A/N: I can't believe it's been almost 2 months since I posted the last chapter... thank you for being patient while I tried not to fail exams. I've finished school for the year, so updates should be much more frequent from now on.

Heads up that there's a mention of past Captain Swan in this chapter, so if you really can't bear to read that, you have been warned. It's not a very favourable mention, though.

She's softened a little over the past few years, accustomed to a roof over her head a little higher than the top of the Bug, accustomed to warm showers and comfortable beds. And going home to an apartment filled with noise and life and love had become a habit she didn't realise she'd formed, didn't realise she needed, until she'd closed that door and locked it behind her. There had been times when she'd been frustrated by the close quarters of her mother's apartment, at knowing looks, at intrusive questions over breakfast, at the overwhelming sense of expectancy that sometimes lingered in the air, but now she misses it more than anything.

Against all odds, she'd found somewhere and started to set roots and she'd drawn vitality and strength and sustenance. Uprooted again, she feels that core of strength slowly withering away. She can't help but think back to that conversation with Regina, years ago, the way she'd taunted her, smugly certain that Emma would not be able to stay still for long. Emma had half-believed it herself at the time, and there had been moments when she'd lain awake at night wanting to run and fighting herself. And how true that prophecy had proven in the end, even if the mechanism of its fulfilling had been a little different than either of them had imagined.

Emma wonders if Regina is finally happy, safe and sound back in Storybrooke, with Henry all to herself and love in her life, with everything she ever wanted. That thought fills her with despair, and the voices feed it, do everything they can to stoke that fire. Although quieter outside of Storybrooke, the voices are still an ever-present mosquito hum. They urge her constantly to go back and they're wearing her thinner and thinner with each passing day.

That first phone call home when she'd spoken to Henry and heard the disappointment in his voice had almost broken her resolve. She was less than a day's drive out of Storybrooke and she'd almost turned around and headed straight back. She hadn't, though, reminding herself over and over why she'd left. She'd continued to check in for the first few days, keeping a promise she'd made to Regina, until she couldn't stand it anymore. She'd ditched her phone, certain that she'd be unable to resist the temptation to turn it on again to listen to the messages she knew would be filling her voicemail, certain that the sound of Regina's voice, of Henry's voice, would eventually be all that was needed to convince her to go back. She misses them desperately, and there have been so many times when she's stood in front of a payphone, hand on the receiver, wanting nothing more than to give in.

Yes, she's grown soft in so many ways. Despite this, she still knows how to read a city, knows how to find a safe place to park her car and sleep for a few hours. Knows how to keep herself out of trouble. She keeps moving because she's worried about what will happen when she stands still. Right now, her only purpose is to run, and if she loses that…

This picture is all that she has left of them, all that she'd allowed herself to keep. It was taken during one of those rare moments of peace in Storybrooke when no one had been cursing anybody and she and Regina had been on good terms (or as good as they ever were), and Snow and Regina had reached a tentative sort of understanding. Henry had found the old Polaroid camera in Regina's attic and that night, they'd all had dinner together and Henry had been snapping photos every chance he could. Later that evening, Regina and Henry had been sitting, ready for Snow to take the perfect family photo, and Emma, seized by an impulse born of a couple of glasses of wine too many had dashed into the frame at the last moment. Henry had cracked up and blinked as the camera went off and Regina had half-turned, a frown forming at her brows, reaching out to grab Emma's arm.

You could have just asked, Regina had said.

There had been no real sting in the words, but Emma had ducked out of the attempt to take another picture, a rueful smile on her face and Regina had searched her eyes for a moment before shrugging. Emma had quietly pocketed the picture and carried it with her ever since. It was emblematic of her presence in their life, the party crasher, the interloper. She's studied the picture dozens of times since, and over time she's come to notice smaller details that hadn't immediately registered, like the softness in Regina's eyes, despite the frown, and the way that Henry's leaning towards her. And she remembers the gentle pressure of Regina's hand on her arm and the way it had lingered until she had pulled away.

When she looks at the picture, sometimes it hurts almost more than she can stand as she sees the possibilities that could never come to be. And sometimes it warms her, because it reminds her that these are things that she'd never thought she'd have – family, friends, maybe something more – and somehow, despite everything, she'd stumbled upon them.

