Emma pointedly ignores their suspicions, though it makes her blood boil. She knows Killian, and these FBI agents know nothing of what is really going on here.

But she can’t dwell on that. Not now. Not when Killian needs her help to prove his innocence and to get him the hell out of here.

As the agents trickle out into the hallway at a snail’s pace, Emma has to do a funny little dance to sidestep them. Once free, she darts forward to catch up to Mulan, who is already halfway down the corridor, frowning at an open file folder as she walks.

“Mulan, hang on a second, I need to talk to you!”

Mulan glances over her shoulder with cool, expressionless eyes. She snaps the file folder shut, tucking it behind her back as she stands at attention to greet Emma.

“Yes, Agent Swan?”

“I heard what Killian said in there; I’ll have to call around for a lawyer.” Emma runs a hand through her tangled hair, wondering which of the lawyers she’s worked with in the past may be a good fit here – Hey, do you have any experience with proving the innocence of a centuries’ old pirate in a murder case where the FBI has a video proving he had access to the murder weapon?  “Killian doesn’t know anyone here, so it may take me a few hours to get a hold of someone who is willing to help him –”

“That’s alright,” Mulan interrupts. “When I informed Sergeant Mills of his arrest, she told me she would be arranging for a lawyer through your organization in case he requested one. As far as I know, they’ve already been contacted and are on the way.”

“Oh.” Emma hadn’t even thought to contact Regina; of course, she’d already know about this and have something in place. “Okay, well, I’ll …” Emma trails off, suddenly unsure of what to do next, standing in this lonely hallway next to the FBI Commander in charge of investigating her returnee’s murder investigation. “I guess I’ll just …”

Mulan smiles at her, a sad pitiful smile, and her eyes remain firm and professional. “I know you feel that, as his agent, you have to do anything you can to help him right now, but there’s nothing to be done until the lawyer gets here. Go back to your office. When they get here, I’ll make sure you know.”

Emma hesitates, long enough for Mulan to frown and straighten her back. “Emma, I have a job to do here. A man has died, and all evidence points to murder. And now the prime suspect has evoked his right to a lawyer. We are going to follow the proper protocols to ensure justice is served. For all parties involved here. Now ... please.”

She gestures back towards the staircase that leads down and out of the building. Her outstretched arm blocks the hallway towards the isolation rooms and her stern expression lets Emma know there would be no lenience should she refuse.

But some of the fight has gone out of Emma now. Her adrenaline, triggered when Anna had called her and told her what had happened, has turned into an anxious shakiness, fueled by panic and lack of sleep. She would not say no to a tall glass of water and a moment to sit down and compose herself.

As much as she needs that, there’s something she needs to do beforehand. Mulan is right – Emma wants to help Killian, but she’s wrong that there’s nothing Emma can do.

Without another word and hoping her departing nod reassures the FBI Commander, Emma turns on her heel and speed-walks down the hallway. Once around the corner, her step quickens and she half-flies down the stairs. She rushes past the many FBI agents and guards crowding the downstairs lobby, and all but sprints across the courtyard, to the old brick building that houses the Collection Room in its basement.

No matter what the video tape of Killian shows, Emma knows what she saw when she was here earlier. She saw the list of restricted items, with Killian’s sword noted as being checked out in early February. She supposes it could’ve been returned in the meantime by whoever took it and then Killian went and stole it. But that just rings as so wrong to Emma that she dismisses that thought instantly. She knows Killian wouldn’t do this, and she needs to find proof.

Inside the dingy building, its strong odour of old fish as pungent as ever, Emma pushes open the door to the dimly lit Collection Room far more aggressively than she needs to, making the door swing wide open and crash into the wall behind it. The guard, the same one from Emma’s first trip here, drops his magazine in a dramatic fashion as she strides in.

“Jesus,” the guard mutters, leaning down to pick up his latest tabloid, this one illustrated with yet another tale of the returnees; Emma cringes at the thought of what they will say when they get wind of Killian’s arrest. “Knock, next time, will ya?”

“Sorry,” she replies, more out of reflex than anything, and she closes the door much more gently behind her. “Listen, I need to see some of your records from early February.”

The guard narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Is this about that dead returnee? Listen, I already gave the tapes over to the FBI, I don’t have anything else to –”

“No, it’s not the tapes. Last time I was here getting a few things, there was a list – a list of restricted items that were not allowed to be checked out. Killian’s sword – the returnee who has been charged with the murder – was on there. But it had been noted as being checked out, I’m sure of it.”

The guard appears more annoyed at the imposition to his time than eager to help her, but he does get to his feet, albeit with a dramatic sigh. He shuffles through a stack of loose papers at the counter, and frowns at her.

“You sure about that? I don’t remember any restricted items being checked out. And I’m the one they’d have to go through to get it.”

Emma tries not to huff in annoyance – of course she is sure – and she bites her tongue. “Can you check the list, please?”

He grumbles some more, and then withdraws a single piece of paper with a few lines of typed text and holds it out triumphantly to Emma.

“See, nothing on there.”

The thin piece of paper is heavy in her hands. She recognizes it as the same list as before: a number of weapons and other restricted items listed with the returnee’s code next to them. But where Killian’s sword had had a large APPROVED stamp beside it, along with a handwritten note detailing the date it was checked out, there is nothing now to indicate it is any different than anything else on the list.

No stamp, no note.

Nothing.

She looks back up the guard, who is watching her with a satisfied grin.

“See?”

“Okay,” Emma says, and she hands the list back to the guard. “Is this a copy, or something? Where is the one with the ‘approved’ stamp on it?”

“This is the only list,” he replies firmly. “We only have the one copy; easy to keep track of it that way. Nothing’s been checked out, agent.”

Emma narrows her eyes at him, her lie detector does not go off. She knows what she saw but this man is not lying. At least – he believes he’s not lying. And Emma is getting a sinking suspicion as to why – or rather, who may have changed his mind … or perhaps, even his memory.

The thought sends a dark chill down her spine, along with the rational scoff that comes with it. But Emma has been through a lot the last several hours and learned a hell of a lot of what apparently can happen in this world. Changing memories or erasing important documents or hell, tampering with video evidence through magic – well, that’s as believable as time-travelling or women who can control the snow or fairies who can re-attach hands.

“Okay, fine.” She steps away from the counter, not even attempting to hide her annoyance. “Thanks, anyways.”

She trudges back towards her office in a foul mood, anger growing with each step. She should’ve expected this – after all, if Gold is somehow powerful and vindictive enough to transport people through time, of course he’d be able to conjure up a manufactured crime to keep his apparent mortal enemy trapped in his clutches.

Could this all be linked to the strange little box Killian stole from him all those years ago? Maybe Gold is going to try and make a deal with the pirate to get it back? Promise to get the charges dropped as long as Killian returns it to him? Or perhaps Gold has some other twisted version of vengeance in mind. Whatever is between them, Emma is clear that it’s hatred on both sides. Gold has wanted Killian locked up since day one, and the ice in Killian’s expression when he saw the man had spoken volumes about the bad blood between them.

But still. It’s hard to believe that, whatever Gold has against Killian, he would have set up this entire murder case. If he did this, he has literally killed an innocent returnee who is supposed to be under his protection as commander of this place.

The very thought of Gold’s manipulation and unknown motives make her anxiety grow and her stomach roil with nerves, and she shivers with unease as she arrives at her office. She flicks on the light and strides over to her desk as she always does when a strange sense of déjà vu overcomes her.

Perhaps it’s because it has only been a few hours since she was standing in this office with Killian, whereas it now feels like a different lifetime. Then, they’d sensed the danger Gold had posed to Killian, but it’s nothing like it is now. Now, Killian has been arrested for murder, framed by a man who, against all odds and logic, has been around since at least the 1740s too.

Emma’s head aches at the thought. She believes Killian, believes that Gold is the same man he knew then. But how the hell is it possible? Gold has been at Storybrooke for as long as Emma has worked here. He isn’t a returnee and Killian knows him from the 1700s, so how the hell did he get here?

Could the white light have brought him here too, years in advance of the others? Emma scoffs as soon as the thought crosses her mind. The chances of him transporting to the future by the same mechanism as thousands of other people, only to end up working at the same agency in charge of the rest of the time travellers and the very pirate he has a vendetta against – Emma’s not a gambler but she wouldn’t bet on those odds.

Not when those same odds would need to apply to Emma. Abandoned as an infant and cared for by Storybrooke, the same place where she is reunited with her long-lost parents. Or explain Anna’s experience with her sister, Robin’s with his wife.

No, there’s no way it could be chance alone. Gold either brought himself here, years ahead of everyone else, or hell, Emma can almost believe that Gold could be some sort of strange immortal, biding his time through the centuries until the rest of the returnees arrived, exactly when he wanted them to.

A few weeks ago, she’d have laughed herself silly at the thought of an immortal, evil man waiting for time travellers to arrive. Now … now it makes as much sense as anything else. A man able to survive centuries, seeking revenge on a pirate who stole from him – sure, Emma can almost believe that. It makes as much sense as anything else that’s happened over the last few months.

But why? Sure – this little box could be a part of it. Why, though, would he hunt Killian through time itself, when Gold could have found him in their own time? And why bring these people to her time – people with no connection to Killian, like Elsa and her parents and all the rest?

Emma drops down into her chair and lets out a sigh, shrugging out of her leather jacket and leaning back, staring at the ceiling. There’s so much she doesn’t understand, so many unanswered questions that it makes her head spin.

She stares around her office, feeling bleak and sorry for herself, for Killian, for this horrible situation. It’s upon her survey of her office that she realizes that, while everything appears to be as she left it last night, in its usual state of disarray and loose papers, something is … off.

Had this what she noticed when she came in?

A prickle of unease appears on the back of her neck and Emma tries to will herself to notice what it is that is so different. Her used coffee cup is where she left it, there is no change in the dust around the picture of Henry and herself on the corner of the desk, no loose pages on the floor or scattered on her desk, and her computer’s screen saver is still rotating between random scenery shots.

Her eyes fall on her desk drawer. It is closed, but from the way the lock is rotated, she can tell it is unlocked. Dread pools in her stomach; she knows for certain she had locked it before she left last night; confidentiality and security has been drilled into her head since she started working here at Storybrooke and Emma never leaves her desk drawer, full of private returnee files, unlocked.

But when she reaches for the handle and tugs on it, the drawer slides open easily under her grip. Emma mutters a swear under her breath, and flicks through the numerous file folders held in this drawer, until she come across the only one that she knows would be of any interest to anyone who dared to come and rifle through her things.

R1748KJ

Emma pulls it from the drawer and she flips through the documentation of his medical exams, a handful of notes regarding his current counselling schedule with Belle, copies of requests he’s made to Storybrooke staff for things like extra blankets and new clothes, and a printed copy of his exit request she had filled out only days ago, until she gets to her handwritten notes at the back of the file. 

As a part of her duties as his agent, Emma has taken notes regarding his past and circumstances leading up to his disappearance. It’s standard procedure when they investigate missing persons cases, though usually the goal is the return of the individual to their previous life … something the Storybrooke agents had quickly come to realize was an exercise in futility.

After the first few familiar pages with nothing amiss, she realizes that two to three pages of her notes are gone from the file. She can’t remember what exact pieces of his past were noted on those pages, but whatever it was, the fact that it is missing is bad enough.

That bastard.

She drops Killian’s file onto her desk and slams the drawer shut, her computer screen shaking at the force.

Fury rages through her, both at Gold and herself. She had been naïve to think she could leave Killian here in Storybrooke for even one more night. She underestimated Gold and the lengths he would go to to keep Killian here in Storybrooke, in his grasp. Gold has had centuries to perfect his next steps, whereas Emma feels like a little lost lifeboat, adrift in a stormy sea, hoping to catch a lifeline.

As her computer screen finally stops rattling, leaving her office in a cold, empty silence, she rests her head down on her desk, overwhelmed and so, so angry. Her eyes are burning, tears of frustration leaking out. Emma is strong and likes to think she can handle a lot, but this … this is so unfair. All of this. This whole goddamn situation – the returnees, Killian, his arrest – all of it.

And apparently, her boss is the one who caused it all.

If Gold truly is the one behind all this, then he has ripped countless lives apart. Hers included. He’s torn people from their time, from their lives, from the people that they loved. And now he’s turned her world upside down again – murdered a returnee, framed Killian for it, and seemingly manipulated evidence with magic.

Emma sits up and rubs at her eyes. Rage still consumes her, but she straightens her back, the moment of self-pity over. Tears and worry won’t prove Killian’s innocence or find a way to stop Gold’s plan – hard work will.

She can’t help Killian with the lawyer yet, so Emma grabs his file again, and a blank pad of paper from her drawer. She can’t quite remember what was on the pages that are missing, and the context nearby isn’t helpful. The page before the first missing one details his enrollment in the Royal Navy and the death of his older brother, while the last pages are of Emma’s notes regarding the latest book he’d requested she get him, one about modern sailing that Emma had to check out of the public library near her house as Storybrooke’s supplies were limited.

