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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

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imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [6/6]

“My ‘story’ is that I left a fucked-up situation and it kind of fucked me up,” he’d said. But it was the way he’d said it, like it hadn’t broken him. Like it was just a fact. But Emma’s life was a story, too. A fucked-up situation that had kind of fucked her up. She wasn’t that kid anymore. Confidence could be learned. And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t broken, either. Not if she picked up the pieces. Not if she told herself a new story. About who she was. About what she wanted. Roots, family, friends, a sense of the familiar—these did not have to be fairy tales. “You owe it to yourself,” Mary Margaret said. “Happy endings always start with hope.”

–

S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

to @wistfulcynic and @thisonesatellite who sat with me while we daydreamed on a hilltop in cornwall on the summer-iest summer day england has ever seen. it took me eight months but i got there in the end.

thank you to @shireness-says for time and feedback and kindness to the IAS @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @idoltina @initiala @thejollyroger-writer @phiralovesloki for always giving me a cheer when i needed it

seventeen. 'and straight on 'til morning'

The girl, Wendy, insisted on helping Neal to gather Henry’s belongings and stayed at his side for the entire walk to the Jolly Roger. It was a race against a clock that was suddenly very real in this place where time did not exist, every second another precious tick against Henry’s life.

The boy looked very small in his father’s arms and smaller still once laid out on the deck to await the arrival of his mothers. The Lost Boys were settled against the bulkheads and Killian had sent David below deck to sort out cabins and sleeping arrangements for himself and his family.

Any moment, the women would return; the Jolly Roger awaited her departure.

That left Killian and Neal standing side-by-side at the helm for the first time since Bae had left. Neal’s fingers worried at the scratches in the wood. “You sailed her well when you took the Jolly Roger from me in New York,” Killian said.

“I learned from the best. Isn’t that what you would say?” Neal sighed. “How did we get here, Hook? How does this end?”

Killian glanced at Henry. “Emma swore she would bring back Henry’s heart. And I’m not sure any of those women know how to fail, especially her.”

“Yeah, she’s—” Neal sighed again. “She’s really something.”

“She’s a hero,” Killian said. “And an extraordinary woman. She will return, and we will sail home.”

“We, huh?” Neal’s eyebrow twitched. “What’s it feel like, to be one of the good guys?”

“Am I?”

“I don’t know, Hook. Are you? You know I need to do this. I need to fight for her. A man who refuses to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

“Aye.” Killian pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Emma deserves someone who will fight for her.”

“So does that mean you’re gonna stand in my way?”

“I am in your way. You and I, we’ve gotten caught up in so much nonsense—over a woman. That’s not what I want for us. Or her. I won’t interfere in your fight, Neal. I will let Emma make her own decision, and I will respect it.”

Neal held out his hand. Killian took it. They shook.

And then they heard the commotion. Regina yelling at the top of her very commanding voice. “Henry!”

And Emma: “Henry? Where is he?”

“He’s over here!” Neal and Killian met the mothers at Henry’s side. David nearly tripped coming up the companionway.

All they could do was watch as Regina pushed her son’s heart back into his body. Watch, and wait. Killian’s own breath felt like a weight in his chest as he watched for the boy’s.

“Are we too late?” Emma whispered.

With a sickening cough, Henry came awake. His eyes opened and he tried to sit up—too quickly, which made him cough again.

“Whoa. Whoa, whoa—take it easy, buddy. Take a breath. We’re here. We’re all here.” Neal’s voice wavered as if he was holding back tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Henry said. “I just wanted to save the magic. I wanted to be a hero.” He looked at Emma. “Like you, mom.”

“It’s okay,” Emma said. “It’s okay, Henry.”

“There’s plenty of time for that.” David gripped him on the shoulder.

“Right now, it’s time to rest,” Snow White said.

Killian’s relief filled him. His smile hurt. “Welcome back, lad. Only the best for our guest of honor. Captain’s quarters, I think?”

“Come on. I’ll tuck you in.” Regina’s hand shook as she pulled Henry tightly against her and led him away.

Killian kept himself at the helm and away from the family dramas unfolding before him. The ship was ready; there was little for him to do but wait. And watch. The Lost Boys were scattered on the forecastle but the poop was cluttered with Emma and the Charmings and a box containing the Dark One.

Would that he would stay so contained.

But Neal appeared nervous--eager. Held the box tightly in his hand as he shuffled on his feet, preparing himself for the enormity of what he was about to do. Killian saw him dart a glance at Emma—stock-still, her expression etched in stone. Behind her the Charmings clutched at each other with the waterskin pressed between them and waited.

David turned, slightly, and caught Killian’s eye. Nodded. That was when Killian realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to expel it. Released his grip on the wheel.

With a twist of his wrist Neal opened the box and for an instant the very air stopped moving. The starlight dimmed. Everything seemed to vibrate and there, on the deck of the Jolly Roger, stood the Dark One; Killian hated how grateful he was for it.

Neal pulled his father into his arms and Emma seemed to collapse. Her shoulders sagged, her spine curved. Her mouth moved for several seconds with no sound before she said, “He’s back. That means—”

David could go home. They could all go home—Emma’s entire family.

Killian grinned. Emma Swan never failed.

The prince laughed. “He can cure me.”

Snow White was nearly sobbing. “We can go home?” Emma flinched when her mother grabbed her , frozen, before collapsing again—further—into the embrace. “A family.” David’s hand gently cradled the back of Emma’s head.

Regina emerged from the companionway and took in the group hug with a roll of her eyes. Emma extracted herself from her parents and looked at Killian—he tipped his head—then Neal, who straightened and removed the tied-up coconut from the strap of his cutlass.

“Can we get a move on?” Regina was as patient as ever. “You—get over here.” This was said to Neal.

“You think it will fly?” Emma said.

“It has no choice,” Regina said. Grim satisfaction tinged her words as she held herself ready for the spell. “Light it.”

Emma reached for the cannon fuse with her lighter—no magic—and Neal held the coconut steady.

“Now,” Regina commanded, and Neal obeyed; the Shadow was caught by the cannon and by the magic and trapped in the sail. The fabric changed from white to black and filled with invisible wind and momentum as the Shadow strained to move.

“Let’s get the hell out of Neverland,” Emma said.

“As you wish,” Killian said. “Prepare to weigh anchor!” The magic of the ship responded to his order and shifted immediately with a tilt skyward. Propelled by the Shadow, they were soon airborne. Airborne, and free.

David and Emma murmured to each other on the deck as Snow White dug into the remainder of their stores and began making a round of the Lost, offering them bits of food or sips of water. Wendy pulled her dressing-gown more tightly around herself and made her way toward Tink. When Bae—Neal joined them, the tiny girl wrapped herself around him. Regina stood amidships along the starboard side—alone—until Tinker Bell moved to stand beside her.

Killian watched them. He was alone at the helm and it stayed that way as, one by one, the assorted passengers of the Jolly Roger took themselves to the cabins assigned them by Prince Charming. The Lost huddled together on the fo’c’s’le, sleeping in stunned silence. The only sound aloft in the night air was the pleasing rush of fresh, cold wind as they sailed.

Emma was the last to take herself below. For a while she stood there, only moving to tuck her hair behind her ears. Over and again as the wind immediately whipped it into a tangle and she said nothing, did nothing, until finally she turned and looked up at him. Taking him in from his brows to his boots.

Killian watched her and felt the hunger rise up inside him. The need. The desire. It was unfamiliar and aching and it hit him with a force. They had retrieved the boy and his promise, if there was such a thing, was fulfilled. But with so much unresolved he held fast to what he had said to Neal—he would fight. And he would let Emma make her decision.

He might as well have spoken the words out loud—Emma blinked, and turned away. It was difficult not to take that as an answer but Killian turned his gaze skyward again as Emma made her way carefully through the companionway and down to the crew quarters.

Alone.

A shiver ran through him, right through the edge of his coat; it was a shock to feel the weather again. A sign of his exhaustion, no doubt. It was past time for sleeping. Even Neal was sprawled on the deck, in between Tinker Bell and Wendy. Killian locked the wheel on its course and left the magic to guide them through to the morning. They’d nearly be home by then.

Home? Killian chuckled unkindly to himself. The Jolly Roger was his home, hell or high water. He stifled a yawn and headed toward the cabin Dave had set aside for him—stopping at his usual quarters to check in on Henry, pleasantly surprised when Regina tolerated his intrusion. Her hand was wrapped around her son’s as she mouthed the words to a story.

He hesitated outside the cabin assigned to Emma, his hook poised to knock on the door, but it was dead quiet and she hadn’t slept, either. Killian took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose and took himself to his cabin.

Emma Swan was sitting in the candlelight—waiting—though she stood immediately when he entered. He opened his mouth but no words came out. He couldn’t even breathe.

She grabbed him. She kissed him. Again, again—all he could taste was her—until he was gasping for air, desperate, unmade. She flicked her wrist, and the door slammed shut behind him.

For one shining second everything snapped into focus.

Like magic.

She could feel it. Every nerve in her body was alive. Dancing. On fire. Everywhere they touched hummed with power. Emma wanted to laugh. To scream. To cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, pulling away.

“Wait, what?” What was he apologizing for? She’d kissed him. She’d wanted to. God, she’d wanted to. She just hadn’t wanted to let herself. There had been too much on the line.

And Henry.

But they were on their way home. Together. A family. And Henry was fine. Alive, and whole. Just like he’d said. They hadn’t failed.

They’d been a team.

“Hook? Killian?”

He smiled—sort of. His mouth moved, half-up at one corner. It did not reach his eyes. “I want this. I want you,” he said. “When you say my name—I want to make you scream it.”

“And I’m here to take you up on that,” Emma said, but she stepped back, too. She wasn’t going to beg. She wasn’t going to—

His grip on her wrist was soft, and sure, and gentle. It centered her. When was the last time someone had touched her like that? So easily? With such care? When was the last time she’d let them?

“Emma.” It was a whisper. It was a caress. His thumb slipped under the cords of leather wrapped around her wrist—right at her pulse point—she felt it everywhere. Everywhere. “My foolishness almost got us killed in the Dark Hollow,” he said. “I don’t make a habit of this. I apologize, unreservedly. My behavior with Neal was inexcusable.”

“Me and Neal—we’re not—”

“I know,” he said. She liked the way he said it. Like it was just that simple. She also liked that he did not let go her wrist as he spoke. “And that is not the kind of man I want to be. But it was nonetheless an uncomfortable reminder.”

“Of what?”

His hand moved. His thumb played with the ring on his first finger. “Villains don’t get happy endings. And I have been—I am—a villain. Seeing you two together so soon after what we had shared—”

“It was just a kiss,” she said. A lie, and he knew it. He knew it as well and as easily as she knew that he spoke nothing but the truth. “Killian—” his hand stilled “—we wouldn’t be here now without you. My father is alive because of you. We saved Henry because you helped.”

He blushed, and looked away.

“Thank you, Killian. For coming back.”

“It was the right thing to do.” He shifted. “I just wish I had done it sooner. I’m sorry.”

Emma leaned forward, slowly. Forced him to look her in the eye. “Trust me, you have a mark in the hero column.” And then she kissed him. Again.

Slowly.

Savoring it.

She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled herself closer. Teased her tongue against his lips. The sound he made was pure pleasure and he moved, his fingers threading through her hair. Brushing against her cheek as one kiss became two. Then three. She stepped back, slightly, and smiled. Killian’s fingers moved to trace her lips and he leaned forward, fusing their mouths together.

One kiss. Another. Three.

Then the kiss changed and she stopped counting. His tongue slid into her mouth. Greedy. Heated. His arms wrapped around her and she felt protected—precious—safe—as his mouth wandered, kissing a path across her jaw and down her neck. Emma exhaled a noise that might have been his name. The cool metal of his hook played at the hem of her top and his hand fingered the edge of her bra, pulling at the strap. “May I remove this?”

Always a gentleman.

