A/N: Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon a Time or its characters, and I make no profit from the telling of this tale. Chapter title fromArcade Fire.

This story demanded to be written. I really wanted to read a good captain swan werewolf tale, and when I couldn't find one, I decided to write it. While this initially was supposed to be a one-shot, it took on a life of its own.

A couple notes: this story exists in the Enchanted Forest (in King George's kingdom, to be precise), the curse never took place, and Killian never went to Neverland. All other worldbuilding details will come up in the story.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: my body is a cage (that keeps me from the one I love)

She wakes up to the sound of bells somewhere far, far above her.

"Prince James ought to 'ave heard that…."

The man's words fade into nothing. Emma blinks against the darkness, trying to get it to take shape. Something is blurring the edges of her vision, making her dizzy, turning the man's words into indistinguishable warbles.

The echo of the bells grow louder, resonating in the ache that pounds against her temple. It feels awful, it feels like hell, and Emma wants nothing more than to give into the inviting black of unconsciousness. But the pain in her head gives her clarity, clears away the spots in her vision. She can feel a sharp pain in her wrists—that helps too. For just a few moments, she can make out the shape of her legs splayed ahead of her in the grass, crossed at the ankles and tied.

Suddenly, she can feel her heartbeat in her ears. She's tied up—in the woods—how did she get here—?

"King George will be very pleased."

—and everything comes rushing back to her. The memories are like wounds and she blinks back tears—now isn't the time. She needs to be fully conscious, in control. She needs to get away. Making a snap decision, she decides to twist her wrists against whatever binds them.

She suspected that they'd laced the cuffs that hold her wrists with some kind of poison—and she is right. Stabbing pains shoot up her arms, and Emma screws up her eyes and grits her teeth against the force of it, struggling not to make any noise. The pain clears the fog in her head. She's shaking, but the voices of the men keeping her captive seem to be somewhere behind her, which is good. She doesn't want them alerted to her conscious state just yet.

"Aren't you worried about her pack?" one of the men says. He sounds young, and scared. "What if they come for her, before the prince does? It's just us two."

"Don't be foolish," the other man snaps—a much older man, by the sound of his voice, and probably the one who tied her up. "Just us two? She's drugged, in human form. And it's a week past wolftime. And we have the aconite."

If the younger man is cowed, it is not for long. "But what about her pack?"

Emma hears a shuffle of leaves and snaps her eyes shut. She can hear and then feel the man coming closer, and she forces her heartbeat to slow and her expression into neutrality.

"Nah," the man says, and the exhale of his voice is much closer than Emma anticipates. "This one's an omega. If she had a pack, they would have come for her."

"She's alone," the younger sighs, as though he is relieved to know it. To Emma, it feels like the world is ending.

Alone? Again?

"No, she isn't."

There is a sudden scuffle as the men scramble to adjust to the newcomer—undoubtedly a woman, from her voice. Her heightened senses pick up on the whisper of metal against leather, and Emma can imagine them unsheathing their swords.

"Who are you?" the older man sneers.

"It doesn't matter," the woman says. Her voice is soft and calm. "What matters is who you are."

"That's right! We're members of the Royal—"

"Yes, King George's Royal Hunters, I'm aware." The words drip with complete disdain. It takes all of Emma's willpower to ward off her curiosity, and keep her eyes closed. "You're trained to kill werewolves. How noble of you."

There's a long, pregnant pause. Then: "Just who the hell do you think you are?"

Emma can't sit idly anymore. With a significant amount of effort, she pushes herself onto her elbows and turns her head. The two men stand with their backs to her, swords raised, but between them she can glimpse the woman who's facing them down. She can see the pale, round face, the outline of a bow strapped to her back. With one hand, the woman pulls a pale hood away from her head. With the other, she pulls a long thin something from the folds of her cloak.

"I'm Snow White," she says, and in a sudden flurry of motion the men fall like two sacks of potatoes at her feet.

Emma blinks. The woman—Snow White—is lowering a thin wooden tube from her mouth. Emma cranes her neck and spots the feathered tip of a dart protruding from the man's cheek.

