So anyways here is my contribution to CS AU week. Originally, I intended this as a 3B rewrite and it sort of got out of hand… Hopefully I'll write more!

One

The strangest thing about knowing she was cursed, was the part of her brain that was screaming and crying while Emma Swan stared down the Maine road, leading up to a lonely highway.

Like when the endless questions that penetrated her mind, from her real self, asking why the hell she was setting up shop in New York of all places, why Henry was talking about a vacation they took three years ago, why she was home.

If she ever found another way back to the Enchanted Forest she was going to shoot Regina.

The life you always wanted her ass.

The hardest thing about remembering wasn't that she had to forget the memories that tried to manifest in her head, another identity, another life. Where she had always had her son, had worked herself to the bone to keep him.

The hardest thing was forgetting why she randomly got off the subway on the way to work a month after moving to New York and sobbed her heart out in that concrete prison of a station.

It was forgetting why her breath catches at the bookstore down the street where a petite girl with a pixie cut works and flirts with a blonde man when he comes in from work every single day at 3:13.

It was forgetting why she stopped drinking hot chocolate, as the waitress that served it at the diner on 14th forgets the cinnamon, despite her impressive cleavage, Emma doesn't forgives her, because she isn't Ruby no matter how hard she tries.

It was forgetting she wasn't a Lost Girl. An orphan. Alone.

So she moves on, embarrassingly filling in the blanks of the life she's supposed to be leading but can never truly fit into. This Emma Swan just wasn't her. This Emma Swan went to yoga three days a week, almost exclusively wore plaid, and for some weird reason thinks it completely logical to run around New York in stilettos.

But the curse, however hard it tried to change her personality, it was almost impossible to alter those gaps in her memory. It filled in holes, though creating reasons why she remembered brilliant blue eyes and soft black hair, swaddled in leather to hide a lean, alluring physique.

She thinks about him most of the time sometimes. The most unfinished of the many 'what-ifs' in Emma Swan's hell tale. They had something… that had only been accentuated by their night together, drunken and confused as they both might have been, she had never felt anything more honest that his brilliant sapphires piercing hers, shrouded in the darkness of night.

So what if she cried? After Henry decided one movie night two months to watch Peter Pan, she excused herself to the bathroom, the memories coming all too quickly down on her, like a tiny shard of glass on her back. Neverland had been hell, Pan, a "bloody" demon as Hook… no Killian, he was nothing like the man still prancing around on the screen outside the door, but the people…

How was this world so wrong?

Henry steadily went through all the Disney movies, as Emma only seemed to fall deeper down the Rabbit Hole (fuck you Jefferson, she sort of missed the asshole), her ivory skin waxing to a pallid alabaster and her stomach almost permanently rejecting meals.

And then came the worst pain of having her memories.

The reminder.

Liam David Swan, was born one blustery fall morning at exactly 8:15 with a shock of black hair and eyes that matched the color of the Atlantic on a good day. An early birthday present she had laughed through the pain of labor, while it would be the first actual present anyone would get her.

When she started sobbing, uncontrollably, when the nurse put him in her arms, they had frowned at each other, then attempted to pry the child out of her arms, to which she responded with only clinging on tighter, like a life raft.

And eventually the doctor came in, who had carefully avoiding the question of the father for six months and let her choke out the words, "he looks just like his father."

Upon further explanation, she carefully constructed a whole tale, that the man had died in Afghanistan seven months ago. How she wished to give him his last name, but couldn't.

It hurt to look at him, but it was almost impossible to look away. A few days after he came home from the hospital, her birthday no less, after Henry had attempted to "wake her up" with breakfast, neglecting to remember how his mother barely slept now, she took him out of his crib and sobbed into the pale blue onesie.

And all Liam had done was grin a toothless grin at her that she was positive that once it was full of pearly whites it would be her father's charming smile. What she almost hated about him was his combination of everyone.

Her mother's chin, regal. Killian's eyes, the color of sea glass. Dad's smile, as charming as ever. Killian's aquiline nose.

The man who lived downstairs hit on her again that night despite the baby in her arms, reminding her of the absolute dick who she had caught two years. And then she did the exact same thing that she did that same night. Went home and brought a cupcake out of the fridge and lit a star shaped candle.

The honey yellow light cast a half shadow on Emma's sad expression while the other part was illuminating her child's sleeping face, making him look like an angel. But when she wished on the candle snuffing it out in a quiet blow then turning to the door, it remained silent.

No one was looking for a lost little girl anymore.

Crying was something she couldn't blame on hormones anymore, even as she stood making breakfast, a year after she said good bye to "home."

It was an ordinary morning, with Henry still experimenting with nature and Liam babbling at the banging of pots and pans as she made eggs.

The table was set, though Emma Swan didn't actually eat at meal times, instead tying the odd sort of wrap around her that also held her child so that he could nurse while she bustled about the kitchen.

