The sight of Ms. Kroeger and her red minivan greets Graham and Emma as they arrive back at the station. Graham seems to read the tension as he parks the cruiser at a glacial pace. Emma steps out of the cruiser with a sullen sigh that only this woman can bring out of her. Just the sight of her is a miserable one. It doesn't exactly improve matters that Rachel Kroeger hates her. Ever since she first got assigned Emma's file. On the ride to her new foster home, Emma had spoken her mind about her observations. 'Your boss must hate you.' That was the perception of the Emma Swan file, that the assignment was a punishment, and Emma Swan knew it. Pretending never did anyone any favors. Five others before her had taken on the Emma Swan file. There were more red flags there than in communist China. As a result, three of those five had actually sought complete career changes. On her bad days, Emma took it as a sign no one wanted to deal with her, not even those specifically paid to do so. On the fewer and farther between good ones, she can manage a good laugh out of it, being so much trouble. On those fewer and farther between days, she stretches for the slightest bit of light she can possibly find and grasps at straws when that becomes a necessity.
A familiar pinched frown mars Ms. Kroeger's face, thin lips pinched into a pale line. Her brown hair is twisted severely back into a knot at the nape of her neck, lined with gray that shines in the muted sunlight. Piercing brown eyes latch onto Emma, burning a hole into her. For a moment, Emma's fist clenches around the strap of her bag. Knuckles white against the gray, shaking in her nerves and uncertainty.
God, why couldn't she reach back to that defiance when she met Jones? Why couldn't she snarl out that she wasn't going back, no way in hell? She grasps why, but pronouncing this decision to be hers doesn't transform what's surely waiting for her, that being nothing good. It also doesn't change the very real fact that the decision isn't hers.
Discreetly unzipping her bag, Emma knows there's one precaution she needs to follow. She withdraws an old cigar box and her blanket, handing them gently to Graham. He accepts both with a slight frown of confusion. "I, uh, I usually take these everywhere I go. But if…" she trails off, not finishing the phrase. If I need to make a quick get-away and can't bring my bag. It's happened in the past, and she won't go as far as to say it won't again. Graham seems to detect the words she isn't saying, though, thankfully.
Graham quirks a brow in question. "Why not leave them on the ship, then?"
It's a valid question. Behind his eyes, she can identify the question he isn't airing aloud. Whether or not she trusts Jones, Captain Hook, to come through on his promise. Emma shrugs. He's a man of his word, or at least has proven to be a man of his word so far. She does trust him, but she also trusted Neal. She also trusted Lily. She also trusted Ingrid. She also trusted the Smiths. Look where those got her. Cast aside and used. Emma's trust doesn't come without reservation anymore. The hand not holding her bag clings to the swan keychain hanging from her neck, the reminder of what happens when she trusts. "I've trusted the wrong people before, got hurt bad. Can't risk that happening again. And I don't wanna lose these." Whatever this is with Jones, she went in with eyes wide open, that he was planning on using her to his own ends. Believing in him is going to prove to be stupid, but at the very least, she can trust him at his word.
"I'll put 'em away in your desk then."
"Thank you." Her small, appreciative smile feels like it will be her last one for a long time. She sighs, squaring her shoulders, as she turns back to the minivan and the scowling social worker impatiently tapping her foot outside of it.
"Let's get this over with," Emma mutters. The sooner she reaches Boston, the sooner Emma can take off running for the harbor. That's assuming Jones comes through, which he might. She thinks. He will. She hopes.
Now would be the perfect time for him to go off and get his revenge. Clearly, Gold has his memories back. It's been right in front of everyone's faces for weeks. Regina suspects it. Jones definitely should suspect it. If everything Jones has been doing for her is in relation to the curse, then why the hell would he leave town to help her instead of staying and killing Gold?
Because he said he would, an infuriatingly optimistic voice insists. Nothing, nothing ever dimmed the hope of that voice. Not several homes that weren't, not being sent away time and again, not being set up to take the fall for a crime she didn't commit by someone she believed loved her, not negligence or abuse that she's suffered. It constantly insisted, 'this time will be different'. Believing it has caused her nothing but pain in the past.
Give it up, Emma. You know you're not worth the trouble. You haven't been to anyone else. What makes Jones any different? Yeah, he's been honest with you about exactly what he wanted, but you said it yourself. He was being honest about using you. Now, you're becoming far more trouble than you've ever been worth. It's far easier and more advantageous to him to cut his losses with you, kill his Crocodile, and move on.
You're nothing more than a means to an end to Jones. And while the curse itself isn't broken, that's not what he really cares about, is it? He cares about his Crocodile getting his memories back, which seems to have happened. You've accomplished what Jones wanted you to do, so now he has no more use for you. Why would he go to the trouble of coming after you? It's not like he really cares about you, just what he wanted you to do. Why would he be the one to come back? No one else ever has.
Dad—no, David! David would keep me around, right?
Don't be stupid. He already knows you're damaged goods. He already knows you're nothing but trouble.
Then why was he going to go through with the paternity test to keep you around?
Because you're going to break the curse. That's all you've ever been good for, Savior. Snow White doesn't get her memories back until the curse breaks, meaning David needs you around for that. You've known for a while now that Snow White and Prince Charming planned on using you to break the curse. That's all they want you for. He doesn't actually want you. Why would he want you? You're just useful, for the time being. As soon as you outlive your usefulness, he will kick you to the curb like trash. Like everyone else has.
Maybe they have a point.
As much as Emma tries, she can't shake the pessimistic thoughts. Ms. Kroeger nods to Graham, quickly and quietly discussing details where Emma can't overhear them. It's odd, Emma thinks to herself. Over the past few weeks, she's grown so accustomed to discussions like this that concern her at least involving her. At the very least, they were conducted where Emma could hear them. She wasn't deliberately left out of them. Even any talks between Jones and David while she was in the hospital, they happened while Emma was right there and could hear them. Usually, David and Jones remained on either side of her hospital bed, utilizing it as a barrier between them to keep from punching the other. This, she remembers with a sigh, is what it's like to be treated like a child. Not the deputy, not the Savior, but just a little girl. She shuffles her shoulders, trying to shake off and loosen the uncomfortable chafing of that. Being sent right back into that position, and reminded forcefully that she's just a kid is frustrating. Why in the hell did I agree to return to this?
Oh, yeah. Jones. Emma sighs, gripping the strap of her bookbag and praying to God that no one can see her right now. Not Leroy, the drunken grouch with a mouth on him. Not Granny, who tells her customers any news she sees outside her front window. Especially not that damn mayor-sycophant reporter. As Emma's eyes scan Main street, she catches on a familiar head of salt-and-pepper hair and a gold-tipped cane. From a distance, they lock eyes. Gold appears a bit taken aback and upset as he takes in the scene. He seems to put two and two together rather quickly, and doesn't seem thrilled at the sum. She slides into the backseat of the minivan, grumbling about not driving as Graham begins gesticulating frustratedly while he talks. A few moments later, Ms. Kroeger returns and starts the engine.
