Chapter Text
Storybrooke Fairy Tale Faire: Summer of 2010
“Don’t you dare bring that damn cell phone into my camp like you’re some kind of tourist, Hook.” Killian groaned as his ‘mortal enemy’ snatched the device out of his hands.
“You do realize, lass, that it’s not your camp. Just because you’re the daughter of our esteemed King and Queen doesn’t actually mean you have to have a stick up your ass.” Emma snorted as she affixed her green cap to her head with a final bobby pin.
“And just ‘cause you only have one hand doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass if you screw this up,”
“You would beat a cripple? I’m hurt, Swan.”
“That’s Peter to you, Codfish,” she smirked as the curtain went up on their scene.
“Smee, cut the ropes!” Hook said, grabbing onto the rigging that would take him to the top of the sail for the final battle with Pan, though his opponent would be flying with her ‘happy thoughts,’ they were really both secured by harnesses.
“I could defeat you with a hand behind my back, villain!” Peter Pan shouted, toning her voice lower than usual, though most of the audience had long ago figured out she was a woman, her slender frame and dazzling contralto meant she had the talent to fool the kids, and that’s what mattered.
Every step they took on the ‘sail’—which really had a three-foot platform behind it—was calculated and choreographed. Killian parried Emma’s shorter dagger and caught it in his hook, scowling furiously for the sake of the audience.
“You couldn’t beat me, even if you had a sword fit for a man,” he projected, flicking the dagger to the ocean of cloth and paper to the side of the stage.
“I wouldn’t count on it, pirate!” Emma said as Pan. Hook was momentarily ‘distracted’ by the appearance of the crocodile, operated by none other than Killian’s least favorite technical producer, Mr. Gold. Peter used the distraction to wrap the skull-and-crossbone flag of the Jolly Roger around him, pinning his arms dramatically.
“I told you I could beat you with one hand,” Pan smirked, having claimed his cutlass, “Are you ready to face your crocodile?” The volume of the clock ticking was increased momentarily by Ruby of the sound crew, as if to mirror his thought process. Taking a dramatic sigh of air, he began pleading with the victor of their duel, as the Lost Boys and Wendy laughed at him in the crow’s nest and his crew balked.
“Please, I’ll do anything!”
“Anything? Say, ‘I’m a codfish.’” Pan smirked.
“I’m a codfish,” Hook said, in the theatre version of ‘under his breath.’
“Louder!”
“I’m a codfish,” he shouted, the anguish of his cry even taking him aback. Emma broke character for a moment, eyeing him with concern, but all attention was on the crow’s nest as even his loyal crew taunted him for being a codfish.
“Good. Now never, ever come back!” Pan commanded, Emma almost out of breath for no good reason. While Pan’s group rejoiced, Killian escaped from his flag and held up his hook, as if to strike the hero of the tale. The gasp from children in the audience followed by Wendy’s frantic shout of “Peter!” gave his opponent enough time to flip over him as he ‘fell’ into the open jaws of the crocodile with a comedic scream.
Gold helped him remove his harness once the crocodile rig retreated to behind the blue velour curtain, and Killian gave him a tense “Thanks mate,” before going off to find a water bottle to dump over his head. A leather vest and jacket were not the best attire for summer, even in Maine. But he had to greet the children soon, so he settled for pouring some of the water over his chest and drinking the rest in three big gulps.
Before he knew it, he was called for bows, and he was on stage again, bowing with a flourish and a wink. While the ending of their play may have been aimed towards the children’s Disney perceptions of the J.M. Barrie story, there were enough innuendos about his hook in their version to keep the adults in stitches half the time.
“You’ll use any excuse to use that thing won’t you,” Emma murmured to him as he made to hold hands with her in the line of cast members, with his hook.
“I haven’t got anything else there if you hadn’t noticed, love,” he quipped, making her sparkling eyes sober as she pursed her lips. He gave her an exasperated look. They began doing the Peter Pan show three years ago, when it had become the staple of the Storybrooke Faire and he had lost his hand only last winter. She didn’t usually coddle him about it, as their backstage banter had shown, but sometimes she would look at him with something akin to pity, and it was a worse feeling than when he had lost the damn hand.
