Emma sprints as fast as her legs can carry her, wincing every other step. Somewhere in the course of Nelson and his friends, then hijacking his car, crashing it in the lake and stumbling away from the crash, she hurt her left leg. It's mostly been fine over the past few days of staying in the 'borrowed' lake house, but running away made it act up again. Eyes wide and breathing ragged, heart hammering away in both exertion and fear, she checks over her shoulder, searching for the man. Killian Jones. The strange man with an Irish accent, dressed head to toe in black leather concealing several weapons, and a metal hook for a left hand. She has no doubt that the man would regain consciousness quickly, then run her down. Whatever the hell he wanted from her, he'd take it if he really wanted it that bad. He wouldn't be the first.
I'm not going back there. No way in hell. Panting ragged breaths in and out, she leans against a tree, trying to maneuver weight off her left leg. She's been running on and off for hours. The sky is turning a paler blue, the horizon shining red. What's that phrase? Red sky at morning, sailors take warning? The clouds where the two meet are purple. Emma ran through the night without a particular target. Away from Jones seemed to be the only thought haunting her as she dashed, darting and weaving around trees and stumbling through a few creeks. She never strayed far from the lake house, though. It's a decent shelter and she isn't about to let a stranger playing dress-up as a pirate take it from her. Fear kept her moving despite the pain, but now the adrenaline is wearing off. She's running on fumes anyway.
A snarl and a pang rip through her stomach. Emma slides down against the tree and unzips her bag, pawing through for the box of pop-tarts. She finds nothing, though, remembering she'd eaten the last of her food three days ago. Four now, her mind unhelpfully corrects. Nothing to be found in the lake house she chose or the others, she grumbles, trying to ignore the hunger pangs. She does smile and praise the fact that she kept it all packed and ready to go at a moment's notice, though. Emma gingerly climbs back to her feet and starts down a path to town. She's wet, cold, hungry and tired. As the sky grows even brighter, she spots tables being set up along the street. Bright table cloths, every possible color, capture her eye with the displays. A street fair, she grins. She remembers overhearing something about a job fair when she first crashed and was stumbling to shelter. Free stuff, plenty of folks not paying attention. Pick a pocket or two of some unsuspecting pedestrian, come up with enough cash for a bus ticket and get the hell out of here.
She shakes her head at the last thought. Stealing got you hurt last time. Stick to the free stuff being given out. Sticky fingers retired for now, because that will be the fastest way to draw attention. Don't want to wind up back behind bars. Emma shakes her head harder, like she can dislodge the thought with the action. The absolute last thing she ever wants to think about is Neal Cassidy. Emma sighs and sits with her back against a brick building. The library, she notices. She watches the set-up with mild interest, tracking those jobs advertising with free food, noting the people walking along the road. Emma observes the cars parked on the side of the road, staking out a few of the older ones, dirtier ones. Ones she doesn't believe anyone will miss. Ones they're more likely to overlook. Yes, stealing got her in major trouble before. But if she can get some wheels, she can get the hell out of Dodge. Preferably before trouble catches up with her. Not even fourteen, but she is proud she can drive, and even more so that she knows how to hotwire a car if she needs to.
Cautiously, eyes darting over her surroundings and glancing over either shoulder, she picks her way out into the street fair in full swing. Emma picks up a baseball cap from some insurance company and a pair of sunglasses from a law firm. Tucking her curls under the collar of her jacket, she places the cap on her head and the sunglasses on her face. Emma walks down the street, seeking someone advertising with free food, adjusting her jacket over her ripped and dirty flannel as she walks at some approximation of a leisurely pace. Slow enough to cover the slight limp and the soreness that's set into her overworked muscles from running all night long. She spies a bakery advertising down the block with a spread of free samples and feels her mouth water as she ambles along the road closer. Hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention a moment before it happens.
A hand clenches around her left arm, just beneath her shoulder, restraining her in place and squeezes tight. Emma grits her teeth against the pain, holding back the slight cry. Alarm bells ring out loud in her mind at the touch. She struggles to keep the nausea at bay. Her heart stutters. Ice freezes her veins as it starts beating again, thundering against her chest. Cold metal brushes against her neck and untucks her hair, letting the curls fall free against her tensing shoulders. Stubble scratches against her cheek as she picks up the smell of the sea and of rum, and a hard Irish brogue snarls in her ear. "Now that's much better, isn't it, Swan?" Emma freezes in panic.
"How…?" she asks silently, hating that her voice gives away how terrified she is.
"Oh, don't be so surprised, love. I've pursued you across this bloody country. Tracking your stumbling footsteps that never went more than three miles from the lake house, not nearly as difficult as finding you here instead of Oklahoma." Shaking, Emma turns and looks at the stranger, Jones. His mouth is quirked up in a smirk, but it's far from pleasant. His blue eyes are glaring at her, cold as ice. Emma notices the recent cut on his forehead, surrounded by a dark blue bruise. "Did you really think you got away, Swan?"
"Can't blame a girl for hoping," she answers hastily, trying to wrench her arm away to no avail. Jones squeezes her arm tighter, and she grits her jaw to keep in the cries. No matter how much it hurts, she knows better than to ever let on. Showing pain is exposing weakness, and she knows better. If Jones sees it hurts, you just know he'll exploit that. "Let me go," Emma snarls out quietly.
