#bittersweettrilogy

“My stupidity?” she spat, “Really? This whole thing was your fucking idea!” He rolled his eyes at her—there really wasn’t anything they could do to change their current predicament, and he failed to see how getting all worked up over it was going to help anyone.

“Of course,” he drawled, annoyed at Emma’s short-sightedness, stumbling to his feet, “When the plan—that you agreed to—goes to hell, let’s blame the pirate. Of course, it’s all my fault.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm, and it only seemed to completely infuriate Emma further.

He didn’t particularly care.

He was bloody sick and tired of getting blamed for every tiny setback—he was on her side; he wanted to get back to Storybrooke as much as she did—something she still failed to see.

“Don’t you pretend to be all high and mighty with me,’ she spat, poking his chest with each word, ‘How do I know you didn’t come up with that sob story about your daughter? How do I know you’re not still with Cora? How can I fucking trust you at all?”

She had practically screamed those last words at him—fueling his own dark frustrations and rage. He had done everything he could possibly think of to show her he was with her, not Cora—and it still wasn’t enough.

“Because I’m in here with you!” he yelled back, “I’m in here, trapped in a bloody prison cell with you instead of being out there with Cora—what do I have to do, Swan? What the hell do you want from me? What more can I possibly do to show you that I’m on your bloody side?”

It was almost as though all the fight was suddenly drained from Emma, and she slumped forward—he only just managed to catch her before she fell to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him, holding him close, “I know you’re on our side. I know you’re nor lying—I’m just… I’m so tired of fighting, of not getting a fucking break. I just want to go home.”

He was rather impressed with his control—he’d been able to simply hold her, and not freak out at how perfect she felt in his arms—almost as though she had always been meant to be held by him.

He stopped that thought right there.

Nope.

He was not going there.

That was one step too far—flirting, teasing and stolen smiles aside—that was something neither of them was ready for; not by a fucking long shot.

He slowly moved them to the floor, sitting back against the wall, still holding Emma—who seemed to be in the middle of a complete mental breakdown—stroking her hair softly.

He didn’t like seeing her like this; broken—vulnerable—pained. Emma was strong and independent—something he admired most about her. He couldn’t even imagine Emma sitting back and letting someone else take charge of something—she was hands-on and he loved it.

She wasn’t afraid to fight for what she wanted. She was never going to be the kind of person to wait for things to work out themselves.

Nope. There was something that was never going to happen. The fact that this had her so upset though, had him upset too. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, pressing a kiss on her hair without thinking about it.

It didn’t even feel weird to be this close her, to hold her, comfort her. She sniffed and buried her face in his shirt, shaking her head. “No. I’m being stupid. You’re right. This isn’t your fault—I agreed to it. We came up with this half-cocked, stupid idea together.”

He smirked slightly. “Aye love,” he muttered, “That we did.”

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“Wait,” Killian groaned, pulling Emma back when she made to climb back onto the beanstalk. She frowned at him, and he could see the fear of being wrong slam right back into her.

He resisted the urge to pout at her obvious reluctance to trust him and promised himself to find the son of a bastard that hurt her one day to beat the crap out of him—he didn’t really want to know why he wanted to hurt the man that had hurt Emma; nor did he feel particularly comfortable with investigating his sudden need to have her trust him—he just knew that he wanted her to.

“What if Cora caught up with us already?” He questioned, gesturing towards the beanstalk. “She’s going to figure out I switched sides sooner or later, and however much I might want it to be later—the witch is not dumb.”

Emma’s eyes widened, and he could see realization dawn in those damn beautiful green orbs of hers.

Good.

She was a smart lass.

She knew Cora figuring out the pirate wasn’t on her side anymore wasn’t a good thing—as ruthless as Killian prided himself to be at times; his acts of violence paled in comparison to some of the shit Cora pulled on her enemies.

Another reason he’d stuck to her side for so long.

He really didn’t like being on the receiving end of one of her most unpleasant curses.

Emma frowned at him and sighed heavily. “Well… What do you propose? We only have a little bit of time left before Mulan is going to cut down the beanstalk—with or without us down there.” He was slightly caught off guard by her revelation; but then suppressed a smile. He knew she was up to something when she and Mulan were whispering together.

He ignored that little fact though—he needed to think fast; after all—he was a master at duplicity and deceiving people.

“We still need to steal the wardrobe ashes,” he said slowly, “We’ll need to get close to her anyway.” He watched as Emma slowly caught on to the unspoken—and infinitely stupid and dangerous—part of his plan.

“But how will we get it from her?” She wondered, biting her lower lip, staring past him. He faltered too, unsure if there even was a  way to stop the witch; other than the Crocodile, he was fairly certain she was the most powerful magical being in this realm.

Something—a rumor he had heard many, many years ago—stirred his memory. “Your parents…” he said slowly, “There were rumors the Dark One was captive underneath your palace for several months before the curse took them to your land—if your mother recalls how they incapacitated him…” Emma’s eyes were wide as she grabbed his arm and squeezed it hard, a smile forming on her lips. “—we might be able to do the same to Cora!”

“Exactly,” he agreed, returning her smile with ease. He loved seeing her smile—he nearly hit himself at that thought. Again with the loving? What the bloody hell is wrong with me?

“Okay,” she smiled. “It’s a plan. We climb down, find out how they caught Rumpelstiltskin and how to do it to Cora.”