Emma unclasped it and tossed it aside, along with her top. She watched him as he removed his coat and then it was her turn, her fingers working at the buttons of his vest and the laces of his shirt. His eyes trailed every movement with searing intensity and then he lifted her. “I would like to take you to bed.”

“And I would like to hear you scream,” she said, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“As you wish.”

Sated. Spent. Fucking exhausted. Emma cocooned herself in the blanket; nestled more deeply into the pillow. “My parents want me to get back together with Neal,” she said.

His fingers, idly tracing patterns on her back, froze.

“They didn’t even ask me,” she said. “They just assumed. True Love. Yadda yadda.”

“I see.” She reached for him but he twisted away from her, maneuvering himself until he was sitting up, his feet squarely on the floor, his back to her—inked and muscled, and twitching when she ran her finger up his spine.

“Killian?”

He shivered when she said his name but his words, when he spoke, were strained. Almost formal. “A one-time thing. I quite understand.”

“No. No, Killian, that’s not—” Emma sat up, pulling the blanket with her. He was so beautiful and had a confidence in his body and his nakedness that she was not feeling. Not when he said that. “That’s not what I want.”

“Are you sure?”

“About Neal?” She shrugged. “Yes. He broke my heart.”

Killian gave a hoarse chuckle. He smoothed his hand down his face. He did not look at her. “He did.”

“Neal left. My parents left. Graham—” she caught her breath. “Everyone I’ve ever cared about.”

“Me.”

She nodded. Took a deep breath and moved. Touched him. Let her hands roam and feel the warmth of his skin and the tension beneath. Turned him to face her and dropped her head to his shoulder. “I left you first,” she said. “That’s what I do. That’s what Neal taught me. I don’t want to go back to that. I want to be a part of something. Aside from Henry, I don’t think I ever have.”

“But you could.” His arm came around her. She reached up and threaded her fingers through his. “Is that what you want? Or is that what you are afraid of?”

“Both,” she said.

“I would follow you to the end of the world, love. And back again. Which are you asking of me?”

“I’m asking you to stay,” Emma said. Her body hummed as she said it— focused. Powerful. “I want to try something new. You’re not a villain, Killian. You’re not a monster. Your happy ending—”

Killian smiled. A breathtaking, beautiful, hopeful smile. “It’s you,” he said. “Don’t you know, Emma? It’s you.”

Every candle in the cabin flared. He laughed. His arm hooked around her waist and in less than a second he had her on her back, crowding her, his nose and his face buried against her neck until his breath tickled. His hand went to her breasts and when she reached for him, his hook caught her wrists and brought her hands above her head. His fingers danced along her stomach, her muscles tense. Killian’s forehead pressed against hers, his eyes lit up in the night as she shivered and shook under his slow, gentle caress—as his touch slipped between her legs—as he kissed her, teasing—“Please,” she gasped.

It was the ‘please’ that did it. His fingers twisted and the world around her went white; she came down slowly, letting herself melt into the bed. His arms. She was in a haze, in a place between sleeping and awake. She felt like she could say anything and be understood.

It was an entirely new feeling.

She liked it.

“I don’t want to tell my parents,” she said. “My father and mo—Mary Margaret. About this. About us.”

“You needn’t protect me from your father, love,” he said, amused. “He’s made his opinions clear. Called me names. Meant a lot of them, I think. But Dave and I, we’ve arrived at an understanding. I’m more worried about Snow White. She’s a fair hand with that bow.”

“I don’t need their permission. Neither do you.”

“You’re angry with them,” he said. “Aye, you’ve a right to be.”

Emma shifted to face him head-on, resting herself on his chest. Inked—like his back—muscled, strong. Her hands made a pillow and she set her chin down; their eyes met. “I’m tired,” she said.

“Aye,” he said, slowly. “You’ve a right to be.”

“I’m so tired, Killian. And if I tell them then they’re just gonna try to convince me how much they know better. I don’t want to fight or explain. I just want them to understand. Just once.” Emma laid her head down on her hand-pillow and listened to his heartbeat. Closed her eyes.

“You have a plan,” he said.

“Maybe,” she murmured. She was so drowsy. So comfortable. “Maybe I do. Will you trust me?”

“Yes.”

One eye opened. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Killian leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. “It will be daylight soon. We’re nearly home.” His hand smoothed her hair as he slid out from underneath her.

She was asleep before he was gone, the word ringing in her dreams.

Home.

eighteen. 'happily ever after'

Mrs. Lucas greeted him with a very particular—knowing—look as he walked into the diner, the bell over the door heralding his arrival just a few minutes after the device in his pocket had made a noise. A text: They know. Granny’s.

Eloquent, Emma Swan was not.

He’d replaced the device—the phone—in his pocket and hurried, though he affected nonchalance as he pushed the door open. Mrs. Lucas was not fooled. Her face lit up in what could only be described as glee. “Leroy owes me ten bucks,” she said. “How did you pull it off?”

Killian carefully settled himself on a barstool before he leaned forward, beckoning her with a finger. Raising his eyebrows. Making a show of looking around before he answered. “Magic,” he whispered.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Her laugh was short and sharp, like a bark.

“Now, Mrs. Lucas”—Killian raised his eyebrow dramatically—“would I lie to you?”

She snorted and turned away, leaving a pint of beer in front of him. Killian twisted on his stool and watched her in the corner. Watched them, for Emma and her mother huddled close together over their table.

But he hadn’t told her a lie.

That first night in Storybrooke, as he’d sat in his quarters contemplating the bunk that felt too soft and too large and the night air that felt too cool and too still and too quiet, she’d appeared. A shift in the air, and a puff of white smoke; he’d been sure he was dreaming. In her hand, there was a small object. A black rectangle of some hard material that folded over. “I can’t stay,” Emma said. “But—it was too quiet at home. And I brought you something. It’s a telephone—”

“A talking device,” he said. He’d recognized the Greek even when he hadn’t known the word. Astonishing what one learned in the Royal Navy, and how it carried over even into this realm. “The mermaids have a magic like this.”

“This way we can talk. Or text. And no one will know but us.”

“How romantic,” he deadpanned. But her fingers curled in his as he spoke, twined together.

“I’m going to lunch with Neal tomorrow,” Emma said. “Tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, until they see what I see. What I know. And then maybe—” she stopped. “What are you going to do?”

“I have some ideas.” He pulled her into his arms. Into his bed. Felt her rands roam as she traced his tattoos with her fingers and then her lips and her tongue until he shivered. Screamed.

And so did she.

She slipped from the sheets, quietly, and stood. “I can’t stay,” she said again.

“I understand,” he’d said. Because he did. “I’ll see you tomorrow, love.”

“So we’re going to do this?” And the unspoken question—you’re going to stay?

Killian nodded, answering both. “Your father’s been waiting for me to rob him since the moment we met. I would hate to be a disappointment.”

She’d appeared that first night and every night since; he almost wished that time were stopped again just so he could live in those moments forever. Here and now, David stood next to him--also watching, also quiet.

In the corner, Snow White started crying. So did Emma. Happy tears, Killian thought—Snow was smiling, holding Emma’s hand—Emma’s shoulders were relaxed and open as she leaned closer.

Killian smiled, too. He heard David’s sigh of relief. Saw his smile when their eyes met. “Take care of her, brother,” the prince said.

“She can take care of herself,” Killian said.

“Better than anyone,” David agreed. “But something tells me she’ll be busy watching out for you.”

“She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Just like her mother,” David said. He clapped his hand on Killian’s shoulder. Gave a squeeze, walked to the table in the corner.

“Another one, if you please, Mrs. Lucas,” Killian said, running his hand through his hair. The bell over the door rang, and Killian glanced over his shoulder. “Make it two.”

He slid the second pint over just as Neal sat on the stool next to his.

“I’m sorry,” Killian said.

Neal took a long, slow sip. He said, “I don’t need an apology, Killian. “And you don’t need my permission.”

“Not about that,” Killian said. “I’m sorry, Bae, for the ugliness that passed between us. If I could do it again, I wouldn’t.”

“Neither would I,” Neal said. “But then we wouldn’t be here. With her.”

“She loves you,” Killian said.

“I love her,” Neal said. “I probably always will. She’s my family.”

“Aye,” Killian said. “She is. And your boy.”

Neal surprised him, then. He turned on his stool and offered his glass in a toast. “And you,” he said.

“To family,” Killian said. He clinked their glasses together.

“To family, and home.”

#cs fic #canon divergence #season 3a #no curse renaissance #happily ever after

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

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fics that are like 500 to 1200 words or so often have a particular kind of energy to me - like the author sat bolt upright in bed, struck by the most brilliant inspiration of their entire lives, and then typed as fast as their fingers would allow them to in order to capture it all before it left.

oneshots that are just a straight, clear shot from the brain to the page with no real filter in between? that's good stuff right there.

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

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Hi Devra! Happy birthday! 🎉 Wishing you another year filled with love, success and everything else you deserve. I hope you’re surrounded by the people you love the most and that your heart is full of joy.

Happy birthday!❤️🥳

💕😍💖

thank you masha! i hope you have a wonderful day, too 😭

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

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imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [5/6]

–

S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

sixteen. 'a pleasant conversation'

She booked them both because she could. Because she wanted to.

Filing a false police report. Loitering. Theft. Piracy.

Three mugshots in a row after David insisted on hanging them next to hers, from when Graham had booked her. Then it was into the cells for both of them.

“If you wanted me in handcuffs, Savior, you know you have only to ask.” Hook’s eyes glinted with mischief and threat—promise?—that she ignored as she felt the weight of her father’s appraisal behind her.

“Is this even legal?” Neal draped an arm through the bars. The affected casualness overtook Emma in a wave of familiarity. Eye-fucking from the one side and the comfort of nostalgia from the other. Neal grinned. Hook batted his eyelashes.

And then there was her father, watching. Still.

“We live in a magical town ruled by an Evil Queen who doesn’t seem to like you,” Emma said, dripping false sweetness. “But if you need to file a complaint, I’d be happy to direct you to the appropriate form.”

“Emma.” David spoke gently. His head tipped toward the corner.

That’s where Henry was sitting. Totally fine. Like it was a totally normal day and not less than a week after he had been kidnapped and then traded his heart to a demon. In another realm.

��“Right.” Emma imagined the candle. Calm. “All of this because Henry was on a boat?” A hypothetical more than anything but all three of them spoke together to answer.

“A ship.” Henry’s voice chimed in with Neal’s and with Hook’s.

Then Neal said, “Did you know he was there?”

“I was only trying to help,” Henry muttered.

“I know you were, kid,” Emma said.

Hook leaned against the bars. “The boy presented himself at the docks and asked about our journey home—if anything had been damaged,” he said smoothly. “We were undertaking an inspection of the main sheet when it occurred to Henry that no one had been apprised of his whereabouts. Of course we wanted to correct that immediately.” He winked at Henry in his corner, and Henry straightened in his seat. Emma couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Did you know he was there, Em?�� Every trace of casualness was gone as Neal leaned forward, as if to push the bars and walk through.

“You can’t possibly think that Hook would hurt Henry,” Emma said.

Neal shrugged.

“No.” Emma stepped closer to the cell. “I know—and so do you—that Hook would never hurt your son. I know—and so do you—that he would never hurt your mother’s grandson.” The air left her suddenly, and she was tired.

She was tired of running from the past.

“Come on, Henry. Let’s get out of here, okay?”

Before Henry could move, there was David’s hand on her arm. “Hey.” His fingers closed on her wrist and she froze; she wanted to jump out of her skin. It was a gentle touch—a casual touch—a touch meant to soothe and to comfort.

A parental touch.

Emma looked at him, eyes wide, as he let go, slowly. Backed away—slowly. She wanted to say something. Anything. “Dad, I—”

“Hey.” He smiled. No pushing, no pressure. No disappointment. Just that megawatt Charming smile. “It’s fine. Henry’s fine.” He took the keys from her. “I get that we’re all still a little on edge after what happened. It’s barely even been a week.”