"Oh no, lass. You're coming with me." He hauls her along down the street. Emma's gaze flicks to any of the adults around, any means of escape, anything to get away. Two police officers are standing by on the corner. A table sits arranged with a military recruiter a few yards down from there. Every booth is run by a few adults. "You scream for help, and those officers will be obligated to send you back. Isn't that the same reason you've not sought medical attention for that limp? Maybe you don't get returned to the place you just escaped, but you roll the dice on getting sent somewhere worse, yes? Or you accept the chance that no one would take you at all, isn't that right, Swan?" Jones whispers, so close to her ear she can feel his stubble scratching her. Emma knows he's right, with a sinking feeling in her gut. She knows he's only saying it to discourage her from getting help. But that doesn't mean he's wrong. Jones throwing the fact that no one would accept her back in her face cuts deep, not that she lets on.
Jones gives a yank on her arm that Emma doesn't respond to. Her eyes are still seeking an escape, somewhere. She chews her bottom lip in thought. In her mind she's weighing the risks of getting sent back against whatever unknown fresh hell awaits with the stranger. He seems to realize that Emma is calculating her options, still seeing the police as a possible escape. The officers in question have glanced over, cautious about the display but not yet intervening. She sees Jones offer an insincere smile and a nod to reassure the police. Neither of whom seem overly convinced, yet neither of whom are reasonably sure that the display is trouble. His stubble scratches against her ear again as he continues, voice more sinister and lower than before, grinding out at a whisper through his clenched jaw. "You summon them, and I'll kill them." Emma freezes again. Her lie-detector sense isn't firing. She detects no lies. Jones will kill anyone who comes over to help her, not that anyone would anyway.
Emma can feel herself trembling, unable to stop, trying to pull away to no avail. The point of his hook is resting against her neck. She can feel how sharp it is. It isn't quite cutting into her skin, but it could with a flick of his wrist. Upon closer inspection, the place where it meets the brace is covered in rust-colored dried, flaking blood.
The message is straightforward to Emma. Play this smart or die. He seems to consider no issue with either option, but for right now it seems he needs her alive at least. "What do you want?" she finally grinds through her clenched teeth, fixing her glare on the blacktop in front of her. Emma enjoys some slight measure of pride that the question comes out angry instead of terrified, hard instead of quivering and soft.
"Come along, Swan," he answers, voice seeming much more pleasant, concealing the edge. He's pleased enough about getting his way, but the threat is still present. Still gripping her arm tight, hook still at her neck, he leads her down an alleyway and pins her shoulder against the brick wall. "Now, I'm going to speak, and you're going to listen. Do you understand?" Jones' tone and statement make it obvious he's very used to getting his way. He gives an order, and it's followed, that's the natural order. He's answered by her stomach growling loudly. Emma glares at the ground. His grip slackens slightly. Not enough for her to shake him, but enough that it's no longer painful.
"Lass, look at me." Jones' voice is gentle again, like it was in the house. Having only just heard him threaten her at a snarl, she isn't buying his gentleness for a second. Emma keeps her eyes on the pavement beneath her feet, and she hears him sigh before two calloused fingers are gently tilting her chin up. There's a far less murderous look in his eyes, and that's what causes her take off the sunglasses and cap, slowly greeting his eyes. His blue eyes look almost kind, almost concerned. Granted, she hasn't seen that look on many adults–Ingrid being the only one to come to mind–but he looks concerned. She wouldn't go as far as to say he cares, but the sound of her stomach growling seems to bother him. If she weren't so jaded, she might consider that remorse in his eyes. In any case, he no longer seems like he's about to hurt her.
"When's the last you've eaten?" Jones asks in that same calm voice.
"I-" Emma starts sputtering an answer. "I'm fine. Just ate." Jones' eyebrows raise in silent challenge. It doesn't even occur to her to lie again. "Few days ago." She mumbles just above her breath. Her eyes return to the pavement between her sneakers. Emma squirms, wishing the pavement would swallow her. He sighs gently.
"Right then. There's a diner up the road. Come along." He grasps her arm to steer her.
"I don't-"
"Did I ask if you have money?" Jones interjects quickly, almost impatiently, somehow guessing correctly what excuse she was about to offer. She shakes her head, confused. "Right. We're going and purchasing you some food. Come to think of it, I could use some myself. On my dime." She stares at him, eyes wide for a moment, almost daring to believe. It sounds so good. Too good to be true. It's a lesson she's learned too many times to forget. Too good to be true, or even just mildly pleasant, can't be believed. It won't last. This is his way of gaining something from her.
So she narrows her eyes and pulls back, studying him carefully. "What's the catch?"
Rather than being offended by her scrutinizing his generosity, he chuckles. "You're quick, I like that." He has a pleasant laugh, she notices. The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile. It's warm and inviting enough to laugh with him. Not that she does. She's learned better. A charming smile is withholding something. Promises like his are hiding something. "Fine. The catch is this. I'll pay, but you have to sit there and hear me out. You have to listen to everything I have to say, with an open mind. Feel free to ask any questions you like, but you will listen."