"Caused quite the stir this time, haven't you, Emma? Had to have been, if the mayor was the one to call." Guess you could say that. Emma bites down the smirk that wants to emerge at the thought. Regina's final straw must have been the hearts, and the Zimmer kids must have provided her the most straightforward idea to get rid of me. It's not as though Ms. Kroeger is expecting a response, but Emma supplies one anyway. She shrugs, staring out the window as Main Street begins to pass in a blur. I could probably jump out right now. It might sting a bit, but I could get out of this. Reaching for the door handle, she fiddles with it for a moment before remembering the child-lock. She smothers a groan and rolls her eyes, staring out the window. Her eyes flick in the direction of the docks, searching for two towering masts. She spots the Jolly farther into the harbor, sailing away. Emma blinks in shock, jaw dropping slightly. He's leaving town. He's…actually doing it. Something inside her chest loosens as she jettisons some of the dead weight of her doubts. Hope she has no business feeling warms her insides without her permission.
"Where am I going?" Emma asks sullenly.
"Boston. There's a girl's home there that has a spot available."
"Where in Boston?"
Ms. Kroeger turns narrowed eyes to Emma in the rearview mirror as Emma leans apathetically against the door, putting on a teenage sulk. "Near the airport." Emma's posture straightens while her mind whirs, producing a mediocre internal map of Boston. "Don't even think about it, Emma."
"Like I could afford a plane ticket," Emma mutters, rolling her eyes with a scoff. Internally however, she's pleased. Near Logan International Airport, that means it's not far from the Inner Harbor. And if push comes to shove, then airports typically maintain bus stations nearby.
"How did you even get to Maine from Oklahoma?"
You mean where you left me to rot weeks ago? Emma answers with only a scoff.
"Emma," Ms. Kroeger warns from the front seat.
Stole a car, crashed in Minnesota, stole another car, took a roadtrip with Captain Hook, sailed the Jolly Roger from Texas up to Maine. For a moment, she's tempted to answer with the truth, just to watch the woman's reaction. Maybe the asylum the answer would land her in would be better than the group home. Maybe the jail cell that two counts of grand theft auto would land her in would be better than the group home. However, she decides against it, providing the more believable answer. "Bus."
"Emma," Ms. Kroeger sighs. "You can't keep doing this. You can't keep running away like this." Emma shrugs silently, leaning against the door, fiddling with the strap of the bag sitting in her lap. I'm going to keep running. I think I've finally found a place that I miss since I left. So I'm going to get back there, and I'll run as long as I have to just to get there. "Look, Emma, I know things haven't been ideal." Emma barely manages to hold back her scoff. That's certainly one way to describe things. "But you have to at least try with these people."
Is that the problem? That I haven't tried? Emma thinks sarcastically. Or that I'm unwilling to roll over and take abuse? Would a good little girl accept that? Would a good, adoptable little girl take shit from everyone and anyone?
Seemingly divining her thoughts, Ms. Kroeger sighs wearily. "I am trying my best for you, Emma." Rolling as it is with anxiety, dread of what Regina may be able to accomplish in her absence and frustration at her circumstances, Emma's gut doesn't clench. It's the truth, for all the good that does. Emma glances in the rearview mirror, meeting the woman's tired eyes. "You're not making it easy, running away like this. You're only making things worse for yourself."
Making things worse for myself would be staying in places where I'm neglected and abused. Making things worse would have been staying in Oklahoma. Making things worse for myself is coming with you right now. While Emma manages to hold the words back, her glare at the social worker in the driver's seat conveys their meaning.
I got myself out of that hell. I got myself out of shitty situations by running.
"Emma, the more you run away like this, the worse things look for you and the more trouble you look like." You're not worth the trouble, Emma. Green eyes turn back to the road passing outside, watching as evergreens flanking the road morph into a green and brown blur.
"Whatever," she mutters. Facing the window, Emma tries her hardest to block out the echoes of a different voice, imparting the same message in a far more honest way. 'No one else would take you, would they? I'm the only one who would, you little bitch! Now be a good little slut.'
Every muscle in her body tenses at the words. She repeats to herself that he's dead, that he can't hurt her, not anymore. Ms. Kroeger is driving her to Boston, not Blanchard. While pickings are slim on where would be willing to take her in, there's more than just him. She's not going back there. The reminders barely keep the nausea at bay.
The drive passes uneventfully and for the most part silently. She knows Ms. Kroeger will call her silence sullen. Maybe write it up to teenage angst. Quite frankly, Emma doesn't give a damn. She holds onto her bag in her lap and stares out the window.
For the first time, she considers what this essentially suggests. She got the feeling no one came to Storybrooke. Ms. Kroeger, motorcycle boy, they managed to, somehow. Regina went as far as to invite someone into the separate bubble of Storybrooke in the interest of getting rid of her. But, strangers have come into Storybrooke. She's doubtful if that's a sign of the curse weakening or not, but she can chalk it up as half a victory.
Trees blur past as Emma's mind wanders, something reckless, something she's very intentionally kept herself from doing for a long time.
Her traitorous and apparently masochistic mind lands on the title that slipped out earlier. You called David, Dad. Remember the last time you called a man dad? Remember how that turned out?
Mama and Daddy were standing in the kitchen, both their hands on Mama's belly. They were smiling. They were happy. Emma wanted to be a part of that. She wanted to be happy too. Emma walked in, dragging her duck stuffed animal behind her and reached out to Mama and Daddy to pick her up. As they turned to look at her, their smiles fell. They looked upset. They looked sad. After that, Mama's belly grew. She stopped hugging Emma because of it. She stopped smiling at Emma. She wouldn't put ribbons and bows in Emma's hair anymore. She'd cry and leave the room when Emma came in. It hurt, and Emma didn't understand why. One day, Daddy sat Emma down on the bed as he put all of her clothes and some toys in a bag. He explained that Mama and Daddy had been trying for a baby for a long time, and then they found Emma. And they loved her very much. But now, they had a new baby on the way, and they couldn't take care of both. Emma cried, begging her Daddy to give up the new baby, to keep her. He just looked sad and shook his head. Mama cried and left the room as a stranger came and took Emma away. She cried and begged her Daddy and Mama to keep her, but they didn't. Mama and Daddy let a stranger take her away from her home. The stranger just said that she wasn't really their baby. The stranger said she was taking Emma to a new family who would love her, but they...
Emma's nails cut into the flesh in the palm of her hand. Her jaw clenches hard to keep from crying over the memories. The Smiths sent her away. After that, Emma swore she would never call anyone Mama or Daddy again. She didn't have parents. She didn't need them. That thought didn't keep her from crying herself to sleep at night, wanting her parents so bad. Wanting to be loved. Wanting to know what it felt like to have a home and a family.
