Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]
A/N: Here we are at the end of my @cssns story for 2023!! Hope you like how I've wrapped it up! Thank you all for following along this adventure! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl !)
rated M | 1.3k words | AO3 |
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
Several weeks later
Storybrooke’s harbor was just a few bobbing lights on the horizon, almost disappearing into the glare from the setting sun behind it. It was a clear, cool evening—perfect for a sail.
Killian had navigated them to a spot just far enough away for privacy, but close enough to get back to town quickly if needed—not that they were concerned with anything happening, but mostly out of habit. That, and he didn’t want to get too far into open water until he was more comfortable with his new prosthesis.
It had taken him a week or so to recover from what happened with Dorian—more mentally than physically, though the stab wound had left a scar over his heart—but once he got through the thick of it and started getting back into a normal routine, he realized he needed something better than the old wooden hand. Surely in a realm with the technological advancements of this one, there had to be better options?
There were—probably too many, if he was being honest. They’d had to go outside of Storybrooke to meet with a specialist (as well as come up with a cover story for his original loss of limb and the subsequent primitive surgery on his wrist), but he was quickly on his way to having a more modern prosthesis.
(A more expensive one, as well; Emma’s eyes had gone wide when she heard the estimated cost, but Gold had been surprisingly generous and offered to pay for it. Killian had first assumed it was Belle’s prompting, but was shocked to find she had done no such thing. It wasn’t quite turning over a leaf, but perhaps it was the final nail in the coffin of their rivalry.)
The following weeks of physical therapy were rough. When learning his magic, he’d compared it to flexing a muscle in a new way; this was similar, but far more literal—and rather more painful, as those in his left forearm had seen little action in the last centuries. Now, though, he was finally getting used to using them, as well as his new hook.
He had debated getting something a bit more hand-like, but after two hundred years, a hook was what he was used to. This one was far less intimidating, though, and far more dexterous; it actually opened and closed! He was still perfecting his modified grip, but the fact that he had one was thrilling.
(And he particularly liked practicing by using it to remove Emma’s bra straps. He was still working on unclasping, though.)
It was smaller than his old one, but still fit against the spokes of the Jolly Roger’s wheel perfectly. Weighing anchor was still a minor challenge, though, so he had Emma help him with that, and then waited for her at the railing.
“You’re sure about this?” she asked for the umpteenth time as she joined him.
“Aye; it’s time.”
From the deep pockets of her winter coat, she produced the dagger. It was still as sharp and wicked-looking as it had been all those weeks ago, and knowing their blood sat in the enameled design was off-putting—even worse that it was forged from the steel that had so long been his companion. So it was high time to say goodbye to it, and all it represented.
The portrait had already been taken care of—buried in a small plot in the cemetery, with an unassuming stone bearing Dorian’s name. (Belle had protested simply entombing such an iconic artifact from literature, but no one felt right about trying to display it anywhere, especially with it being both damaged and cursed.)
He actually had come to terms with the loss of his brother more quickly than he anticipated. Despite all the drama, they had still come from the same womb, but he realized—after some more late nights fueled by slightly more beer than necessary on the back porch with David—it was more the what-ifs he was lamenting. Again, no one understood that better than his father-in-law. (And, in the process, he realized perhaps what he’d thought he was missing was already right there: regardless of what their relationship might be on paper, David had long since filled the brotherly role Liam left empty, and he admitted that Killian held a similar position in his own life. They could only partly blame the subsequent tears on the booze.)
And now they would put to rest the last bit of Dorian, and part of Killian’s past.
Emma handed the dagger over to him, and he took it gingerly. Despite the emotional weight it carried, it just felt like any old dagger—no hum of magic, no din of dark whispers.
He glanced down at the railing, where the burn mark from Dorian’s cigarette was still a blight on the wood. It was a scar it would always carry, just like the one on his chest from the blade’s edge, and so many others from his past.
But it was just a mark—a memory, one from which he had learned and was moving on.
A line from Dorian’s namesake novel stood out to him: “What fire does not destroy, it hardens.” In a way, it applied to both of them. Dorian had spent so many years burning in the embers of his own ego, entitlement, and anger that it had hardened his heart even against what love it had let in. Killian, though—he’d walked a similar path, but the fires of the Underworld had only hardened his resolve to fight for the things he loved, no matter what.
He didn’t need a piece of metal to remind him of that; the woman at his side was more than enough.
“Fare thee well,” he said, and without further hesitation, dropped the dagger into the ocean.
As long as they could, they watched it fall through the water, the setting sun glinting off its edges, until it slipped into the depths and out of sight. And with it, a weight that Killian hadn’t realized he’d been carrying also fell away.
He took in a long breath of the sharp sea breeze and slowly let it out, then pulled Emma close to his side. “How do you feel?” she asked.
For a moment, he mused on it; how did he feel? It was a complicated set of emotions to sort through, and he’d probably spend some extra time discussing it in his biweekly session with Archie, but one thought swam to the forefront: “Free.”
His dark history would always be there, but he was no longer going to let it hold him back. It took him coming face-to-face with an even darker turn his life could have taken to realize that it was, but now—he was ready to face the future unburdened, and eager for it to start.
“Good,” Emma said, smiling as she rested her head on his shoulder. “So what do you want to do now?”
“Hmm,” he hummed, then took her hand in his and led her away from the rail. “There was one thing I wanted to do with my magic, but never got a chance to.”
“Which was?”
“Remember that delicious red dress you wore to your father’s engagement ball?”
She rolled her eyes, but nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
“Think you could conjure that up?”
She smirked. “I’ll do you one better.”
The soft, warm breeze of her magic surrounded them, leaving them both dressed as they were that night, the hem of his long tan jacket swishing against her voluminous scarlet skirts. “Perfect,” he murmured, and pulled her close.
And as the sun finally set, revealing a sky full of stars overhead, they danced under the lights—and into whatever lay ahead.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic
Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]
A/N: Here it is—the last big chapter of this @cssns adventure! I'm so excited to finally share it with you. Hope you enjoy it! (Epilogue to come next week.) (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl !)
rated M | 6.5k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11
Killian was dragged from a deep, post-coital sleep by a shrill, unseasonable tune.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…”
It drew simultaneous curses from him and Emma. “Bloody hell.” “What the fuck?”
He blindly reached towards the bedside table for his phone, wanting to silence the infernal device. But once he found it—and recognized the image on the screen, fuzzy as it was with his sleep-blurred vision—he realized: Belle was calling.
(She’d set that ringtone against his wishes. “Get it? Jingle Belles?” she’d told him while giggling—and more than a little tipsy on Granny’s rum-spiked eggnog.)
“Belle? Is everything okay?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep, once he managed to answer the call.
“No, it’s not; Dorian took Rumple.”
“What?” That woke him up immediately. “What happened?”
“He took him—right out of our room. He froze me so I wasn’t fully aware of what was happening, but, Killian—he had a dagger.”
An uncomfortable weight settled in his stomach. “I’m assuming a very specific kind of dagger?”
“From what I could see.” Bollocks; that likely meant whatever Dorian had planned towards taking on the Darkness, he was about to execute it—and with it, them, unless Killian could intervene. Next to him, Emma was answering a text on her own phone.
“Do you know where he was going?” he asked Belle and threw off the covers; he knew he wasn’t going to get back to sleep tonight.
“I wish I knew; he didn’t say anything—just poofed them both away. He’s not there, is he?”
It was a logical assumption, but Emma had long since put up wards around the yard that would let them know of any intruders.
Emma tapped on his bare shoulder. “That was Leroy; sounds like there's something odd going on outside the library.”
“Does that man ever sleep?” Killian quipped back, but that told them enough of where they were headed. “He’s been spotted; center of town,” he told Belle. “Don’t worry—we’ll handle this; you stay there with Gideon.”