She sits back and drops her pen in frustration. There is so much of Killian’s story detailed in her notes, she can’t fathom which part Gold wanted to know about. He knew him as a pirate – would it be something after they’d met? Or something from beforehand, to use as leverage over him? Some clue to the box, something Emma hadn’t even realized she’d documented?

Emma glares at the file, her mind a storm. An idea grips  her then, and she grabs her desk phone, dialling the security office on the main floor.

“Security,” a man answers swiftly. “Is this an emergency?”

Yes, Emma wants to say, but she answers, “No. I need your help with something. Can you check the security cameras for me please? I think someone was in my office last night. Some things are … missing.”

“Really?” the man replies, more interested now, and Emma can hear the squeak of his chair as he scoots closer to his desk. “Which office are you in? Let me pull up the tapes.”

Emma informs him of her office number, and he types away on the computer for several long minutes.

“Sorry, agent,” the man says, frown apparent through the phone. “Looks like the cameras in the office building have been out since last night. I didn’t realize – maybe a power outage? I’ll have to get our I.T. guys on this as soon as possible.”

“Oh, really?” Emma says, unable to keep the venom from her voice.

Of course. 

Once again, he’s one step ahead.

The man types furiously on his keyboard, before adding, “But, hey – you said some things are missing? Want me to send a security guard up there to take a look around?”

“No,” Emma says, already imaging the report – yes, I’m sure it was Commander Gold who came in here and stole the pages from the file of the returnee now accused of murder. “No, I’ll deal with it.” She pauses then, an idea blooming in her mind. “Hey – uh, how long do you think it will take for those cameras to come back?”

The man blows out hard. “Probably an hour or two. The I.T. team won’t be here until 9, and it’ll take them a bit to get organized –”

Emma’s pager beeps then, and all thoughts other than the lawyer is here go right out of her head.

“Oh, okay, great,” she says, cutting the man off mid-sentence. “Thanks. Good luck with it.”

She hangs up and grabs her pager from her belt in one motion; it is indeed a summons back to the interrogation room – the lawyer has arrived.

Emma shoves the file back into the drawer, locking the drawer and glaring at it for good measure, before she shoots to her feet. She grabs her jacket off the back of the chair, and she’s swinging it on, flicking her hair out of the collar as she opens the door, her mind already racing and – and walks right into Anna Arendelle, standing outside her office with her fist poised to knock.

Emma jumps back, her heart flying into her throat. “God, Anna, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Thank god you’re here.” Anna steps right into Emma’s office, hardly acknowledging that Emma almost knocked her right over, and her movement forces Emma to back up until she hits her desk.

“Anna –”

Ignoring her, Anna turns and beckons wildly back out her office door. Before Emma can open her mouth to protest, Anna’s sister Elsa steps into her office too, followed by, of all people, Will Scarlet.

“Come in, we need to close the door,” Anna says, ushering them further into the office. They obey; Elsa giving Emma and her office a cool, appraising look, while Will looks as shifty and uncomfortable as ever, hands stuffed into his pockets. They shuffle past Emma into her now very cramped office to stand behind her desk, the only spot there is any floor space left. As Anna swings the door closed, Emma herself is now squished between her desk and Anna, and she can feel her temper rising.

“Anna, what are you doing? I do not have time for –”

“It’s about Elsa’s magic,” Anna says, breathlessly. “We need to talk to you.”

Emma is unable to stop the annoyance and frustration from playing across her expression at Anna’s terrible timing. Elsa is mad too; her eyes flash with fury, and she leans around Will to glare at her sister.

“You told her? I thought you were bringing us here to get out of Storybrooke, and wanted to get us out of here without anyone knowing about it!”

“I had to tell her,” Anna pleads with her sister, her eyes wide and desperate. Emma takes a closer look at her then –Anna is often emotional these days, but she looks at the end of her rope – braids a mess, shirt collar rumpled, her eyes puffy and red, bloodshot with the remnant of tears. “Emma can help us. Right, Emma?”

And while Emma has empathy for Anna and whatever is going on for her and Elsa, she really doesn’t have time for this right now. She hesitates, long enough for her message to be clear.

As Anna’s face falls, Will scoffs, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. “See, she won’t help us get out of here. I told you that she’s the one who stopped me and Jones back when we first got here.”

“Great,” Elsa says, her voice dripping with anger, and she points an accusatory finger at her sister. “So, Will was right. This is a waste of our time. She’s just another agent keeping us here against our will.”

Emma tries not to prickle at Elsa’s tone, though it’s a challenge. As patiently as she can muster, she explains, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone about the … m-magic, if that’s what you’re worried about. I know what would happen if anyone learned about returnees’ and strange powers, or whatever the hell is going on here, and I would never be the one to expose that, okay? And,” she adds, at Anna’s desperate expression, “I will help you get out of here. I just – I just can’t do it right now.”

Elsa’s eyebrows raise in a challenging way, while Will mutters a dark sure under his breath. Emma disregards this, and she moves towards the door, but Anna steps forward, blocking her.

“No, Emma, wait –”

Emma breathes out hard, trying to control her temper, and glares at her fellow agent. “Anna, I don’t have time right now, I’ve got to go. There’s an emergency. I will try and help you guys figure out a way to release Elsa later, okay –”

“No,” she replies vehemently. “You don’t understand.” Anna glances towards Will and Elsa, biting her lip nervously. “We have a bigger problem. Elsa’s not the only one … who is special.”

That statement should stop Emma in her tracks, but at this point, she isn’t really listening; she’s already worrying about what will happen if she’s not there to meet Killian’s lawyer and if, God forbid, Gold is there instead. “Listen Anna, I just got a page and I have to go check on –”

As she is speaking, Emma presses her hand to her hip where she keeps her pager for emphasis, but her fingers brush only her belt. She glances down, but the pager is gone. She turns, wondering if she dropped it on her desk. Then her eyes grow wide.

Will, standing behind her desk, is holding up her pager with a wry grin. Emma gapes at him, and finally Anna’s words roll over her.

Elsa’s not the only one who is special.

Emma points to Will, to the pager in his hand. “How – how did you do that?”

Will shrugs, leaning over the desk to hand the pager back to her. “I always knew I was a good at nicking things. Seems I had a little something giving me an edge.”

Emma gapes, her fingers curling around the pager so tightly her knuckles turn white. “You … you have magic?”

Will raises his hands in the universal ‘don’t ask me’ reply, while Elsa sighs impatiently. She lifts her chin, surveying Emma up and down.

“There are a few more of us,” Elsa says, her voice cautious and cool. “We’ve … we’ve been trying to figure out what is going on for a while now.”

The prospect of more than Elsa and now Will having magic or powers or whatever makes Emma’s heart falter. She tries not to gape back at Elsa, her mind sputtering to understand. First an immortal man brings people from through time, or whatever the hell is going on with Gold, and now people are popping up with magical powers?

There is something far more sinister here than Emma can figure out right now. One part of her wants to throw her hands up in the air and tell them to find someone else to help. But another, stronger part of Emma knows she has to help them. She has already made one too many mistakes today. She should have gotten Killian out of here before Gold could get his hands on him, and she can’t make that mistake again, not with anyone else.

So, instead, she takes a deep breath, formulating a plan as she speaks. “Okay. Listen. I will help you all. I – I don’t know how yet, but I will. I just have to go help one of the other returnees right now, okay?” Emma turns to Anna, who is still looking miserable, but a bright edge has appeared in her eyes again. “Okay, Anna, I need you to gather everyone together. Everyone who is … special. Don’t draw attention to yourselves, but find a way to bring them to one of the conference rooms or something. Somewhere safe and secure. Get Graham and Robin to help too, we can trust them.”

“We can help gather people,” Elsa volunteers. She is still regarding Emma with an air of caution, but some of her frostiness has melted away now. She turns to Will, listing off a handful of names. Some Emma doesn’t know, others that make her stomach jolt with recognition.

Emma shakes her head, and pushes that to the side for now. Instead, she takes advantage of their distraction and tugs on Anna’s arm. She pulls her away ever so slightly, lowering her voice as she says, “Delete that video you have. The one you showed me the other day in the breakroom. And any others you have. Get the others to the conference room, and then let me know when they are all there okay.”

Anna nods, her expression firm and teeth gritted in determination. “Got it.”

“And whatever you do,” Emma adds, with a glance to Elsa and Will, now deep in discussion. “Do not let Gold know about this, okay? Something is – there’s something bad going on here. We can’t let too many people know about this. But especially not Gold.”

Anna seems to understand the gravity of that statement, and she nods once more. Now, with plan in place, Emma ushers the trio out of her office. She walks with the others out to the barracks, but when they divert to the cafeteria, Emma pauses before heading upstairs.

“Anna, wait.” The other agent turns, and Emma takes a deep breath to steady herself. “Can you find my – my parents? Mary Margaret Blanchard and David Nolan. Bring them to the conference room too.”

Anna nods, and drops her voice to a whisper. “Do they – are they special too?”

“No,” Emma says, and she realizes she never even thought about that. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. But find them anyway, okay?”

Anna agrees, and Emma turns away. She all but teleports up to the fourth floor, and as she rounds the corner, there is a trio of women standing in the middle of the hallway, opposite the interrogation room where Killian had been earlier.

Mulan, as composed as ever, is explaining something to the other two, one of whom is Regina Mills. Even for this early hour, she is completely put together, not a strand of styled black hair out of place. The third woman is a stranger, similarly well-dressed, in a perfectly pressed black pantsuit and scarlet red blouse. A sleek black leather briefcase is clutched in her left hand, with elegantly coifed curls framing her heart-shaped face.

“Ah, there she is,” Regina says, once she notices Emma’s approach. “This is Emma Swan, Jones’ agent though our department. Agent Swan, allow me to introduce Jones’ lawyer. Cora Hart.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Cora says, in a cool, expressionless tone that makes Emma think she could literally care less about meeting her. But if this is Killian’s lawyer, then Emma is going to be as nice as possible to her – she may be the only ally Killian and Emma have right now.

She smiles warmly and reaches out to shake Cora’s hand. “Thank you so much for coming. Killian will be so happy to see you. I know – I know this will have been overwhelming to him.”

“It certainly must,” Cora replies, and she slips her hand free of Emma’s, a dismissal as quick as her greeting as she looks back to Mulan. “Which room is he in, Commander?”

“He’s in one of the isolation rooms still, but we’ll go get him and bring him to an interview room. If you’ll excuse me.”

Mulan departs, and Cora fiddles with the watch at her wrist. “It’s only 7:30,” she says, with a wrinkle of her nose in disgust. “To wrench a man from his bed in the middle of the night and interrogate him on only a few hours sleep. How barbaric.”

“I agree,” Emma says instantly. Regina gives her an odd look, but Cora ignores her completely. “I can introduce you to him,” Emma adds, the thought coming out of her lips before she even considers what she is saying. But it’s been a horrible few hours, and she hasn’t realized how much she wishes she could speak with Killian about it.

To reassure him that she will get him out of this. To ensure he knows that, whatever happens, she knows he is innocent and that he won’t face these charges alone. And hell, if she’s being honest with herself, Emma wants to talk to him to reassure herself that she isn’t alone in this either. She wishes fiercely that she could have his steadying presence at her side right now – in the face of the realization of Gold’s true identity to the news of Will and Elsa and the others.

Perhaps he’d know something about the others with magic? Killian hasn’t been fazed by the concept of magic – maybe he’d know if Gold had something to do with this too.

“Then, once I’ve introduced you to him, if you don’t mind,” she adds, emboldened. “Maybe I could have a few minutes to talk to him before you get started? He must be so … anxious about all of this, it’s all so strange and different than what he is used to.”

“That would be highly inappropriate at this time, Agent Swan,” Cora says coolly, looking at Emma like she is seeing her for the first time, eyes narrowed and cold. “Now if you’ll please excuse me. I take it one of these spare rooms is available for me to prepare for a few minutes while they fetch Jones?”

Regina had been staring at Emma like she has lost her mind, but she quickly snaps out of it and nods at Cora. “Yes, this one here is free.”

Regina guides Cora into a room, and when she has closed the door behind her, Regina turns and marches right up to Emma.

“What the hell was that about? A few minutes to talk with him? This is an active investigation, Emma, we have the FBI here, for god’s sake –”

“I know,” Emma says, bristling. “I just thought – Killian doesn’t know what’s happening. A friendly face may have helped him out. Plus, Regina – I know Killian didn’t do this. We – he was with me last evening, and we were talking about him getting out of Storybrooke. He would never jeopardize that by doing something like this. If I could just talk to him, to help –”

Regina holds up her hand. “No, Emma. I don’t – I don’t know what has gotten into you lately, but that is absolutely not appropriate.” She glances at her wristwatch then, and levels a cool glare upon Emma. “I have a meeting with Commander Gold in my office in ten minutes. But I expect to see you there at 9:30, promptly, to discuss your recent … behaviour. Is that understood?”

