DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.

This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…

In the shadow of the toll bridge

Two princes walk into a bar...

By the time Snow walked in her front door that night, her feet were killing her. What an emotional whirlwind of a day it had been and it still wasn't over! Between finishing school, running all over the square looking for Graham, getting Henry's message to James and devising a way around the queen's poison, Snow was all but completely drained. But it still remained to be seen whether their plan had worked. So much could go wrong. If James couldn't make the switch, he'd fall back under the curse. If Regina caught him doing it, he could be in even more danger, not to mention what that might mean for Henry. And Snow would have no way of knowing for sure until James sent word. So despite her incredible fatigue, aching shoulders and sore back, she pushed through her front door rather energetically, intent on searching for some clue, some message that he was all right.

"Emma!" she called out, for she had seen the car in the driveway. The lights were on but nobody answered. Hastily, she pulled off her coat and scarf, slung her bag over the back of a chair and called again, all the while scanning the spacious first floor for any kind of message. He wouldn't have called: too conspicuous this late in the evening with Kathryn home. But surely he could find time to—

"Hey," she heard and spun around to see Emma sauntering down the stairs.

"Hey!" she broke into a wide grin, for she had not seen Emma since their conversation a few nights ago and had already forgotten how blessed the very sight of her daughter made her feel. "How are you, stranger?"

Emma let out a grunt and shrugged as she gripped the railing and used it to sink down, plopping her bum on the third step while propping up her knees on the bottom one with two soft thuds from her boots.

Snow bit her lip. "Uh oh," she approached her. "Rough day?"

Emma let out a snort. "If by 'rough' you mean spending the entire day driving all over town looking for my boss, only to find him right back at the home of our favorite mayor then…yeah. I had a rough day."

Snow gulped, pausing in the middle of undoing the top button of her cardigan. Graham had gone to Regina. That could not have ended well. "You uh…you saw Graham at Regina's house?"

"Yep," she answered bitterly, crossing her arms and resting them on top of her knees.

"When?"

She scoffed. "Does it matter?"

"Actually, it does," was Snow's quick reply, and while she was perfectly mindful of how her own interest might appear odd to her daughter, this information was too critical to play coy.

Emma raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. "Why?"

Snow's eyes darted to the side as she laid her sweater over one of the kitchen stools. She'd once heard Emma brag to Henry that she could tell when someone was lying. This was hardly surprising, for Snow could never fool James either and the likeness between father and daughter was becoming more and more clear with every passing moment. So while confessing the entire truth was out of the question, she settled on revealing as much as she could. "Because he came to see me today."

"He what?" Emma pulled herself to her feet at once and joined her friend in the kitchen. "When?"

"During school, when the kids were at recess. He looked…" she sighed, shaking her head. "He looked awful."

"Yeah I know," Emma snapped as she started to pace the area between the island and sink. "He looked like that last night too."

When he kissed you, Snow thought, though she kept it to herself.

"What did he want?" Emma asked, though her nervous pacing rendered her question far less demanding than she'd wanted it to be.

Snow braced her arms on the other side of the island and hoisted herself onto the stool. "He was pretty incoherent at first. Said he'd been having dreams." She eyed her daughter carefully, looking for hints that Graham had shared any of this with her. "And something about a wolf."

Emma halted. "A wolf?" she leaned against the countertop. "He mentioned a wolf to you too?"

"Yes. Emma—" she folded her hands together and narrowed her gaze, "—what happened tonight?" Her heart had been racing since hearing that the rather unstable sheriff – and newly educated huntsman – had intruded upon an already dangerous rendezvous at Regina's.

"Nothing," Emma muttered, her eyes fixed on the rustic countertop as she too slumped onto a stool.

"Nothing?" Snow urged. "This—" she gestured up and down at her daughter's posture, "is not 'nothing.'"