Emma tosses her hair, shaking herself from the thoughts. No good dwelling on that misery right now. It's just the fresh hell that is the foster system. A few hours later, Ms. Kroeger is navigating through Boston traffic.
When they finally stop in front of a pale blue house, Emma sighs. Everything about this place seems clean-cut and strict, from the short, trimmed lawn and manicured bushes to the sheer cleanliness of the entire house. 'Never break in unless you know the way out.' She clocks the exits and possible escape routes. Her eyes scan the picket fence, high enough that she might have trouble jumping it. There's almost a surprising number of windows she could climb out of. At least two windows open to a tall oak tree. On a careful scan, she can't see any security cameras outside of the house. Ms. Kroeger starts rushing her inside, insisting on getting out of the cold as a strong breeze leaves brown leaves scattered.
An older woman, perhaps in her mid-fifties greets them both at the door. A small, silver cross hangs around her neck from a thin chain. She's dressed in pressed khaki slacks and a blouse with a pastel cardigan overtop. Her hair, like Ms. Kroeger's, is also pulled back in a similarly rigid knot. Her strained smile in greeting fails to warm her brown eyes.
"Mrs. Loretta Fletcher, this is Emma Swan," Ms. Kroeger says in way of introduction.
"Ma'am," Emma nods respectfully. Mrs. Fletcher's eyes tighten as she scowls.
Not five seconds in and you're already blowing this first impression. Way to go, Swan.
It's not like it really matters, but still. It's the principle of the matter.
"Mrs. Fletcher, I've already forwarded Emma's information." It's only years of practice that allows Emma to hide the cringe at those words. Sending Emma's information, so this woman has definitely had time to regret allowing her in. And once again, there's that feeling of annoyance and frustration boiling up inside of Emma. That feeling that comes with being talked about but not talked to. Being treated like a child. Not only that, but being reminded that she's a burden. That reminder might be overdue. She stomps down the voice. Not like that ever changed, Savior. You're still nothing. Emma grits her teeth, stomps down the voice, and stares straight ahead of her to remain appearing unaffected. Neither adult takes notice. "If that'll be all…"
Mrs. Fletcher nods minutely, seeing Ms. Kroeger to the door. Emma's long since outgrown the instinct to follow the social worker to the door, begging for a familiar face and not to be left with strangers. She outgrew that by the third social worker to handle her case. Must have been what? Six, then? Still, though, Ms. Kroeger could at least stay for more than five minutes. Allow her a moment to settle in before throwing her to the wolves.
The sound of the door closing is ominous. This isn't a haunted house, Emma. You're not in a horror movie. You've spent the last few weeks aboard an enchanted pirate ship. You should be capable of handling this, for crying out loud.
"The delinquent. I've heard from Ms. Kroeger about you. Come along." Well, that's a great way to start. Determined not to generate massive waves that would draw attention and hinder her escape plans, Emma obediently follows the woman up a set of stairs. She steps deliberately and listens attentively to any creaks. The second, the fifth, the eighth when she steps too close to the railing and the thirteenth when she steps too close to the opposing wall, Emma notes. Each sound echoes through the eerily silent house and Mrs. Fletcher turns a cold glare back at Emma every time. She leads Emma into a spartan room with two bunk beds. Threadbare sheets stretch over thin, hard mattresses. White paint peels off the walls in places. The quiet and the lack of other girls are unnerving here. There are no other signs of life. No decorations, no hair products or make up, nothing. No signs of other girls. "Your room. You will keep things orderly and clean, is that understood?"
"Yes ma'am," Emma answers robotically.
Mrs. Fletcher narrows her eyes further, scrutinizing Emma.
"Set down your bag on a free bunk then come along." Emma complies.
Mrs. Fletcher narrows her unsympathetic eyes, marking Emma's movements. In the back of her mind, Emma considers her actions, wondering which part set the woman off. "Unpack your bag."
Emma's eyebrows raise in surprise. She blinks in shock. Unpack? No one's ever ordered her to do that. Sure, there are suggestions by some foster parents trying to be nice. She rarely unpacks, hasn't in what's felt like years. There was barely any point in unpacking anymore. Why unpack when you're going to leave so soon anyway? But Mrs. Fletcher simply raises her thin eyebrows in prompting until Emma complies, putting what little she owns in an unoccupied drawer. Her nice clothes from her court date, a holey pair of sweatpants, a shirt, a pair of jeans, and some socks and underwear. Mrs. Fletcher's thin nose crinkles in distaste, like she scented something rancid, as she examines Emma's meager wardrobe. Her eyes attempt to peek into the bag and whatever Emma isn't unpacking, but Emma simply zips it shut and tucks it beneath a bunk. Internally, Emma grumbles, thinking that it's only going to take her longer to escape. Quickly, she concludes that might be the woman's goal. Pasting on a fake smile, she follows the woman's brisk steps back down the stairs, this time careful to avoid creaks. As she leaves, Emma glances at the doorknob. There's no lock. Mrs. Fletcher leads Emma down to a kitchen filled with immaculate, gray cabinets and countertops. Each cabinet is secured with a large, steel padlock.
"You will be assigned chores and you will complete them or you will not eat. He who does not work shall not eat. Is that understood?"
"Yes ma'am."
Mrs. Fletcher glares icily. Does she think I'm sassing her or something? Emma's eyes take cautious note of the layout of the house. Each room on the first floor seems to connect, each having at least two exits. There's a front door, that she came in, and a side door. The side door has a lock, a deadbolt and a chain, so likely not her preferred escape route.
At long last, she sees a few other girls. Three of them, all around her age, scramble to their feet and quickly hide what looks like a magazine as Mrs. Fletcher escorts Emma into the laundry room. Emma joins fairly seamlessly, folding what remains of the laundry and helping to put away the linens and towels before being sent out to rake leaves. None of the girls introduce themselves. None of the girls talk while Mrs. Fletcher is in the room. No one so much as glances in Emma's direction. That's something she's fine with. It's not like she's sticking around here, anyway. Places to go, things to do, and all that.
Emma spends the rest of the day and into the night completing basic chores around the house, not being allowed to stop for a meal. She laments and shrugs it off. It won't be the first time she's gone hungry. Likely won't be the last. Late at night, when the house is dark and filled with the sounds of gentle breathing, a few hitched and silenced sobs, Emma slips from her bed. Eyes cast over either shoulder, she wordlessly pulls open the drawer, cringing at the grinding sound. Her movements slow to a crawl, attempting to minimize the sound and lessen the chances of anyone waking up. A few disrupted snorts and stirs around her cause her heartbeat to spike with the fear of getting caught. Okay, that had to be intentional on the old bat's part. Hastily, she shoves her clothes into her bag, cringing again at the sound of the zipper. Every slight noise sounds deafening in the sleeping house. She silently shoulders her bag, slips on her sneakers, and tiptoes down the hall, careful to avoid the stairs she took note of earlier.