Emma blinks at her, but then manages a nod, hoping she hasn’t just cost herself her job. Regina shakes her head with dismay and walks away, leaving Emma standing in the middle of the now empty hallway.

Well, hell. That didn’t go very well.

But, if Emma is about to get fired, she knows exactly what she needs to do now. The security guard told her the cameras wouldn’t be fixed for two hours at least, and Gold will be busy with Regina for the next little bit. She knows he took the pages from Killian’s file, and his meddling with the security cameras may well have given Emma the chance she needs to find some evidence that would prove his involvement, once and for all.

xxxxxx 

Killian has had a hell of a night.

After Emma Swan left him in his room yesterday, following the revelation of who exactly her commander truly is, Killian had laid back on his small bed and stared at the ceiling, stewing and brooding. All of this: the scarred remnants of his wrist, his banishment to this time, this chaos and torture and heartbreak – all because of Gold.

He was the last man on earth Killian would have ever expected to see here in this time and the last he ever wanted to see again in any time. Gold had been disguising himself as a merchant when Killian met him first, a man who had fled England as a result of a deal gone awry, hoarding his riches in his manor side estate.

It had been a disguise Killian hadn’t seen through at the time, but he knows better now. Gold was no wealthy merchant, no more than he is the commander of this facility. He was a demon hiding in plain sight, a twisted little imp, a monster.

A monster who has wrought nothing but chaos and pain.

Killian had been consumed by his dark storm of thoughts for a long while, his scarred left-hand aching with a fierce phantom pain, until around dinner time a sharp knock on his door had startled him. He’d opened the door, somewhat suspicious at whoever would venture to see him, and to his surprise, it had been Mary Margaret and David, Emma’s parents.

They had asked him to join them for dinner, her mother looking nervous but smiling tentatively at him when he agreed, while her father’s usual narrow-eyed expression of distrust had remained.

They had tucked into dinner – something Killian had learned to be called ‘cheeseburgers.’ He’d picked at the meal, preferring the wilted salad to the salty meat and rubbery cheese. Mary Margaret was quite cheery, almost questionably so, and David had kept mostly silent throughout the meal. It was only after Killian asked them, point-blank, why they had asked him to dinner, that Mary Margaret had confessed Emma had asked them to. She’d told them something strange was going on, but no further details. Just that Emma seemed worried about it.

At that, Killian had felt an enormous wave of guilt crash over him. Emma’s parents, who had lost nearly three decades of their daughter’s life, spending time with him, the pirate who had ruined their chances of getting out of Storybrooke sooner. Just to make sure it was one less worry for Emma. She could have asked them to jump into the Atlantic Ocean, and Killian knew they’d have done it without a second thought. Anything that would bring her closer to them.

It would’ve been too easy to lay all the blame at Gold’s feet for their broken relationship, but Killian knows better. If he hadn’t stolen the object from the madman and hidden it so that he could never find it, then none of this would have happened. Gold would have been a faded memory by now, the other returnees never would have vanished at his hand, and Emma … well, if he follows that thread of logic, then Killian himself is one of the reasons Emma grew up without her parents. His thoughtless theft and Gold’s subsequent never-ending hunt for vengeance has torn hundreds of families apart, throughout time, including Emma’s.

Perhaps Gold isn’t the only monster here.

Following the dinner, which he had felt grow more uncomfortable and awkward as his anger towards Gold and remorse at his own actions consumed him, Killian returned to his room. He’d stared at the ceiling again, falling into an even darker spiral than before.

It had twisted into dreams and nightmares – of a dark manor house, lit only by moonlight. Of a woman, with dark curls and bright blue eyes. Of his ship, tall rigging and white sails against the cool blue sky. Of a cursed box, making his crew violent and at each other’s throats over the simplest things. Of an island, gnarled jungle vines twisting and threading above and blocking out the hot sun. Of pain, the worst pain in his life, blood pooling at his feet.

Then, he’d been roughly roused from his bed, the hands of multiple guards slamming him to the ground so fiercely his entire right side was bruised. Cold handcuffs were slid around his wrists as he was told he was under arrest, that his former roommate was dead.

And now, here he is – sitting in a cold, nearly empty room with a murder charge hanging over his head. 

He should’ve known Gold would never have allowed Killian to leave here.

At least this is a different room than the one the FBI Commander had interviewed him in. That one had had those horrid fluorescent lights, while this room has a duller light and no mirror on the wall. They’ve also removed the handcuffs from him now, which he is thankful for as cold metal had rubbed painfully against his wrist.

He’s been in this room now for several minutes now, having been retrieved from the isolation room he’s come to be very familiar with. Apparently, his attorney, whoever that may be, has arrived, and is on their way to meet him.

He knows of lawyers from his own time, though he’d never have been afforded one back then for an accusation like this. He wonders what they do to murderers in this time. This world is far less brutal than his own, but he isn’t sure the punishment for murder will have changed too much. Back then, he’d have been hanging from the gallows already should an accusation like this have befallen him. Here, their system appears to be built on honor and evidence and justice, though Killian is rather sure they haven’t ever faced an opponent like Gold before, a monster who can create false evidence out of thin air.

The room’s door swings open then, and his head snaps up as a tall woman waltzes into the room. She is older than Killian by about two decades; a handsome woman, with brown curls and sharp eyes.

“The man of the hour,” she says in a silky voice, setting a briefcase down on the steel table between them. “My name is Cora Hart. I am an attorney with my firm, Hart and Miller, and Regina Mills, the sergeant here, has asked me to represent you.”

“I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Killian drawls, as she takes a seat across from him, “but given my current circumstances …”

“Understandable,” she replies. Her voice is a smooth, reassuring tone, though Killian can’t help but detect an edge of slipperiness within her words. She withdraws a stack of papers from her briefcase and slides them across the table towards Killian. “Well, Mr. Jones, to get us started –”

“Captain,” he corrects, and she flashes him an insincere smile.

“Of course. Captain. Now, I am not sure your familiarity with the law, but if you would like to hire me as your lawyer, everything you and I discuss will be under attorney-client privilege. I will work for your best interests in fighting these charges. All I ask in return from you is your utmost cooperation, and the truth of what has occurred here, however badly a light it may paint you in.”

“No worry for that,” Killian replies, unable to keep the venom from his tone. “Because I am completely innocent.”

Cora’s smile doesn’t waver. “The FBI have evidence that would suggest otherwise.”

“She told me all the evidence,” Killian says, with a wave of his hand. “It’s irrelevant. I didn’t do it. I know who did, and they are framing me.”

“Who? The FBI?”

“No, not the bloody FBI.”

“Then who?”

He leans across the table and deposits his most charming smile upon her. “I’m not telling you anything. I want to talk to Emma Swan.”

Cora’s eyes flash, a crack appearing in her cool façade. “That is not possible.”

“I thought you were supposed to work for my best interests,” he replies, raising his chin in a challenge. “And talking to Emma right now is absolutely in my best interest.”

“You can believe me or not, Captain Jones. Your best interest is my only goal here, and any discussion of this case with Agent Swan is not in your best interest. At least, not at this time,” she amends, perhaps at the expression on his face. “I need to understand your case first. Agent Swan works for this government and could be called as a witness to testify against you. Until I know whether speaking with her would benefit our case, I cannot allow anything like that to proceed.”

Killian crosses his arms over his chest, surveying her. “You work for this government too.”

“Actually, I work for you,” Cora says, and she nudges the papers towards him again and sets down a thin black writing instrument, something Killian has learned is called a pen. “As soon as you sign these, that is.”

He glances at the papers, weighing his options. He hadn’t seen Emma earlier, though he’d heard her loud voice, speaking with the FBI Commander outside the interrogation room. Her words had been muffled but something about her tone had prompted him to ask for an attorney.

She wanted him to have a lawyer, and here one is, sitting in front of him, offering him her services to help fight these charges. And he supposes, she hadn’t outright denied him the possibility of speaking to Emma.

Perhaps this is in his best interest.

He pulls the paperwork closer and examines the first few pages. It’s all jargon to him, and he flips to the last page, where his printed name stands next to an empty, dotted line – awaiting his signature.

Killian hesitates for a moment more, wary of everything in this world, but eventually picks up the black pen.

After all – what else does he have to lose?

He signs his name on the dotted line, a flourish to the final s of his surname. The ink has barely dried before Cora has taken the papers back, disappearing them into her briefcase.

“Wonderful. Now, let’s discuss who exactly you think is responsible for the murder of Nathaniel Jekyll.”

xxxxxx 

Emma feels a bit like a ping pong ball this morning, bouncing between the barracks, the main office building, and the dingy building with the Collection Room. As she makes the trip back to the office block, her feet starting to hurt from all her jaunts, Emma can see a line of cars at the main gates – Storybrooke employees arriving for their daily shifts, all held up by the FBI screening.

That works to her advantage; with the FBI slowing everything down at the main gates, only a few people have made it into the office yet. Emma nods pleasantly at the few agents who do pass her, before ducking into a side hallway and hurrying up to the sixth floor, to Gold’s expansive office.

The hallway leading to his office is completely abandoned, and no video cameras means no one will know she was here. Emma checks the time – 7:45 a.m. Regina’s meeting was set to begin several minutes ago, and as she turns the doorknob, she hopes with all her heart Gold didn’t re-schedule it last minute.

The knob hardly moves; locked, then. A good sign he isn’t here, and though it should be a bad sign for her plan, a locked office has never stopped Emma before. In her previous line of work, when her old boss Leroy had hired her for any and all jobs, she’d picked up many a skill and it just so happens that lockpicking is one of them.

She pulls out a few bobbipins from her hair, thankful for her past self who shoved them into her curls haphazardly this morning. She crouches down and fiddles as quietly and quickly as she can with the lock. Luckily, or perhaps an oversight on Gold’s behalf, the door is just a standard issue office door and the lock springs open after a few moments. Emma slithers into the office, and pulls the door firmly shut behind her.

There is no sign of Gold, and Emma lets out a sigh of relief. A cool, grey morning light illuminates the room with long shadows, casting an eerie sheen over the place. Emma had been in here earlier, when Gold called her up to ask if she’d seen anything odd with any of the returnees, though she’d hardly noticed the luxury of this place then.

Whereas Emma’s office is nothing more than a fancy cupboard with cardstock ceiling tiles and thin plaster walls, Gold’s office is made up of maple panelling and thick velvet curtains, with a wall of bookcases opposite an oak desk and leather chair. A pristine leather couch is near the bookcases, with a circular, hand-crafted table and chairs in the centre of the room.

Emma moves silently through the room towards the desk, her shoes sinking into the thick rug with each step. Gold’s desk is neat and orderly, and Emma shuffles through a pile of loose documents as gently and non-disruptively as she can manage. They are mostly pages of Storybrooke policies and procedures, media releases, and printed email threads detailing the departure details – nothing of any importance, really.

There are a few returnee files with scrawled notes and printed summaries of their stay so far on the other corner, but there are no names she recognizes. The desk drawers are empty of anything other than office supplies and more policy documents too, and there is no sign of the missing paperwork from Killian’s file anywhere on Gold’s desk.

But that would be too easy.

Emma abandons the desk and moves instead to the table and four chairs. Two white china teacups sit on carved coasters, an empty glass canteen of water between them. A wire trash bin is at the table’s base, not yet been picked up by housekeeping.

Perhaps it’s the morning light catching in the water canteen and shining directly onto the trash bin, but for whatever reason, a crumbled ball of paper amidst discarded sticky notes and tissues catches her eye. Emma bends down, plucks the paper out from the trash, smoothing out the wrinkles, anticipation rising.

To her disappointment, rather than revealing Gold’s evil master plan for Killian and the rest of the returnees, the crumpled piece is essentially an empty page. Save for one word, scrawled in a cursive, sloping script in the bottom corner.

Baelfire.

Emma frowns, squinting at the word to make it out in the dim light. The word means nothing to her at first impression. At the same time, something is making goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. She runs her finger over the word, which had been written with such a forceful hand she can feel the imprint of the pen strokes, trying to place the unease growing in her gut.

Perhaps it’s not the word itself that makes her skin tingle. Emma can’t be sure, but the handwriting of the name looks similar to the writing she remembers being next to the sword on the restricted items list.

Gold’s handwriting, she surmises. Of course.

It’s just a scrap of paper, but it may be her only piece of evidence at this time. Against her instincts of leaving everything where she found it, Emma folds the paper into a neat square and slides it into the back pocket of her jeans.

Emma faces the opposite wall, where the large bookcases stand. They are full of heavy law and ethical tomes, covered with a layer of dust that is at least several weeks thick. Between two of the bookcases is a large, elaborate painting of a manor house. The painting is a good three feet wide and nearly as tall as the bookcases. It probably cost a fortune, and the manor house itself in the painting is like luxuriousness incarnate. Drawn to be built of rich black wood, three storeys tall, with a white porch wrapping around the house itself. The house is shadowed by tall trees and bushes, a horse-drawn carriage ambling up the green lane towards the house.

Unlike the bookcases, with their layer of dust, the painting is clean and pristine. Surely housekeeping wouldn’t ignore the books and only dust the painting?

