The last few days had been…Interesting, to say the least.

Mary Margaret’s long lost husband, and Emma’s father, had awoken from the coma he’d been under for, well, the past 28 years. Of course, no one knew the truth behind all of these events.

No one but her.

And the one who put the curse in this town.

And the one who procured it for her in the first place.

God, she should’ve convinced Emma to go back in Boston.

Not that it would actually work, since her best friend was happily—although very slowly—getting settled into her newfound role as a mother. Besides, Emma was also seemingly starting to enjoy life in Storybrooke, Maine.

“So he wants you to become a deputy?” Amy asked, referring to the sheriff.

“Yup.”

“Just like that? No references, no CV needed?”

Emma nodded, taking a sip of her cocoa.

“I don’t know man, sounds weird.”

“Everything in this town is weird,” her friend said.

Oh, you have no idea, Amy thought as she watched Emma obliviously sip her cocoa. Ignorance was truly bliss in their case.

As Amy took a sip of her own coffee, the bell above the door rang, signaling the arrival of a new customer.

“How was your walk with Henry?” Oh, it had to be her, didn’t it? “That’s right I know everything. But relax I don’t mind,” Regina said, taking a seat across from Emma, which put her directly next to Amy.

Great. Just great.

Emma didn’t seem to buy into whatever new plan Regina had come up with to kick her out of town. “You don’t?” she asked, a small smile on her face.

“No. Because you no longer worry me, Ms. Swan. You see, I did a little digging into who you are, and what I found out was quite soothing. It all comes down to the number seven.”

Amy let out a quiet sigh, already knowing what was coming next.

Phoenix.

Albuquerque.

Kansas City.

Emma glanced at her for a moment, before returning her focus on the Mayor. “Seven?” she asked.

Springfield.

Harrisburg.

Boston.

“It’s the number of addresses you’ve had in the past decade,” Regina said, looking quite smug as she did so. “Your longest stint anywhere was two years. Really, what did you enjoy so much about Tallahassee?”

Tallahassee.

Her hand slipped slightly, letting the cup she was holding fall down on the table with a small thump, thankfully not spilling anything. “You know,” Amy started, trying to keep her voice steady and the memories from resurfacing, “if you keep showing up wherever I go, I’m gonna have to call Graham and file some stalking charges.”

Regina didn’t respond, didn’t even look at her, instead she kept her gaze on Emma.

Emma glanced at her once again, probably trying to keep the same memories at bay as Amy was. “If you were wondering, we did find a place here in town.”

“I know. With Ms. Blanchard,” she said, her contempt barely concealed. “How long is your lease? Oh wait. You don’t have one. You see my point? In order for something to grow, Ms. Swan, it needs roots, and you don’t have any. People don’t change; they only fool themselves into believing they can.”

Amy couldn’t help but scoff. Truly, the irony of her words was astonishing. “On that we can agree.”

This time, she could feel Regina’s gaze on her but she refused to stare back.

“You don’t know me,” Emma said, sweet smile hiding the storm underneath.

“No, I think I do,” she replied, voice decisive. “All I ask, is as you carry on your transient life, you think about Henry and what’s best for him. Perhaps consider a clean break. It’s going to happen anyway.”

“Don’t you have other places to be? Sacrifices to make, puppies to kill?” Amy said, trying to hide the fact of how much she wanted to kill the woman she once claimed was her forever.

Regina turned to her once more, eyes hard as stone. “If your friend can’t handle a simple truth, how is she to handle the reality of motherhood?”

Amy laughed then, because, honestly, this situation was completely and utterly ridiculous. “You’re seriously going to give a speech about motherhood?” Regina started to speak, but Amy didn’t let her, because she knew how to wield words just as well as knives. “What the hell do you know about motherhood?” she said, breathing just as hard as her words. “What could she have possibly taught you about raising a child?”

She saw the moment the meaning behind her words dawned on Regina, saw her clenched jaw, saw her tightened fist. She probably looked the same, if not worse. And so she waited for the lightning to crack.

But it never did.

She turned to Emma. “Enjoy your cocoa,” she said.

And then she left.