He smirked and extended a hand to help her climb up the wall before he turned to the beanstalk. “When you put it like that,” he drawled, “It sounds so damn easy. Wonder why I didn’t think of that before.”

She winked at him. “I guess I really am smarter than you are.”

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Emma

Emma sighed and sank further into Hook’s embrace. She didn’t  want to think too much about why this felt good. She didn’t want to know why she broke down for the first time in ten years in the presence of a freaking pirate—but she needed it; she needed to let go for once, and let someone catch her. Even if that someone happened to be a lying son of a bastard pirate who had more trust issues than she did.

She held onto him, allowing him closer than she had allowed anyone in a very long time, and sighed once again, looking around the empty, dirty cell. “It was a good plan… Cora just… Saw us coming.”

He grunted in agreement and rested his chin of top of her head. She ignored the butterflies in her stomach as he seemed to pull her closer almost automatically—she usually wasn’t the cuddly type; but it almost felt as though the temperature in the room was dropping; she didn’t mind the heat that Hook’s embrace emitted.

She startled suddenly, jerking away from him, her eyes growing wider in horror. “Hook,” she began, slowly, trying to stop her voice from shaking, “Is it me… Or is it getting colder in here?” She felt him stiffen next to her as he sat up straighter too, looking around the cell, his blue eyes wide and cautious—she knew it.

That barrier spell wasn’t the only thing Cora had done—she really wanted Emma and Hook out of the way—sucking the warmth from the room would most certainly kill them slowly and painfully. She shivered slightly and moved closer to Hook subconsciously, seeking the warmth she knew his arms brought.

“That conniving, evil, murderous—” she heard him growl under his breath, his breath forming a small, white cloud as he breathed out. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply—this wasn’t solving anything. They were still trapped.

She just hoped Snow and the other two got away.

“Do you think Snow, Mulan and Aurora got away?” She murmured, smiling when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer—the temperature was rapidly decreasing, and they were both shivering.

He chuckled and muttered,  “You mean, do I think your mother—who threatened to flay me with her bare hands—the warrior girl who mocked my hook and the annoying, whiny little princess got away from a murderous, smart, evil witch that’s out to get the compass we wrestled from a dangerous giant?” Emma couldn’t suppress her smile and rolled her eyes, lightly swatting his arm.

“Yeah—I guess that was what I was asking.” Hook grinned and nodded. “I don’t think your mother would ever let Cora get her greedy little hands on that compass, love. Not if she could prevent it.”

Emma smiled.

He was right—Snow would never allow Cora to get the compass. That’s why she gave it to her before they split up—Emma and Hook had agreed that it would be too dangerous to stay together; far too easy for Cora to eliminate the threat. She and Hook had started for the castle, where Gold had told them they’d find Squid Ink to incapacitate Cora, and Mary-Margret and the ‘Gruesome Twosome’, as Hook loved to call them, had set course for Lake Nostos, where they knew Cora planned on opening the portal.

They fell silent, Emma considering what they could do to get out of the fucking cell before they froze to death.

All of a sudden, she felt anger well up from deep inside of her once again, and she simply couldn’t sit still anymore. She jumped to her feet and started pacing the cell again, fuming silently—angry with Cora, with Hook, with herself—with the whole fucking world.

She had everything figured out before Henry showed up on her doorstep; she was fine on her own—and now… Now she was stuck in fucking fairytale land, locked in a freaking prison cell with Captain Hook of all people, nearly freezing to death because some crazy ass witch decided she had some kind of personal vendetta against her family—her life was one big, fucked up mess.

And Henry—her son, her sweet, sweet boy—she tried so hard to be a good mother and everything just got so messed up.

She was a crap mother.

“Swan,” Hook broke her from her thoughts, “What are you doing?”

She ignored him, continuing to silently fume—he was too much right now. She couldn’t handle him; she couldn’t handle how easy it was to let go when he was with her.

It was unhealthy—he’d leave; as soon as they got out of this cell, he’d be all about his daughter and his revenge again, and she just couldn’t let herself get close to him; she didn’t want to be hurt again. She couldn’t be hurt again—not by him.

Because she knew—somehow—she knew that Hook was capable of leaving a much bigger scar than Neal ever had; and that thought scared her more than anything else in the world.

She didn’t notice that Hook had gotten up too, and approached her carefully. “What’s bothering you, love?”

She nearly jumped when he caught her wrist with his hook, pulling her to a stop, and turned her to look at him. She glared at him—Jesus. He claimed she was an open book; claimed she was so easy to read—couldn’t he see she just needed some time to … to… build her walls higher? To convince herself to keep him at an arm’s length before he’d get under her skin?

She could read the genuine worry in his eyes and it terrified her, because he was a pirate, he wasn’t supposed to give a flying fuck about her—so why did he?

Why couldn’t he just be an asshole like she expected him to be?

I’m always a gentleman.

His words echoed in her thoughts and made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. “Look,” he interrupted her thoughts once again, “if you’re worried about your mother—or your boy—I’m sure they’re fine. And from what I gathered from your mother before she threatened me, your father will take care of your boy until you get back.”

Though he meant for the words to be comforting—soothing—they were anything but that to her. It made her snap. “But they need me!” She hollered. “I’m supposed to be the fucking savior, and I’ve done no saving. I managed to break the curse after I nearly let my son die! I can’t save anyone locked in a godforsaken dungeon with you, and you—you just—”

She nearly screamed in aggravation, all of her frustrations and anger and fear choosing that particular moment to pour out of her, leaving a shivering, broken mess—and that was what she felt like.

