Chapter Text
Killian woke up naturally. That was the first sign that something was wrong.
He shot up in bed before he had fully processed the problem.
The light coming in through the porthole window was that of mid-morning, not pre-dawn. And there was no crying coming through the baby monitor. That was it. Hope always woke up first, and she always made quite certain you knew it. He turned to Emma in a panic.
Emma wasn’t there. His heart almost slowed—perhaps Emma had woken first and taken care of—
He stared at the other side of the bed, willing himself to figure out what wasn’t fitting.
Coming to full alertness immediately after waking was an important skill for a pirate captain. It was something he’d always prided himself on. Waking to a knife at your throat (an experience less uncommon in his life than presumably in most others) did not allow time for disorientation. But these last three months… while they had been some of the happiest of his long life, he had not gotten a night of uninterrupted sleep. A night? He’d counted himself lucky if he had four consecutive hours.
Emma had unavoidably done rather more than her fair share of late-night wake-ups for the first month, before Hope had consented to take a bottle. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t woken then too, to bring Hope to Emma while she was on bed rest. But now they’d gotten over the no-bottles phase (although his little one would still refuse to allow anyone but her father to feed her that way, which secretly made him feel quite special), he had been trying to make up for her lost sleep. But he couldn’t remember waking even once since he’d laid down the night before.
He jumped out of bed, ready to run to his baby, to be sure she was alright. And stopped at the door. How did one get to Hope’s room from his quarters? How could he have forgotten the layout of his own… his own… ship?
Finally, he woke up enough to realize what was wrong. He seemed to be aboard the Jolly. Hope’s nursery was located in their house.
Killian blinked the sleep from his eyes. He could clearly remember going to sleep at home the previous night, couldn’t he? Yes, surely—he’d sung Hope to sleep, found Emma already passed out in their bed, pulled her into his arms—he distinctly remembered the sweetness of her soft sigh as she curled up against him without waking—and that was the last thing he remembered until just now, waking up somewhere entirely different.
He stood for a moment longer, trying to parse the situation.
Unable to make heads or tails of what had happened, he began to take steps. First: Check if Hope and Emma were also aboard, somehow. He gave his ship a thorough search, even (heart pounding) the surrounding waters. At least he was docked, in Storybrooke’s harbor. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if he’d found himself in some far off port, or even the open sea. From the position of the sun (he could not find the wristwatch Emma had gotten him for their first anniversary, nor his phone), he’d slept for nearly nine hours from when he’d managed to get to sleep. The morning was rapidly advancing, and he still had not found his family.
Next steps: Get dressed and get home. Surely they were safe at home. They had to be safe. Any moment of considering an alternative threatened to break him.
Getting dressed proved more of a challenge than expected. He’d really thought he’d stored at least one Storybrooke-appropriate outfit in his quarters, but all he could find were his old leathers. Come to think of it, he could have sworn he’d been rocking Hope last night in one of those implausibly soft matching pajamas Emma had gotten for him, not these trousers he was currently wearing, sans shirt.
No help for it, he’d have to wear what Henry had taken to calling his “pirate costume.” Any jokes made about his manner of dress were by far the least of his concerns.
Killian had to admit he’d gotten somewhat used to faster ways of travel than walking these last few years. Between the cars everyone seemed to have (which he’d made sure to get the hang of driving before Hope’s arrival) and the even faster mode of travel Emma had gotten the knack of around the same time, he was beginning to realize he’d become a bit spoiled. What he wouldn’t give to be home to his family instantly, in a puff of smoke, rather than worrying himself sick on what he would not formerly have considered a particularly long walk.
Automatically, he glanced at every face he passed, in case one of them might be Emma. When it was an acquaintance (more often than not, as Storybrooke was too small to have many strangers), the cursory smile that was all he could manage was likely more of a grimace. He didn’t have the time or energy to notice if they smiled back, nor if they looked askance at his apparel.