"But that's exactly what happened. Nothing!" Emma slapped her hand down in front of her. "I drove around all day looking for him. Getting reports from people saying he was running through the woods, walking aimlessly in and out of restaurants, shops, alleyways—" she paused and glared at Mary Margaret, "—schools apparently?"

Snow cleared her throat but didn't reply.

"And when I finally track him down, he's coming out of the mayor's house looking completely normal and said everything was…fine."

"Fine?"

She let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I'm fine,'" she said in a rather good imitation of the sheriff's Irish brogue. Snow stifled a smirk. "That's it. Had absolutely no regard for how worried he made everyone all day, looked at me like I was the one who was nuts. Didn't even remember at first what happened last night—" she stopped herself suddenly and looked, rather guiltily over at her unassuming friend.

Snow cocked an eyebrow. "'Last night'?" she asked innocently, though she couldn't help a knowing, motherly grin. "I take it you two…talked?"

To Emma's confused horror, she felt herself blush, though she couldn't for the life of her understand why. When she'd first heard Mary Margaret walk in the door, she'd almost rolled over on her bed and snapped off her lamp so she'd be left alone. But when her roommate called up to her, Emma felt something pull at her stomach and found she actually wanted to respond. She was halfway down the stairs when Mary Margaret called again, and seeing her cheery face was like…well, it was like coming home. "Yeah we…talked."

Snow smiled and reached for a small candy dish at the end of the counter she'd filled that morning with roasted caramel corn. She slid it in front of her daughter as she rose from her stool and approached the stove. "Emma," she said, moving to fill a kettle with water. "I want to hear about this but I have to ask."

Emma twisted around in her stool, popping a caramel corn in her mouth as she looked at her friend. "What?"

She took a deep breath, working hard to control the anxiety slowly squeezing her stomach. If Graham was indeed, as Emma had recounted, 'fine' that meant the queen had likely succeeded in restoring him to the curse. Meanwhile…more time went by without any word from James. "Tonight, when you saw Graham at Regina's house, did you see…I mean, could you tell if—" but they were interrupted by a violent tapping behind them and Emma jerked backwards as a mass of blue and purple came hurling through the kitchen window.

"What the hell?" Emma jumped off her stool as a tiny bluebird shook out its little feathers, puffing its chest out proudly in front of them as it lifted its small beak…and presented a purple Michaelmas daisy to Mary Margaret. She glared up at her roommate, expecting to see a look of shock that equaled her own, but the woman was just standing there…smiling at a bird…and looking…immensely relieved.

"Thank you," Snow whispered, taking James's message from the bluebird's beak and holding out her other hand on which her little friend immediately perched. The scene, she knew, must look completely absurd, and she would soon have to contrive an explanation, but the message confirmed that James had survived the evening, and it was with unmasked joy that she walked the bluebird over to the far windowsill beyond the sitting room and set it flying to its tiny house hanging from the backyard tree. She placed the daisy in the same vase as the others he'd sent that first night and returned to the kitchen…to a wide-eyed, slack-jawed deputy. Snow had to fight to keep from laughing.

"So…" Emma said slowly, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched Mary Margaret pulling two mugs from the cupboard as if nothing had happened. "You…can talk to birds."

Snow chuckled as she fixed two cups of cocoa and waved her hand dismissively. "Oh no, they're just…" she paused and sighed toward the ceiling. "They're like…pets." She nodded as if agreeing with herself and presented a hot steaming mug to Emma.

Emma reached for it, but she continued to stare, incredulous. "Pets."

"Mmm hmm." She nodded again and sipped, her eyes twinkling as she peered over the rim of her mug and grinned.

"Pet birds that…" she glanced up at the far windowsill, noticing the entire bouquet of beautiful daisies for the first time, "…bring you flowers."