A mess.

A failure.

A royal fuck up.

She tried to push past him—to get away from his imposing person, to get a semblance of self-control, but he didn’t let her go.

And she didn’t really expect him to.

He pulled her into his embrace, sliding down the wall again, settling her on his lap, holding her firmly—she was still trying to get away; she couldn’t let him in—she just couldn’t—she struggled and she fought and she yelled at him, but he never once budged, never once winced and never let her go.

“I’m not letting you go, love,” he whispered, “I’m not going to let you do this alone. We’re in this together.” She stopped suddenly, frozen at his words, her eyes locked on his, desperately trying to see a lie—but finding nothing but honesty in his steel blue gaze.

And that broke her.

She sank into his embrace, crying freely—allowing him in; just a little bit.

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Killian

Killian wasn’t sure how long they’d been in there—nor did he really know how long he’d been holding Emma while she cried, sobbed and then quieted down, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. She had not looked up at him once, nor had she given any indication that his attempts at soothing her were actually working—he didn’t count their rather… Intimate position; the temperature had dropped dramatically, and he was pretty sure they’d be freezing to death soon; she was holding onto him to get warm, and he couldn’t blame her.

“Emma?” he whispered, “Feeling better, lass?”

She looked up and met his eye—and he couldn’t look away. It almost felt as though they’d been spelled—he couldn’t move away; he couldn’t remember why he couldn’t do this—all he wanted was to hold her closer, hug her tighter, never let her leave the safety of his embrace.

Goosebumps were jumping up on his skin wherever it touched hers, her eyes burning into his—she was leaning closer; wasn’t she?

Was she—?

Oh. Bloody hell.

His breathing—along with hers—grew heavier, her breath washing over his lips, sending shivers down his spine.

Okay—he could do this; break the tension; just once. He just wanted to kiss her once.

Yes—he could do that; it would solve everything—the tension would be gone. All he had to do, was kiss her. He smiled as her breathing caught when he brushed his lips ever so softly over hers—they both nearly jumped apart at the strong, electric pulse that ran through their bodies as their lips touched; but his gaze never left hers. He cursed softly before leaning in again and pressing his lips against hers a little more forcefully.

Immediately, his thoughts took a very wrong turn, and though the kiss was supposed to have been gentle, innocent, the feelings that he had been suppressing ever since they met collided with the heated sensation of her soft, wet lips on his. He just exploded with a tsunami of emotions—emotions he had shut off almost three centuries ago.

They all just came rushing back to him, leaving him breathing heavily and gasping slightly. He could feel the hot, tingling sensation spreading through his body, originating from where Emma’s hand was resting on his cheek, her fingers softly caressing his skin as she kissed him back with equal want and force.

Slowly, he leaned back, struggling to keep the smile on his face. He couldn’t show anyone how much the gentle touch of Emma’s lips had affected him. Or his lack of control over his libido and thoughts. Emma looked at him with large eyes, obviously as affected by the kiss as he had been. He was utterly unable to tear his gaze from hers, highly aware of their proximity.

Unfortunately, the spell was broken when Emma’s eyes strayed from his and widened considerably. “No way!” She exclaimed, jumping from his lap, “No fucking way!” He frowned at her apparent astonishment and followed her gaze to the entrance of the cell, feeling his own mouth fall open

Bloody hell.

The bars that had risen when Cora conjured them, cutting off their escape, keeping them locked in the cell, were gone. The freezing temperature that had damn well nearly killed them was gone; broken.

They could leave.  The spell, the curse—whatever the hell it was that was keeping them in there—was gone. He struggled to get to his feet, feeling unsteady on his feet as it was, his gaze fixed upon the spot that had been barred not even five minutes ago.

Five minutes.

Before…

Before he kissed Emma.

No. No—it wasn’t possible.

Was it?

His eyes met Emma’s, and he could see his own questions, doubts and fears mirrored in her green eyes.

Could it truly have been… Was it possible?

They both knew there w as only one way to break an enchantment such as the one that kept them locked in the cage.

True Love’s kiss.

He licked his lower lip slowly, afraid to think of the possibilities.

Three hundred years had passed—the time to save his daughter had long gone; and he loathed himself for it. Even if Cora had expressed the possibility of his daughter being taken by the curse—putting her in Storybrooke with the other—he dared not believe it.

He was never that lucky.

So he would make the Crocodile pay for what he had done—he would kill him for ripping apart his family—his life.

And in order to do that, he needed to get to this … Storybrooke. That was the only reason he put up with Cora for the past twenty-eight years; that and she would rip his heart out without hesitation if he proved to be of no more use to her.

And all that lead to his current predicament; buried under a load of stinking, heartless corpses, waiting to be rescued by a band of rogue princesses.

He nearly scoffed at the thought.

He was Captain Hook—he didn’t need to be rescued by anyone; much less a bunch of empty-headed princesses.

He was torn from his thoughts when he heard several feet traverse the ruins of the village, horrified gasps and angered voices.

He swallowed and closed his eyes.

Showtime.

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He glanced over his shoulder at the Swan girl—Emma—as she spoke. He nearly smiled at the resolve laced with resignation in her tone; she didn’t want to climb that beanstalk—and he couldn’t blame her. It would take hours; but he wasn’t worried about climbing the beanstalk; he was worried about what would be waiting for him at the top.