Emma frowns and peers closer, squinting in the low light. There are a few fingerprints scattered around the edge of the frame, as if … as if someone had taken the painting off the wall.

Heart hammering, she reaches forward and hooks her fingers around the edge of the painting. She tugs forward, and it swings out from the wall like a door, so easily she stumbles back a few steps.

Behind the painting is a steel vault door, a five-spoked handle in the centre. Emma stares at it, momentarily so taken aback she can’t even process what she is seeing.

She tugs on the spokes, but Emma already knows Gold would never be so careless to leave this open. It doesn’t budge at all, and Emma lets out a frustrated huff.

She leans against the heavy vault door, letting her hand rest over the combination lock beside the spokes. She twists it absently, trying to feel any internal movements. But instead, the lock warms under her touch, the metal heating her palm so suddenly that she snaps her hand back. To her utter surprise, the dark steel is warming to a bright orange where she had touched it, in the imprint of her fingers.

A loud click echoes then throughout the room, and Emma blinks rapidly as the steel fades back to its regular cool steel. She can feel her heart hammering in her chest, and she tentatively tries the rotating handle again.

This time, it turns far too easily.

Somehow, someway, she has unlocked the safe.

Swallowing down the rising tide of anxiety and deciding then and there that whatever just happened is a problem for another day, Emma twists the handle again and swings the heavy door open.

The vault has a small light inside to illuminate its contents, switched on by the act of opening the door. The vault itself contains a multi-layered circular shelf that is nearly as tall as she is. It reminds Emma of a Lazy Susan from an old foster mother’s house, where the best cookies and treats were always hidden away out of sight by the rotating turntable.

This, however, has nothing as innocent as children’s cookies on it.

On every square inch of the shelves are glass containers, of every size and shape. Within them, are objects – hundreds of objects.

Some are random, like things Emma would see on a cluttered side table at home. A pretty flower paperweight, a half-burnt candle, an old dollar bill. Others are more elaborate: a diamond bracelet that twinkles in the faint light, a stained-glass flower vase, even an old brass oil lamp that looks straight out of the Disney movie Aladdin.

But more startling than the objects themselves is that each glass container has a small cue card affixed to it with identifying information – the name of each returnee and the date they disappeared, written in the same cursive as the small scrap of paper in Emma’s back pocket.

Emma peers further into the vault, standing on her tiptoes. There’s not only the one turntable full of these objects, but at least a half dozen more, built onto a larger turntable that rotates itself within the vault. Hundreds of objects are held in this vault, like some sort of twisted museum display. Feeling entranced, Emma reaches out a hesitant hand, turning the tables gently to see more and more of the objects.

A small sewing kit, loose purple thread still hanging out of the half-closed clasp – Aurora Perrault, 1959.

A bent, stainless-steel fork – Ariel Andersen, 2010.

A wrinkled Jack of Hearts playing card, hand illustrated with smudged ink – William Scarlet, 1865.

Emma’s stomach twists with disgust, nausea roiling over her, and she covers her mouth with her hands, not sure if she’s going to scream or throw up. These are the returnees’ items, some random and meaningless, others priceless – objects stolen from lives, from across different place and times.

She doesn’t understand why these objects are here, but their presence, in a hidden safe in Commander Gold’s office, makes her feel light-headed and overwhelmed.

Emma is unable to stop herself. Mesmerized, Emma looks at turntable after turntable, recognizing several more names as she goes.

A porcelain rabbit figurine, with a chipped ear and faded paint – Alice Lewis, 1885.

Forest green gloves, embroidered with gold and purple whorls – Elsa Arendelle, 2008.

A velvety pink headscarf – Marian Locksley, 2006

As she swivels to the next turntable, Emma’s heart stops. In containers next to each other are a peridot engagement ring on a shiny gold band and a letter-opener in the design of a sword, with a gleaming hilt and blade.

Mary Margaret Blanchard, 1983.

David Nolan, 1983.

This time even her hand over her mouth isn’t enough to stop a small cry escaping her lips. She stares at the ring and the letter-opener, at her parents’ names written in Gold’s cursive handwriting.

These items – an object from each returnee, her parents’ things … what the actual hell is Gold up to?

Emma almost picks up the container with her mother’s ring but draws her hand back. Who knows what Gold has rigged up in here. She leans back from the safe then, taking a breath to steady the roiling horror threatening to overwhelm her.

She came here to try and find the missing pages from Killian’s file, but this … this is so much more. This is proof Gold has something to do with all the returnees being here.

Emma pulls at the turntables again, intending to reset them to where she found them, when another container catches her eye. On the turntable next to the one containing her mother’s ring and her father’s letter opener, is a container with a curved, silver ship’s hook.

Killian Jones, 1748.

Seeing the stolen objects of the many returnees she’s interacted with over the past months had made her shocked. Seeing her mother’s ring and father’s letter opener had made her horrified. But seeing a silver hook, from the pirate ship – Killian’s home – in that creepy glass container makes Emma angry.

What the actual hell is going on here?

As she gapes at the hook, Emma’s pager lets out a loud beep then, startling her so badly she jumps, making the glass containers rattle.

It’s a note from Anna; I’ve got everyone. Can you come and meet us? Conference Room 35.

Emma slides it back onto her belt, and with a final look at the hook, ring, and letter-opener, she twists the turntables back to where she found them. She pulls the heavy safe door shut, swinging the painting back over it and ensures everything else is in its proper place, before she turns on her heel and slides out of Gold’s office, as sneakily as she’d entered it.

When they reach her office, after unlocking the door, she gestures Killian ahead of her. He hasn’t said a word yet, and his face is solemn, the utter shock now an icy grit. His jaw is set, his eyes steel, the cold-hearted pirate that lurks beneath his charming veneer returned full force.

“This is his doing.” His voice is shaking with rage, the words more a growl than a sentence.

“This is crazy,” Emma says, swallowing the growing bile rising in her throat as she shuts the office door behind herself. She grips the side of her desk, her knuckles turning white, as she falls heavily into her desk chair. “How – are you sure that it’s the same guy?”

“Absolutely.”

He is still sanding by the door, hands curled into fists at his side, almost vibrating with fury. There is clearly some history here, and Emma remembers the vile that Gold spoke of Killian with when the returnees first arrived, how he had demanded for him to be locked up and kept away from the others.

“Who is he, Killian? How do you know him?”

“He’s a monster.” He spits the words, and then lifts his left hand, shaking his sleeve up his arm and rubbing at the scar that encircles his wrist, ragged and rough. “See this scar, Swan? He did it to me.”

She has wondered about the scar ever since she first saw it weeks ago, and now the shadow that had darkened his expression when she mentioned it then makes sense. She is truly sick now, her stomach twisting at the thought of her boss, the man she has sat across from in meetings and who controls this entire goddamn situation, literally attacking someone to the point of leaving such a horrific scar.

“He – dear god, Killian. That looks like he tried to cut your hand off!”

“It was no mere attempt,” Killian replies hollowly, eyes darkening. “He did cut it off.”

Emma blinks at him, and then stares at his hand, clearly attached to his arm. Now fair enough, she doesn’t know a lot about surgery or how re-attaching a limb would work, but Emma sure as hell knows there is no way Killian would have had his hand re-attached or be able to use it with 1700s medicine.

“He – what? I don’t understand. But your – your hand? How was it … fixed?”

“Magic.”

Emma’s heart stutters at the word. She leans back in her chair, stunned as if she’s been slapped.

“What?”

“A witch,” Killian continues, oblivious to Emma’s reaction, and he waves his right hand airily. “Or a fairy or some other manner of creature. I suppose I never actually asked her. My crew and I had come across her once before ever meeting Gold, and we retreated to her after his attack. She was a bit prickly, but she re-attached it for me after my crew begged her to. She had only a little magic left after running into trouble of her own, and she was no expert, hence the scar, but she did her best.”

Magic, witches, fairies. Her superpower remains silent, indicating Killian is telling the truth as he sees it, but Emma can’t believe it. Abruptly, Emma feels on the edge of tears. A hand re-attached by magic?

What?

Killian seems to finally notice her thunderstruck expression. “To you, Swan, magic is a myth. In my time, it was as common as your light switches. And clearly,” he adds, holding up his hand and flexing his fingers, “it worked.”

Seriously, what the hell is her life these days? Magic? Fine, she has no explanation for why Killian is standing in front of her, two and a half centuries after he should have died. But magic? No way. Aliens or scientific advancements in time travel make more sense than magic. But then she thinks of the video Anna had shown her of her sister controlling snowflakes as naturally as could be, and well, hell, magic at this point may make as much sense as anything else.

“I don’t understand,” Emma manages finally, wrenching her mind away from the literal concept of magic to the problem in front of her. Gold, Killian, time travel, his hand. “How – why did Gold cut your hand off?” 

“I stole something from him.”

… Of course he did.

Her mind starting to burst at the seams, she can only gape back at Killian as he explains his history with Gold, utterly lost for words. In Killian’s time, Gold had been a powerful landowner in England, who ventured to the New World after making a bad deal and losing his fortune. He didn’t know how long Gold had been in America before Killian heard of him, but he did know was already successful and rich in his new surroundings, a dangerous businessman who no one dared cross.

Except Killian.

“As you may remember, Swan, at that time I was a wanted man by the English Crown, having stolen and burned many of their ships. They had done their own damage to me, and it was my utmost desire at the time to ruin them in any other way I could. So, when I heard rumours of an enchanted object that Gold had brought over from England, the last of his previous fortune and a gift from the king and royal family themselves, naturally, I wanted it. Besides, my crew and I hadn’t had a good heist in months. It was a hard, cold winter, and the stormy weather had kept many ships trapped in European harbours, and my men were itching for some action.”

Even amidst her shock at this whole situation, Emma has to resist the urge to roll her eyes – pirates.

“My crew and I were moored in a town called Newport, near where his new estate was. We were restocking the Jolly Roger when I heard he’d left the town for business and would not be back for a fortnight, leaving his mansion unprotected.”

“So, you of course just waltzed in and stole it. What even was it?”

He flashes her a devious grin, a glimmer of his charming, mischievous self breaking through his dark demeanour. “I’m a hell of a pirate, love, even on land. It was only too easy to sneak into his manor. We took everything we could get our hands on, and then I found this object, the king’s gift.” Killian cups his hands, as if he was holding several apples in his palms. “It was roughly this size. I couldn’t tell you what it was called, for I’ve never come across anything like it before. I thought perhaps a music box or a small chest at first. It was circular, with the sides plated in pure gold leaf. The top of it was beautiful, no doubt painted by the finest artist to represent a dark indigo sky with white stars emblazoned upon it. I wondered if it was only the case for the true treasure within, but I could never get the damn thing to open. My crew and I tried everything we could think of – prying it, smashing it, hammering it. Nothing. It seemed empty inside, too, for when you’d knock on it, it was hollow. After all the efforts for seemingly nothing, I thought about simply selling it. But, then I heard Gold was desperate to have it returned, that he had ripped his manor apart looking for it, so I knew it was something valuable indeed.”

Emma is trying to picture the object Killian describes, and she has no idea what it could be either. Sounds to her like a little box, like something you’d find in an old antique or knick-knack store. “Okay, so what did you do with it then?”

“I buried it, somewhere safe where I knew Gold couldn’t find it.”

The entire tale is the most Killian has spoken about his past as a pirate since appearing in this time, and Emma supposes she shouldn’t be surprised it ends with a tale of buried treasure. Typical.

“Besides that,” Killian continues slowly, and he rubs one of his upper arms absently, as if recalling a past chill. “My crew didn’t like it. Once we realized we couldn’t do anything with it or allow Gold to have it again, we needed it off the ship as soon as we could.”

“Didn’t like it?” Emma echoes, her skin rippling with goosebumps. “What do you mean?”

Killian frowns, and he rubs at his chin thoughtfully. “I know you don’t believe in magic, Swan, but if you saw this, you would. Even though we couldn’t get it open, the damned thing seemed to suck the energy of the area around it. People were grumpier near it, more prone to anger, and more likely to need hours upon hours of sleep after being around it for a long time. As if it pulled their energy into itself and made them weaker, less honourable versions of themselves.”

He’s right, she doesn’t believe in magic. The thought of a strangle little box, gifted to her boss in the 1700s that caused hardened pirates to want it out of their sight, is something out of a movie. But … after all Emma has seen and all she’s heard, even just in the last few minutes, perhaps she better start believing.

“In any regard, we buried it and forgot about it for a few months until we returned one day to Newport. Gold knew my ship – hell, everyone knew my ship, then – and he was watching for it. He surprised us and thought to kill me and my crew, but realized rather quickly if we were all dead, he’d have no way to find out where the object was hidden. So instead … he thought to teach me a lesson.” He holds his left hand up again. “Hence, this.” 

Emma leans back into her desk chair, sinking into the old cushion and letting out a deep breath. She’s starting to get a tight, fluttery feeling in her chest she gets when she’s becoming overwhelmed, the feeling that usually spurs her to run, run as fast as she can.

