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jlsadphoenix · 4 years ago

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a map and a shovel (to my achilles’ heel)

The evolution of Emma and Killian’s thoughts for each other, told through the early events of their lives together. | 1/2 | AO3

EMMA

KILLIAN

because she took his hand and painted a future in brilliant colours, colours beyond the red of blood and vengeance he had lost himself in for centuries.

completely and utterly — he’d say hopelessly, except nothing gives him more hope than Emma Swan

Tagging: @teamhook @lillpon @ownedbycaptainswan @inwordsthatnobodyknows1121

“Hey! Hey, there’s someone under there!”

And hands are pulling him free from the pile of bodies he’d crawled under. Keeping his frightened mask on, Killian briefly glances about at his ‘saviors’, falling last on the beautiful blonde in unfamiliar clothes peering down at him with confusion and suspicion.

He could work with that.

Later he’s sitting at the table, telling his false tale. It’s played to perfection, Killian thinks to himself with pleasure. The right amount of faltering and trembling. The four women are eating it up, the concern, the sympathetic smile the blonde shoots him as his voice trembles, it was all I could do to survive, before she disappears behind him. Everything’s going right, and Killian is starting to relax. The other women are starting to relax, too, and he’s leaping at the first opportunity to present itself — I can guide you—

Then someone grabs his hair, jerking his head back and presses a knife to his throat.

Well shit, he thought wildly, now what?

Then Killian is tied up to a tree.

How the fuck did this happen?

He’s holding onto his ruse as best he can, I’m just a blacksmith, desperate and pleading. The others seem doubtful of tying him up, but the blonde stands firm.

And then she’s whistling sharply, bringing the ogres’ attention to them. And then she’s walking away.

She can’t be serious, can she?

She can.

Dammit.

“Good for you!” is called out with equal parts irritation and grudging respect. Killian will speak to her. Lies will not work so he’ll bargain. So he focuses on her, clearly the leader, the one to watch out for, and offers her his services, genuine this time, I’ll help you obtain it before she does, and she puts a knife to his throat once again in response.

That respect for this woman who’s seen through his ruse within mere moments, tied him to a tree, and put a knife to his throat twice is growing, so he responds with the honesty she deserves and quite honestly, has won. He stares dead into her eyes, unblinking, face clear of deception.

“To exact revenge on the man who took my hand— Rumplestiltskin.”

Well, the important things he can keep to himself, now.

Killian’s growing impatient.

He’s never been good with waiting, really. This was one of the first lessons he had learned in servitude — the wait in between each lash was worse than the pain itself, and that impatience had carried on to almost everything else.

And yet the four continued to argue on as time ran, as the sun moved, as the giant was doing who knows what, as Cora likely grew closer to coming suspicious.

Their voices raised, and his ears perk up as Emma mentions a Henry, and, soon they seem to quiet down.

Oh, please be her.

She and the warrior (Mulan, was it?) shuffles off to the side, and they speak in low tones, exchanging a bag, and continue to speak quietly, a grim look on Emma’s face.

Finally, his patience runs out, and he calls out to them, barely keeping the irritation in check, “Ladies, in this world we are slaves to time; in other words, tik-tok.”

They all share brief glances, and, please please be her, he has to know more about this woman who managed to best him, who has the look of a Lost One in her eyes, who is desperate to return to — not home, no, but this Henry. Her boy, most likely (and he can’t help the way his thoughts drift briefly over to another who wanted desperately to be reunited with her lad), and he tries to hide his pleased expression as she moves to him.

He’s sure he fails spectacularly, so continuing in the spirit of honesty with her — not like there’s any point to lying to her, anyhow — he reaches for her hand to rest on his shoulder, I was hoping it would be you, and continues to speak, delighted curiosity undeterred by her disinterest.

And up they climb.

They jump off the ledge at the top of the beanstalk, and Killian glances down in her direction, red catching his eye, and he’s calling out to her, let me help you, but she pulls away.

“No, it’s not,” he insists, catching Emma’s wrist with his hook, and stepping closer. He really doesn’t know what’s possessing him to do this, yet he reaches for his rum anyway as she rolls her eyes at him.

“And I’m always a gentleman,” he responds to her. Why does he care? He’s a gentleman, it’s simply good form, he repeats to himself. That, and he doesn’t need unnecessary injury to his ride to Storybrooke. Yes that’s it, he thinks to himself as he bends to catch the scarf with his mouth in order to tie it properly. Nothing to do with whatever connection he may have felt to her as they talked during their climb.

He glances up at her, catching her eyes as he ties the scarf, and her green eyes darken minutely, he noticed, pleased. “And then?” she asks him, voice barely coming above a murmur.

“Then we run like hell,”

“I don’t have time to wait for a giant to fall asleep,” she refuses, and suggests the powder made from poppies. Well that’s riskier, he thinks, and says so after a moment, even as he continues to consider her plan.

“Than waiting for a giant to fall asleep when we need him to?”

“Point taken,” he grins. She just keeps impressing him, and he wonders that she seems surprised he agreed so fast. Did she expect him to argue more? Why would he argue with the admittedly better — and more importantly faster plan? “You’re a tough lass. You’d make a hell of a pirate,” he’ll just ignore the look, he decides, offering up the powder to her.

“Who’s Milah, on the tattoo?” she asks instead, and Killian’s heart clenches, any cheer he had been feeling drowned by the cold of grief, of rage, drowned by ashes in the wind and the echo of fingertips brushing his cheek, drowned by I love you and even demons can be killed. It really was all he could do not to jerk his arm away, instead letting it fall to his side and giving it a small shake to make certain his sleeve covers the tattoo.

But she continues to stare, undeterred by his closed off expression. After a long moment, he can tell she simply won’t let it go, and so, someone from long ago, slips grimly from his mouth, and he walks off towards the home of the giants even as Emma continues to press.

“She’s gone,” he replies flatly without turning back, and it hurts, hurts to think about her, the reminder has the image of her heart turning to dust playing in his head again, has I love you whispered in his ear, and phantom touches cradling his cheek has him clenching his jaw and —

“Gold.”

Killian stops.

Emma continues.

“Rumplestiltskin. He took more than your hand from you, didn’t he? That’s why you wanna kill him.” And it’s clear she’s less asking, and more speaking aloud her realizations, but Killian doesn’t need her pity, her sympathy, so he bites back, for someone who’s never been in love, you’re quite perceptive, aren’t you, and he’s completely still from keeping his frustration in check as he turns to face her once more.

“Maybe I was, once,” she admits.

And something changes between them, an understanding formed. She’s returning the favor, he realizes. He showed her a sliver past his own walls and now she’s letting him see a tiny bit in return.

There’s no pity in her eyes.

And so he relaxes just a bit more around her.

“Hook!” she’s calling out, reaching for him, and he’s giddy, delighted. They’d done it. He can’t help the laugh that slips out, you are bloody brilliant, amazing, and he laughs again. He’s staring down at the compass, even more beautiful than legend, and really, the success is getting to his head.

He’s out from under Cora’s thumb now, he has his path to vengeance, to Milah’s murderer in sight, and he’s traveling with someone who is not only gorgeous, but intrigues him like no one else in centuries, traveling with someone he can easily see becoming someone important to him, and for the first time in centuries, he’s —

It has him reaching for the compass in awe, and Killian is far too delighted to be disappointed all that much when Emma pulls it away. It’s alright, he thinks, after all, he’ll have plenty of time to prove himself, to gain her trust.

So he offers up his hand, thinking nothing of the doubting look on Emma’s face. She takes it, and his heart pounds, and for the first time in a long, long, time, he can see — he might just —

And then she’s locking shackles around his wrist.

What?

What is she— “What are you doing?” he asks, rising to his feet, blood running cold as she hastily steps away from him.

“Hook, I—“

“Emma, look at me,” he tries, desperately keeping his voice calm, “have I told you a lie?”

“I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about you. I’m sorry,”

Wrong?

Sorry?

There’s a roaring in his ears, and he’s simultaneously extremely aware of everything he feels and extremely detached from what’s happening.

Is he—

Is she—?

Why is she walking away, she can’t be walking away—

But he’s still chained as she continues on, never looking back, and he’s helpless as he yells after her, the betrayal and abandonment and frustration burning him, boiling his blood, and really he’s still so lost, because —

Because why?

Frustration tears a noise from his throat, as his hacking away at the chains prove useless, as is attempting to pick the lock, and he’s left to sit doing nothing but stew because she—

Because —

(Because for the split second she grabbed his hand, before she chained — abandoned — him, he could envision someday letting go of Milah, of finally grieving her properly, like he’s never let himself do, because she took his hand and painted a future in brilliant colours, colours beyond the red of blood and vengeance he had lost himself in for centuries, because —)

Everything hurts.

Moving, breathing, smiling, laughing. Everything hurts, hurts like nothing else since those feverish days after he had lost his hand, when he was half mad and half drunk on pain, grief, rage, and rum.

Emma Swan stands over him, gorgeous as ever, with a grim look.

Everything hurts, but there is a grim satisfaction in him, and just like those days, he feels have drunk on the pain and some strange sense of loss.

“Hey, beautiful,” he calls out instead, and his words rattle his ribs, his lungs ache, Killian thinks he can taste blood, but he is so so lost, because he has gotten his revenge, but he is still alive, and nothing feels right, nothing feels at all, really, and this wasn’t supposed to feel like this, but no, he will not think of that.

It is easy enough to focus on the grim concern on Emma Swan’s face. Maybe he’ll wonder about that concern when he can think right, but right now, she bends down to check on his injuries, and he hasn’t seen her since he threw their fight at Lake Nostos, and she truly does look beautiful, “And here I didn’t think you’d noticed —“

Pain.

She had gently pressed her hand to his side, but even that slightest pressure burned. She tells him his ribs are broken, and he laughs regardless of the pain, because he feels wrong wrong wrong why does he feel so hollow, so he fixates on the Crocodile, did you see his face, he thinks wildly, pushing himself up, and he doesn’t even know if he’s speaking aloud or not, but he has to laugh, has to see the damage he has done, see the Crocodile faced with the loss of his love, see him with his love ripped from him in a single moment, “Just like Milah!”, because that must be why he feels so empty, because he hasn’t had a moment to truly appreciate the look on the Crocodile’s face.

He keeps fixated on him as he approaches, and is he speaking? He’s saying something about Milah, but it’s taking everything to simply stay conscious, and everything hurts, and why is he still alive? Never once did he imagine living after getting revenge, he knew full well this was a suicide mission, and his arm trembles under his weight, and Killian doesn’t —

A foot slams into his face, and there is a cane pressing down his throat.

