#nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable

Emma Swan growled in frustration and swung wildly, clipping Killian’s jaw with her boxing gloves but leaving the other side of her helmet open to his attack.  He grinned around his mouth guard as he tapped her ear tauntingly, then laughed outright when she swatted his hand angrily away.

“For the love of God, Swan, keep your guard up!” he forced out around the plastic and gel in his mouth.

Emma tucked her elbows in and let him swing at her now-protected midsection, grunting with the exertion, but with a gleam in her eyes.

“Oh no you don’t,” he smirked.  “You’re not gonna rope-a-dope me.  That’s a move for geriatrics.”

Swan glared, but changed up her plan, going on the attack and backing Killian up with a flurry of punches.

He grinned, ducking and jabbing to keep her off-balance, purposely leaving his left side open to gauge whether or not she’d catch it.

She did.

Killian gasped a little at the force of the blow, leaving a little more of his ribs vulnerable than he’d planned.  Emma’s answering grin let him know that she’d heard the sharp intake of air, but neither let up.

The sound of a throat clearing stopped the sparring session immediately.  Killian and Emma both looked up from the tiny boxing ring.  “Madame President, it’s almost time,” the new agent - unfortunately dubbed ‘Happy’ by Emma’s son - announced.

“Thank you, Michael,” Swan mumbled, spitting out her own mouth guard and nodding.  “We’ll be up in a moment.”

Happy left swiftly, leaving Emma and Killian alone in Camp David’s basement.  “You know, Jones, you’re not supposed to hit the President of the United States.”  She smiled slyly.

“Yeah,” he allowed.  “I know.”

He wasn’t agreeing with her.

Emma disappeared into the first family’s private quarters to get ready for the evening’s Christmas party, so Killian stalked through the house checking on the readiness of the agents under his command. The weather reports were coming in from the different agencies and networks, but Killian glanced out a window and frowned - it was really coming down out there and something niggled at the back of his mind.  He had half an idea to call off the excursion, keep the entire family safely ensconced in the camp’s borders where they were warm and out of danger.

But the next election was coming up soon and he knew that President Swan would scoff at his overprotectiveness if there were any chance that it was safe to drive to the dinner party.  Instead, he listened to the comm in his ear and nodded grimly - the weather was predicted to remain steady for the next several hours.

At the end of his loop through the residence, Killian hit the shower then changed quickly into a suit for the evening.  Finished wrestling with his tie, he marched out of his quarters and found himself in the family room, the warmth of the fire peaceful.

Until the sound of machine gun fire on the television assaulted his ears.

Killian cut his gaze over to where Emma’s ten-year old son Henry was glued to the television, the Playstation controller in his hand bopping about wildly as he ducked around the bullets flying on the screen.

“Now the real bloodbath begins when your father finds you playing this game,” he snarked before shutting off the television.

Henry glared at him, but threw the controller on the couch and flopped back on the cushions dramatically.  “You suck.”

Killian snorted.  “Just protecting your life, young sir,” he commented - earning a very Swan-like eyeroll in response.

Henry climbed over Killian’s lap, reaching for his latest book and curling up in a corner of the couch to fall into the latest story.  “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Killian replied before getting up with a check of his watch.  “Your parents should be out in a few minutes.  Be ready to go, yeah?”

Henry nodded, already lost to the outside world.

Killian moved past the Christmas decorations and the mountains of presents for the First Family’s own celebration the next morning - when their extended family and friends would arrive for Christmas breakfast.  His brain was already cataloguing the logistics he’d need to accommodate Neal’s batch of relatives.

He knocked on Neal and Emma’s bedroom door, greeted by Swan herself - or at least the top of her head as she read over her speech.

“Five minutes, ma’am,” Killian intoned formally, knowing it would get a rise out of Emma.

She looked up, startled for a moment, and then glared at him.  “Why thank you, kind sir,” she intoned sarcastically, moving away from the door.

“What do you think, Killian,” Neal spoke up from the bed where he was fiddling with his cuffs.  “Emma’s useless at picking.  The gold or the platinum.”

Killian refrained from rolling his eyes at Neal’s need for opulence.  “The gold.  Classic look for the First Husband.”

Neal considered him for a moment.  “That’s what Emma said, but nah, I think I’m going to go with the platinum for tonight.  But thanks,” he threw out, already moving towards the ensuite bathroom.

Killian shared a conspiratorial smile with Emma before backing away from the door and letting her close it in his face.  “We’ll be out in a minute, Jones,” she assured.

“Very well, ma’am.”

As promised, the couple emerged from the room a few minutes later, dressed to the nines and ready to go.  They met Henry in the living room, his book tucked discreetly into his tuxedo for when the party inevitably bored him to tears.

“Do I really have to go with you guys tonight?  I’ve been to hundreds of these parties!” Henry whined, moving towards the door as if he knew his request would be denied before he finished asking.

“Re-election is hard work, kid,” Emma snarked, reaching out to run a hand over Henry’s hat.  “Are you really going to bring that book?”

“I think it’s fine,” Neal cut in.  “It’s age-appropriate.  I wish I could bring a book, too!”

Henry grinned at his father.

Emma rolled her eyes.  “Fine, but keep it out of sight for at least the first hour, okay?”

The boy smiled brightly.  “Only if I can ride with Killian?” he wheedled.

“It’s up to Jones.  He’s in charge,” Emma agreed with a smile.

Henry turned puppy dog eyes on Killian.  “Please, Killian?”

He’d already planned on letting his young friend ride in their car - giving Emma and her husband some alone time on Christmas Eve.  Killian nodded though, rearranging the secret service detachment as if it had only just occurred to him to do so.

The ride was tense, the wind and snow putting Killian on edge as he focused wholly on their surroundings.  It took him a moment to notice Henry leaning forward from the backseat, trying to see what Killian was looking at.