But there’s no running from this. This, this twisted world with time travel and now apparently magic, is her reality.

Killian falls silent, finally taking a seat opposite her instead of standing, fuming, by the door. But Emma doesn’t know what to say back to him, so they sit in silence for several long minutes. After all, what do you say back to someone who is telling you about their adversarial meetings in the 1740s with your boss, who was the one to cut off his hand that was then re-attached with magic?

Emma has always been a logical person; she’s had to be. There was no room for whimsy or belief in the unknown during her childhood, not when she was burned too early by a world that only showed her its dark and cruel side. Her mind is so overwhelmed, she’s not even sure how to begin processing all this. If Killian wasn’t between her and the door, she may have started running. 

“So, you buried this object,” she begins, forcing herself to focus on the tangible parts of Killian’s story, though it’s not enough to not notice the irony of discussing ancient buried treasure with a pirate. “Probably in a place built over by a parking lot, or so deep underground that its lost to history, or found by a random person and sitting on someone’s grandma’s shelf –”

“That seems unlikely,” Killian muses. “I would hazard a guess it has never been found. After all, that must be why I’m here, in your time. He’s after the object again. He couldn’t get it from me then, and for whatever reason, he’s brought me here to find it.”

Emma has come to the same conclusion herself now, but she shakes her head in dismay. “I just don’t understand. If he wants this thing back so bad, why not get it from you back then, not invent time travel and wait nearly three hundred years for it?”

He shrugs, but his eyes flash. “Only the devil himself knows what madness lurks in that monster’s mind.”

Emma sighs and rubs at her eyes. If ridiculous was a line crossed back when Killian first said he knew Gold from his time, this situation is so far gone, Emma’s not even sure what to make of it anymore.

“So where is it buried? The object?”

Killian doesn’t answer, idly tracing the scar around his wrist. She watches him, wondering if he’s simply trying to remember, but when the silence stretches on, she realizes he has no intention of answering her, and for whatever reason, that hurts.

“Killian … you know you can trust me.” 

“I do trust you, Swan,” he says, and his voice softens as he meets her eyes. “It’s Gold I don’t. This object, whatever its value to him, has been safe for nearly three centuries. Its secret is safest with just one person.” He pauses briefly. “For now.”

Though still stung, Emma nods. “Okay. For now.” She lets out a deep breath, and runs a hand through her hair, combing out the tangles. “Well, if this object is really what Gold is after and you’re the only person alive who knows where it is, it makes sense why Gold wanted you arrested at first.”

“He what?” Killian’s voice is sharp, his eyes flashing with anger again, and Emma winces. She supposes she hadn’t told Killian that part yet.

As his expression darkens, Emma explains how Gold had first wanted Killian detained more formally than all the other returnees due to his reaction down at the lake where he first fought and argued with the Storybrooke agents, along with his past as a pirate and wanted criminal. How, now that she knows this history, it was most likely just a ruse for Gold to be able to keep a closer eye on Killian than the others.

“That slimy bastard.”

Silently, Emma agrees. She doesn’t know what Gold is planning, but she already knows whatever it is, it isn’t good. At her last meeting with him, when he’d asked her about ‘anything odd’ with the returnees, she’d left the conversation with a pit in her stomach, the root of doubt and suspicion that has now blossomed into fully fledged mistrust and, frankly, fear.

“We have to get you out of here. Out of Storybrooke, away from Gold. It’s not safe for you here anymore.”

“I concur.”

But then Emma frowns. Regina is away today, attending meetings offsite in regards to the returnees’ release, and Emma knows there is no way she is going to get Killian discharged from here without her permission. Any other returnee, maybe, but not Killian the media magnet.

She could attempt to sneak him out, but if they are caught … well, it was bad enough that Emma was seen by the media near him during his previous escape attempt. If they are caught again when she’s aiding him in an escape attempt … she’d be re-assigned to another returnee at the very least or fired at the very worst, and Killian will be kept here, in Gold’s clutches, for even longer.

“I can’t get you out of here tonight,” she says, swallowing down the anxiety that comes with the thought. “We have to wait until Regina is here, and do it all by the books or … well, I don’t know what will happen. She’ll be back tomorrow.” Emma sighs, and rises to her feet. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to the barracks. I think you may be safer there with the guards all around.”

They leave her office, walking carefully around the corner leading to the foyer where the media conference had been. But it’s over now, all the chairs and the podium cleaned up.

The walk to the barracks is mostly in silence, both of them lost in thought. When they reach the lobby, Emma grips Killian’s arm, pausing him in his tracks.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” she warns, her voice a whisper. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to talk to Regina about your release.”

“When have I ever gotten into trouble?” he replies teasingly, and he rests his hand over hers briefly before moving towards the staircase. “Goodbye, Emma.”

She watches him head upstairs to his room, until he’s gone through a door and out of sight.  Emma should go back to her office and get some semblance of work done, but she pauses instead. The cafeteria is just ahead of her, buzzing with the hum of conversation. It’s lunch now, and the returnees are free to move about as the media are gone. An idea has occurred to her, and instead of heading back to her office, she walks into the busy cafeteria.

Near one of the wide windows at the opposite end, Emma spots David and Mary Margaret. As she’s walking over, Mary Margaret notices her first, brightening with a wide smile and shining eyes.

“Hi Emma!”

Their enthusiasm still makes her a bit uncomfortable, but she tries to smile genuinely as she takes a seat opposite them. They are smiling widely at her, clearly thinking she’s here for a friendly chat or at least a step in the right direction for their relationship, and suddenly Emma wishes that was all she was here for. A pleasant, light conversation with the parents she lost for 28 years, returned to her miraculously by (as it’s truly appearing to be) magic. 

And yet here she is instead, a dark cloud of fear and suspicion hanging over her. She glances around before speaking, not really sure who she should be on the lookout for, but in any case, the other returnees and agents are pre-occupied with their own meal or conversation. And, besides, she supposes she has an excuse to be sat here talking with David and Mary Margaret – they are, after all, her parents.

“We’ve been wanting to tell you,” Mary Margaret starts brightly, before Emma can get up the nerve to speak. “Graham told us that once the first group of returnees start to be released, he thinks David and I will be allowed out for more visits. We were hoping, well …” she trails off suddenly, uncertain, and David grasps her hand tightly, squeezing it for support. Mary Margaret smiles at him, and continues, her voice much stronger now, “Maybe we could meet you and Henry somewhere for a meal one day?”

“Oh,” Emma says, taken aback. “Um, yeah, that that would be great.”

They smile in delight, and Emma finds she does truly mean that. If they had said something like this even a few days ago, she probably would’ve scowled and made up some excuse as to why it couldn’t happen, but instead, she is already imagining them at Henry’s favourite restaurant, with him showing them his favourite dishes and desserts. “Um, Henry will be so excited to hear about that. And I want to hear more about it too, but first – I came here to ask you for a favour.”

They nod, exchanging a glance with each other, plainly thrilled that whatever this is about, Emma has decided to ask for their help. Their willingness makes Emma’s heart twinge; they’re so happy to have anything from her, even if it’s an indication of a grain of trust, that it lights up their whole expressions as if she just agreed to start calling them mom and dad.

She gives herself a quick mental shake, and focuses again. She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice so they can only just hear her. “There’s something … weird going on around here, I’m still trying to figure it all out, but I need your help in the meantime.”

David and Mary Margaret trade worried glances at her tone. “Of course,” David says firmly. “What’s going on? What is it about?”

Emma hesitates. She wants to tell them what Killian told her, but it’s not her story to share. Besides, the less people who know about Gold, the better. Instead, she says, “Can you keep an eye on Killian Jones for me for the rest of the day? Make sure he’s doing okay and keeping himself out of trouble?”

David frowns, and crosses his arms across his chest. “The pirate?” he demands, and Mary Margaret glares at him.

“It’s important,” Emma continues, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I – can’t really say much else, but it’s important.”

“Of course, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, and she elbows David, who, reluctantly, nods. “That’s no problem at all. We’ll ask him to have dinner with us tonight.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.” She then gets to her feet, and disappointment flashes across their faces. She winces. “Sorry, I have to get back to work. But, I – uh, well I’m looking forward to that dinner one day soon.” 

The disappointment fades a bit, and they say their goodbyes. Emma returns to her office for the rest of the afternoon, trying to get through her stack of endless paperwork, but it’s pointless. She gets nothing done, her mind on Gold and buried treasure and even when she gets home, she’s a nervous wreck all night, unable to focus on anything at all.  

Henry is his usual chatty self, but Emma can’t keep focused on what he’s saying. She has no patience for cooking tonight either, so instead orders in pizza, much to her son’s delight. As he’s munching on his fourth piece of deep-dish pepperoni, Henry pauses mid-bite, glancing at Emma’s untouched first slice.

“Mom? Are you ok?”

“Sorry, kid,” she replies, and she forces herself to smile reassuringly. “Just distracted by work. Want to play a game tonight?”

He is satisfied with that answer, and playing Clue with Henry does help to pass the time, but her heart isn’t in it and she is soundly beaten in each of the three rounds they play. When it’s finally her son’s bedtime and he’s sound asleep, peaceful and warm in his bed, Emma herself gets ready for bed.

Sleep, however, has never seemed so far away. Her mind roils with the revelations of the day, her stomach turning with nausea and anxiety. With no wink of sleep in sight, Emma sits up in bed instead. She leans against the solid wood of her headboard, and hugs her knees into her chest, watching the tree outside her window sway with the cold wind.

It’s so simple, to watch the trees, illuminated by the street lights below. They are just as they were yesterday, unchanged by the revelation of magic such as controlling snow or re-attaching hands or transporting hundreds of people through time. 

She watches the trees for a while, and at one point, Emma finally drifts off, her dreams a jumble of pirate ships and bright white light.

Those dreams, however, are abruptly broken by a shrill ring of her cellphone.

Emma jolts awake, and grabs the phone from the nightstand, answering it without reading the caller ID.

“Hello?” 

“Emma, it’s Anna!” Her colleague’s voice is frantic and harried, and Emma sits up, her heartbeat accelerating.

“Anna?”

“You need to get back here to Storybrooke right away. It’s – it’s about Killian Jones. One of the returnees was found dead and –”

Emma swings her legs out from under the covers, the floor cold beneath her bare feet, as icy as the shot of pure panic running through her. “What? Is – is Killian –” 

“No, no, he’s fine,” Anna says hurriedly, as if just realizing the implication of her words. Emma’s heart stutters again, her emotions of fear and relief in whiplash. “Well, I mean he’s not hurt, he’s not quite okay as you would say, but –”

“Anna, what the hell is going on?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean – okay, like I was saying, I was staying here tonight with Elsa, and then – well, there was a commotion maybe an hour ago and when I went to see what had happened … well, one of the returnees is dead. It’s pretty clear they were attacked … like, with a sword.” 

Emma’s heart sinks though she’s sure she already knows. If he’s not the one dead, and the victim was attacked with a sword …

“And what does this have to do with Killian?”

“He’s been arrested for the murder.” 

_______________________________________________________

The drive back to Storybrooke is a blur. She’d woken up her neighbour across the hall and half-dragged her over to watch Henry and get him off to school in the morning, only telling her there was an emergency and she had to leave right now.

When she makes it onto Storybrooke’s grounds, she careens into an empty parking spot, half out of the vehicle before she’s stopped the engine. The main returnee barracks building is bright and illuminated, and Emma marches towards it, her heart pounding heavily with each step she takes.

On the steps leading to the building, outside the main doors, stands a group of several individual Emma recognizes as police and FBI officers from their emblazoned jackets. As she approaches, one holds her hand up to block Emma’s path.

“Hold up! No one is allowed entry right now. A federal investigation is underway.” 

Emma’s hands curl into fists at her side, and she digs out her identification badge from her jacket pocket. She has no time to argue. “You don’t understand, I need to get in there.”

The officers’ frown at her badge, and she opens her mouth to furiously continue, when a voice calls her name from within the main doors.

“Emma?” The guards move aside, revealing Kristoff Reinsdyr, one of the guards at Storybrooke, looking pale and frazzled. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

One of the FBI officers scowls, and looks Emma up and down. “We have orders to not let anyone else in until Commander Hua says –”

“Emma needs to come in. She’s Jones’ agent in charge of his case here.”

Kristoff gestures her forward, and Emma doesn’t wait to see if the officers complain again, though they do move out of her way finally. She and Kristoff hurry inside, where the brightness of the fluorescently lit building makes her eyes sting as he leads her towards the back staircase.

“Glad you’re here, Emma. Anna told me she called you,” Kristoff says, as they take the steps two at a time up to the fourth floor to the isolation and interview area. Emma is reminded sharply of the first time she had come up here, when she’d met Killian the first night, when he’d been belligerent and thrown in here to cool down.

The thought sets her teeth on edge. “Kristoff, what the hell is this about? Anna said there had been a murder?”