Ah, Killian thinks, I’m going to die now.

Distantly, he hears Emma trying to pull the Crocodile off of him, vague sounds of raised voices, and some loud ringing.

The weight is off his throat, and he can breathe again, but his life’s mission is done, he can rest a bit, can’t he? Perhaps he’ll see Milah again. If he does, he hopes she forgives him for the person he’s become, for what he has done in her name. Maybe he’ll even see Liam, but he’ll have to figure out how to look his brother in the eye.

(Captain Nemo was right. He should’ve taken his word for it.)

Killian wakes up.

Everything hurts. Someone has changed his clothes, his left arm feels empty, the weight of his hook missing. Each breath rattles against his ribs.

Emma Swan sits on the bed he lays in, watching him carefully.

“Where’s Cora?” is the first thing he hears.

What?

Killian suddenly feels very awake, and rapidly goes over the list of things he noticed once more. His hook and brace were missing. His clothes were changed, Emma was the only other person in the room, he had shot the Crocodile’s heart over the line, and everything hurts.

Oh, and he was, once again, chained.

“Again?” he asks Emma, and he’d laugh if it wouldn’t hurt so much, “You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

He moved up — attempted to, anyway, damn, that hurts, and Emma simply stands over him and reminds him of his cracked ribs. “Where’s Cora?”

Who cares about Cora?

He hasn’t seen Emma since Lake Nostos, not including whatever the hell happened after that metal contraption slammed into him. He was so drunk on pain, exhilaration, bloodlust, and loss that he — loss? Why would he —

“You look good, I must say. All ‘where’s Cora’ in a commanding voice — chills.” He says instead. You have all sorts of sore places I an make you hurt, and he only smiles blandly, entirely too distracted on —

Fuck what the fuck why —

“I have no idea where Cora is,” he grounds out, and fucking seven hells, but Emma only gives him a smile that is somehow both smug and bland at the same time, so instead he asks after his hook.

“You’re awfully chipper for a guy who just failed to kill his enemy, then got hit by a car,” says Emma dryly, and ah, is that what those metal contraptions are called, cars, strange name, but everything else is still intact, Killian drawls, but more importantly:

“Plus, I did some quality damage to my foe,”

“You hurt Belle,” Emma says incredulously, but no, that’s not the point.

“I hurt his heart,” he corrected fiercely, “Belle’s just where he keeps it.” After all, the Crocodile tore out Milah’s heart and crushed it to ash as punishment for her daring to not love him, for daring to choose Killian over him, then took the thieving hand as though people can be owned and bought and sold and stolen as objects, left him with nothing but Milah’s cooling body, ash and blood on the deck, a shattered heart, and nothing but vengeance to keep him going. He killed my love; I know the feeling, he smiles, sarcastic edge to it.

Then Emma leans forward, falsely sympathetic smile plastered onto her face, bringing her head more level to Killian’s, and unbidden, his heart jumps as the memory of their first meeting rises in his head, the exact same smile she had given him then right before she put a knife to his throat and demanded the truth from him, the first moment he gained respect for this woman.

“Keep smiling, buddy. You’re chained down, he’s on his feet, immortal, has magic, and you hurt his girl. If I were to pick dead guy of the year? I’d pick you.”

He returns her smile, equally false and sarcastic, forcing down the wave of bitterness as she walks away leaving him behind in chains once more.

He’s left all alone with his thoughts and no escape or distraction from the hollowness in his chest, no hiding from that empty, lost sensation.

What now?

I spent decades hunting down the men responsible for what happened. Why was he thinking of him now? No, he tries rationalizing, no, it must not be enough. The Crocodile is still alive, that must be why he still feels so unsatisfied. The metal of his cuffs are cold around his wrist, and the bitterness is still tight in his throat, and very suddenly, he remembered the warm hand taking his, the doubtful look, the giddiness as he thought of a future he had never once seen. And when I was finished? All I was left with was an empty heart and a bloodstained harpoon.

His mission must not be done yet. It must not be enough to hurt the Crocodile’s heart, Killian has to kill him, maybe — maybe then he’ll be sated, maybe then he can find peace, can stop drowning in this hollowness and —

Start? Revenge is no start, it’s an end, he’s always known this. But there is still the hollowness, the bitterness, the dissatisfaction.

And then what?

He thought of her hand taking his, the first time he felt like Killian Jones in centuries, even as she called him Hook, thought of the brief moment he imagined one day letting Milah go, of a future where he can leave revenge behind him.

Thought of the shackles closing around his wrist.

This is your chance, Killian. You don’t have to swim the dark waters any longer.

Killian twisted around, ignoring the stabs of pain from his ribs as he looks for something to pick the lock around these new shackles on his wrist.

“The map is working, we know where Henry is!” Emma rushes over to give him the map and Killian is quick to take it and explain where they are, and more importantly, where the lad is. The prince, surprisingly, backs him when he tells off Regina for being too rash, impatient, as does Emma, clearly already done and frustrated with Pan’s peculiar sense of humor.

“And if I disagree?” Regina, ever the queen. Killian is starting to think she’s doing this simply to get on Emma’s nerves.

“Go ahead, but I think you know that our best chance is together.”

And because it’s clear Regina has no other plans, and was likely disagreeing for the sake of it, she relents quickly enough, with only a muttered you’d better be right.

She’s brilliant, really, the way she still keeps calm and patient despite the constant doubting Regina lays into her, the way she manages to stay strong and focused despite the loss and worry the loss of her son clearly weighs on her. He simply cannot help but be in awe of Emma Swan, and he sees no reason to hold back his admiration, because so far, she is the only one who has not constantly doubted him and his motives, who has not fought his suggestions or advice at every turn, and she deserves to see some semblance of faith, some mirror of the faith she has placed on him.

“Excellent show of patience, love,” he smiles at her as the others begin to disperse, and he pulls out his flask to offer it up in celebration. “And that, is what defeats a nasty little boy.”

“I hope so,” she murmurs absently before shaking her head and laughing at the flask he offers. “Is rum your solution to everything?”

It certainly doesn’t hurt, he shrugs, taking a swig, before silently offering it up to her once more.

She takes the flask and drinks.

But, as ever when it comes to her, he is curious, endlessly curious, he wants to learn more, take whatever she gives him, beginnings, middles, ends, whatever she will let him see. So just how did you unlock the map, he tries, but she merely smiles, deflects with a “Wouldn’t you like to know,” and it’s clear she means for him to laugh as well, for them to brush it off casually before following the others to prepare and plan for whatever Pan has except —

Except he has wanted to know who she truly is since she pulled him from a pile of bodies, caught him in a bald-faced lie, put a dagger to his throat, and tied him to a tree. He has wanted to know her since they climbed the beanstalk and he had called her an open book, because despite what he says of open books, he sees only the summary, only the passages echoed in his own story, only the pages just now being written, but none of the early chapters. He has wanted to know more since she put a shackle around his wrist and left him behind, and he locked her in a cell and left her in return, since she came at him with a sword, plainly inexperienced and reckless but making up for it in endless bravery and love for her son, and he couldn’t bear to get in her way, simply throwing the fight as subtly as he can so she could get back to her boy without Cora raising a fuss. He has wanted to know more since he was crumpled in pain in the mud and she stood over him, and he couldn’t help but call her beautiful, and he started thinking of what lay for him in the future, since she stood before him, asking for the bean and telling him that he could once again, be a part of something.

“Perhaps I would,” he says instead, and he couldn’t help the mild disappointment when she only holds his gaze for a moment before walking away, and couldn’t help the disappointment because that was the answer he had expected from her.

Killian wasn’t expecting the prince to just come out and acknowledge him like that.

Really, this whole day has been hard on him, harder than the usual day in Neverland, what with the constant memories of Liam threatening to resurface, and Pan’s deal. But the acknowledgement, the thanks —

It has him shifting uncomfortably, and he can hardly meet any of their eyes, and it feels good, no matter how wrong it feels settling on his chest. After all, he hardly deserves it, all he did was prolong the inevitable death sentence (Liam rarely ever says sorry, says he was wrong, and it was one of the last things he said, and now Killian is cradling his brother’s limp body, all because he had goaded him into testing the dreamshade, and now he’s all alone, lost like nothing since his father sold him —).

But the gratitude in David’s eyes is genuine, even if the tale he spins is not, and Regina is looking torn between surprised and impressed, and Emma — Emma looks like she doesn’t know what to think.

(Emma looks like she’s seeing him.)

She drinks his rum, toasting to him, and he can’t look at her, forcing down the bitter, guilty feeling that he had just sentenced her father to either a life in Neverland or a funeral with his family grieving over him the moment the Jolly Roger settles in Storybrooke, the same way he had Liam.

He and Emma are alone now. It is silent for several beats, before “Did you really save his life?”

“Does that surprise you?” he asks, genuinely curious. What kind of man does she think he is? Judging by her tone when he had asked about his story in her world, she had nothing particularly good or interesting to think about regarding him before they had met. But after... what does she think?

“Well, you and David weren’t exactly — how do you say it? Mates.”

Her attempt at his accent should make him laugh, but instead he turns to face her properly, pouring every ounce of sincerity he can into his voice, doesn’t mean I’d leave your father to perish, because as much as David will still die, as much as he is undeserving of their gratitude, he can, at the very least, claim that he has pushed back David’s death to give him some more time, time to come clean, time to say his goodbyes.

Thank you, she returns his sincerity, and it twists at his heart. So Killian shifts gears, easily slipping back into his pirate persona, letting a sly smile spread on his lips. “Perhaps gratitude is in order now,”

His tone is light and playful, and her own smile slowly starts to spread, and it makes his heart skip a beat, because oh, it chases away the shadows of his mind, pulls him away from the cabin cradling Liam in his arms as he is helpless. That’s what the thank you was for, is amused and teasing, and oh, he is in this for real now, no longer some charade to mask whatever grief and guilt was haunting him.

She smiles at him like she can see Killian Jones beneath Captain Hook.

He thinks it could be very easy for someone to fall in love with her as he continues to tease, is that all your father’s life is worth to you, and her smile only spreads, shakes her head, tells him that he couldn’t handle it. (All Killian can think is he can handle anything so long as she smiles at him like that.)

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it,” and they only stare at each other after, and Killian can’t completely squash his smile, no matter how much he’s going for daring, for tempting, but it wouldn’t matter regardless, because at any moment, she’ll laugh him off before walking away from him once more —

She reaches for his coat and drags him forward, and she kisses him, and oh.