"Mom, you forgot something." Henry said as Emma set a blue mug pull of hot cocoa in front of him. Her heart skipped a beat, had he remembered. And then she noticed the lack of spice in the chocolate liquid.

"Right, cinnamon." Her heart deflates, sliding the jar across the dark oak table and giving it to Henry who adds it and then holds up his mug for a toast. With an awkward smile, she balances nursing baby and mug clinking it against Henry's before she turns towards a sink of dirty dishes.

The first hint Emma Swan got to this day being anything more than depressingly normal was the complete and utter pause that Liam gave before a resounding knocking came from the door. The infant was always hungry and positively a mess when eating, all gurgles and other endearing baby sounds. But for him to be absolutely silent stirred some sort of protective motherly instinct in her, one that she hadn't quite felt since Neverland.

"Someone coming over?" Her elder, oblivious son asked, between bites of scrambled eggs. She was already in the hallway before she thought to shake her head no, as the knocking turned into incessant pounding.

"Henry, wait here." She calls, silently praying it was not the damn man who lived below them, Walsh, asking to take her out for coffee again. Which she couldn't even drink in the first place, as she was breast feeding a child. Slamming her hand on the radio, she opened the door.

Liam turned around in his wrap, holding his little head up to examine the new person as his mother struggled to breathe, gasping little breaths that came closer to sobs escaping her mouth as she started at the beaming man on the other side of the door.

Remembering was hard at this point, particularly in the area of breathing as the dark haired man pressed closer into her personal space, a dazzling smile casting a bright light on his face.

"Swan." He breathes, and she falls into him, his warmth the first real thing she had felt in over a year, not made up of lies or regret or pain. His hand ghosts along her back, his breath stopping completely as she grabbed at the soft leather that smelled like it had travelled a thousand lands.

She managed to breathe even though he stopped, the air coming out of her throat in short little sobs, with salty tears melting into the sea drenched leather.

"You… You remember?" He chokes out, almost assaulting her with his arms, wrapping them around her torso, lacing his hand through the rebellious blonde curls that had haunted his nights, feeling the unfamiliar but homey angles and curves of her body (though he seemed to remember far more angles before…)

"Who is it?" Another voice, young though on the brink of manhood yelled from down the hallway, the clunk of glass against metal echoing through the spacious loft.

The warmth of her body and the lumpiness of the bundle (wait what in seven hells was…) was ripped away from his as she turned around, her hair hitting him in the face.

"Just a client, Henry!" She blurted out, miraculously hiding her still silent tears running down her face and sobs. "Go brush your teeth."

Emerald pierced his soul as she looked back at him tracing the contours of his face.

"Come back in 10. Ok?" and then she was pushing him out the door, wiping the ghosts of tears off her face, and giving him the first good look at her in a while.

She looked down at the white cloth wrapped bundle bound to her breast and gave it a serene smile.

"Bye bye Daddy." She almost sang as the child turned around to give his father an inquisitive stare with wide azure eyes.

The door shut, and Killian listened to the bustle of a city he didn't know while reality refused to sink in.

The walk to Henry's public school here was much less safe as the walk they had done in Storybrooke, though he never remembered it, as, according to his memories, they had always lived in a large city. So she merely, panickedly dresses herself as her son languishes about before she yells at him from the nursery that he's going to be late.

Giving her and his little brother a quick kiss, he disappeared through the door. Half a minute later a knock more frantic than the first time this morning echoes through the apartment, as she exchanged the wrap for a sturdier baby bjorn.

Awkwardly, Emma fixed her hair as Killian stared at her, looking for all purposes of the word—like a drowned man.

"Hey." She whispers, cocking her head to the side and opening the door as he strides in almost stumbling around. "Are you hungry?"

The pirate stares at her untouched plate of eggs and toast before taking a hesitant bite.

"How did you remember?" He asked her quietly, his eyes downcast to avoid looking at her or the gurgling child tugging on one of her blonde curls.

"I never exactly forgot." It was a fact, as she slid a mug of coffee towards him and set her own cup of hot chocolate in front of her. "Apparently…" She reached into the compact holder bound to her chest and lifted the baby out. "He didn't want Mommy to not know where he came from." Her words were mostly to the baby with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. It was a different look on her, the kindness, Killian mused, parts of his minds still in shot.

"So is he?" The pirate didn't finish the sentence. Emma gives him a look, like he's an idiot.

"Yes." She answered, getting up and walking over to him, the child in her arms before depositing him in his arms. "Come on look at him. Certainly isn't Neal's."

Her laugh was brittle, hiding more than just pain over a lost lover. It hadn't even occurred to Killian, in his own misery that a world away, Emma was feeling the same, with a living reminder of what she had lost.

"I was grateful when he was born." She whispers, running her right hand over the boy's abundance of straight dark hair. "Not a bit of me in him, but a little something from everyone else."