“Henry, your seatbelt,” he reminded, his heart rate skyrocketing until the boy was safely secured again.  They chatted for awhile about the responsibilities of his job - Henry had it in his head that he was going to grow up to be just like Killian and took every opportunity to question the agents assigned to him.

They were quizzing him on the number of escape routes in the White House when it happened.  The car in front of them - the one holding Emma and Neal - began to skid and then spun uncontrollably.  Killian was already fumbling with his seatbelt when the car crashed through the guardrail and the front wheels skidded over the edge of the embankment.

“Henry, stay here!” he screamed, one pointed look at the boy and a finger jabbed at Walter - Henry’s assigned agent - before he was out into the storm.

The car was tipping precariously over the edge, several agents already scrabbling to hold onto the car’s trunk and keep it on the road.  Killian barely spared them a glance before he was jerking open the door he’d only recently closed behind Emma, grabbing for her shoulder and trying to yank her from the car.

“Neal!” she cried, fumbling with something on the seat.  “Killian, his seatbelt’s stuck!  I can’t get it-”

Neal was barely conscious, his head dripping blood and his eyes glazed over.

“I need to get you out of here, Swan,” he yelled in her ear, trying to grab hold of her to pull her to safety.

Emma threw his arm away.  “I can’t… you have to save Neal!” she yelled, ignoring every attempt to get her away from danger.

“The door’s stuck!” one of his agents yelled from the other side, trying in vain to get to the now unconscious First Husband.

“Emma, come on!” he yelled in her ear, finally getting an arm around her and yanking her back towards him.  “I’ll get Neal in-”

They fell backwards into the snow, Emma still scrambling in his hold to get back to her husband.  Killian was still struggling to hold her, already mapping out a strategy to keep her safe and get Neal when the shouts of his team reached him.

There was no more time to react, the car careening over the side with a horrendous screech of metal and crashing through the trees.

Everything went silent, Emma’s screams and his own fading into numbness where everything slowed down comically.  The brake lights of the car shimmered through the night until those, too, were lost to the darkness.

Neal had still been inside.

Time sped up at Henry’s panicked shouting, Emma limp in Killian’s arms with shock.  Tremors raced up and down his own arms, tears tracking down his face unchecked.  He barely had a moment’s notice before Henry was in reach, instinct the only thing that fueled Killian to grab the boy and tuck him into his chest.  Hot tears soaked his dress shirt and Henry’s cries echoed in his ears.

“Why didn’t you save him?!  Why did you let my dad die?!”

The alarm clock’s blaring ring shot through Killian’s consciousness, jolting him from the nightmare that had plagued him every night over the last eighteen months.  Neal’s death, Emma’s hatred, his own dismissal from her team, it all paled in comparison to the tears in his heart from Henry’s anguished screams.  They’d recovered Neal’s body and that of the driver the next day, their seat belts still securing them in the vehicle.

He’d been reassigned to the Treasury twelve hours later, not even a word from Emma about it.

Not that he blamed her.

He’d failed.  Failed so utterly that he was lucky to still have a job at all.  He’d been tempted to pack it all in, flee across the pond with his tail between his legs and beg his brother for a place to crash as he grieved in private.

But the safety of Liam’s flat in London was a kindness he couldn’t afford himself.  He didn’t deserve the comfort of his only family.

Not when he’d torn Emma’s apart.

So Killian rolled himself out of bed and got dressed robotically, half-listening to the news reports about the upcoming summit between Swan’s administration and South Korea’s diplomatic entourage.

He didn’t want to imagine the logistics involved in securing that meeting, but his brain helpfully supplied it anyway.

The problem with sequestering yourself away from human interaction, Killian mused idly, was that there was no one else in your apartment to tell you when the coffee can was empty.  With a growl and the slam of the cupboard, Killian clipped his weapon and his badge to his belt and stalked out the door.

He stumbled across Mary Margaret Blanchard in the closest Starbucks to work, slinking in the entryway and collapsing onto a seat next to her.  He clutched the precious caffeine to his chest, inhaling the familiar scent.

She ignored him as she perused the newspaper.

“How was your Fourth?” she finally asked, proving that she was aware of his presence and also of his mood.

“My fourth what?” he snarked, not quite saturated enough with caffeine for idle small talk.

Mary Margaret side-eyed him and shook her head.  “The Fourth of July, Hook,” she corrected, falling back on his callsign easily.  “Don’t be a jerk.”

He shrugged.  In all honesty, he’d forgotten there was even a holiday, spending most of it contemplating the bottle of rum and its ability to drown out Henry’s accusations.

To erase the memories of happier times with Emma and her family, feeling as if he actually belonged somewhere.

He’d give anything to be back on her detail, to be able to protect her and her son.

But Emma hated him now, and Henry likely did, too.

So Killian shrugged, made small talk like Mary Margaret wanted, and gauged her mood before he carefully commented, “This desk job is killing me, M’s.  I want back in.”

She sighed and nodded.  “I know you do, Jones.  We all know you made the right call on that bridge.  Even Emma knows it; she just…”

“Can’t stand the thought of me failing her again,” he cut in.

Mary Margaret glared at him.  “No.  You didn’t fail, Jones, you just made an impossible decision based on the situation and your training.  Emma just needs to focus and seeing you every day would be a reminder of what she lost.  Maybe with the next President.”

Killian nodded sadly.  “I know.  How’s… how’s Henry?”

“Misses you,” she responded, surprising Killian.  “He asks about you all the time.  When he’s not giving his agents heart attacks running around the White House and hiding from them.”

Killian smirked.

“Laugh it up, Hook.  We all know who taught him that.”