His hand comes up to her hair, and he’s dimly aware of her own hand in his hair, but she is kissing him, and all he can think is oh. It takes him a moment to even register it, to respond, and he can taste his rum on her lips, and he has to breathe in, and he gives back as much as he can, gives back to this woman who keeps challenging him and pushing him, makes him want to become a part of something once more, become that honorable man he once was, even if he could never reach her, her, who is taking the rotten, shattered pieces of his heart and is starting to put them back into place in a single breath, and oh, his future has never seemed so clear.

She kisses him like he can someday be Killian Jones once more.

They separate, but they stay pressed together, and they are breathing the same air, and he has no words, is at a complete loss, all he can think is, “That was —“

“A one-time thing,” she says, pushing away from him, and what? But she is turning and walking away from him once more, tells him not to follow her, and he realizes that there is no way he can deny her anything she wants, as you wish, spilling from his mouth with half a bow that she doesn’t even see, and he turns away, but his lips burn.

A one-time thing? Not once since Milah had he been kissed like that, had he felt like that, no number of tavern wenches or prostitutes, no number of the men or women he had fucked had ever once come close to even the echo of healing his heart, of thinking that he could find another, of letting go, not like this single kiss had. The brief flashes and feelings he had gotten from her up on that beanstalk was nothing compared to that. And this was a one-time thing?

(She had kissed him like he might already be Killian Jones.)

(He thinks maybe he really couldn’t handle it.)

Bae sat in a cage across a massive chasm, and he cried out to Emma.

Behind him, Killian could hear Emma murmur Neal’s name, a strange tone to it that Killian was to distracted to try and consider. David and Snow White begin speaking quietly, considering ways to make it to Baelfire, but “I told you what needs to be done. Consider this the moment of truth, literally,”

He has no desire to speak the secrets of his heart, no desire to dig up all the crimes he’s committed yet kept secret, no desire to bring back his long, long past.

Somehow, he feels they wouldn’t work anyway, not with the way thoughts of Milah no longer bring that burn of pain and grief and rage.

“So what,” Emma asks doubtfully, “someone tells their secret and they sprout wings?”

“I don’t know the particulars, only what I’ve been told,”

“How do you know it’ll work?” David asks, far less hostile than Killian is used to from the prince.

He turns away from them, considering the distance between him and Bae, thinks of the boy he had taken in, taught to sail, to fight, thinks of the boy he once thought could be family, as Milah once wanted. Only one way to find out, I suppose, he sighs. He thinks of the look of betrayal on Baelfire’s face as he confronted him about Milah, demanded to leave, the look of horror as Killian lashed out by selling him off to Pan in exchange for himself and his crew, thinks of the way he had stood at the deck of his ship that day with the last bean, staring down the scratched out symbols for port and starboard, he just lost his father, ringing in his ears.

He could give any secret. He certainly has an abundance of them, lived far too long, committed far too many sordid crimes that he buried deep in his mind in an attempt to escape the guilt and shame building up in him. But he has always been far more free with his acts.

And he has always kept his heart close, hidden from view, sometimes even from himself.

Killian knows what needs to be done.

“I kissed Emma,” he turns, and Emma rolls her eyes as David starts to complain, but he has no care for them, only has eyes for her, even as she says she already told her mother, and it was just a kiss, and how is that your darkest secret.

“It’s what the kiss exposed,”

Perhaps it was just a kiss for her. But he had never felt as right as when she had kissed him, never felt so at peace with himself, and she walked away with one-time thing but all he could think of was all the thoughts and feelings he had been burying since he had met her, the thoughts of a future, thoughts of how pointless his quest for vengeance had seemed next to her, the feeling that he was lost, that he was drowning, lost in darkness until she had pulled him out of it when she pulled him free of bodies, when she took his hand on the beanstalk, when she told him he could be a part of something.

She had kissed him and breathed air in his drowning lungs, she took his hand and painted a future beyond the reds of blood and vengeance, he called her an open book and she returned the favor with we understand each other, and he hadn’t felt such fear in so long as when she lay on the deck of his ship, still, drowned, not breathing. It’s the way she smiled at him, thanked him, kissed him, the way Milah’s name brings him the ache of a love lost, wound scabbed over, now, no longer open and raw, and the way he wants to become worthy of all these things.

He speaks the words he always stops himself from speaking, cuts himself off from thinking, because his heart was far to broken, rotten, shattered for him to think it could feel this way again, thinks perhaps maybe his heart still works, “I never thought I’d be capable of letting go of my first love, my Milah, to believe that I could find someone else.”

He doesn’t look away from Emma. He doesn’t think he could, anyway, not with the memory of the beanstalk and the first time he had felt like Killian Jones and not Captain Hook, not with the memory of the way she had dragged him in, the memory of her kiss, not with the way she’s looking at him now.

That is, until I met you.

He doesn’t need the rumbling of the Echo Caves to know this is his truth, the truth he had been trying and failing to bury down, and he thinks maybe his heart is starting to heal when Emma approaches him hesitantly, mouth open as though to speak, hand reaching out to him, before getting distracted by David and Snow’s confessions. Each shattering confession builds the bridge, each confession clearly tearing at Emma more, until she starts to cross the bridge to Bae.

He thinks maybe his heart is starting to break when Emma glances back at him briefly before reaching and releasing Bae, and the two embrace tightly.

10.

Emma, you have to go.

Killian watches as Emma holds back her tears, as she says goodbye, goodby to her parents, to Neal, to Regina.

You’ve touched the lives of everyone here.

He can’t quite think of what he wants to say to her except that he doesn’t want her to leave. She has walked away from him, left him behind so many times he stopped trying to keep count, and it seems she will do so one more time.

One last time.

He has to say goodbye.

He catches her as she moves away, moves towards her bright yellow car, and he leaps at the nearest thing to say, and if this is to be their last conversation, he wants her to smile at him, wants to remember the way she smiles at him, that’s quite the vessel you captain there, Swan, and she manages a weak smile to his relief, but her eyes are watery, and he will never see her again, never see her smile or hear her laugh or feel the brush of her fingers as she reaches for his rum.

He was drowning and lost when they had met. He was focused solely on his revenge, not caring for whether he survived or not, not caring for whatever may lie ahead beyond that.

She gave him direction for the first time in such a long time, and she hadn’t even meant to do so.

And now she was leaving him one last time.

“There’s not a day that will go by that I won’t think of you,” Killian swears, because it’s true. He’s in love with her, he realizes with sudden clarity — completely and utterly — he’d say hopelessly in love, except nothing gives him more hope than Emma Swan, even as he says goodbye.

He doesn’t know what she will say to him, doesn’t truly know what she thought of about whatever was building between them, doesn’t particularly know if she would have chosen him, wanted him.

“Good,” she smiles at him.

He is helpless to smile back. He’s in love with her, he thinks again, helplessly. They’ve always had a connection, always understood one another, were always open books to one another.

She is leaving him with a single word, but he can satisfy himself with this, with the knowledge that — that maybe — maybe some other life —

Whatever it was that was building, it can never happen, they could never figure it out, but — but — but she was open to it, to him.

He stares as she gets into her car, as she drives away as Regina alters the curse engulfing them, and his heart is broken.

She had shown him that his heart still worked, could still love, could still care about someone other than himself, could still be a part of something, could still break, and all he has is good, and Killian thinks there is nothing for him with these heroes, in the forest, thinks maybe the Jolly Roger, the open seas and endless adventure and piracy could help him heal his heart, could help fill the hole left by another love lost, could distract from the fact that he feels very much like Killian Jones, and not Captain Hook.

(He thinks, deep down, he already knows the answer to that.)

11.

Killian’s heart pounds as loud as his pounding on the door in front of him. The loss of the Jolly Roger is still fresh, but it is nothing to the hope of seeing her again, seeing her safe, happy, of bringing her back to her family. The door swings open, and she’s got a polite confusion on her face, and his heart feels whole again.

She is more beautiful than he remembers.

“Swan,” he breathes, “at last,” he took a step forward, but she holds up a hand to stop him in his tracks, and she stares back, bewildered, confused, suspicious, and do I know you stings, but it doesn’t matter, he knew this, expected this, and he is far too happy to care about the pain, because she’s here, and he starts talking about her family, and Killian is sure he sounds like a madman to her, and she demands to know who he is.

“An old friend,” is all he can say, “Look, I know you can’t remember me, but —“ this is a terrible idea, he thinks to himself, a terrible, terrible idea that most certainly will not work, but the hope and joy he hasn’t felt in a year is building and he’s feeling reckless and impulsive, and so he says “I can make you,” and he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips to hers, and for the briefest moment, he lets himself hope, before —

Her knee jerks forward, and his groin bursts in pain, and he’s being pushed backwards to the wall of the hallway, cursing his own stupidity and this damn memory curse on her as she cries out what are you doing, and he answers honestly, as he always does with her, because there’s never any point in lying to Emma Swan, not that he would want to anyway, “A long shot,” he groans out, “I had to try. I was hoping you felt as I did.”

“All you’re gonna feel is handcuffs when I call the cops,” she snaps back, retreating, but Killian has to stop her, has to make her listen, get her to believe him, to trust him, and dammit she kneed him hard.

“Look, I know this seems crazy,” he starts desperately, “but you have to listen to me, you have to remem-“

The door slams shut in his face.

Well, good going, Jones, he thinks furiously, you’ve gone and fucked that up, too.

Now what?

Apparently, now he’s following her to some restaurant, watching her greet another man with a smile and a kiss, and it hurts, but it doesn’t matter, his feelings don’t matter, not as long as Emma’s in danger, her family needs her, and as long as she seems happy with this man. Bae’s old address is written down on a piece of paper he managed to nick, he remembered it from last year when he had followed Emma and Gold to New York in a desperate attempt to kill his enemy.

Except even back then he’d already been questioning himself, his quest, questioned just how much he’d wasted of himself, his life, time, soul, for the briefest moment of satisfaction that came with blood spilled.

Even back then, Emma Swan had already gotten to his head.

Now, Emma’s — lover? — had gotten up to leave, and Killian leapt at the chance, I can explain, already spilling from his lips the moment Emma looks up to see him. “You are a stalker —“ she accuses him, but he’s already imploring her, don’t scream, just hear me out, and he’s apologizing to her, “For trying to kiss me?” she questions, and she picks up the table knife, and Killian has to swallow a remark at that, because damn now this is starting to remind him of their first meeting.

“I was merely trying to jog your memory,” he explains.

“It’s time for you to go, now,” she demands, but he can’t because —

“Your parents are in great danger,”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” her voice is cold, understandably so. Because you think you’re an orphan, ‘cause that’s haunted you your whole life, because he knows, knows in the way the mere thought of being under someone’s control, ordered about without a choice to refuse, being a slave once more, sends shivers up his spine, the same way loss of love, of being abandoned by death or choice still haunts him.