"That should have been quicker," Snow White grumbles to herself as she tiptoes over the men, and Emma wants to scoff. She thinks she can hold her own pretty well in a fight (in human form), but this woman just completely dismantled two men in a matter of seconds—in human form. Snow White was so confident in her abilities that she strode up to them, not bothering with camouflage or subtlety, carrying a conversation until she decided it was time for them to go down.

Or maybe that wasn't confidence, Emma decided, catching the glares Snow White cast each of the men's unconscious forms. Maybe it was something more like anger.

She approaches Emma, and Emma unconsciously crawls backwards, away from her. The movement sends lances of pain up her arms and through her head, causing Emma to grimace.

"Don't move so much." Snow White is suddenly kneeling beside her, one hand guiding her head to rest on her shoulder. "Let me reach over and untie these…."

A minute later, Emma's legs are freed, and she stretches them out cautiously. The muscles burn.

"I don't know what they gave you, but you're clearly drugged." Snow White's fingers are on her chin, turning her face towards her. Emma jerks herself out of her grip, pain be damned. Snow White is undeterred, leaning in and peering into Emma's eyes as though looking for something.

"No, not poisoned," she decides. "Thank the gods. But…"

Her voice drifts off as she tilts her head, and then Emma hears her suck in a sharp breath. "Gods, they coated these cuffs with something…"

"Aconite," Emma supplies. Her wrists must look as bad as they feel.

Snow White winces. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Something about that—the sincerity in her tone or the worry in her eyes—forces Emma to pull back, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Why do you care?"

Surprisingly, Snow looks hurt. "I'm—I'm a wolf, too."

Emma sucks in a breath. "That… sucks."

Snow laughs. Emma tries to, but it comes out shaky. Snow's disdain for the hunters now makes sense—but the fact that she is a wolf doesn't quite justify her presence, why she would even attempt to help Emma.

"Didn't really answer the question, though. Why are you helping me?"

Snow's brow furrows, as though the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. "I told you. I'm a wolf, you're a wolf."

Emma barely keeps from rolling her eyes. "By that rationale, all humans should go around saving each other too. But that doesn't happen."

"Wolves are different," Snow says, undeterred. "We thrive on community. We're stronger together—in a pack. Literally, physically stronger."

"Humans would be stronger together, too," Emma mumbles. She stares at the patch of grass at her feet, afraid of what Snow would see in her eyes if she holds her gaze.

It's a moment before Snow speaks. "Well, wolves are… hunted. We're a minority. We need to stick together."

Emma sighs. No. She does not need this. She does not need the burden of someone else who carries this curse. She doesn't want the reminder.

"Look, I'm grateful for your help. But I do better on my own." The words, so well-rehearsed, taste like ash in her mouth.

Snow's mouth twists, as though fighting to keep from saying certain words. She loses the battle. "I don't buy that for a second."

Emma's mouth opens, then closes. "Excuse me?"

Snow's eyes soften. "You've clearly been through a lot. I'm not going to convince you to join my pack tonight, or anything like that—

The hunter's words come back to her: if she had a pack, they would have come for her. "Your pack?"

Snow nods, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. "Wolves aren't meant to be alone."

Emma presses her fingers to her temples—this is getting to be too much. "Okay, no, I have no idea who you are, I just can't—"

"You don't have to make any decisions right now," Snow is quick to say, lifting her hands as though in surrender. "But we have treatments for your hands, medicine for your head. Food."

Emma considers it—just for a second. "I'll be alright."

Snow's expression falls. Emma is startled at the genuine disappointment in her face. "Alright. Let me just undo the cuffs."

Emma sits still as Snow draws something else from the folds of her cloak, something that she fiddles with at Emma's back until the cuffs snap and fall away from her inflamed skin. A moment later, Snow is standing in front of her, one hand extended. Emma takes it, lets her help her up.

"Thank you," Emma says. She isn't just thanking her for the hand, but she doesn't quite know how to voice that, and she hopes Snow can tell.