When finally he arrived at home, he reached reflexively into his pocket for this key. It wasn’t there. Not only the key, but the pocket wasn’t there. Of course, he wasn’t wearing his jeans. With a sinking feeling, he searched every pocket of his coat. He hadn’t seen his keys in his quarters, nor his wallet.
Feeling the fool, he rang the doorbell. No answer. He pounded on the door. “Emma!” he called, trying not to sound as panicked as he felt. “Henry?” Not a sound from inside. “Hope!” he shouted, as if she were going to climb out of her crib, take some very early first steps and open the door for him. He held his ear to the door, listening for the sound of crying. Complete silence. Which made sense—whatever was happening, Emma would not have left their baby alone.
He searched for the spare key they left under the fourth decorative rock on the path from the fence to the door. Not there. He checked the third and fifth rock. And the first, second, and sixth. No key. He considered other uses of a rock for entry to a house, but couldn’t bring himself to smash his own window. Anyway, that would set off the alarm, and if Hope was in there—
But of course Hope wasn’t in there. No one was home. They would have let him in. He was wasting time.
The most likely situation was that Emma had woken up and found him gone. She had likely called his phone, which he did not have, and then of course—of course—she would have come searching for him. She would have put Hope in her stroller—Henry had been at Regina’s last night, making use of his other bedroom for a peaceful night’s sleep—and they would be searching for him. She would find him. She would always find him. But he should help.
Perhaps he should stay here. Surely she’d return to check for him at some point. He sat down on the front step, and managed to stay still for nearly twenty seconds before he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t sit still while he was this worried. He’d just have to search for her while she searched for him, and hope they didn’t miss each other.
He headed for the center of town, scanning every crowd, searching for a glimpse of golden hair. This time, he didn’t even attempt to smile at people he knew. His heart had been pounding non-stop since he’d woken up, at least an hour ago now.
He was looking so hard for that one face in particular, that he almost didn’t notice when one of those brief flashes of eye contact was with an almost as familiar face. He’d walked right past before the recognition made it to his conscious mind, at which point he stopped dead, turned, and near sprinted toward his friend.
“Dave!”
David stopped walking and turned to the source of his name. His eyes almost passed right over Killian, before he seemed to figure out who must have called his name. He squinted at Killian, brows furrowed. Ahh, of course. His outfit. He’d explain that momentarily, once he’d settled the more important questions.
He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. No reason to alarm another father when everything was almost certainly fine. Everything had to be fine. “Dave,” he repeated, trying to sound calmer. “Have you seen Emma?”
“Emma?” Dave said, continuing to squint at him. At least he didn’t sound alarmed. He sounded… Killian couldn’t quite place how he sounded. “Why are you looking for Emma?”
Killian felt even more off-kilter than he had previously. Of course, it must seem strange that he was asking after the whereabouts of his own wife, with whom he lived. But the man’s tone seemed to indicate a different kind of surprise. Almost… suspicion.
The unabated worry he had felt since he’d woken up was taking a distinct toll on him. He tried to keep his voice calm, but he wasn’t sure how well he was succeeding. “I woke up this morning aboard my ship.”
David didn’t speak, but his face could not have more clearly conveyed the word “So?”
“Alone,” Killian finished, although he hadn’t thought he’d have to.
The look of distaste on David’s face made Killian wonder if he’d said something indelicate. He knew the man was aware that he shared a bed with his own wife. It wasn’t as if he’d referred to any activities other than sleeping. Anyway, with Emma’s unexpectedly difficult pregnancy and childbirth, it wasn’t as if their bed had hosted those specific activities in some time. Far too long for Killian’s taste, or Emma’s—although he would never complain about the length of her recovery, his lovely wife had no such compunctions. And her insistence that she was “going insane” without his—he needed to abandon this train of thinking right now or some of his thoughts were going to show on his face, and that was the very last thing he needed.
He wasn’t sure if Emma had confided in her mother about this part of their lives—or the current lack thereof—but if she had, knowing Snow, it was more than likely the information had made it at least one person farther. He grimaced at the thought.
“I really don’t need to hear about who you do or do not wake up with,” David said. He looked at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have bigger problems to deal with.” And he actually started to walk away.