“You don’t know me,” she dismisses him.

“Alas, I know you better than you know yourself,” he knows this for sure at this moment, when she still has false memories, still has no recollection of the abundance of people who’s lives she has touched, who she has loved, has wanted, no recollection of being touched, loved, and wanted in return. She has no recollection of their connection, their easy camaraderie, those moments they shared on his ship and in Neverland, their kiss and the way he bore his heart to her in the Echo Caves, or on the way to Dark Hallow, or at the town line, when she has no recollection of ‘good’.

“I have proof,” he pulls out Neal’s address, slides it over to her, “Take a gander. Here’s an address. If you wanna know who you really are, who your parents are, go there.” Please, he thinks, try something new.

“Leave. Now,” but Killian presses on, you’ve been there before, back when he was still on the wrong side, when he still opposed her, still refused to let go of his revenge, refused to admit what he had begun feeling for her.

“A year ago I was in Boston,” Emma insists, spinning a tale about a fire, and Regina really did a number on you, “You’re a crazy person, or a liar — or both,” she scowls.

“I prefer dashing rapscallion,” he quips, because he just can’t quite resist it anymore, and he really does miss those eye rolls and flat, unimpressed looks she gives him when she’s trying to hide the fact that she finds them funny. Yes, that same one she’s giving him now, and even without her memory, it makes him want to smile, “Scoundrel?” he offers again.

“Give me one reason not to punch you in the face,” she snaps at him lowly, because of course it wouldn’t be this easy. Fine then, he’s got one more card to pull anyway, try using your superpower, and she stares back, see that I’m telling the truth, he looks back at her earnestly.

Just because you believe something is true doesn’t make it real, and he has to agree, but still, “I know you, Swan, you sense something’s off,” and he tries once more, desperately hoping she’ll trust him, take that leap of faith, or at the very least, is curious enough to go, “don’t do it for me, or you. Do it for your family,” and he knows there is nothing left he can say to convince her until she goes, until she meets him again, so he leaves.

The next day he is pacing at Central Park, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting, doesn’t know how much longer he’ll have to wait, but he will wait however long it takes.

He sees her approach, and all he can feel is relief, even as she looks furious. She ignores his words, getting straight to the point, “Why didn't you tell me that was Neal’s place?”

“I think the tone of your voice answers that quite clearly,” because he may not know the full story, but he can certainly glean enough from what she and Neal let slip, from the way she had acted around him, from maybe I was, once. But the more Emma presses him, just a bit more afraid than angry has him wondering just how far Neal’s abandonment of her goes.

“I already told you, I’m not here because of Neal,” he interrupts cautiously, but Emma is staring back at him like he’s mad, my parents, their kingdom, a curse, do you know what you sound like, and Killian can only sigh defeatedly, “Like a madman, I’m sure,” but he has nothing left except to plead, to ask her to trust him, to take a baseless leap of faith on the madman dressed strangely prattling on about kingdoms and curses and the family of someone who believes she’s an orphan. “If you don’t believe me at all, why did you come here?”

“Because Neal,” she starts furiously, digging something out of her bag, “has a camera with my son’s name on it. How?”

And Killian feels another swell of hope, because “Don’t you see, that is proof of what I’m saying,” he urged, “Henry must have left that there in the apartment when you were in New York last year,”

“Not good enough,” and Killian is getting desperate, clinging to the bits of hope he has. “I want answers, real ones,” her voice has a flatness he recognizes, and knows he can go no further, knows there’s nothing else he can say to convince her, and all he has left is the potion.

“There’s only one way you’ll get those,” he holds it out to her, and he’s reminded of all the times he’s offered her a drink, offered her his flask, all the times she’ll take it with a laugh or a smile or a roll of the eyes, or even just a quiet thanks. “Drink this,”

“Drink the thing the crazy guy just offered me?” she demands incredulously, and yes, he can see how she could take this, but it’s all he has left, it will help you remember all that you’ve lost, but she’s still staring back doubtfully.

“If one small part of you senses that, don’t you owe it to yourself to find out if I’m right? What do you say, love? Take a leap of faith,” he pleads.

He stares back at her, pleading and open, earnest, and she looks down at the potion doubtfully.

And she’s closing handcuffs around his wrist.

Dammit, not again, he thinks with growing despair as he calls for officers and chains him to a bench, and “Swan, what are you doing?” because bloody hell when he was thinking about similarities with their first meeting, he certainly did not mean for it to be exact, and he certainly does not want to be helplessly chained in place, calling after her retreating back ever again.

And now he’s stuck in some brig, being given some disgusting bologna that somehow passes for food in this realm, and they are trying to speak to him but all he can think is surely Emma wouldn’t let him rot here, wouldn’t keep him trapped here, and he misses his hook, misses the Jolly Roger, misses the way Emma looked at him when she knew who he was, even when they had stood on opposite sides, misses the smell of the sea, the wind in his hair.

But Emma does not trust him, does not look at him like he is more than just a pirate, like she can see the man of honor he tried so hard to go back to.

Even as he gave up the Jolly Roger to Blackbeard’s mocking laugh in exchange for the bean, he knew this would not be easy, knew he would be lucky even finding Emma, much less getting her to trust him, get her memories back.

The irony had not been lost on him. He had been sold, he and Liam had the combined worth of an old rowboat, his freedom sold for his father’s desperate attempt at his. Killian had fallen in love with the Jolly Roger when he had first laid eyes on her, back when she was the Jewel of the Realm, when he had his first taste of freedom in so long, coughing up water as Liam presents the Eye of the Storm to the Naval officers.

And then he had sold the ship that gave him his freedom centuries later to reach a woman who did not even remember him, did not believe in magic, or believe that she had a family, believe that she was loved and wanted.

And then he’s being released.

He hears Emma call out to him, and the relief nearly has him sagging, because she came back for him, he’s approaching her but she came back, and “I knew you wouldn’t let me rot in that cage,” he barely holds back his laugh, “I’ve been in my fair share of brigs, but none as barbaric as that — they force-fed me something called bologna,” and gods, even it’s name is ridiculous.

Emma is shuffling papers in her hand, and shows them to him, demanding “What the hell are these? We never lived in a town called Storybrooke, never took a flight from Boston to New York, we never did any of this,”

“So you believe me, then,” he asks cautiously, but she’s clearly still so confused, and he can hardly blame her with the way he had turned up from nowhere with no rational explanation, turning everything she knows upside down with half-deranged ramblings, and I don’t know, you could’ve photoshopped these, she says desperately.

But, “If you think these are forgeries, then why did you spring me from the brig?” she has no answer for him, but he rarely ever needed her to speak to know what she thinks, “Because as much as you deny it, deep down you know something’s wrong, deep down you know that I’m right,” but she is still denying it, denying him, but he is close he knows he’s close.

So he pulls out the potion one more time. Offers it up to her, one more time.

“It’s real,” she insists, “And it’s pretty good! I have Henry, a job, a guy I love!”

“Perhaps there’s a man that you love in the life that you’ve lost,” it slips from him, only really half considering what he’s revealing to her. He wonders how many times she will break his heart. He wonders how many more times he will let her. (He knows even being in her presence is enough for him.) “Regardless,” he manages to cover up, “If you wanna find the truth, drink up. Do you really want to live a life of lies? You know this isn’t right, trust your gut, Swan, it will tell you what to do.”

She is staring back at him, and he can only hope, hope she can find it in her to take a leap of faith, to trust him, to trust herself, and Henry always says that, is said almost absently, and he is so close, it’s been too long, and right now, more than anything, he just wants to see her look back at him with recognition in her eyes. “Then if you won’t listen to me, listen to your boy,” and he’s staring back at her, pleading, earnest, and he just misses the way she had smiled at him before they had kissed, the way she had confided in him about her doubts, inadvertently or not, misses the way she had smiled back at him when she told him, good.

(He wonders if she would have missed him, had she remembered, wonders if one can miss something they never knew they had lost, wonders if she’ll be happy to see him if she takes the potion.)

She takes the potion and drinks.

She says his name, and everything feels all right again.

12.

Love brings nothing but wasted years and endless torment.

But as he stared out at the sea, the horizon that would so often bring him peace, he felt nothing but the burn and ache of guilt.

Love brings nothing but wasted years and endless torment.

Killian was right, he had to be. He’s doing Ariel a favor, he repeats to himself. He did her a favor all those months ago, and he’s doing her one now by keeping quiet, right?

Love brings nothing but wasted years and endless torment.

Except... except it was his fault, wasn’t it? Her prince now lost because he refused to give up his ship, refused to swallow his pride, for her all those months ago.

It’s getting dark.

And the guilt that kept a grip on his heart from the moment he laid eyes on Ariel once again just grew tighter. He has to make this right.

He’s turning, chasing after her, and the next thing he knows, his confession is spilling from his lips, Because I was too ashamed, I sacrificed saving your prince for my ship, I am so sorry, Ariel.

She slaps him again, just like last time.

And just like last time, he keeps still, taking what he deserves.

“You’re a coward,” she accuses him, “and a monster. You let a man die for your ship? What kind of person does that?”

“The kind who’s empty,” he answers, voice hollow. “Who believes a ship can fill a void left by a broken heart.” As if that’s some kind of excuse, his mind spits back at him, and Ariel echoes this.

“No, it doesn’t,” he says vehemently. “I would give anything, to take it back, to make things right!”

He would, he truly would. He’s a villain, and nothing he does could possibly right his wrongs, could make him deserve a happy ending, but perhaps, perhaps, if even just one could find some way to forgive him, then maybe his soul isn’t lost, heart isn’t completely rotten, then maybe he could find the path he has to take to become the man Liam once thought he could be, become the man of honor he once was.

But — “How am I supposed to trust a man who no longer believes in love?”

Love brings nothing but wasted years and endless torment.

“I still do.”

“Then swear to me on it. This woman? Who broke your heart? You still love her?”

He thinks back to the bird warning him of the curse, the hope fluttering in his chest as the note had instructed him to find Emma, and the way he sought after Blackbeard and never thought twice about giving up the Jolly Roger for the bean. He thinks back to New York, the unbridled joy that had swelled up in his heart when the door opened beneath his fist, and saw Emma Swan’s confused eyes peering back at him. He thinks back to Neverland, the way she found the broken pieces of his heart and started to help rebuild it in a single breath, and leaving him completely wrecked in the next as she left him behind with nothing but a one-time thing, and good, and thinks of the way she had been the first in so long to see him beneath Hook. He thinks back to the beanstalk, where they had seen through each other’s walls like they were nothing, where she took his hand and for the briefest moment before it all came crashing down, he could see a future once more.