Snow's bright smile tells her she can.

"I just have one question," Snow says, and Emma should have known she wouldn't let it go. "Do you have a place to sleep tonight?"

Emma tries to keep her expression neutral, tries to act like that question doesn't tear her apart. No. Not anymore. "Yeah, I've got somewhere in mind."

"Please tell me you aren't thinking of sleeping in a doorway or a stable or something like that."

Emma raises her eyebrows at that. Snow doesn't look like royalty exactly, but she ticks off the places to sleep as if she has personal experience with them. Emma wasn't expecting that.

Snow seems to sense the direction of her thoughts, and her lips quirk up slightly in the corners. "We've all been there. Life as a werewolf can be hard."

"No kidding," Emma mumbles beneath her breath.

"But it doesn't have to be as hard," continues Snow. Emma wonders if she ever loses that slightly hopeful lilt to her voice. "So let me rephrase my question. Do you have somewhere safe and warm to sleep tonight?"

Emma thinks of the bed she'd had just a fortnight ago, of the man she shared it with. Both are out of her reach. She blinks, shocked at how the thought stings her.

"No, I don't."

Snow takes a step closer, and—after a moment of hesitation, as though gauging whether or not Emma was going to attack her for what she was about to do—put a hand on Emma's shoulder. "You do now."

At the concealed side-doorway of the low, long building Snow led her to, a short man is standing guard. He jumps at the sight of them—"Snow!"—then throws himself into Snow's arms.

Snow lets out a short laugh, her arms wrapping around him. "Leroy, what is it? I was just out on patrol!"

"All night!" Leroy pulls away, and Emma can see the way his scowl twists his entire face. He looks as though he can't decide whether to yell at Snow or hug her again. "And you went much further into the woods than you were supposed to. Charming just about convinced Killian to send out a search party."

"He didn't, did he?"

"Not yet. But you better get inside and show them you're alright."

"I'll do that."

Leroy's gaze lands on Emma, beady eyes narrowing in suspicion. Snow seems to remember Emma's presence. "Oh! Leroy, this is Emma."

After watching Emma for what seems like a full minute—Emma draws herself up to her full height—Leroy rolls his eyes. "Oh—now I understand. Snow, did you turn your patrol into a rescue mission?"

"Leroy."

"Let me guess," Leroy says, directing his attention to Emma. "You're an omega, got caught by hunters, Snow saved you."

"Leroy. Don't be rude!"

"That's alright," Emma says, tone icy. "I've dealt with rudeness—and hunters—my whole life."

Snow bites her lip. "Well, I have to deal with Charming… I was going to ask Leroy to take you to the infirmary—"

"Can't. I'm on guard duty."

Snow glares at him. "Then I guess I'll have to… oh! Belle!"

A brunette girl has just passed through the end of the dimly lit corridor. At Snow's shout, she approaches. "Snow, you're okay!" Her smile is as bright as her blue eyes. "And who's this?"

"Emma," Snow answers. "Listen, I need you to take her to the Infirmary."

Belle's smile immediately falls, her worried gaze moving over Emma. "Sure."

"And don't let anyone else in there. Just Jefferson, okay?"

"Yes, I understand." Belle waves Emma inside. Snow gives Belle's shoulder a short, grateful squeeze as she passes through the doorway. A moment later, she's turned at the end of the corridor and disappeared.

"Let's get you to the infirmary, shall we?"

Emma nods. She's sore and exhausted—her legs are burning and there seems to be a bell clanging around in her head. She doesn't even want to think about the pain in her wrists.

Instead of following the path Snow took, Belle leads her through the first doorway on the right side of the corridor. It leads down a set of stairs. At the base of the stairs is a large window, and as Emma is led through this new corridor she can see that it is lined with several more. Emma recalls Snow telling her as they approached that the building was mostly underground—but how could there be windows underground?

Belle must have caught the surprise or confusion in Emma's eyes, because she lifts a hand and explains brightly, "We have a witch living with us."