Emma rocks back, arms across her chest, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. "So, just so I'm clear," she starts then reins in her attitude. If he really is offering free food, it doesn't seem like a good idea to be rude to him. She faces him head on with a much more pleasant expression. "Not only are you not about to kill me or drag me back to Nelson, but you're going to take me to a diner and pay? And all I have to do is hear you out? I can ask anything I like? Nothing else? No other catch? No further payment?" Her muscles tense at the last word. She watches his jaw tick as well. "Do I have that straight, sir?"
"Aye, that's the gist of it." He produces a brief smile. "Also, Swan, something I was remiss in informing you. Nelson's dead." Her arms fall at her sides with the shock. The man's voice is pleasant and matter-of-fact as he continues. "Killed him myself. Stabbed him in the neck with my hook and watched the blood flow from the wound. I verified myself that he lacked a pulse. I'm not delivering you to him, nor have I ever considered any intention of doing so." Emma can't find any lies. The corner of his mouth quirks up as she realizes her jaw is slack and her eyes are wide in blatant shock. "I likely should have told you that before you struck me." He chuckles. "Do you believe me, Swan?"
"I'm pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me," she answers with quiet pride. Emma's still reeling from the information and the wave of utter relief that washed over her with it. "And you're not." He nods with a grin, then takes her arm and leads her down the street.
The diner, with the 50's black-and-white decor, is mostly empty when they arrive. Black and white checkered floor, black and white photos and old newspaper clippings plastering the wall, black and white tile on the sides of the counter. The seats all provide a splash of color, all red. The table tops themselves are nice light-colored wood. He steers them to a booth in the back, gently nudges her to one side then slides into the other. Emma sets her bag between herself and the wall. Her back is to the rest of the restaurant, and she hates the feeling of vulnerability it gives. A portable TV behind the counter is playing the news. A story asking an expert about the ongoing disarmament crisis in Iraq, with a recent issue from a few days before. Something about logbooks for creating prohibited bacteria and chemicals being found. Jones' ears perk up at the story, and he glares at nothing in particular.
"Bloody dishonorable cowardice, using poison against your enemies." Jones spits the statement through his teeth like it's poison itself. His glare is the scariest she's seen him thus far. There's pain hidden deep behind Jones' eyes at the statement. Not that she wants to get involved, but the story changes to a report on an Indonesian plane crash before she can ask. His voice was so low she isn't positive he intended her to overhear him anyway.
Emma sits immobile as what Jones described plays on repeat in her mind. Nelson's dead. Nelson's dead! The initial relief she experienced is quickly tamped down by guilt. Scumbag that he was, Emma still shouldn't be relieved at the news of his death, should she? That has to be wrong. That relief has to designate her as a terrible person. Right? A good person wouldn't celebrate someone's death, no matter what the dead person did to them, right? Anger and frustration with herself quickly follow. After everything that bastard did in the two and a half hellish months that she suffered under his roof, and after all his attempts to force her to think she deserved a minute of it, she can feel as relieved as she likes about his death. Fucker got what was coming to him. And hey, if he's gone, that means she doesn't have to look over her shoulder for him or anyone forcing her back to him. She should feel relieved, dammit! Has every fucking right to! That nightmare is over and is never starting ever again! Now casually sitting across a booth from the murderer, probably not her wisest decision.
Jones doesn't seem at all bothered by her silent pondering. He isn't sparking much conversation either. The guy who demanded I listen to him does know he has to talk for me to do so, right? As a waiter comes by and drops menus on the table, Jones simply sits and takes everything in with a fascinated expression he can't seem to tamp down. There's something soft and sweet in his curious blue eyes that doesn't mesh with the leather, stubble and guyliner. It's like he's witnessing things for the first time. Emma's eyes dart cautiously around. Both of them, she notices, have a leg bouncing beneath the table. She has more than a few questions bouncing around in her mind, and a few bubble out after the waiter has taken their orders.
"You said we both had business in Maine. What kind of business? What do you want with me? What do you need me to do, and what comes after that? You said you needed me to complete my business before you could go about yours. How did you even find me?"
He hums, eyebrows raising in surprise. "I have to be honest, lass. I expected the first thing you would ask about would be your family." Emma scowls at him until he sighs. The absolute last thing she wants to discuss with Jones, or anyone for that matter, is her family. She has no desire to discuss the birth parents who left her on the side of the road, or the many foster homes and would-be families that weren't. Sure, she wants answers, but that's not the same as wanting to discuss them with an almost definitely psychotic stranger. "Very well, let's get the easy one out of the way first, shall we?" Jones reaches into a satchel strapped across his chest and pulls out a five-inch black binder, worn around the edges, filled with paper. Emma stares at it, unimpressed, but dread starting to produce a weight in her gut as she has some suspicion of what it must be. "This," he states, plopping the monstrosity of a report on the table, "is how I found you. There was a-" he gives a slight pause. She watches his lip curl in disgust and his fist clench in anger. "Let's call him a man, name of Mr. Gold, keeping track of you over the years. These are his notes."
"Looks thorough. You borrowed them?" Emma asks dryly. He smirks.
"Let's say that. Borrowed without permission and with no intention of returning."
"Otherwise known as stealing."
"Do you expect answers or not, Swan?" She nods and reaches for the binder, opening it and freezing. An extremely familiar newspaper article sits in front of her. Dread forms a substantial weight low in her gut. Her mouth goes dry. "Aye, he was following you, as I said." A sudden fear rushes through Emma's mind, anticipating the kinds of things that must be contained here. Her hands shake slightly as she reaches for the binder.