He shrugged unapologetically, remembering teaching Henry all the hiding places the huge building had to offer.  Remembering how much fun it had been, and how much he’d lost that night.  How much Henry had screamed and cried in his arms.  He couldn’t quite reconcile Mary Margaret’s words about Henry with the tortured screams that haunted his nights.

The boy missed him?  Henry didn’t hate him?

God, he wanted to find the boy right then and hug the stuffing out of him.

Alas, Killian had a job to get to and Mary Margaret had a team of agents to direct.  With a curt nod and a promise to “just get out of the apartment,” Killian left the Starbucks and trudged over to the Treasury building.

He lost several hours reading over briefs and filling out paperwork, the busywork not nearly exciting enough to fulfill his adrenaline needs.  He was almost in a trance when he heard it.

Explosions.

More than one and entirely too close for comfort.  Killian’s head whipped around, all traces of fatigue erased as the adrenaline began to pump through his veins.  The alarm rang through the building, more explosions in the streets, and the first sounds of panic began to reach him.  Killian didn’t think, he just moved.

Unclip his weapon.

Thumb off the safety.

Look left, look right.

Get to the danger.

He ducked and dodged around other agents, lay people, interlopers who were between him and the perceived threat.   The code that echoed in his ears frightened him, but Killian couldn’t focus on the fear.

999.

Terrorist attack.

He didn’t know exactly where, he didn’t know how, he most assuredly didn’t know who, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing did outside of his training.

Identify the threat.

Neutralize the target.

Protect the innocent.

Get to the President.

Save Henry.

Killian didn’t overthink his reactions, didn’t stop to muse on how Emma would react to seeing him, didn’t wonder on Mary Margaret’s words from earlier that day.  He didn’t have the luxury of worrying about that.

There were more explosions and now the sound of automatic gunfire on the street.

Killian ducked behind a car as a modified aircraft flew low overhead, opening fire on the civilians running in panic for their lives.  Bodies littered the sidewalks and the streets, holes ripped through them from the large bore ammunition that was raining down on them from above.  The tang of copper was heavy in the air, the smell of gunpowder and burning, well, everything, assaulting his nostrils.  More gunfire, more explosions, more screaming.  It was like the Middle East all over again, but they were on the streets at home.

This wasn’t supposed to happen here.

The aircraft made another run, strafing the street he had just turned down and throwing yet another part of the city into panic.

Killian grabbed the nearest woman who was flailing and forced her down behind the SUV he was using for cover, ignoring the screaming in his ears as he kept her pressed tightly against the metal.  The other side of the SUV exploded under the assault, and Killian knew they had little time to move.  Shoving her in front of him, he led the woman to an alcove and left her huddled and crying against the wall.  She’d be relatively safe there for the moment, and Killian needed to keep moving.

Leaving her behind, he took a side street that would lead him to Pennsylvania Avenue, where he could hear the gunfire increasing.

He had just turned the corner when-

BOOM!

The echoes that wavered through Killian made him sick to his stomach, the aftershock of the car exploding to his left shuddering through his system.  He was sprawled across the street, everything moving in slow motion and nothing making sense.

He needed to move.

Forcing his body to obey, Killian pushed shakily to his feet and checked his weapon.  The sight was wavering, but he wasn’t sure if that was damage to the hardware or to his eyes.  His head was pounding and his hand was shaking, but Killian didn’t have the luxury of time.

Keep moving.

Get to Emma.

Find Henry.

The White House came into view and Killian’s focus sighted in on the men on the front lawn trying to defend it.  There were gunmen, armored trucks full of terrorists, insurgents he needed to take out.

He had 14 bullets.

Killian opened fire with calculated precision, aim, sight, fire.

Aim, sight, fire.

He had taken out four before they realized the new threat behind him and he was forced to duck for cover again behind a nearby wall.  A bullet whizzed by his ear, the chips of granite from where it skipped past him burning the skin under his eye and making him blink away on instinct.

If he’d ducked the other way from the assault, he’d have taken a bullet to the chest.

He needed to move.

Silence.  Was it over?  Killian wasn’t inclined to believe it, but the minutes dragged on and people came out from hiding to gawk at the disaster strewn across the front lawn of the White House.  His adrenaline started to abate, his head coming to rest against the cold iron fence still in place.  He still needed to get inside, needed to see for himself that Emma was secure and Henry was safe.  He needed to know-

BOOM!

His head whipped to the side, dodging the crowd of people fleeing from the bus that had just exploded.

It wasn’t over yet.

There were two men with backpacks just standing at the fence, still staring at the front lawn.

They weren’t fleeing.

Killian raised his weapon.

“Hey!” he shouted.  “Get down on the ground.  Now!”

The first man turned towards him, his hand wrapped around a trigger switch.

Killian took him out.

He had just sighted in on the second one when the terrorist depressed his switch and detonated.

Killian hit the ground hard, his ears ringing worse than before.

There was a great, smoking hole where the fence had been.

More men came running, automatic weapons firing as they ran, shooting indiscriminately.  Killian ducked inside the fence, his back anchored to another tree as he opened fire.

He was badly outmatched.

A ricochet nicked his shoulder, sending bright hot tendrils of pain racing down his arm and making his hand go numb for the moment.

It didn’t matter.

He had to ignore it.

If he didn’t, he was as good as dead already.

Raising his weapon shakily, Killian drew a bead on a sniper set up just outside the fence.  She was taking potshots at the Marines and the agents who were spilling out of the White House to protect it.

A bullet from Killian’s weapon silenced that threat but revealed his position.

Before he could move, another crash, this time sounding more like a car accident, jerked Killian’s attention away from the men advancing on his position.

The terrorists took more notice of it than of him slinking away, and Killian wasn’t about to look a gifthorse in the mouth.  He crawled away from the men, needing to find out what had drawn their priorities away from ending him.

One of the armored trucks had barreled through the hole in the wrought-iron fence, spilling terrorists onto the grounds and making the threat to Swan and her son all the more imminent.