Emma doesn't have time to react; they reached the infirmary. Beyond the open door is a large room littered with cots and an assortment of comfortable chairs. The walls feature more of these "magical" windows, through which Emma can barely discern the stars. At the back of the room is a long wooden table covered with an odd assortment of vials, plants, fabric, and books. A man with an odd velvet hat is hunched over one of the large, leather-bound volumes.

Belle clears her throat. "Jefferson."

The man lifts his head, eyes alight and mouth open as though to greet Belle—but his mouth snaps shut as his eyes zero in on Emma. He's by her side in a flash, one hand on her arm leading her to one of the cots.

"Do you know what happened?" he asks Belle, though he doesn't shift his gaze from Emma.

"I'm right here," Emma pipes up, irritated. "You can ask me."

Jefferson raises a brow at her, as though amused at her impatience, then returns his gaze to Belle, expectant. "No," she answers. "Snow brought her and told me to bring her down here. Those marks on her hands look like—"

"Aconite," Jefferson completes, then looks up at Emma, as though for confirmation. She nods. "Thank you, Belle, you can leave us."

Belle does just that, with a warm "feel better" to Emma.

In the next few minutes, Emma comes to the conclusion that Jefferson must be one of the most focused people on the planet. He falls completely silent, fixated on his task. Jefferson examines her wrists carefully, bringing them so close to his face his nose is barely a hair's breadth from her skin. He leaves her for a few moments, moving to the table and piling supplies into his arms, which he brings to Emma's side. His large hands are surprisingly gentle and precise as he treats her.

When he is finished, Emma stares at the bindings at her wrists, fascinated. They are made of some sort of sea-green, surprisingly cool and strangely elastic fabric. Emma's never seen anything like it before.

"Are they hurting you?"

"No. Thanks, um… Jefferson."

"The pain will subside in a few hours," Jefferson tells her. "By tomorrow morning, it will have lessened considerably. In a week you should feel no pain at all, but you do need to keep the bandages on for longer than that, so that the skin can heal…. two weeks, I'd say. I'll need to change the bandages tomorrow morning, then again every three days. I did all I could, but I'm afraid it will scar… aconite is one of the deadliest poisons known to man and wolf. There isn't a known antidote, if it's ingested… at least not one that I know. But as a surface wound, it can be treated."

Emma blinks. "Wow. Um…"

Jefferson laughs, and it transforms his face. "I'm sorry. I get kind of… intense, when I work."

"No kidding."

"My apologies. I didn't even ask your name."

"Emma."

"Emma. Now, it isn't—"

"Don't go in there yet, Killian, or I swear to the Gods I will skin you in your sleep!"

Emma looks at the door, startled. That's undoubtedly Snow, and she sounds angry. She casts Jefferson an alarmed look, but he only looks amused.

"Worry not, lass. I'll be… how would you put it? Charming."

Emma hears the distinct sound of male laughter from a third party, but Snow does not sound amused. "Killian. She's still with Jefferson!"

"Considering I'm the alpha of this pack, and that it's already abhorrent that you've not only disobeyed me, Snow, but you've brought a stranger into my compound and then into my infirmary—"

"She was hurt!"

"The merits of your actions are not my concern. It's more the rampant disregard for my authority."

"I'm not saying—"

Snow never gets the chance to say what she was not saying, because the infirmary door bangs open, bringing with it a small crowd. The man in the forefront—tall in a black leather coat—barges in. Snow and two other men stand by the door, looking slightly uncertain.

"Well," the man in the leather coat—Killian?—drawls. "You don't look fatally injured, love."

His eyes are an intense blue, and they move over her in a way that makes her uncomfortable. As with Leroy, Emma draws herself up to her full height. "That's because I'm not. And don't call me that."

"That? I wouldn't call you 'that'. Horribly impersonal. And confusing. I don't think anyone would know who I was talking about."

He's grinning at her, eyebrow raised. Emma scoffs. "Do you think you're funny?"

"Terribly." He gives her a final once-over before redirecting his attention. "Jefferson, mate. Is she fatally injured?"

"No."