That picture is now in the hands of a thief who'd pulled a simple bump and lift, a move Emma herself had used more than once. A move she'd registered a moment too late to stop him from lifting her wallet, but not too late to chase him down until she corners him in an alley.

He's surprised when she closes the distance. There's an initial cockiness in his stance and his expression, but it's soon replaced with something else as she drives her fist into his nose. She smiles a little at the satisfying crunch as it breaks and the sudden fear creeping into his eyes. Then she's raining blows down on him, hard, merciless, and it's the closest thing to pleasure that she's experienced in months. And in her head, that relentless, grating buzz has settled into a deep melodious hum, and there's just one word emerging from the stream, chanted over and over. Good. And she punches and punches and punches, each contact taking her higher and higher, further from herself.

It's the crack and pop of the pickpocket's voice – so much like Henry's in the last few months – that finally breaks the spell. He begs her to stop. Suddenly, she notices details she hadn't before, like the pants that are too short for painfully thin legs that have recently grown long, and sneakers with soles that are almost worn through. And if she could see his face, she suspects that he wouldn't be much older than Henry. But she can't; his face is a pulpy mess and then all she can see is Henry's face superimposed on this blank, bloody canvas.

She releases the shirt she has bunched in her fist and he falls to the ground. He's alive, she thinks, but she can't bear to look at him, can't bear to add up the damage she's inflicted. She picks up the wallet that has fallen to the ground and staggers away, drunk on violence and sickening pleasure and regret. For a moment she thinks she's going to throw up, feels her stomach heaving and roiling and hears the sound of blood rushing in her ears, but that moment passes. She flees the alley with no thought of where she should go, no plans at all.

Now she's sitting in a bar, the kind where no one asks questions when you stumble in with bloody knuckles and murder in your eyes, and she's downing whisky like it's water. The voices are still singing to her and it's this approbation, this gentle, melodious hum that terrifies her more than the shrieking exhortations to violence. She's slipped, and they're waiting to embrace her. She's always found a certain pleasure in violence, had always felt an odd kind of joy when a target had tried to stand and fight back in her bounty hunting days. And as she remembers this, she's sickened at the dreadful realisation that maybe the darkness has nothing to do with her actions, that it's simply reaching out to a kindred spirit.

Her head is filled with thoughts of Henry and Regina and Snow and David, of how disgusted they would be to see her now. She smooths her fingers across the photo, tracing the outline of Regina and Henry's faces. She thinks of Regina and the strength it took to pull herself out of darkness and how she has fallen at the first hurdle. She thinks of Henry and the hope, the belief he'd always had in her and how she has betrayed all of that. Of her parents, and how they'd always believed she could save the world, and now she knows nothing but how to destroy. So she drinks and she drinks and she drinks until she can push them away.

Her mind drifts to Killian, and for a moment she wishes he was here so she could lose herself in him, use him once again. His body had been her forgetting potion, a temporary amnesia wiping away the fear and the disappointment. Wiping away the thoughts of Regina, of Robin and the happiness he was destined to bring her and the desperate, tearing pain she felt every time she saw them together. Wiping away the expectations that she always feared she'd fail to meet. Wiping away the thoughts that one day her parents would remember why they left her and leave her again. But he couldn't let her down, because she expected nothing from him. He was safe.

She understands Killian better than ever now, his need to anchor himself to her. Because without Henry, without Regina, without her parents, she feels adrift, lost at sea. This isn't like before, when she'd had no one but herself to rely on, when she'd made her way through life barely touching and never feeling. And she thinks back to those early days with Killian and how she'd chafed at the way he chained the fate of his soul and his happiness to her, made her feel responsible for him. There had been times when she'd resented him for that, hated him a little. That while she had wanted nothing more from him than an escape from the crushing burden of responsibilities she'd never asked for and emotions she wasn't ready for, he had wanted her to fight his demons for him.

She's been running for two months, and right now, even though she feels like she's drowning, with no one to save her and no land in sight, she thinks she's made the right choice. Because at least this way she won't drag her loved ones down with her.