Killian needed to get to their sides.

He snuck around the truck, ducking for cover as the combatants spread out and engaged the secret service agents returning fire.  He wanted to help them, wanted to fall into line, but that wasn’t his target at the moment.  These men had contingencies and plans and protocols in place - Killian had helped to tweak most of them when he was still Emma’s lead agent.  Inserting himself into their ranks would only throw things into disarray.

And as much as Killian felt for them, for the men who were falling before his eyes as he took evasive actions to get inside the building, they weren’t his priority.

They weren’t his mission.

More explosions, more bullets whizzing overhead, more chaos.

Killian took the steps three at a time, his eyes only for the protection of the front doors, guarded by men he’d assigned to their defense years ago.  A nod of acceptance was all the permission he was granted, and Killian dove behind a column, taking a single moment to catch his breath.

Control the adrenaline.

Focus on the target.

Eliminate extraneous information.

Breathe.

Focus.

Go to work.

Killian watched with clinical detachment as a man to his left slid two full clips of ammunition along the smooth ground.  He pocketed them without a thought, picking out his targets and taking them out.  His breath was coming in short pants, the trickle of blood down his cheek a warm, wet trail, the cold sweat at his back sparking tremors that increased the pounding between his ears.

He fired again.

Again.

Again.

“RPG!” a shout from his left was the only warning Killian received before the marble above him began to crumble, the cacophony reaching him moments later.  He barely made it out from under the rubble before the terrorists were on them again, weapons fire strafing the ground as he scrambled for cover.

There was a fire along his left side, the tearing of muscle from bone and the heat of lacerations distracting him momentarily from his plight.

“Help me,” a weak cry to his right.

Killian looked down, Walter was splayed out across the marble, two bullet holes neatly scoring the white of his shirt.  He grabbed at the agent’s arm, pulling him up and slinging him over his back.

“Where’s Henry?” he shouted at the agent, but got no answer.

Walter likely wouldn’t make it, not without help.  But Killian wouldn’t leave him behind if he could help it.  He stumbled under the extra weight, shouldering the burden as he staggered through cover fire to relative safety.

“I’ve got him, L-T,” a voice echoed.  Tom, one of the men from Killian’s original detachment, helped ease Walter down, applying pressure and a field dressing from his vest.

Killian squeezed Walter’s shoulder once before moving on, shaking the pessimistic thoughts from his head and ignoring the wounds to his own back on his trek towards the open doors.  He needed to get inside.  Needed to get the doors locked down and take stock.

Another grenade whistled over his head and struck the doors, crumbling the framework and crippling his plans.

Get inside.

Take stock.

Find Emma and Henry.

Save them.

Someone barreled into his side, taking them both down just inside the doorway and knocking the breath from Killian’s lungs.  He grappled with the man, trading punches and trying to gain the upper hand.  He saw stars as the man locked his throat in a vice grip, blackness starting to encroach as he struggled, strained, fought for enough room to-

His knife in hand, Killian plunged the blade up into the man’s throat and ended the fight instantly.

Two minutes later and he had the luxury of a tactical vest that he had stripped from the dead man, supplying him with another gun, more ammunition, two more blades, and a handful of field dressings.

Never mind the protection from the kevlar that he secured painfully around his torso.

The sting from open wounds faded with the adrenaline that continued to pump through his veins.  It was quiet in the building, the men, women, and children who worked and visited here on a daily basis long since fled.  His footsteps echoed through the halls as Killian stalked their lengths, alert and focused on moving forward.  He needed to get to a secure location, take better stock of the situation, and formulate a plan.

Emma would be in the bunker.  The agents assigned to her protection would have moved her at the earliest threat.

But Henry.

Killian had no idea where the boy had been when this all began.  His agents would have gotten to him as quickly as possible, but there was no guarantee that they were at his side if he was in the residence.

And Walter had been outside.

He needed to find out more intel.  He needed to get a bead on one of the men and figure out who was attacking them.  He needed to get to the Oval Office where there was a secure line and another weapon.

He needed to move.

A radio echoed down the hallway, drawing his attention.  One of the agents, calling out an SOS, a last ditch cry for aid.

“Storybrooke has fallen.  Storybrooke has.  Fallen.  Storybr-”

The bullet that took him down came out of nowhere.  The impact in the middle of his back sent him sprawling, his head connecting with something solid as he fell.  He couldn’t breathe, the wind knocked completely from his lungs and the radiating pain spreading out along his ribs and down his legs.

He blacked out momentarily, long enough for his assailant to stalk down the hall and toe at his side.  Killian only had half a second to hear the intake of breath that signaled another shot was coming, and he whipped around to put a bullet in the man’s head.

She zoned back in on the briefing as the Admiral continued to outline movements designed to test the resolve of ‘his’ Navy.

Emma was only just able to bite back the sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue - technically it was ‘her’ Navy before it was his.

But with discretion being the better part of valor, Emma kept silent until he had finished.

“Threatening the North Koreans with military action in order to force them to stand down seems like a game of chicken that I’d rather not play.”  Emma said as she leveled a hard look at her Speaker of the House.  

Regina Mills was tough as nails, sometimes too cold in a world that required a delicate touch.  Emma often had to remind the woman that a little bit of diplomacy now was better than a decisive action later that would force their hand and the future of the country.

“David?”  Emma looked for his opinion as well, knowing that sometimes her own relationship with Regina colored her opinions.

Thankfully, her Secretary of Defense seemed to agree with her.  “You’re assuming that the North Koreans would be rational and not call our bluff - which can be a dicey gamble on the best of days.”

“It wouldn’t have to be a bluff,” Regina snarked back.

Emma shook her head.  “Graham?”