"Did a more thorough job than about half a dozen social workers ever managed," Emma mutters under her breath to disguise her fear as she flips through the pages. Her fears about Mr. Gold's thoroughness are confirmed with every page she quickly skims. Police reports, medical records, school personnel reports, court-ordered therapist notes, notes from previous social workers, observations or check-ins over the years or as needed, paperwork to return her to the system, all things that should have been private, privileged information. And it's all right here. Her blonde curls fall in a curtain around her face as she reads, thankfully obscuring her face.
Emma knows it will be there, but she pulls the binder closer to her, trying to hide it from Jones as she reaches close to the end. The arrest report for possession of stolen goods, right there in black and white, feels like a slap in the face. That wound had barely managed to scab over, and seeing the report rips it right back open. She reads the 'anonymous' tip that directs the police to the security footage at the train station and notifies them exactly where they'll be able to find her. It was called in an hour or so after she handed the duffel bag to Neal. It feels like a stab in the heart and a punch in the face at the same time as Emma struggles to keep her reactions to herself. Fuck you, Neal Cassidy, you god-damned son of a bitch. A guy she believed loved her as much as she loved him, a guy she thought would help her and keep her from being alone on the streets, and he was just using her to take the fall for those damned watches. That month and a half of happiness was completely fake. Just Neal's way of reeling her in.
The sentencing from the court follows. Two months for possession of stolen goods, since Neal abandoned her holding the singular watch when he took off. She was wearing the evidence right there when the police arrived to arrest her, like the idiot she was. The rest was on the security cam footage at the train station. The judge had been torn between leniency and wanting to scare her straight, she reads in the notes. What part of her face that isn't covered by her hair must reveal something of her thoughts because she catches Jones regarding her with interest. His head's tilted, brow furrowed, mouth turned down in a frown underneath the scruff. Not quite interest, she thinks. If she didn't know any better, she might label what she perceives in his blue eyes softness, something bordering on concern. She shakes it off, brushes her hands over her face and is ashamed when they come back wet. She turns the page before he can see over the edge of the binder. He's not peeking, though, she notes. His all-too-intense eyes are focused on her face.
All of these records should not have been given to this stranger in Storybrooke, and here they are. Intermittently, the pages contain notes scrawled in a looping hand in the margin. Whoever this stranger in Storybrooke was, he wasn't simply compiling. Compiling would be bad enough, but no! He was scrutinizing them, making his own annotations in the margins. It feels like an invasion of her privacy. Hell, it doesn't just feel like one. It is one! This file, without Mr. Gold's notes, has been following Emma her entire life. At the very least, however, it wasn't available to any stranger. It used to be an exclusive club of those who knew how much of a screw-up I am. With Mr. Gold's notes included, she can read his assessment of her character and actions as well. The different colored ink in the margins, the differences in toner on the printed pages, the presence of stains and watermarks on some but not others, the crinkling at the edges that get less and less the further in she reads, Emma adds up the factors in her mind. Mr. Gold was adding to this binder as things occurred. This binder has been growing with her over the years. He didn't just compile it together recently. This has been a project all her life. Yeah, Jones stated as much, but here is proof right in front of her.
Emma turns to the last page, wanting to know how far it got. She wants to know how extensive it is, how much the man knew. More than that, she wants to know how recent it is. Since it apparently directed Jones to Nelson because she isn't sure what else would have, it would seem within the last three months. Two weeks ago, that's just great, Emma mutters internally upon reaching the last page. It's the police report about removing the other five kids from Nelson's care. They were younger, none of the others over the age of nine. Still young and cute so liberal couples could take one in for the 'good karma' or whatever reason, without the trouble of a teenager. The others didn't have records, didn't have the extensive history full of red flags like the one currently sitting in front of Emma. It was easier to find those kids somewhere to go. As Nelson never hesitated to point out, there was no one and nowhere else that would take her.
Emma shudders at the memory. She scratches at her arms, her chest, her legs, just to get the ghost of his hands off of her. She tries not to vomit at the sensation. The one thing she can appreciate from Jones is he says nothing, makes no move to interfere, offers no comment. "So, this is what sent you to Nelson?" she asks the almost unnecessary question facing the table, tracing a pattern with her finger in the grains of the finished wood. She asks it barely above her breath, but Jones hears it anyway.
"Aye," Jones answers quietly. "I took the address, sailed from Storybrooke, Maine, to the nearest port and got a ride to Blanchard. I thought I would find you there. But Emma," he reaches out. Emma draws back, wrapping her arms around herself. Jones' hand stops where it is. Not touching her, but she can see his hand flat on the table. She still doesn't look up from the binder, afraid to encounter his eyes, afraid what storm she'll reveal. "You don't have to worry about that sick bastard ever again. He can't hurt you. He's dead, Swan." Emma nods, still not meeting his eyes, this time staring at the ruby ring on his finger and watching the red light shine off of it.
"Where's the nearest port to Blanchard, Oklahoma?" she asks quietly, using the question as a distraction to derail from her display, braving a glance up into his blue eyes. Nothing mocking, nothing to suggest he'll use this weakness against her, nothing like that meets her.