“Well, I’m definitely going to worry—about all of you,” she replied. “But I trust you. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” he said, something telling him they’d need it.
They made quick work of getting dressed, although Killian did linger a moment over his old pirate coat. It had long been his companion when going into battle, and this was sure to be one of some sort.
But the bulk of those fights were on the wrong side of things. He wasn’t that man anymore—he knew for certain now. So he grabbed his newer, shorter coat, slipped it on, and then grabbed his prosthetic hand off the dresser where he’d left it.
Emma came up to his side as he snapped it into his brace, looking equally prepared for combat in her red leather jacket. “You ready?”
“As much as I can be at…2:30 am,” he answered, glancing at Emma’s alarm clock. Why couldn’t these things ever happen at reasonable hours?
“We can get coffee after,” Emma assured him, then placed a kiss on his cheek. “Let’s do this.”
He nodded, and the familiar swirl of her magic wrapped around them. When it cleared, they were standing in the town’s main intersection, facing the library and clocktower.
And, directly in front of them, were Dorian and Gold—and a whole display. Upon an easel to one side was the decrepit, cursed portrait of Dorian; to another was a pedestal with a box on it, lid opened to reveal the Crimson Heart. Dammit.
Rumpelstiltskin was tied to a stake on the other side of the portrait, which seemed more than a bit unnecessary, and Dorian stood between the two objects, casually assessing the weapon in his hands: a very recognizable dagger, albeit slightly different—somehow seeming more dangerous.
“Wondered how long it would take you to show up,” Dorian taunted. “Figured you’d be here sooner.”
“It’s only been 15 minutes,” Rumple added, but was quickly silenced as a gag appeared around his mouth after a wave of Dorian’s hand.
“We don’t need that kind of unnecessary commentary, do we?” Dorian strode closer to the former Crocodile, toying with the blade in his hands. “As much as I know we all have a flair for the dramatic, I’d rather not drag this out.”
“Sounds good; so how about you just let him go and then get the hell out?” Emma shouted at him.
“Hmmm…no,” Dorian (unsurprisingly) countered. He turned his attention to Rumple, then. “It’s funny; the first time this metal found its way into his flesh—or so the story goes—it couldn’t do anything. But when you melt it down and reshape it…” He whirled the dagger around dramatically and then, with the tip of it, made a small but deep slice on his cheek.
Rumple hissed through the gag as the blood quickly flowed. Curiously, Dorian caught some on the flat edge of the blade—which was apparently forged from Killian’s hook; bloody bastard. It was hard to see from several yards away, but it looked like he was letting it fill in the engraved design, and then waved a hand over it to seal it. “One down, three to go. Who’s next?”
“I’ll pass,” Killian said, at the same time Emma told him, “No thanks.”
“Guess I’ll have to take it on my own, then.” His hand glowed and a rope made of magic grew from it. He lashed out with it towards them, but they split up and ran in opposite directions, evading him—and formally starting combat.
From her side, Emma shot a jolt of electrified magic toward Dorian, but he whipped it away with the strand of magic, which in turn dissipated. Killian saw his own opening and fired a jet of water at him, but Dorian threw up a shield of magic at the last possible moment; it arced over the barely-visible dome towards Emma, who ran out of the way just in time.
Back and forth they all went, exchanging bursts of power. Killian and Dorian for the most part canceled each other out—either Killian extinguishing Dorian’s fire, or Dorian rendering Killian’s water into steam.
As a consequence, the view began to get hazy; eventually, Killian was so surrounded by fog that he couldn’t see anything—just the glow of the streetlights overhead.
And then he felt a sharp sting on his left cheek and a heartless laugh he knew too well—one that he used to use himself. “Gotcha,” Dorian mocked from just behind him, and Killian hissed as blood began to flow onto the waiting blade. “How’s it feel to be on the other end of your hook, eh?”
He jumped away as soon as he could, but it wasn’t soon enough; he could see the red pooling in the etching on the dagger, then becoming a dark red enamel as Dorian locked it into the blade, on the opposite side from Rumple’s, though only covering about half the length of the blade.
Dorian flipped it over and swiped across his opposite palm, allowing a few drips to fill in the rest of the first side. “Almost done, then,” he taunted. “Just need some from your lovely wife.”
“Over my dead body,” Killian spat.
“Eventually, yes—but not yet,” Dorian countered.
A stiff breeze ran down the street, clearing the smog; Killian recognized by its warm tickle along his skin that it was Emma’s magic at work. Once he could see again, he saw Emma standing behind them. “Gotta catch me first, asshole,” she shouted, then disappeared as soon as Dorian looked in her direction.
“Over here,” she called out from over near the Crimson Heart. She shot Killian a heavy look; he knew exactly what she was saying before she disappeared again.
“Up here!” she yelled from the roof of the library, then immediately taunted again from down the street.
He saw an angry fire light in Dorian’s eyes as he attempted to track Emma around the street, and then he disappeared on his own, likely trying to follow her. Killian used his distraction to make for the Crimson Heart.
First, though, he decided to get Gold out of there. His former foe watched as he ran past the Heart to him, behind the pole he was tied to. Of course, that was the moment when Killian realized his lack of hook was going to make it all the harder to undo the (rather sloppy) knot around Rumpelstiltskin’s wrists, but he’d have to make do.
However, he’d barely made a dent in it when a blast of heat sent him flying away from Gold, throwing him several feet away and then making him roll on the pavement.
“Not so fast, brother; I’m not done with him,” Dorian warned from the center of the intersection. His focus was on Killian, so he didn’t notice when Emma popped up behind him—not until she was slamming her shoulder into him. “Surprise!” she teased, then poofed away again.
Killian slowly got to his feet after having the wind knocked out of him and watched as Emma and Dorian quite literally played a weird game of popcorn over the town square (yes, he knew that game; Snow’s class had introduced him to it). As soon as Emma appeared in one spot, Dorian found her and moved to that spot just as she was headed somewhere new.
He could tell she was trying to keep Dorian in her sight the whole time, not moving until she found him. But when she reappeared in the street not far from where Killian stood, she seemed to be coming up empty.
She turned in her spot, scanning for their foe; Killian did, too, watching the rooftops for an aerial attack, or possibly coming from the alleyways.
But he was able to slip past both of them. “Surprise,” Dorian parroted, suddenly behind Emma, and took advantage of the pause she made in her reaction—he grabbed her arm and slipped a familiar cuff on her wrist.
“Shit,” they both cursed, and Emma grabbed at it with her other hand even though it was futile.
Then she yelped in pain and tried to curl away from Dorian, but he gripped her wrist tight—and held the dagger underneath where he’d apparently just slashed the side of her hand. Her blood dripped onto the blade (the same side as Killian’s blood) and as with the others, Dorian sealed it in.
“There we go,” he gloated. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”
Now with all four blood samples, the dagger took on an unnatural, uncomfortable glow—red where the blood had been spilled, reminding Killian far too much of the way Excalibur had looked after he pulled all the Dark Ones past into it.
That awful memory was enough to shake Killian from his momentary stupor and remember what he was supposed to be doing: getting the Crimson Heart.
Not that he was far from it, but he sprinted towards the pedestal nonetheless. “Oh no you don’t—not yet,” Dorian warned, and shot a line of fire at Killian, but he threw up a shield of water before it got to him, fizzling it out on impact a few feet away from his goal.
However, he wasn’t sure if it was the shield itself, or the force of the resulting steam, but somehow, something knocked over the podium.
And everyone’s eyes watched as the Crimson Heart was tossed into the air, its crystalline exterior reflecting the streetlights.
Killian attempted to make a dive for it—hoping he’d both save it and sacrifice his own magic at once—but Dorian reacted faster and reached out for it with his own magic, likely to prevent it from falling and shattering.