He thinks, again, to New York, trying so hard to convince her to try something new, to trust him and take that leap, a guy I love, and the way perhaps there’s a man that you love in the life that you’ve lost, had simply slipped from his mouth, and the way she found it in herself to trust him and drink the potion despite her memories. He thinks of the way she calls him by his name, calls him Killian in a way that makes him believe he could be Killian Jones once more, makes him believe he could someday leave Captain Hook behind, thinks of the way she smiles at him, the treasured moments in which she confides in him, thinks of the way she laughs, the way she stays so strong despite the weight of all those expectations upon her, thinks of the way she trusts him to keep her boy safe.

He doesn’t know when he fell in love with her. Perhaps it was the kiss, perhaps Echo Caves, where the feelings he had been trying to bury had been forced to the light, perhaps Dark Hollow, when she called out his name, worried for him, perhaps it was when she left him with nothing but “Good,” and a shaky smile, and the image of her yellow vehicle driving away from him as the curse engulfed him. Killian hadn’t even known he had started falling for her in earnest until he crashed, completely and utterly gone.

You still love her?

How could he not?

I swear on Emma Swan.

The brief moment of relief he gets as his yes and his vow lifts some weight off his shoulders, off his heart, is very quickly drowned by horror and panic as his lips sting and Ariel turns into Zelena.

(Later, when he has to lie to Emma, the look of pride and wonder and joy and the smile she gifts him has his heart weighing heavier than it ever did when he was all alone on the Jolly Roger, hopeless and heartbroken and aimless, and he wonders how he ever thought he could be someday be worthy of winning her heart.)

(And after, she tells him she doesn’t care about what he’s hiding, doesn’t want to live in the past anymore, all he can say is “I know how you feel”, and he can still feel her stare as he leaves, feel the concern, concern for him, and he has never felt less worthy of being in her presence.)

13.

She’s smiling. Emma’s turned away from him, leaning against the doorway as she watches her parents and brother, and she’s smiling, bright, wide, pure joy, and Killian thinks she is gorgeous, thinks she is breathtaking like this, (he’d certainly know what breathtaking feels like, he scoffs at himself), but “Never thought I’d see one of those,” he calls out to her because he can’t resist, because her cheer is infectious.

“It’s called a baby,” and his heart lightens even more, how could it not, when she’s looking at him with that smile, when she teases him lightly, when she moves over towards him.

“No, Swan — a smile,” and her grin only widens, eyes only brighten, we won, tone so pleased, and Killian wants to keep seeing this smile, this delighted Emma, wants to stay by her side as long as he can, but he has put her son in danger, put her in danger, has put her in a position to sacrifice her magic, forced her to choose between her magic or his life, and he can’t help but wonder if she made the right choice.

“With all the chaos, I never got a chance to say thank you,” he says, and she tilts her head, looks back confused, you really think I’d let you drown, but he has endangered her and her family, he had been turned into just another tool to harm her, and she was right to be furious with him, his inability to fix his own mistakes, thinks of all the times he bore his heart, thinks of all the times she had walked away from him, thinks maybe someday she might not come back, and, “Given our history, can you blame me for being uncertain?” he keeps his smile up, keeps his tone light, tries to cover up his doubts.

It must work because she laughs a bit. “Has your power returned, now that Zelena’s been defeated?” her smile fades just a bit, no, is said without much emotion, but Killian feels that stab of guilt again, can’t help but wonder, again, if she had made the right choice, “I’m sorry, love,” is all he can offer her, because she had given her magic up for him, to save his life.

“It’s okay,” she shrugs, smiling at him again, “I won’t need it in New York,”

And Killian’s heart sinks, and he stares as Emma calls Henry to meet his uncle, stares as they join the rest of their family, and he stands at the doorway, outsider looking in, but he can no longer feel the cheer Emma had started to bring out in him, can no longer scrounge up much more than an incredibly weak, false smile, because she’s standing there, happy with her family, but she’s going to leave again, leave her parents, leave her brother, leave this town, leave him.

He doesn’t want her to leave him anymore.

He doesn’t want to keep calling after her retreating back.

He wants her to stay, wants to stay by her side, wants her to let him stay at her side, wants her to want him at her side, wants her to be a part of something.

Killian watches them, outsider standing alone by the door, watches them celebrate, coo at the newborn, wide smiles and bright eyes, watches them happy and together, and thinks he wouldn’t deserve it.

14.

“So you just keep running,” Killian finishes, and it makes sense, in some way, except Killian doesn’t want her to leave, doesn’t want her to run.

“I learned something a long time ago, Hook,” and he voice is quiet, gentle, tired, maybe even just a bit apologetic, “Home is a place, when you leave, you just miss it. So yeah, I’m gonna keep running until I feel that,”

He doesn’t want her to leave. He knows she doesn’t want to leave, either. He saw her smile back at the hospital with her family, remembers her a year ago at the town line, in tears because she was being forced to leave. He didn’t imagine the look on her face when she realized she had to leave, didn’t imagine the relieved set to her shoulders when her parents remembered who she was, didn’t imagine the way she had smiled at him at the town line last year, when he had promised her everyday.

He hadn’t imagined the way her thumb brushed his jaw, the way her hand cradled his head when she chose to save him over keeping her magic.

“So you’re just gonna leave your parents, then. Don’t you even care about them? Or anyone in this town?”

Perhaps he did imagine it. Perhaps he had been seeing things that weren’t there, perhaps the near-death experience managed to scrounge up those sensations. But still, he can’t get her smile out of his head, so bright and wide and happy, standing by her family’s side looking down at her brother, the smile of someone completely at peace with her place.

And Emma is looking back at him, like she can see right through his words, like she can see every doubt writing itself in his head, see just how much her talk of running to find a place to miss has him thinking of all the times she ran from him, all the times he had to chase after her, all the times he had missed her.

“Of course I care,” she insists gently, “I just have to do what’s right for me, and Henry, and —“

Then they’re up and running towards some beacon of light because they can never get a quiet moment to just breathe and speak, always another crisis on the horizon, and dammit, he’s just going to have to enjoy these minutes of peace, won’t he?

They’re at the barn again, and whatever is happening has absolutely no chance of being good, and Emma’s saying that Zelena’s death must have triggered it. The doors are rattling, planks look moments away from flying lose, and the light hanging above the door is swinging wildly, and Emma is running towards it what is she doing —

“Wait!” he caught her arm hastily, “We have to get out of here.”

“Not until we find a way to close it!” she protests.

“You’ve got your magic back?” he questioned sharply, eyes flickering between her and the rattling doors, barely waiting for her answer before his fear for her safety wins out, “Then we’re not bloody well messing with any of this, let’s go!”

Too late.

The doors swung open inwards, and the force of the portal has them slamming to the ground, getting dragged in, and Emma he thought wildly, she’s twisting, reaching for him, and the moment he feels her hand grip his, he twists and slams his hook into the ground, but Emma’s too close, and she has to hold on, he’s holding onto her as tight as he can, begging her to hold on as tight as she can, but she’s screaming, but her hand is slipping and, I can’t, and the sound of the sleeve of his coat ripping sounds infinitely louder than the chaos of the portal, of the barn, and —

He stares as she disappears, as she falls into the portal.

How many times was this now?

“Oh, one of these days I’m gonna stop chasing this woman,” he curses, and even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie, knows he’d go anywhere for her, to the ends of the world (or time), would follow her anywhere so long as she let him stay by her side, because he’s still safe but Emma is gone, because his heart is in his throat, fear and horror as her hand had slipped from his.

So he twists, releases his hook and lets himself fall through the portal, and he doesn’t know where they’ll end up, doesn’t know when, doesn’t even know if they’ll fall out together, but all he can think of is getting to Emma, and the fall is painful, but he sees Emma’s red leather jacket just beside him, and all he can feel is relief that she’s all right.

15.

“Mary Margaret and David are always going on about this ball and that ball — what’s the big deal about these things?” she whispers to him, and Killian remembers the first time he attended a ball when he was still in the Navy, remembers his own awe, remembers Emma, just before they fell through the portal, calling these fairytales and stories and how she couldn’t reconcile her own life to this.

He can’t answer her, not when he doesn’t want to miss her reaction.

She’s staring, stunned, enraptured, lips parted, and Killian cannot help but grin at her, cannot help but feel so blessed to be the one to see this, see her like this, and he leans close to whisper “You were saying?” and she still looks stunned as he takes her hand what am I supposed to do, as if Killian would ever pass up this opportunity, pass up the chance to see her smile and laugh and dance and embrace being a princess. He had wanted quiet moments, moments without crises, without the shadow of a lurking threat, not traipsing around some manner of forest courting danger.

They’re on a mission, yes. But for just one dance, Killian does not want to court danger. For just one dance, he wants to court only her.

So he leads her across the room into the crowd of dancers, and she doesn’t seem to believe him, are you saying you know how to do whatever this is, and Killian just moves her hand to the right places, steps just a bit closer, rests his hand on her waist, and he doesn’t know if he can fall any deeper in love with her, because for as long as they’ve known each other, he had always been the one to follow her lead, to put his faith in her and her knowledge of her world, but now — now she’s putting her faith in him, following his lead through his world, and she trusts him enough to not lead her astray. “Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing,”

She is beautiful, an absolute natural, a grace and regality to her movements that makes Killian’s heart swell, all because she’s smiling at him like that, (like maybe she’s —) she may not think she’s a princess, may not think she belongs anywhere near this world, but the way she moves says otherwise, “I’m not mocking you, Swan, just thinking about what you said in Storybrooke, about not being a princess,”

He has sworn off royalty, has declared was on his own kingdom, declared war against a whole navy, has never had good relationships with royalty he meets after, not Poseidon and Ursula, not Regina, not Cora, there isn’t much more he distrusts more than monarchs, very little he hates more than a corrupt crown — but he would swear fealty to Emma Swan, would lay his cutlass at her feet and follow her into battle, into portals, into different realms, anywhere she would let him.

“Really? You get my first dance at my first royal ball, and all you can say is I told you so?”

“I believe what I’m trying to say, your Highness, is that you appear to be a natural,”

They are good together, they’ve always made quite a team, and Killian thinks he has never felt as good as when she is looking at him like this, never felt as right as when she is smiling at him like this, never felt as whole as when they are together, and right now, she is all he can focus on, all he sees, because they are good together and he’s completely in love, and she’s looking at him like maybe —

16.

