A/N: Many thanks to intolerablystruck on tumblr who discussed the 3x12 promo clip with me, Hook's look over his should in particular. She also was my super-beta for this.

"Still can't get you anything?"

The question startles him from the cacophonous jumble that is his thoughts, and he has to blink a few times before he realizes the question is directed at him, a few more until he's able to form a response.

"No."

More curt than he'd intended, but alcohol is the last bloody thing on his mind.

With a shrug, the bartender turns to another patron, and Killian finds himself grateful, for once, to be left alone with nothing to dull the tumult in his head and the painful pounding in his chest. Letting his gaze linger on the bottles lining the shelves in front of him, all he sees are reminders of the times when that would have been his solace; more than that even, the only way he could cope.

Killian exhales, his eyes closing as he remembers following her to this place, watching through the window as she removed her coat and sat down. He's seen many a woman in a ballgown or corset and pants, but Emma in that dress eclipses them all. The black that offsets the color of her hair and transforms her eyes into twin emeralds, how she is both pirate in that leather and princess in the elegant line of her legs and hips. Sporadically throughout the night, the sound of her laughter, low and warm, had drifted across to him from where she's seated in the next room, her proximity burning into his brain like a siren call. She is near, so near. Mere paces away. And though it kills him—hell's teeth, it nearly does him in—it's all he can to do to stay on the barstool and refrain from preemptively disturbing whatever form of courting is obviously occurring between her and him. (He winces briefly when his hand grips the edge of the bar too hard, his ring pinching.)

He knows he shouldn't, but he doesn't care right now—he turns and gives into the yearning to simply see her. They are seated at a small table, their conversation too quiet to hear, but he can discern everything he needs to make him regret what he came here to do. It's in the way the man looks at her with what burns within Killian's own heart, and how she reaches across and touches his hand with a soft smile, the ease of her intimacy.

And gods, is she beautiful.

And happy.

And not with him. Doesn't even remember him.

Wrenching his eyes away, he swallows down this bitter reality. Emma may not remember, but she has made a new life for herself. That is a truth that remains regardless of however she recalls her past. Damn it all, he loves her—so how can he take this away from her, after everything she's been through?

It's at that moment, when he's reconsidering Dave's words about leaving Emma be, that her suitor suddenly passes by and disappears around the corner. This is the opportunity Killian has been hoping to get tonight: the chance to speak with Emma again and in public where she's less likely to feel so threatened. Gritting his teeth to steel himself, he walks towards her and sits down in the recently vacated chair before she has the chance to protest.

But she being Emma, it doesn't take long.

"You!" she hisses, green eyes wide and not at all happy now.

"I can explain."

"You can leave," she retorts, her voice raising and, to his horror, simultaneously picking up her knife.

Hell. "No need to get violent, lo—" The word truncates immediately when he sees her knuckles flex and whiten against the menacing metal. And while he's fairly positive she's not brandished anything closely resembling a sword since Neverland, his neck still prickles where she'd held the knife against him hours after they'd first met, calling his bluff, besting him. He swallows. She's experienced enough.

"You followed me here, didn't you? I knew I should have called the cops."

"Emma," he shoots a glance at the man the next table over who is now watching them with more interest than is comfortable, "put the weapon down. I'm not going to hurt you." When she doesn't show any signs of complying, he adds, "Use that keen insight of yours: am I telling you a lie?"

That seems to catch her by surprise, her mouth falling open with a slight gasp, and her eyes narrow into slits, wary and watchful. Yet, to his relief, the knife clunks back onto the table. He allows himself a small smile that her hand still lies ever ready next to it.

"How did you…?"

"Like I said: an old friend." He pauses. "Just a moment." Their prying neighbor is still watching, and Killian stares him down until the other man turns back to his food. Now satisfied that they can converse privately again, the words tumble from his mouth (he has no idea how long he has with her), "I know this comes as a shock, Emma, but I beg you—your parents are in great danger, and they need your help."

A muscle twitches along her jaw. "Yeah, that's what you told me this morning, and if my memory serves me correctly, I let you know exactly how much I believed you." She glances pointedly down his body.

"Aye," he allows, shifting uncomfortably at the lingering ache, "and while I applaud your defensive maneuvers and their efficacy, lass, surely you must remember—have some inkling of… who you are?" He lets the words trail off as he searches for any sign of recognition, a spark to flare, but there is none.

She scoffs. "Who I am? Not that it's any of your damn business, but I have a perfect recollection of my life." She suddenly stills. "Why do you care?"

He bites down on his lip—of course she would ask the one question he is unable to answer. Taking a deep breath and quickly, before he can second guess himself, reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, he pulls out the piece of parchment and slides it across the table towards her.

She arches an eyebrow. "What is this?"

"An address, from Neal." The sentence comes out low as if in almost not uttering it, he could spare her the pain of hearing that name (he knows the full story now). As expected, the emotion that storms across her features has him wishing he could retract his words; but before he can say anything, the thoughts are connecting in her mind—he can see it—and suddenly she's staring at him, hard.

"You know Neal, and this is his address. Neal's in New York."

"Yes and no," he says slowly, carefully. "That is the location of his a-apartment," the words of this land still get clogged in his mind from time to time, "but Neal is somewhere very far away, somewhere I was, too…before I came here to find you. He knew you would be difficult to persuade in trusting me. However, if you go to this address, he said that you'll find something there, a token of good faith that what I say is true." She's considering his words, probing them to ferret out a snare lurking within them. "Please."

She looks at the paper. "So I take it he's in trouble, and I'm supposed to save him, too? Figures." She huffs, the sound harsh on her beautiful lips. "But you know, what I want to know is this—" she leans forward slightly "—if I'm so important in saving all these people—parents who abandoned me, and Neal, who has a lot of goddamn nerve telling me I need to bail him out and to trust him—where have they all been, huh? Why would I want to rescue anyone who never lifted a finger for me? And why the hell would they send a stranger to convince me otherwise?"

The tempest that had been gathering within her finally breaks upon him, and Killian can feel the footing he's lost. Their eyes lock, and it's everything he can do to keep from reaching for her, her breathing ragged, her cheeks flushed in her fury. He drowns in the depths of her eyes and longs to kiss away the pain she still carries with her, this new life aside.

He leans forward as well. "Swan, I—"

She abruptly jerks back in her seat. "I think you should go. Now." Her voice is cold, clipped.

And at the anger he finds there, etched across the face that has haunted him every night in his dreams and nearly every waking moment, Killian knows.

Tick, tock, his time is up.

—

It's not until he has returned to the room he's renting and slowly lowers himself onto the edge of the bed that he finally lets his head sink into his hand.

He'd seen everything through the window afterwards. That the man had knelt in front of Emma in a way that threw a punch to Killian's gut (despite his unfamiliarity with this world's customs, some things apparently were universal), has the terrifying thought come to mind that after this whole year spent searching and fighting, traversing this frenetic land, evading another curse, he'd found her only to lose her that same day.

That she had withdrawn her hand in blatant refusal of his ring, and that they left shortly thereafter—not together—has him thinking that despite it all, he would allow himself to be battered again and again against the tumultuous crag that is his hope.

His tremulous exhale sounds loud in the small space as he begins to shrug out of his coat. And withdrawing the glass vial, he places it on the table next to his pillow, a reminder that while there's still a tomorrow, there's still time.

Tick, tock.