A/N: I'm not American and know bugger all about the high school system there - so hopefully this is still understandable! Hehe :)

For the purposes of AU-ing this, some of the character relationships have been changed (ie David isn't Emma's father, etc). All will become clear in time.

When it came down to it, it was all Neal's fault, really.

His return came as a rude shock amidst a fairly typical Monday night for Emma. Her life had been swimming merrily along – school, netball practice, study session at Mary Margaret's house followed by dinner at home and retreating to her room in order to leisurely browse the internet for updates on the world. And then bam! Neal popped up, his presence as shockingly violating as suddenly finding a rancid green chip in an otherwise sublime packet of pringles.

It was a friend of a friend who had shared the photo that appeared on Emma's Facebook timeline, and despite her scrolling speed she instantly recognised him. How could she not have; it was a face she had long dreaded the return of, and as it was, she froze, fingers hovering over her laptop's trackpad, heart suddenly racing.

She literally felt the blood draining from her face. Literally felt it.

'Look who's back in town!' the caption merrily read. It had been taken outside a McDonalds that Emma recognised; it was right down the road from her school.

And there he was. Frikkin' Neal, grinning away as though he hadn't been MIA for the past two years. He had grown a bit of stubble, gained a bit of weight, but otherwise had the exact same smirk that Emma had been trying – and succeeding – to mentally repress.

When the initial shock subsided, she proceeded to frantically stalk Neal's page in order to find out where he was (indeed, back in Storybrooke), what he was doing (going to school but not at Queenhart, rather at the public school on the other side of town), who he was staying with (a mysterious Tamara who featured prominently in his photo album) and which crowd he was running with now (again, Tamara, relationship currently ambiguous).

Well then.

Her heart rate had slowed a little now, replaced by a growing, churning dread in her stomach. She pulled out her phone and debated texting Mary Margaret or maybe Ruby – but decided against it.

She could deal with this.

He wasn't going to their school anymore. If she hadn't seen the Facebook post, she wouldn't have even known he was there.

She'd ignore him. That was the best, most mature course of action. She wouldn't even give him the satisfaction of thinking about him.

Thus decided, she went to bed, proceeded to wake up three times in a cold sweat, and ended up being so rattled that she stayed home the next day.

Emma hadn't skipped school in two years (and how painfully ironic was it that that just so happened to coincide with Neal's absence), and she refused to believe that The Sudden And Horrific Return Of Him was going to start her into bad habits again. No, she was taking a mental health day, for her own wellbeing. It helped that she looked pale and nauseous enough that her parents quite easily bought that she had a stomach bug.

So yes.

It was Neal's fault that she missed school on Tuesday the 13th of May, the day on which their assessment calender dictated that they would be receiving this term's English assignment.

And thus it was Neal's fault that when she returned to school the next day, the rest of the class had already chosen pairs to work in, and the only other person who'd been away that same day was-

"Killian Jones," Miss Belle French announced.

Emma's stomach dropped like a stone. She slowly turned from the teacher's desk to scan the room. It didn't take long to find him, considering he sat in the back left corner of every single class they shared (the optimum position from which to text under the table and not get caught).

"Hm?" He looked up from where he'd been idling scribbling in his folder. "Beg pardon?"

"Come here, please," Belle said patiently. "You need to receive your English assignment."

Oh no, Emma thought. She plastered a tight, impassive smile on her face, though she was dying inside. No, no, please no, my day is going badly enough already...

Killian marched up to the teacher's desk, and she glanced at him, idly noting that his left arm was bound in a sling – probably the reason he'd been absent yesterday.

"Miss French," Emma said calmly, "Is it possible to work individually on this task?" She was impressed by how smoothly it came out.

"Sorry Emma," Belle replied, "But the syllabus says that you need to do a group task. I know you prefer to work on your own."

"What Swan is trying to say," Killian cut in, "is that she doesn't want to work with me." He fixed her with a cunning grin and she glared back at him.

"I didn't say that," she snapped. Belle was giving her a disapproving look. "Like Miss said, I work better on my own."