It worked—in a way; as soon as his magic connected with it, it paused midair. But rather than gently falling back down, it stayed there—and, from where Killian stood, seemed to take control of the flow of magic.
“What the hell?” Dorian cried, and tried to pull away—but the Heart wouldn’t let him let go. It was taking his powers, swiftly and viciously. He even dropped the dagger, attempting to use his free arm to yank the other away, but to no avail.
Killian and Emma instinctively found each other as they watched it happen—it was like a magnet, or maybe a vacuum, forcing Dorian’s arm aloft as it pulled the magic out through his fingertips.
Killian almost felt guilty; if he’d known that was all it took to eliminate his powers, he’d have done that straight away. As it was, though, the only thing he could do was lean on Emma.
Eventually, it stopped, once it had apparently sucked Dorian dry, and the heart drifted to the pavement, now carrying a bit more of a reddish sheen. Killian was out of breath, but Dorian—he’d definitely taken the brunt of it. He was curled over at first, but once he straightened up, he—well, he looked like shit. Not as bad as the portrait, but he definitely appeared tired, and older, as if some of the life had been sucked out of him (which, in a way, it had).
That didn’t stop him from holding his palms open and staring at them. Then he closed them and opened them again, as if that would help. “Come on,” he urged. “Do it. Do it!” But nothing happened.
Emma squeezed Killian’s side. “What about you?” she asked.
He mirrored Dorian’s gestures, attempting to summon water to his hands, but—nothing.
“Guess we know it worked,” she said, though it was somewhat emotionless.
The three stared for a moment, taking in the changed, though still somewhat even, playing field.
“Whatever,” Dorian finally sighed. “The spell has already started, and I don’t need my magic to kill you all.”
He reached for the pocket of his jeans, expecting to grab something, but a look of surprise crossed his brows as he came back with nothing. He felt around some more, checking his jacket pockets and looking around at the ground (with increasing panic) as he continued to come up empty.
“Looking for this?” Emma taunted from her spot at Killian’s side, waving the glowing dagger at him with her free hand. Killian hadn’t noticed, but her fingers were sticky enough that she must have grabbed it when she was running to reach him while the boys were distracted by the Crimson Heart. A surge of pride rushed through him.
Dorian growled and lunged, but Emma was already sprinting away. However, Killian wasn’t about to let them chase each other again, so he too jumped to action—
—And tackled Dorian to the asphalt before he could get very far. It was at this point he realized that they didn’t exactly have a plan of attack, and this had devolved into something of a game of keep-away until they figured out how to actually put an end to this. (And he lamented the fact that he’d forgotten to bring his sword; a weapon would be extremely useful at the moment.)
“Get the fuck off me,” Dorian demanded, shoving Killian’s shoulders away from his chest where they had landed. But if anything, it just gave Killian more leverage to pin him down; he was able to get his knees under him and straddled Dorian’s waist, then pressed his left forearm across his twin’s chest.
A glance up showed him that Emma was continuing his earlier efforts to free Gold, using the dagger to saw at the ropes.
But then his world spun and he was suddenly on his back; should have known not to take his eyes off Dorian for a second. His foe fisted one hand in Killian’s jacket and reared back with the other, then punched down. Killian tried to turn his head, but Dorian’s fist still connected with his face; he could feel the bruise form on his cheekbone almost immediately.
“That’s for last time,” Dorian hissed, then attempted to scramble up and away. Killian instinctively reached out with his left arm to try to hook his ankle, but his false hand barely touched him, so he rolled over and was just able to get his right hand around the other one as Dorian took another step away, bringing him back to the ground before he could get very far. The subsequent groan suggested he’d hit something sensitive.
Emma was still working on the knots, so Killian again sat on Dorian to keep him down, pressing a knee to his lower back. Killian still hadn’t decided just what he was trying to do to Dorian, but anything that prevented him from hurting Emma or Gold was worth it.
Dorian rolled under him, knocking Killian aside but not entirely freeing himself. Killian grabbed the collar of Dorian’s coat before he could get away and followed him to standing, yanking him back before he could stop Emma (perhaps Dorian would have made an excellent sailor, too, with how well he’d tied Rumple up).
He wrapped his arms around Dorian to hold him in place. “Sorry, brother; I’m not much for hugs,” Dorian spat, and tried to shake Killian off.
“Well that’s a shame; I am,” he retorted and held on tighter. Dorian glared over his shoulder, and from the side, Killian could see blood trailing from his nose again, likely from his fall.
Squealing brakes grabbed everyone’s attention as Gold’s Cadillac suddenly peeled onto the scene; he wasn’t surprised that Belle had shown up (and he could see Gideon’s infant seat in the back), but he wished she hadn’t. She started to get out of the car but he called out for her to stay put. She glared at him, but complied—especially as she watched Dorian shove his elbow into Killian’s solar plexus.
Spots immediately filled Killian’s vision and he gasped for air; the force of the push had also allowed Dorian to escape from his grasp. For good measure, it seemed, Dorian also turned around and kicked him in the groin, bringing him to his knees.
In the haze of pain, he heard Emma call his name; however, he was aware of nothing for a good moment but the incredible discomfort searing across his midsection and between his legs. It was a dirty move, but he wasn’t shocked at all that Dorian made it.
He was able to suck in enough air to look up and vaguely make out the form of Dorian approaching Emma, though his vision was blurry from tears. He could at least tell that Emma had put herself between his twin and Gold, and had to imagine Belle was calculating her own move there.
Emma seemed to be holding the dagger in a defensive position, but why did she need to? She was more than capable of “punching his lights out,” as she’d once described her own method of rendering Killian useless in that fight by Lake Nostos.
But a flash of light from Dorian’s right hand caught his eye as the sharp part of a switchblade opened. Bit harder to fight against that with fists.
Dorian flipped the knife to get a better hold on the handle, raised it above his head, and rushed forward. Despite knowing Emma could probably fend him off, and despite still kneeling prone on the pavement, Killian reached towards her, reacting instinctively, and then—
A blue-tinged shield made of magic appeared in front of Emma and Gold, just in time for Dorian to be thrown back by it.
Perhaps Killian hadn’t been entirely truthful when it came to the presence of his powers. (And thank the gods that Dorian had been the one to help them figure out that the Crimson Heart didn’t affect the two of them the way they thought it might, rather than he.)
Through the buffer, Emma was staring at him, stunned—but relieved, he could tell. The shield faltered a bit as he was still requiring considerable focus just to breathe, but the ache was leaving his body enough for him to stand.
A few feet away, Dorian was seated, rubbing the back of his head and muttering to himself. But his focus returned to Killian, probably when his shadow fell on him, and he turned his angry stare on him. “You filthy liar,” he spat as he hopped to his feet.
“Aye, well—I’m a pirate; comes with the territory,” Killian threw back tiredly.
“It’s not fucking fair!” he roared, coming closer. “I’ve been chasing this for years and you just—you've taken everything I should have had!” He punctuated his outburst by shoving Killian.
He snorted; what a bloody fool. “That couldn’t be farther from the truth, mate; I’ve told you that already.”
“You’ve had family, love, the Darkness—”
“Not by choice, that one,” he interjected, and was glad he wasn’t looking at Emma, knowing the guilt that would likely cross her face at that. “And I had nothing to do with whatever decision our parents made; that’s on them. But love—yes; I’ve been so fortunate as to have that, more than once, even. Which proves you can, too,” he insisted. “You knew it once; it’s possible to find it again. I’ve been in your shoes—”
“No you fucking haven’t,” Dorian interrupted again, angrily pointing in his face. “I saw you give up the Darkness. Which—first off: rude; but don’t pretend that everyone would have done the same thing in that situation.”
