Quick note: Much longer than the previous chapters, this one. I honestly didn't know where to stop. Basically the entire New York City Serenade episode is encompassed in this particular line, in my head, so here it is.

Can you make me feel like home, if I tell you you're mine?

The door was the last bastion, the last obstacle in his way. Such a petty thing, a door, and yet he stood there biting down his fear like some schoolboy. He had gone through this moment so many times in his head. Should he knock? Walk in? He had to remember that her memories of him had been stolen, thus the potion in his hand. He eyed it, pocketed it, and took a breath, knocking.

He could hear the murmur of voices within, felt his chest tighten at the familiar sounds. Eternity stretched before him. A year...an entire year it had been since he had seen her, and he found himself suddenly unsure of what to expect. Would she answer the door? What if it was the boy, Henry? The possibility hadn't occurred to him. He silenced other worries, other thoughts of who else might open that door.

In his sudden need to distract himself, he knocked again, more insistent this time.

And then the door opened. And she was there – hair tousled, her face bemused, wearing...something...and still, she seemed like a beacon to him. He smiled, relief washing over his entire being, and breathed out her name, "Swan."

She looked confused.

"Hello-" he began, walking toward her, needing so desperately to hug her, make sure she was real.

Her hand came up to block him, "Woah, do I know you?"

"Look, I need your help. Something's happened – something terrible – your family is in trouble," he began, remembering again why he was sent here in the first place, the reason he was able to be standing in her presence now at all.

"My family is right here. Who are you?"

He pushed back the pain, reminding himself that her memories were gone, "An old friend," he started, wishing that he could..."I know you can't remember me, but..."

He was feeling nervous, shifting his weight, wondering if he was right. Looking at her, feeling the way he did, his confidence grew, and his decision was made.

"...I can make you."

He reached for her, his hand finding that curve of her neck that he held before, his lips touching hers, and he felt that maybe this could w-

And then he felt sharp pain. He gasped, grunted, staggered back, being helped along with a healthy shove from his lady love. His ego was perhaps more bruised than anything, but she was quite powerful.

Emma pushed the strange man away, confused and frightened for Henry, but something...something... "What the hell are you doing?"

The man slid down the wall, groaning his response, "A long shot...I had to try. I was hoping you felt as I did."

She watched him push himself up, and while some very small part of her embarrassingly wanted to let him continue his story, her need to protect Henry won out, "The only thing you're going to feel is the handcuffs when I call the cops," she started to close the door, not liking the emotions she was feeling in this moment.

"Look, I know this seems crazy," he was coming toward her, "but you have to listen to me, you have to remember-"

And that was the last thing she heard, as she closed the door in his face.

She walked back into the dining room, Henry greeting her, "Who was that?"

Shaking her head, "No idea. Someone must have left the door open downstairs," she offered, trying to get rid of this nagging feeling that said she should open the door and talk to that man.

Killian stared at the door, trying to swallow his deep sorrow that the kiss hadn't worked. Potions, magic, they were finicky things, he reminded himself, trying to ignore the fact that it had felt so right. It felt like it should have worked.

He would have to try again. He would help her gain her memories and, more importantly, he would fulfill his word – he would win her heart. He just had to be a bit more clever. He knew her, knew how she thought, what would make her do the right thing; he just had to use that knowledge. In his hurry to see her again, he had forgotten to think, but now he would.

He would find her, have a quiet chat, and use what he knew to convince her. He had to.

It wasn't until he was being hauled off to the brig by the police officers that he thought that perhaps he was in over his head. Magic. Fucking magic. Unpredictable, unavoidable, stupid magic. He had had his fill of it with the crocodile, and here he was chasing a woman who had no clue who he was. This was madness. He had to succeed, if only to prove to her that he was truly going to win her heart. After all of this.

After sitting in a cell with a large man calling himself "Crazy Pete" who had a penchant for belching and challenging the largest brutes coming through and, finally, being handed a plain white plate with two pieces of what Killian could only assume was bread and an awful round red thing, he was told he had made bail. Two officers came in to escort him out, he was handed his things, and away he walked into the sunlight. He wasn't sure what all had happened, what had changed, but he was so glad to be free, none of it mattered.

He slid his wooden hand on, clicking it into place, as he looked up, nothing quite so beautiful to him as the open sky. His reverie was broken by a familiar voice, "Hey."

He looked down, a confused frown on his features, but it was indeed Swan, "We need to talk," she finished.

His smile returned, as he made his way down the steps, "Swan. I knew you wouldn't let me rot in that cage." He approached her, "I've been in my fair share of brigs, but none as barbaric as that – they force fed me something called bologna." His face and stomach twisted just at the memory of the foul round, red thing on that terrible bread. He pointed accusingly at the building.

She didn't seem to care, "What the hell are these?"

She produced an image, waving it in front of him. It was a picture, he saw, of Emma and Henry sitting at the diner in Storybrooke. It made his chest clench to see the photo, to hear her say, "We never lived in a town called Storybrooke. We never took a flight from Boston to New York. We never did any of this."

Hope sparked, "So you believe me, then?"