“Six days,” Emma said. Six days. A lifetime. She looked around the room—at her father with his hopeful smile and the way he watched her, and at Neal with his wounded aggravation, and at Hook. In his new clothes. He ran his tongue across his lips but his eyes never left hers.

Enough.

Hook nodded. A slight movement of his head, as if he’d heard her. She held out her hand—pictured the tumblers, the tension rake, the wrench. Felt the warmth under her skin. The cell locks popped and the doors opened. “You’re right,” Emma said, speaking to her father. “Come on, Henry. Let’s go.”

“What about Dad?”

“Yeah, he can come with us. The three of us can take a walk,” she said. “And he and I will have a chance to talk.”

Tink was waiting for them when they returned to the camp.

It had not been what one would call a triumphant march back. Emma didn’t speak, not a single word. Neither did Neal, nor Killian. He was sore in places he hadn’t known existed—sore, angry, disappointed. His heart hurt.

Strange to think that it could, still. Or again.

“Bae?” Tink whispered. “Is that really you?”

“Yeah.” Neal smiled. It was the smile of the boy Killian had once known, now grown up. A man. Neal held out the coconut with its lid secured by vine. “We did it. Let’s go.”

There was no point in delay; they set off at once. Snippets of a murmured conversation between Emma and Neal floated around him as Killian began to walk. There was an air of tension between Emma and her mother as David advanced ahead and fell back at intervals, trying to catch up one very determined, very skeptical fairy as she led them through the jungle. Only his belief in Tink kept Killian calm as he heard the rush of foliage and the weight of footsteps approaching. Regina and Rumplestiltskin pushed their way through, but he left his hand on his sword-hilt all the same.

And drew it, without thinking, as he heard Neal speak of his father’s plans.

“My father’s not here to save Henry,” Neal said. “He’s here because of a prophecy—that Henry will be the cause of his undoing. He came here to kill him.”

“I won’t hurt him,” the Dark One pleaded. All of these years—centuries—and he still whinged when he could fight. “Without me, you will fail. I’m the most powerful amongst us.”

“That’s why we can’t trust you,” Neal said.

“If I could give you the dagger—”

“Give me the box,” Neal said. “I don’t have to trust you if I can stop you. Look at me—” he pointed a finger at his father “—you so much as lift a finger to perform magic and you will spend eternity in this box. Let’s go.”

As they set off once more, Neal clutching Pandora’s box in a fist with white knuckles, Emma came along beside him. Killian braced himself.

“We need to talk,” she said. Her hand on his arm was the first time she’d touched him since The Kiss.

“I’ve found when a woman says that, I’m rarely in for a pleasant conversation.”

“Hook. Killian. He told me about what happened. With your brother. I know it can’t be easy to talk about—”

“Then let’s not,” he said.

“—but there has to be a way for David to leave the island.”

There it was. He kept walking, heedless of the foliage and greenery in his face, still feeling the place where her hand had been. “There isn’t. The water that cured David from the poison has connected him to the island. If he leaves, the connection is broken. The poison will kill him.”

“What if we take some of the water with us?” She asked. “That way, he stays connected. He can stay alive in Storybrooke.”

“Aye, but for how long?” Killian stopped and turned to face her. Emma’s face was pale, her eyes wide. He knew that face and that look and how much what he was saying would hurt her. No matter how much he wished he had a different answer. “Once the water runs out, the dreamshade will take his life.”

“Unless there was another cure.” The Dark One stood casually behind them. Killian and Emma both turned to face him and immediately he pressed his advantage. “Oh, are you suddenly interested in what I have to say? I thought I wasn’t to be trusted.”

“You’re not,” Emma said. “But I’ll take my chances.”

What choice did she have, really? What choice did any of them have?

“You’ll remember that I too was poisoned with dreamshade by a cowardly pirate.”

Killian stiffened and froze his face into a pleasant mask—a faint, painful smile.

“We know how you cured yourself,” Emma scoffed. “David is not that selfish.”

“I’ve learned much about the poison since then,” Rumplestiltskin continued, “and I believe I could create an elixir. Back in my shop.”

Emma said it just as Killian thought it. “What’s your price?” She was frozen, too, her shoulders tense. The tension was in her voice. Tension, fear, doubt.

“It is quite the favor—” the Dark One said, drawing out the words. “I’d expect one of equal weight in return.”

“No.” Neal stepped in. “No deals, no favors. When we get back to Storybrooke you will save David. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Killian’s eyebrows went up. Instinctively he turned toward Emma—and found her looking at him, a mirror of his own surprise. It was over so quickly he might have imagined it.

It was a moment that felt momentous. Neal and his father stared each other down just as Tink emerged into the clearing, David and Snow behind her.

“We’re here,” she said simply. “Pan’s perimeter.”

“Then it’s time,” Emma said. She squared her shoulders. “In and out, simple.”

Suddenly the Dark One’s hand was on Killian’s sword while he stood, watching. A shudder rolled through him but he did not let himself react until Rumplestiltskin pulled the sword free. Then he moved—to catch the knife David tossed at him.

“In case your good looks fail you,” he said.

“Thanks, mate,” Killian said, clutching the blade in its sheath. Meaning it.

The sounds of the Lost Boys’ camp drew them onward—Tink in the lead, Neal at his father’s side. The box stayed clutched in his hand and he flinched as Regina performed the spell to silence the boys.

But they didn’t find Henry.

They only found the girl. Wendy. Pale—the color of her nightdress—and trembling. And she confirmed what they were all afraid to hear: “When Pan lives,” she said, “Henry will die.”

Killian took his time building up the fire. Slow trips back and forth for firewood; deliberate, careful kindling of the flames.

Tink watched. Bemused. Silent. She waited until he’d thrown off his coat and settled his back against a log. Waited until he’d pulled out his flask and pulled the stopper. Waited until he lifted it to his mouth and lowered it immediately.

Being drunk when the rescue mission returned and pivoted to exit strategy would be exceedingly bad form no matter how much he wanted a drink.

That’s when she dropped down to sit next to him. She took the flask right from his fingers and helped herself. “I haven’t had this since you left,” she said. A long, appreciative sigh accompanied the statement. When he looked at her she smirked and said, “Fairies can’t get drunk. And I like the taste. You know that.”

“Aye,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

“Well then. Isn’t this a blast from the past?” Another sip. “You and me, drinking. Brooding still looks good on you, you know. Just like the old days.”

“That’s not all we did in the old days,” Killian muttered.

Tink laughed. “Is that a proposition?” He shrugged, uncomfortable. She laughed again. “That’s what I thought. It’s you and Emma, isn’t it? Care to explain?”

“No.”

She took another sip. Loudly. The fire crackled around them but there was a strange stillness in the air. A quiet. The Lost were silent; unconscious and scattered about the camp and still under the effects of Regina’s spell.

“I’ve been watching you,” Tink said. “I saw you go up Dead Man’s Peak. Her father was shot, wasn’t he? And you took him up there for the water. Is it really a good idea for him to try and leave? You know what happens.”

“The Dark One has agreed to formulate a potion for David. He wants to try to go home. Hence their current task, which you know already. But by all means, keep asking annoying questions.”

“Bae’s father.” She shook her head. “You knew, didn’t you? This entire time? Who he was?”

“I did.”

“What was your plan there, Hook? Use the boy against his father?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“Oh, no, Killian. And he found out, didn’t he? That’s why he was so angry.”

“As was I.”

“He was a child.”

“I’m aware.” Killian shifted. “I’m trying, Tink. Henry is his son. Henry is why I’m here.”

“You and Bae and Emma.” She capped the flask with a laugh. “Buck up, mate. She doesn’t love him, you know. Not the way they want her to.”

He knew that. He’d seen it in her eyes when she’d chained him and left him on the beanstalk. When he’d left her in that dungeon.

When she’d told him who Henry’s father was.

But—“She’s made her choice,” Killian said. And—“I thought you didn’t have any magic left.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t notice things. And she trusts you. Don’t muck that up. Be worthy.” Tink put her hand on his shoulder. “I believe in you.”

Killian turned to face her. “I’m trying, Tink,” he repeated. He blew out a long breath. He opened his mouth to speak again—

—and felt the ground heave beneath them.

Tink dropped the flask into his lap as they both struggled to stand up. There was an instant of near-total darkness that dissipated with another great heave.

A thud echoed from the bushes as David Nolan stumbled back into the camp, clutching a water skin against his body. Behind him strode Snow White, an arrow nocked.

“What just happened?” David asked.

Killian looked at Tink. “Nothing good,” he said.

No diner. Not this time.

This wasn’t that kind of conversation, the ‘dinner and a floor show’ conversation that everyone at Granny’s would be watching and waiting for—the dwarves, Ruby, Tink. Mary Margaret.

This needed to be just for the two of them. No performance. Just truth.

But here—now—this moment, it was the three of them. They walked along the shoreline by the harbor. The sun was setting behind them. Henry was too big to hold hands but Emma kept him close, touching, her hand on his shoulder. Neal walked on the other side, their son in between, and it was a Moment. A Moment worth having.

She and Neal had never been ‘holding hands in a mall’ kinds of people. She was not—by nature, or by nurture—a casual touch kind of person. But there was something Emma had noticed since they’d come back from Neverland.

It did something to her magic, to feel the comfort and warmth of physical touch. Of affection.

So she was working on it. She was trying.

She tightened her grip on Henry’s shoulder for a second before she let go, watching him kick at the rocks along the beach. He had a small, contented smile on his face that turned wider when Emma suggested he get back to Regina’s. “She’ll be waiting for you,” Emma said.

“It’s lasagne tonight,” Henry said. He was an eleven-year-old boy and he could not contain his excitement at the thought of that much food. He wrapped his arms around her waist and Emma hugged him back, hard. “Bye, mom. See you later.”

His hesitation as he turned toward Neal was—almost—imperceptible, but Henry was a hugger and Neal was family and in the end that seemed to be enough. Neal ruffled his hair for a second before Henry pulled away and peeled off in pursuit of warmer, tomato-sauced pastures. “Bye, dad.”

“See you, kid,” Emma called. She pointed toward the picnic table overlooking the beach and then jammed her hands into her pockets against the wind. The table looked like it had been there since before the curse and according to Mary Margaret it was where the dwarves liked to eat their lunch. Or maybe that was over now that the daily diner matinee was on the menu, Emma wasn’t sure, but what she was thinking of was the familiarity in Mary Margaret’s voice. Memories of realms past, no doubt.

Of course, Mary Margaret had also been at the diner every day this week. Not just for her 7:15 AM coffee date but to keep an eye on Emma. On Emma and Neal. Because Snow White just wanted her daughter to get her happy ending. With Neal.

Every night at dinner was a dance. A game. question and answer. Cat and mouse. Like everything Emma was already doing wasn’t enough—not fast enough, not hopeful enough. Snow White so loved her Prince Charming that she had been willing to condemn herself to an eternity away from her family but Emma was the one letting the side down by taking her time when it came to Neal.

It had been less than a week, for fuck’s sake.

But if it was a game, then she could win. Emma was determined to win.

Emma had waited her entire life to meet her mother, but she really missed her friend.

The picnic table bench shifted and groaned as Neal swung his leg over the wood and faced her. From where they sat, the gently bobbing masts of the Jolly Roger were impossible to miss.

“How?” she said, finally. “How did you end up there? You’ve never told me that story. The real one.” Shut up in his cave, away from the world, looking at the drawings he had made to give himself a sense of home—had he cried out in the dark, Lost? After everything Hook had done for him? Had done to him?

Emma hadn’t even known he could draw until she’d seen the scratches etched into the walls. Seen the expression on Hook’s face and heard the break in his voice when he’d spoken of Baelfire and his love for art, for drawing, that he’d gotten from his mother. The sadness in his voice when he’d boasted of Baelfire’s skills at celestial navigation.

How did the story end?