He turned to smirk at Emma, thoroughly enjoying the way she rolled her eyes at him—but still blushed nearly unnoticeably—and said, “It’s not the climb you need to worry about, love… It’s the giant at the top.”

He allowed his words to sink in and started walking once again—he knew they didn’t trust him yet; and he didn’t expect them to—Emma had made that abundantly clear when she tied him to a tree, ready to leave him to the ogres—but he was genuine in wanting to help them get back to Storybrooke; if he was allowed to accompany them.

They were far safer company than Cora—he glanced at Emma once again—and far better to look at too.

They continued in silence for a while, but he felt Emma’s eyes burn into the back of his head; he was well aware that she couldn’t really figure him out—but the same went for her and it frustrated him beyond belief; he simply couldn’t figure her out.

She intrigued him. There was simply something about her.

She was an open book at times; but she left him guessing at her motives—and she had bested him; which was very impressive indeed. He had meant it when he said he could count the people who did that on one hand—he’d only ever been bested by those with magic.

And that was cheating—it didn’t count.

“It looks a little freakier than I remember from the story,” Emma broke him from his thoughts. He turned to look at her with a slight smirk. She sounded more and more apprehensive.  “It reminds me of death,” the warrior girl spoke—Hook nearly rolled his eyes.

The beanstalk was cursed; of course it reminded of death.

Snow White—who stood next to him—sighed and muttered, “That’s encouraging.”

He didn’t care for their petty concerns about the beanstalk—all he wanted was to get up there, get the compass and get to Storybrooke; to skin his Crocodile. “Well,” he said, “The compass awaits. Shall we?”

He didn’t wait for a response and started for the beanstalk.

They would follow him.

“So, these beans,” Emma—No, damn it, he cursed himself, don’t call her by her name—too intimate—The Swan girl began, “create portals.. Why not just pick one and go home? Why the compass?”

He sighed. Clearly she knew nothing of this world at all—did her parents not tell her anything? “Because there aren’t any more beans,” he supplied, “Whatever story you think you know, my dear, is most certainly wrong.”

She groaned and began, “There was a guy named Jack, and a cow, and something about an evil giant with a treasure, and…” she hesitated, “A golden goose…” He smirked at her pensive expression as she added, “or a harp.”

“Sounds like a lovely tale,” he grinned, “But the truth is a little more gruesome.” He suppressed a sigh. This was not one of his favorite tales. “The giants grew the beans, but rather than use their magic for good, they used them to plunder all the lands. Jack and his men fought a terrible war, defeating all but one of the evil giants. The giants destroyed the beans before they were killed. If they couldn’t have the magic, then nobody could.”

He looked up and rolled his eyes. “Truly very bad form.”

Emma frowned again, almost as though she was attempting to solve a puzzling riddle and asked, “Okay, so … Evil giants, who made magic portal beans… Why doesn’t anyone go up and grow some more?”

She smiled at him as though she had just solved all of their problems—which she might have; minus one tiny little detail. “Because one giant survived,” he replied, “the strongest and the most terrible of them all.” He groaned internally—he needed to convince them to climb that beanstalk with him; they truly did need that compass. “Now we’ll have to sneak past him to get—”

“—the magic compass,” Snow supplied with a glare in his direction.

He resisted the urge to scoff at her—he looked at him as though he had been the one to decide to hide the compass with a murderous giant—and smirked. “Indeed.”

“The treasure remains, amongst it is the compass.” He pointed to Emma, “Now it will guide us to your land. Cora can open a portal with the wardrobe ashes, but she can’t find your land without the compass.” He smiled, “We get the compass, steal the ashes from her and then we’re on our way.”

“How do we know you’re not just using us to get the compass for Cora?” The warrior asked, glancing up the beanstalk and then back at him. He smiled wryly when all eyes fell onto him once again—he had been waiting for that question to come up; and he had an honest-to-God answer to it.

“Because you four are far safer company,” he replied. “All I need is a ride back, hence my allegiance to whomever gets me there first.” He met Emma’s gaze dead on and waited; she could tell whether he was lying or not, and as uncomfortable and annoying as it may be, he knew that if she believed him, so would the others.

“Okay,” she finally spoke, not taking her eyes off his, “then we better start climbing.”

He laughed, “Right, I failed to mention—the giant enchanted the beanstalk to repel intruders; you’ll be so frightened or disgusted—you won’t be able to touch it.” He watched with growing amusement as the Swan girl kicked the ground and spat, “Well then, how do we get up there?”

He smiled. “I got a counter spell from Cora—” he faltered and playfully smirked, raising his bound wrists at them. “—if you’d be so kind?” Snow made a face, but untied his wrists anyway, glaring at him—he was certain that if looks could kill; he would be no more than a pile of ashes by now.

And still, he could not resist.

He leaned in, winked at her and whispered, “Thank you, m’lady.” He shed the heavy cloak and scarf, feeling far more comfortable in his regular leather already, and held up his arm. “I got one more of these,” he knocked on the bracer around his wrist and smirked, holding up the second between his fingers, “Cora was to accompany me. So…”

He grinned at Emma, who seemed to catch on to his question before he had even said it—something that might have disturbed him if he allowed himself to think upon it—, “Which one of you four lovelies is going  to take her place?”

