"Reading anything by Stephen King isn't something you should do when you're home alone," was the only thing she said as she walked in, sat on the sofa, and began sorting through the papers once more.

He went back to his book. "You might be right, but it's still an enjoyable read," he said, trying to make conversation. "Although I don't understand why this dog is so difficult to kill." But she was already absorbed in her task and didn't reply.

The pinging noise from her phone shocked him again a few minutes later. "Sorry," she said. "Didn't mean to make you jump out of your skin." She observed her phone for a moment. "Do you have a computer and printer I could borrow?"

He wasn't sure what a computer was, and he doubted that he'd somehow missed a printing press in this tiny apartment. "I don't think so," he said uncertainly. "As I've said before, this isn't actually my dwelling. You're welcome to look around all you want."

She frowned a bit before rising and searching the bedroom. When she returned empty handed, she said, "I'll be back in an hour, if that's all right." She bit her lip. "I could pick up something to eat if you'd like." His stomach growled loudly. "I'll take that as a yes," she said. "Any food allergies? Or preferences?"

"I'll eat whatever you procure," he said, wondering what on earth "food allergies" meant.

Approximately an hour later, Swan returned with a box of what smelled like the delicious food he'd sampled earlier in the week. "I got pepperoni," she said, as if that should mean something to him. "Do you have any plates?"

They sat at the table, silently eating (and he decided that he, in fact, loved pepperoni). Before he could ask her if the food was the only reason she'd left, she reached down to her large shoulder bag, which she'd dropped next to her chair, and pulled out a thin stack of papers.

She took a deep breath.

"This file is from a bank downtown," she said quietly. "Neal worked there for three years. Apparently, just over a year ago, he put in for a few weeks of time off to take care of his sick father, and he disappeared without a trace. His employer called his emergency contact―his fiancée―but they couldn't reach her." She pulled out a sheet of paper and presented it to him; Bae's face was in the corner, in miniature, and his personal information was listed beneath.

"Neal and I lived in Boston until this past year," she continued. "It's not possible that he could have been working as a bank teller here when we lived four hours away. And, besides, he's an architect. He wouldn't know the first thing about working at a bank."

"Swan, none of this is real," he said softly. She lifted her eyes from the papers strewn in front of her and met his. "I mean, your life here. You drifted all over the country before briefly settling in Boston. Alone. You'd put Henry up for adoption. When he was ten, he found you and brought you to Storybrooke."

She tilted her head back, looking exasperated. "And why did he bring me to Storybrooke?"

It was a literal and a figurative moment of truth. "To break the curse on the town."

He had been sure that she would scoff at his answer, and that she would storm out, but she did neither. She stared at the ceiling impassively. "What was the curse?"

"It took away everyone's happiness. No one remembered who they were." He took a deep breath. "Or who they loved. People were separated from their parents, their children, their lovers. Time stood still for almost thirty years until you arrived and broke the curse."

"And how did I do such a miraculous thing?" Sarcasm crept into her voice.

"True Love's Kiss," he replied.

"Neal?"

"Henry."

"Oh."

She lifted and then lowered her slice of pizza without taking a bite, as if she'd thought better of it. "You say we know each other, but I don't remember you. Are you saying I'm cursed?"

"In a manner of speaking," he admitted. "Through a complicated chain of events that I'm sure will make more sense to you if I explain later, everyone in the town was going to be sent back to the realm we came from, and―"

"What? The realm you came from?"

"It's not important," he cut her off. He tightened his lips in annoyance until she held up her hands; the gesture seemed to imply that she wouldn't interrupt again. "We all had to go back, but Henry couldn't because he was born in this realm. You and … Neal, you'd both escaped the first curse, and so you could go with Henry and take care of him."

She took advantage of his pause to ask more questions. "Are you saying that Neal and I are both from, well, from wherever you're from? Why don't I remember any of this?"

"With the town gone, never having existed, all of your memories of it were going to disappear as well. That would leave Henry with almost no memories, as he grew up in Storybrooke, and you and Neal would both lose your knowledge of your relationship with Henry, or your own reconciliation. So Regina―Henry's adoptive mother―provided you with new memories."

