"What?" Mary Margaret jolted forward with wide eyes, "You didn't actually mean that did you?"

Henry's soft hair was a safe place for her to bury her nose as Emma blocked her view of Killian's turned back. The frustrating feeling of wanting to let out all the pent up turmoil that came with her fraying nerves was trying to force itself out in a wordless shout. So she focused on his concerned expression and tried to smile instead.

"Yeah, Mom. What do you mean you want to leave?" he looked slightly hurt and she pushed a few brown locks away from his forehead.

"I'm not going anywhere without you of course, kid." she relaxed when his expression regained its usual cheerfulness.

She looked up to find that her mother was still giving her a death-glare, and she sighed and pushed Henry back.

"Go inside and get your homework done. I'll cut you a deal and we can watch Peter Pan together later, alright?"

Ironic. Unintentional, but a punch-to-the-stomach ironic.

"Can we order pizza too?" he smiled innocently, but she still saw the note of mischievousness in his eyes, "Y'know, because you owe me for not picking me up afterschool?"

She glared affectionately at him and ushered him inside, "Don't get smart with me or pizza's out of the deal."

As she slowly shut the door and faced Mary Margaret, Emma bit her lip nervously and tried to formulate some coherent, reasonable excuse. But her instincts twisted in her stomach and she could only arrive at a short, impatient fragment. She muttered it under her breath.

Have to get away.

"Have to get away?" Mary Margaret's hand found its way lightly to her cheek, "Why do you want to do that? I can't read your mind, Emma. You have to try and let me understand."

"I can't help you understand it if I don't even get it." she turned away in frustration, "What makes anyone do anything." Emma rocked backwards and her shoulders thumped against the door. She couldn't tell a story that never should have existed.

Her tone suddenly turned accusatory as her gaze flashed up, "What makes anyone fall in love?! Who's brilliant idea was that?"

"Are you saying you were—" Mary Margaret's puzzled expression only deepened.

"He was. He was in love and he didn't even ask me if it was okay." she banged her fists back into the wood, "He was always there. Always! So why didn't he just ask me." She knew she was acting like a child. She didn't care. To hell with it.

She could have been stopped him, she—should have stopped him.

Mary Margaret stared at her expectantly, like she was supposed to say something else. This wasn't a test for god sakes, she didn't know where to start. So judgement was lost for a minute when quietest confession slipped with a tremble of her voice, "What if I loved him too?"

Those words had never been spoken before. Love, him, too… Never allowed, and always repressed when they entered her thoughts.

And suddenly she was enveloped in a hug, as if her mother had known that the cracks would split all along. Emma's shaking was quiet, and there were no tears. But it was crying, it was weakness all the same. Yet she was glad that she had a shoulder to lean into. Mary Margaret hushed her gently and smoothed her hair, and for once she didn't protest to being comforted. For once she didn't know how to pick up the pieces and not cut herself again in the process.

Because that was the main difference. Every single time something went wrong, she wanted to forget. Every single time she wished someone had come around with a magic eraser and taken the memory away. And that was the difference for the first time.

She didn't want to forget. She didn't want to let him go. Even when he finally gave her the freedom to.

Irony. What a bitch.

A gentle voice broke her train of thought, "Remember when he left you hanging the first time? When I caught you two— well, I sat you down and asked you how long it had been? I knew, even then, that you loved him. Nothing makes you fall in love, Emma. It's a choice."

She pulled back and fussed with the mussed blond tresses, "He came back. You remember that. He came back and laid down his life for you to get back home." There was a long pause and Mary Margaret smiled sadly, "If he did it once. Why can't he come back again?"

Emma shook her head, " That's all blind hope. Hoping for something is too risky. I've done a hell of a lot of pretending and wishing and waiting. But hoping? Never. I've learned my lessons. I'll lose more every time I hope. I'm not going to leave permanently. I just have to get away."

Her mother's smile dissolved into an understanding, but short nod, "Where will you go?"

Emma straightened herself out and opened the door a crack, enough to pull her coat off the hanger and shrug it on. "The bar for starters. Tell Henry I'm sorry and I'll have to take a rain check."

Dim lights and crammed bodies into a tight, rectangle room. Sixth shot of the strongest stuff they had and Emma still couldn't get her mind to blur enough. Every thought was still sharp enough to shred her insides to tattered ribbons. Some of that stuff that she'd stolen from the house in the woods, that would be more effective.

It'd gotten him drunk enough to sing.

Or maybe it wasn't the drink itself they'd gotten drunk on.

What a great thought. He wouldn't even let her drink in peace.

Today had been just so fucking pleasant.

She waved at the bartender for another and pushed her face into her hands, trying to let go of her stubborn hold on coherence. Oh yeah, now she wanted to forget.