Grinning as she strikes the bottom, she's five steps from the door before a blinding light comes on. Her heart jumps in her chest, hammering away in panic at having been caught. Emma freezes instantly, knowing running won't help. She can't run, not faster than this woman, not with her ribs still healing. Hell, standing and walking hurt badly enough. The room is suffused with yellow light from a lamp. For a moment, Emma can barely see. "And just where do you think you're going?" Mrs. Fletcher's harsh voice asks from the doorway. Emma doesn't turn to look. She's already stopped. What are the odds of beating this woman to the door? Try slim to none. She froze when she should have ran. Internally, she curses herself.
"I asked you a question." Mrs. Fletcher grinds through her teeth.
This is nothing like when Ingrid stopped her from running. Mrs. Fletcher isn't stopping Emma out of any concern for her. She isn't offering to care for Emma the way people in her past cared for her. Emma may not know why Mrs. Fletcher is stopping her, but it isn't out of kindness.
Lying and failure to answer are worse than telling the truth at this point. Keeping her emotions out of her voice, Emma responds quietly, staring directly ahead of her. "I think you can tell, ma'am. I'm leaving."
Mrs. Fletcher elevates her eyebrows in response to that. Her lips pinch together into a thin line. "A runner?" Emma doesn't respond. "Your file says you do this a lot. I'm sent many runners, did you know that?" Once more, Emma doesn't respond, but Mrs. Fletcher plows on. "I don't tolerate runners. But I give them what I find they need. Discipline, and a firm hand."
"Discipline, huh?" Emma's mouth is already moving before her brain can advise her to stop.
Mrs. Fletcher glares. "It's about time you learned the meaning of the word."
Again, before her brain can tell her face it's a terrible idea, her eyebrows lift in challenge. Something she's seen Jones do a million times. The back of Mrs. Fletcher's hand cracks across Emma's cheek. Her stance staggers slightly but the force isn't enough to propel her to the floor. The woman's wedding ring leaves a minor cut along with the hot sting. Before Emma can react, Mrs. Fletcher clamps her hand around her arm in a vice-like grip, dragging Emma towards the basement door.
Heart thundering in her chest, vision starting to cloud at the edges in her panic, Emma digs in her heels. Nothing good will happen down there. Nothing. The shadows seem to stretch towards her, reaching out to swallow her whole. The look in Mrs. Fletcher's eyes is cold, detached. Reaching out for sympathy isn't going to succeed. Emma tries in vain to wrench her arm away. Mrs. Fletcher tightens her grip and maintains her cold, detached stride towards the basement door.
Swiftly as she can, detached from her rising fear, her whirring brain clocks details. Solid wood, but she can't tell whether it locks from the inside or the outside. There aren't any additional locks or chains on the outside, which strikes Emma as a plus. It grinds against the floor, leaving a deep scuff mark and a harsh noise in its wake.
Emma's steps stumble as she's dragged down the stairs. An iron bracket is affixed to the far wall of the unlighted room. Hanging from it is a pair of metal handcuffs. Mrs. Fletcher flings Emma bodily forward, slamming her against the wall. What little breath Emma was able to draw in her panic rushes from her lungs on impact. Pain lances up her side and it's all she can do to temper her reaction, to not reveal the pain. The woman seizes Emma's right wrist, wrenching and twisting it painfully to hold it in place before snapping the cuffs around it. Keeping her wrist above her head, elevating her arm like that, burns her side. Black tinges the edges of her vision. Emma can't hold back the slight hiss of pain. Mrs. Fletcher seems not to react, but Emma notices a slight lift in the corner of her mouth.
"We'll see how you feel about that attitude in the morning." With those parting words, Mrs. Fletcher takes her backpack. Her footsteps click up the stairs as Emma is left in cold, bitter darkness with nothing more than her thoughts for company.
In the silent solitude, Emma manages what she can to regain her breath. Painful as it is, she needs it to collect her thoughts. Get her head in order with only one thought, escape. She'll figure a way out of this.
Well, okay. This is a bit of a bind, but I've been in worse scrapes than this. Emma draws in a few careful breaths, trying to steady herself and think optimistically. Her eyes dart around the room. Cement floor that is starting to numb her ass and seems to be leeching away all her heat. Cement walls with no cracks, no breaks, no wear and tear. Not that she thinks she possesses enough strength to wrench out the bracket from a wall of concrete. One single door up the set of stairs, the only exit aside from a small, barred-over window level with the ceiling. Silvery moonlight filters in through the bars, slightly illuminating the empty room. There are a few marks with slight discoloration on the floor in front of her.
Emma sighs. Simply breathing in this position hurts like hell, but it's hard to decide what hurts worse, sitting with her hand forced over her head or standing. She leans to press her cheek against the coolness of the wall, relieving some of the heat and sting from the slap. With her left hand free, she searches her pocket for some kind of pin or paper clip. Just some thin metal she can bend into shape to pick the locks. Tongue poking out between her lips, she searches her jacket pockets, her pants pockets, even through her hair, only to come up empty. Hopelessness starts settling in, each searching grasp growing in desperation. She has nothing with which to release herself. She has nothing but the clothes on her back. Her eyes widen, and she stares unseeing at the far wall as her hand frantically searches her person again and again, each attempt coming up empty.
For a moment in her hopelessness, Emma recalls a detail that slipped her mind. This was the girls' home that Regina would have had Ava Zimmer sent. In her mind, Emma sees the girl fighting like hell and stealing to survive, determined to not be separated from her brother. She would have done anything to stay with him. Meaning she'd very likely have ended up in this pit of a basement. Rage flares against Regina and Mrs. Fletcher both.
Watching her wrist, she twists this way then the other, back and forth. The chain connecting the cuffs rattles, jangling quietly. Emma pulls and the chain goes taut, biting into the flesh of her wrist. Emma grits her teeth, releasing her breath in a hiss through her nose as the bite stings. She lets up, then pulls again, harder this time. Wincing in discomfort, she glares at the wall, determined to push past the weakness. Wrenching downward, the cuff only bites further into her skin. The bracket seems to present no sign of releasing. Emma pulls again and again, not even sure of her motivation other than a determination to escape. Animalistic desperation to escape that would have her chew the limb off if that was what it took. Her wrist aches, feeling raw and inflamed. Her knuckles scrape along the cement wall with every pull until they're covered in shallow cuts that seem to burn, rubbed raw until they bleed. Her eyes burn with the tears she won't shed. They get lodged somewhere in the back of her throat and hitch her breath with desperate sobs she refuses to release. As the sky outside the window begins to lighten, the sunrise glints off of metal just to Emma's left. At first, she wonders if she's only seeing things. Is this something conjured by her imagination? She reaches with her leg and drags the unknown object closer between her heel and the cement, smiling when she recognizes the feel of a nail in her hands. Not quite ideal, but she'll take it.