He eyed all four of them separately, his gaze landing upon the blonde—the Swan girl—last. “Go on, fight it out… and don’t be afraid to, you know, really get into it.” He winked, smirking when the princess blushed and Emma rolled her eyes.

He wouldn’t say it, but he was hoping it would be her.

Somehow, he wouldn’t mind some one on one time with that feisty blonde. The others didn’t really draw him in—there was something about this one..

He couldn’t name it; and he wasn’t sure he wanted to either.

He busied himself with getting ready for the climb, trying to calculate how long it might take them to get to the top and how long it would take to get the compass—he wanted to get it done fast; he was certain Cora would realize he had switched sides sooner rather than later; and he didn’t want to be anywhere near her when she did.

He glanced back to the four women and rolled his eyes. They were taking far too long. He smirked when he realized it seemed like Emma was going to accompany him—though he did find himself rather surprised by the sudden wave of jealousy that hit him as Emma spoke of some bloke named Henry—said that she didn’t care what she had to face to get back to him.

Who was this man—and why the hell did it bother him so much? He shook his head lightly and crossed his arms over his chest, attempting to follow the exchange between the women; he didn’t want them making plans without him; he did not want to risk losing all that he had worked for over the past three centuries because he decided to trust Emma.

“You got anything in that bag that’ll help us against a giant?” Emma tilted her head to the side and looked at the warrior girl, who glared at him in return and spat, “A hook?”

He frowned. They were all acting as though he purposefully and personally offended them. “Hey,” he exclaimed, “Bad form, lass. Very bad form.” Of course, he was ignored, and left to stare at Emma and …Mulan, was it? As they separated themselves from the group and whispered conspiratorially—he frowned. Now that didn’t predict much good. 

He’d have to figure that out while they were climbing.

“Ladies,” he interrupted their cozy little chat, “In this world, we’re slaves of time—and ours is running out. In other words,” he sighed and feigned a slightly bored and impatient expression, “Tick tock.”

The truth was—no matter how much he might hate it—he wanted to get Swan alone; he felt an almost compulsory need to find out what made her tick; who she was; who the lad she wanted to get back to was. It was a need he did not care to investigate too far; the thought of caring too much was simply terrifying; and ridiculous.

He was Captain Hook; he cared for none but himself and his ship.

Warily, he watched as Emma approached him, opening her jacket sleeve with some metal contraption—something from another realm, he presumed—and smirked at her. ‘I was hoping for you,’ he added playfully, not caring to admit how real that statement was.

He grabbed her hand, nearly jumping at the seemingly electric current that burst through his veins upon touching her and placed it on his shoulder, avoiding her eye—he knew she felt it too, and he wasn’t sure what that meant.

“Put your hand right there,” he smirked at her, feigning nonchalance, “There’s a good girl.” Slowly, making sure to touch her as little as possible—he honestly did not want to know what would happen if he touched her more than he needed to—he snapped the bracer onto her slim wrist. “This will allow you to climb.”

He frowned slightly though, when he thought of the path ahead of them. Somehow, the thought of Swan in danger bothered him more than anything had bothered him since … Since Milah died. Since he lost Penelope.

It was rather disturbing, and he was most pleased with himself for not showing his inner turmoil to Emma—she would make more out of it then there was. “But there are other dangers…” He hesitated for a moment and fought to regain his bravura and smiled at her.

“Thankfully, you’ve got me to protect you.” He held up his stump silently, raising an eyebrow at her. She smiled and cocked her head to the side, almost as though she was mockingly saying, ‘Really?’

He rolled his eyes at her. “Come on, lass. I can’t climb one-handed, can I?”

She glared at him, but dug into the satchel nonetheless, handing his hook to him with obvious reluctance. “Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a even a second,” she threatened, her green eyes not leaving his.

He smirked at her as he clicked his hook back into place. “I would despair if you did.” She rolled her eyes at him, hanging his satchel on his hook without any sort of tact, ignoring the flirty smile he sent her way—he grinned to himself as he slung the satchel over his shoulders and followed her to the beanstalk.

Ah yes. This was going to be so much fun.

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Emma

Emma wasn’t sure how to deal with Hook—he was nothing like she expected him to be; and it unnerved her completely. She didn’t like how he seemed to look right through her—it was almost as though he could read her mind; and that scared the hell out of her.

He was Captain Hook, for God’s sake—she couldn’t let herself trust him; she was sure he hadn’t turned his back on Cora completely. It didn’t matter how sweet and charming he had been when helping her with the cut on her hand; she knew he was a good actor.

He was a pirate.

Of course he was good at sweet-talking people.

She had tried to ignore the emotion—the heartbreak—in his voice when he muttered, “They’re both gone.” She had only asked him about Milah; only wanted to know why he was so hell-bent on getting to her land; why he needed to punish Rumpelstiltskin for what he did—and he had revealed far more than he had intended.

She wasn’t even sure if he had realized just what he had said himself—but those three words had said more than anything else ever could—he was broken. He was a broken man seeking to avenge the people he loved. If she had to guess, Milah would have been his lover, killed by Rumpelstiltskin, along with a child.

Hook’s child.

She was well-aware how ridiculous the thought of Captain Hook having a child was, but somehow, it made so much more sense.

The pain and rage she saw reflected in his eyes—it was her own. Pain a parent only endured after being separated from their child; tortured by their inability to protect them.