They hadn’t talked about it, her and Neal. Not about this or any of the other things; the way she had cried in the night, swallowing her tears and her screams within the cinder blocks and bars of her prison cell. Emma wasn’t a child anymore, ready to be swayed by a story. She wanted the truth.

“Wendy,” he said. “I went there because of Wendy. Because of her brothers. When I left my father, I didn’t go straight to Neverland. I ended up in this realm. In London. Wendy, she—” he sighed “—she found me. The Darlings took me in—gave me a home—until one night, the Shadow turned up. I went there so they wouldn’t have to.” He didn’t look at her as he said it. There was him and his voice and the pain in his words as they both stared at the harbor and the ship that rolled with the incoming tide and made everything else in the harbor look small.

Emma felt herself smile. Just the corner of her mouth as she blinked back a tear. It was such a Henry thing to do, after all. He would approve, she knew.

So did she.

“And how long were you with—um, on the Jolly Roger?”

“I don’t know.” Neal ran his hand through his hair. “A while? Time in Neverland, you know—”

“I know,” she said.

“And Hook, they way he acted. Like he wanted me there. Like he cared. My mom had left. She’d died. And my dad was—” he blew out a breath, struggling. Because his dad was. “So I wanted to be there too. But he was just using me. It was all a lie. I was just some pawn in his game against my father.”

“Yeah,” Emma said. “Hook, he does that, doesn’t he?”

“I was a fucked-up kid. And he was—I don’t know.” Neal shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“He loved her. You should know that. It was one of the first things he told me.” She laughed a little. “One of the first true things he told me. And then, after, when we thought you were dead, when I told him who you were, that you were Henry’s father—” The look on his face when she’d said it—everything stripped away except grief. Sadness. Regret.

“You said he left. You asked him for help and he left.”

“He did. He walked right out of the diner and onto that ship and was halfway out of the harbor.”

“But he came back,” Neal said. “He came back because of me.” Everything stripped away except grief. Sadness. Regret. “Hook—Killian—asked me to stay. Begged me. And I’ve always wondered, you know? If he meant it. I guess he did.”

“But you left,” Emma said. It wasn’t a question. That was just what Neal did. What he does. He leaves. He’d left. “Do you miss it?”

Their eyes met.

“Every day,” he said. “And I’ve been running ever since.”

“And now? What are you doing now, Neal?”

“I’m looking for Tallahassee,” he said. “I care about you, Em. I always will. And I want you to be happy.”

“We were happy. Once,” Emma said. “But what if this isn’t that? I’ve been to Tallahassee, you know. I went there after I got out of prison. After I gave up our son.”

“I can’t ever take that back, can I? I can’t ever make that better.”

“You left,” she said simply.

“I still want you to be happy,” he said. He looked out at the harbor. At the ship. “Even if it isn’t with me.”

Emma reached out. Took his hand—squeezed it tightly—and retreated into her pockets. Neal smiled and stood up. “I’m gonna head out,” he said. “Lunch tomorrow?”

Emma tilted her head. “Seriously?”

“I’m kidding,” he said. “Saturday, then. With Henry?”

“Yeah. You know, Neal—” he turned back to face her “—we still have Henry. What if Henry is our Tallahassee?”

“Then I’d call that one hell of a happy ending,” he said with another smile.

She walked back to the loft and walked in to an ambush—an ambush in the shape of a real-life Disney princess, a brown-haired blur who wrapped herself around Emma, squeezing too tightly. Green eyes shone like mirrors of her own and—like her own—they glistened suspiciously.

The hug was an attack. Her senses definitely took it as one, recoiling—

“I’m so sorry,” Mary Margaret said.

—and then something happened, a release, as Emma dissolved into the hug.

“Gosh, Emma, I’m so sorry,” Mary Margaret said again. “We didn’t—” she looked at David “—I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. I didn’t—I just. Didn’t.”

Immediately Emma’s defenses went back up. She removed herself from the hug and took two very large steps back until she felt the edge of the kitchen island cutting into her spine. “Um. I don’t know what—I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” Mary Margaret and David were standing together. David’s hand on Mary Margaret’s shoulder. Mary Margaret’s hand on David’s. One unit.

Watching.

“Neal came by,” Mary Margaret said. “To, um, talk.”

“Oh.” She’d been sitting where he’d left her, watching the masts of the Jolly Roger. Listening to the waves. Listening to her heart. There was so much noise in her head these days. Grumpy shouting in the diner. Neal’s laughter. I’m never gonna stop fighting for you.The crashing of the bridge as it built itself in the Echo Cave. The howling in the Dark Hollow. When I win your heart, Emma…it will be because you want me. Hook’s screams. The cries of the Lost. The quiet crackle of a fire.

Her mother’s voice, whispering in her mind.

You owe it to yourself. Happy endings always start with hope.

That’s why she was doing all of this, wasn’t it? Her mother’s voice. Snow White—her expectations, her assumptions. But standing there in the loft—her parents’ loft, her home—what she felt was a buzzing in her fingertips. It wasn’t magic. It was a kind of—nervous anticipation.

Hope.

Because this—all of this—had been a long time coming.

“Emma.” It was the softness in her mother’s voice that might be her undoing. “Where was Henry born?”

“Are you sure? You’ll never be able to not know, after.”

Mary Margaret nodded.

“He was born in a prison maternity ward. That’s where I spent eleven months after Neal left me to take his fall.”

Her mother’s eyes were shut. It was resignation, Emma thought, not refusal. Just like the map. “You never told us,” Mary Margaret said. “You never told me.”

“Why would I tell you?” Emma said. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“I’m your mother.” It was a whisper.

“And you used to be my friend,” Emma said. “My friend, who used to listen to me. Who trusted me to know what I want. If I had told her that seeing Neal broke my heart—” Emma sniffed “—but you told me I needed to give it another chance. You told me that I didn’t need to be an orphan anymore and then you—even though it meant losing me all over again. But Neal—”

The sound she made was not pleasant, but Emma couldn’t help it. She was laughing. The buzzing in her fingertips, it was a little less hope and a little more magic and emotion but it was past time they did this. And she wasn’t going to apologize for her feelings. Not this time. If what they had was unique and special then just this once it could also be honest. She could be honest. Emma was tired of being a stranger to her parents.

She wanted to come home.

“Neal left me because Pinocchio told him to and I spent eleven months in jail. He’s known all this time—eleven years—who I was. But he never came back for me.”

“He was afraid of you. Of the curse,” Mary Margaret said. “He knew what it meant, didn’t he? He was afraid of his father. I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t understand before. I didn’t want to. I shouldn’t have pushed you where you didn’t want to go. I should have listened. Emma—“

She was ready for the hug this time. Welcomed it.

“—I owe you an apology. What I said in the Echo Cave—”

“It was the truth,” Emma said. “And it was the right thing to do. That’s what heroes do, isn’t it? We saved Neal that day. We saved Henry’s father. I’m glad he told you the truth. Mom. I just—if he told you all of that, why are you asking me? What changed?”

That was when David spoke up, stepping forward so that he had an arm around each of them. “After Neal left, I told her about Hook.”

“What about Hook?” The sudden smile on Mary Margaret’s face made her suspicious.

David chuckled. “Fine, about you and Hook. That you’re together.”

“That we’re—”

“You look at him the way I look at your mother. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Yes.

That was exactly what she’d thought. In fact—that had been the plan.

#cs fic #canon divergence #season 3a #no curse renaissance

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

Text

imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [4/6]

–

S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

twelve. 'what the kiss exposed.'

He could have told himself it was an hallucination.

After all, Killian had been three sheets to the wind when he’d seen Pan. He could easily have imagined the exact combination of deepest sorrow and biggest nightmare conjured by the idea of Neal Cassidy being alive. Only he knew Pan far too well to tell himself that. The demon was many things; unfortunately, he was rarely a liar. Why bother, when the truth was a far more potent weapon?

Thus, and so: Neal sat at the other end of the cave—doubled over in a cage built for a boy, not a man. Killan took a deep breath, seeing too late the moment when Emma noticed. An echo of the same look she’d had when her mother blurted out Neal’s predicament. The way she’d turned toward him immediately and for the first time Killian had been unsure. Did she want him to confirm the story? To say that yes, Neal was alive?

Or was she hoping he said no? That it was just another game?

What kind of man was he?

“I kissed Emma,” Killian said. He said it to the cave. To Neal. To her parents.

To Emma.

It was a game, all right. But he would play.

“My secret is that I never thought I’d be capable of letting go of my first love. My Milah.”

Milah had been everything, for so long. Too long. Killian knew that now—knew the pain and anger and hate had ossified inside him during his time in Neverland. He knew it now in a way he never could have before, because he’d left. Somehow, in doing that, he had started to heal.

He hadn’t meant to.

It was only in coming back to the island that he could see it.

Or maybe it was in coming back with a new goal—save the boy—that clarified things.

Bae’s son. Milah’s grandson.

Maybe it was the kiss he could still taste on his lips. Not the first kiss he’d had since he’d lost Milah but surely the first kiss that mattered. The first kiss that reminded him they could matter.

But villains didn’t get happy endings and all magic came with a price. Killian had wanted to save Bae, too. He’d given up his chance then but he could pay the price now and be glad for it, if that’s what it took. “I never believed that I could find someone else,” he said. His eyes were on Emma. Only on Emma. “Until I met you.”

The walls shook. The ground shook. Parts of the path began to materialize but Emma stood stock still, frozen where she stood. Eyes wide and lips pressed together and face whiter than a sheet, she stood. She said not a word—though she shuddered bodily as her mother’s confession and then her father’s caused more and more of the pathway to appear until finally it was her turn and she strode, still silent, all the way to the cage.

She still loved him. Neal. Killian knew that—had known it from almost the instant they’d met and she’d lied to him. I’ve never been in love, she’d said, because she wanted it to be true.

Would she admit that—now, here?

Did she have a choice?

The cage surrounding Neal vanished and he hurled himself at Emma, into her open arms. Together, they stood. Together, they returned.

“Thank you,” Neal said. “How—“

“We found your star map,” Killian said, forestalling any additional conversation. “Can you get us off this island?”

Neal nodded. “Once we find Henry, I can get us home.”

“Then let’s go get Tinker Bell and retrieve the boy.” Killian led the way out of the cave with David and Snow close behind him. Clearly, he was not the only one who had heard too many truths this night.

But then he heard something else. Something he was probably not meant to hear.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said.

“Don’t be. Because I have a secret, too, Emma. I’m never gonna stop fighting for you. For us. Never.”

A man who refused to fight for what he wanted deserved what he got.

But Neal had refused, before.

They both had. Killian had let Bae go. He had left the Savior in a cell.

Villains didn’t get happy endings.

So. What kind of man was he?

thirteen. lunch (iv)

Lunch was fine.

Neal was trying. Very. And very hard. The better part of a week, now, and Emma was starting to wonder how long this would last. Six days, eleven months, eleven years—or a lifetime.

With Neal, she never knew; all she could do was wait.

She’d loved him. She loved him. She really was glad he hadn’t died. Really. What she’d said to him in the Echo Cave—well, it had been the truth and she’d said it to save him.

She’d said it to save herself.

And she might not regret it but he sure as shit seemed determined to overcome it, to do better, to Make an Effort. He’d done everything except apologize.

But then there was this: Hook and Tink, at the bar. Emma’s mug was empty because Ruby was back there too, laughing as Hook’s flask went back and forth between the three of them. Neal was watching—watching Hook—watching Emma watching Hook.

It was the clothes.

He’d changed them.

“You’re not worried about him or something are you?” The tone in Neal’s voice made her wary. “He’s adaptable. Obviously.”

“I’m not worried,” Emma said. “Why would I worry about Captain Hook?” The coat was gone. The blazer-style leather jacket was absolutely an improvement, the way the sleek lines flowed over his back and his shoulders, but Emma had so rarely seen him without the coat that it was a shock.

“You’re not even curious?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve been kind of busy, Neal. You know that. We’re here together every day. I pick up Henry from school. We have dinner with my parents on the nights you’re not with your dad and Belle. Have you even seen him try to talk to me since we’ve been back?”