As they exited the stage he felt her squeeze his remaining hand, a silent apology that made him feel worse somehow. He felt the nerves tense up in his arm, as if he was clenching his phantom fist, and once Emma’s hand left his he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Killian never felt phantom limb syndrome when he was acting in the faire or teaching in his nine to five job, as a highly overqualified private school teacher. So he went out to the Greet the Cast area to act some; interacting with the kids that came to the show was always the highlight of his day anyways.
Emma entered the area with much less gusto, as always. While Killian had never had kids himself, he had always liked them. For whatever reason, Emma seemed recalcitrant to interact with them, especially the young boys. But it wasn’t Killian’s business; she didn’t know about his hand, he didn’t know what made her so warm with her faire family and so cold to the tourists. Of course, she put on a brave face, but often the kids that came every year went straight to him.
“Why didn’t you take off your hook this year?” One of the young girls asked.
“Because I’m supposed to be in costume, little lass,” he let out with a pirate growl that was more bark than bite. The little girl giggled and accepted the answer, tugging on her mother’s hand before leaving.
Emma had heard the question and turned to him from her bevy of younglings, asking him with her eyes if he was really ready to play the pirate. He turned away from her, instead answering the eager questions of his young audience.
After the children had been lead away by tired parents, a few of his students came up to him, looking different to him without their uniforms as he shook hands with them, sharing brief hugs with the few that he had come close to as advisor and director of their yearly plays. The young ladies of the group inquired after Miss Nolan, and he beckoned the star over.
“How do you get a big role like this?”
“What do you do when you play a boy?”
“Do you normally speak that low?”
Emma’s eyes bugged out a little at the exuberance of the teens, and he gave her a sympathetic look.
“Well, my parents have been running the faire for a while, but I think I could have gotten it without the nepotisim,”
She was interrupted by another of them, asking “How long have you been dating Prof Jones?”
“Uh—what?” Emma spluttered, “We’re not dating.”
Killian raised his eyebrows at his student, curious how they had come to that conclusion.
“Oh, then who was that actress you said you had been dating from this faire…” At his look she trailed off, leaving the subject with a few awkward looks to her classmates. After a few more pleasantries, he and Emma were able to retreat backstage, and Killian had to remind himself not to tell his students anything again ever.
“So… who did you date from this faire? And why don’t I know about it, for that matter.”
“It must be the woman from one of the winter faires I do that they’re talking about; not this one,” he shrugged, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible, when, in reality he had been secretly seeing a woman from this faire. Until a tragic ‘accident’ took her life. Right around the time he lost his hand, actually.
But neither Emma nor her parents could know the circumstances behind the loss of his hand. Not with that damn crocodile lingering.
Emma’s superpower told her otherwise, so she pushed. “Are you sure? Because they seemed pretty confident—”
“Will you just shut up about it?”
His voice was louder than it ought to have been. Crew from Peter Pan were cleaning up to ready the stage for Beauty and the Beast tomorrow, where Gold would take center stage pretending to be a monster with a pure heart when he was really a man with a rotten one. Eyes wandered their way, but quickly found their way back to their tasks.
He ground his teeth, willing himself to calm down.
“Does she have something to do with your hand?” Emma asked, softly, as if she could use gentleness to coax it out of him. Her eyes were dark and kind in the dim backstage light, and her hand on his shoulder felt like a brand.
“It’s none of your business, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stick your nose in it.”
“Please, Killian…”
“I’m going to go change. I’ll see you at dinner,” he grit out, turning his back to avoid the weight of her gaze, instead meeting the curious one of Mr. Gold, who was taking down the crocodile with help from his costar, Lacey. Everyone who acted worked backstage on the other plays; it made the faire a real family. But since the affair with Milah started it had made him feel more anxious than comfortable. Even after her death, his stump itched every time his eyes met Gold’s.
Killian felt like it took forever to get to his tent, every caring friend or curious tourist that stopped him feeling like one more impediment to him shedding the costume of Hook and putting on his damn fake hand and at least being able to pretend to have two hands. He had gotten used to it over the school year, and he found that most of his students didn’t care about his hand any more than they cared about learning about literature from someone with a PhD in the subject. But everyone here, everyone who wasn’t used to his disability had a kind word to say or a gaze that lingered on his hook, knowing that last year he had a hand under the brace and now he was a regular amputee.
He rubbed his hand over his face and grabbed his flask, downing it as soon as he got inside the relative safety of his tent. Once he got the leather off, he gave up the ghost and decided to just give up altogether on the idea of going to dinner, rummaging until he found the bottle that he normally used to fill the flask, uncorking it and taking a swig.