She hadn’t confronted him with it—they had both been rather pre-occupied with finding the compass as fast as they could; though Hook was distracted several times by other pretty, shiny objects in the treasure room.

 She found herself wanting to trust him—wanting to believe in him; because she recognized herself in him. And if he could make it—if he could be saved, so could she.

She looked from the hole in the wall, to the giant, back to the pile of rubble—and a plan formed in her head. She sighed and turned back to the giant, praying to whatever God this land worshipped that she would not come to regret this.

“Actually,” she said, “I get two favors.”

Anton glared at her, but nodded begrudgingly. “What do you want?”

She smirked.

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.

.

Slowly, she reached for his hand and helped him crawl from underneath the pile of rubble as he laughed, a delighted sound that made her want to join in rather than what she was about to do. “You are bloody brilliant,” he exclaimed, “Amazing!”

She tried to hide her blush as they kneeled before each other, and took to silently appraising him, making sure he wasn’t injured—but it seemed the pirate had more luck than wits. “May I see it?” He questioned, drawing her from her thoughts, holding out his hand with a pleading look in his eyes. “The compass?”

She pushed down the dread that filled her gut and smiled at him, pulling the compass from her pocket. She was doing the right thing—she was sure of it.

He would understand.

He needed to.

“It’s even more beautiful than legend,” he breathed, almost as though in awe—she didn’t quite get it; but maybe that was a pirate thing—fawning over pretty compasses. When he reached out to touch it though, she pulled back, not entirely sure what he was up to—she tried to ignore a tiny little voice in her head that was telling her she was about to make a big mistake and tried to smile back as he offered her his hand.

“Come,” he said, “Let’s go home.”

Slowly, she placed her hand in his, calculating how fast she could pull this off, before he’d get to his feet. The shock that ran through her upon touching him nearly made her stumble—his large, startled eyes told her she wasn’t the only one to have felt it; and that scared her even more—furthering her belief that she was doing the right thing.

So as fast as she could, she snapped the cuff around his wrist and backed away, wincing at the disbelief laced with genuine hurt when he demanded to know what she was doing.

“Emma,” he said, nearly stumbling to his feet, “What are you doing?” She winced again as his voice nearly broke upon the last word, closing her eyes for a moment before muttering—still avoiding his penetrating gaze—, “I can’t—”

“Emma, look at me,” he interrupted her, “Please. Look at me.”

And even though she knew it would ruin everything she had planned, she found herself unable to deny his request. Slowly, dreading the moment their eyes would meet, she raised her eyes to his blue ones. “I brought you here,” he stated, genuine confusion in his tone, “I helped you, I risked my own safety to help you find your compass—the compass that is now in your hand. Why do this to me now?”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about you,” she whispered, “I need to get back to my son. I need to do whatever I can to protect him. I can’t take any chances.” She took a step closer to him, pleading without words for him to understand.

“Please,” she said, “I’m sorry. But I have to do this.”

She turned her back on him, pushing back hot tears that burned in her eyes as he called out her name. “Emma! Emma, please! Damn it, Emma!”

She walked away slowly, confused and terrified by the way it tore her up to leave him—it wasn’t something she had foreseen; she had figured she just needed to get away from him to loosen the hold he seemingly had over her—even if he wasn’t aware of it yet.

“Damn it!” He yelled behind her, and she tensed when she heard him sending something crashing to the ground. “Emma, my daughter is in Storybrooke!” he exclaimed—now there was something to stop her dead in her tracks. “I would never have allowed Cora to pass through the portal,” he continued, sensing her hesitation, “I just needed her to open it.”

Slowly, still stunned, she turned, staring at him. “You said they were gone,” she whispered, her voice trembling. He, too, was pale, but nodded anyway. “I know. And maybe I’m wrong and foolish to hope she’ll even be alive—but if there’s even the slightest chance that she’s in Storybrooke—”

His voice broke and Emma nearly wept at the sight of tears in his cerulean eyes, “—I need to know. I need to find her; even if I’m too late. You have a son,” he said, “You know. I will do anything to get my child back. Please don’t take the chance I have been waiting for ever since she was taken from me away. I won’t betray you.”

Her resolve was wavering, and she hated herself for it—she couldn’t believe him; no matter what her earlier suspicions had been; she couldn’t risk Henry’s safety because Captain Hook tugged on her heartstrings.

“Swan.”

His gentle whisper broke her from her thoughts, and she looked up into his stormy, expressive eyes. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t take away the only chance I have at reuniting with the only family I have left. Let come with you.”

She wasn’t sure why she gave in—she didn’t know what finally made her do it.

All she knew was that she found herself wandering back towards him, slowly lifting his hand in hers, fiddling with the lock until it dropped from his wrist and landed on the cold floor with a loud, hard clank. “I’m trusting you,” she whispered, holding his gaze, “Don’t make me regret it.”

The pain radiating from his stab wound was nothing he could not handle—but it seemed like a safer idea to allow the Dark One to assume one of them was already incapacitated; if need be, they would be underestimated, and he could use that to his advantage; he needed to.

And so, he allowed Milah to order his men around when he was helped to the helm of the ship by his First Mate—Gibbs. He gratefully drank from the water brought to him, not once letting his gaze waver from where Milah stood with the Dark One—the Crocodile—the Coward…

Rumpelstiltskin.