"Can she walk?"

"It's her wrists. She'll be fine."

Killian nods. "I'm not one to throw someone to the wolves—pun intended. You can spend the night. Then best be on your way, love."

Emma is about to agree—she had no intention of staying—but the crowd by the door all seem to have very strong opinions about this.

"Don't make her leave!"

"We should talk about this, mate."

"Killian, ask her what she wants, at least."

He holds up a hand, casting an annoyed look at the group standing by the door.

"I don't intend to stay," Emma announces. Everyone (except Snow, but especially Killian) looks surprised at this announcement. Emma straightens her shoulders and hops off the cot, ignoring the pounding in her head and the ache in her muscles, both of which intensify at the movement. "Thank you, Snow, for everything. And Jefferson. But I should be going."

She's a step past Killian when he reaches out an arm to stop her. "I meant it when I said you could stay the night."

Slowly—so as not to give into the urge to punch him in the face—Emma pries his hand off her arm. "And I meant it when I said no."

"I don't think you quite know who I am, lass." Killian tilts his head to one side, his tongue running over his teeth in a way that decidedly irks Emma. "I'm the alpha of this pack. Do you know what that means?"

Emma observes his entitled, authoritative manner, and takes a leap of faith. "Let me guess. You're the captain?"

A slow smile spreads on Killian's face. "Yes, I quite like how that sounds. I'm Captain Killian Jones, which means that around here, what I say goes. Present company excluded, apparently," he says, casting a withering glance at Snow and her companions.

"Well I am not a part of your pack," Emma says. "So if you will excuse me—"

"Don't think you've learned enough wolf lingo yet, darling. I'm the alpha, yes. You're an omega. Do you know what that means?"

She's alone. "No." It's not exactly a lie, but Emma doesn't have the heart to say anything else.

"It means you're packless," Killian elaborates. "Lone wolf. No one to protect you."

"I can protect myself."

"Clearly," Killian says dryly, casting a significant glance at her bound wrists. Emma bristles.

"You don't know me."

"No, I don't. But am I right in suspecting you haven't passed many moons as a wolf?"

Emma's silence is enough confirmation. She feels herself bristle with annoyance—how transparent is she to these people?

"Thought so," Killian says. "If you leave, you might not pass many more."

"I can—"

"You're young," Killian cuts her off. "Inexperienced. You're still getting accustomed to the wolf. And you're hurt."

"Stay the night," Snow interjects, her high tone suggesting she's been bursting to speak for a while. "You'll feel better in the morning, and you can decide what to do then."

"The hunters have been particularly active lately," adds the man on Snow's left, a man with a full beard the color of chestnuts.

"Listen to my insubordinate betas, darling," Killian says, voice tinged with faux-sweetness. "They know best."

"Oh shut it, Killian. You know this is the most fun you've had in weeks."

"I will have a serious talk with you later, Graham," promises Killian. Graham, the man with the chestnut beard, seems unthreatened by this. Killian redirects his attention to Emma. "Still leaving, love?"

She doesn't want to. If she leaves, she has no idea where she'll sleep, and she knows sleeping is the first thing she has to do. She feels positively drained, and she suspects the effect of the drug haven't worn off completely yet. Her senses feel slightly dulled, as if she were Emma before the bite. It would take a lot of time and work to find somewhere she felt safe enough to let her defenses down enough to sleep. And she has no idea what she'll do after that.

The whole thing feels… unappealing.

"Where will I sleep?" Emma asks, because it's the last excuse she has.

"We have a ton of room," Snow pipes up. "You can stay with me."

"It's more comfortable than the infirmary." Jefferson gestures to a threadbare cot.

Emma squares her shoulders. In the last twenty four hours, she's been chased, drugged, rescued, tied up with poisoned handcuffs, brought to a strange place filled with stranger people, and betrayed by the man she loved. A comfortable bed for the night sounds lovely.

"Alright."

Snow leaps forward and takes her hand, smiling widely. Killian, too, wears a grin as he throws an arm over her shoulders.

"Welcome aboard, lass."