Hours later, he fell asleep, dead drunk, still wearing the hook.
“I’m worried about him,” Emma admitted to her father at the buffet they set up for the faire, since he had already heard the gossip about her and Killian’s fight. No one knew what was said, other than him telling her to shut up, but it was assumed to be about Killian’s hand.
David took a bite of lasagna, courtesy of Granny, and chewed thoughtfully before answering. “He wouldn’t tell Mary Margaret or me what happened either. He mentioned it on his registration papers and showed up to rehearsals without saying a word about it. When we asked, he said it was an ‘unfortunate coincidence.’”
Emma snorted, spearing a piece of broccoli angrily, “That sounds just like him. Make jokes when we’re worried sick like he can just take care of himself.”
Her father looked at her with a curious gleam in his eyes, “He can take care of himself,” at Emma’s glare he expanded, “Which is not to say that he should have to deal with it alone, but he is more than capable of dealing with his own emotions.”
“I just wish he wouldn’t push me away.”
He sighed, “Your mother and I said the same thing about you after you came back from…” David trailed off, looking down at his food, “Look, we know it’s hard to get through to the people we care about after a trauma.”
She felt a lump in her throat and swallowed past it, pretending it was just broccoli and nodding at her father, eyes watery.
The various characters of Storybrooke’s Faire began breaking away from dinner, going off to set up fires and busking-style musical performances for the older attendees of the faire. Emma should be joining her group to sing some bawdy tunes with Killian about their characters, but since Killian didn’t show up for dinner, it was unlikely he would come busk with them.
“Maybe you should bring him some food. Peace offering,” David suggested, eyes wide and hopeful.
Emma nodded numbly, and went to beg Granny for Killian’s favorites.
Mary Margaret came up to David with a plate, having arrived late after doing a last meet and greet with the kids before their parents took them away for bed time. “Is she going to talk to him?” She asked past a hungry mouthful of baked ziti.
“How do you already know the gossip?”
“A few little birdies. And by birdies I mean literally everyone coming up to me, worried about our main source of revenue.”
“Our most popular show is safe, I think. It’s just a spat. She’s bringing him food.”
“I know that’s how I make it up to you when you get hangry.” David laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulder.
“Yeah, but we never went through the kind of loss they’ve gone through. It’ll take them awhile to pick up the pieces.”
She smiled sadly, “Is it bad that I’m glad we didn’t?”
“Of course not, but… the way Killian’s been acting since he lost his hand. I’m just worried that she’ll lose him—that we’ll all lose him if we aren’t careful.”
Emma came back, steaming plate of carbohydrates covered by another. She kissed her mother on the cheek. “Good luck,” Mary Margaret whispered kindly. Rolling her eyes, Emma set off towards the tents, knowing Killian’s by sight, since it was the only one with a pirate flag on it. Archie gave her a thumbs-up from the entrance of his own tent as she approached Killian’s.
Can people stop being wrapped up in each other’s business for five seconds, She thought to herself, knowing that they cared and still finding herself slightly angered by their nosiness.
Of course, that’s probably how Killian felt about her poking into his life. But Killian was the closest thing she had to a best friend and she couldn’t just let him push her away. So she took a deep breath and entered the unzipped flap of his tent, only to find him passed out in his boxers with a bottle of rum still clutched in his hand.
She looked down on him, crouched as she was, and understood. Emma had never taken to drink after being left high and dry by Neal, especially since it was a little difficult to reconcile endangering the life of the child inside you when you’re pregnant. But she understood. The want to make it stop, if only for a little while.
Abandoning the food and deciding that she’d bring him hangover breakfast tomorrow, she began tidying up his tent, hanging his costume, corking the alcohol, and pulling his sleeping bag over his prostrate form. She was about to leave, when she snatched the whiskey in a split-second decision for his well-being.
I’ll give it back if he asks for it. But he’ll have to ask me to do that, and to do that he’ll have to talk to me, Emma reasoned with herself, knowing that she was really just taking it away because she was angry that he blew her off to get drunk. And because she didn’t like the idea of him drinking when he could just stop being a stubborn ass and talk to her.
Sighing, she left his tent for her own, about ready to drop from the day’s activity.
This is going to be a long faire season.