She lifted the transparent bean high for all to see, and he could see how the Dark One nearly gravitated towards it, making a grab for it. Milah’s eyes met his for a split-second; but that split-second was all they needed—before the Dark One could lay even a finger on the precious bean, she tossed it high, far enough for him to catch it and clutch it in his fist.

He would not let that snake get what he wanted until he got the assurance they would all live and walk away.

“You’ve asked to see it,” he spat, straightening, refusing to show any sort of weakness or vulnerability, “and now you have.”  Milah cocked her head to the side and faced Rumpelstiltskin once again—Killian tried desperately to push away the growing feeling of dread; something was not right—and asked, “Do we have a deal?”

Her eyes met Killian’s again for a brief moment, and there he saw all of his own concerns, his own fears mirrored.

It was not a comforting thought.

“Can we go our separate ways?” He tried to focus only on the Dark One’s moves; attempting to pick up on a threat; a sign that would give away his intentions—but there was naught to be found.

Killian ground his teeth in frustration—he could not read the Crocodile at all.

“You mean,” Rumpelstiltskin began, “Do I forgive you? Can I move on?” Killian exchanged yet another wary glance with Milah, before she turned her back to him, to face the Dark One as he paced on the deck, clearly enjoying his flair for dramatic speeches.

“Perhaps,” he mused, “Perhaps…”

When he turned to face them again, there was something so … sinister, so dark, in his expression, it nearly made Killian cringe; there was something not right—this was too easy.

“I can see you are twuly in love,” Rumpelstiltskin said—a statement Milah seemed to take as an admission; an acceptance to the pro-offered deal. Her shoulders sagged in relief and she exhaled—Killian could nearly see her tension flow away; but found his own only rising.

The Crocodile was not done yet—he was sure of it.

And he was right—as soon as Mila turned back to smile at him; a smile that made his heart thump faster; the Crocodile spoke again; venom dripping from each word he spoke.

“How could you leave Bae?”

Milah froze at the question, and even Killian swallowed harshly—it was a question he had asked himself many times too; how could she leave her son? For him?

He would never understand; and it had been the cause of many a fight between them; but he knew she agonized over that choice—he knew she loved and missed her boy above all else; and he knew that she would take the boy if they would get the chance.

“Do you know what it was like?” The Dark One hissed, “Walking home that night, knowing I had to tell our son—”

Milah gasped when several of the ropes and lines suddenly broke loose and whispered, “Rumple, please…” But to no avail.

It seemed all that would appease the Dark One now, was to have his say.

“—that his mother was dead?” the man finished, glaring at Milah; Killian closed his eyes in desperation and begged for Milah’s temper to be reined in.

She could not insult the Dark One—not this time.

“I was wrong to lie to you,” she replied, nodding along with her own words, “I was the coward, I kn—”

“YOU LEFT HIM!” he exclaimed, pointing one, blaming finger straight at Milah’s face, “YOU ABANDONED HIM!”

“And there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t feel sorry for that,” she yelled back, fiercely standing her ground; even though Killian found himself wishing that once—just this once—she would back down.

“Sorry is not enough!” He roared in response. Killian watched warily as Rumpelstiltskin approached her again—wishing he could intervene; but knowing this wasn’t his battle to fight. She needed to do this on her own.

She needed to lay this demon to rest herself—he later despised himself for thinking such a thing; I only he had intervened; but he hadn’t.

He stood by and watched as Milah stood tall and fought to justify the choice she had made.

A choice that had led her directly into his arms.

“Why were you so miserable?” Rumpelstiltskin whispered—and for the first time, Killian caught a glimpse of the man that had come aboard his ship so many years ago, asking him to return his wife to him.

He watched—frozen in place, uncertain of what to do—as Milah leaned closer and spat, “Because I never loved you.”

There was complete and utter silence on the ship for one, single, long heartbeat… And then all hell broke loose.

Killian barely had time to process what was happening before the Dark One shoved his hand into Milah’s chest—and all he could do was run to her; he remembered the searing agony that was to be felt when the Dark One groped around in his chest for his heart; all he wanted was to spare Milah from a similar fate—but before he came anywhere near them, the Dark One waved his hand once; and Killian found himself tied to a mast, unable to remove his bonds.

He was subjected to helplessly watching as Milah—his sweet, courageous, loving Milah—had her heart ripped from her chest by the man she had once been married to.

“No!” He cried, struggling against the ropes that held him bound to the mast, finally managing to cut them loose with the dagger he had stashed in his belt, stumbling towards Milah—just in time to catch her before she fell.

He tried to push away the guilt and the all-consuming grief as she looked up at him with those large, honest blue eyes he loved so much—trying not to fall apart at her last, breathy ‘I love you’, or her fingers tracing his jaw one last time, before she gasped and went limp in his arms.

“Milah,” he whispered, fighting back the hot tears, burning in his eyes, pain clawing at him—almost as though he had been ripped apart at the seams.

She could not be dead.

She couldn’t. They had a life together; a future; he could not go on alone; he needed her; she couldn’t be dead.

And as he gazed at the face of his love; the first woman he had ever loved; he felt anger build up inside of him; rage overtaking all of his other, basic urges.

“You may be all powerful now, demon,” he spat, slowly rising to face the monster that had killed her… Killed Milah…  “But you’re no less a coward.”

“I’ll have what I came for now,” the Crocodile spoke, his voice low, threatening—an evil grin plastered upon his face.