Amy sat down on the chair again, unaware of when she even got up in the first place, avoiding her friend’s gaze and ignoring the murmurs coming from the other customers and the stuff.

She sighed, closing her eyes and running a hand through her hair.

God, she should’ve tried harder to convince Emma to go back in Boston.

───────────────────────────

Amy needed to find a job. She could not spend the rest of her days cleaning the entire apartment while Mary Margaret was at school and Emma was being a mother to her son. But, for now, she had to unpack her and Emma’s recently arrived stuff from Boston.

Getting out of their previous lease might have been hell, but Amy had learned from the master of loopholes. There was no situation she couldn’t get out of.

“What about waiting tables? I’m sure Ruby would be glad to help,” Mary Margaret said from the kitchen.

“She’s already offered actually,” she replied, setting two boxes on the couch, “but it needs peoples skills, which I am severely lacking.”

“She does,” Emma muttered from her seat on the floor.

Amy scoffed. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Emma rolled her eyes but didn’t reply. “So glad our stuff is here,” she said instead, opening one of their boxes. They both thanked Mary Margaret as she brought out food for them.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” Amy said, carefully dusting her favorite book.

Mary Margaret glanced at her, amusement clear on her face, while Emma, used to her best friend’s love for books, continued unpacking her own stuff.

It was the original Peter Pan story, the first book she ever read in this world.

Although she could not care less about the evil, manipulative asshole the book was named after, she was quite curious to see if the story mentioned her and her brother.

She was surprised to find out that, while a version of Killian and their crew did make an appearance, there was no mention whatsoever of Captain Hook having a younger sister, in any version of the story.

“So, that’s all your stuff?” Mary Margaret’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts, as she looked at the small, assortment of boxes and suitcases the blonde had surrounded herself with, then at the bigger and numerically more boxes Amy had around her. Most of them contained books, anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“Is the rest in storage?”

Emma shook her head. “No, this is all of it. I’m…not sentimental.”

Mary Margaret, always one for silver linings, said, “Well, it must make things easier when you need to move.”

And then the door knocked. “I got it,” Mary Margaret said, as she moved to open it.

“Miss Blanchard.”

“Hell no,” Amy exclaimed loudly at the sound of Rumple’s voice, carefully setting down the book she was dusting and making her way next to Mary Margaret, staring the fucker down.

He didn’t even blink, merely nodding at her, the asshole. “Is Miss Swan here?” he asked.

“No,” Amy responded, and then exhaled—loudly—as she heard Emma’s steps coming closer and felt her warmth as she stood beside her.

A hint of mirth was hidden somewhere in his eyes, as he reintroduced himself to Emma. “I remember,” she said, referring to their first meeting at the inn.

“Good,” he said. He glanced at her briefly, before addressing Emma once more. “I have a proposition for you, Miss Swan.”

It was then that Amy outright laughed in his face, startling the other two women, as she moved to close the door. “Absolutely not. Have an awful day!”

She groaned as Mary Margaret’s hand stopped her from closing it all the way through. “Amy,” she admonished her.

“Don’t ‘Amy’ me, okay? I know him, you don’t.” She turned to Emma, her face making it very clear this was not a joke. Propositions, offers, deals; they were not to be considered lightly with him. She knew that better than anyone.

“Whatever shit he’s about to offer, do not accept,” her voice low, even though they could all hear her.

It’s not worth the price, she wanted to yell.

She didn’t.

“Well, then, perhaps you could help me,” he said to her as she turned to face him again.

She raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn’t respond.

“I’m looking for someone,” he continued.

Amy could’ve sworn her heart stopped.

No.

No, it was too early, the curse wasn’t even broken yet.

He couldn’t possibly be already looking for him.

“Really?” Emma said, getting his attention. “Um…”

“Who?” she asked him, afraid to know the answer.

He glanced pointedly at Mary Margaret, who excused herself. “I have a photo,” he said.

Okay, what the fuck is going on, she thought. There’s no way he could have a photo of Neal, so that—to her great relief—wasn’t who he was looking for.
So who the hell was it?