"Then this shall be an exercise in team work," Belle said firmly, whisking out the assignment sheet. "As you know, we're studying Hamlet. You need to analyse a particular theme in relation to both the characters and storyline and integrate it into a combined visual and written composition, to be presented at the end of the term. Most of the class have picked their themes already, so I'm afraid you're left with 'Choice'."

"Choice," Emma repeated flatly. The irony was slowly killing her.

"Choice!" Belle said happily. "Does that sound alright?"

"Sure," Killian replied with an easy smile. Belle smiled back at him obliviously, and Emma felt a spike of annoyance. Their English teacher liked to think the best of everyone. She did not see the evilness that lurked beneath that outwardly charming, blue-eyed British surface.

"Great! Get started then. You'll have the next few lessons to work on it in class, then you'll have to continue in your own time." She turned away and began shuffling papers on her desk.

Emma felt sick, she quite honestly did. Despite her decision to ignore Neal, his presence nagged at the back of her mind, and she hadn't had the chance to talk to her friends about it yet. And now, now she was paired with one of the few people at her school who she really, genuinely Did Not Like. Life really seemed stacked against her at the moment.

"Let's work at your table, there's more room," Killian said, breaking her out of her reverie. She nodded sharply, and walked over.

Mary Margaret was working with David a little way away, but had been watching the exchange at the teacher's desk. She caught Emma's eye and gave her a small, sympathetic smile. Beside her, David caught sight of Killian. His eyes narrowed and he made a gun with his fingers and mimed shooting the other boy, which brought a smile to Emma's lips for the first time that day.

"Incoming," Killian's voice sounded next to her, before a flood of books and folders slammed onto the desk, making her jump.

"Careful," she snapped.

"Sorry, love, but it's kinda hard carrying stuff all with one hand," he replied, and proceeded to struggle with pulling a chair out for a good twenty seconds while Emma watched on, unamused.

"What happened to your arm, anyway?" she asked grudgingly once he was finally sat down.

"Broke my wrist, thanks for caring."

"I don't, but how?" she added, curiosity getting the better of her.

He glanced at her through his eyelashes as he attempted to hold open his copy of Hamlet and turn the pages with only one hand. Emma stared back at him impassively.

A lesser woman might have been intimidated by the fact that Killian Jones was Handsome with a capital H. With thick black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a penchant for eyeliner that frequently got him sent to the principal's office (Queenhart Grammar had a strict uniform code), he certainly was not lacking in the looks department. The accent was just the icing on the cake.

Emma, however, was anything but shallow, and she had long since been put off by Killian's personality, innuendos and above all the unforgivable fact that he was part of Regina's group.

"Sporting injury," he replied smoothly. "I fell on it while playing football."

Liar, Emma thought. She was good at spotting them. She didn't call him out, however, just shrugged and opened her own book.

"So. Choice," she declared. "Any... opening thoughts?"

He chewed his bottom lip as he flicked through his copy of the play, and Emma watched him speculatively.

She knew a lot about Killian. Or at least, she thought she did. She knew that he had arrived at their school in year 9, was a total smartass, hung out with Regina and co, flirted with anything that breathed but never had a steady girlfriend, was consistently being sent to detention for uniform related offences, and for reasons unknown was mortal enemies with their year coordinator, Mr Gold.

She did not know much about his academic record, but assumed he was a slacker, if only because she'd never seen him put his hand up in class and he'd never attended any of the school awards night ceremonies. She was fully prepared to do all the work herself – would almost have preferred it (she wasn't kidding when she said she worked better on her own).

"I think," he said finally, "That the central choice within the play is obviously whether Hamlet should kill his uncle or not. But the whole final drama of everyone dying at the end isn't only based on that choice, it's a result of all the little choices everyone else made along the way. And those all contributed to Hamlet's decision as well."

"Right... uh, yeah," she said, a little taken aback. She hadn't thought he was paying that much attention to what they studied in class. "How about we start by making a list of every example of choice then? I'll do acts 1 to 3 and you can do 4 and 5."