Killian tilted his head, confused; how could he have “seen” it, as he was implying? He’d mentioned it to him, certainly, but this suggested he’d somehow relived it (something Killian wouldn’t wish on anyone—yet something he still did more often than he’d like to admit, especially in anxious nightmares).
It didn’t really matter, though. “You just have to find—”
“—Something else to live for; yeah, I’ve heard that,” Dorian finished. “But there isn’t—not anymore. This is it for me—this is my last chance. So please, don’t try to stop me further.”
He sighed, but Dorian was right: a hope speech would be wasted breath at this point, and gods only knew how many of those Killian had rejected when he was similarly at his lowest.
Besides, Dorian was yet again making a run for Emma, and the shield had fallen while Killian was trying to sway him. In an instant, Killian transported himself in front of her and pushed Dorian back with a small but concentrated surge of magic when he got close. He stumbled back and growled.
Killian conjured up a small wall of water to give them a moment of privacy. “Emma, get Gold and have Belle get you all out of here; I’ll handle him,” he murmured over his shoulder.
“You sure?” The worry in her voice was obvious.
“No,” he answered honestly, “but who else can?”
She squeezed his shoulder and pressed a peck against his cheek, then hurried away from him as he let the water fall and faced Dorian, instead summoning a small, whirling orb of water to his palm.
But it fizzled out when he heard the unmistakable (at least, to him) sound of Emma stumbling; she was never known for having any of the grace of her namesake. He looked over and saw, almost in slow motion, as she fell forward, having tripped on an uneven crack in the pavement.
She put her hands out in front of her to brace her fall, but in the process, released her grasp on the dagger, which was turning in the air, glinting in the light, as it fell to the ground.
Killian ran to Emma; Dorian ran to the dagger.
He knelt at Emma’s side and helped her sit up, but both were silent as they watched their foe pick up the weapon several feet ahead.
The sick grin of satisfaction that appeared on Dorian’s face was both unwelcome and all too familiar; how many times had Killian worn his own when he was about to do something awful?
Dorian flipped the blade in his hand, repeatedly tossing and catching the hilt. And then his gaze turned on Killian.
He quickly gave Emma’s bicep a squeeze and moved away from her. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d keep Dorian away from her and Gold, but he could at least put some physical distance there to mitigate any damage.
“What, offering yourself up first?” he taunted, blade extended, as Killian took careful steps away from Emma and Gold.
“I’m not going to fight you off,” Killian told him. “And I’m not going to try to change your mind.”
“Good,” Dorian sneered. “It wouldn’t work anyways.” (It sounded a bit like he was trying to convince himself as much as Killian, though.)
He jabbed forward toward Killian, laughing as he jumped out of the way, but Killian tried to remain calm and continue drawing Dorian’s focus away from his loved ones (granted, that term was a stretch for Gold, but Belle had yet again ignored his advice and joined her husband, so the statement still applied).
Subtly, he twitched his hand to draw up another shield over them—but Dorian noticed right away, and looked over his shoulder at it. If Killian wasn’t mistaken, his gaze lingered on Belle, before shaking his head and turning back to Killian.
“The ladies, I understand, but why do you continue to protect that man?” he asked. “Your feud is well-documented, and from what I’ve seen around here, seems to have gone on.” He continued to close in on Killian blade-first. “So why are you trying to save him, too? I figured you’d be all too happy to offer him up as some sort of sacrificial lamb.”
“A few years ago—yeah, I’d have delivered the death blow myself,” he answered. “But that wouldn’t give me satisfaction anymore, especially when it comes at a dire cost to a dear friend.”
Dorian scoffed, but didn’t interrupt for a change, and they continued their slow circle around each other.
“I told you: everything I’ve ever done has been motivated by love,” he said plainly. “The right decisions, and the wrong ones, too. I’ve certainly been selfish and misguided over my many years, but at the heart of it—I was always driven by those I love. Liam, Milah, Emma—and now, more people than I thought I’d ever have. I don’t deserve any of it, but I’ll be damned if I don’t fight for them. Well, damned again.”
His heart pounded heavily as he looked at Emma through the shield, who was staring back intently, only furthering his resolve to keep her out of harm’s way (even if he was still working out how he would; he wasn’t naive enough to think his impassioned speech would do the trick.)
Dorian’s brow furrowed and he rushed closer, the dagger now leveled at Killian’s neck. “I thought you said you were done trying to reason with me.”
“I’m just answering your question,” he replied calmly, even though he knew it was more than that, and held his hand and prosthesis up in a placating manner. He took a step back, but then his foot connected with something—the easel holding Dorian’s portrait, which nearly toppled over, but he quickly righted it.
“You expect me to believe it’s just that easy? To change who you’ve been for so long just for—for love?”
“Of course it’s not,” he argued back. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But it was worth it. They are worth it,” he emphasized, pointing at Emma and his friends.
“You know what I did to the woman I loved?” Dorian hissed, drawing still closer. “I tore her heart right out of her chest and crushed it myself.” He leveled the dagger at Killian’s chest in emphasis.
“Yeah, I kno—aaahh!!” Killian cried out in pain; Dorian had quickly and pointedly jabbed the tip of the dagger into his pectoral muscle, dangerously close to his heart.
“All to continue my pursuit of the Darkness,” he went on, nearly oblivious to the blood he was shedding. “To prove to my father that I was worthy of it; certainly more than you were.”
“Yeah, probably,” Killian answered through panting breaths. “Sounds like yours at least cared how you turned out, though. Is this what he wanted for you?” he asked, “Or that?” He nodded toward the ghastly painting (at least, as best he could).
Dorian glared and grimaced at him in reply.
“Is that what Sybil would have wanted?” he added quietly (that was his only volume).
That seemed to strike a nerve; for the first time, he dropped the manic stare he’d been holding toward Killian and looked at the canvas, but then he closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if he was listening for something.
“I should do it,” he bit out, seemingly talking to himself as much as Killian, but the blade was shaking in his grasp—much to Killian’s chagrin; every vibration was a new shock of pain. He was holding on so tight, his knuckles were white; his hair was falling in his eyes; and when he opened them again, there was an almost frenzied light behind those blue irises that seemed to be the only thing keeping him moving.
“You could,” Killian answered, “though we both know you’re at a disadvantage.” He gently waved his fingers—more specifically, the blue light dancing within them, which he was frankly astonished he was able to summon with as much pain as he was in. (Miraculously, the barrier over Emma and Belle was holding, too, and it looked like they’d finally freed Gold.)
(Emma, though, he could tell was now frozen with fear—and probably reliving the same awful memories Dorian had brought up earlier. Gods, he couldn’t be doing this to her again.)
Dorian glanced at Killian’s hand and frowned, then looked back at the group behind the shield. He shook his head and looked back at Killian. “No, I can’t dishonor her memory like that.”
“I understand,” Killian murmured. “So if you’re gonna do this, please—just don’t let Emma see it again,” he asked; he was still hoping for an emotional appeal, but he could feel the blood sluggishly dripping from his chest wound around the steel still embedded in it, and didn’t know how long he could outlast that. “She’s already seen me die a couple times; I can’t do it to her again.”
Again, Dorian looked back at them, then his focus returned to the portrait. He abruptly yanked the dagger out of Killian’s flesh, ignoring the way his twin yelped and curled in on himself, and stood directly in front of the easel.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, though who he was apologizing to wasn’t clear.
He took a step back, sighed, and then looked up.
He pulled back the arm holding the dagger and held it aloft.
Then he screamed, and lunged forward. Killian was in too much pain now to get his magic to protect him; all he could do was find Emma’s eyes and brace for impact, hoping she could see how much he loved her, though he was at least comforted by the fact that he’d never shied from telling her.
Death, though—he knew what that felt like, and braced himself for it.
But it never came. He watched as Dorian instead plunged the cursed blade into his own portrait, right in the middle of its grotesque face.