"He has your chin." Killian stared at the baby recognizing his own hair (though it could be Snow's), the nose, and the child's most striking feature—his eyes.

"My mother's chin." Emma corrected, before her eyes brimmed with tears. "Is that why you came? What happened? Are they?" Fear struck her like a train.

"Cursed. Not dead." Killian answered, his body stiff as the child rolled into his coat and started fussing with the ornate buttons and fasteners on it.

"So…" Emma started to look around the room for her purse. "Storybrooke's back?"

"Not exactly sure about that love…" Killian said, moving the baby to the arm with his fake hand attached to rummage around in his pockets, pulling out a bottle full of a virulent cobalt blue liquid and a note.

It was scribbled in a hurry, but there wasn't any doubt about it. It was Neal's handwriting. The gist of the message was simple. They didn't know where this curse was taking the residents of the Enchanted Forest. Storybrooke or there was some other small town created for the residents of the magical world.

"What's Love Potion number 9 over there?" Emma gestured to the bottle.

"Memory potion." He thrust the baby out to her as he started to whimper. "That you don't need."

Her pacing was odd, bouncing the baby with every step, and shuffling her feet like an strange waltz.

"Henry does though…" She muttered, snatching the vial and examining it. The hum of magic ghosted past her fingertips, an itch that had been only an inkling since the baby had been born become a tingling through her whole body.

"Read the bloody note, Swan." Hook muttered, sliding the note back towards her. The cramped scrawl, written in a poisonous green ink, was unsteady, unsure.

Find Emma. And have her find us. I doubt we are headed somewhere familiar.

"What realm are they now?" She sighed. "Because there's no way in hell I'm crossing a portal with a three month old!"

"So it was that night…." Killian murmured, the memory tugging at her brain with fondness and the ever present sting of loss.

The last night before they were separated, her drowning in the unspoken pressure of parents and fucking Neal, and him finally giving into whatever desperation for her, to be loved. The ship was lit up, in the golden light of pixie dust that was reminiscent of the animated version of Peter Pan, with the glorious eighteenth century esque deck, cannons, sails, and windows.

The second kiss that she ever gave him wasn't as fierce at the first, yet it was just as desperate as before. And he had met her in the middle, clutching desperately at the side of her face, pulling her into him, in a seeming futile hope if he kept her close enough to him, they wouldn't be torn apart.

Her fingers were quiet, already tugging at the laces on his black leather pants, as an internal clock ticked in both of their heads. He responded in kind, moving his only hand down to slip underneath her blouse and cradle her breast, his hook looping around her waist and moving the shirt up, with cool metal causing goose bumps to appear on the pale, snow white skin.

They hadn't rid each other of their clothes quickly out of mindlessness, rather out of the time that was running out, both wanting to do feel each other just once, before she would forget it forever and he could never forget it.

The first time she even said his name, his real name, was in the fading light as he snuffed out the candle which was only just illuminating her naked form, and his to her.

Emma hadn't ever had love made to her. Once upon a time, she would have though that's what Neal had given her, yet, the movement of Killian, exactly in tandem with her own, giving her what she needed and more, taking only what she would give him.

He wouldn't have cared if she gave him the bare minimum.

Yet, she didn't.

So unpracticed, Emma wasn't sure if she was really doing it, though she was sure she was making love to him too.

They had basked in the pure and utter realization of they did it rather than doing it again, something that she had thought about during the long, hormonal second trimester.

"Killian…" She whispered, reaching out and putting her hand on his arm. "You're the only person I've done… anything with, in the past 4 years." His smile always had two modes; the wolfish, almost devilish smirk that was really just empty and peacocking and the other one. The one he wore right now that was shy and unused so much so that he probably looked like the goody-two shoes Lieutenant he had told David he was… once.

They would have kissed, both of them already leaning in, the child trying to catch both Mother's hair and Father's shirt simultaneously, when a resounding knock came from the door.

"Except that." She snarled, moving Liam onto her hip and stomping to the door.

211 was cute, if she hadn't met him with a brain full of memories of could haves and what ifs and a baby on the way. And he had pushed, despite the prominent baby bump, in a way that made her extremely uncomfortable.

"Hey Emma!" Walsh chirped, way too happy for 9:30 in the morning. "Are you busy right now?"

She was already constructing her excuse, that Liam had an appointment, that she needed to head down to work, there were a thousand of them that she could fill before Killian stepped behind her, his face only exposed through the crack in the door.

And what a murderous look that face wore.

"May. I. Help. You?" He hissed, staring down the man, who he towered over by a good couple inches (shit he was tall, not that Emma had noticed, everyone was taller than her as she inherited that particular gene from her mother).

"Who in the hell are you?" 211 said. "Another charity case from Emma's job? Or a off-Broadway pirate?"