Killian doesn’t expect Emma to come looking for him, doesn’t know why she came looking for him. “So,” she asks lightly, settling into the seat next to his, “do you think Rumplestiltskin is right? I’m in the Book now. He said everything besides our little adventure would go back to normal. Do you think that it is?”

“He’s right,” because Killian has spent the night scrounging his memory for her, for golden hair and green eyes, and for the way she looks at him, for the way she kisses him, but the only kisses he has are from Neverland and his attempt at a True Love’s Kiss in New York, “Otherwise I’d remember that damn bar wench I kissed.”

“How would that prove anything?”

“I know how you kiss,” he reminds her, remembers Neverland, remembers the way he always feels like Killian Jones with her, even when he was very much Captain Hook, because she had been the first in centuries to kiss him like that, and, past or present, memories or not, Killian or Hook, he’d have followed her anywhere. “I’d have gone after her. But I didn’t. My life went on exactly the same as before,”

“Must’ve been the rum,” she murmurs, and she is staring at him, and he wonders what she sees, wonders what she thinks.

“Everything’s back to normal. You’re a bloody hero, Swan,”

“So are you,” she returns, and Killian scoffs a little at that, because all he did was follow her, all he did was do what he’s already been doing for some time now. “I wanted to thank you, Killian,” makes him look up at her, makes him look her in the eyes because he can’t think of what — “For going back for me in the first place in New York. If you hadn’t —”

But it’s hardly something to praise about, he was simply doing the right thing, anyone else could have easily taken his place.

“How did you do it?” she asks, and Killian’s heart sinks. He had wondered how long it would take her to ask, had wondered how long he could keep deflecting, “How did you get to me?”

There’s no more running.

“Well, the curse was coming,” he keeps his tone light, keeps it as even as possible so Emma can drop the subject, can think it’s nothing all that important, “I ditched my crew and took the Jolly Roger as fast and as far as I possibly could to outrun it.”

“You outran a curse?”

“I’m a hell of a captain,” a hell of a captain who had a hell of a ship, “and once I was outside the curse’s purview, I knew that the walls were down, transport between the worlds was possible again, all I needed was a magic bean.”

“Those are not easy to come by,”

No. Not if you didn’t know where to look, not if you didn’t know the right people, didn't have access to the right prices, if you weren’t willing to pay that price. But Killian had had no problem with the price, had no problem tracking down Blackbeard, as loudly as he gloats about being in possession of a stash of beans, and he certainly had the leverage.

“They are if you’ve got something of... value to trade,” he can’t look at her right, doesn’t know how she’d react, doesn’t know what she’d think, and he misses the Jolly Roger, misses the scratched out symbols for port and starboard, misses his cabin, misses that little plank of wood that he can never get set right.

“And what was that?” she asks, laughing a bit, likely thinking of jewels or gold.

He doesn’t want to tell her, doesn’t want her to feel some sort of debt to him, but he doesn’t want to lie to her, either.

So Killian forces up a smile, puts on his most nonchalant voice, “Why, the Jolly Roger, of course,”

It doesn’t work, of course it doesn’t work, not with her, and she’s staring at him like she did when she had thought he helped Ariel, staring with surprise and awe and disbelief, and you traded your ship for me, and he can’t keep up the act anymore, can’t pretend that the Jolly Roger had meant nothing to him, not when Emma clearly sees how much it had meant to him.

“Aye.”

She’s leaning in to him, slowly, and Killian doesn’t move, wants to let her do as she wishes to kiss him or change her mind and walk away, to take the blackened heart he’s offering up to her, to let her break it should she wish, wants her.

Killian just wants her.

And she’s kissing him, and he can feel everything she isn’t saying. He can feel the gratitude in it, can feel that this is more than just thank you, this is her telling him she’s ready, ready to let him in, ready to lower her walls, to let him love her, to let him be a part of her life, and he wants it, loves her so much his heart is swelling with it, and they separate and she is smiling at him, smiling like she feels that everything is okay, that this is okay, that this is perfect and she wants it too, and as ever, her joy is infectious, building on his own, and this time he is the one to lean in, and she responds enthusiastically.

Killian does not have the Jolly Roger, but he can find his home here with her, because she was the first to see Killian Jones, because she had brought back Killian Jones, and he was so lost without her, had been lost in rage and vengeance, then lost in his own heartbreak, but he wants to do better, wants to become worthy of what she sees in him, of the privilege of being let past her walls, wants to become a better man for her.

She had managed to find her way past his masks and his own walls and find the heart he didn't think could still work, could still love or care for or break. She is kissing him and he has never felt so free, so at peace.

He thinks he could someday be worthy of it.

#ouat #captain swan #killian jones #emma swan #cs ff #my fanfic #j’s stuffs #a map and a shovel (to my achilles’ heel)#title from Sleeping At Last’s ‘Eight’#introspective as all hell #this is basically analysis headcanons and metas disguised as fic #a nearly irresponsible amount of italics #it’s literally my first time writing a fic id love some feedback #for if ever I keep it up I know how to improve

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pop-up-puppet · 6 years ago

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Greenhorne Chapter One: MERCURY

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

Behold, a simple traveler.

You already know that story.

So let’s skip straight to the parts that matter–

Story Averett, all sixteen years, five feet eleven inches, and one hundred and forty eight pounds of her, did not expect to become an adventurer today. But, well, here we are, anyway—a resplendent show of lights and sparks leaves her breathless and dizzy with newfound power under her fingertips. The charm around her neck, nestled safely under her bandana, glimmers with the same power she felt surging through her veins.

It may not seem like much from the outside, just a fancy new outfit and a knife, but Story can feel it coursing through her. This is the difference between being a traveler and an adventurer, a hero—this is the thrill Story had been seeking.

She catches her breath after rescuing the face of the young child from the village, looking at the knife in her hands.

Story knows she should be more worried, because this place, this kingdom—this is a Greenhorne a little different from the one you know, perhaps, and heroes are harder to come by and much less appreciated than you might think. Especially thieves, who have a reputation for, well, they’re not called thieves for no reason. She’s not likely to get much welcome, now. But something in her thinks that maybe it’s worth it, just for this.

She pockets her knife and heads towards town. She’s got a kid to make sure is all right.

This is a Miitopia where being a hero is not just a title. Being a hero of the light means having divinity on your side—nameless gods from times before strung on charms or hidden in pockets, lending you strength and power. When you’re facing the forces of darkness, you need more than just the light of one lonely soul to guide you. Without a little extra to back you up, you’ll have no chance, and soon the forces of darkness will seep in and puppet you, too, just like the things you tried so valiantly to fight against.

This is a Greenhorne where, maybe, things are a little darker than they have been. A place where whispers of the Dark Lord to the east have long since reached like fingers into the minds of people, metaphorically if not literally, spreading panic and hysteria rippling through every town. There used to be light, there used to be heroes. But then the heroes started losing, and as the forces of darkness poured in people turned against those they once trusted to keep them safe. Darkness is drawn to light like a moth to a flame, after all, and who’s to say these heroes aren’t the ones bringing it to us in the first place? They were driven out, or worse, and now, instead of heroes, high walls and bright lanterns fueled by divine energy keep the darkness out.

It’s not working particularly well. But hardly anyone notices when a few shadows slip in through the cracks until it’s too late. Cities of shadow puppets dance in the flickering candles, and no one’s the wiser.

The town of Greenhorne is not shadow puppets, though there is certainly more darkness than there should be. It’s farther west, almost right on the edge of the continent, and the Dark Lord’s influence hasn’t spread quite that far yet. Or at least, it hadn’t, not until today, not until the last place of light to the west fell to the shadows as the Dark Lord paid it a personal visit.

Now, with a burning light inside her, as Story steps through the gates, it’s all she can feel, shadows writing and creeping all around her. She curls around the guardian charm instinctively, though whether it’s to protect them or so they can protect her she doesn’t know. Still, she keeps a bright smile on her face, walking past people who stare at her from the places where their faces should be and towards the mother clutching her child.

“Thank you,” she says, her eyes tearful. “Thank you, so much.”

“Of course,” Story responds. “It’s what a hero would do, right?”

There’s something in the mother’s eyes, and Story wonders if maybe she’d used the antique charm before. Certainly enough to know the dangers of the shadows, more than the others in this town who think this facelessness is the end of it. (It is not the end of it. Story had always thought it was, too, but under the light she can feel something growing inside the faceless ones. She wonders how deep the Dark Lord’s influence goes.)

“Yes,” the mother says. “Yes, it is.”

Story can tell the others in town are wary. It’s been so long since a real hero has been around, and they don’t quite know how to act around her, especially since thieves don’t exactly have the best reputation to begin with. Being a hero - a real hero, a divine hero - is something that’s become so uncommon that Story herself had only heard legends and whispers.

(But that’s odd. Something in her frowns. Hasn’t the Dark Lord only been here a few years? Why have heroes been gone for as long as she can remember? Why is it that when the Guardian Spirit lent her its divine power, she could feel shadows that had been there so long she couldn’t remember a time without them receding from her mind?)

So Story puts on a smile as she approaches the mayor of the town.

“My name is Story,” she says. “I’m a hero. I’m here to help.” The mayor eyes her suspiciously, but he’s in absolutely no place to deny her help at this point, not in the sorry state the town is in. “All right,” he says. “The town is in shambles, thief… I don’t know what to do. Can you help fight off the Dark Lord’s forces?”

Story isn’t sure she can, but something compels her to nod anyway. “Of course,” she says. “I’ll get everyone’s faces back. I promise.”

The mayor looks like he still isn’t sure, but, well, she did save that child’s face. He nods. “All right. Here.” He gestures for her to follow him into his office.

She does so, and he pulls out some parchment and stops writing. “What are you doing, sir?”

“Well, if you’re going to be saving us, we may as well be paying you,” he grumbles. “How does 200 gold for every face you find sound?”

Story’s eyes widen. “That’s more than enough, sir.”

He nods quickly. “Well, I don’t know about more than enough, but it’ll cover your travel expenses, at least.” He holds out the piece of paper, a contract. “This is the last city to the west, thief. We cannot let it fall.”

Story looks at it and wavers. Just today she was a hopeless runaway with nothing to her name. A hero? Really?

But… they need her. They all do. All of Miitopia does.

She sets her face in determination and nods firmly. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

The mayor grins. “You better not, thief.”

A little while later, Story settles herself into a room at the inn and sighs. It’s still early, but it’s been a long day, and Story just wants to rest.

But there’s something she has to do first.

She holds the guardian charm in both hands. Despite having only just picked it up, the glass feels warm under her fingers, almost like she’s been holding it for a while. Or, no - the warmth is coming from inside the glass, like a tiny bit of sunlight has been trapped inside, swirling in shades of blue.