“Wait!” Killian called, chasing after and grabbing David’s arm to keep him from leaving. He couldn’t understand what was wrong with his father-in-law, but his heart rate had returned to full speed. “You don’t understand.” Surely he didn’t. Or he wouldn’t be brushing Killian off like this. He could no longer pretend he wasn’t panicking. “I can’t find her anywhere. No Emma—no Hope—“
David scoffed. “Of course you have no hope with Emma! Did you really think otherwise?”
No Hope. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. An idea so horrible it made his legs threaten to give out from under him. Emma’s absence. David’s hostility. His own mysterious relocation. It all made sense, if last night hadn’t been last night. If he’d lost time.
And if, in the time that passed between the last night he remembered (Hope smiling at him as he spoke to her—really smiling, which she had only just learned to do. Emma’s joy the first time she’d done it, their shared pride) and waking up this morning, alone… Well, would it be any surprise if he’d drunk enough last night to forget? Enough, perhaps, to expect he’d never wake up? If, in that time he could not remember, he’d lost them… Lost them both. Possibilities flooded his mind, each worse than the last. He must have done something terrible. Emma leaving him, taking their baby with her. Or if, gods forbid, Emma had left him because something had—something had happened to—and it had been his fault—of course it had been his fault. No Hope. No Hope.
Killian became aware of a hand waving in front of his eyes. He jolted back to the world around him. He rubbed his hand over his burning eyes. If it was true, what he’d surmised, he needed to go further than simply forgetting. But evidently, he had not yet walked into the sea, and surely there was a reason. Nothing was certain yet. He had to find out. He finally looked up at David, to find the man squinting at him.
“What was that?” David asked. Whatever face Killian was making was likely a blank stare, at best. “You froze up for a minute.” He eyed him suspiciously. “Magic?”
Killian ignored this. Most pressing question first. Maybe he was wrong. He prayed he was wrong. “David, what—” his voice came out with a hitch in it, so he tried again. “What is today’s date?”
“The… date?” He still looked wary, but he shrugged. “February 20.”
Confusion overtook Killian. Hope’s birthday was firmly imprinted on his mind. January 16th, 2017. One of the most important days of his life. It was now nearly May. Or rather, it had been nearly May, the last he recalled. How could it now be only February?
The explanation hit him like a punch to the stomach.
“What year?” he whispered. Could it be 2018 already? Could he have lost ten entire months?
There was a pause. “This realm’s calendar? I’m afraid I’ve lost track of the year in our—”
“This realm,” Killian said gruffly.
David shrugged. “Well, if it means anything to you, it’s February 20th, 2012.”
Killian blinked. In his frazzled mind, numbers and calculations flew by, but they eventually boiled down to just one inequality. The numbers 2012 and 2017, with a “less than” pointing in entirely the wrong direction.
Once he’d gotten there, the rest clicked into place. The way David was speaking to him was different than he was used to, yes. But was it different than he’d used to be used to? Back when he’d first come to town? What if he wasn’t living some horrible version of life post-Emma, but a life… pre-Emma? And Hope… tiny Hope, so newly arrived… at this time, she had not been even a gleam in his eye.
He looked back at David, who was squinting at him again. He arranged his face into some semblance of order, closing his mouth and un-widening his eyes. He even attempted a smile at David, to show he was alright, but it just made the other man’s eyes narrow further.
“Well…” David said. “If you’re not having some kind of medical event, I do have some actual crises to get to, so…”
Killian looked at him sharply. “Crises?”
David gave him a sarcastic smile. “The internet’s down. Not that that’ll mean any—”
“At the station?” Killian asked.
“The whole town,” David said. Killian must have made some sort of expression of surprise, because David started eyeing him with, if possible, even more suspicion than before.
It was at this moment that Killian fully realized the implications of his situation. He was in the past. Any changes he made here could change the future. The relief he had just begun to feel that he had not lost his family began to turn into cold wisps of fear. He could not change the future. He could not change a bloody thing. He loved his life in the future too much to lose anything about it. And it was all at risk. Hope’s very life was at risk. It was absolutely imperative that he not make any changes.