He hesitates. “Yes, it seems like it. There was some commotion around midnight in the residences. We thought perhaps it was a fight, but when we got there to see what had happened …” He trails off, and shakes his head once. “It was awful, Emma. Truly horrific.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and Emma decides she doesn’t want to know. “And – they think Killian did it? Where is he now?”

“In one of the interview rooms upstairs. He was with a few of the other guards for a bit, until the FBI got here about an hour ago. Now he’s in with their commander.”

They reach the top floor, and Kristoff leads her down a cold, empty hallway to the cluster of interview rooms at the end of the corridor. Kristoff opens a small side door, into a small observation room that faces the larger interview room through one-way glass. Three FBI officers are in the room already and they frown at her, but she simply flashes her identification badge in their direction before looking through the one-way glass at the scene ahead.

Killian is seated in a similar room to the one she first met him in, his face smooth and impassive, as cold as she’s ever seen it. His wrists are bound with handcuffs, chained to the table in the centre of the room. Mulan Hua, the commander of the Boston FBI who Emma recognizes from the lake, is seated across from him, watching him with a careful, quiet gaze.

“Let’s go over this again,” she is saying, her voice strained with patience. Emma isn’t sure how long Killian has been talking to her, but by his sour expression, she knows they’ve already been over this conversation several times. “Tell me exactly what happened this evening.”

“As I have told you a thousand times since I was dragged from my bed by your deranged guards,” he snaps, drawing the words out so they are each peppered with a near growl. “I have no idea what happened. I was in my room all evening, save for dinner. All I know is what you’ve told me: a man has been found dead, and you suspect I had something to do with it.”

“Murdered,” Mulan corrects, her face solemn. “He’s not only dead, he was murdered.”

Killian rattles the handcuffs pointedly. “Not by my hand. If I’d done it, I’d bloody well confess. I may be a pirate, but I’m no coward. I’ve committed my fair share of atrocities, but I will not confess to something I did not do.”

“How do you explain the fact that your sword was found discarded nearby, stained with blood?”

It could be a damning statement, but Killian laughs, rumbling and low. “You think me fool enough to leave a murder weapon lying about where any bumbling twit can come across it? Not to mention that I haven’t had my sword since I arrived in this bloody time when your guards confiscated it, so how, pray tell, do you think I managed to get my sword back?” 

Mulan sighs, irritation flitting across her features. “Well, we know how you did it. We have evidence. Video evidence of you removing the sword from the Collection Room.”

Emma’s eyes widen, and she feels abruptly like she’s been punched in the gut. They have what?

Killian, however, isn’t fazed by this bombshell; after all, he probably has no idea what a video is. “I don’t care what evidence you say you have. It’s all false, I didn’t do it and I haven’t had my sword in weeks. So, either arrest me and throw me in a dungeon, or let me go for I have nothing more to say to you.”

 And at that, he falls silent. Mulan tries to get him to speak again, but to no avail. Eventually, she sighs and gets to her feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor and making Emma flinch. “Okay. You think about things, and I’ll be back with something for you to eat and drink.”  

As she heads for the door, Emma sees her chance to speak with her. She darts past Kristoff and the other FBI officers in the observation room, out into the hallway, catching Mulan just as she’s shutting the door behind her. 

“Commander,” Emma calls. “What the hell is going on?” 

“Oh, Agent Swan, I’m glad you’re here.” Mulan breathes out heavily. Now that she’s out of the interview room, she appears tired, her face pale, her eyebrows pinched together with stress. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you. Do you have any idea why Jones would want to kill Henry Jekyll?”

“No!” Emma replies vehemently. “Killian wouldn’t kill – who the hell even is that?”

“He is another returnee. Or rather, was. He was one of Jones’s roommates when he was released from isolation. He was found dead earlier by his current roommate. He’d been stabbed several times.”

Emma stares back at her, lost for words, as Kristoff peers out of the other room, as if making sure everything is okay.

Mulan nods at him. “Officer, can you get me a sandwich and water bottle for Jones?”

He agrees, and disappears back down the hall the way he had come with Emma. Mulan turns back to Emma, and at her expression, lets out another deep sigh.

“Emma,” she says gently, almost understandingly. “I know you must have gotten close to Jones while he’s been here –” Emma inhales sharply, but Mulan doesn’t seem to notice “– since you’re his agent and all. Obviously, you don’t want to believe he could have done something like this. But you have to remember that he’s a criminal. He was an outlaw and a pirate, wanted by the British Navy at the time for treason and murder. And that’s just the recorded crimes. We really don’t know anything about him, or what he’s capable of. I’m not surprised something like this has come up, honestly.”

“I am,” Emma replies bluntly. “There is no way Killian killed someone, not when tomorrow – I mean, we are trying to get all the returnees out of here not keep them locked up longer!”

Mulan pinches the bridge of her nose, and gestures for Emma to follow her. “Come with me, take a look at what we found.”

Emma follows her into a second interview room, empty save for a steel table with a laptop on it. Mulan opens the laptop, entering her credentials to log in. It seems to take an exorbitant amount of time, Emma’s nerves fraying further with each passing second. The screen opens to a generic Federal Bureau of Investigation backdrop, and Mulan clicks on a video saved to the desktop, labelled simply ‘surveillance footage.’

“This is from back in early February,” Mulan explains, as the video loads up to reveal a room Emma recognizes as the Collection Room in the basement, where she visited once before to collect Mary Margaret, David and Killian’s belonging, with its shelves upon shelves of boxes and plastic containers.

“Security pulled it for us once we identified the sword. Watch.”

The recording is of the deserted collection room for several moments, blurry and shrouded in shadows, the time blinking in the corner of the video as 3:30 a.m. Then, grainy white light floods the room, the main door swinging open to let in the hallway light.

Through the pixelated footage, Emma recognizes Killian as he strides into the room, confident as ever. He walks to the back of the room without hesitation, to a small area behind a chain link fence which reaches to the ceiling. He disappears off camera as he steps into the fenced-in area, but he’s only hidden for a few moments before he steps back into view.

In his hands, is a sheathed sword, its handle black and simple, apparent even in the poor footage. He removes it from the sheath, and holds it up to his eye level, admiring the blade. He then re-sheathes it and slips out of the room, the light fading from the room as the door swings shut behind him.

The video stops, and Emma stares at it, dumbfounded. There it is, plain as day. Evidence of Killian retrieving the sword.

But she shakes her head as she remembers her own visit to the Collection Room more clearly. “No, no, that’s not possible. Listen, I know he couldn’t have gotten the sword. It was checked out, I remember because I went and got his other stuff and saw it on the list.”

“The list?” Mulan frowns. “What list?”

“There was a list in the Collection Room, a list of each person’s items which weren’t allowed to be checked out, but his sword had a note that it was taken out. So he couldn’t have done it, because you needed special permission to get those restricted items out. I remember because I was –”

Emma trails off, because Mulan is watching her with a skeptical frown. She clearly doesn’t believe Emma, and after all, why would she? There’s video proof of Killian getting the sword himself.

Kristoff knocks on the door to the interview room then, opening it to show the water bottle and wrapped sandwich in his hand. “Here you are, Commander.”

“Perfect,” Mulan says, closing the laptop and striding towards him. “Thank you, officer.”

She’s already back in the hallway, food in hand, marching down to the Killian’s interview room, before Emma, still stunned by the video, springs into action.

She hurries out into the hallway and, before Mulan can open the door to re-join Killian, blocks her path. Killian may be her … well, Emma’s not sure if she could even call him a friend, but whatever he is, he’s her responsibility. Returnees are always given legal counsel if they require it for any reason, including an active criminal investigation whether they are defendant or plaintiff.

“Does he have a lawyer on their way?”

“No, he declined one.” 

Mulan says it calmly, but something about it is the last straw for Emma. The last twenty-four hours have nearly broken her – the video of Elsa, the knowledge that Gold is from the 1700s too, that magic is the most probable reason why all these people have shown up here, and now this: her … returnee arrested for murder and being questioned without legal counsel.

“He’s from the 1700s!” Emma shouts, and Mulan flinches in surprise. Even Killian glances over to the door, as if he heard her too. “Of course he declined one, I don’t know if they had lawyers back then. He has no idea about our laws or processes or anything. Killian doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, he needs a lawyer!”

Mulan regards Emma quietly, and she shrugs. “Well, I’ll speak to him about it again, but I doubt he’ll change his mind.”

She opens the door with the food, and as she does, Emma leans slightly around her, to peer into the room. Killian is watching Mulan enter, stony-faced, but for a moment, a single moment before the door slams shut behind Mulan, he catches Emma’s eye.

If only magic was real; maybe she could send him a telepathic message to ask for a lawyer. But, Emma’s no magician, and the door swings shut, the breeze catching her in the face and rustling her hair. 

“Here,” Mulan says, her voice muffled by the door, and Emma hurries back to the other room, to the one-way glass so she can hear better. The other agents are glaring at her now with open hostility, but Emma ignores them, moving past them so she is standing directly in front of the one-way glass.

Mulan has resumed her seat, the water bottle and sandwich on the table between them, but Killian doesn’t move to reach for them.

“Listen,” she says, casting a pointed look to the one-way glass. “Before we talk anymore about this, I’m going to remind you one more time that you are allowed to have legal representation before speaking with me.”

Killian remains silent.

Mulan huffs a sigh. “Alright. Okay, so let’s go over this again, shall we?”

Killian leans forward, the handcuff chains jangling loudly against the steel table.  “Commander,” he says, intently staring now at her across the table. His tone has changed, the defensive snarls replaced with a charming lilt, soothing and persuasive. “You are a smart woman, smarter than those oafs who were in here before you. You know I didn’t do this. Even if I was so idiotic to kill a man I had met only a handful of times on the eve of being released from this prison, you know as well as I that any criminal worth their salt wouldn’t leave a bloody murder weapon tied to them and them alone near a massacred body should they hope to get away with the crime. Whoever did this wanted you to find that sword, to know that it was mine so you would come to me right away and keep me locked up here.”

Mulan narrows her eyes, and she asks, only half-jokingly, “So what? Someone is setting you up?”

Killian’s gaze flicks over to the door, to where he had seen Emma, before he shrugs, as if the suggestion is ludicrous. But it’s enough to clue Emma in.

Of course. He’s right, he has no motive to kill Jekyll. But someone else does. Someone else, who has something to lose if Killian is released from Storybrooke with the rest of the returnees.

Gold.

He must’ve seen them at the news conference, must know Killian would’ve told Emma everything about their history together. Know that, of course, Emma would try everything in her power to get Killian out of here before Gold could do anything like lock him up like he had always wanted to. So he moved faster, found a way to keep him here, in his grasp where he hopes to get the location of the mysterious object out of Killian, once and for all.

“Emma?” Kristoff asks, reaching out a hand to her in concern, and Emma realizes he and the FBI officers are staring at her.

She waves them away, realization and horror roaring in her ears as loud as thunder. She is still trying to process this, when in the interview room, Killian leans back in his chair, his expression dark and cold.

Emma had woken up to a polite text of thanks from Wes for getting him home, but her follow-up message to see how he was doing went unanswered. All morning she’d had to resist the urge to drive over to Town Hall to ask him about his strange comments and make sure he was okay. It was only the raised eyebrows of Mary Margaret at the breakfast table and a gentle “you can go check on him if you’re worried” that made her put her phone down and focus on her day ahead instead.

She lets out a deep sigh, and tosses the pen up in the air again. Fine, Mary Margaret is right – she’s worried about him. He was like a different person last night. Sure, everyone gets drunk once in a while, but to then go about Henry’s book and weird dreams?

The similarities to Graham’s behaviour before his death is niggling at the back of her mind again, and the more she thinks about Graham and the circumstances around his untimely death, the worse the churning in her stomach becomes.

Emma tosses the pen up in the air again, forcing her thoughts to count again her repetitive catches instead of swirling into the abyss of uncertainty. Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three…

She’s up to number eighty-four when the old landline on her desk rings, shrill and demanding, the sound so loud and sudden in the office’s silence that Emma nearly falls out of her chair in surprise. The pen clatters to the ground as she shifts her weight to reach the phone, her chair slamming hard back onto the linoleum as she lifts the receiver.

“Storybrooke Sheriff’s Department, what’s your emergency?” Her voice comes out breathless from her surprise, and she clears her throat. “This is Sheriff Swan speaking.”

“Yes, hello,” replies the voice of a man, half-bleary with sleep but clear with annoyance. “This is Arnold Scuttle, caretaker of the Maritime Museum. I got an alert that the security perimeter around the museum has been breached.”

Emma’s heart sinks. The museum? With its current exhibits full of pirate regalia, where the old timey pirate ship in the painting on Wes’s wall and the storybook is currently moored?

Seriously?

The caller takes her silence the wrong way, huffing out, “You are the sheriff, aren’t you? You see, I’d go myself, but it’s late out and who knows what kind of hoodlum it could be!”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she steadies her own annoyance at the caller before answering. “Yes, I’ll go check it out.” She hangs up before the caller can add anything else, and clambers to her feet. She kicks the stray pen out of her way, distracted by what – or rather, who – she already knows will be waiting for her down at the docks, and sprints out into the quiet night.