The Vice President looked up from the tablet he’d been studying.  “I agree with David.  This isn’t a risk we want to take.”

“All right.  Thank you for sitting in, Madam Speaker,” Emma spoke formally, dismissing the woman without much offense.  “I won’t hold you up any longer.”

Regina rose gracefully and inclined her head.  “Good luck with your summit.”  She turned to the door.

Emma waited until she’d left, the door closing with a bit more bang than she was sure Regina intended.

She just wanted to go hang out with Henry for an hour.

When Emma was finally free, she had less than half an hour before the delegation was scheduled to arrive.  Leaving her protection detail behind, she took off at a brisk walk towards the residence, hoping to find Henry waiting for her.

He was curled up in one of the easy chairs, a book in hand and a smile on his face when he saw her.

Emma stripped off her blazer jacket, moving towards the walk-in closet to get changed while she listened to Henry explain the plot of the Harry Potter book she’d gifted him for his last birthday.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding up two different scarves.

Henry pointed to the one in her left hand before giggling when she draped the other around his neck.  It had been too long since she’d heard her son’s laughter.

“Do we have to go to Camp David?” he whined, and Emma was inclined to agree with him.  “I hate it there.”

She looked over her shoulder to see the way Henry’s face had fallen.

“Can’t we go somewhere else?  The beach maybe?” he pleaded.

God, the beach sounded grand.  A few days of sun and salt and tranquility.  Maybe she could convince Kil-

No, not Killian.  He wasn’t in charge.  Not any more.

“That does sound nice,” Emma answered non-committally.  “Look, I have three minutes before they come and get me.  What say we run down to the kitchen and get some ice cream?  What kind do you want?”

Henry grinned, thoughts of Camp David forgotten.  “I’m gonna get the Rocky Road before you eat it all like last time.”

“I didn’t-”

“Madam President?  It’s time,” her agent called from the doorway.

Henry buried his nose back in his book.

“I’m sorry, kid,” she whispered on her way out.

Emma’s mind was still on Henry through most of the introductions.  She recognized Robert Gold - one of her former agents who had retired from government work to move to the private sector after Neal’s death.  His smile was icy, clinical with years of field work, and usually Emma wouldn’t have paid it any mind.

But then the explosions rocked the very ground under her feet and Emma had no more time to think.

Henry.

Emma was being rushed to the safety of the bunker, her agents ignoring every shouted plea for someone to find her son.  She was half-aware of tugging along the Korean diplomat, Gold and another man tight to his side as they ran.  Gunfire echoed through the grounds and in the hallways and Emma’s heart was in her throat.

Henry was alone in the residence.

Her eleven-year old son was all alone and there were bullets and bombs and men who intended to do them all harm flying around the White House.

“Find Henry!” she shouted again and again.  “Find my son!”

Someone spoke into a wrist-mic, “I need location on Believer, ASAP.”

Emma’s head whipped around at her son’s codename.

The agent shook his head.  “As soon as I know, ma’am, you’ll know.”

Emma’s heart ran cold as the bunker doors locked down with a final ‘CLANG’.

Henry was out there somewhere.

And Killian wasn’t around to save him.

Emma waited impatiently as protocols were set in motion and the Pentagon was contacted.  A feed had just been established when gunfire erupted again.

Inside the bunker.

Emma’s head whipped around just in time to see the last of her agents fall to the ground, the smell of gunpowder assaulting her and the sight of Gold’s weapon pointed between her eyes.

The muffled sounds of a Korean dialect filtered through Killian’s consciousness, but he didn’t move.  They were close by and he was vulnerable, still pinned down and out in the open where he’d fallen.  He couldn’t understand what they were saying, his years learning the language only helpful when his ears weren’t ringing and the adrenaline wasn’t playing chicken with his level of consciousness.  The only movement he made was to tighten his finger over the trigger.  Against protocol, sure, but he wasn’t taking a chance.

The voices faded down the hallway and Killian relaxed a fraction.  Another moment to gather his strength and he finally managed to slide out from under the body pinning him.

He was covered in blood, hurt all over, and couldn’t pay it any mind.

He had to get to the Oval Office.

Killian limped down the hall, shaking his head to clear the fog as he went.  Up the stairs and down another hallway and so many twists and turns that if he wasn’t moving completely on instinct, he likely would have gotten lost.

The door to the office was closed, whole, and untouched.

He cleared the room, relieved to see it empty and safe.

Killian breathed a sigh of relief as he locked the door behind him.  There was a moment to rest and regroup before he took stock of his surroundings. There was an old dress shirt of Neal’s hanging in the closet where the President’s safe was housed.  The blood that saturated his own shirt was beginning to dry and stiffen the material so that it was impractical to move in.  He stripped off the vest and ruined clothing, balling up the fabric and wiping away as much of the blood from his chest as possible.

There was a litany of bruises and lacerations crossing his skin, but nothing that would disable him and nothing that he could fix currently.  So he shrugged on the new shirt and put them out of his mind.

A few twists to the combination lock and the safe opened under his touch.  One more gun - and far more importantly a satellite phone - were dragged out and Killian all but collapsed into Emma’s desk chair a moment later.

He dialed the phone number from memory, breathing out a guarded sigh of relief when the signal went through.

It rang once, twice, three times before someone picked up.

“Mr. President?” the voice on the line was familiar, but distorted over the signal.

Killian shook his head before he could help himself.  “Negative,” he answered.

“Identify yourself.”

“Echelon four.”

A pause.  “Designator?”

Thank God.  That voice he knew.  Mary Margaret.

“Jolly Roger.”

Mary Margaret’s sharp gasp.  “Hook?!  Where are you?”

“I’m in the Oval Office.”  He bit back a groan as he shifted and the tactical vest rubbed against his back.  There was definitely a burn there looking for attention that he wasn’t going to give it.  “Is the President in the bunker?”