Heat burst from the canvas, as intense and bright as an explosion. The force of it sent Killian rolling across the street, but he could still feel the temperature of the reaction.
He thought he heard screams coming from inside the odd inferno, but couldn’t see anything but fire. Still, he forced himself to standing, in case he needed to rush in (despite the fact that he was still pressing his hand against the wound on his chest), but then he felt it—different from the throb of his stab wound; more of a twinge, deeper inside, right by his heart.
Though it pained him, he pulled his hand away; even with the blood covering it, he could still see the blue glow in his veins, even if he couldn’t control it at the moment. But as he glanced between it and the blaze, the light in his palm started to flicker in time with that of the blaze.
Dorian was dying—the same way he had in his namesake novel (though perhaps a bit more incendiary)—and with him, their connected magic.
It was a bit ironic that Killian’s powers could have put out the fire; alas.
As such, there was little he could do but watch and wait. It didn’t happen immediately, but where he’d finally gotten used to the feeling of the power in his veins, he felt it slowly recede, like the tide going out.
The glow of his hand faded out before the inferno did, but the impromptu funeral pyre didn’t last much longer, eventually sputtering out with a feeble hiss.
For hopefully the last time that night, Killian collapsed to the ground—but this time, he was spent. He was fatigued, for sure, after the whole encounter, and obviously injured, but also felt…off, somehow; as if some part of him that had kept him balanced was gone. Which, he supposed, it was, even if it was only recently that he’d discovered what was on the other end of that fulcrum.
Emma was suddenly in front of him; the shield had probably long since dissipated, he realized, and didn’t hesitate to reach for her waiting arms.
She pulled him into an embrace that he was all too eager to lean into. “You okay?” she asked, though it was a bit muffled with the way she pressed herself into his neck.
He almost wanted to laugh at the question; he was actively bleeding, so obviously he wasn’t, but he also knew she was asking more about his mental state than physical (she had eyes; she’d seen the whole thing).
“Aye; I will be,” he wheezed. And he would; it would just take a bit for him to recalibrate. And then he pulled back just enough to find her lips, thankful that he got another chance to kiss them.
He had to break away far too soon, though, as his head began to spin. “Oh, gods—hold on,” Emma said, an edge of panic in her voice. She slipped off the magic-blocking cuff—now able to, given that the person who placed it was no longer alive—and then immediately pressed her hand to the gash on his chest. He hissed at the contact at first, but then felt the soothe of her healing magic flow over it, sewing muscle and skin back together.
When she was done, he was finally able to take a deep breath. “Thank you, love,” he murmured, but this time from exhaustion rather than an inability to speak louder.
“No problem. But don’t make it a habit,” she teased.
“I’ll try not to.” Two major stab wounds were enough for one lifetime.
Emma helped him up and slowly, they made their way over to where Dorian had last stood. Gold was free of his bindings and was already standing there with Belle and a sleeping Gideon, looking over what was left of their shared enemy.
Which wasn’t a lot. There was a rather large burn mark on the pavement, but no other evidence that anyone or anything had been immolated in the intersection.
Incredibly, the portrait still sat on the easel, somehow untouched by the heat. However, it had changed: it was no longer the monstrous depiction of a wicked soul, but a simple portrait of a (dashingly handsome, he had to admit) man in his prime. If the story was accurate, then this was the original picture of Dorian Gray.
Though the jagged tear through the canvas was obviously a recent addition.
Next to him, Emma was glancing between the face in the portrait and his own; something was bothering her. He was about to ask, but then she reached up to turn his face to her.
“That’s better,” she said as she traced the open cut that he’d forgotten about, healing it as well. “Two scars would have been a bit much.”
He chuckled this time, but it was somewhat hollow; he just wasn’t sure how to feel at the moment.
Especially when the dagger was just laying there on the pavement before them, both innocent and ominous at the same time.
All eyes were on Emma as she bent down to pick it up, but most of all Killian’s and Rumpelstiltskin’s; they knew best the power—and call—that weapon might hold. (Killian still got an unwelcome chill down his spine whenever he heard a distant murmur or whisper.)
She assessed its weight in her hand, and turned it over to look at it a few times. But… “Nothing,” she finally said. “There’s no magic or anything in it; it’s just a dagger.”
The other two former Dark Ones let out simultaneous sighs of relief, and Killian exchanged a knowing look with Gold. Though it would forever be part of their histories, that chapter of their lives that had threatened to be reopened was once again closed.
“Killian,” Emma started, “Do you want me to change it back?”
“Back?” He was confused.
“Your hook,” she said, nodding at the dagger. “I could probably reshape it, if you wanted.”
He stared at it for a moment, then at the space at the end of his left wrist that had been weaponized for so long. The loss of that tool had been sharply felt over the last few days, but mainly for its utility—not its symbolism. Which, if he’d learned anything these couple of weeks, it was that he was no longer the man who had hidden himself behind a hook for the sake of vengeance, following the darkest paths; he’d come out the other side long ago.
Besides, it had now been marred by Dorian’s actions; he’d shed enough blood with it himself, and didn’t need to walk around with a reminder of his twin’s transgressions, too.
“No,” he told her, after some thought. “I think it’s time I finally move past that.”
Emma raised her eyebrows, surprised, but smiled. Then she tucked herself back into his side and leaned against him.
A sense of finality gradually settled over him; it was over. He’d need time to rest, and to grieve—Dorian was still his brother, after all, bastard he may have been—but for now, everyone could exhale.
Everyone, that was, but the man with the bright blue eyes in the portrait, who was now forever fated to bear a scowl of failure as the world went on without him.
“Come on; let’s get that coffee,” Emma said, taking his hand in hers.
“Yes, please,” he agreed, and turned away from the last remnant of his brother—and all the drama he’d brought—hopefully leaving that all in the past.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic
Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]
A/N: Back to the main story in this chapter! Fair warning: you may need a tissue… Only one more big one after this, and then an epilogue! Can't believe this @cssns adventure is almost over! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl!)
rated M | 4.5k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
Dorian hummed to himself in thought. He’d been sneaking around the former wicked witch’s property, stealing some of the leftover golden straw made by Rumpelstiltskin (he wasn’t sure how he’d missed it the first time), when he noticed his brother at the front door of the house. So, obviously, he decided to eavesdrop, lingering just below the kitchen window.
He had to admit—the heroes’ idea of using the Crimson Heart to render him powerless was a valid one, if the connection between his and his brother’s magic was accurate. And he had every reason to believe it; there was a period of a few weeks a couple years ago when his own magic wouldn’t work. He’d been in New York City at the time and just attributed the dysfunction to the lack of magic in the rest of this realm finally catching up to him. But based on what little he’d deduced about the timing of Hook’s dabble with the underworld, it was likely then, and it returned whenever his twin had been resurrected. (He’d spent the bulk of that time with a lovely redhead anyways.)
(He’d also finally read the novel supposedly inspired by his life, after delaying it for over a century. Damn, Oscar had taken quite a number of liberties with that story, but given what he knew about the man, none were surprising. He loathed that he gave it a moral, though, and a tragic ending to boot, when Dorian himself had few and had no plans of failing.)
He translocated away before his brother could leave the farmhouse, heading for the queen’s vault. He’d heard of the Crimson Heart, but never thought he’d have a reason to seek it out—he was all about acquiring power, not losing it. He still wasn’t sure how exactly he could use it, but better to have it in his arsenal before it could be used against him.
As he approached the vault, he could sense the protection spell the queen had placed around it—far stronger than the one at the town line. Well, that was no problem; he reached into an inner pocket and pulled out an odd-looking dagger; the blade looked vaguely like bone. It was precisely what he’d been looking for during his ill-fated adventure in London all those years ago: the knife was made from a sliver of Maui’s legendary fish hook, having the ability to cut through any spell (though he didn’t come across it for a few more decades).