Inserting it into the key slot and jiggling the object, she twists and jabs until she hears the tell-tale clicks of the tumblers turning. Her lips curl into a smirk as both cuffs release her bruised and aching wrist. For a moment, she allows her hand to drop to her side, relieving the tension from her ribs. For just a moment, Emma recovers her breath and collects her thoughts, determining some measure of a plan.
Gradually, she climbs to her feet, taking silent steps to approach the stairs. Settling her weight gently on the first step, she cringes as the wood creaks. It's deafening in the silence of the room, echoing strangely off the bare, cement walls. As Emma moves to brave the next step, the door at the top opens with a grind. Emma's heart skips a beat with her nerves as she determinedly climbs the next three steps.
Mrs. Fletcher stands at the top, blocking the exit with a thunderous look on her face. In one hand, she holds the box from the pregnancy test. In the other is the bottle of painkillers from the hospital. "You brought this sin into my home?"
"What?" Maybe it's the lack of sleep or food in the past day, but Emma's a step behind in whatever conclusion Mrs. Fletcher has come to. Her voice is scratchy, hoarse. Nowhere near as confident as she wishes it was.
"I see now you need a firmer hand."
"No, what I need is to get the hell out of here." Internally, she panics. What the fuck are you doing, back-talking the crazy bitch that kept you cuffed to the fucking wall all night? You're asking for it to get worse!
Mrs. Fletcher pays her no heed, instead storming down the stairs, seizing Emma's arm in a vice-like grip and hauling her back down the rest of the stairs. Emma lets out a surprised, pained cry that she's ashamed she couldn't bite back. Once again, just like the night before, she throws Emma to the ground. Pain lances up and down her chest. She's winded on impact. Mrs. Fletcher directs her attention to the ceiling, rigging something up that Emma doesn't care to see. Whatever this woman is about to do, Emma doesn't want any part of it. Nothing good is about to happen, she knows that much. Quickly as she can, she's back on her feet, scrambling in the direction of the door. A solid blow lands in the middle of her back, throwing Emma to the ground. Her forehead smacks hard against the stairs, stunning her. Struggling to rise, Emma forces herself upward. Determined to escape, Emma forces herself forward at a crawl over the stairs.
The wooden stair creaks under her weight as an arm seizes her around the waist and hauls her backwards. Emma lets out a cry of pain and frustration, something wrenched from her as the air is once again ripped from her lungs. Mrs. Fletcher wrenches first one wrist, then the other, cuffing them above her head in chains hanging from the ceiling. There's no slack in the chains. They straighten her arms their full length above her head. Her side and chest scream in pain. Nausea floods her stomach with it. Her head is reeling. Something warm and wet paints a trail down her temple. Helplessness and panic engulf her as Emma struggles against the chains holding her wrists captive overhead.
Mrs. Fletcher steps behind her. Her footsteps echo with the same bizarre resonance. Glaring, Emma twists her head over her shoulder, trying to see the woman's face. As the woman's hands grip her shirt from behind, however, she freezes. Her heart thunders in her chest. Her eyes stare dead ahead, unseeing. Frigid air barely registers on her skin as her shirt is pulled up. Shallow breaths can scarcely take in any air. She's going to die. She can't breathe. It's going to happen again. It's all going to happen again.
They got off on hurting her, they're going to do it again. She's right back there. She never left. She never got away and she never will. It's like they said. There is nowhere safe, there is nowhere she can run. She's right back there, in the middle of it. Not in Boston. She never made it that far. Not in Minnesota. She never really got away. Her mind was able to get out of it. Her mind conjured this amazing story of being a Savior, of being a hero with a destiny to be more than this. But she's still right there, in the storm cellar in Blanchard.
Her legs are trembling underneath her, struggling to hold her upright so that all of her weight doesn't fall on her wrists. It's going to happen again. All of it. Every muscle in her body tenses, anticipating the worst of it. Knowing what's coming. Knowing how bad it will get. How much it will hurt. How it will feel like being split in half. How it'll choke her. How the blood will coat her thighs and ass. How she already wants to die for it to be over. Ghosts of hands grope at her flesh. Tear at her.
She doesn't fight. She knows better. Fighting doesn't soothe her pride. It just makes the pain worse. They'll go after Sarah and Lucy. Don't resist them. Fighting back makes it worse. Her breath escapes in ragged pants. She's trembling, only being supported by the chains keeping her hands overhead. Otherwise, she'd collapse on the ground and curl into a ball. She wants to curl up until this is over.
In her panic, she detects the sound of a belt buckle being undone. She hears the slip of the leather against belt loops. Her heart hammers away in her chest, thundering painfully. Emma's shallow breathing is too rapid, not getting air. Black tinges the edges of her vision and this hasn't even begun. She wants to exit her body. She wants no part of this.
"This will save your soul, you little whore." Crack! Leather cracks against the skin of her back. Something about the words jolts Emma in her panic. The 'whore' she expects. But where she's anticipating a man's drawl, slurring his words together, she hears crisp, clear tones from a woman. "Selling yourself for cheap tricks and drugs, this will save you." Crack! It stings. No sound escapes Emma but her rapid breathing, unable to waste a breath on a cry. The cracks keep coming, burning her back. But she's not in Blanchard. She's in Boston. "This will save you," is echoed, again and again like a mantra. Crack! Painted down the burning in her back, she feels warm liquid moving down her spine. Crack! More and more blows, the burning only grows worse.
"You're a dirty sinner, Emma. A whore." The cracks come harder. Emma grits her teeth, trying to pull away. The chains clink overhead, wrenching and cutting deep into her wrist. The hits snap harder and faster, ripping into inflamed flesh.
"You brought this sin into my home when I took you in. You brought this here!" The next few blows hit harder and harder, forcing Emma to grit her teeth until her jaw aches from holding in her cries. Something warm she now recognizes as blood trickles lightly down her back.
"You may have spread your legs for some drugs on the streets, but I will not allow that in my home." Crack! "I," Crack! "Will," Crack! "Not," Crack! "Allow," Crack! "This," Crack! "Sin!" Crack! Crack! Crack! "In," Crack! "My," Crack! "Home!" Crack! Crack! Crack! Each word is punctuated by blinding pain that only serves to muffle the words for Emma.
"Repent!" She demands, followed by another blow.
"Go to hell," Emma snarls back with all the strength left in her.
Mrs. Fletcher releases an outraged gasp. Each blow comes harder, lighting her back up with strikes. Leather whistles through the air, snapping and cracking against the flesh of her back. Each blow bites into her back.