As if he couldn't get any more offended, Killian turned murderous, his expression changed to the one he had reserved for only two people, Rumplestilskin and Peter Pan.

"My husband." Are the first words that fly from Emma's mouth. And then doesn't dare look at Killian, instead watching her neighbor's overly bushy eyebrows disappear into his floppy brown hair.

"I didn't know you were married." And then he studies Killian, taking in the earring, wind torn face, and scar marring his left cheek.

"As of one year ago, I was the wife to a missing Air Force Captain in Afghanistan." Emma replied, cocking her head to one side and staring him down. "Who didn't feel like explaining why she didn't want to have coffee."

Killian was the one to slam the door in the man's face, a shit eating grin crossing his. But Emma was already pissed.

"Alright, let's start on finding my family." She muttered, starting to look around the apartment for a map.

She ran background searches, using all the programs she technically wasn't supposed to be on, work authorized and all, while Killian stared at the map, all too fascinated by the "sheer mass of roadways" and "utter lack of trading routes."

He didn't mention her lie.

She did however mention his attire, after a quick phone call to Henry's friend Avery's mom secured a two night sleep over for "work stuff." Cynthia didn't ask anything else.

Thankfully.

Social security was a bitch to hack into. However, as much as Hook suggested magic, for the past year Emma Swan had believed in nothing more than the magic of the internet and had gotten along just fine. They've been working since Walsh had left, the clock striking six as she permanently put her son to bed.

"We need Chinese." She states, tossing him the baby monitor and standing up, snatching her purse. "And you need clothes. You watch Liam."

Emma pretended not to hear him swearing, "What the fuck is Chinese?"

In the department store, she just guessed his sizes. Flannel shirts, a leather jacket, a real black wool coat. Dark jeans and sturdy boots, she basically just bought for her father.

Granted there was a bit more blue in the wardrobe that she chose for Killian, than if it was for David.

And then of course there was the big giant gamble of what the hell does a three hundred year old pirate like to eat.

Stumbling through the door, the apartment was strangely quiet. Killian was nowhere in sight, his presence replaced by the solitary white monitor on the wood kitchen table.

Panic rising, she hurried through the loft stopping to find the man fast asleep in the rocking chair in her son's room. He had pulled it across the floor, leaving scratches no doubt, but he had threaded his hand between the bars, letting the baby cling onto his pointer finger.

Emma had found that sometimes, it was the only way to get Liam to sleep. To hold him, to let him know you were there. Though sometimes she wondered if she did it because she wanted not to feel alone either.

And Killian probably had figured it out too.

She let him sleep for a few minutes more, examining his face. He looked so old in his sleep, the endless worries of his life beating him down.

Though some of that weight had come off, making him look younger than the last time had watched him sleep, a soft smile marking his lips.

"Killian." She whispered, shaking him gently. "Killian. Killian!" She hissed and he jolted awake, ripping his finger out of the poor baby's grip, his eyes wide and confused as he whirled around, as if searching for his next foe.

Liam let out a helpless wail at the surprise and as Killian gained his surroundings, Emma picked the baby up, his cries quieting to an occasional whimper as he hid his face in her breast.

The pirate looked at her almost in awe as she unbuttoned her shirt, quite deliberately kicking him out of the rocking chair as she held the baby's mouth to her breast. His gaze lingered on that particular area, as if he had never seen a woman's breasts before.

"Are you going to keep staring or are you going to get dressed?" She asked in her business-like tone, shaking one of the many shopping bags in her hand at him, and he heeded it almost immediately, not before casting a look at her every couple of seconds between undressing across the hall.

He hadn't changed much, still with the lean muscular physique that she had always found so attractive.

Still he had issues with the clothes, frowning at the buttons and zippers with a furrowed brow. Emma laughed, putting Liam on her shoulder and beginning to pat his back as she walked over and helped him finish the task, zipping and buttoning up the jeans.

Her giggle was more of an accident than anything else as the baby burped and sighed into her neck.

He raised his eyebrow, like he always did right before he said something… inappropriate.

"Isn't very comfortable, are they?" She questioned, raising an eyebrow of her own. He shakes his head and her laugh turns into a real one, a rare one.

"Not for sleeping, no." He protested, running his hands down the denim.

"Let's eat."

Killian was entertaining with the jeans, but she nearly shit out all of her lo mein as the man tried to figure out chopsticks. She didn't worry, for once just taking in the "normal" experience of her child and the man who she secretly loved.

It wasn't easy to forced him into the shower, but she did anyways as her laptop made that saving pinging sound, causing her rush to see the result.

It was a long list, but….

And so she found one David Nolan, with a New York driver's license identical to her father's. And a New York City address.

"As if New York couldn't get any fucking weirder." She swore, slamming down the pages just as Killian walked out of the bathroom running a towel through his hair, clad in only grey sweat pants.