"Beaumont, Texas." Jones answers plainly. "Seemed the nearest, at least."
She blinks in surprise. "Long way. How did you get from Blanchard up here then?"
"A bus." Jones places a strange amount of emphasis on the word, making Emma glance up. He looks strangely satisfied with himself for getting the word correct, watching her with a goofy proud grin. The corner of Emma's mouth quirks up at the sight. He really does have a nice smile, when it's a real one. It falls off his face with his following words. "The cowardly son of a bitch mentioned something about his car giving off this location." Emma nods to confirm the story without embarrassment or shame. "So I got on a bus in Blanchard and rode it here."
"Stole his Firebird after what they did." Emma whispers with a small, pride-filled smile. Jones raises his cup of coffee in a slight, silent salute to that. Then she scoffs with self-deprecation. "I drove seventeen hours straight and fell asleep behind the wheel. Crashed in a lake, woke up chest deep in freezing water. Completely wrecked it, by the way. Shame too, it was a really nice car. Bright red, completely restored 1970 Pontiac Firebird. Shame it's at the bottom of a lake. Kept the keys, though." Emma shrugs her shoulders, shifting them as though a weight is resting impossibly on them.
"A pirate always takes a souvenir of their conquests, a trophy, if you will." Jones looks almost proud of her as he declares it, inspiring a faint smile from Emma. Something in that smile lifts a bit of the weight from her shoulders, only for a moment. One glance back at the binder sitting on the table has that weight right back in place. A few more questions need to be addressed, but one raises to the fore immediately.
"Did you, um, did you…" she stammers, facing the binder once again.
"I read only the first and last pages. The first to confirm his notes were tracking you and the last for a place to find you. Your past is your own concern." She lets out a sigh of relief at the direct answer, again sensing no lies once she finds the guts to look at him to search his expression. Maybe it's indifference to her past. She doubts it's out of respect for her privacy. But whatever the cause is, he let her secrets remain her own. The secrets that she'd take to her grave. "Whomever you may wish to share your beginnings with is your own prerogative. Mine was finding you."
"Why? What's so special about me?" He smiles vaguely at that. The waiter comes back and drops off their food. Emma digs in without much hesitation, considering Jones carefully. He begins by picking at his food tentatively, like it might eat him instead of the other way around. The amount of scrutiny he is casting on his meal, poking and prodding at it like he's attempting to trigger a reaction, is kind of funny. For God's sake, it's pancakes, eggs and bacon! Not poison! She lets out a quiet giggle at the face he makes, and he looks up with a scowl that immediately cuts off the sound. "So, why me?" she asks again after a swallow.
"That's where the open-minded part comes in, Swan." Jones begins with a slight warning in his tone. She nods, then gestures to the food. They established an agreement, and hers is the much easier end to honor. He nods at that, something like approval in his eyes, then continues. "There is a town in Maine called Storybrooke." Emma holds back the scoff at the precious sounding name, but can't quite disguise the eyeroll behind taking a drink. Free food, she reminds herself and schools her expression to continue listening. "Storybrooke is filled with a kingdom cursed here from the Enchanted Forest."
Emma's cup almost crashes out of her hand and she almost snorts orange juice across the table at that. Instead, she lowers the cup gently, places both hands on the surface of the table, takes a careful swallow and faces Jones completely without obstructions. Blinking rapidly with her voice a bit too high-pitched and unsteady for her liking, she asks, "Wanna run that by me one more time?"
He nods. "Storybrooke, Maine is filled with a kingdom that's been cursed here from the Enchanted Forest." There are no lies. This man is insane, but he completely believes his delusions. Free food in exchange for listening with an open mind, Emma reminds herself. Jones may be freaking nuts, but he's paying for the first meal she's had in days, so she'll humor the crazy wanna-be pirate. "Now, I know this world considers the Enchanted Forest to be the stuff of fairy tales, children's stories. I'm here to tell you that the stories this world tells, the tales you think you know, are wrong. Just as I'm sure the history you learn in your schools has been whitewashed to become more palatable. So too has the history of the Enchanted Forest to be told to this world." Emma has to concede that the last bit has a valid point. Fairy tales being whitewashed, she means. The original Hans Christian Andersen 'The Ugly Duckling' ended with the ugly duckling begging to be mercy-killed by the swans before the realization that he'd always been a swan. History gets whitewashed too, she agrees to the point. Thanksgiving wasn't quite as warm and fuzzy as the TV specials would suggest.
"So a bunch of fairy tale characters have been cursed to live in Maine." Emma deadpans, keeping her obvious disbelief to herself, but she can't quite school her unimpressed expression. Can't be that bad of a curse. Oh no, Maine! What a nightmare! Emma does manage to keep her sarcasm to her internal monologue, rather than voice it. Jones nods, clearly sensing her disbelief but apparently also taking note of the fact that she's still sitting here. She notices a waiter passing by, setting the other tables, his expression mirroring her feelings as he seems to have overheard them. Emma almost smiles as she watches the young man mouth the words 'okay then' before continuing with the other tables, carefully eyeing Jones as he passes by. The young man's eyes widen as they examine her face. His sarcastic disbelief melts as his face goes pale.
She tracks as he leaves, then a moment later feels a presence at her shoulder. She turns and sees the young man's arm with lightly defined muscle, currently holding a fresh pot of coffee. His face is severe, all but glaring at Jones. "Can I get you folks anything? A refill, sir?"