He flipped it in his hand, then stabbed at the air, connecting with the barrier. Then he cut down; a bright red line followed, glowing as it created a break in the spell. When he reached the ground, he was able to slip his other hand into the split and part it like a curtain, then stepped through.
Foolishly, the queen hadn’t put any further security measures on her hideaway. To be fair, that was a strong spell guarding it—few would be able to get through with their lives. But he was usually the exception to any rules.
He’d been focused on the books the first time he’d been down here, but could easily tell it was a treasure trove of other useful items. Based on what he’d overheard, the object he was looking for had some inherent magic of its own; that would make it easier to locate among all the other clutter.
It took a few tries—and only after uncovering a number of other, actual hearts—before he found it, set casually on a shelf in a box. It was a clear-ish stone, vaguely tinted green or red, depending on the angle, but he could feel the void-like enchantment it held. It was just waiting to absorb whatever magic it could get.
For a brief moment, he wondered if there was a way to use it as a siphon—perhaps he could merely take his brother’s magic for his own, including that bit of Darkness? But no; everything he’d heard about this was that it was a one-way vacuum, and he was too close to achieving his goals to risk it by getting greedy.
He closed up the box and tucked it under his arm, then transported away, to another part of town. If a town as quaint as Storybrooke could have a seedy side, this was it: a short strip of warehouses and industrial spaces near the docks. A plain, almost charred-looking cinderblock building sat at the end of the lane, with a sign by the door reading Wayland Smith (if one could read it, that is; the metal sign was almost tarnished beyond recognition).
A rush of heat welcomed Dorian as he pulled the door open; inside, a number of forges were going, giving the entire space an orange glow.
In the back of the shop, a man wore a welding helmet and was shaping red-hot metal with a hammer; the resounding clang echoed in the large space as sparks erupted from his project. He stopped when he saw Dorian approach, though, and lifted the mask.
There was nothing special or unique about his appearance. He was just…a man, albeit a large one. It was near impossible to tell he was the centuries-old Wayland the Smith of legend. Perhaps that was how he’d survived so long, though. But that wasn’t Dorian’s style.
“Y’ready, then?” Wayland asked gruffly.
“As ever,” Dorian replied.
Wayland beckoned him to follow to one of the massive furnaces, which was currently cold. But at the table in front of it, a crucible was waiting next to a fresh-looking mold. “Wha’ever you’ve got, put it in there,” he brusquely explained, nodding at the cup.
Dorian first pulled out his brother’s namesake prosthesis and attempted to put it in the melting pot, but it was too big. Wayland took it from him, whacked it on the edge of…some sort of structure within the foundry to snap it in half, and then put the broken pieces back in.
Then, Dorian pulled out the strands of gold he’d taken from the former dungeon at the farmhouse, as well as the last ingredient he’d taken from the Evil Queen’s vault the week prior: ambrosia dust. Neither of those objects was very potent on their own, but in combination—oh, they were going to be everything.
He set the gold down on the worksurface and dumped the vial of dust into his left hand. He then picked the gold back up and closed his eyes, focusing on the remnants of dark magic that lingered in the metal strands. Even if the Darkness no longer truly existed, it still left its fingerprints—like it had on his brother and the others, and like it did in this bit of gold, fabricated with its use.
The strands began to glow and warm in his hold; he smirked at the feel of it, then opened his eyes and dragged the wires through the dust in his other palm. The ambrosia—known for its ability to resurrect the dead when in its pure form—would help bring back those powers, and the metal gleamed even brighter as it picked up and held onto the specks of dust.
He bent the bits in half and added them to the crucible. Obviously, that wasn’t all it was going to take to bring back the Darkness—he still needed to get at those bits stuck to their souls, and that would require a blood tether first—but this was the start of finally getting what was his.
“Care to light it, sir?” Wayland asked, pointing toward the furnace. They could have used any of the other ones, but Dorian figured it would be all the more meaningful if his own magic fueled the fire.
He stood in front of the cavernous hole, then put his hands together at chest height. Between them, he created a dense fireball, small, then growing larger as he moved his hands apart, calling on his magic to increase its size and intensity.
When he had a fireball nearly the size of his abdomen, he pushed the whole thing into the furnace; it immediately began to lick at the brick walls and set it alight from the inside, to the point that he had to shield his eyes.
Wayland was watching the temperature gauge on the outside; when it was heated enough, he gestured for Dorian to step back. Then the smith pulled his visor back down and pushed the crucible into the blazing hot oven.
Dorian had no idea how long it took for metal to melt down, but it was somehow both longer and less time than he expected; perhaps he was just anxious. Still, the next time Wayland moved, it was to bring the crucible back out, now filled with bright orange liquid.
(There was something exceedingly satisfying about the fact that he’d not only taken Captain Hook’s hook, but that he’d also essentially destroyed it.)
Expertly, Wayland turned around, not losing a drop of the molten alloy, and poured it into the mold Dorian had commissioned earlier in the week. From the angle he stood at, he could see the light from it illuminate the inside of the form until it just reached the top.
The men shared a beer as they waited for it to cool, and once it got close to being ready, Wayland fitted it with the handle that Dorian provided—made from a chunk of wood he’d kept in his pocket from a tree on the grounds of the Dark Castle. (It had been his favorite tree to climb as a child, and he’d always kept a piece of it on him in case he ever needed help finding his way home. But this seemed to be a far more fitting spot for it now.)
Wayland assessed the form, then nodded; he assumed that meant it was ready. Dorian tossed the cigarette he’d been dragging on into the furnace, then watched as the smithy tapped and pulled with his tools to undo the mold.
It took a few hard hits, but then—there it was; a bit rough still, but gorgeous: a new dagger for a new Dark One.
It was similar in shape to the one of lore—it had mostly the same tapered shape with its undulating edges, but had a few more curls added on the sides, ending in dangerously sharp points. A pattern similar to the old one was pressed into the blade in relief, but was the same color as the rest of the metal at the moment.
Wayland took the blade to yet another part of his workspace and flipped the switch on another machine, first sanding it a bit and then buffing it until it gleamed.
He gave it one final inspection then, seemingly satisfied, took it carefully by the blade and extended the handle to Dorian. “All yours, m’lord.”
Dorian couldn’t hold back his grin as he took it and looked it over. “Oh, it’s perfect,” he remarked, turning it over in his grip and enjoying the weight of it in his grasp. He pressed a fingertip into one of the points; it came back bleeding. “Yes—perfect.”
“Good,” Wayland answered. “Anythin’ else ya need?”
Dorian hummed, giving it another once over. “There is one thing.”
“Wha’s that?”
Swiftly, Dorian took the dagger and shoved it into Wayland’s shoulder. The man cried out in pain and fell to his knees, which seemed dramatic; it’s not like it was a fatal stab.
But then Dorian pulled it out to an even harsher scream, and realized that the extra points on the edges probably made it worse.
Still, the blade was covered in blood. It looked wonderful, but it wasn’t the blood he ultimately needed.
He summoned a small fireball and ran it along the sides of the dagger; the blood turned dark and filled in the designs pressed into its surface. There—now it looked like the Dark One’s dagger.
Time to make it real.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
Since becoming mortal again, Rumpelstiltskin had learned to appreciate the blessings of a full night’s sleep. Although he had forgotten how light a sleeper he’d been prior to taking on the curse; it didn’t take much to wake him—especially once his son arrived and didn’t seem to understand the concept of a normal sleep schedule. (Not for the first time, his heart went out to Milah having to do that on her own centuries prior.)
Gideon had at least grown out of that now (mostly), but Rumple retained the ability to wake at the slightest disturbance. Given that he still had a number of enemies, it was a useful skill, even if he largely towed the correct side of morality nowadays.