"Alright."

They got down to business. Emma was pleasantly surprised by the fact that he was working silently, and briefly entertained the notion that maybe they could get this done painlessly.

Then, of course, he had to open his mouth.

"So where were you yesterday? I didn't take you for a bludger."

"I was sick," she said stiffly.

"With what?"

She glared at him, irritated by his nosiness. "Stomach bug, not that it's any of your business."

"You seem fine today," he commented, staring at her intently.

"I am fine today. I wasn't fine yesterday."

"That's a quick stomach bug."

"I didn't realise you were an expert."

He tilted his head, fiddling with the cap of his pen. "And I didn't realise you were a bludger."

"I'm not," she replied coldly.

It hit her, suddenly, that he could be fishing for information to try to get her in trouble. Could be waiting to report any findings to Regina, who would in turn report to Principal Mills, in some convoluted scheme to get her in trouble. It wouldn't be the first time.

After a moment, he shrugged. "Whatever. It works out for me, anyway, I get the delight of your company for the next few weeks."

"Whereas I am stuck with the most repulsive specimen of humanity in the entire school," she retorted drily. "Oh, joy."

He grinned at her. "I guarantee you will fall for me by the time this project is complete."

His tone was joking, but it still made her bristle; maybe it was because that was how she had met Neal, being assigned together to compile a report on Imperialism and the Causes of World War I, maybe it was because that was the sort of teasing comment he used to make.

"In your dreams," she snapped, perhaps a little too harshly, because his eyebrows rose.

"In yours too, darling," he replied, almost automatically.

Before Emma could make another biting remark, someone pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. She turned to see Regina, and instantly stiffened.

"Hello Emma," Regina said, with a poisonous smile.

"Hello Regina," she replied, with a simpering smile in return. "Can I help you?"

"Just came to see how you two were doing," Regina said, unconvincingly. "Killian, can I borrow a highlighter?"

"Sure," he said, gaze darting between them almost curiously.

Emma didn't think about Regina that much, other than the fact that they hated each other. Well, hated-by-association. It was Mary Margaret that the feud was really about. But now that she thought about it, she realised she didn't exactly know where the trouble had all started from. She had asked, a few times, but Mary Margaret didn't really like talking about it, and Emma had enough secrets of her own that she didn't push. She'd seen enough of Regina's actions to know that the girl was bad news. But now she wondered whether Regina's own friends knew exactly what happened, or whether they just played along out of loyalty to her.

"Thank you," Regina said as a blue highlighter was passed to her. She took it, but made no move to leave.

"We're working," Emma said finally, stiffly, turning back to her book.

"Of course," Regina said. "By the way – I heard Neal was back in town."

Emma froze.

She suddenly realised that she hadn't heard his name out loud in – God, it had to have been months. The sound of it send a cold shiver trailing down her spine. She realised that she was gripping her book hard enough to bend the pages.

"Yes," she said, and her voice sounded stiff and stilted even to her own ears. "Yes, he is. I heard."

"Funny he didn't come back to Queenhart," Regina commented, resting her chin on her hands. "I wonder why that is."

"It's hard to start in the middle of the year," Emma replied, inwardly screaming. Why is she talking about this? Why did she bring it up? And then, with horrible realisation, What does she know that I don't?

"You started in the middle of the year, didn't you?" Regina asked, turning to Killian, who looked even more confused by now.

"Aye – but not in the middle of the term. Who are we talking about?"

Emma's gaze was firmly fixed on her book, though she was mostly just reading the same line over and over again; oh horrible, oh horrible, most horrible. When she finally darted a look up, it was to see Killian watching her with an odd, almost calculating expression. He looked away before their eyes could meet.

"Neal," Regina continued with a smirk. "That's right, he left in year 9, didn't he? Before you arrived. He's Mr Gold's son."

That caught Killian's attention; his spine stiffened as though someone had poured icy water down his back. Funnily enough, it reminded Emma of her own reaction to finding out about Neal's return.