He formed a new plan in his mind. Figure out what he had been doing at the time he seemed to have been transported to. If there was another version of himself running around, he needed to stay out of sight. And there must be, mustn’t there? Or, if this was some strange new form of time travel (he had, after all, woken up on his ship, not stepped through a portal), he needed to… what, reenact everything he’d done? Gods, he hoped he remembered well enough. He didn’t remember the internet going out, but it wasn’t precisely the sort of thing he’d have noticed at the time. Which meant… that he needed to be ignorant.
David’s hand moved to the vicinity of his waist, where (he’d once confided to Killian), he still sometimes expected to find a sword instead of a gun. He set his jaw, turning to full interrogation mode. “How do you know what the internet is?”
Luckily, David wasn’t the only one who could step into a persona. Killian put on his cockiest grin, trying to recall how it had felt to be nothing but Captain Hook. “Please, what fool doesn’t know what the Inner Net is?” he said, emphasizing entirely the wrong syllables. He endeavored to convey that he was bluffing without seeming to intend to convey that he was bluffing (and while in fact, he actually was not bluffing at all). His years of winning at Liar’s Dice had never been so handy.
Luckily, David was a straightforward man. It was not in his nature to look for double bluffs. He rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he said, smirking. Too clever for me, this one, Killian thought, hiding a real smile under his false one.
“Well,” David said, shaking his head. “I think you’re off the hook for this one.”
It was such a ridiculous joke—of the type David had mostly stopped making now that he thought of his friend as Killian, his son-in-law, rather than Hook, the one-handed pirate with a drinking problem—that Killian almost laughed out loud. But he controlled himself. This was not a joke he was intended to be in on. So he played his part and scowled until David had turned away, chuckling to himself, before allowing his scowl to melt into a fond grin.
Killian wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. He needed to get back to his own time, rather desperately, but he could not change a thing about the past. Which potentially meant doing whatever he’d done then, hard-hearted as it may be. But if he had to be cruel, he ought whenever possible to avoid Emma. He simply wasn’t sure if he could look at her without love shining out of his eyes. Well, first thing was first. In the panic of this morning, he had missed breakfast. He started heading toward Granny’s, resolving that if he spotted Emma, he would simply turn around.
But he had not even gotten to the center of town when all at once, there she was. Walking with Henry. Killian backed into the shadow of an alley, where he could watch them without being seen. It made his heart ache, to see them both so near. In his own time, he would simply join them, knowing he would be greeted warmly, with Henry’s smile so much like his mother’s. But today, he could only drink in the sight of them from afar. The two members of his family who currently existed.
They looked so much like usual, but there were subtle differences. Instead of the easy camaraderie the two of them usually shared, Emma kept stealing glances at Henry, as if she wasn’t sure he was real—that he was hers to keep. And Henry’s face, unaccustomedly earnest, kept looking at Emma as if for approval. Killian wanted nothing more than to assure both of them that what the future held was all that they wanted and more. But if he spoke to them at all, it might change everything—especially if he revealed what he knew.
Emma laughed at something Henry said, and although they were too far away to make out more than the high pitch of his voice, Killian could feel a smile forming on his own face. She reached up to ruffle the lad’s hair, and Killian’s stomach dropped.
His heart was suddenly pounding in his ears, and he didn’t know why. The gesture, so familiar, had somehow caused a sense of cold dread to engulf his heart. But why?
Emma reached up to ruffle Henry’s hair.
Emma reached—
Henry looked so much like usual.
Emma reached up.
In the year 2012, Henry had not quite been at shoulder level with Emma. She should have had to reach down.
The lad Killian was looking at, walking alongside Emma, was not eleven years old. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He was at an eye level with his mother. He was, in short, exactly as tall as he’d been yesterday.