But Snow just shook her head and maintained her grin, feeling that she was finally getting the hang of controlling the conversation…the way only a mother could. "Tell me about last night…with Graham," she said as she took another gulp. Still befuddled by their airborne intruder, Emma seemed to have forgotten about Snow's cryptic questioning and slid back onto the stool, giving up…and giving in. Coaxed and cajoled once again by cocoa, mother and daughter talked long into the night.

…

"Honestly, Charming," his wife jeered back to him, her soft voice dissipating in the cool night air as the wind whipped past his cheeks. "You know Cain is no match for Blossom!"

James wasted no breath in replying as he kicked the hind legs of his black stallion, prompting Cain into a mad dash through the thicket of drooping willows. Almost there boy, he thought, giving the reigns another shake, come on! But in the end, his beloved was right, and her white mare reached the lagoon just before he caught up. Princess Snow White had won another race. "One day, my love," he said as he slowed his horse down to a trot, "Cain and I will beat this beast of yours."

"Only if she's being ridden by Sneezy, darling," she replied with a grin. Snow unceremoniously kicked her one leg over the side of Blossom and dismounted, caring not for the yards of fabric that fanned out beneath her as she jumped down. James simply shook his head and laughed, forever impressed by his wife's ability to best him nearly every time in spite of the chaotic jumble of petticoats, ruffles and underskirts – 'pesky feminine impediments' she'd once called them, though they seemed not to impede her one bit.

"Oh no," he replied as they reached the edge of the pond and he too dismounted. "Blossom, the horse, and you as the rider. We'll show them, right Cain? Victory will be ours?" He looked to his stallion for support, but Cain merely turned his head to the side, appearing quite bored and apathetic for so massive an animal.

Snow let out a triumphant laugh. "Ah ha, you see? Even your horse concedes you could never ride better than I."

James rolled his eyes and gave Cain a playful rump on the arse. "Traitor," he grumbled as the stallion trotted off to wade in the pond, Blossom at his heals. "You certainly have a way with animals, my dear."

She gave him a warm smile as she bunched up the layers of her gown and stepped through a mild thicket of tall grasses to join him. "I knew I should have packed my riding clothes," she said as he reached out his hand and led her to a less rutted path around the pond.

"I did say Thomas would not object to us taking our evening rides through his gardens while we're here," James reminded her as he looped her arm through his own.

"Yes, but I had no idea you would dare me to a race in my evening gown," she replied, giving his hand a squeeze.

"I said I was joking."

"And when have you ever known me to refuse a challenge?"

James stopped and gave her arm a tug, stepping in front of her so that she faced him. "Never," he whispered as he swept his gaze up from her slippers to the tip of her crown. Growing up a poor shepherd, James rarely noticed or cared much for rudiments of fashion, but even he could appreciate the stunning elegance of the periwinkle gown his wife had chosen for their friends' wedding. She was beautiful and always had been. But in the evening moonlight, glimmering among the shadows of King Christopher's tallest spires, standing against a backdrop of wildflowers blossoming around the lagoon, she was as bewitching and enchanting as a goddess. The sight quite literally took his breath away and any playful banter that might have continued in a less…private setting…was lost to him now as his eyes feasted on her loveliness.

Snow trembled under his heated gaze and felt her heart flutter as he closed the gap between them. It was the height of impropriety really, such a brazen display of intimacy while they were guests in another's gardens…It excited her. And though they were hardly in plain sight of the palace balconies (quite hidden actually as they were far beyond the courtyards and concealed by the drooping branches of the willows that enveloped them) it felt no less scandalous to Snow as James cupped her nape in his hand and pulled her to him, covering her mouth with his own.

Though they had been married for almost two months, it still shocked the princess that her husband could be such a passionate lover, and at the same time so achingly gentle. Tonight (she thought, bemused) it was most unfair, for while James was still adorned head to toe in his heavy blue coat and cravat, with his martial sash draped diagonally across his chest, Snow's ensemble was far less…layered. So while he kept one gloved hand at her nape, massaging the back of her neck as he deepened their kiss, he teased his other hand across her collarbone and grazed the tips of his fingers ever so lightly along her bare shoulders, trailing down the outside of her arm…and then slowly back up again.