"This can stop if you only repent, Emma."
Breathing hard through her clenched teeth, Emma slowly turns her head past her shoulder to glare at the older woman. "Go to hell," she breathes out.
"I see now you need a firmer hand, you little whore."
"Crazy bitch." If she's going to suffer the punishment for something she under no circumstances did, she might as well speak her mind while she's at it. Mrs. Fletcher gasps. Emma hears the slap and clink of the belt hitting the cement floor and feels herself tensing in anticipation. Whatever minimal satisfaction arose from speaking her mind cools instantly with freezing dread. She dropped the belt. What the hell is coming next?
Mrs. Fletcher's shoes click against the cement floor, dragging something behind Emma's back. She hears rattling and clangs as Mrs. Fletcher lifts links of a chain. "As I said, a firmer hand. We will continue until you apologize and learn your lesson, Emma. I don't care how long it takes."
The first blow lands and her vision blanks for a moment. The air is knocked from her lungs. Even with the chains binding her wrists above her head, she stumbles forward under the force. If the belt hurt, the chains cause agony. A blow comes down again. Emma grits her teeth against the cry. Her eyes burn. Her back continues to throb and flare with pain. Another blow and another one send her stumbling forward.
The black tinging on the edges of her vision rapidly begins taking over. She's unsure if it's minutes or hours, but eventually she surrenders to it, hanging limp from the bindings. Her side is killing her, her back is faring no better as the hits keep coming. Her legs slip out from under her. Her head lolls like a rag doll's before the hits finally, mercifully end.
When Emma ultimately comes to, she's lying on her side on the cement floor. Her right wrist is back in the cuff on the wall. The back of her shirt is pulled over her neck so that her back is exposed. Her back is burning. Each beat of her heart throbs through her spine. Her ribs are aching. Her chest feels like it still has a knife plunged into it. Her mouth is dry, her head spinning, stomach turning and growling. Blearily, she looks to the window and sees bright orange sunlight flooding in. Squinting her eyes against it, even that much burns. She can't remember if this window faces east or west, so she can't tell if this is sunrise or sunset. Either way, she has to escape.
With all the strength she has left, she tugs and yanks at her trapped arm, to no avail. Blood begins running down her wrist, past her sleeve, but she's no closer to escaping. Every move further aggravates her back, leaving her close to tears, Spots float in her vision as she wants to surrender back into the sweet release of unconsciousness, but she forces herself forward anyway. Her eyes scan the ground for the nail she had earlier and quickly land on it. Emma drags her tool close enough to use, picks the lock, then climbs to her feet and stumbles up the stairs without hesitation. Hesitating was what landed her down here, she won't make that mistake again.
Stumbling and dizzy, she reaches the door, almost smiling at her luck to find her bag sitting in her path. The barest hint of relief floods through her as she grabs the strap and reaches for the doorknob. Not once does she stop to consider the extremely likely possibility of it being some kind of trap. She's far too relieved to be able to get free to care. The house around her is silent as the grave. Her ragged gasping breaths shatter it. The knob won't turn. Her hands shake, desperately trying to force a knob that simply won't move. The door stands locked. Emma almost releases a frustrated scream, almost feels the sting of tears. Instead, she turns to the living room window. Every move is agony, but she needs to escape. Lifting it takes most of the strength she has left, but she tosses a chair through, then climbs out amidst the shards of shattered glass. A stubborn piece snags on her arm, piercing a line across that she stubbornly ignores in her haste to escape.
She staggers through the yard, still clean-cut and nicely trimmed. One foot in front of the other is about all she can manage. Her weary eyes reach the picket fence and she nearly cries. Breaking the window took almost all of her strength. She doesn't have the strength to break through this too. Her hand shakes as she reaches towards the latch on the gate. Emma nearly cries out in relief as it disconnects under a simple tug. She sets one foot in front of the other and continues moving slowly but steadily away.
Stumbling over her steps, Emma trips down the winding streets of Boston. Jones, she repeats to herself, Jones is here somewhere and I'm gonna find him. Every inch of her body hurts, and only sheer stubbornness forces her onward. Her head is swimming. She feels as though she'll collapse. God, she wants to collapse. Every stumble and fall scrapes the flesh of her palms, cuts up her knees, and weakens her that much more. It's that much harder to rise to her feet. Each time, though, she pushes herself to her feet.
The sun climbs in the sky, beating down in a way that contrasts the cold breeze. She squints her eyes to see through the haze, head starting to spin. Boston's winding roads make no sense to her, but she's seeking out the harbor. It's a big enough place to search that it'll take a while.
That's assuming he hasn't left yet. You were supposed to meet him the first chance you got. He'll think you were wasting his time, time he could have been killing his Crocodile. You're just a burden on him. Maybe he came through and got to Boston, but he wouldn't have stayed. Why would he?
You're just a means to an end to him, Savior. You may be useful, but you're more trouble than you're worth. You're nothing. You're nothing to him. You're nothing to David. You're nothing to anyone.
"I don't care," Emma says aloud, voice scratchy and hoarse, barely above a whisper. Even if he's not here, there is a bus station. She'll hop a bus to Bangor, then walk the rest of the way if she has to. She'll figure something out, but come hell or high water, she's fucking returning to Storybrooke and breaking the curse. "And I don't have the fucking energy for your bullshit, so shut the fuck up," she snarls to her mind.
Oh yeah, that'll shut me up.
Anger and determination shore up what little energy she has without burning through it. She stumbles forward in agonized slowness, stalking down the city streets, glaring and forcing her way onward. As the sun climbs higher into the sky, her energy flags completely. Sweat drips down her brow. Her breaths wrench raggedly from her chest. Taking shelter in an alleyway, she leans against the cool brick wall trying to catch her breath.
She's breathing hard and moments from curling up on the side of the road when she hears the crunch of gravel behind her. Eyes narrowing, shoulders stiffening, she scans the area for the threat. She's not alone in the shelter of the alley. The hairs of the back of her neck instantly stand on end. Someone's watching her. A form emerges from behind the dumpster. On instinct, fueled by some miracle reserve of adrenaline, knowing she definitely won't stand a chance fighting like this, Emma scrambles to her feet and runs. She makes it three steps before an arm wraps around her waist. With all the strength she has left, she lashes out, squirming, struggling, fighting to get away. She beats her fists as hard as she can manage into the leather-clad arm, only for something metal to wrap around her wrist.
Immediately, she stops dead. The weak, limp struggling ceases instantly. Because that metal something has become really fucking familiar. A metal hook. With widening eyes and hope growing inside of her, Emma turns. "Jones?" she whispers.