Before either of them could move, the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet on deck interrupted them—Killian’s heart; that felt like it had been ripped to shreds already; squeezed painfully at the soft, melodious sound of her voice.

“Papa? Why is Momma on the floor? Is she sleeping?”

His body tensed; his eyes closing in absolute and utter desperation and anger—because there is no way—no bloody way—that his crew allowed his daughter up on deck while that monster was still on his ship.

He took one, deep breath in an attempt to get the upper hand on his emotions, and opened his eyes, glaring at Rumpelstiltskin, whose eyes were now fixed on the small, six-year-old that had appeared behind Killian.

Slowly, he turned to face his daughter, praying for the strength to tell her that her mother was gone—that she wouldn’t be coming back this time. Praying that he could get his daughter far away from the monster that had ruthlessly killed her mother.

“Penny,” he said softly, as to not scare her, “I need you to go below deck. I’ll be right there, okay?”

She looked up at him with those big, impossibly blue eyes of hers, her lower lip trembling—his resolve wavered; he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and never let her go again—just to make sure she would be okay—but he knew that he needed her away from the Crocodile more.

“Penelope,” he said, “No protesting. Go to our Cabin.”

“Oh now, dearie,” that dreadful, terrifying voice interrupted, and Killian automatically curled around his daughter, shielding her from the Dark One’s eyes, “Not so hasty,” he continued, that disgusting smirk still ever-present on his face.

“Please, do introduce me to this… beautiful little girl.”

Killian felt every inch of his body erupt in goose bumps at the veiled threat in those ten words. “No,” he spat. “Not her too. You took Milah from me, like I took her from you—you ruined our lives already. Leave. You do not get my daughter too.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s high pitched laugh echoed across the deck and made him cringe—but he stood tall. He needed to be strong for Penny now; she needed him to be strong, to protect her—and he would.

For his little girl, he would do anything.

“Then you best give me what I came for,” the Crocodile hisses, holding out his clawed hand—but Killian refused to be this gullible. “No. New deal. Swear you will not harm us—swear you won’t kill us; then I’ll give you your bean.” He regarded the Crocodile’s expression closely; he needed to be vigilant.

This … This demon wouldn’t hesitate to take everything from him just because he could; but he was bound by his own deals; so Killian did what he needed to—he made a deal with the man that killed his lover.

Rumpelstiltskin nodded and smirked, “I swear I shall not  kill you nor your precious little daughter. You will both live to see tomorrow. Hand me the bean.”

Before he could move though, Killian found himself trapped in thin air—it was as though he was being crushed between four solid walls; though he was surrounded by nothing but air.

“Papa!” Penelope cried out, running for him—almost as though she believed she could save him. From the corner of his eye, Killian saw the demon’s hand move, but he managed no more than a choked, “No!” before his daughter disappeared before his eyes in a puff of thick, purple and black smoke.

“No!” He cried, struggling against the magical bonds that held him tied down. “You swore you wouldn’t harm her! You said we could go free!”

“Now, now, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin snarled, “I swore no such thing. You asked me not to kill her. I didn’t kill her—but you will live with the notion that she has to survive without you; somewhere you will never find her.”

Killian’s heart—already smashed and broken beyond repair—broke further; anger and resentment boiling up from a dark, evil place inside of him; a place he didn’t even know existed. “I’ll take what I came for now,” Rumpelstiltskin grinned, unmoving, his eyes fixed on Killian’s fist. 

Killian glared at him and spat, “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Rumpelstiltskin smirked, “I’m afraid that’s not in the cards for you, dearie.” And with one, fluent move, he drew his sword and cut off Killian’s hand—Killian cried out at the white-hot, searing pain, doubling over as the bonds that held him magically disappeared when he fell to his knees, cradling his injured arm to his chest.

His breathing came in heavy pants, his mind and body both injured beyond repair—he was certain the Crocodile would be happy now. Killian Jones was no more—he would never be that man again; the man that lost everything in a matter of minutes.

He only looked up when the Crocodile spoke again, his sword laying against the thin, breakable skin of his neck. He glared at the Crocodile with unconcealed hatred, wishing he knew how to murder the beast that had taken his family from him.

“I want you alive, dearie,” the demon spoke, “I want you to suffer, like I did.” He giggled and stood, sheathing his  sword, turning his back on Killian—which he found a fatal mistake. Killian whirled around and grabbed the hook that had fallen earlier, before lunging at Rumpelstiltskin with a harsh cry, burying the hook in the man’s chest, praying that would kill the demon.

To his horror, all the demon did was giggle and smirk, “Killing me is going to take a lot more than that, dearie.”

He took a vow in that moment—a vow to his daughter, a vow to Milah—he would kill the man that had ripped his life apart. “Even demons can be killed,” he spoke, “I will find a way.”

“Good luck living long enough,” the demon spat, before vanishing in a billowing cloud of crimson, leaving the hook to clatter onto the now empty deck.

Slowly, Killian picked it up, looking over to where Milah’s body lay, and to the spot where his child had vanished into thin air, vowing to himself that he would kill Rumpelstiltskin—no matter what it took; he wouldn’t rest until the hook he was holding had pierced the demon’s cold, dead heart.

“I will avenge you,” he whispered to Milah, pushing back the burning tears in his eyes. “And I will find you,” he continued, whispering towards the sky, praying upon whatever God there was for the strength and determination to find his daughter and avenge her mother’s death.

Rumpelstiltskin would pay for what he took from him today.