God, he thought, please let one thing have gone right today.

“She-”

The line cut off and Killian’s heart leapt into his throat.  Had he been discovered?  Had the phone died?  Had the terrorists found some way to scramble the secure line?

“Yes,” Mary Margaret’s voice settled him when she returned minutes later.  “The President is secure in the bunker.  But Killian, she’s being held hostage.”

A shudder ripped through him.  “Who’s in charge out there?”

“Mills,” another clipped voice answered him.

Great, he thought idly.  His last meeting with Regina Mills had ended when he’d told her to do something that shouldn’t be repeated in polite company.

He continued to report the situation to the Pentagon, trying to remain detached and get the information to the proper authorities as concisely as possible.

“Henry?  What about Henry?”  He couldn’t hold out any longer.  He couldn’t help Emma at the moment, but if her son was still in the building, Killian would move mountains to find him and save him.

Or he’d die trying.

“We don’t have a status on him, but he’s presumed to be inside.”

Killian looked down at the school photo he’d found in the tactical vest moments before.  “Well, they’re looking for him.  God only knows what they want, but it’s a good bet it’s to try and force Emma’s… the President’s hand.”

There was a commotion over the phone and Killian did his best to wait for orders.  He was itching to move, to find Henry, to get him out.

“All right, Jones.  Stay put.”

“Sir,” he pleaded with her.  “I’m boots on the ground.  Use me.”

“We’ll get back to you, Hook.  Stay with the line.”

The signal cut out and Killian fumed.  Bloody useless politicians and their red tape.  Got to cross all the ‘t’s’ and-

The door burst open and a men followed.  Killian dove for cover behind the desk, on his hands and knees watching the feet move carefully into the room.  The sound of gunfire would no doubt draw more men to the room, and Killian needed the element of surprise on his side for as long as possible. 

Emma glared defiantly at the man who’d once been on her husband’s security detail.  He smirked, then grabbed her by the scarf and tried to yank her off her feet.  When she stumbled but didn’t fall, Gold punched her in the sternum and then grabbed her by the throat.  He pulled her slowly towards him, squeezing until Emma’s legs began to buckle underneath her.  He only let go when she finally hit the floor, leaving her gasping for air and struggling to sit up.

People around her were screaming.

David was sitting next to her, trying to help her regain her balance.

Where was Henry?

Was he safe?

And then, a thought she had no business thinking - Would Killian come for them?

The other man who’d been in charge of the Korean diplomat’s security detail stepped forward, a cold smile on his face that shot a bolt of pure, unadulterated fear through her.  This man was the most dangerous one in the room.

“Who are you?” she sneered.  He wasn’t Korean, that much she knew.

The man smirked, but didn’t say a word to her.  He only nodded to one of his subordinates, watching as the man grabbed her and put a gun to her head.

Oh God, please don’t let them record this.  Please don’t let Henry see it.

Emma shut her eyes, determined not to let any of the other members of her staff see the fear that was gripping her heart.  If she were going to die here, she wanted to keep her dignity.

It might be all she had left.

There was a bit of a commotion to her left, and Emma cracked open an eye to see Gold manhandling Minister Lee in front of the camera that connected them to the Pentagon.

Then she was dragged behind him.

“Minister Lee?  Sir, are you safe?”  Emma couldn’t picture the man who was speaking, but she recognized the voice as one of the Chiefs of Staff - maybe Army?  She didn’t really have time to think about it.

“Are you with the President?” he asked.  “Sir?  Can you hear-”

Gold put a bullet through the minister’s head.

Emma wanted to scream, but she didn’t have time before she, too, was marched in front of the camera.

Please, God, don’t let Henry ever see this.

“Don’t negotia-” she was cut off and dragged out of sight.

The dangerous terrorist - she heard one of his men call him Hades - stepped in front of the screen.  “I have your Commander-in-Chief.  Now stand down.”

“Who are you?”

“The man in control of your White House.  Now stand your men down.”

Don’t do it, she muttered angrily in her head.  Take these bastards out.

“Stand down!” she heard the general shout.

Emma was tossed against David, her back connecting painfully with the step behind her.  She glared at the Korean, but then Gold squatted down in front of her, his gun pointed between her eyes again.

“How could you do this?” she wondered out loud, not really expecting an answer.  Her entire body was shaking, adrenaline and fear and relief that she hadn’t been killed already warring for dominance within her.

God, please let Henry be safe.  Please let Killian come and find him.

Emma swore that if she made it out of this, her first order of business was going to be to find him, apologize, and reinstate him to the head of her and Henry’s security details.

She needed him here for this.

“Put your hands up,” Gold ordered, waving the gun at the railing above her head.

Emma sneered back at him.  “Screw you.”

Gold didn’t get angry, he didn’t hit her or shoot her or any of the things Emma expected him to do.

He simply nodded to his side and the same man who had manhandled her in front of the camera moved towards the group of staff members huddled in another corner of the room.  Emma watched, terrified now, as he grabbed the staff nurse - Ghorm? - and yanked her forward.

The nurse was crying.

Emma, David, and Graham were all shouting.

Admiral Grump was swearing.

“No!”  Emma screamed when Gold turned his head and nodded.

It was over in an instant, the nurse sprawled across the floor with a bullet in her head and her blood on the floor.

If Emma wasn’t sure that her entire body had turned into a quivering puddle of furious goo, she’d have gotten to her feet and pummeled Gold.

But she was simply too angry and too terrified to react.

“There’s a reason I never voted for you,” Gold stated, as if he hadn’t just orchestrated the murder of an innocent woman.  Then he pointed the gun at David and cocked it.

Emma’s hands rose immediately, docile and waiting to be shackled to the railing.

She couldn’t lose David, too.