"Who else would it be?" He answers with those dancing eyebrows and his usual smirk. Dark circles hang under his eyes, a mix of fatigue, stress and messy guy-liner. There's far too much worry written across his face. His stubble is longer than she's seen it. But she doesn't care. Not even trying to bite back her smile, she throws her arms around him, clinging tight.
"You came."
"Said I would, lass." His hand strokes lightly through her hair as she tucks her head against his shoulder. Her hands ball into fists, holding tight to his coat. She's shaking in his arms, about three seconds from crying, and she doesn't care. He came.
Jones holds her for a moment, or lets her shake in his arms for a bit without more comment. He just gently runs his hand through her hair. He only stops when the gesture really has her on the verge of tears. Gently, he nudges her shoulder back and she gets the picture, immediately dropping her arms, staring at the ground. Idiot. Why'd you go and throw yourself at him anyway? "Swan, what happened?" She knows the sound of his anger when she hears it. Her shoulders hunch in against the pain. Good job, you pissed him off, too! "Emma, I'm not going to hurt you. Just please, tell me what happened."
She risks a glance upward and sees nothing but concern in his eyes. "Took me a while to get away." Words begin to spill out before she can hold them back. "Sorry. I tried as soon as I could, I kept trying to get out. I tried to get away and get to the docks as fast as I could like we agreed. I didn't want to waste your time here-"
Immediately, he holds up his hand to cut through her rambling apology. "Swan, I don't care about my time here. I'm worried about you. What happened to you? What the hell did they do to you?" His fingertips brush lightly against her temple, stopping suddenly when she winces in pain. She watches the anger in his eyes flare up amidst the concern and it finally registers that he's not angry with her. He's angry on her behalf, that someone hurt her. The realization stuns her to silence, stops her dead in her tracks. Her jaw actually goes slack as the feelings she doesn't want to name bowl her over. "Come on, let's get you back to the Jolly Roger."
He wraps an arm around her shoulders, tucking her into his side as he guides her to the harbor. Emma manages to only stumble once on the way. Jones says nothing, staring straight ahead to watch where they're going. Emma tucks her burning face against his side, breathing in the smell of leather and the sea. Just like that night after she made the deal with Gold, when he told her about Milah and she told him about Neal, she feels safe. His arm around her shoulders, she feels safe.
The Jolly Roger is a sight for sore eyes, docked proudly and drawing eyes as the setting sun casts a warm glow on Boston Harbor. Her paint seems brighter, standing out beautifully against the grays of the metal ships around her. Emma almost stumbles again on the gangplank, ducking her head against Jones' narrowed eyes. Maybe she can brush it off as just tired. Maybe it's just readjusting to the waves. Solid ground doesn't move underneath you. She's spent the last week on solid ground, reacquainting herself with that concept. She can offer either one as an excuse, and tries, under her breath. Jones only sighs. The familiar buzz of the Jolly Roger seems to sigh as well, knowing excuses when they hear them. As she reaches out for the railing, her sleeve slips up her arm, revealing the damaged skin of her wrist.
On instinct, Emma cradles her arm against her chest, attempting to hide it. Jones is having absolutely none of that. Gently, he takes her hand in his, pulling her arm from her chest. His hook circles around her forearm as he releases her hand to pull at her sleeves.
"Is this all of it?" Emma cocks her head, confused at the question.
"All of what?"
"The injuries. The worst of it. Is this all of it? Is this all of what they did to you?" Her eyes connect with the planks of wood in the deck, following patterns in the grain to avoid looking into Jones' eyes. "Swan," he repeats warningly. She bites down on her lip, trying to hold back the words. "You promised me you wouldn't lie to me about this."
"It's not all of it," she mutters under her breath, still facing the deck. "But I'm fine," she insists. She hears Jones sigh and she glances up. He doesn't look disbelieving, he looks a little disappointed.
"Bloody hell! You're not fine, Swan."
"I'm still on my feet," she protests.
"Barely." His answer echoes her thoughts. "What else did they do to you?"
Emma grits her teeth, turns her focus back to the deck, where she can't see his disappointment. Where she can't see him look at her as though she's weak, as though she's helpless. But she promised to tell him the truth, and he asked something far too direct for her to brush off. She's too tired to think of a way to brush him off. "My back. A belt," she mutters below her breath.
When she risks a glance back up, Emma watches his jaw clench and pop out, the way it does when Gold is around. "Swan, may I take a look?" She nods. They both go down to the surgery, then to the first mate's cabin, and he hands her a pistol while turning his back.
"That's, uh, really not necessary, you know," she tries to say lightly.
"What is necessary is you know you're safe." His voice is tight, restrained.
"And I do, which is why the pistol isn't really necessary."
He doesn't comment as Emma grits her teeth, tugging the back of her shirt upward and pulling her hair over her shoulders. She clutches the shirt tight to her front, staring at the patterns of new bloodstains for something to focus on. He says nothing beyond a quiet curse. He pours something she can't see into a bowl, wets a large cloth with it, then instructs her to lie face down as he spreads the wet cloth across her back. Instantly, the burn subsides, cooling and relieving her. She gasps at the feeling. His eyes are wide as they shoot to hers.
"Swan, are you-"
"Oh my God, that feels amazing. Thank you, seriously." He nods.
"Spent enough time at the wrong end of a bloody lash. To subject a young girl to that…" Jones grits his jaw as he cuts his words off. "Did they keep you cuffed the entire time?" Emma shakes her head.
"Not the entire time. And I kept pulling at it."
His eyes snap to hers, flaring with anger. "Do not bloody blame this on yourself, Swan. The fault lies at the feet of the bloody bastard that did this to you, do you understand me?" She nods. Slowly, he wraps her wrist with that same care, again easing the burning pain. Her eyes begin sliding closed, in the relief that the pain is gone and the fatigue of the past few days. Compared to the hard concrete floor, a cot on a pirate ship feels like a marshmallow, one she's more than happy to fall into. Rocking from the waves lulls her further.
"Swan," he stops himself. "Emma." She braces herself. He only calls her Emma when there's something wrong. And there is something wrong. But what's he about to say? Is he about to send her away now that he's patched her up? He regrets bringing her to Storybrooke. He made that much clear before Motorcycle Boy rolled onto the scene. Is he going to return alone to get his revenge? "Emma, promise me something."
"What is it?"
"Promise me that if Regina ever tries something like this again, you'll let me handle it. You'll leave it to me, or your father. Promise me that if she bloody tries this again," his voice is shaking. "If she tries sending you away like this again, you'll let me handle it. I won't let them take you away, not if you don't want to go."
Her eyes are wide and starting to burn as she meets his. "I promise. And Jones? Thank you. For coming through on what you said, for this, for all of it."
"You don't need to thank me for that. Just get some rest, love."
"Captain, do you think she'll try it again? Using the system to get rid of me?" Her voice sounds far too small and vulnerable as she asks. She hates it. But the possibility scares her. Jones sighs and swipes his tongue across his bottom lip as he thinks.