"This whole story needs it's own Wikipedia entry," she muttered. "You're talking about all this like magic is real, you know."

"You wanted an explanation, love."

"So I don't remember you because the woman who supposedly adopted my son gave me new memories?"

"You lost your memories of Storybrooke and everyone connected to it. That included me."

"What's this realm you say you―well, we're from? Do you mean … Canada?"

This was going to be difficult to explain. "Do you have any favorite fairy tales?"

"Are you serious?"

"Quite. Humor me."

"Beauty and the Beast."

"Can you briefly describe it?"

"Oh come on," she said, irritated. "Everyone's seen the Disney movie. Belle is a beautiful girl who agrees to stay with the horrible Beast to save her father's life, and she and the Beast fall in love, and their love transforms him back into a prince. And there are singing household objects and stuff."

"Well, I don't have the best relationship with Belle, or her Beast. Although very few people ever did get along with that man."

"They're not real." She rolled her eyes. "Do you expect me to believe that Neal and I are fairytale characters, and we come from some kind of enchanted fairytale land?"

"Well … yes."

That induced a chuckle. "Then who are we?"

"Neal's the son of Rumplestiltskin, who's also the man who cut off my hand." He waved his prosthetic at her. "Meanwhile, your parents are Snow White and Prince … well, his name is David, but he was pretending to be Prince James, and to be honest, it's a very long story."

"I'm the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming?" She practically squeaked with skepticism.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "It's just such a cloyingly sweet nickname," he explained. "No one except Snow calls him that."

"You're mad."

"Is that what your superpower is telling you?"

She assessed him. "Just because you believe something doesn't make it real."

"Aye, that's fair. But you have evidence in front of you that suggests what you've believed to be true may not be. I'm offering you an explanation."

"It's illogical."

"Just because you believe it's illogical …" He trailed off, letting her pick up on his implication. She sat silently for a few minutes before shaking her head vigorously before abruptly rising from the table and pacing around the small living area.

"Do you need to be alone?" he asked. "I'd be happy to oblige."

"No," she replied nervously, and she continued pacing. Unsure of what he should do, he stood and collected the remnants of the meal and began cleaning up. When he held the box containing the remaining pizza and stared at it uncertainly, she said, "Just throw it in the fridge."

"The what?"

"The fridge," she repeated, as if everyone and their mother knew what a fridge was (although in this realm, that was probably true). She pointed at the cold closet in the kitchen; that did make sense. The pizza safely stowed away, he got to work on the dishes. Swan seemed especially unnerved when he removed his prosthetic and brace; he missed the days when she hardly gave his left arm a second glance.

"Why are you really here, Swan?" he finally asked.

"I'm investigating," she said.

"Because you believe me?" She didn't answer right away. He dried the first plate and began washing the second.

"I dreamt about you," she said finally. He nearly dropped the plate.

"You did?"

"We … we were fighting. I knocked you out with a compass."

"I hate to spoil your victory, love, but you didn't knock me out."

"I'm pretty sure I'm the one who knows what I dreamt."

"I'm quite serious. I was conscious the whole time. I even saw Cora try to take your heart."

She was shocked. "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That … about that. The heart."

"I told you, I wasn't knocked out. Swan, I let you win. You don't have to feel bad about it, love; I've got a lot more sword-fighting experience than you do." Hundreds more years of experience, but if she was already having trouble with the idea of magic, it seemed foolish to bring up his actual age.

"No," she said as he dried the second plate. "I told you that I dreamt we'd fought, but I didn't say anything about someone trying to rip out my heart. How could you have guessed?"

He set the clean plate down and dried his arms and hand. "Will you answer my question? Please?" she asked.

He stepped over to her, nervously crossing his bare arms. "It wasn't a dream, Swan. It was a memory."

"I'm Emma Cassidy." Her voice cracked. "Why do you keep calling me 'Swan?'"

"I think you know," he replied softly.

Within moments, her arms were around his neck, her hands were in his hair, and her lips were against his. This time, she didn't pull away.

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