There was something familiar about the girl in the photo, but since it wasn’t Neal, she really couldn’t be bothered to get mixed up in whatever deal gone wrong Rumple had at the moment. “I’m gonna go ahead and unpack the rest of the staff,” she whispered to Emma, going back to her place on the couch, tuning them out.

She’d gotten through cleaning four more books, when Emma’s voice reached her. “I will help her. We will help her,” she said.

Amy completely ignored her, picking up another book.

“Won’t we, Amy?”

Amy sighed, and was about to respond when the door opened and the little shit came in. “Hey, Emma, Amy, I was thinking we…”

The little shit.

Henry.

Rumple.

Fuck.

“Yes,” Amy said, slightly louder than what was needed, getting up and moving closer to Henry, half-shielding him from his own grandfather. Jesus, what had her life turned into? “Yes, we will help her. Now, go on, go back to your shop,” she told Rumple, seemingly uninterested, but in reality quite eager to get him out of the house and as far away as possible from the mini version of his own son.

“Hey, Henry. How are you?” Oh, for fuck’s sake, him and his pleasantries. Amy just wanted him gone.

At least Henry had the sense to look on edge around him. “Okay.”

“Good. Give my regards to your mother,” Rumple said, heading for the door. But then he stopped, and Amy knew why. His eyes trained on her favorite book she’d left sitting on top of the table. He took a small, shaky, breath as he glanced at her, eyes unreadable. “Good luck,” he said finally, looking at both Emma and her this time, before leaving.

“Do you know who that is?” Henry asked them, as soon as the door had completely shut.

Amy closed her eyes, leaning against it, counting his steps as they faded away.
Oh, she knew damn well who he was.

───────────────────────────

Rumple had, apparently, told Emma that Ashley—also known as Cinderella—spent a lot of her time volunteering at the local church and helping the priest, Father Anderson.

It could be that was where she was hiding out, which was why Amy was going to the church, even though she did not want to go to the church. But seeing as Emma was running down some other leads, with Henry following her around like a lost puppy, they’d decided it was best to divide and conquer so as to not lose time.

Emma would drop Amy off at the church to see if this Father Anderson that Rumple had mentioned had any idea as to where Ashley was, while she and Henry would go to check if Ruby knew anything about this whole thing.

The church was in the outskirts of town, so they had some time before they arrived. “So, this Father Anderson, you know him?” she asked Henry, wanting to learn if she knew him from before.

“Mhmm,” he nodded. “He’s actually really nice. He visits the school sometimes, help us with homework or Miss Blanchard’s projects.”

None of which helped her with figuring out his real identity. Oh, well, she’d just have to wait and see.

───────────────────────────

The moment she entered the church, she felt a chill going up her spine. Whether it was the drafty building, or the atmosphere in general, Amy did not know. She did, however, know she wanted to get this done as soon as possible.

She spotted a man, sitting in the first row of the pews, so she made her way towards him quickly, hoping it was Father Anderson.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to gain his attention but keeping her voice low.

The man turned around, his face barely visible in the dim light that shone inside the church.

Oh.

She stopped, abruptly, no air entering her lungs, heart beating frantically, nails digging into her palms trying to relieve some of the tension inside her.

Oh, but she didn’t need any light to recognize him.

Not when she had watched him grow from a sweet, innocent boy to a resentful, cynical man. Not when she saw his eyes every time she looked in a mirror and then again, at night, right as she closed her own eyes waiting for sleep to claim her. Not when his laugh haunted her dreams. Not when the blood flowing through his veins flowed in hers, too.

For the first time in over a century, Amelia was standing face to face with her older brother.

And he didn’t even recognize her.

She stumbled backwards slightly as if hit, and she gripped the back of a pew so hard, reeling from the onslaught of emotions that threatened to emerge at the sight of him.

He had abandoned her.

But he’d asked her to go with him.

He’d destroyed her one chance at a normal, happy, life.

But he had done so to ensure she would be safe.

She hated him.

But she loved him.

The man in front of her was a stranger.
But he was—

“Killian,” she whispered, voice so low she couldn’t be sure whether she had actually uttered the name.

His name.

Her brother’s name.