"I think we're alright, young sir. Thank you."
His eyes aren't on Jones' polite smile. They're inspecting her face with scrutiny so intense it makes her uncomfortable. Emma starts tensing up to run. There's way too much implied behind his next polite offer. "Well, if you folks need anything, let me know." Jones offers a polite thanks, but the young man doesn't leave until he sees her nod with a slight, courteous smile.
Still bouncing with the need to run, Emma turns back to the conversation at hand while tamping down every feeling dredged up by the young man's concern. She still notes his eyes on her from the counter. "What does this curse do? Because living in Maine doesn't sound that terrible. Come to think of it, I hear it's delightful."
"They no longer remember who they are. They've been stripped of their very identities, their memories, everything that made them who they were, and remade in whatever image the curse issued them. The curse took away all their happy endings. Their life's work, their hopes, their dreams, their accomplishments, all of it is gone. They live at the whims and mercy of the Evil Queen Regina who cast the curse. They go about their days as her dolls, to play with as she wishes. Time has stood still." The fate sounds horrible, but Jones doesn't seem extremely sympathetic to their plight. Hell, when talking about the happy endings, he almost sounds bitter.
That sounds pretty convenient too. Even if I were to follow Jones into the batshit crazy unknown, he'll have no one to confirm his story. No one remembers being 'cursed' so there's a perfect explanation right there for him. Anyone refuting the claim of being cursed just acts as proof to fuel this man's delusions.
"What do you need me for?" Whatever he wants with her, it isn't to help these people. Woah, wait! Help them? Emma catches herself. No, I'm just playing along with the guy paying for food. I'm just humoring him. I don't actually believe this crap. There's no one there to help. No one is suffering under some curse. There isn't any curse to suffer under. Yeah, this world sucks, but that doesn't mean it's cursed. Happy endings don't exist, and you can't rip something away that doesn't exist.
Jones' answer pulls Emma from her thoughts of his delusions and directs her into further questioning his sanity. "When the curse was created, it was made so only one could break it. A Savior. That is where you come in." Her eyebrows hit her hairline. "The destiny I mentioned I'd deliver you to is to break the curse." At this, she can't hold back her snort into her orange juice. "I'm not joking, Swan." She glances up with an eyebrow cocked.
He reiterates, holding up his hand to prevent her from interrupting. Free food for an open mind, she prompts herself and nods, muttering under her breath, "Of course you're not joking, because that would be ridiculous."
"When the curse was created, it was devised in such a way that there would be a Savior to break it. That's you, Swan. When it was enacted, your parents sent you away." Emma's cup strikes the table with a bit too much force. "They were forewarned that the curse would last twenty-eight years. You were meant to find them when you reached your twenty-eighth year and break it. Me, I refuse to abide by that timeline. And thus, here we are." Jones casts an arm out to gesture to the diner around them. Emma chooses to disregard the comment about her parents and the pangs that come with it. She also shoves the 'twenty-eight years' information in the box in her mind labeled 'Do Not Open Ever' for her own peace of mind. They meant for me to endure everything, all on my own. Suffer everything without them, for twenty-eight—Nope! Into the box you go!
"So if I'm supposed to be the Savior and break the curse, then who are you supposed to be? Captain Hook?" She's sarcastic as she asks, but drops the joke when Jones nods, no smirk, no joke, nothing. With wide eyes, she asks, "Seriously?"
"Aye," he answers, holding up the hook. "Did you think this was for decoration, darling? And that segues quite nicely into the other questions you asked." Ultimately having determined that none of the food on his plate is poison, he digs in with gusto and Emma does the same with hers. "Your business in Maine is to break the curse. Restore the happy endings, deliver your people, be the bloody hero." Jones flourishes his hand holding the fork as he waves off the unimportant aspects of her supposed heroism.
"You sound very enthused." Emma deadpans again.
Jones continues as if she hadn't interrupted. "Now, I seek revenge on the bastard that took my hand. The same bastard that was tracking you all those years, complicit in the harm against you, knowing about it and doing nothing to prevent it." Emma cocks her head slightly, frowning. She senses a ploy to sway her to his side, in favor of revenge. Jones doesn't care what happened to her. He just wants her to hate this bastard as much as he does. All of this strikes her as a touch elaborate, just for the man taking his hand. The anger and hatred, the downright bloodlust, Emma can see just behind Jones' eyes, that has to stem from something more monstrous.
It's about more than his hand, she concludes with certainty. "I want revenge on him, but as he's in this town under the curse, he won't remember me. Makes it not nearly as satisfying." The details sink in as Emma quickly grasps the full picture.
"You want us both to go to Maine so I can break a curse, trigger this guy's memory, all so you can kill him?!" she asks slowly. Yep, he's freaking nuts. Forget Ingrid levels of crazy. This man is fucking psychotic. Hauling me in front of a car to trigger magic that I don't have–because it doesn't exist!–is gonna look like child's play. This guy might just be willing to pitch me under oncoming traffic!
"Aye." He's fucking batshit crazy. Emma quickly scarfs down the rest of her food, practically forgetting to chew in the process. Jones only sits and gives an intense stare, giving her the feeling he can see straight through her. She really doesn't enjoy the feeling. To escape his searching blue gaze, she darts her own focus around anywhere she can, finally landing on the inside of his arm.