“No.” Neal picked up his cup and made a face when it was empty. “He told me he wouldn’t.”

“What?” She kept her voice even because she wasn’t surprised. It hadn’t been scribbled on the rock of a Neverland cave or anything but the fiasco in the Dark Hollow had put the writing on the wall.

“When I talked to him. You know, about us, and he—” Neal looked up then, his eyes searching for a respite or a refill but Ruby wasn’t there, not today, she was locked behind the bar watching them—the entire diner watching them all over again. Listening.

“I’m just wondering why he’s still here, I guess,” Neal said. “It’s like I said, Em, you have this—this way about you. It makes people think stuff they shouldn’t. Believe in stuff they shouldn’t. Want stuff they shouldn’t. Makes them want to be a part of something.”

Emma blinked.

And again.

When she could speak she said, “He left me.” It was the truth—he’d left her in the dungeon. He’d left her on the docks, too.

But he’d come back.

fourteen. lunch (v)

Lunch was fine—Grilled cheese. Swish-swish. Grumpy. She could do this— but then it wasn’t. She should have seen it coming.

She should have planned for it.

She was a professional.

But they hadn’t talked about it, her and Neal. Not about this or about any of the other things. And definitely no one was saying the ‘m’ word.

Magic.

Regina was at the bar with Tink. Regina and Tink. Regina and Tink? Emma knew enough to know that whatever she’d done to Tink was among the many things Regina didn’t regret. She also knew it didn’t matter; they’d all gotten home, Tink included. The Evil Queen and the former fairy were laughing as they talked.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen her in here,” Neal said.

A comment about Neal’s extensive Storybrooke experience died on Emma’s lips only because he was right. She hadn’t seen Regina in the diner since the queen had pulled them out of the Wishing Well all of those months ago.

Another lifetime.

“What’s she doing here?” Neal said.

“Eating lunch, I guess.” Emma gestured with her half-eaten grilled cheese. “We’re supposed to meet up this afternoon.”

“You. And her?”

Emma shrugged. “She’s Henry’s mother.” A thought occurred to her. “And she’s my grandmother. Sort of. I guess.” Wow, that Thanksgiving dinner would suck.

“And you’re okay with that.” Neal was incredulous.

“I am.”

“I’m not.”

“Thank goodness you don’t get a say,” Emma said. “We’re home and together because of her.”

“We’re home because of you.”

“And this is home now? For you? You’re staying?”

“My family is here. Our family is here—”

“—including Regina—”

“And I meant it, Em. I want to fight for us.”

Emma exhaled. It was a lot, all of this. All of these…moments. She said, “Then we’re not fighting about Regina.” The noise—the cup as she slammed it down, or maybe the rising pitch of her voice—made half the diner look up. Including, thank fuck, Regina. The Evil Queen raised her eyebrow and rolled her eyes and tapped her watch impatiently.

Emma stood. Carefully. Slowly. “I have to go. Apparently I’m already late for my magic lesson.”

“Your what?”

“Regina is teaching me magic,” Emma said, watching the look on Neal’s face freeze, then vanish. “We’re meeting up every day to practice and, I don’t know. Bond.”

“Since when?”

“Since today,” Emma said. “Forgive me if we needed a couple of days to recover from inter-dimensional travel before figuring out the routine.”

“Do realms count as inter-dimensional travel? That feels more like a video game thing,” Neal said, and Emma laughed. Strained. Forced.

“Ask Henry,” she suggested. “I’ll see you later.”

Fine. It was fine.

The bell rang and the door opened as if by magic, but Emma was watching Neal as she tried to walk through and was stopped by six feet of black leather and eyeliner. The coat was gone, but it was still Captain Hook in front of her: his uniform, his armor. The perfect black marks hugging the waterlines of his eyes as he looked at her.

“Whoa. Beware of lurking pirates.”

He didn’t answer but he did back away as if the impact of their collision had shocked him.

“Miss Swan?” Regina’s voice. Regina, behind them. Emma could practically hear the eyebrows accompanying the impatience and the sarcasm. She looked up; their eyes caught, and held. His crinkled at the edges with the twitch of his lips. Hers narrowed as she took him in, top to bottom.

“Miss Swan!”

Hook snapped to attention, holding the door open. “Your Majesty,” he said. A gallant bow to accompany the exaggerated drawl. “Sheriff.”

It was fine.

fifteen. 'i've yet yo see you fail'

I was hoping it meant something.

I believe in good form.

When I win your heart, Emma—and I will win it—it will not be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me.

I have yet to see you fail.

All of it true.

None of it mattered.

He was a sentimental fool. And now he was going to die because of it.

Having one’s shadow pulled was not for the faint of heart. No, not pulled—ripped. It left no room for thought; not of the past, not for the future. Bae. Neal. Emma. David. Liam. Henry.

There was only agony.

Agony, and failure.

The rest of it only came rushing back as he hit the ground. Feelings filling in the void left by his failure.

Not hers. Never hers. Killian had seen her magic in the Enchanted Forest. Had seen it repel Cora. Cora. And here she couldn’t even light a candle. Because of them.

He had failed her. They had failed her—distracted her. They had put everything in jeopardy.

And the boy.

“We almost lost our shot at capturing the Shadow—and getting the hell out of here—because you two were fighting. Over a lighter.”

“It wasn’t the lighter we were fighting over, love,” Killian said. It came out more defensive than he would have liked. Less like the apology it should have been. He was angry—everything he had said, everything that had passed between them—they had kissed. And it had meant something.

He was sure of it.

What meant something was that you told us Neal was alive. That’s what she’d said. And he’d chosen his friend, just as she had chosen Henry. The anger faded. Her only focus right now should be the boy. Every moment here was another one in danger. Every moment here was another chance for Pan. A new game. With new rules.

Peter Pan never failed.

But neither did Emma Swan, and Killian was tired of playing Pan’s games. The mission—that was what mattered; finding Henry and getting him home. That was why he had steered his ship back to Storybrooke in the first place. Why he had given the heroes the bean and welcomed the Dark One and the Evil Queen and Prince-bloody-Charming on his ship, not because Emma Swan had asked him to but because Baelfire couldn’t.

If Killian was a man of honor, then he needed to honor that first. No more games. They would get the boy and get off this rock. They would find a way. That’s what heroes did.

Then—and only then—could the fun begin.

sixteen. magic lessons

White smoke.

A tiny curl—not even a puff, and certainly not a poof—but white smoke. A lit candle. The power sang beneath her skin. The flame danced in time with her heartbeat. Such a simple thing, to light a candle, but every nerve ending in her fingers tingled as she breathed in and out.

“Hmm,” Regina said. A noise more than a word. Emma didn’t like the curve of her eyebrows as she said it, the furrow of the brow. She didn’t like what came next, either: “Do it again.”

“But—“ Emma gestured, emphatically, at the smoke. So what if it was already fading? The candle still danced when she moved. “I did it! And it wasn’t an accident, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Good. Then do it again.”

Deep breath. She had signed up for this. Eyes closed, she reached for the flame, curling her hand around its heat, dimming it until it went out. Flicked her wrist and focused—

“Miss Swan.”

White smoke. Again. Emma turned to Regina. “I hate it when you call me that.”

“Again.”

“What?”

“Do it again.”

“Come on, that was pretty good! Are you going to tell me that wasn’t—”

“No. It was. I’m sure it will be even better when you do it again. Miss Swan.”

Steady, even breathing. Focus. She breathed in and out, her temper flaring but in check, her anger as fleeting as the smoke. As she reached for the candle the only thing she felt was magic. Magic, and rightness.

The flame flickered. Regina was smiling, if it could be called a smile when her lips were pressed that closely together and her expression was that smug. No, it wasn’t a smile. “What’s with the—” Emma waved a hand in the air between them, mimicking Regina’s expression. The flame flickered with her movement but did not go out.

“I could ask the same of you.”

Emma blinked. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“What is going on with you?”

“…nothing?” Emma winced; that had been nearly as convincing as Regina’s smile.

“You forget that I know magic—”

“As if you would ever let me,” Emma muttered.

“—and, as much as I’d rather not, I know you. Miss Swan. In Neverland, you were anxious. Distracted.”

“Distracted? Our son had been kidnapped by a fucking demon and his army of Lost Boys!” The flame brightened.

“All the more reason to concentrate, don’t you think? Magic is about emotion. Magic is about focusing that emotion. But you weren’t. You could barely make smoke, and you could not light a candle to save your life.”

Emma swallowed. That was—accurate. “What are you saying, Regina? Don’t be gentle. It’s not like you.”

“Something’s happened. Something’s changed. The proof is right there.” She pointed at the candle. “You’re focused. Determined. You’re calm, Emma. And I just want to make sure that, after everything, you’re not here wasting my time.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“We both know what your precious Neal thinks when it comes to magic,” Regina said. “He’s terrified of it. What are you going to say when he tells you to quit? When he tells you not to trust me? When he says that he doesn’t trust you, not with this?”

“He’s not my anything,” Emma said, bristling.

“Every day you parade him through that diner with the Charmings hovering in the background, waiting to announce the betrothal—”

The flame exploded, a miniature shower of sparks and black smoke.

“Hmmm.” The not-smile was back. “Now fix it.”

Emma’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out—just a text—and exhaled. Slowly. Breathing under control. Because she could. She could fix it. She would—“Listen.”

Regina’s face flashed white but it wasn’t anger. And then before Emma could blink it was gone as if it had never existed.

She shoved the phone back into the pocket and said “About Neal—”

Then she stopped. Regina was right. They knew each other, whether they wanted to or not. They were family, whether they wanted it or not. And what Emma wanted more than almost anything was for that word to mean something. Something, anything, that would make their fucked-up family tree matter beyond the tangled backstory of a fairy tale—a choice, not an obligation.

So before she said another word Emma squared her shoulders and held her hand out. The candle flared, shuddering in its soft dance.

“Neal is afraid of his father,” Regina said. “But let me assure you, Miss Swan, that whatever he thinks of his father, I’ve seen all of it and worse. I’ve survived all of it. And worse.”

Emma didn’t say a word. She didn’t move, or breathe; even the candle stilled.

“I will not allow your deadbeat Lost Boy to turn my son against me, or my magic. And I don’t think you will, either. Emma.” Their eyes met over the flame and they watched as it dimmed.

The phone rang, and they jumped. Both of them. And the time for confidences was over, snuffed—with the flame—in a puff of smoke.

David was calling. “Dad?”

“Emma. I need you down at the station.”

“What? Why?”

“Neal’s here.” David paused. “He says he doesn’t know where Henry is.”

“Fuck.” Emma sighed; David didn’t say anything but the stench of parental disapproval nearly made the phone vibrate. “Fudge.”

“Just get over here, okay?” The call ended. The candle started smoking. Emma was a professional. Emma had a plan. And in that moment, Emma had only one thought in her head as she focused: Enough.

Poof.

She was gone. And in her wake was a trail of white smoke.

#cs fic #canon divergence #season 3a #no curse renaissance

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

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Earlier this week I reported on the very depressing for-profit fic pirating happening in certain corners of fandom—but (somewhat coincidentally, timing-wise) I also had the joy of reporting this story on fanbinding, and the work of the @renegadeguild! Featuring the words (and fanbinds) of the brilliant @celestial-sphere-press, @butterfingersbookbinding, and @fanboundbooks (who also talked about Renegade on the most recent Fansplaining episode).

Renegade's binders are strong proponents of the non-monetized gift economy—they truly embody the spirit of fanfiction, in my opinion, both in the communal way they share their work with fic writers and each other, and in the DIY way they approach making books:

There’s a strong parallel between the amateur, instinctive nature of fanfiction and the act of fanbinding. While plenty of fic is penned by formally trained writers, much of it is not. Tiffo, who binds as Fanboundbooks, likens the reverse-engineering involved in teaching oneself both activities. As writers, people try to figure out why stories work. Fanbinders collectively share the process of learning to turn that work into a physical object—tactile, clean, often beautiful. Fic is largely unencumbered by the forms and structures of traditional publishing, and fanbinders approach their work with the same spirit. “People will often say, ‘How do I do this?’ or ‘What’s the rule for this?’” Tiffo says. “The answer that we always try to throw in Renegade is, ‘This is what other people have done, but know that there is no rule to your book—you can make whatever you want.’”