"James," she shivered, their breaths mingling together as she lifted a languid gaze to his piercing blue eyes. He pulled back, expecting her to remind him of where they were and, rightfully, insisting that they stop…but she didn't. His pulse raced faster than that blasted horse of his ever would as she caught one of his hands in hers and held it down in front of her. His breathing was ragged and desirous, but she took her time, slowly peeling off his glove and discarding it on the garden floor. She traced the lines of his palm with her fingertips, pausing as she brushed over an old scar from his days as a farmer. James drew a sharp breath as she pressed a kiss there and then looked up at him again with hazy eyes. Swiftly, James tore off his other glove and cupped her face with both hands, warm and bare now, plunging his fingers in her hair, and claiming her mouth once more. He kissed her hungrily, parting her lips with his own and relishing in the sweet taste of her as he nipped her bottom lip and then ran a trail of open-mouthed kisses along her cheek, down her neck and collarbone…and finally settled at the hollow of her throat. She groaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, arching her head back toward the sky as he mercilessly teased her, leaving trails of fire wherever he touched. Sweet Lord they needed to stop. They were at Ella's wedding for pity's sake! But James showed no signs of slowing down, and she let out a tiny yelp as his hands caressed their way down the delicate bodice of her dress and then caught her around the waist, crushing her fully against him.

She pulled his head up to meet hers for another kiss and grasped at his coat, frustrated by the tough, course fabric, needing him closer. It felt like they were racing again, each competing for control over the other's passions, melting into each other and yet, needing to be closer still. She matched his every move with equal fervor and delighted in the deep, heady groan that escaped his throat as she mimicked his earlier attentions, pressing soft kisses along his chin line and down his neck just below the ear.

"Snow," he panted, finally breaking away. She gazed up at him, her lips swollen, a feverish tint in her cheeks. Lord, he knew that look. They really needed to stop. For God's sake! he thought with an inward chuckle; this was Thomas's wedding night, not his own. They should return to their horses. Return to the castle. Yes…they should definitely stop, he thought, brushing a tendril of hair off her face and laying his palm against her cheek… But not yet…Not…just…yet—

"What are you thinking about?" an abrupt voice slammed into his subconscious and wrenched him from the daydream; in an instant, James came crashing back to reality in the sterile setting of the Nolans' front sitting room.

"Nothing," he answered immediately, his voice steady enough, though he felt as if he were still panting from his midnight tryst with Snow.

"Are you…remembering something else?"

I sure am, he thought, though he certainly wasn't about to reveal this particular recollection to 'Kathryn'. Finally, James turned toward the blonde who had not yet changed out of her rather smart-looking ensemble from tonight's dinner. Her eyes looked so hopeful as she padded over to him, and – considering the memory he'd just been reliving – James almost felt guilty. Almost.

Being back in the 'queen's lair' this evening had roused up plenty of other memories too, far less pleasant than those he had of Snow. The queen had purposefully transformed the cold-hearted Princess Abigail into this simpering, submissive little housewife specifically to make sure 'David Nolan' never wanted for more. It was calloused manipulation, and perhaps made Abigail's fate a bit pitiable. But it was hardly his fault. Snow was his true love, his true wife. And he refused to feel much more than pity for having to slight a woman who herself had more than once conspired so malevolently against him. Oh yes, tonight he'd recalled quite a bit of dear Midas's daughter, and given the Shakespeare-worthy performance he'd put on at dinner, he firmly believed he owed her nothing.

"Just trying to…sort it all out," he said with a light chuckle and tried not to tense as Kathryn slipped her arms around his waist. He'd feared this might be the end result of his charade. Faking that memory had been his only option this evening. It worked perfectly, and, he had to admit, had been kind of thrilling, completely fooling the queen. Unfortunately, Kathryn had decided that 'David' remembering their wedding, must also mean 'David'…remembering their love.