"Who's Milah? On the tattoo."
He sighs. "Someone from long ago."
"Where is she? Is she in this town too?" Maybe he wants to return her memories too.
Jones shakes his head solemnly. "She's gone."
Emma takes in the downcast eyes and clenched fist. "He took more than your hand from you, didn't he? This guy killed her, didn't he?" she whispers. His steely glare almost scorches her when he meets her eyes. It intimidates her, but she doesn't back down. She feels a concerned gaze on her back. "That's why you wanna kill him."
"Quite perceptive, aren't you?" Emma doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. She doesn't even know how to. Not that the question or the way he asked it demanded an answer. Jones casts his glare down at the tabletop as Emma darts her gaze around anywhere but him.
He lost the woman he loved, and then lost his mind. But that doesn't explain how he has the binder of information on her. That's what she keeps returning to, as the possibilities buzz around in her mind. What he's describing can't possibly be real. He's got to be out of his mind. He's caught up in a grief-fueled rage and plans to kill a man.
Something impulsive and reckless boils up within her, though. Nothing Jones has said has been a lie. Not about who he is, not about how he found her, not about what he wants, none of it. He didn't lie to cover up the gory details of his plan, nor did he lie to appease her. Something Emma can respect, especially after having received so little of it, is complete and direct honesty. Jones, delusions aside, has been nothing but honest with her thus far. Besides, sitting before her is the kind of love she had once hoped to find. Sitting before her is living proof of someone willing to do anything for those they love, willing to fight, willing to kill. Sure, after everything with Neal, she gave up all hope that love even existed. Sitting before her is proof that it does. Here is a man willing to fight for the woman he loves, about to avenge the woman he lost.
She's once again facing a situation in which someone is going to use her. Her previous foster homes used her for the government paycheck. A few used her as a lightning rod for their abuse and a scapegoat for their problems. Lily used her as a cover for running away from her loving family. Lily then used her again for shelter from the heat brought down on her and her boyfriend after a robbery. Neal used her to take the fall for the watches. And now, here is Jones, who wants to use her to break a curse. Apparently, her birth parents always intended to use her for the same purpose. Jones is just jumping the gun. However, the difference with Jones comes back to his candor. Emma knows he plans to use her. He's made no secret of that fact. Others in her past who have used her have veiled it behind promises. Promises of family, of friendship, of love. Jones has done no such thing. He's offered no promises to fail to deliver on. Those hollow promises were where Emma always got let down. Again, because of Jones' lack of promises, he really can't let her down. It's a bit hard to disappoint when there are no expectations.
His leg is bouncing under the table once again. His knuckles are white as they grip the coffee mug. Emma realizes she's been staring as she ponders her answer and realizes he's waiting for her decision. So he's not about to haul off and threaten me again? He's not about to grab me by the arm and drag me out of here? Good to see he threw that tactic out. For now.
Ultimately, the decision comes down to one thing. He killed Nelson. Emma doesn't know or care why he did, but Jones killed Nelson. "Eh, what the hell? I'll help, but on a few conditions." He grins in a way she's convinced has charmed ladies before, but causes an unpleasant twinge in her gut. It's so damn fake it might as well be plastic. There's something satisfied in the glint of his eyes, like the cat that ate the canary. This is a man plotting a murder, she reminds herself.
"And those would be?"
"When this is all said and done, I'm free to go. Your curse breaks, the entire town, including your Mr. Gold, suddenly develops a cure for total amnesia and their fugue states, and that's all I'm involved in. I'm not helping you kill someone. Curse breaks, I'm free to go or stay wherever I want." He tilts his head, brow furrowed, losing the artificial smile, considering her.
"Lass, you do realize that when the curse breaks your parents will remember who they are and thus who you are. If you should wish to reunite with them, I'll not prevent you from doing so. But I wouldn't necessarily think that your parents will permit you to roam free after being reunited after so long."
Every mention of her parents has her defenses rising. "These are the same parents that left me for dead on the side of the road when I was born. I want nothing to do with them." Her voice comes out in a hiss. Jones has a slightly smug grin, like he might know something she doesn't. It falters and falls as he examines her, hearing her statement for the truth it is. "Yeah, my parents aren't some incentive you can dangle in front of me. I won't jump through hoops on command for the distant promise of meeting my parents. I want nothing to do with them. What I wanted was answers, answers that you have now provided. So maybe don't sit there smug like you know me better than I do. Because you don't." Jones nods silently as Emma takes a breath from her mini-tirade. "When the curse is broken, I'm free to go. Where I go after remains my decision."
"Agreed," he answers directly. "Anything else?"
"Just basic human decency," Emma says soberly. Jones raises an eyebrow. Almost skeptical at her having to bargain for it. "The caveman routine of hauling me around, not cool." For a moment, something crosses over his face. Something a less cynical person might be inclined to call guilt or shame. But it's gone before Emma's jaded eyes can confirm it. "Basic human decency for the duration."