It's a shame seeing people conflate the bad actors of the pirating situation—many of whom don't appear to be in fandom and seem motivated by pure profit—with the work of fanbinders at large, and seeing people scared to try out fanbinding because of the recent news. Not-for-profit fanbinding is just as legal as writing fanfiction, and I don't speak for all fic writers, but if someone ever bound one of my fics, I'd be so touched I would almost definitely weep. 😭

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

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imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [3/6]

–

S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

seven. 'moments'

She was late for lunch.

It wasn’t on purpose. It just—wasn’t an accident, either.

It was so nice to sit in the sunlight and feel its warmth on her face. It didn’t do much against the bitter wind chill, but Emma sat there anyway, soaking it in.

Her phone was in her hand, silent. Still. Neal hadn’t called—of course—he wouldn’t. She could picture him, sitting there. Waiting for her. Confident and cocky. Self-assured like he’d been that night at the amusement park and every night after.

It was a test. A game. Emma really wanted to win this one. She was going to lunch.

In a minute.

“Isn’t Granny’s that way?”

David’s voice. Emma turned, surprised. She hadn’t expected Neal, of course not. She just hadn’t expected Prince Charming, either. The other surprise—the other thing she wasn’t expecting—was the gentleness in his words. The way they had no judgment and hardly any curiosity. It was, simply, a question.

What a fucking relief that was.

She turned back to her view. The ocean breeze, bracing and fresh, blowing against her reddened cheeks. The tide rolling up and back, coating the stones and pebbles of the beach. The masts of the Jolly Roger bobbing in time with the waves. “Did Neal send you?”

“Nah.” Emma could hear the shrug in his voice. “He has no idea I’m here. Your mo—” Emma hid a wince. He wasn’t even facing her, but then he continued: “Mary Margaret saw Neal sitting alone in the diner. I just wanted to make sure you’re ok.”

She turned. He didn’t look like a fairy tale prince, squinting against the sunlight with his hands jammed into his pockets. Then he smiled.

“Yeah,” Emma said. “I’m fine.”

They were all home. It had worked out. She shouldn’t still be this—unsettled. Henry was fine—he’d spent the night at Regina’s and run off to school like nothing had happened. After all, how could long division be worse than the island of misfit toys?

“It’s okay if you’re not. We’re all recovering.” He shrugged and with his hands still in his pockets the jacket shifted around him. The waterskin was gone. It was gone.

“I just—I can’t shake the feeling that something else might happen. It always has. It always does.”

“Yeah.” David sat next to her on the log—close, but not too close. “Your mother”—he emphasized it, gently—“she does that too. I tell her she shouldn’t think like that.”

Emma sniffed. “Bad things do keep happening.”

“So do good things,” David said. “And if you think like that, you’re going to miss them. You’ve gotta look for the moments.”

“Moments?”

He smiled. It was a charming smile. Megawatt with shining teeth. It would be so easy to let herself get caught up in it. Emma was surprised by how much she wanted to.

David was a good person. He might even be a good father.

“Life is made up of moments. Good ones, bad ones. But they’re all worth having.”

“What if I’m just a magnet for the bad ones?” She hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. She blamed the smile—it made her want to confide things. Admit things.

Have a relationship with her parents.

What Emma didn’t have a relationship with, though, was trust. She’d thought—in Neverland—she’d admitted a truth to her parents. To her mother. But all she’d done was give them another way to hurt her, which Mary Margaret had done. Without a second thought. After announcing her need for a do-over of Emma’s childhood.

If only it were that easy, Emma thought. She wouldn’t mind one herself. Glass unicorns and all, decoration for a princess.

If only.

“Well, that’s just all the more reason to look for the good moments in between the bad ones,” David said. Mary Margaret would have tried to soothe her, Emma knew. Friend or parent or both, the woman could not help herself. But something in David’s simple honesty and earnestness made Emma want to smile. It made her want to believe him.

“You think having lunch with Neal is a good moment?”

“I don’t know,” David said seriously. “Does he eat with his mouth open?”

Emma laughed and it felt like everything between them loosened. It felt like—maybe—this could work. All of it. So she was being honest when she said, “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

He didn’t ask her what she meant. “Let’s start by finding out. Can I give you a lift?” He stood, and offered her his hand. She surprised them both when she took it, and linked her arm through his.

“Are you sure you don’t have other reasons for pushing me toward Neal?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “Maybe you’re keeping me away from Hook?”

“Emma.” His body shook with laughter. “You think I’m interested in Hook? I’m a married man.”

“I don’t know what went down with you and Hook back on that island—“ she said.

“Gold came through. He gave me the cure. And Hook is the reason I made it home, with you. With our family. I’m not going to forget that. I promise.”

“Okay,” Emma said. She wasn’t going to forget either. David might have been sacrificing himself for his family but Mary Margaret had not skipped a beat before saying she would stay in Neverland. Forever. Only she didn’t have to, because of Hook.

Hook, and Neal.

Hook, and Neal. Emma sighed.

“Can we go now? My lasagna is getting cold.” He bumped her shoulder as he said it, pulling them closer together.

She let him. “Yeah. Thanks—Dad.”

eight. 'you couldn't handle it.'

Killian watched them, making rope. Making plans. The only thing he knew was that it felt imperative that Emma get a message to her son, quickly. Prince Charming was dying and the idea of young Henry becoming a Lost Boy—like his father, like his mother—was untenable.

And Killian?

He was drinking.

Drinking to stanch the bleeding, every moment on this island another wound. Drinking to stop himself feeling. He was ‘just a pirate’, after all. What did he have to contribute?

Certainly not a solution. Dreamshade was magic, its cure was magic, and all magic came with a price. Could he willingly sentence someone else to pay it? Could he force their family to pay it?

Could he do that to Emma?

An eternity on Neverland, or to be orphaned all over again.

So he drank.

And watched.

“A trap?” Regina’s displeasure was subtle, as always. “That’s your plan?”

Snow White shrugged. “The lost boys wanna come after us, we need to go after them.” She said it with a surety that suggested previous experience. “David? We need more vines.”

“On it,” the prince said.

Killian took another sip. It was as good a plan as any, considering—he only wondered if David would live long enough to see it through or if he would expire under a blanket of jungle vines.

“You’re coming with me, pirate,” he said.

“Am I?” Killian drawled. “And why is that?”

“Because we need more rope.” She said it simply but the edge in Emma’s voice was unmistakable and so he bowed.

“If the lady insists,” he said. The slur in his words was easy to cover as was the slight unsteadiness as he rose. David’s haranguing presence would surely be more than enough to sober a man. “What would you like to yell at me about now, Dave?”

“Stay away from my daughter.”

There. That was better than hair of the dog. “She can take care of herself. She certainly doesn’t need your parenting, which is a good thing.”

Was it?

Hadn’t he still needed Liam’s guidance?

“You’re gonna die in a day or so.”

“Nothing I can do about that. But if I do die—”

“—when—”

“It’ll be in helping my family.” The prince sniffed. “That’s something a pirate like you can never understand.”

Did he not still carry the weight of that loss every single day? Nothing left of him but a tarnished silver ring and a scrap of leather—if he could go back, would he force Liam to stay? To desert?

Of course he would.

And he would have stayed, too. Willingly. The brothers Jones against the Lost. Against Pan. Together. They should have found a way. He should have found a way. He should have forced Liam—trapped him—

Killian stumbled in the path. A trap. A trap.

This family always found a way, didn’t it? That’s what heroes did. And if anyone could find a way to get her father home alive, it was surely the savior herself. Emma Swan. Killian could certainly choose to believe in her as much as David believed in his own rightness and righteousness.

“What if I told you there’s a way to save you?”

“I would say no, because anything that takes us away from finding Henry is selfish.” The prince spat the word. “But of course you would think that was the way.”

“Bugger off.” Killian’s anger wasn’t feigned. “You think I’m being selfish? I’m risking my life for all of you, every moment that I am here. Every moment that I am aligned against him.”

“Please. You’re not here out of any nobility!” The prince wavered on unsteady feet as he pushed into Killian’s face. “You’re here for Emma. And let me tell you something else, pirate—you’re never gonna get her. I’ll see to that.”

“Well then. It’s a good thing you’re gonna die.” One swing. That’s all it took. One swing and a very sad-sounding groan—a sound that Killian knew only too well. “Mate, stop. Stop. I don’t fight invalids.”

But David didn’t hear him. He was unconscious before he hit the ground. The weight of the prince was uncomfortably familiar as Killian slowed his fall, lowering him gently.

He didn’t over-think it. He didn’t linger. He didn’t have time to faff around, and the prince wouldn’t trust him even if he did. It had to be his idea. His plan. Only then would he deem it noble enough—suitable for a hero-type.

Killian palmed the leather insignia as he pulled out his flask, pouring the rum into the prince’s open mouth and waiting for him to wake.

What was it about this family and knives?

David’s sword hovered dangerously close to his neck and Killian was only saved from injury by the fact that the prince’s arms were trembling from the effort. “I know about your deal with Pan,” he snarled.

Killian held onto his temper. Barely. “You heard that, then? So you also heard the part where I didn’t agree?”

The sword wavered. Closer this time. “You also didn’t disagree. Pirate.”

Killian swallowed, his parting lie to Emma still sour in his mouth. The prince could not conceive of himself as a liar, but a pirate simply was. It was not an untruth so much as an unkindness but it did not help his mood. “You’re only making the poison spread more quickly, mate.” He side-stepped the blade. “And giving Pan what he wants, which is for us to turn against each other.”

Another lie. Pan had clearly expected Killian to take his deal—had been so confident that Killian would leave, and take Emma with him. That Emma Swan would leave her son. Again. Killian had seen the certainty in the demon’s eyes and realized his mistake. He’d misjudged Pan’s designs on the Savior. It was certainly true that Emma had left but one needed only to look at her to see how that decision haunted her. Still. Her every action, every movement in the Enchanted Forest had been a repudiation of that choice; she’d been desperate to redeem herself. And she’d done it. She’d gotten home to her boy, big family reunion and all.

Peter Pan might never fail, but neither did Emma Swan. Either Pan didn’t know that or he had changed the rules of his game and Killian was currently betting his life—and David’s—that it was the former.

The prince’s breathing was heavy. Labored. “However fast the poison spreads—I just have to last long enough to get that sextant back to my family.”

“Mate, you don’t have that kind of time. There is no sextant here.”

“No. The insignia—”

“I dropped it. I dropped it so that you would find it and ask me to take you here. I knew you wouldn’t agree to make the journey if I told you the truth.”

“Why start now?”

“Because I brought you here to save your life.”

Sword waving, David hurled himself forward. Face-first into the ground, landing with a groan.

They were out of time. Killian reached into his pocket for the scrap of black cloth—the very same one he’d snitched from the sheriff’s office, the very same one he had used on Emma—and tied it around his nose and mouth. He sighed.

His life had taken a lot of strange turns since she had pulled him out of that grave.

Killian drew his sword and drove forward. Hacking the branches, ever-mindful of the omnipresent thorns. He heard the water, as if from a great distance—maybe it was the way the air around him seemed to scream in protest with every cut he made—

There it was.

The waterfall.

Quickly he filled the empty water skin slung under his coat. Quickly. Quickly. He raced back through the broken shrubbery that was already straining to close the gap and fell to his knees next to the fallen prince. David made a noise that might have been a gurgle as Killian pulled his head up. “Mate. Wake up.” If Killian hit a little harder than necessary against his cheek—all in an effort to rouse him—so be it.

“Get off me!”