So he wasn’t surprised to wake in the middle of the night. However, he wasn’t sure why. A glance at the monitor sitting on his nightstand indicated Gideon was still asleep, and Belle was lightly snoring next to him. No other sounds could be heard; not even the hooting of an owl outside (the only thing that typically woke him lately, and—if he was being honest—his main rival at the moment).
The moments he missed having magic were few and far between, but this was one of them. As he sat up, so did the hair on the back of his neck—someone was there.
And he could only think of one foe who would be able to enter undetected.
“What do you want, Mr. Gray?”
The shadows shifted on the far side of the room as the man in question came forward. “Color me impressed, Dark One; you still have your wits about you.”
“I had them before I had that title; why wouldn’t I when that title no longer exists?”
“For now,” Dorian countered. He could only just make out the shape of him in the bit of light that came through the drapes.
“Please; you’re not still on about that, are you?”
“Indeed I am,” Dorian countered, then suddenly appeared at Rumple’s bedside—and was pressing a cold bit of metal against his neck.
Rumpelstiltskin jumped away and looked down; that fool had the dagger. Or, a version of it—this one seemed a bit more dangerous (and far more impractical). “Where the hell did you get that?” he asked, hoping he sounded unimpressed—though, in reality, it did worry him a bit. The dagger was only ever a conduit, but the fact that Dorian had one wasn’t a good sign.
“Why, I made it,” Dorian boasted. “And I came here to thank you for your help. It’s mostly my brother’s hook, but you left some gold behind in that storm cellar; gives it just that little extra boost of magic, I think.” He pressed it close to Rumple’s neck again. “What do you think? Pretty great, eh?”
Of course, that’s when Belle stirred next to him. “Rumple?” she asked sleepily. “What’s going—”
Her (obvious) question was cut off as she was quickly frozen in place. “I thought your magic was fire, not ice,” Rumple bit out.
“Bit of everything,” Dorian shrugged.
Rumple took a deep breath but tried to be steady about it, and not let on the nerves that were stirring. (He may have been a coward long ago, but he was no such thing now—not when it came to his family’s safety, at least, and he was at a severe disadvantage here.) “I’m surprised you didn’t already put your name on it,” he instead taunted. “Since you seem to think you’re entitled to be the Dark One.”
“Oh, no no no,” Dorian replied. “I need to earn it—just how you did. I want to know the joyous feeling of watching my name engrave itself after I’ve won it outright.”
Rumple remembered his own emotions upon suddenly seeing his name etched in that cursed steel. “Joy? I just remember feeling sick.” The memory had dulled over his years in the Darkness, but it was another of those things that came back to him with mortality. “I was willing to do anything for my son, but I didn’t know that would be the cost.”
“You were fine with murder, but not with the Darkness?” Dorian scoffed. “That’s an odd line to draw.”
“Desperation does that to people,” he countered. “Your father was apparently determined enough to make sure you didn’t get those powers that he duped me into it.”
Even in the dark, he could see the fire of anger light the other man’s eyes.
“Which actually brings me to a question,” Rumple went on. “Why are you so desperate to be the Dark One? And don’t just tell me it’s because you were promised; you already have magic and found a way to immortality, so what could you want with them?”
“Because I have nothing else,” Dorian spat. “No family, no friends—no loved ones. I’ve devoted and sacrificed so much of my life in pursuit of this. I deserve it.” Rumple rolled his eyes, but Dorian didn’t notice. “My birth parents gave me up—in favor of another, I’ve recently learned—and I killed my only other love. This is it—this is all that remains of the only person who showed me any care. And I will have it.”
Rumple narrowed his eyes—and was suddenly sympathetic. “You want to prove to your father that you were worthy of the magic.”
Dorian said nothing.
“Trust me, I know all about complicated paternal relationships. But you can move past that; you can find something else worth living for.” He looked over at Belle, still frozen, to emphasize his point. “I did, and so did your brother.”
“No, I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Dorian answered, almost sadly.
And with a flick of his wrist, both men disappeared in a cloud of fiery smoke.
Rumple just hoped he wasn’t about to lament the fact he couldn’t say goodbye to Belle.
He knew he was resourceful and could find a way out; but he knew the target wasn’t just on his head, and hoped his inevitable allies were thinking just as far ahead.
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Dorian was beginning to regret not drawing up a dramatically oversized checklist of the things he needed to complete his plan. First on the list was the dagger—check; Rumpelstiltskin was a little further down, but he could cross him off, too.
Next up: his portrait. Much like the Crimson Heart, he mainly wanted to keep it close to prevent it being used against him, but he also wanted the inherent magic in it handy if the situation called for it. He transported himself and the former Dark One to the storage room above the library, making sure to tie up Rumple’s hands in the process, lest he make a grab for any potential weapons.
The room was musty and dim, with only a bit of light coming through the spaces between the boarded-up windows from the streetlamps outside. But he didn’t need to be able to see to find the portrait—he could hear it, the steady beating of Sybil’s heart still echoing his.
At least—he thought he was fine, until he ran into several somethings dangling from the ceiling.
He cried out in surprise; meanwhile, Rumpelstiltskin laughed. “Careful, lad; I’m sure there’s a metaphor there about needing light in the darkness.”
“Lad? You’re hardly older than me.”
“Still am,” he shrugged.
Dorian turned away and tried to brush…whatever it was out of his path, but there were more of them. “The bloody hell are these? Some primitive security system?”
“Dreamcatchers,” Rumple explained. “I forgot we put them up here.”
“What value do those have?” He’d never heard of spells requiring stolen dreams—but the longest Dark One to ever hold the title probably had.
“It’s a bit of magic that originated from the indigenous folk of this land,” he said. “Not just to hold dreams, but memories.”
“There are stones for that,” Dorian retorted.
“Aye, but only in a few places. These can be made anywhere. See for yourself how they work.”
Dorian looked over at his foe; he felt like he was being baited, but he didn’t know into what. He could play along, though; Rumpelstiltskin’s hours were numbered, so he might as well take in any bits of knowledge from the man he could.
He reached up to grab the nearest dreamcatcher. “No, not that one,” Rumple interrupted. “That one, over there—with the black feathers. You’ll like that one.”
Dorian arched an eyebrow skeptically, but obliged, and took down the one made with a reddish ring of wood (at least, as far as he could tell in the dark) with feathers hanging off of it as described.
It didn’t do anything at first, but he could feel the magic simmering inside the web of strings across its middle.
“Now what?” he asked, impatient.
“Just give it a second.”
He looked back at it, and then, slowly, an image appeared in the empty middle of the dreamcatcher. He leaned in closer to study it, and then—it was like he was inside the memory.
A couple dozen hooded figures stood in a half circle at one end of the clearing; at the center stood Hook and Emma. But they looked very different from the couple he’d met here in town: Emma had bleached-white hair and a severe, all black outfit; while Hook…looked a bit more like him—hair parted on the right, dressed far more casually than he’d seen him yet (though still in all black), with an emptiness in his eyes that seemed out of character.
What was most astonishing, though, was the fact that his twin was holding a united Excalibur in his hand, and it wasn’t hard to make out the names Killian Jones and Emma Swan both engraved in it.
“Impossible,” Dorian gasped.
“Just keep watching,” Rumple told him from…somewhere beyond his awareness; this must be his own memory.
Next to Hook, a cloaked woman stood—with noticeably scaly skin. Was that… “Nimue?” he wondered aloud.
“In the flesh, so to speak,” Rumple confirmed.
He scanned the rest of the figures, and realized the posture of one was exceedingly familiar. “Zoso,” he whispered. They were all the past Dark Ones. Gods, he was about to get starstruck.
Nimue announced, “It’s time,” though for what, he couldn’t tell. But it triggered Emma, who angrily proclaimed, “No—you are not taking the people I love.” Her voice was harsher than he recalled.