"Is he now," Killian said slowly. "Why did he leave?"

"Regina," Emma began, but the the other girl was already speaking.

"No one knows, except that he dumped Emma here harder than a load of bricks before he left." She turned to Emma, eyes glittering. "What did you do to him? Must've been something awful-"

That was it. She couldn't take it any more; there was a deep, heavy ache welling up in her chest like her lungs were filling with fluid and every breath was a strain. Before she knew what she was doing, she had risen, her chair scraping back noisily against the floor as she gathered her books in her arms and ran out of the room-

Just as the bell went for lunch.

She was halfway down the corridor before people began spilling out of classrooms, and somehow it was relieving being surrounded by people and busy, bustling noise, drowning out Regina's voice ringing in her ears.

"Emma! Emma!" Someone was calling her name, shrill and high pitched. She clutched her books tighter against her chest, making for the bathroom, but before she could get there someone grabbed her arm and pulled her against the wall.

"Emma," Mary Margaret said, her eyes huge and welling with concern. David was right behind her, his lips set in a tight line.

"I'm fine," Emma said, her voice almost pleading. "Guys, I'm fine, can I just..." She tried to squirm out of her friend's grasp, wanting to be on her own – she just needed to, just needed to sort her thoughts out-

"Emma," Mary Margaret said. She let go of Emma's arm, instead took her books from her and placed them on the floor before grasping her by the shoulders, her grip firm and comforting. "What happened? What did Regina say?"

"Nothing," Emma replied, stiffly. "I mean, I already knew – Neal's back."

A look of horror crossed her friends' faces. They glanced at each other.

"What?" David asked.

"He's back. He's going to Storybrooke, though – Storybrooke High School. He's not coming back here. But he's back, I don't know why..." she trailed off, taking a moment to just calm down and breathe.

"Oh, Emma," Mary Margaret said. She pulled her close into a hug, and Emma let her, glad for the chance to compose herself. When she pulled away she had shuttered her expression into something closed off and blank. She didn't miss the way Mary Margaret and David exchanged glances, looking almost disappointed.

She felt a bit bad for shutting them out. God knows they'd had their work cut out for them getting her to open up at all in the first place, and they were her most trusted friends, but this – she couldn't cope with getting all touchy-feely, air-your-emotions right now. Not when Neal was in the picture.

"Has he contacted you?" David asked, voice low. He looked alarmingly serious, and Emma was struck by the mental image of him tracking down Neal and sucker-punching him in the face. It was amusing, at least.

"No," she replied. She held her hands stiff by her sides until they stopped shaking, then picked her books up. "I changed my mobile number since he left. I blocked him on Facebook. Unless he comes to me in person, he's not getting to me."

"Are you okay?" Mary Margaret asked then, voice soft with worry.

"I'm fine." She forced a smile. "Really, guys. I found out on Monday. Regina was just being... well, Regina. But I've elected to ignore him. It was two years ago."

She was proud of how solid she made it all sound. Two years ago, dead and packed away. Not bothered at all. Really.

David seemed convinced, smiling and flipping open his planner to check what their next class after lunch was. Mary Margaret smiled back at her, but kept a hand on her shoulder. Emma knew she would hover for a few days, but hopefully by that time she'd have sorted herself out, shoved Neal back to the dark dredges of her mind where he belonged. And with any luck, he'd stay there.

As they made their way down the hall to their lockers, Emma caught sight of Killian. He was standing on the fringes of Regina's group – Sidney, Victor, William Smee, Kathryn et al – but seemed distracted, picking at his cast with his other hand. When he saw her going by, he looked up and fixed her with an intense stare.

She expected a lot of things in that look – scorn. Contempt. Blatant, impassive curiosity.

She did not expect concern.

Before she could even begin to react, David caught sight of Killian staring, and stepped between them with his special David Nolan Glare, guaranteed to ward off any unwanted attention, and Mary Margaret swept Emma off down the corridor.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed :)

Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.