Killian held his arms out wide, pointing at the canteen. “Look. Look, Dave. In this canteen is the water that will stop the Dreamshade. It will save your life.”

“That’s why you—“ he coughed. “You knew I wouldn’t come up here on my own. You knew that—“

“That you were stubborn? Yes. I gathered that rather quickly.”

“So give it to me,” David said.

“Mate.” Killian took a deep breath. “There’s something you need to know first. This water’s power comes from the magic of the island.”

“And all magic comes with a price. I know. Tell me, and I will pay it.”

“If you drink this water, you can never leave Neverland.”

David did not hesitate to take the word of a pirate. He believed. “Give it to me,” he said. “It’s a small price to pay for what I get in return—the chance to save my grandson. The chance to help my family get home.”

Gently, Killian poured the water into his mouth. The effect was—exactly as he remembered it. Instantaneous. Magical.

Priceless.

Laughing, he held out his arm for David to take as they stood.

“So why risk your life for me when there isn’t anything for you in return?”

“Oh, I didn’t do it for you, mate,” Killian said. He’d done it for Emma.

He’d done it for himself.

However Dave chose to interpret it, that was not a lie.

They did not speak on the walk back, save for one question: “That story you told me about your brother,” David said. “Was any of it true?”

Killian grunted. “Aye. He was a stubborn arse. And he died, because of Pan. Because of me.” He didn’t realize he had stopped walking until David brushed past him, a hand clasping his shoulder in the space between one step and the next. It was gone just as quickly.

There was no discussion of what they would say once they returned to camp. They were triumphant—after all, the prince was alive—but obviously sextant-less. David’s focus when they pushed through the last bit of shrubbery was only on his wife.

Well, far be it from Killian to deviate from his appointed role. “I’m afraid Pan got to the sextant first,” he said when Emma asked. He did not get a chance to say more.

“Hook saved my life,” David said, and all of them—including Killian—turned in surprise.

“Are you sure you want to tell them that, mate?”

David nodded. “We were ambushed by Lost Boys,” he lied. “Pinned down and outnumbered. And Hook risked his life to stop me being hit by a poisoned arrow. I wouldn’t have made it back here without him.” He removed one arm from Snow White’s waist and held out his hand. “Your flask, please.”

Wordlessly, Killian passed it over.

“I thought you deserved a little credit,” David said. He raised the flask in a toast.

“Thank you,” Killian said, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. And Emma’s.

“To Hook,” David said. He took a long drink and passed the flask to Snow.

She took it and looked at Killian. Appraising, and hauntingly like her daughter. “To Hook,” she said. Emma came beside her to take the flask and suddenly Killian was getting the look from both sides—down to his boots, up to his face—and he braced himself.

She’d been angry with him, before. Her expression now was—something else. “Did you really save his life?” she asked.

“Aye. Does that surprise you?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. You and David aren’t exactly…’mates’.”

Killian stared at her. Kept his voice very low. “I would not leave your father to perish on this island,” he said. The space between them was heavy and charged and Killian realized the others had dispersed.

“Thank you.”

It was just him and Emma, with no fire. No excuses. He didn’t want her to cry again. He didn’t want her to hold her tears against him. He did not want her to see how fragile he was feeling.

That was his mistake.

He smiled. “Yes. Well. Perhaps gratitude is in order now…”

Emma’s eyes lit with disbelief. She smiled. “Yeah. That’s what the ‘thank you’ was for.”

“Is that all your father’s life is worth?”

She was in his face, her breath tickling his skin. “Please. You couldn’t handle it.” The words were soft and low.

His were lower. “Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

He always did love a challenge. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled his mouth to hers. Her lips were warm and firm and Killian groaned. Slid his tongue against hers and felt the pressure of her fist in his hair as he stepped closer. As if he could meld their bodies together.

And then it was over, both of them breathing heavily as Emma pushed him away. “That was—” Words were impossible.

“It was a one-time thing.” She stepped back and turned. “Don’t follow me. Wait five minutes. Go get some firewood or something.”

Killian watched her retreating back. “As you wish,” he whispered. With his fingertips on his lips he could still feel her—the heat. The magic. Utterly shattered, Killian was left with only one thought: She was right.

He couldn’t handle it.

nine. lunch (i)

Emma was sure it hadn’t always been so loud. The way the coffee cups clattered on the counter, silverware landing on the plates with a clink, tables and chairs scraping across the vinyl—surely she hadn’t, in six days, forgotten what the rhythm of modern life sounded like. The silence of Neverland had been unnatural and punctuated only by the screams and the cries that pierced the endless night and here she was surrounded.

She was surrounded; everyone was watching. Everyone. The unending, tangible feeling of an entire diner’s worth of eyes on their booth was so present that Emma wanted to stand up and scream just to see what would happen.

Lunch was fine.

Granny’s grilled cheese was the stuff Emma dreamed about—hot, gooey, perfect. That was the thing about grilled cheese, really: It was never not perfect, however it was made. It didn’t let you down when you needed comfort and familiarity and a sense of home, even if—especially if—you had none of those things.

If only she had slept enough in the past six days (lifetime) to dream.

Ruby brought a hot chocolate with a swish of her hair and an open smile as Emma tried to savor each melted mouthful, the combination of butter and bread and cheese, and that was familiar.

Neal was trying. She was, too.

She’d loved him. And Henry--Henry wanted to.

She smiled. She laughed. She pushed back against the noise and told Neal about Henry. Their kid, the one with the Heart of the Truest Believer. Because Neal deserved to know. Didn’t he?

She’d loved him.

Lunch was fine.

So what if everyone was curious? So was she.

ten. lunch (ii)

Emma played her part. Smiled and laughed and made him smile and laugh—the smile getting bigger, the laugh gaining confidence. It was a sound she knew; a memory, a sound from her dreams. Familiar, like the weight of her leather jacket and the sunlight hitting her face through the windows. The clamor of the diner around her pounding against her headache and her exhaustion and her relief. Grilled cheese, each mouthful another reminder.

Neal said: “Should we play this like the old days? A little dine-and-dash, just for fun?”

She smiled and laughed and shook her head, dipping her finger in whipped cream. “I don’t do that anymore.”

Neal leaned forward. His smile was nearly a leer. “Chicken?”

Emma popped the whipped cream into her mouth. “Werewolves. Two of them.”

Swish-swish. A refill, like magic, as Ruby winked at Emma and made a claw with her free hand. “Grrr,” she said, growling at Neal. The way his eyes widened made Emma laugh even louder.

She really was glad he hadn’t died. Really.

Lunch was fine.

eleven. lunch (iii)

The crowd around the diner started getting smaller, Grumpy’s complaints louder as he forgot to eavesdrop. The pounding in Emma’s head retreated as she remembered what it was like to be surrounded by people instead of demon children, even if Grumpy was almost enough to make her miss it. For the first time in a long time—maybe since she fought a dragon, or jumped into a hat and swept the cobwebs off the glass unicorns in her nursery, or got on a pirate ship to fly to an island where Peter Pan ruled over a hellish nightmare haunted by the Lost—this was something she knew and it settled her.

She almost felt like herself again—whoever that was, whatever that meant. Even Mary Margaret had stopped pretending to not be watching her and started actually not watching her.

Lunch was fine.

The same, each time, until it could also be part of the routine. Familiar. All according to plan. Except—well—there had been the incident with Tink. With Tink and Hook, more accurately. Not that Tink—or Hook—had done anything wrong. They had just been walking out of the diner when Emma and David had been walking in, that first day. That first time. And there had been a look as they’d pushed through the door, Hook holding it open for David. And Emma. She hadn’t said anything, of course, but she had given him a look right back.

He’d winked. Not like Ruby, oh no. Nothing like Ruby. Like a fucking pirate.

Which was probably why David was still keeping an eye on her instead of focusing on the baby-making, not that Mary Margaret seemed to notice, still caught up in her daydreams and happily-ever-afters.

And then there was Neal: A stranger, a ghost, a dream come true. Exactly the same, as if the past eleven years (six days, lifetime) had blown right past him. Emma was the one who was different, not seventeen anymore and hanging on his every word, desperate to believe. To Believe.

She’d loved him.

“What’s your story, Neal?”

He stopped in the middle of his sentence to look at her. The smile evaporated. Everything around them froze, or felt like it, as Emma waited.

Swish-swish; it was only as Ruby retreated that he spoke again. “You wouldn’t have believed me,” he said, staring at his coffee cup for a long moment, cupping it in his hands as if there was nothing in the world more interesting or important before he raised his eyes to look at Emma.

“Maybe not,” she said. But she would have wanted to.

“Or maybe you would have,” he said. “That would have been worse. My father—I was so afraid of him, Em. Of seeing him again. And you”—he looked away—“I wouldn’t have been able to leave.”

“But you did,” Emma said.

She’d loved him.

He’d left her.

#cs fic #canon divergence #season 3a #no curse renaissance

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

Text

imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [2/6]

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S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

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four. 'wouldn't you like to know?'

He watched her recitation with a kind of morbid fascination: Mother, sheriff, bail bonds, True Love. Savior. Her parents hovered—eager, encouraging, and more than a bit alarming. Regina was sullen and Killian stayed silent because he had already won the only battle he would win today; for now, at least there would be no magic.

Emma had agreed with him.

So had the prince.

Her parents’ eagerness, though, it rankled him in a way he could not quite pinpoint. “If this is a game, that means you can win,” Snow White had said. True enough, in its fashion, but Pan’s response to such a feat would merely be to change the rules. Were they really so naive? Whatever the Charmings had faced against the Evil Queen and even Cora was merely a prelude to what Pan could dish out and Killian was unfortunate enough to know this from experience.

A woman, a mother, the product of True Love, a savior. But she’d left off the most salient bit. Killian knew it and Pan would have, too. It was probably why he’d sought her out in the forest and set this particular game in motion.

Emma Swan had the Look.

Which meant that would be the key to unlocking her map. He wondered if Emma knew that yet.

Her parents certainly did not. Pan was a bastard, but he wasn’t wrong, was he? Here she was, surrounded by family, but still holding them aside.

Killian followed them into the jungle anyway. Followed her, really. Emma had done him the courtesy of respecting his experience and he would return the favor and follow her lead, even as it took them deeper into the darkness. Even as it took them into battle. Sword-to-sword against Felix, he could only shout a single warning—“Watch out for their arrows! They’re laced with dreamshade!”—as the game shifted, became deadly. Bad form, indeed.

He saw the arrow out the corner of his eye and he was certain it had grazed the prince, but there was no time, not now, not for that, not with Emma frozen and the battle called off. Killian chose to believe the prince when he pointed to the hole in his jacket because some things were not to be borne on this island full of nightmares and Emma still had a game to win.

Still, he took himself away from the camp for a few minutes. Snow White and her daughter needed time for a decades-overdue chat and he needed a moment to get his head straight. David said he was fine; he would be fine. Emma was a survivor; she would break the spell on the map. They would find the boy—Henry—

“She’s done it!”

Killian ran. Rather, he ran as much as he could with an armload of wood for the fire. It was more of a hurried stride. But he dumped the pile and presented himself.

“The map is working. We know where Henry is.” Emma held the map in her outstretched hand and in front of…him. Like she trusted him. Like the rules of their game had changed. Like it was just that easy.

“Um,” he said. “We’re here at the southern tip of the isle. In the middle of the Dark Jungle. And Pan’s camp”—Killian pointed with his hook—“is due north.”

“That’s where he’s keeping Henry,” Emma said.

“So what are we waiting for?” Regina’s impatience was visible. Palpable. And she wasn’t wrong. But rushing off would be foolish.

“Well,” he said, slowly. “The terrain is not easy. There will undoubtedly be some nasty impediments along the way.”

“We should prepare,” David agreed. “We only made it out of our last encounter because Pan let us.”

Killian looked at Emma and thought that it was rather because Emma had understood her answer, face-to-face with the Lost Boys. He held the evidence in his hand; either way, she was energized. Ready to take it on and start all over.