"I don't know; you could have photo shopped these pictures-"

"Photoshop?" The word sounded ridiculous. What was she going on about? And honestly, did he look like the kind of man who would know...honestly, she could be so damnably frustrating sometimes. So wonderfully hard-headed.

Emma shook her head – why would this man know what that meant? "Faked," she offered, desperate to understand what was going on.

"Do you think these are forgeries? Then why did you spring me from the brig?" he countered, gesturing to the place he had just exited.

She didn't answer right away, unsure why she had done it.

Killian answered her, "Because as much as you deny it, deep down you know something's wrong. Deep down you know I'm right."

She was starting to become afraid. Not of this man – she knew she had nothing to fear from him. She was afraid for the life she knew, that something was off, that he was right. She was desperate to hold onto what made sense, "This is impossible. How could I forget all of this?"

To see her so desperate was painful. The kiss hadn't worked, but he needed her to remember, for so many reasons. He wanted to make her fear go away, "I promise there's an explanation," he offered.

"Not one that makes sense."

Emma refused to believe this madman. She couldn't possibly accept what he was saying. And yet she did believe him. Not just because he was telling the truth, but because something inside felt so at peace with him. Almost at home, or what she had to imagine that felt like.

Killian had little more to say – there was nothing he could say. She needed to drink the damn potion, needed to remember Storybrooke, needed to remember her family. She needed to remember him. He reached for the vial tucked away in a hidden pocket. Holding it up to her, he pleaded, "If you drink this, it will."

She was hesitant; he understood, he did, but she had to.

"If...if what you're saying is true," she started, realization dawning on her, "I'd have to give up my life here."

Hearing her say it hurt, but mostly because he knew it was true, that she would have to give up what she had, but if she could just understand, "It's all based on lies."

"But it's real," she countered, "and it's pretty good. I have Henry, a job, a guy I love-"

That stung worse. He tried to stay stoic, but it was becoming difficult, "Perhaps there's a man that you love in the life that you've lost." His voice shook, and he hated himself for that, but he hoped it was true – needed to believe that it was. He needed her to see him, the real him, standing here, not some stranger.

A moment of silence stretched between them. Emma realized that what she had said had hurt this man. She didn't know him, she reminded herself, and yet he knew her, and he obviously was pained to hear that she loved someone. She felt, oddly, that she was coming off selfish, and she didn't know why. She felt a small wave of compassion for this man standing before her.

"Regardless," he managed, his voice still wavering, "if you want to find the truth, drink up. Do you really want to live a life of lies?" His momentum was building – a last ditch effort, "You know this isn't right. Trust your gut, Swan; it will tell you what to do."

He had struck a cord, "Henry always says that," she said out loud, more a realization, a sudden thought that this man did know her, and know her well.

"Well then if you won't listen to me, listen to your boy."

That was it. He knew then that he had her, saw it in her face, that she was resigned, that he had her trust, at least in this matter. She took the bottle from him, looking at it, and without thinking too long about how crazy this all was, she opened it and poured its contents down her throat.

And in her mind, she was flying, watching another life – her own life, her true life – go by. Henry arriving at her door, meeting Regina, fighting Regina, working with Regina to revive Henry, Neal...her parents. And... "Hook," she announced, the realization dawning on her.

She suddenly felt ashamed of how she had treated him. He had helped her in Neverland, proven that he was a good man, pronounced his intentions. Not a day will go by that I won't think of you.

The smile that graced his features was awash in relief and a kind of sadness, "Did you miss me?" They both knew, of course, that she had had no recollection, so his question was not unlike a stab. The things he had said now came flooding back to her, and they fell into place as normal things, things you would expect. Perhaps there's a man that you love- she clamped down hard and fast on that thought.

Another feeling came with her memories, and she was now more confused than before her memories were returned. Her family needed her. Back home.

But this was home, now, another part of her screamed.

"Let's get off the street. I need to know everything you know," she said, trying to avoid the question and the emotions raging inside her.

Hook followed her, and though there had been some pain in this exchange, this entire process, he had Swan back. He had a chance, a real one, at last.

Back at her apartment, they exchanged brief pleasantries. But it was down to business almost immediately, as Emma produced a bottle of spiced rum.

"So what happened, Hook, why aren't you with them in Storybrooke?"

"I wasn't there when the curse happened."

"Why not?"

"Frankly, I was bored. I had a life to get back to, a pirate's life," he lied. It was easier than telling her how empty he had been.

She all but rolled her eyes, pouring the drink, "Glad to see you haven't changed."

She didn't see his hurt expression, the pain he swallowed with the bitter taste of her low blow, "There wasn't anything for me in the Enchanted Forest," he began, his eyes returning to hers, "why would I stay?"

She took in a sharp breath. She had forgotten what talking to him was like. How simultaneously withdrawn and devastatingly honest he could be. She took a sip after clinking glasses, but he refrained, continuing, "All was well until I got a message. A message saying that there was a new curse, that everyone had been returned to Storybrooke, a message that told me that the only hope," he paused to look at her, "was you."

She met his eyes, trying to gauge what was meant by his story, what he said and didn't say. He hadn't called her the savior. "You came all the way back here to save my family?" She was slightly incredulous. Maybe it was test. She wasn't even sure.

"I came back to save you," he said quietly.