"I know I've said it a lot tonight, sweetie, but I'm…I'm just…sooooo happy," she sighed, cuddled against his shirt.

He hugged her back, though in his mind, he wandered elsewhere again. "I know, me too," he muttered, reluctantly cradling her head against his chest as he tried to remember what had reminded him in the first place of that midnight ride at Thomas and Ella's—

Wait – Thomas! Yes, that was it! He had been thinking about Thomas and Ella. Sean and Ashley. "Kathryn," he said, "do you know where—"

"Kathyrn?," she pulled back, almost glaring at him. "You…you were calling me 'Kathy' again tonight." She bit her lip, curling her hands into his shirt.

James gulped, wanting to kick himself as that pesky adage of Jiminy's came to mind: something about a growing lie and the nose on one's face. "Right, I'm sorry. I just…got distracted," he fumbled as he pried himself from her grasp and shifted toward the window. "I was just…I was thinking of someone."

"Oh?" Kathryn seemed not to notice the brush off and inched toward him with a coy grin. "And who might that be?"

He turned to her, hands on his hips and cocked an eyebrow. "Do you know where Garcon's is?"

She halted, visibly jarred, and her eyebrows furrowed together. "Garcon's? Why would you want to go there?"

He shoved a hand into his pocket with a shrug. "Don't know exactly. I heard the name today and thought it sounded familiar so I wanted to see—"

"Honey, we don't go to Garcon's."

"Why not?" he asked, irked somewhat – though it hardly mattered – by the change in her tone.

She seemed to struggle for an answer, her eyes darting around as she settled her hand on the back of the arm chair by the window. "Well it's just…" she tried. "It's simply not reputable."

James cocked his head to the side and narrowed his gaze. There it is, he thought. There's Abigail. "Not…reputable?"

"Not at all," she replied at once, folding both hands now on top of the chair, looking at him as if he should know better. "Trust me, sweetie. You've never even been there. The place just isn't…well, it's just not classy."

Not classy enough for you, he thought disdainfully. He thought briefly he might make something of this. Manipulate the conversation into some sort of argument that might then give him excuse to leave. But he had another idea. Something he'd been meaning to try. "Are you sure?" he asked, moving to stand on the other side of the chair. "Because when I heard the name I had this…I had this flash."

She perked up, becoming interested again. "A flash?"

"Yeah," he looked up at the ceiling as if recalling the memory. "I saw you and me? Sitting in booth?" He leveled his gaze at her, leaning forward slightly. "Isn't that where I took you…after your father's party?"

She looked to the side and that glassy look he'd grown accustomed to returned. "After my…no I don't…I don't think so," she said, though it sounded like a question, and she was squinting hard, as if she was trying to read some very fine print.

"Yeah," he moved closer still. "I'm almost sure of it. Garcon's. After that party. I think I told you I…needed some air that was a little less…stuffy?" It was plausible, he thought. It certainly sounded like something he might say based on what she'd already told him of his so-called relationship with Storybrooke's Midas. He let the idea sink in, giving it time to seed into her brain. He had no idea if it would work and knew it was a dangerous play, but perhaps…with the right methods of suggestion—

"Yes!" Kathryn suddenly blurted out and James started for something had shifted in her eyes. "Oh honey, I had completely forgotten about that! Gosh, that was so long ago!"

James stood rather dumbfounded, unsure whether it was the effects of the queen's poison still wearing on her…or if Abigail really was as thick as he had always suspected.

"Oh honey, it really is all coming back!" she clapped her hands over her chest and beamed up at him, sliding one knee onto the chair cushion and then reaching up to cup his cheek. "I didn't want to believe it at Regina's but now…you're…you're…" her breath hiccupped in her throat. James shifted uncomfortably as her eyes moistened, "you're remembering things even I had forgotten."