“We need to stop playing his game and make him play ours,” she said, determined.

“And if I disagree?” Regina asked.

“Go ahead, but I think you know our best chance is together.” The certainty in her answer made him smile.

“Excellent show of patience, love,” he said, the endearment slipping out as the group dispersed. “That is how you defeat a nasty little boy.”

“I hope so,” she said.

He offered her his flask, considering.

“Is rum your solution to everything?” But she was smiling as she said it, and took a sip.

“It certainly doesn’t hurt,” he said. It was certainly easier not to think too hard—or too much—and certainly preferable to share it with Emma Swan than to drink it alone. “So just who are you, Swan?”

It was a question for himself as much as it was for her, he realized. Woman, mother, sheriff, savior?

Survivor.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said, handing him the flask.

“Perhaps I would,” he said, yet another uncomfortable truth and compounded by the fact that Emma Swan could tell when he was lying. Which he wasn’t.

Her body went rigid, her eyes wide. Killian watched her walk away and set his sights on building the fire. Grateful for the task, and grateful for the rest. The others needed to sleep. He needed a break. Time. Time to keep an eye on the prince and check for signs of poison.

Time to think.

They needed an ally. Someone who knew the island. They needed to get to the boy. He watched the others settle themselves, heard the sighs and the shifts and the snores of slumber. When they woke, he decided, and he had an opportunity, he would tell them about Tink. They would try the map first, of course. Emma had paid the price of the magic and they should see where it led them. Another log, and another glance toward the surrounding woods for signs of Emma’s return. That’s when he heard the voices.

Pan would be displeased, Killian thought. He would be—unkind. So Killian stayed. He sat by the fire and left the rum flask next to him as he waited. Silent, staring. He did it because he was curious and because he wanted her to see that she was not the only one chased through the night by the cries, by the demon. He heard the rustling as she returned. The rustling, and nothing else, as she sat down next to him—near, but not close—and said nothing.

Neither did he. This, he thought, was enough.

five. do you believe in fairies?

“Son of a bitch,” Emma growled. “How is it behind us?” She turned toward him. Him.

“You got us lost,” Regina said. Her fingers flexed.

Killian swung the lantern around. “No. No she didn’t.” He was so tired. “It’s the camp—Pan is moving it.”

“If Pan keeps moving the camp—how are we going to find it? How are we going to find Henry?” Again Emma’s eyes found his. “This whole trek has been for nothing?”

“I told you walking was idiotic,” Regina snapped. “We can use magic—“

“Pan will have shields against magic, I fear,” Killian said, his temper frayed to the breaking point. “Such an attempt would end in your death—and, more importantly, mine. Which is why we are walking.” He said the words slowly, as if to a small child.

“Well then?” Regina gestured expectantly. “What’s your idea? How are we going to find it?”

He was never going to get a better opening. “By using someone he trusts,” Killian said. “A fairy who lived here when I was about. She might still be on the island, and she would know how to get us in. She might even”—happy thought, indeed—“she might even have some pixie dust left. We could fly in.”

“You mean fairy dust.”

“No,” the prince said. “Pixie dust. It’s stronger, like nuclear fairy dust.”

Whatever that meant, it seemed to convince Emma. “Wait. A fairy? Tinker Bell?”

“You know her?” That would make all of this easier, to be sure—

“Every kid in the world knows her.”

—ah. So she was just another story, like the rest of them. Perms and whatnot. But Killian thought that—if she was still here—Tink might be persuaded. It was in her nature—all of those nights they had lain together, to ward off the darkness—the way she had helped him keep an eye on Baelfire. Smuggling food, bringing back information. What mattered was that Emma took hold of the idea and led them back onto the trail.

They had not spoken of their shared hours by the fire but he heard the hitch in Emma’s breath when Regina called him her ‘boyfriend’.

‘Boyfriend.’

A strange word for a man who had not been a boy for hundreds of years; however, if it meant that she was inclined to take his counsel and leave him for a torch-bearer he would gladly accept the title.

And when Regina said, “Mark my words, this Tinker Bell will not help us,” she sounded so completely certain and all Killian could do was wonder what Regina had done to Tink and marvel at the vagaries of time and magic. When had Tink come to the island? He didn’t remember. He couldn’t—not when every night was the same, over and over. Not unlike the Curse, perhaps, only he was painfully aware of each passing second. The sameness. The horror.

The feeling of being forever stuck in the worst version of oneself until it was the only reality.

But here and now, Killian followed Emma with his torch.

A light in the darkness, at least until his temper finally gave way, until Prince-bloody-Charming tripped over himself one time too many, panting as he tried and failed to catch his breath. As if this island had not already left him bleeding—every moment, every breath, every step he’d taken since he’d agreed to take Emma Swan to save her son.

Killian had him up against a wall before he had even realized he was moving. “I saw what happened to you.” He grabbed at David’s shirt as if he did not already know what he would see.

Dreamshade.

Bloody, bollocking—

The spread of the poison, inky black and unmistakable, pointed straight toward the prince’s heart. “I’m sorry, mate,” Killian said, and was surprised by how much he meant it.

six. the cocunut

It was the way she looked at him. Taking him in from his boots to his brows as she handed him the coconut. “Consider it an alternative to the rum,” Emma said. “If you can open it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Of course,” he said. He had a smile of his own in spite of everything as he waited—a beat, and then another.

“Please?”

“If the lady insists,” he said with a flourish, piercing into the rind and handing it back to her. She took it, took a sip. Moved to sit down and turned back to look at him, and there was that expression again. Expectation and invitation.

If the lady insists.

He threw his coat over the log for a backrest and watched her get comfortable. She said nothing else. Neither did he. They watched the camp quiet and waited, waited for the whispers from Regina and from Tink to die down, to fade away.

“What do you think Regina did to her?” Emma asked.

Killian laughed, a sound that startled him. Loud and full and dimming out, however briefly, the cries in the night. She smiled—a small smile, a cautious smile—as she took another sip from the fruit. It was when he looked away, his eyes sweeping the camp, that he heard the grunt of pain as Prince Charming shifted in his sleep. “You were brilliant today,” Killian said, meaning it. Inviting Tink to be a part of something—Emma Swan’s true superpower.

He had been a fool to ignore it. To turn his back on it. And she shared it with him anyway, offering protection from the cries of the Lost and the aches of past pain. Tink had seen it, of course. The way she had looked at him—and at Emma—and then back at Killian. Not an invitation. A recognition. She’d smiled.

“Thank you,” Emma said. They were quiet together for a long time after that, their tiny fire a feeble bulwark against the darkness of the nights and of his thoughts.

If only it helped.

As the others stirred, rising from their attempts at slumber, David’s face was pale and drawn. There was a tremor as he stood. Noble David. Suffering David.

Dying David.

“Pointy sticks equals death.” Well, Dave, good riddance.

There was, however, a more immediate issue. Tink was painfully accurate in her assessment regarding their escape plan. Pretty words from Prince Charming—“this family always finds a way”—would not secure their return passage no matter how loudly enough he shouted. He could not will the words into truth with the power of his belief.

Emma seemed to agree.

“Tink’s right,” Emma said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, you never break in somewhere unless you know the way out.”

The lesson this island—Pan—had taught all of them, and he had taught to Bae. He watched her as she said it. Her eyes. “She just lost Neal,” Snow White had said.

They both had.

“So no one’s ever left this island without Pan’s permission?”

Neal. Neal had gotten off this island.

He looked at Emma. “One man. Her partner in crime—Neal.” Killian lit the lantern and turned to go without another word. He had not moved three paces before Emma fell into step behind him.

It wasn’t a long walk, as best he could reckon. Tink had told him where the cave was; he knew where he was going. Tink had helped Bae to find it in the first place, after he’d left the Jolly Roger. After Killian had left him to Pan’s mercies.

Not a long walk but too long for Killian’s state of mind, and not fast enough for Prince-bloody-Charming. The man shouldered him out of the way as they pulled the hidden entrance open, panting and gasping with every movement.

“How much longer do you think you can keep up this charade?”

“Why do you care?”

He didn’t. He didn’t.

“Hook!” Emma’s voice broke through. Killian turned. He followed the sound into the cave, reaching into his pocket for his flint. “What is this—oh. Neal—he lived here?”

“Aye.” He put down the flint and glared at the prince, who was smugly snapping shut the lid of his lighting device. “Bae spent some time in Neverland as a boy. This was—his home.” The light from the wall torch flared and Killian needed to catch his breath. He’d passed along bits and bobs to Tink, intending them for Bae: Chalk and other things an inventive lad could use for tools and writing implements and the like. But she had never told him about the cave walls full of drawings—full of stories—the wheel of the Jolly Roger scraped into the rocks of Neverland. “Anything important?” he asked, turning away from the drawings.

“I didn’t know he liked drawing,” Emma said. She was quiet as her eyes and her torch scanned the walls.

“He got it from his mother,” Killian whispered.

“Oh.” Emma swallowed. “So—you knew him pretty well?”

“We spent some time together.” Their eyes met, but she was the one who looked away. “Alright, Swan?”

“Yeah.” She sniffed. “Yeah, it’s like you said—just a bunch of pictures. What’s over there?”

“Plates, bowls—things he must have made for himself while he was here.” Snow White stood up. She held a small, round object. “And a tiny…colander?”

He figured it out the same time Emma did, reaching for the snuff to put out the wall light as the prince pulled out his lighting device. The wick of the tiny candle glowed until Emma covered it and gasped. It was breathtaking.

It was a map.

But the longer he looked at the map, the more something became clear—it was not a depiction of the stars and asterisms native to Neverland. It was a jumble, the stars grouped in patterns that were almost, but not quite, depictions of the asterisms native to Neverland.

Bae had loved to study the night sky, and he was an apt pupil. Unfortunately, celestial navigation was not all that he had learned during his time on the Jolly Roger.

The map was encoded.

And that meant—

“The only person who can read this map is—“

“Dead,” Emma finished. “The only person who can read this map is dead.”

Killian watched her run out of the cave. Watched her parents follow her. The candlelit star map twinkled above him for another minute before he blew the candle out and left. The sounds enveloped him: The rush of air, the roaring in his ears. Snow White and Prince Charming, arguing.

Killian scrubbed his hand down his face and turned to re-enter the cave. He wasn’t looking. He wasn’t seeing, or else he would have side-stepped. Gone another way. Anything else, because the look on her face when he saw Emma Swan crying was bloody murder. Nothing for it but to follow her back in, determined as she was to find something new among the drawings. Something they could use—something that would help. Something that wasn’t a reckoning of the time that did not exist on this island, not anymore, but back then when there had still been daylight—

“Neal stopped counting,” she said, looking at him. The tears weren’t dry, not yet, but they were the two that had known Bae and they were the two who knew what the marks meant. “He lost hope, and he stopped counting, and that’s exactly what Pan said would happen to Henry—“

“We’re gonna rescue him,” the prince said.

“Henry doesn’t know that,” Emma snapped. “We need to get him a message. We need to start being clever.”

Snow was the one who spoke up, moving out of the cave without waiting for them to follow. Without waiting for Killian and Emma to catch her up. Just long enough for Killian to say, “I too know what feels like. To lose hope.”

It was the most honest he had been in too many years to count but when she looked at him all she said was, “I’m not in the mood.” She pushed him away, walking deliberately around him and leaving him alone and surrounded by the evidence of one of his biggest mistakes and biggest regrets.

Or—not exactly alone. Because there was David, waiting. Watching.

If the prince wanted to die, that was his choice, wasn’t it?

Nothing Killian could do about it. Emma would lose a parent either way—maybe two, for he had a suspicion that Snow White would not leave her Charming even if the cost of that was Emma. She would be orphaned all over again.

Prince-bloody-Charming. Who understood nothing and yet was so sure he was right.

Noble. Determined. Stubborn. Principled.

And such an easy mark.

Yet another way the prince was so very like Liam.

#cs fic #canon divergence #season 3a #no curse renaissance

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