her nose.

Now, tucked against her heart, that strip of fabric would be safe from eyes and hands who didn't know it's importance and would just throw it away with the other junk in her pockets.

Only, Emma couldn't pinpoint the origins of these thoughts. Why was that frayed bit of ancient cotton or linen or whatever it was, so necessary to her?

Maybe it was nothing more than something that would keep her mind occupied in the isolation of her quiet cell.

Emma studied the black fabric, running it between her fingers as she sat with her back to the wall on the cold, hard bench. It was coarse, and well worn. The colour was still as dark as if it was new and Emma recognised what that meant. This was a man who took care of his belongings. She'd known that, before, but Emma didn't have a boat or swords of her own. She had clothes. She'd lived years literally pinching pennies and living in the same three shirts, knowing she had to take great care of the fabric or else she'd not have the money to replace it, or have to risk getting caught for theft again or go without food the following week.

Emma expected Killian's shirt to be thin; weathered and worn from years of wear but it mustn't've been as old as she'd thought because it wasn't sun-bleached or water-stained. It smelt clean. She'd have to ask him how he kept it in such good condition when she got out of here.

"Really," she offered, not for the first time. "I can pay my bail."

The officer hadn't even shut the door of the cell she was in, which Emma found equally amusing and reckless. This wasn't Storybrooke. They couldn't know what she planned to do.

They just had her cornered up in a holding cell a little ways in from the entrance. It was a little like Storybrooke's precinct, Emma decided, figuring that it made sense to keep minor criminals away from the big bads held downstairs inghe proper cells.

"Do you have your money on you?"

"No." That had been painfully clear when they emptied the tissues from her pocket. It hasn't been necessary to carry around wads of cash in Storybrooke so she didn't have it here.

"Then I'm sorry," he shook his head but didn't seem all that apologetic, just following ptotocol. "I can't agree to that."

Emma stamped her feet heavily inghe floor and stood, slipping the fabric into her pants pocket. "What if you had an officer escort me to my house where the money is and back?"

"It's really not about the money, ma'am," Emma cocked her hip, waiting to be patronised. "It's the person who vouches for you. That's the important part of bail. Do you have someone at home who can do that for you?"

"I'm not calling my son," Emma scoffed. "He can't know of this."

He rolled his eyes. It wasn't a great look, she really should stop being so sarcastic and cynical. "If he's under eighteen, he couldn't do that for you anyway. What about the man you were with? Your boyfriend?"

Emma squeezed her eyes shut in annoyance. She never got around to buying him that phone. Emma made a note that it would be the first thing she did when she got out."

"Wait!" She implored.

"The man I was with. He's here...Uh-his brother," Emma offered by way of explanation. "Another of your officers picked up his brother not long before you arrested me."

"He ran," The officer said, "Never even got him in the car."

"Damn." She wanted to kick something.

Then, just as she was in the middle of admittedly unsuccessful negotiations, Emma Swan heard something she'd never expected to hear. Not in a million years.

Not after what she'd been through.

One simple sentence that would have changed her life forever over a decade ago. A line she'd dreamt about back then, something she hated a dead man for half apologising for but never truly considering.

Her heart stopped at the sound.

But Emma, as she closed her eyes and smirked at the irony, found that she wasn't the least bit surprised.

Not at all.