James removed her hand from his cheek and clasped it in front of them. "Yeah," he chuckled nervously. "Yeah I guess so." Perhaps he should have manufactured a fight.

"Oh David," she whispered, leaning in close, folding her hand more tightly into his and holding it to her chest. "I love you."

Yes…definitely should have gone with the fight.

"I uh…" he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry Kathy," he shook his head and pulled back. "I really am. I know that's what you want to hear." He paused and watched her face twist in anguish. "I just…I need a little more time."

She nodded, staring sort of blankly in front of her, and dropped her hand in her lap as she sank into the chair. "Sure," she said, her lip trembling. "Sure I understand."

The hurt in her eyes was unmistakably real and James, once again, almost felt guilty. But there wasn't a force in this world powerful enough to induce him to betray Snow. Still, regretful that he must cause anyone pain, he crouched down beside her. "Look…I remember…" he sighed, pinching his temples between his forefinger and thumb. "I remember that I…did feel that way. And I know how real that is for you."

She looked up at him, somewhat perplexed, though softened.

He continued. "I'm just…not there yet. Ok? I need to keep…finding my way."

Kathryn studied him for what seemed like a long while. But eventually she nodded, offering him a week smile and an affectionate, though far more chaste, pat on the cheek. Glancing up at the clock and then her watch, she sighed and turned to him once more. "Garcon's is on Beaumont Drive," she said simply. "Past the power station."

…

While he loathed the practice of making judgments based on class, wealth or status, James had to admit as he walked into Garcon's later that night that the place looked – indeed – a bit unsavory. The bar was probably the length of Snow's classroom and about half as narrow, immediately giving off a sort of cramped and shoved-together look. In fact, James was fairly certain that the suite of living space he and Snow had allocated to the each royal guardsman and his family was about twice the size of this public tavern. The actual bar itself was along the right wall, lined top and bottom with a brass rail and no visible places to sit, while several tall black tables and stools lined the left. The carpet was a dirty, rusted orange color which looked twice as filthy under the incredibly bright light beating down from a line of swag lamps hanging far too close to the customers' heads. He passed under one as he stepped further into the bar and jerked as it buzzed in his ear. To his right, a neon sign baring the establishment's name droned obnoxiously, and in front of the window was the bar's only booth in which a man and woman were passed out and propped up on either side of the table. James tipped his head down to see if he recognized either soul but their faces were hidden, so he moved on. Several men stood at the bar, heads cocked toward a small television mounted to the ceiling. Beyond it stretched a narrow hallway marked by a green exit sign down which, he supposed, were the stock rooms, back door and facilities. Gathered along the wall with the stools and tables were several small parties, most of whom were also watching the tv. James scanned the room and sighed. Where was he?

Some commotion erupted over the sports contest being broadcast and at that moment, movement across the room caught his eye, and he started as a young man emerged from the back room carrying a case of beer. He gulped hard, surprised by the tears that stung his eyes before he hastily shook them away. There he was. He was real. He was whole. He was Prince Thomas.

When James had last seen the young prince, Thomas had been comforting his wife, rejoicing in the seeming good fortune of having successfully captured Rumpelstiltskin. James would never forget the tears streaming down Ella's face as she barreled toward the prison wagon demanding to know where her Thomas was. The hours he and Grumpy had spent in the mines interrogating Rumpelstiltskin. The scouts he'd sent to the forest in search of his friend. How many times had he admitted to Snow that he believed the young prince forever lost…and yet, now, here he was.

A customer stopped Thomas on his way to the bar and he responded with a wink and a nod before resuming. Getting hold of himself, James walked up to the rail. What would he say to him? He really hadn't thought about it. Unlike his meeting that morning with Gepetto, he had no real plan, and he was struggling to come up with some sort of small talk when Thomas looked up.