Everyone around them was still screaming, but Emma had gone numb to it all.  She watched, detached, as the rest of her senior staff were all shackled to the same railing.  She trained her eyes on the other hostages who were herded into a corner and zip tied together.  She prayed to a god she wasn’t sure was watching to save them.

To save her son.

To save her if he had the time left over.

The Koreans spoke their native language to each other, conversing about whatever nefarious deeds they were planning, Emma was sure.  It didn’t matter.  None of it did at the moment because she was helpless.  Useless.  Not even able to protect her son, never mind the entire country and the free world.

“Bring Miss Swan here,” their leader demanded a short time later.

Emma felt her hands untied and was hoisted to her feet and up the steps to stand in front of him.

Next to one of her men, the computer nicknamed ‘the football’ - the one that housed the country’s nuclear codes - lay abandoned.

Emma’s blanched.

“I have no interest in your nuclear codes,” he told her conversationally.  “Your Pentagon will have already changed them.  No?”

She’d forgotten.  Yes.  The codes were already changed and safe.

Then she was forced into an office chair in front of one of the computers.  What did they expect her to do there?  Emma could just about handle word processing - she had staff that made the computers work.

Or Henry, if it came down to it.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked again.  “You’re not Korean, and you’re certainly not representing South Korea if you are.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he told her.  And then spouted North Korean propaganda at her that explained nothing.

“It’s a whole new world, dearie,” Gold sneered from behind her.

Gold.  How the hell was he caught up in all of this?  How could he betray their country like this?

“What’s the going rate for a soul these days?” she threw over her shoulder at him.  “I never would have taken you for a traitor.”

That had pissed him off.  “I’m no less a traitor than you are, dearie,” he yelled.

He’s delusional.

Emma’s level of fear ratcheted up another notch.  If he thought she was a traitor for helping globalize their economy, then he couldn’t be reasoned with.

They were all going to die.

“What’s it cost to buy a presidency nowadays, anyway?” he mused.

They were all going to die.

Gold had leaned in, telling her how he was a rookie at treason compared to her when Emma struck.

She butted her head forward, slamming her forehead into hers and taking sweet satisfaction in watching him stumble and fall.

“Gotta keep your gloves up, Gold,” she taunted, ignoring the ringing in her ears from the blow she’d landed.

Gold recovered quickly, grabbing her and pulling his weapon.

“Enough!” the other man yelled.  “We need her.  For now.”

That scared Emma far more than Gold’s wrath ever would.

And then her blood froze in her veins as Hades turned away and spoke in Korean.  She picked out one word.

“Henry.”

Henry?

“What the hell do you want with my son?” she hissed, livid.

He didn’t answer her, of course.  Only smirked.

Emma listened dispassionately as he spoke with Regina, listing out his demands and spewing more political nonsense and vague threats on her life and the lives of her staff before cutting the feed once more.

“The United States of America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” she spat at him.

Then.  Oh, then.  Then Emma started to really fear for the future if his plans came to fruition.

“Who said anything about negotiating?” he asked, waving a switchblade knife about before moving down the line of her senior staff.

They were screaming.  Everyone from Graham to David to Ruby.

He finally pointed to Leroy, watching disinterestedly as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was maneuvered to kneel in front of him, Leroy’s head forced against a chair.

Oh God, they were going to kill him in front of her.  Had it really only been that morning that she’d wanted to tear into him for calling it his Navy?  She’d let him get away with the misogyny for the foreseeable future if only he wasn’t murdered.

The knife rested at Leroy’s throat, the man holding him down by the hair.  “Admiral Grump, your Cerberus code, please.”

The number and severity of the curses that ran through Emma’s head would have made her parents blush - if she’d ever had any.

No one was supposed to know about Cerberus.  No one except those with the highest classification statuses.

Definitely not Gold.

And not this man, either.  So how did he know?

Leroy just stared at her, and Emma knew he’d die before betraying her.

“You kill him, you won’t get the code.” she assured.

He nodded at her, but he wasn’t agreeing.

“I won’t ask again.”  He dug the knife deeply into Leroy’s neck, finally pulling a gasp from the man, but nothing more.

Emma glared.

Leroy stared at her.

The knife bit in deeper, and Leroy groaned.

Emma could see the blood beginning to trickle down onto the seat of the chair.

Cerberus couldn’t be activated without all three codes, so it wouldn’t matter if they couldn’t get hers.

Leroy wouldn’t break.  Emma knew that as surely as she knew that the bastards doing this would never get her code.

And then Leroy cried out, the knife starting to do real damage.

He’d never give up, but that didn’t mean she had to watch Leroy die in front of her.  Not when there was something she could do.

“Give it to him, Leroy,” she ordered.

“Yes, sir.”  Leroy didn’t hesitate after that.  He glared, but he dutifully spit out his code, with a voice so hoarse that Emma worried his vocal chords had been damaged.

Anatomy wasn’t her strong suit in school, but it didn’t make a difference.  

Leroy never took his eyes off of Emma.

Killian waited until the opportune moment, leaping out from his hiding spot and cutting the man off at the knees.  Both weapons clattered across the floor as the men hit the ground, Killian only just managing to stay on top of his assailant.

The man rolled and thrashed, managing to get some purchase underneath him when Killian locked an arm around his throat.  He held on tight when the man rose, struggling to get a grip on the hair atop the man’s head for leverage.

His back collided with the wall, knocking the wind from him and lighting up the burn on his back, but Killian still held on.

Teeth sunk into his forearm, fingers scrabbled to get hold of his wrist or his own fingers, an elbow drove back into his sternum.

Killian gasped his way through the pain, holding on for dear life for as long as he could.

But then the man ducked and rolled and Killian found himself tossed against the desk, body scrambling to stand before he’d even registered the movement.

A knife sliced his thigh, and he used the pain to his advantage.

Focus.

Draw in the enemy.