But what did it mean? Could it be that Kilian hadn’t time traveled at all? David had been… wrong? Then he couldn’t change the past! Why, then, had his gut reaction not been relief? It wasn’t possible for anything he did to prevent the birth of—
His heart stopped.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was next to Emma.
Her eyes widened, and she stepped between him and Henry. He barely felt the hurt of her distrust through his mounting fear.
“Hope,” he said desperately.
She frowned at him. “What are you—”
He was panicking. He realized it, but couldn’t organize his thoughts. His baby’s name screamed like an alarum in his head. “Please, Swan… do you have Hope?”
“Hope? Have you been talking to Mary Margaret or som—”
“Do you know where she is?” He knew he was interrupting her, knew he should stop and let her speak.
Emma was motioning Henry back, away from him. She stood her ground between the two of them, looking for all the world ready to defend them both. From Killian. Gods, but he must’ve seemed unhinged.
Emma spoke slowly, as if to a wild animal. Something with claws. And perhaps rabies. “Do I know where Mary Margaret is?”
“What?” Killian closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself toward calm—at least outwardly. “Sorry, love. I’m—” But he didn’t know what to say he was, so he trailed off. How had Mary Margaret gotten into this? No matter. No time.
Hope had been born. Hope had been born and it seemed that no one remembered the fact except him. She could be anywhere. She could be alone.
He looked at Emma, trying to figure out how to ask for her help. More than anything, he wanted her on his side. But she was still staring at him like he’d taken leave of his senses. Like he might be dangerous. The wariness in her eyes was not tempered with an ounce of concern, much less affection. It had been hours since he’d woken up, and who knew how long since he’d gone to sleep. What if their Hope was lying somewhere, hungry, maybe cold, in a soiled diaper… There was no time to waste.
“I have to go,” he told Emma.
“Feel free?” Emma said, still looking at him like he was a mess she ought to be very careful not to step in.
Some part of him still wanted to stop and explain, but he quashed the impulse, along with the reflex to kiss her goodbye. He walked hurriedly away, speeding up as he left her sight, until he was running, not caring how it might look to anyone else. All he could see was an image of his baby, alone in her crib, all cried out, not understanding why no one came.
When he reached his home, he remembered the problem of the key. This time, he wasn’t going to let that stop him.
He had not completely lost his reason, so it occurred to him that breaking a window in full view of the street might get him arrested by an unsympathetic sheriff or two. Surely if it came to that, they would check for a baby if he asked. But there were easier ways.
The exterior door to the laundry room was behind the house, invisible except from the backyard. It, too, required a key he did not have, but the wall to the backyard was climbable, and there was a small window whose glass he absently hoped would be less of a hassle to replace. At least the weather was warm. So warm, in fact, that he wondered how on earth he’d believed it was February. How had David?
One of the decorative rocks that was supposed to hold the key went through the laundry room window, and so did Killian’s arm (covered properly by his coat to avoid the glass shards). A beeping began to sound from their alarm system. He unlocked the door with haste, ran through it and to the security device at the front door, hoping his code would still disarm it. A quick 0-8-1-5 caused the beeping to stop. Well, that ruled out time travel once and for all. As, he supposed, glancing around, did the presence of all of their furniture.
Killian took one tenth of a second to breathe a sigh of relief and sprinted upstairs. “Hope!” he shouted. “Papa’s here, love!” No answering cry met his words. Complete silence reigned. The nursery door was closed. Visions of what he might see when he entered the room made him almost hesitate to open it. But he could not stop. And damn it all, if he was—if he was too late—he would simply have to time travel for real. He would not accept—
He opened the door.
Hope’s nursery was intact. The rocking chair they fed Hope in, cushioned in a soft purple. The painted castle on the wall that was the nearest thing to what his little princess had been born for, situated next to a sea where a ship was sailing into port—just a bit too far away to see the color of the sails (a compromise with her grandparents, who thought pirate imagery could wait until their baby could at least say the word “pirate”). Please, let her make it to her first words. He dragged his eyes across the silent room, to the mobile intended for Emma. And under that mobile, Hope’s crib…
Empty.