The young man's eyes widened, and James could swear he saw a flicker of recognition as Thomas grinned. "Hey!" he said. He pointed over at James. "Um…er—" he snapped his fingers, shaking his head and then remembered, "David right? David uh, Nolan?"

James halted. "Um…yeah. You-you know me?"

Realization dawned on the young man and he chuckled, slightly embarrassed. "Oh uh, no. Sorry, yeah that's probably confusing to someone with amnesia."

James cocked his head slightly, furrowing his brow.

"I saw you in the paper," he said, setting down the case behind the bar and reaching in to retrieve a bottle.

James's shoulder sank. The paper. Of course. "Yeah," he said with a light chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think everyone saw that paper."

He laughed, cracking open the bottle and handing it to one of his patrons. "Afraid you can't help that. Only one paper in town and you're pretty much the only story."

"Heh, yeah I guess."

"I'm Sean," he said, thrusting out his hand. James shook it immediately.

"Nice to meet you."

He gestured for James to take an empty space at the bar. "What'll you have?"

James shrugged off his jacket, tossed it on one of the stools along the wall and then stepped up to the rail. "Um, beer?"

Sean splayed his hands flatly in front of him. "LaBatt's? Heineken? Bud?"

James shrugged. He'd never had a taste for beer – never could understand the appeal it always held for Phillip and some of his other friends. And he couldn't for the life of him figure out how there'd come to be so many different kinds of the stuff. But he would put up with its bitter taste if it meant chatting longer with 'Sean'. "Bud's fine."

Sean nodded, reached down for a glass, and filled it to the rim. He was about to slide it over when something clearly troubling occurred on the TV and a scuffle broke out at the other end of the bar. A heavyset man with a thick goatee was gripping an empty bottle by its neck and flailing it around in another man's face. The shouting was so loud, James couldn't tell what the quarrel was about or how in the world it had erupted so fast. But the cause was irrelevant; the man raised the bottle threateningly over his head, and James gripped the rail, prepared to lunge for the man – when 'Sean' broke through the crowd, snatched the bottle from the man's grasp and yanked his hand down at the wrist, twisting his opponent's arm tightly behind his back. The men who'd been huddled around the fight sprang back from the young bartender who, despite being smaller in size, had total dominance of the situation. Keeping the man's wrist pinned behind his back, Sean gripped the guy's shoulder with his other hand and gave him a firm shake. "Walk it off," he muttered, though his directive was clear. After a few moments, the man's frame loosened, shoulders slumped, and he headed for the door without another word. The game watching resumed and 'Sean' took his place once more behind the bar.

"Sorry about that," he said, pushing James's drink in front of him. James didn't reply for he was suppressing a wide, brotherly grin, prompted by how swiftly his young friend had dealt with the disturbance without so much as a hiccup in his rhythm. He'd resumed his work as if the altercation were an everyday nuisance, having exerted clear authority with a firm and just hand…the hand of a prince.

"Not a problem," James managed eventually and took a swig of beer.

Sean drew his towel from over his shoulder and wiped down a few vacated spots along the bar. "So David," he said, glancing up James. "How is the uh, recovery going?"

"Ok so far," James replied. "All things considered."

Sean continued wiping. "You um…remembering anything?"

James shrugged. "A little."

He nodded, taking a plastic id card from his pocket and swiping it through an electronic kiosk. He punched a few keys on the pad in front of him and a receipt printed out. "A little's better than nothing, right?" he asked, retrieving a shot glass from the shelving behind him and putting James's receipt inside.

"I guess so," James said, "but it's…sorta slow going." Their conversation was insipid, James knew, but he had to start somewhere. Sean had no idea he was Prince Thomas and he wasn't about to open up with, "hey, guess what, you're a prince from another realm AND you went missing before the curse!"

Sean paused, glancing up at him again. "Well, how about your uh…" he hesitated, eyes darting up and down the bar as he did so. "Your wife?"