"Honestly, lass, I've no bloody clue what Regina will do. I know she wants you gone. Wants you dead in point of fact, because she wants her curse to remain intact and you are the only real threat to that. But if she tries this shite again, you are to let me handle it." His accent clips the words in his rising anger.
"Yes sir."
He turns to leave. Her stomach decides now would be a perfect time to make itself known, growling and rumbling to announce its emptiness. Her face burns with embarrassment and shame, pressing down into the cot. Jones pauses. "Swan, when's the last you ate?"
"Uh," she stammers, struggling to think of a decent lie.
"It was before you left, wasn't it?" She nods silently. "Bloody hell. Three bloody days." He pinches the bridge of his nose as he sucks in a breath, jaw popping as he clenches it. His knuckles stand out white underneath his rings. "Swan, I want an address. Where the hell did that cunt send you?"
"What?" His words don't fully register, but the rage she's only ever heard directed at Rumplestiltskin does. "What do you mean? What are you…?"
"I want to know where that bloody bitch left you. I want to know who hurt you and where I can find them. Stalking through this bloody city day in and day out for three bloody days didn't let me find them. So I want to know." Emma mutters out an address, explaining a few directions along with it. Jones nods.
"Emma, I want to make one thing perfectly clear." Something in his grave tone forces Emma to look him in the eye. "I gave you my word that no innocents would be caught in the crossfire of my revenge, and I will honor that. However, the second they lay a hand on you, the instant they harm one hair on your head, they cease to be innocent." He sets his pistol on the desk and checks that his walkie is clipped to his belt while hers is beside her.
"You're leaving?" The words sound far too small, far too vulnerable.
"I'll be back. Anything goes wrong, you have your talking device," he hesitates a bit before saying the phrase. "Anything goes wrong, don't hesitate to call me on it. Anyone but me comes on board, you have my permission to do whatever you feel is necessary. That pistol is there for your protection. You know where to find the armory if you have need of it. You know my rules about the galley. Get some rest, get some food, keep that on your back. Believe me, it'll work bloody wonders. I will be back."
With that, he turns on his heel. Emma listens as his footsteps stalk across the deck. She hears them descend the gangplank, and then, she can no longer feel it. That reassuring hum from the Jolly that says the captain is on board.
As soon as her insecurities start to flare up, she shuts them down. He's going to come back to his ship. He said he'd be in Boston, and here he is. Now, he says he'll be back, and he will be.
Yeah, but you drove him away. You're going to drive everyone away.
Shut up, she tells that voice in her head. With that, the insecurities silenced for once, she decides she will get some rest, giving in to the weight of her drooping eyelids and the peaceful rocking of the waves.
She's not sure how long later it is that she's woken by her stomach demanding sustenance before it eats itself. Groaning, she rises from the cot and stumbles in the dark, hands reaching for the wall to guide her way. No matter the number of reassurances that it was okay, she wasn't going to run the risk of lighting a fire, even just for a lantern or a candle.
Nudging the door open gently, she turns to see flickering gold light from the Captain's quarters. Inside, she sees a small sliver of his back to the door. Something red, shiny and wet coats his arm and his hand. Emma lets out a gasp before she can stifle it.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"Swan." Jones turns, opening the door the rest of the way. For a moment, he looks worried. He looks scared. He looks almost guilty.
"You're covered in blood! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you? Who did this to you?" She begins to reach out. He catches her hand in his hook, also coated in blood, and gently lowers it back to her side.
"Lass, it's not my blood."
"Oh." She pauses for a moment. "What happened?"
"I took care of it." Jones answers simply. The possibilities of what that means connect quickly. "Did you eat something yet?" Emma shakes her head silently. "Why don't you go do that while I clean off?" He suggests gently, smiling slightly to ease the dismissal. She nods uneasily, tucking her hands into her pockets before turning and heading down to the galley. Her thoughts move in a different direction, what she saw on his back before he turned around. His back was covered in calluses and scars, deep lines running across his skin.
He finds her sitting in the galley fifteen minutes later, eating hardtack one small bite at a time while staring at the wall.
"Never known anyone who actually enjoyed the taste of hardtack, Swan."
She shrugs, gritting her teeth at the pain of the gesture. "Like it just fine." It's the only thing she feels she can manage at the moment. The corner of his mouth tugs up slightly as he sits across from her, taking a piece himself. There's an almost peaceful silence as the Jolly rocks. She wants to ask so badly what happened to him, what battles he's seen, to have gotten those scars. But she knows better than to ask. Poking and prodding were the terms she set forth. She'll honor those. If he wants to tell her, he will. Until then, his past is just that. His.
"We leave for Storybrooke in the morning, if that's what you want."
Emma draws back, brows furrowed and nose crinkled in confusion. "Why wouldn't I?"
He sighs. "Swan, I meant what I said the other night. I placed you in grave danger when I brought you to Storybrooke in the first place. It was careless of me to do so. I gave no regard to the amount of danger I was placing a child in. You know the danger. You know the risks. Should you not wish to return, I'll not force you."
Emma stubbornly crosses her arms across her chest. "I want to go back to Storybrooke, Captain. I'm going to break the curse." Destiny, their deal, care and concern for the people in Storybrooke, spite for Regina, whatever her motivation was didn't matter.
Something like approval rivals something like concern in Jones' eyes as she meets them. "In that case, Miss Swan, we set sail at first light. I believe I promised to teach you, if you're still interested?" He raises a brow in question, then matches Emma's eager grin.
An invasive little fear tugs at Emma's mind. "Captain, do you think Regina could try and strengthen the curse? Do you think she could, like, recast it?"
"What, in the last few days?" She nods. "I doubt it's possible in the Land without Magic, but I wouldn't put it past her to try. Though Swan," Jones looks at her with something akin to pride, "what you've managed in weakening the curse, those can't be easily undone."
The next morning, bright and early, orange rays of light sparkling on the surface of the waves, Jones leads her over to the helm. Of all the buzzing on the Jolly, here seems the strongest, the most concentrated. He guides her through setting sail, steers through the harbor, then instructs Emma to take the wheel as they reach the open ocean.
"Not like those bloody horseless carriages. You are subject to the elements and as such, must know how to read them. Some days, you need a much stronger hand than others. Now, let's see what you've got. Tell me, Swan, what do you think you need?"
Emma breathes in deeply, feeling the light breeze playing on her face and through her hair. The sails flutter a bit, catching every bit of the cool breeze to project them onward. She watches gentle waves break the illusion of the water being glass. She looks out to the brilliant orange sunrise on the clear morning. "Just a light touch. It's all she needs, Captain." He nods his approval and waves her on. Both hands gripping the helm, a smile crosses Emma's face as they sail back north towards Storybrooke.