______________________________

The harbour is calm tonight, the lapping of the waves against the docks a gentle rhythm. Wes leans against the rough wooden beams of the fence, staring out at the ship moored only a few feet away. He couldn’t see the ship clearly from the main road, but now he can see her, the looming masts and rigging illuminated by the amber glow of the museum’s security lighting.

The entire day he’d spent lost in thought, his head pounding both from a horrible hangover and the thoughts swirling through his mind. A growing feeling of unease and strangeness has consumed him, progressive and insidious, ever since the dreams began, but after seeing this ship that day at the museum with Emma and Henry, it’s magnified tenfold. His day had been fruitless and pointless, his usual accounting numbers a blur, and when he’d come home and when it came time to lie down to sleep again, he’d only slipped into another nightmare.

This one had been of the ship itself. He’d been walking up a gangway towards it, his footsteps barely audible amidst the chirping seagulls and calls of working men, greeting him as the captain of the ship. It was a hot day, and when he’d stepped foot onto the rough wooden planks, an ease settled over him, the most content and peaceful he’d felt in a long time.

But the dream had twisted soon afterwards, to a dreadful storm that sent the ship rocking and the peace evaporating into dread and terror. And, as usual, that had been the cue for him to jolt awake from the dream in a damp sweat.

He was restless, and instead of lying in his bed for countless hours with his mind drenched in nightmares, Wes ventured out into the night. He had no desire to repeat last night’s episode at the bar, which he can only vaguely remembers if he’s being honest. Instead, his feet had led him here, down the small gangway leading to the museum.

Standing here now, in the peace of the night, he’s calmer than he had after the bustling dream. He lingers, leaning against the fence and watching the gentle rocking of the ship. His mind remains unsettled, and not even the sea, which usually relaxes him, is enough tonight.

These nightmares … they’re becoming realer and realer with each one he has. They’re vivid and intense, the latest as clear as if it was a memory. He’s sure that he’s losing his mind but some days, his life as the treasurer has begun to feel more like the dream, whereas the nightmares are the reality.

Bright headlights swing into view from behind him, disrupting his train of thought. A car door slams shut, and Wes squints against the bright light as someone walks down the path towards him. He doesn’t recognize who it as they approach, silhouetted as they are by the headlights behind them, until their voice calls out.

“Wes?”

“Swan?”

It is indeed Emma, her figure coming into view as she steps closer towards him. She’s frowning, one hand lingering at the gun on her belt, and her eyes dart behind him to the ship and back again.

“What are you doing out here?”

Her voice is curt and cool, suspicious and mistrustful, and Wes’s defense rise, rattled at her tone.

“I’m not doing anything. I’m out for a walk.” 

“At two a.m.?”

“Is that illegal, Sheriff?” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest, shifting his weight away from the fence. There it is again; the growing indignation at being questioned rearing its ugly head, just as it had at the market a few weeks ago.

Emma shakes her head wearily as her stern expression fades, breaking the growing tension between them. “No, of course not. You tripped the museum’s security alarm, and I got a call to come and see what was going on.”

“Oh,” he says, and some of the fight evaporates. He glances over to the museum, to the silent ship at the docks, and he shakes his head, trying to return to his senses. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to disrupt your evening. I was just getting some fresh air; I must’ve gotten too close to the museum and set it off.”

Emma regards him silently for a beat, enough to make Wes feel like she’s trying to read his mind, before she inquires, “Are you okay, Wes?”

“I’m fine,” he replies, automatic and insistent. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She raises an eyebrow, glancing at the ship again, and he sighs. She’s perceptive, he’ll give her that. “Well, I suppose I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I was hoping the fresh air may help settle my mind.”

“Still having nightmares?”

Wes starts, blinking once in surprise. “Nightmares – how do – did I tell you?”

“Yeah, you did. Last night.”

He shakes his head in annoyance. Not at her, but at himself. He’d indulged in a vice he thought he’d banished years ago, and of course, he cannot remember a damn thing about the night, other than random flashes of memory – drinking to excess at the bar, Emma’s concerned expression when he almost fell off his stool, her accompanying him home. If he told her about these dreams, who knows what else he may have told her.

“You said they were – they were about Henry’s book,” Emma prompts, though her own voice is hesitant. “With ships and pirates.”

“Aye,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know it’s stupid, but these dreams … they really are disrupting my sleep.” His brow furrows, feeling at once silly for even letting something like dreams and nightmares affect him so much, and he steps away from the fence, without a backwards glance to the ship. “I’d better go, you’re right, it’s late. Sorry again for disrupting your evening, Emma.”

She is watching him, closely, her eyes slightly narrowed, but then she nods. “That’s okay. Do want a ride home?”

He shakes his head, feeling guilty enough. She must think he’s lost his mind – drinking to a stupor, losing sleep over dreams about a children’s book, and now coming to see an old ship in the middle of the night.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll walk.”

He starts back up towards the main street, and Emma falls into step beside him. “I’ll walk with you,” she says, and she elbows him playfully in his side, and adds, “Lest I get another grumpy call from Mr. Scuttle about someone breaking into take the ship for a midnight sail.”

He rolls his eyes, but does grin to himself as they leave the small pathway leading from the museum, heading back up to the main road. Perhaps she doesn’t think he’s too mad after all then.

Emma turns off her car and lock it as they pass it, the headlights winking out and leaving them in the amber light of the streetlights overhead. They walk in silence for some time, leaving the boardwalk and the museum behind them. His mind is still troubled, even though Emma’s presence at his side feels steady and warm.

The night is dark around them, with heavy clouds obscuring the moon and the stars. Wes, who always had a knack for telling when storms are approaching, can feel rain in the air, and wonders if taking Emma’s car would’ve been a better decision.

He’s proved right only a few minutes later, as they’re reaching the main street of Storybrooke. A blinding flash of lightning explodes in the sky above them, followed instantaneously by a grumbling roar of thunder. The heavens open up above them, rain drops the size of marbles falling heavily from the sky.

“Oh hell,” Emma swears, holding her hands over her head, her hair already drenched by the storm. “Come here, let’s wait this out for a minute.”

They duck into a nearby alcove of one of the shops, but it’s a shelter only for a few minutes. The rain is getting heavier, the streets misty and foggy from its intensity, and the wind is starting to swell and sweep the rain into to the alcove.

“This may go on for a while, so I’ll go on my own,” he says, pulling up his jacket collar to protect himself best he can from the rain without a hooded jacket. “Thanks for coming with me this far, Emma –”

“You’re going to walk in this?” Emma asks dubiously, casting a look out to the street. Another flash of lightning illuminates them, both pale and soaked, before thunder cracks above them again.

“It’s not far,” Wes replies stubbornly. “I’ll make it.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She tugs back him towards her, and points to a building across the street. “We’re so close to my place; come in and wait out the storm. I’ll go get my car when it calms down a bit and give you a ride then. Okay?”

Wes hesitates, but then nods. “Okay.”

______________________________

Emma leads the way through the pouring rain, darting across the main street and avoiding the growing puddles as she goes. Wes follows her zig-zag motion, into the warmth of the lobby. They ascend the stairs together, and Emma unlocks the front door quietly, hoping they don’t disturb Mary Margaret.

Inside, the loft is dark and quiet, the pounding rain echoing heavily against the old windows.

“Mary Margaret?” Emma calls quietly, stepping further into the apartment. A bright flash of lightning, followed by a crack of thunder, illuminates the rooms. In the nook where Mary Margaret sleeps, her bed is empty, her blankets still neatly folded.

Emma frowns at the sight. She’s never known her roommate to be out late at night – Mary Margaret is essentially the definition of a homebody – but she shrugs it away. Emma is sure she’s fine.

“She must be out,” Emma says, and she flips the light switch on near the front door and ushers Wes in. “Come on in.”

Emma takes off her drenched jacket, Wes mimicking her actions. The warmth of the loft is welcome, but her body is chilled from the rain and Emma shivers.

“Do you want a hot chocolate?” Emma asks, hoping that will ease the chills. 

“That sounds great,” he replies, and Emma notices he is shivering a bit too. He’s removed his jacket, but his shirt is soaked underneath too.

Emma pauses – she has an old Boston University sweater upstairs that’s always been two sizes too big for her, purchased on a whim several years ago when she was out late one night on a sting in a short dress in the middle of winter.

“Hang on a sec,” she says, and darts up the stairs to her bedroom. She grabs the sweater, after shuffling around in her drawers. Her hair, which she’d been wearing down, is soaking her shirt, so Emma twists it up onto a bun at the top of her head and changes into some dry clothes for herself too before returning down to the kitchen.

Downstairs, Wes is standing near the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He glances over as Emma comes down the stairs, and Emma is struck suddenly by the sight of him there in the middle of her kitchen. In his dark pants and black t-shirt, his dark hair messy and fly-away from the rain; this time when she shivers, it’s not because of the cold.

“I started the water,” he says obliviously, indicating the happily whistling kettle on the stovetop. “But I’m not sure where you keep the hot chocolate mix.”

Emma straightens, and continues down the stairs. “Oh, I’ll get it. Here – this is for you.”

“Thanks, love.”

Emma busies herself with pulling out the hot chocolate powder and two mugs, while Wes pulls on the sweater. When she turns back around, he’s leaning against the counter again, the sleeves of the sweater pushed up to his elbows. The elaborate brace holding his prosthetic is visible now, but instead she’s drawn to the elaborate tattoo on his inner right forearm.

It’s unlike anything she would expect the proper Wes Newport to have – a curved, silver dagger through the centre of a blood red heart, a script of the name Milah wrapped around the heart itself.

“Who’s Milah?” Emma asks, and he glances down to the tattoo. A shadow crosses his eyes, and he shakes the sleeve down over his arm, frowning.  

“Someone from long ago,” he responds, voice low. “She’s gone.”

Gone. He doesn’t say the word ‘dead’, but Emma hears it as loudly as if he had, and Emma regrets asking, regrets bringing up the past. She hates when people inquire about her past, and she can tell by Wes’s expression that he is just like her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, for many reasons, and she rests her hand on his left arm. He nods in acknowledgement, a small smile to her.

They sip their hot chocolate in silence for several minutes after that, listening to the heavy rain and the rolling thunder. Seeing him sitting at the kitchen bar, it’s inevitable that Emma’s thoughts return to the night before and his strange statements. She glances over to Wes. He’s twirling his spoon in his hot chocolate, eyes fixed on the kitchen counter, lost in thought.

“Wes,” Emma says cautiously, “Yesterday at the bar … what did you mean when you said Henry’s stories are getting to you?”

Wes’s cheeks redden, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s silly, Emma. I had too much to drink. Forget I said anything.”

 But Emma is not going to drop it so easily. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he sighs resignedly.

“Well, I’ve been having a lot of dreams lately. Nightmares, more like. And they’re … well, they remind me a bit of his book. I know he’s troubled and they’re only stories,” he clarifies at Emma’s expression. “But I can’t shake it. These dreams … they’re more than dreams. Makes me wonder if …”

His sentence trails off, but the implication makes Emma’s temper rise. “Don’t say that,” she snaps, setting her mug down, hot chocolate splashing onto the counter. Wes is taken aback, eyes widening, and she continues, her voice shaking with anger, “It’s all – they’re dreams, Wes. Nightmares. People get nightmares, okay? Henry’s book is full of stories, and that’s it! You can’t – you can’t be seriously entertaining –”

“I know that,” Wes interrupts indignantly. “I’m not saying they’re real, Emma –”

“They’re not real,” Emma agrees, raising her voice louder. “They’re just stories! Stories of evil queens and princesses and pirates.”

Wes flinches at the last word, and that’s the last straw for Emma. She moves to the other side of the counter where he is leaning, standing closely opposite him, and demands, “Wes, what are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know,” he replies softly, and there is true, genuine anguish in his voice now. “I don’t know how to explain it … but the dreams they feel real to me, Emma. Like – like they’re not just dreams.”

Emma takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “But Wes … the stories aren’t real. This is real. Storybrooke. Here, now. Not – not whatever the hell is in that book.”

“I know,” he says, “I know, Emma.”

Her anger and frustration fades out of her as quickly as they came at his voice, and she is left with a hollow emptiness. She is ashamed – of course, Wes knows the stories aren’t real. Whatever is going on with him is something else, some problem linked to sleep deprivation or stress, not fantastical stories her kid just happens to believe to be real.

Wes is staring at her, his eyes guarded as he waits for her reaction. Emma’s stomach turns with guilt; whatever is going on for him, Wes doesn’t need his friends accusing him of believing in a fantasy either. She swallows hard, and decides then that no matter what, she was going to help him figure this out.

She steps closer to him and rests her hand firmly on his left arm, just above the prosthetic’s brace. “Wes, we’ll figure out what’s going on, okay? I’ll help you figure this out.”

He nods, and his voice is soft when he says, “Thank you, Emma.”