"Agreed." Once more, he agrees without a moment's hesitation. Jones waits a moment, considering Emma expectantly. When she says nothing, merely encounters his eyes with a steady gaze of her own, he grins and extends his hand. "In that case it appears we have an accord, Miss Swan." Emma places her hand in his. Instead of shaking her hand, as she expects, he brings her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. His soft lips send a weird kind of tingle all the way up her arm. Astonishingly, the contact doesn't leave her feeling nauseous. Jones gently sets her hand on the table with a wink.
"That we do, sir," she answers, simply to not feel like a gaping idiot. Who the hell does that? Who the hell goes around kissing hands? Why the hell did he do that? She's all too relieved Jones is more focused on fishing a familiar leather wallet from his big leather coat and dropping two twenties on the table. Forty dollars, for a bill that didn't exceed twenty. Damn generous tip.
"Before we depart, Swan, you'd best see what the lad requires at the counter. He's been trying to signal you over and glaring a hole through my head for the last ten minutes." Emma frowns as she turns in the booth to see the waiter not-so-subtly jerking his chin at her, then back to the kitchen. "I'm sure the lad thinks himself quite the white knight offering assistance to a lovely damsel in distress. Quite heroic, really, rescuing the damsel from the villainous pirate." Emma scowls back at Jones' amused smirk, rolling her eyes. More fairy tale crap. Uncertain, though wanting to head off unwanted assistance before it makes things worse, she rises from the booth and makes her way over. Standing about arms length apart at the end of the counter, she crosses her arms across her chest and faces the young man head on. Micheal, she reads on the small name tag.
Earnest brown eyes survey her with concern. She knows what he identifies. The tears in her muddy clothing, the black eye, bruised cheek, split lip, a bruise on one temple and a cut on the other, and the black and blue fading bruises of fingerprints wrapping around her neck. The cautious glances over her shoulder to Jones suggest who Micheal seems to suspect is responsible. "Are you okay?" he asks in a lowered voice.
"Yeah," she answers, far too quickly and cheerfully but in the same way she's practiced for years. "I'm fine." Emma tries offering a smile. It's understandable he doesn't believe her. The concern in those warm chocolate eyes is making her uncomfortable, starting to trigger her reflex, compelling her to run. She thinks of another pair of chocolate eyes that used to look at her with that warmth. The memories leave her choking back screams.
"Look, if you're in trouble or something," Emma's already shaking her head with that same banal smile that he clearly doesn't buy. "I can call the cops, have this guy arrested." Jones' threat echoes through her mind, but that's not what sends her panic into overdrive. She'll be sent back into the system. Her panic must reflect on her face as she shakes her head frantically. Micheal offers a reassuring smile and moves to place his hand on her shoulder in comfort before she flinches away. "They can help you. They can get you away from this guy. He won't be able to hurt you anymore. Hell, if you just wanna stay here, go back in the kitchens while they come and get rid of him."
Emma shakes her head again, much less frantically. Her voice is calm and level as she responds. "That guy, Jones, he didn't do this," she gestures to her face. "This wasn't him. I'm safe, I'm okay, I'm fine." Those last statements twinge at her internal lie detector, almost like she can detect lies in herself. Once again, Micheal doesn't look convinced. He runs a hand through his sandy buzz cut and sighs.
"Are you, I don't know, is there a reason you don't want the cops involved? Because I can call them right now. They can help you." He reaches behind him towards the phone. Emma darts her hand out to stop his.
She lets out a chuckle, then realizes how strange this must sound. The wheels are turning behind Micheal's eyes as well as he starts trying to fathom some other reason she wouldn't accept help from the police. Emma can't concern herself with that, though, as her alarms are still ringing loudly to run. "Look, Micheal, I appreciate the concern. Honest, I do. But I'm okay. Jones hasn't hurt me, and he's not going to." Her arm twinges with the reminder of part of that ringing false.
"You really don't want me to call the cops?" He asks with uncertainty in his voice, but still that same unfamiliar concern. She knows she hasn't provided him with an explanation why. Anyone can put together the cuts and bruises, the unkempt look and her aversion to the police and determine 'runaway'. She's not going to wait around for that conclusion to dawn on him. Certainly not going to spell it out for him. Emma nods.
"Yeah, I really don't. I'm sure. I appreciate it, but I'm okay." Offering a genuine smile, she turns on her heel and walks back to the booth. Emma cringes internally as she has to walk slowly or reveal the limp and remembers the spots of blood and tears in her pants she can't hide this way.
"We gotta go before he calls the cops and has you arrested," she hisses as she reaches the booth. Jones meets her eyes, slightly surprised. "Don't look like you're leading me out. Don't look like you have anything to hide. But don't do that fake smile thing you tried pulling with the cops earlier either. Just look normal, for God's sake. Because if the cops come here, it's bad for both of us." The words 'both of us' have a certain ring to them that produces a comforting feeling in her chest. A feeling she immediately stomps down because it feels suspiciously like that elusive little bastard called hope that's let her down so many times before. She's not going to get kicked in the teeth by life again.
Jones nods, seemingly ceding to her knowledge of the world or the urgency in her voice. "Shall we then, Swan?" Emma shoulders her bag, clutches the binder to her chest and follows alongside Jones as they exit the diner and move down the street. The street fair, she can see, is in full-swing. Full of people milling about, easy to hide in plain sight. The police, thankfully, are not looking in their direction.
"Now Swan, how would you suggest we reach Beaumont?"
Emma smirks over at him. "Leave that to me."