“Can we talk?” Story asks, holding her breath.

Nothing happens, for a minute, and Story scowls. “Just gonna give me the silent treatment? I oughta-” She lets out a yelp as the charm heats up and starts to glow, and she feels her soul separate from her body with a distinct ripping sensation - but faster than pain can set in, it’s soothed by a calming feeling of magic swirling through her, and then she’s back in the endless blue of the guardian charm.

“...hi,” she says.

Hello, my child, the guardian spirit says. It’s been a long day, and I understand I didn’t have the time to explain very well beforehand. I suspect you have questions?

“Heck yeah, I do,” she says. “You’d better have answers.”

We’ll see, they say. Ask away, my child.

Story nods, despite not being sure if this mysterious voice can see them, and thinks a minute. “Why… why me?”

Why you? The guardian spirit seems to chuckle. You were meant to be a hero, Story.

“I.” Story shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not too sure that I am, actually? I mean, not to be, like, rude, but… I really don’t think I was, um, the best… choice, maybe?”

What do you mean by that?

She fidgets, tugging at the bandana around her neck. “I’m not… I’m not a hero. I’m just - some dumb runaway. I don’t think I’m cut out to save anyone, let alone… all of Greenhorne.”

Story… oh, my child. The spirit sighs, its voice a warm and gentle breeze against her - well, not her ears, exactly, she’s not sure she’s exactly hearing things in this weird blue pocket-dimension, but it’s like a pure sensation of comfort blooming in her chest. Story Averett, from the moment I came into contact with you I could sense the spark of a hero’s soul within you. You may not think you’re cut out to save Greenhorne, but with time, I know you could save all of Miitopia.

Story’s breath hitched, and she swallowed thickly. “A-all of Miitopia? That’s kind of a… a hefty order… I thought heroes were just supposed to, um, protect-”

-towns? the guardian finishes. Story, we’re much past small-town protectors. The Dark Lord has taken over almost all of southern Miitopia. If you don’t stop him now… There’s no one else who will.

“Ah,” Story says. “But no pressure, though, right?”

Oh, Story… Do not feel afraid, they reassure her. I’m certain you can do it.

“Right,” Story says quietly. She’s... not so certain, to say the least.

But… this guardian spirit, this god, or whatever they are, they believe in her. Story closes her eyes and steels herself. If she’s all they’ve got, then… she’s at least got to try. For Miitopia. For her family.

A hero, huh?

“So, uh, what’s the game plan here, GS?” she asks. “How do I defeat the Dark Lord?”

The guardian spirit seems pleased with her determination as they reply, Focus on Greenhorne now. On getting stronger. Save this town, and travel east. All the way to Karkaton, where the Dark Lord’s forces lie. That’s where you’ll face him.

Story lets out a breath. “That’s a long way away.”

It is, the guardian concedes. But you won’t have to do it alone. I’ve called forth some companions for you. They should arrive within a few days. And… you have myself, as well. Always.

Story smiles slightly, a little nervous. “Good to know,” she says.

The abilities I’ve given you are powerful, but you need to learn how to use them, they say. Luckily, the Dark Lord is weak in this area. You should have no trouble defeating his minions, which will in turn give you more strength. And don’t be afraid to call on my abilities if you need extra assistance.

“Thank you,” Story says. “I’ll probably need it.”

I suspect you’ll need it less than you think you will, child, they chuckle. You should set out eastward, for the first face, in the morning. In the meantime, however, you need rest. It’s been a long day.

“Right,” Story says, closing her eyes. “Goodnight, GS.”

Goodnight, my child, comes the voice like a whisper, and a fluttery feeling of magic and the movement of her soul. When she opens her eyes again, she’s back in the inn room.

Story curls her hand around the guardian charm for comfort, and then sets it carefully down on the table by her bed.

“Watch out, Dark Lord,” she says weakly, trying to convince herself more than anything. “I’m coming for you.”

She passes out the minute her head hits the pillow.

The next day finds Story standing shakily in front of a monster just outside of Greenhorne, knife in hand. It’s just a butterfly, she tells herself. A butterfly with someone’s eyes, her brain responds. Shut up, she tells herself, and charges.

Her knife makes contact and Story thinks it does some damage, but it’s hard to tell exactly because this thing is made of, like, rock or something and doesn’t have any blood. Story, on the other hand, does have blood, but thankfully none of it comes out when the rock moth hits her back. Hard.

Story is knocked backwards, and before she can muster the strength to get back on her feet again the rock moth has fluttered away. She lets out a groan and clutches her stomach, where the monster had hit her.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she says, not for the first time that day.

The sound of the guardian spirit’s spiritual “voice” is something Story has quickly become accustomed to, and so when it filters into her brain with a Don’t worry, she doesn’t even jump. You’ve hit a bit of trouble there, don’t you? I’ve got just the thing to help.

And then that familiar burst of magic swirls through her hand and out of it, and Story is holding a small container of… something. It looks almost like a salt shaker, but it’s yellow, and what’s inside looks like flecks of gold.

“What is this?” Story asks, turning it around in her hands.

It’s called… Well, it’s been given a lot of names, but they’re technically called HP sprinkles. They’ll restore your health in a pinch, by-

“Sprinkles… Like cake? Can I eat them?”

No, Story, you’re not supposed to–

“I’m gonna eat ‘em.” Story opens her mouth and turns the shaker upside down over it, a few flakes falling into it. Almost immediately, she spits them out. “Euch!”

I did warn you, dear.

“Could’ve warned me a little better!”

I tried, my child. The guardian spirit sounds exasperated. You didn’t listen. The way you’re actually supposed to use them is by sprinkling them over your head.

“Like, uh.” Story hesitantly holds up the bottle. “Like this?

Yes.

“Feels a little silly, but okay.” Story shakes, and golden flakes come out and dance through her hair before turning into golden magic that swirls into her. She blinks, stretching. “Oh, wow. That is a lot better. Thank you!”

Of course, the guardian spirit says. I’m here to help you, Story. Don’t forget that.

“Right,” Story says. “Thanks, um… You know, you’ve helped me out so much and I don’t even know your name!”

The guardian spirit seems a bit surprised at the question. It’s been some time since someone asked my name… Hm. You may call me Radiance.

“Radiance,” Story says. “Funky.”

Is it not good?

“No, it’s a cool name! I like funky.” She pockets the bottle of HP sprinkles and tosses her knife in the air, trying to catch it.

She misses, of course, and it falls to the ground, but she doesn’t let that bother her, scooping it back up. “Let’s go find another monster to fight. I think I can beat it this time.”

That’s the spirit, Story!

Story grins. “The guardian spirit - sorry, sorry, I had to.” She holds her knife at the ready and proceeds down the route.

The next rock moth she comes across, she’s ready. She takes a deep breath and holds up the knife, feeling her shaking hand still, light and magic swirling around inside her.

She throws the knife, which hits the moth and ricochets off, and then neatly grabs it back out of the air.

Story lets out a gasping breath. “I did it!”

Yes, you did - now look out!

Story yelps and is just a bit too late dodging the rock moth’s attack, getting hit again, and winces. But she gets back up, huffing out a breath, and tosses her knife.

This time, the rock moth bursts into the same light energy the first slime she’d fought had turned into, a floating bubble with someone’s face in it floating off into the sky towards its owner.

“I did it!” Story says, hopping from one leg to the other eagerly. “I did it!”

I’m proud of you, my child, Radiance says. Every monster you defeat helps another person get their face back, and brings you one step closer to defeating the Dark Lord.

Story sighs. “But we still haven’t found any of the faces of people from Greenhorne Town…”

You will, Story, don’t worry. It will all come in due time. For now, just focus on getting stronger, and eventually, you’ll be able to save the town.

“...Right,” Story says. “And - and then we…”

Move on to the capital, Radiance says. I’m certain that if we save the castle we can chase the Dark Lord’s forces out of Greenhorne entirely. And eventually, we can take back all of Miitopia.

Story feels anxiety fluttering in her gut again. “...Right,” she says. “What exactly, I mean… What’s the Dark Lord’s plan, even? Besides, like, taking over Miitopia? What are they gonna do once they do?”

She shivers as she feels something dark pass through the guardian spirit. They’re after control, my child. Control over everyone and everything. They just want to cover the whole land in darkness. And anyone who still stands with the light will be destroyed.

“Oh,” Story says in a small voice.

That’s why you’re so important, Story, Radiance says. Why we’re so important. I could sense it from the first moment I met you, how much light you had inside of you. With my help, you can banish all of the darkness in Miitopia.

“Right,” Story says, squeezing her eyes shut. “Right. Right. I can do this. I can do this.”

Of course you can. I believe in you.

“Then.” Story takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “Then let’s go fight some monsters.”

Elsewhere.

The Princess of Greenhorne is sitting on the roof of the castle.

Something is very, very wrong with her kingdom. She knows this, in the roots of her soul, and her heart hurts thinking about it. She wants to help, but every time she things about why it is wrong or what she can do to help, her thoughts turn fuzzy and her head feels like it’s splitting open until she stops.

Her father is doing nothing about it. He laughs off the reports he’s heard (for - for - for how long have they been coming in? She can’t quite remember) and pretends that Greenhorne is still such a peaceful place.

The Princess knows that it is not. Something is hiding in the dark, something dangerous, something ruining them all. And no one is doing anything about it. Out of the corner of her eye, sometimes, she sees something lurking in the shadows, something that makes her brain hurt to think about but that she can’t afford to stop thinking about. Everyone else in the castle may be able to pretend everything is fine, but she can’t. She won’t allow herself to.

Everyone treats her like someone who must be protected. Like a damsel in distress. Her father, her guards, her lover - none of them want her to “waste” her time worrying about things, none of them want her in danger. She’s supposed to be pretty and ornamental and nothing else.

She can’t abide by that.

Rhiannon is going to rule the kingdom one day and by God she’s going to make sure she still has a kingdom to rule.

“Trade places with me,” she says to a guard in a whisper.

It takes a while to get the guard to trade places with her, but it’s almost a perfect match.

She wonders if anyone will even notice she’s gone. If she’s really so ornamental, so useless - they might not. She tells no one, not even her lover, and slips out of the castle one night with nothing to her name but a few gold pieces and a sword strapped to her belt. She grits her teeth.