James drew back. "My wife?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I read in the paper your wife was bringing you home. Do you uh…are you remembering any of her?"

James cocked an eyebrow, finding the question somewhat odd, though he wasn't much surprised. Thomas had always been pretty direct. "Kind of," he said, swishing the beer around in his glass. "It's a…challenge," he added with a light chuckle, "getting to know your wife all over again."

"Tell me about it," Sean muttered, refilling a beer tang and sliding it in front of a beckoning customer.

"'Scuse me?"

Sean started, thought for a moment, and then sighed. "Well, she's not really my wife but…" he trailed off, willing to let the matter drop, but the look on his customer's face seemed to be urging him to continue…so he did. "My girlfriend, Ashley," he clarified. "She and I…well…she—we…just had a baby."

James feigned ignorance. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Congratulations."

Sean let out a small chuckle. "Thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck, straining it toward the ceiling as he continued. "The thing is – Ashley and I – we weren't…" He shook his head and sighed. "Well, when she was pregnant, we were…separated."

James closed his eyes, again thinking about Thomas's disappearance. Perhaps in his case, the curse might have provided a small blessing. After all, it did release him from 'Stiltskin's entrapment and drag Thomas into Storybrooke with the rest of them.

"But when she had the baby, we…" Sean was looking past him now, distant…nostalgic. "We found each other again." He said the last bit more to himself, a tender smile spreading across his face. He took a deep breath and refocused on James. "Anyway, it's been sort of like…getting to know your wife all over again." He made a small, comparative gesture across the bar, acknowledging 'David Nolan's' similar predicament.

"Yeah, sure sounds like it," he replied, raising his glass in a sort of half toast. "Well congratulations again. What's her name?"

Sean opened his mouth to reply and then shut it, doing a double take as he peered at James. "How'd you know it's a 'her'?"

James gulped. "Uh…lucky guess?" Their eyes were locked and James thought he saw…something…a flash in his eye. But it was gone.

"Ah," Sean said after a moment. "Well, her name's Alexandra."

"Alexandra?" James repeated, smiling into his beer as he suppressed another knowing grin with a sip.

"Mmm hmm." Sean swiped his card through the reader again and added to his paperwork. "We call her Alex."

James nodded. "Very pretty."

"Heh," Sean rolled his eyes with a slight guffaw. "Ella didn't think so but—"

"What?" James snapped his head up, plopping his glass down with a loud clunk.

Sean jumped a bit, startled, and fumbled his reply. "Ashley," he clarified, though he said it as if covering a blunder, "didn't like the name at first."

James's eyes pierced into his friend's. Had he heard him wrong? Did he dare? "You just said…Ella," he said slowly, his voice hushed though taut as he leaned into the bar, gripping the handrail.

Sean's mouth hung open and he seemed almost hypnotically frozen. But eventually he shook his head with a nervous chuckle and waved his towel dismissively. "Sorry…I meant Ashley. There was…there was some girl in here earlier named Ella…I suppose the name just…you know…" he trailed off, starting to move away.

But instinct dominated James once again and he lunged across the bar, gripping the young man's wrist and pulling him forward. Whole minutes seemed to pass between them as they stared at one another, deadlocked. Each seemed on the brink of disclosure yet neither trusted himself to speak. Finally, his eyes narrowed and intense, James whispered in a low though harried voice: "Thomas?"

The man's eyes grew wide, his brow flying all the way up his forehead, and James felt his wrist slacken under his grip. Slowly, the young prince set the towel down on the bar and leaned into it, as if suddenly quite fatigued…and relieved. "James," Thomas hissed back. "Thank God."

…

***As always, I'm so grateful you keep coming back for more. Special thanks to GoChlollie, Princesakarlita411, red lighting, xangels creationx, JuliaAurelia, quoththeraven5, and sooooo many others who keep reading and revisiting and giving such motivational reviews!

So just how much does young Thomas know? Stay tuned!***