As he looks at her, his blue eyes deep and mixed with relief, Emma realizes how close they are. The air between them seems electrified, as charged as the storm outside, and normally, Emma would break this tension. But as Wes leans closer to her, Emma doesn’t pull away. She’s been skittish when it comes to men for so long, but this feels different. It feels right. Her eyes close as she rests her forehead against his, his damp hair brushing against her skin and sending goosebumps down her arms.

“Emma.”

Her name escapes his lips on a sigh, and he lifts his hand to her face, his fingers cool on her cheek. She angles her face, her lips nearly touching his, and then she becomes vaguely aware of the sound of the front door opening behind them.

There’s a very loud squeak of alarm, and Wes springs away from her like he’s been burned. Emma’s eyes snap to the source of the shriek, and she whirls around, her face starting to burn.

It’s Mary Margaret, standing in the open doorway, an open umbrella in her hands dripping onto the floor, her face beet red and a hand pressed against her mouth.

“I am so sorry,” she says, her eyes as wide as dinner plates as she looks between Wes and Emma. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

Emma is frozen, but Wes is already halfway to the door, picking up his damp jacket and swinging it on, over the Boston University sweater. He looks back to Emma and manages a small smile that has Emma’s stomach filled with butterflies, even in her current state of mortification.

“Goodnight, Emma.”

He turns around and collides right with Mary Margaret, who squeaks again. Emma wants to bury herself alive at this point, and she can’t even watch as Wes and Mary Margaret have a several second awkward dance of trying to get past each other. Finally, Wes manages to sidestep Mary Margaret and with a quick, “Uh, goodnight to you too, Mary Margaret,” he hurries out of the loft, the door shutting firmly behind him.

“I am so sorry,” Mary Margaret says breathlessly the next moment, her eyes wide as she steps further into the apartment. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date, I didn’t know you guys would be here, I thought you were at work tonight –”

Emma chokes. “This – this wasn’t a date.”

Mary Margaret’s expression shifts from traumatized to amused, and she sends her a very un-Mary Margaret-like glance; Emma’s cheeks burn even more.

“It wasn’t a date!” she insists further. “He was out at the museum, I got a call from the … listen, it’s a long story. And then it started raining, so we came in here to get out of it and talk –”

“Uh huh,” Mary Margaret hums. She leans closer to Emma, a mischievous glint to her eyes. “Talking very close together.”

Emma feels like a goddamn teenage girl, caught by her mother with her boyfriend, and that is a feeling Emma has never felt before in her life. And also – Wes is not her boyfriend.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” she mumbles, desperate to get out of the loft, sidestepping Mary Margaret and grabbing a dry jacket from the hook near the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Mary Margaret is still grinning, but Emma ignores her as she leaves the apartment and down the steps. Outside it’s still pouring, but she’d far rather be out in this torrential downpour than the apartment, where Mary Margaret’s eyes are far too knowing.

______________________________

As dawn approaches, the town of Storybrooke is quiet and sleepy, the only remnants of the previous night’s storm the damp road and dripping street signs. No one is out for the day yet, so Regina walks freely down the main street, jingling her heavy key ring in her hand as she approaches Gold’s pawnshop.

Regina had spent the night in her vault, researching and reading, and she has nearly all she needs to be rid of Emma Swan, once and for all. 

She needs one more thing, and she knows exactly where to get it – the pawnshop. The man who has been collecting items for centuries, who knows more about lore and spells than anyone else in all the worlds. After all – he was the one to suggest the curse to her in the first place; if there’s a loophole, he’ll be the one to know.

The little bell above the door at Gold’s pawnshop tinkles as Regina slips her own key into the lock and pushes the door open, ignoring the obvious closed sign hanging in the window. The shop is quiet, dust floating gently through the faint light filtering into the shop from the streetlights.

Regina steps carefully into the shop, the floor creaking under her boots. The shop has always creeped her out – puppet dolls sit under a unicorn mobile, scattered jewellery, and dozens of paintings of various locales and individuals on the walls. All objects from the townspeople before they lost themselves.

Something flashy catches her eye on the central counter, and Regina moves towards it. Amidst scattered objects and papers, resting in a glass display case, is a curved and lethal silver hook.

The hook.

So this is where it ended up; she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always liked to collect trophies, and no doubt that this is one of his most valuable. Curious, Regina lifts the lid, but as her fingers brush the hook, a voice speaks from the shadows.

“It’s early for a visit, Madam Mayor,” the slippery, cool voice of Mr. Gold greets. He’s standing in the doorway to the backroom, dressed to the nines in his usual suit and tie, leaning on his cane. “I swear I locked the front door.”

Regina smiles coolly, though she withdraws her hand from the display case. “This is my town, Gold. You know a locked door couldn’t keep me out.”

He smiles back at her, and slinks further into the shop. “Of course, Madam Mayor. Hence, my appearance here this morning. Ah,” he adds, inclining his head at the hook as he steps closer and notices the open display case. “Ms. Swan was here the other day … I was trying to make a point.”

Regina scowls at him, the comment making her temper flare, but she reins it in. He’s taunting her, and she won’t allow him the delight of seeing it get to her.

“I need something from you.”

“I’d gathered as much.”

Regina pauses, choosing her next words carefully. As she explains her plan, that it’s the only way to save Storybrooke in its current form before more damage is done, Gold watches her silently.

When she’s finished and when the proposal is laid out on the table, Gold turns and pulls at one of the framed pictures on the wall. It swings forward to reveal a safe, embedded in the wall itself. He enters the combination and opens it, the door creaky as he opens it. Regina catches a glimpse of a white china teacup and a ratty beige blanket before Gold is shutting it again, a small box in his hand.

“I suppose I have something that can help you.” He places the small box on the table, next to the hook in the display case. “Take this and the hook, and you have what you require.”

“And the hook?”

Gold nods, his eyes flashing. “Something from the world that was – to make sure all goes to plan.”

Regina picks up the small box, which is surprisingly heavy for its size as it fits comfortably in the palm of her hand. “And what do you want for them in return?” she asks coolly. “There’s always a price with you, Gold.”

He chuckles, already beginning to slink back into the shadows of the backroom. “No charge for the items, Madam Mayor. Just remember … magic always comes with a price.” 

Regina glares, as her skin prickles and her heartbeat quickens. Magic – it’s the first either of them have acknowledged the word in more than 28 years. They’ve lived in an uneasy alliance for nearly three decades as mayor and pawnbroker, and here they are, more queen and sorcerer than they have been in years.

“Well, whatever the price is for this, I’m willing to pay it. It’s worth it.”  

“Infamous last words,” Gold murmurs, with a wry grin. He disappears through the curtain, his final words floating out after him into the quiet shop: “Good luck, your majesty.”

______________________________

For the first time in a long, long time, Wes Newport feels alive.

He’d hardly slept after returning back to his apartment, drenched to the bone from the heavy rain, and all morning he’s been running on too many cups of coffee and adrenaline-fueled sleep deprivation. He went into the office early, but his mind is whirling and he’s unable to focus on his work. Instead, he’s thinking about the night before – about Emma. About her finding him at the docks, taking him back to the loft, giving him her sweater. And, most importantly about her about her promise to help him figure out what is going on.

Sitting at his desk, his fingers hesitate over Emma’s number on his phone, but he changes his mind. She’s probably still asleep after her night shift, and besides … he’s not sure what he’d say over text to her. He’d rather speak in person.

A knock at his office door interrupts his thoughts, and he glances over. It’s Sidney Glass who, without preamble, announces, “The mayor wants to see you.”

Wes resists a sigh, and slips his phone into his jacket pocket. “What’s it about?”

But Sidney Glass is already walking away. A summoning by Regina is never a good sign, but she’s been in a particularly foul mood lately, and he hopes he’s not about to be lectured about the budget again. He knows his work has suffered the past few weeks, his mind scattered and distracted, but he’s in no mood to deal with Regina’s snide remarks about it.

As he’s walking to Regina’s office, lost in thought, suddenly the strangest experience takes over him. Instead of walking down the old oak hallways of Town Hall, he is in a draughty, stone corridor with flickering torches against the walls in the place of fluorescent lights.

He pauses, taking in his surroundings, before his feet begin to move ahead, of their own accord. There are two men standing in front of a two-storey iron door, dressed in all black with swords at their sides. He continues towards them, his step echoing loudly against the cavernous walls around him.

“Halt!” one of the guard shouts, one hand out to stop any further approach, the other to the sword at his belt. “Her Majesty is receiving no visitors today.”

“I am expected.” The words come out of his mouth, unbidden, as if someone else is speaking them.

The guards exchange a look, and one of them grounds out reluctantly, “From where do you hail?”

“From the sea,” he says easily, sauntering towards them without a pause. From the sea, no loyalty to a kingdom, to a ruler, to anyone but himself and the vast ocean.

They are unimpressed, and both shift to block the doorway and his path forward any further. “Not good enough. You could be the god of the ocean himself, but our orders are clear. No visitors.”

He smirks, though he does come to a stop, arms crossed pointedly over his chest, his left arm angled to be very apparent. “As I said, gentleman, your queen is expecting me, and it would be quite the pity for you if she learned you’d tried to delay me.”

One guard’s eyes widen, while the other scowls. They mutter with each other, casting, casting a glance at him, before one shrugs and the other sighs in defeat.

“Fine, go in. If she bites your head off, though, that’s on you.”

He rolls his eyes as they swing open the heavy door, its creaking echoing through the hall. He walks down several more corridors, until he enters a grand chamber, with balconies open down to the dark forest below and rich, gold-encrusted furniture scattered about the room. Regina stands in the centre, on a thick rug, dressed in a red velvet dress with a glittering ruby tiara amongst her long black hair.

“There you are,” she says, irritated. “I’ve been waiting all morning.”

He steps further into the room, but a sudden sense of dizziness overwhelms him then that blurs his vision and makes his head swim. The floor beneath him sways, and he leans heavily against the wall.

“Are you okay?”

He shakes his head, trying to clear the dizziness. It subsides slightly, and when he opens his eyes again, he’s no longer standing in the long hallways of the stone palace, but instead in Regina’s richly decorated black and white office.

“Wes? Are you feeling okay?”

It’s Regina, standing opposite him, just as she was a moment ago, but now she is dressed in her usual black pant suit with short, cropped hair, the gown and crown gone. Her face is twisted in unease, and he blinks.

“I – what just happened?”

“You came in here and almost collapsed. Are you alright?”

He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind – great, so now he’s starting to have dreams – hallucinations? – during the day now too?

“Sorry, no I’m fine. I, uh – you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did,” she replies, and she gestures him to step further into the office. “Come in, have a seat – you’re looking pale.”

“What’s this about?” he asks, eager to get out of here and back to his own office as he settles into the rich leather chair opposite Regina’s desk.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Regina says instead, as she takes her own seat, and Wes resists the urge to sigh.

“I’m fine, really. Just a bit – bit tired this morning.”

Regina regards him, but then nods, apparently satisfied. “Okay. Well, I was reviewing payroll, and I realized your vacation for this year is about to expire. You’ll lose it if you don’t use it, so why don’t you take the next few days off?”

“A vacation?” he echoes, and he frowns. Regina has never suggested he take a vacation before – she’d rather have her employees work 24/7 if she could.

She nods, smiling, but goosebumps rise on his skin at the sight. It’s true, he does need a break – his nightmares and the surrounding events need to get sorted out, and he knows his work has been suffering because of it. But his haunches rise at Regina’s smile – sickly sweet and dark all at the same time.

“You’ve been working hard lately, and deserve a break,” she continues. “Take some time for yourself. Relax, read a book, get some rest.”

Wes has known Regina for many years, has been at her side for her many schemes, and he knows when she’s up to something. Whatever this ‘something’ is, it’s apparent she wants him out of the way here for the next few days. This is what she does when she wants someone out of her way – she sends them off until she’s dealt with whatever is irritating her this time.

There’s no point in questioning her, or arguing. She’s made up her mind, and changing that is harder than changing the tides of the sea.

“Perhaps that is a good idea.”

Her smile widens, warm and gentle, though her eyes remain cold as ever. “Yes, I think so. Go on, head home. I’ll see you in a week’s time.”

She’s beside him then, helping him to his feet as he rises from the chair. Her hands are cold on his arm and at his side even through his jacket, and he sends her a funny glance – Regina is not a touchy person – but she’s stepping away from him just as rapidly, watching him with concerned eyes as if she expects him to collapse again.

He steps away from her, turning back to say goodbye, and then, for another brief, terrifying moment, he’s back in the large stone chamber with its wide balconies and luxurious furniture, Regina dressed as a queen in front of him.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Wes?”

He blinks again, and the image disappears. Regina is watching him, eyes slightly narrowed, and he nods and smiles as reassuringly at her as he can.

“Of course. You’re right, Regina – I think a holiday is just what I need.”

He departs her office without another word, hurrying back to his own. When he’s there, shutting the door firmly behind him, he collapses into his chair, thoughts swimming and swirling. That image of the stone chamber – a palace? – is emblazoned in his mind. It’s familiar, like the ship is … and so familiar Wes is sure that he has been there before.