Whoever’s out there, threatening her kingdom -

They better watch out.

kind of a transition chapter, which is a bit weird for the first chapter? but i have never found the beginning of miitopia particularly compelling, and it’s been covered in a lot of stories, so this chapter is focusing less on plot and more on developing story’s character. i also wanted to portray the effect that going from a “simple traveler” to a hero expected to save the whole world in one day might have on someone, which is why story was hesitant through much of this chapter and will continue to be that way for a while.

the part near the beginning describing the state of miitopia isn’t just pretty prose. a lot of it will come back. both the stuff about the darkness and the stuff about heroes. i made the decision pretty early on in the planning process that heroes were going to be not super well-liked in this version of miitopia, and that there were going to be specific reasons why. i know there’s a lot of weird stuff going on here, but hopefully it’ll all get explained by the end!

also, the bit about the princess - i don’t want to say much now, but keep an eye out for her, she’ll be back! :) she’s only one of many changes i’m making to the plot, in an effort to make this more than a straight-up retelling of the game.

the official name of this story is now Cycles, by the way! if/when i ever get around to publishing it on AO3 it’ll be under that name. it’ll make more sense as time goes on.

if you have any questions, comments, or constructive criticism, my ears are always open! i’d love any kind of feedback! see you next time, whenever next time may end up being!

#miitopia #miitopia fanfiction #miitopia ocs #cordiewrites #team iridescence #arc: greenhorne #main storyline

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auroratabey · 6 years ago

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Chapter One: Back on the Wagon (Part 1)

A young witch’s longcoat swept a cloud of dust up into the darkness after a loud crack announced her arrival. She lowered a bandana from her mouth, breathed the desert air in deep, and stepped into the wilderness of the Sierra.

She had been after it for months when the trail went cold. But after weeks of no luck, a whisper of mysterious sightings and disappearances she overheard in a dank no-maj dive bar led her there. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to be on that trail to begin with, or, at least, that far ahead of the authorities. But no-maj disappearances, she knew for certain, weren’t at the top of MACUSA’s list anyway. And, as far as she was concerned, a bounty was a bounty.

She stopped and squinted. The blackened peaks of the Sierra surrounded her, their valleys sharpening the winds that cut through her bones and whistled, surrounding her with the eerie crackles and moans of what little life survived there.

A fire flickered ahead, just a speck, and she moved toward it. She considered lighting her wand, but remembered she couldn’t afford another run-in with Aurors, much less another agonizing afternoon spent in her former office, now occupied by the biggest pain in her ass. And while it was unlikely anyone else, magical or not, would be able to spot her in that darkness, she continued with just the distant fire as her guide. Talking to strangers wasn’t exactly her favorite, but whoever the campers were, there was a good chance they knew some helpful clue to point her in the right direction.

With every step, she sensed something familiar growing. Magic always leaves a trace, and she was sure it had been there, and might be there still.

It occurred to her how strange it was to feel something so alive in a place so desolate, despite the knowledge that a hundred years earlier this land flourished with the life, magic, and harmony of its Native stewards. Legend had it these lands never forgot their original caretakers, that the dirt and stone and water and scant greens were imbued with the longing of their return, and wariness of any who later trod there. It was an ancient magic that made her spine tingle, and her arms prickle with goosebumps, but somehow it wasn’t foreboding. In fact, there was something about the sensation that was inviting, like a gentle greeting after a long absence.

“Who’s that?” a gruff voice greeted her as she reached the edge of the camp.

She hesitated. A young man sat huddled beneath a blanket, wide-eyed and afraid -- she felt she recognized the expression, but couldn’t place it. To his right was a much more imposing figure, with a long, unkempt beard and suspicious eyes.

“I said, who’s that there?” the bearded man repeated, and she noticed his hand hovered over a wand-holster.

“Sorry,” she said lightly, “I didn’t expect to run into anyone else out here, least of all a wizard.”

“Ah, you’re a witch, then,” he replied, brightening, his hand returned to his lap, “Shoulda guessed it, I s’pose, what with you bein’ all the way out here without a pack er nuthin’ like them no-majs dreamed up.”

She nodded, mustering a smile.

“Still ain’t answered my question, though,” he said, gesturing to an empty seat by the fire, “What’s brought you out in the middle o’ nowhere?”

“I heard some no-majs talking about something strange going on around here, so I thought I’d check it out.”

“Spend alotta time with no-majs, do ya’?” he said, his eyes narrowed.

She considered her answer carefully.

“On occasion. Besides, when no-majs see something strange, there’s usually treasure nearby. Even if they can’t see it.”

He held his gaze on her, and, after a moment, laughed.

“Ain’t that the truth! Too blind. It’s a danged miracle they survived this long,” he mused, laughing and elbowing the man in the blanket, who stayed quite still, “Much too blind. And useless. So you’re a curse-breaker, huh? Gringotts?”

“Not officially,” she grunted, the memory of her dismissal still all too vivid, “I heard there might be a cave around here with something worth digging up. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“Freelance, huh? That’s the life, ain’t it? Me n’ my buddy here, on the other hand, we’re on a delivery job, fer our boss. Got ourselves a contract -- inked, so to speak.” And he unconsciously touched his left arm.

“That so? What’re you delivering?” the witch asked the man in the blanket.

“Oh, don’t bother with ol’ Mack here. He ain’t made a peep since he thought he saw a wampus this mornin’. Anyhow, even if he made a peep, t’wouldn’t be much worth listenin’ to. Ol’ Mack here’s ‘bout as useful as a broomstick in a tornado.”

But the man in the blanket’s eyes met hers, and she finally remembered where she’d seen that look. And the old man noticed.

“Anyhow, lemme show you what we got here,” he said loudly, pulling a large, aged book out of the rucksack behind him, “This here’s got the name o’ every ancient and noble pureblood family in these here United States. Gimme any name and I’ll tell ya’ if they’re pureblood -- or if they ain’t worth nuthin’ at all.”

He turned to a page that was dog-eared, presumably for moments just like this, and pointed.

“There, Crassley, that’s me. William ‘Bill’ Crassley, atcher service. Now, your turn.”

“Oh, you won’t find my name in a book like that,” she said, and, when the old man’s eyes flashed, added, “My folks weren’t from around here. Mom was a dragonologist from Korea, and dad...he was a healer. Taíno.”

The first part was almost true. Her mother, she was told, was Korean-born and American-raised. She traveled to the Dominican Republic in hopes of finding the Caribbean Nightcrawler, a breed long thought extinct, when she was injured and later nursed by a young doctor from a nearby village.

The doctor, her father, wasn’t magical, though his ancestors were known to live peacefully with the magical community for centuries. That is, before witches and wizards from Europe made their way west. She remembered the bedtime stories he told of a lost people, betrayed by the very travelers they intended to help. She remembered sitting quietly at the top of the stairs, well past her bedtime, listening to him and others she didn’t know scheme to reunite and to rebuild what their ancestors lost to tragedy and time. She watched as he pored over ancient histories and lore, and scraped together what he could of the traditions the ancient Taínos left behind. But he did heal people, with modern no-maj methods, sure, but also with the plants and herbs and anything else the earth provided him, and with his soothing touch. And that, the young witch decided long ago, was more powerful than magic.

When her parents died and she was shipped off to Ilvermorny, the young witch learned the meaning of the look Bill and so many others gave her, and what it meant to reveal the full truth. So she often chose her words carefully, and steadied her gaze.

Bill watched her closely.

“I hearda them Taínos,” he said darkly, “Buncha half-bloods, ain’t they? That is, if ya’ count what they call ‘magic.’ Ain’t even got wands, do they?”

“They don’t believe in separating no-majs from us, no.”

“Couldn’ta been very powerful, their magic, then, I reckon,” Bill said, shaking his head, “Di-luted, probably. Shame. All that good magic blood gone to waste. High time someone came along n’ put it right, ‘afore s’all gone.”

That kind of talk, not new nor uncommon, had recently grown louder.

Since the Salem witch trials, MACUSA and general magical society unanimously agreed to isolate, conjuring up an impenetrable wall between themselves and no-majs, which stood for centuries. At least, until just a few years prior, when the ban on inter-blood marriage was lifted. For many, the end of the ban meant hope, at long last, and the prospect of coming out of hiding. For still many more, it was the last straw.

The rise of a new and ruthless dark wizard in Britain emboldened the purist community around the world. As far as the young witch knew, the one who called himself Voldemort had never set foot on American soil, but his presence was felt far and wide, regardless -- as little as MACUSA wanted to admit it.

She loved her parents and their history, but at times found herself keeping them a secret, frustrated with how difficult it was to find her place in a world that never intended for her to exist.

Her jaw clenched.

“An’ what is it, exactly, you believe?” he asked, slowly.

His holster was suddenly in his hand, and she glanced at the man in the blanket.

“Well,” she started, as she slowly lowered her right hand to her side, “I don’t believe ol’ Mack here’s a friend of yours.”

At that, Bill unsheathed his wand and pointed it directly between her eyes, but the young witch was faster. With a quickdraw and a flick, she caught his wand and sent him crashing to the ground.

She stepped forward to make sure he was out cold before turning her wand to Mack.

“Finite incantatem,” she said.

Finally, Mack relaxed.

“Th-thank you,” he croaked, “I-I really thought...I mean, thank you.”

“That’s okay,” she said, helping him to his feet, “I’m only sorry I didn’t stun him sooner.”

“You and me both.”

“So you’re a wizard.”

“Yes, ma’am. Half, anyway. Same as you.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, I'd never seen a pureblood get trigger happy for half-bloods before.”

With that, the witch blushed. An unfamiliar warmth flooded her chest for a moment, and she shook it off, clearing her throat.

“We should tie him up before he causes any trouble. Incarcerous.”

“Righteous.”

“Why’re you all the way out here, anyway?” she asked, rifling through Bill’s belongings, picking up his book, “Why didn’t he just kill you on the spot?”

“That’s friendly,” Mack scoffed, “I don’t know. He said something about cracking some kind of gnarly cave open, paying a price, etcetera, etcetera. Snapped my wand in half. Next thing I knew, I was here.”

“Here, take his wand. It won't be as good as yours, but it’ll do until you Apparate to MACUSA.”

“Okay, I hear you. Just two things: why am I going to MACUSA, and...how does one Apparate?”

“You need to turn Bill in. You can’t Apparate?”

“I didn’t quite get that far...”

Bill stirred.

“And you won’t get further now.”

As the other two watched, Bill shifted slightly and maneuvered his hands, which were still tied behind his back.

In a second a chorus of loud cracks filled the air, and they were surrounded by a dozen masked men with wands raised.

The young witch quickly cast a shield, grabbed Bill’s books and Mack, who in turn snatched a clump of a howling Bill’s hair, and the three vanished under a hale of red and green light.

#hp #harry potter #hp fanfic #hp fandom #fanfic #hapa

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