Use his momentum against him.

A minute later and it was all over.  Killian’s own knife buried to the hilt in the man’s neck, a look of shock still on the Korean face, even in the last throes of death.

Killian slumped to the ground.

There was a tattoo that he didn’t recognize behind the man’s ear, and he snapped a picture of it with the satellite phone.

“Blanchard?” he spoke into the phone as soon as the ringing stopped.  I’ve got a commando here with something that might identify the group.”

“Is he alive?”

Killian shook his head in disbelief, even though he knew she couldn’t see it.  “Ask me a serious question.”

There was a murmur in the background and Killian tried to wait patiently.

“No one recognizes it.”

“Bloody hell,” he swore.  “Well, whoever they are, they’re good.  They’re well trained and bloody well organized.  But I guess you know that already.  What do they want?”

Secretary Mills spoke up.  “They want us to recall the fleet and pull our troops out of the DMZ.”

“Well isn’t that fan-bloody-tastic.”

Mary Margaret didn’t respond to that.  “There’s more though, Killian.  NORAD just reported that a Cerberus code has been entered.  There’s only two more and they’ll have gotten what they want.”

Cerberus?  What on Earth was that?

He asked.

And was summarily told that it was classified.

Killian almost burst out laughing.  Classified?  He was sitting in the Oval Office with more guns than he wanted to think about strapped to him, and an army of commandos between him and the President.

“I think I have the proverbial need to bloody know.  Sir.”

It was a missile failsafe system, apparently.  One that would render the entire country useless if someone, say North Korea, launched their own nuclear weapons at them.  With this group in charge of Cerberus, they could detonate any of the ICBM’s that were fired back without consequence.

And the codes could only be changed through the self-contained system.

That was in the bunker with Emma.

“Bloody hell!” he swore again.  “Who has the codes?”

He wasn’t surprised at the answer.  “The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of Defense, and President Swan.”

His head dropped back against the desk where he was still slumped.  “Well, now we know why they want Henry.”

Emma was as stubborn as they came.  And she was far more loyal to the country than she was to her own life.  Even if they got the other two codes - and Emma would order the men to give them up to save their lives - the terrorists would never get hers.

Not unless they put a gun to Henry’s head.

Secretary Mills was explaining just that to him.  “President Swan will hold out to the end, but if they get Henry.  If they can threaten him in front of her…”

“No one hold up under those circumstances,” Mary Margaret muttered.  Killian’s memory flashed to Blanchard’s own son, and he didn’t have to try to hard to think about what she was imagining at the moment.

“Jones,” Mills barked.  “Find Henry.  He’s your first priority.  Get him out of there.  Then we’ll see where we’re at.”

Thank the bloody gods, he thought idly, his heart unclenching a little at the explicit permission to do what he’d ached to accomplish since finding out Emma was unreachable.

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, cutting off the line.

Find Henry.

Save Henry.

"Love, is everything alright?" Killian asked as they folded back the heavy plaid duvet on their bed.

"Sure," Emma answered, without really thinking, as she sat down on the bed, clad in red flannel pants and white camisole.

"You just seemed a bit uncomfortable when Henry brought up the Christmas tree," Killian continued after a moment, his fingers toying with a loose thread at the corner of the duvet. "And you don't seem to be as Christmas spirited as the rest of your family has become."

Emma shrugged, looking down at the blue blanket.

"I'm just not that into Christmas, that's all," she said quietly, without looking up at him.

"Emma…" he pressed as he sat down on the bed next to her, he needed to understand this.

"It's just… the whole orphan thing. I never really… got Christmas as a kid," Emma sighed, looking up at him with a sad sort of smile. He gave her an encouraging and sympathetic look, so Emma went on. "It's just that, as a kid in foster care, you don't really get any of it. The foster homes didn't really decorate and we definitely didn't get presents from them, and nothing was really ever different during the holidays, except in some of the houses it was a lot colder because the heating didn't work so great." Now that she had started talking, she couldn't keep everything in anymore, as it so often happened with her conversations with Killian. "But I still went to school and we made snowflakes and wrote letters to Santa, only Santa never came to my house, and the thing with Santa is that if he doesn't come, you think its because there's something wrong with you, because you misbehaved or just weren't good enough in general and it really messes with your head, 'cause everyone else gets them but you."

"When we were in the service of the captain my father sold us to, Liam and I, we never really knew when it was Christmas," Killian shared, looking straight ahead of him, as if he were seeing the rocking boat rather than the bedroom wall. "Liam was allowed to go ashore at ports sometimes, so he usually tried to find out when it was about Christmas, but we hardly ever knew for sure. And we had no money for gifts, everything we had we were saving to buy our freedom, and to buy commissions. One year, Liam did some favour for an innkeeper, and she rewarded him with two drumsticks from her Christmas turkey. Of course, he wished to share them with me, so he tried to sneak them onto the ship, but the captain caught him, took the drumsticks for himself of course. Bloody fool should've just eaten them at the inn while he had the chance."

Emma knew what he was doing, of course. It was not a competition, who had the sadder story, but it was a way of saying that he understood, without pitying her.

"Do you have no happy memories of the holidays, Swan?" he asked, turning to her with a curious and heavy smile.

"Some, I guess," she said after considering for a moment. "The year I was with Ingrid, it was pretty good. She went all out, tree, presents, cookies out the wazoo. It wasn't long after that I ran away though. And of course, I didn't remember that year for most of my life." Emma smiled wryly, thinking about Ingrid and all that had happened with her. "There was another year too, I was with this family, and they were great. They didn't celebrate Christmas though, they were Jewish, so we did Hanukkah that year. But they got me presents and taught me to make latkes and let me be included in all their family traditions. They took pictures with me like I was going to be a permanent part of their family. That was… that was probably the best year, holiday-wise."