"You look like you could use some company." she snapped her gaze to a barfly who had staggered over, leering at her behind half lidded eyes. The smell of dirty laundry already had her in the mood to deck him and save the pleasantries.

"Actually, I'm good." she said, turning to the shot glass that had been refilled and replaced in front of her. She downed it and traced her finger around the rim, ready to give him a good shove— just in case.

"C'mon honey, let me buy you another. You can hold your shit down really well." He slouched into the stool next to her, "That or it's been a hell of a day. Tell me about it sweetheart, what's your name?"

She edged away as he leaned closer, gritting her teeth as her patience wore thin, "I said. I'm. good."

"Ooh, touchy are we? I like them feisty." She was about to lunge forward when her suitor was suddenly lurched to the side and knocked to the floor.

"Hey man what the Hell!?"

And standing in his place was Killian, a look of fake remorse plastered to his smile, "Apologies, I wasn't looking where I was going."

As the barfly stumbled off, Emma raised an eyebrow at him. She was grateful but not ready for this, "I'm there sheriff you know. If I happened to have seen that…"

"Then you saw nothing." he grinned, oblivious to her suddenly darkened mood, "I would say I feel bad but quite honestly I do not."

She allowed herself a smirk, almost mistaking his demeanor for someone he wasn't.

"I should get home." She stood and found herself sway on her feet, nearly losing her balance had Killian not grabbed her shoulder and steadied her.

"You've had more to drink than I think you realize," he chuckled, "Will you allow me to walk you home Emma? I think you're done for the night."

"There a reason you're so interested?" her voice was sharper than she intended, of all times now her head was in a fog.

"Try trusting me, love. Maybe I just want to help." he looped his arm around her waist and she flinched. She fit comfortably into his side, familiarly, as he eased her outside and let her lean her weight on him.

Oh she had already gone down that road. And all he'd done was leave her stranded. But maybe as an apology for that time on the beanstalk. Maybe as a last acknowledgment to everything that had gone right. She allowed it.

She recognized the feel of him, the spread of his fingers over her waist. All natural, and still all out of place. Her body recognized the man that was holding her, and it was hard in her intoxicated state to remember that she did not actually know him at all.

They walked down the street at a lazy pace, neither of them speaking as they slowly made their way towards her home. She tried not to relax, but being pressed against him eased the ache in her chest. Closed the gaping hole just a little.

When they reached her building, Emma sighed and untangled herself. It was late, and she was suddenly feeling sick, but she made forced eye contact with him.

"Thank you." she said stiffly, and started to turn away.

"Emma wait." his voice held a strange note that she almost could identify, "I still want to know the answer to my question."

She shook her head and closed her eyes in exasperation, "I can't answer that, Killian."

"I don't understand." he scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"You wouldn't be the first one to tell me that today." she snapped.

He suddenly closed the distance between them, as if by habit, and she resisted the urge to step back, "Please, Emma. I want to understand."

Maybe it was because he was so close. Maybe because she was tired and drunk and miserable. Maybe it was because just knowing that he was still breathing and living and in her life. Maybe somewhere in her mind she remembered someone somewhere in this fucked up town said something about the most powerful magic. True love's kiss.

Maybe she had started to hope.

Emma leaned all the way in and caught his mouth with hers, feeling him freeze in surprise. It was half a second, probably less, but she felt him begin to return the contact, part his lips when he suddenly yanked himself away, a look of shock in his eyes.

She already knew she'd made a mistake.

The frustration quickly overtook the surprise, a touch of angry confusion hardening his jaw, "What the hell was that? I ask you one. One simple question. You refuse to answer me and yet you act like you move between mourning and taunting me all at the same time. Do you think I want any part of your games?"

His face was graced with a scowl, his eyebrows drew together and his voice had dark undertones, "I don't even know who I am!"

"I'm sorry. But you were the one that wanted to find out, alright." something inside was breaking as she realized just how much he looked like the person that she remembered. Anger sparked life in his face, the hard glint in his irises she was so familiar with.

He may have thought himself the worst in the world for her, but she would take him angry and broken any day. She would take all the bad over whatever this was.

This was not him.

He sounded exhausted when he continued, "I don't know who you think I am, but I don't know if I can be him. I have no memory of you. You can't know me. You don't—"

She told him to wait a moment and turned away, disappearing into her house. Returning outside, she had a thin gold chain pressed in her hand.

Thankful that he hadn't left yet, she opened her palm, revealing the golden compass that started it all. She held it out to him. He took it guardedly, studying its delicate form. Then she walked back to the door to her home, the tears she though she had drained squeezing past her eyelids.

"You're right." nearly suffocating as she felt herself relent and let go, "I don't."