Nimue lifted her hand to magically choke Emma; it obviously wouldn’t kill her, but it definitely stopped her in her tracks. The original Dark One taunted Emma, but Dorian was more focused on his brother’s reaction. At first, it was nothing; then, he seemed to be avoiding Emma’s eyes. But the moment he met them, the change in his countenance was visible, from realization to horror to anger.
“That’s enough,” he spat as he turned to face Nimue.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, not giving up her hold on Emma’s neck.
“Being the man I want to be,” Killian answered.
“You can’t stop us,” she boasted.
“Yes, I can.” Hook held Excalibur aloft, then closed his eyes and concentrated—on pulling all the other Dark Ones into the blade. Emma was let go and caught her breath, but Dorian was focused on the disappearing image of Zoso from the ring of sorcerers.
When it was done, the blade had changed its color, to black with a red glow from its engravings. His brother was visibly shaking at the effort to hold it—them—in.
“Killian, you can’t do this,” Emma told him tearfully; it reminded him somehow of his last moments with Sybil.
“We both know there’s no other way, love,” Hook told her, equally emotional. “We have to hurry; the Darkness won’t stay trapped in Excalibur much longer—take it.” (Were Dorian actually there, he would have done so in a heartbeat—but not to do what he had a feeling was about to happen.)
Emma tried to refuse him, but after a brief debate, Killian was able to convince her. “Let me die a hero; that’s the man I want you to remember—please.” Dorian rolled his eyes a bit, but they were also glued to the scene.
Reluctantly, Emma took the sword; it wasn’t obvious if its own weight or that of her next task was making her struggle to hold it.
Hook was beginning to brace himself, but Emma wasn’t ready. She whispered that she loved him, and pulled him into a kiss that clearly had goodbye written all over it. He returned the sentiment, then nodded at her as she stepped back.
She hesitated again, until Killian told her it was okay. She lifted the blade slowly, and it seemed like she wasn’t going to move—until she abruptly surged forward, piercing him through the chest with the sword.
Dorian sucked in his own breath at it; despite being told the abridged version, he almost thought she wouldn’t go through with it. Almost immediately, Hook collapsed on Emma’s shoulder, but managed to push himself away in time to see the Darkness drop its hold on Emma; she glowed briefly, but then was left looking much the same as the sheriff that Dorian now knew.
She pulled the blade out—likely only hastening death—and it disintegrated, but she was too distracted by the dying man in front of her to care.
She grabbed him as he fell to the ground, and went down with him. Her sobs filled the clearing, echoing around him.
But then, all of a sudden, he was back in the storeroom above the library. He gasped, and could feel the wetness on his cheeks from the tears that scene apparently elicited.
“Impressive magic, eh?” Rumple said; Dorian had almost forgotten that he was there—why either of them were there. And he wasn’t sure if the man was referring to that which allowed him to watch that scene unfold—or what happened in it.
“Rubbish,” he tried to counter, but the emotion in his voice betrayed him.
“Like I said, you don’t have to do this,” Rumple told him again, softer. “Your brother—”
“Is a completely different person than me,” Dorian spat back. “You really thought this would get me to change my resolve? Some little mind game?” He tossed the dreamcatcher aside. “Nothing will stop me from getting what I want.”
He turned on a dime and followed Sybil’s heartbeat to his portrait; he was glad there wasn’t enough light to see what it looked like.
When he returned, Rumple was still looking smug. “Come on,” he snapped, then shoved the man with magic, compelling him to follow him.
“What now?” he asked.
“If my brother is half the hero he says he is, he and his bride won’t hesitate to come to your rescue. And then I’ll finally take what should have been mine—what he threw away.”
They made their way down the stairs and into the night, but he could still feel a sense of self-satisfaction coming off Rumple, as if he was convinced that showing him that scene had impacted Dorian at all. It hadn’t.
(At least, that’s what he was trying to convince himself.)
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thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic
Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]
A/N: I know this off my normal posting schedule for @cssns, but this chapter is a little different as it wholly focuses on Dorian's backstory. It's an important part of the story, although none of our Storybrooke faves appear. They'll be back on Wednesday, though! Hope you like this chapter; it's what I consider to be an OUAT-esque take on the original novel. (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl !)
rated M | 4.3k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
Late 1880s
The realization that Dorian was aging—and would continue to do so until he finally claimed the Darkness for himself—plagued him the next few days after he noticed that first wrinkle. He found himself wandering about town, trying to find a way out of this predicament; alas, the only way he knew to become immortal was to gain the powers he sought. But what if he ran out of time?
Perhaps Basil knew something? Or maybe the answer lay in another realm? He had lingered in this one for quite some time; the bean in his coat pocket was still waiting to be used. (It was also worth noting that he’d transformed his jacket into one far more casual, under Basil’s advice.)
But considering he had no clue where to go next, this was as good as any place for now.
He sighed. He needed a distraction. (Not like this entire realm wasn’t already one.) At some point, he’d wandered into the working class part of town—a stark difference from Basil’s world, in a way he found refreshing. The upper crust was his brand of indulgent, but stiff when it came to social mores in a way that occasionally got stifling. That was when he sought out the brothels, the opium dens, or just the pubs by the docks or wandering the streets lined with rowhouses.
A battered marquee caught his attention up ahead, advertising what was likely a similarly worn theater playing a tired version of an ancient play. It sounded perfect.
The playbill listed a show called Othello; he’d never heard of it. Perfect.
Just as he’d thought, the seats were threadbare, the backdrops were faded and flaking, and the costumes barely fit the overzealous actors. He had to bite his tongue from laughing at how terrible it was at times.
Except for one, though—the actress playing the female lead, Desdemona. She captivated him immediately, and not just because she was better than the rest of her costars (though she was by far). She embodied the character fully, holding the audience in the palm of her hand whenever she was on stage.
Not to mention she was rather comely, with her hair in dark curls and bright eyes that seemed lit from within.
Dorian had seen many a pretty face and known countless women. None had ever truly caught his attention like she had.
He sat, entranced, for the rest of the performance, then rushed out of the auditorium after the curtain fell. Outside the theater, he again read the playbill: her name was Sybil Vane.
Using all his charms, he managed to get backstage. He was nervous as a schoolboy outside her dressing room; gods above, he’d never felt so anxious to meet someone.
His breath caught in his throat when the door swung open, and there she was: even more beautiful up close, with a sweet smile that reached her sparkling eyes.
He eventually stammered out a compliment on her performance, which she accepted demurely, her cheeks blushing bright pink.
And then she invited him in for a cup of tea, and he knew then his life was about to change, as melodramatic as that sounded.
She was indeed as sweet as she seemed—as well as good-humored and intelligent, despite having seen little of the world outside her corner of London. It wasn’t a surprise that she seemed charmed by him as well—most were—but for the first time, he was glad of it.
Conversation flowed faster between them than the tea, and all too soon, the theater manager was ushering her out so he could lock up. But she told Dorian when her next performance was and he promised he’d be there.
He kept it, too; for a brief while, he wondered if this was just a momentary infatuation, but the more he watched her and the more time he spent with her, the deeper in he fell. And if he wasn’t mistaken, she reciprocated; he didn’t pretend to hide his vices, but if he ever made mention of them, she simply looked past it.
Simple. That’s what this was—no angles, no scheming, no revenge; just living life day by day and finding happiness where it could be found. He’d never known a life like that—and it had him wondering if maybe simplicity was all he needed, too.
When they eventually started to see each other outside the theater, it was much like when Basil first showed him around his part of the world—but this had a sense of innocence and optimism that belied even reality. Sybil just had a beautiful way of looking at the world; he began to hope it would rub off on him.
At one point, she introduced him to her mother and younger brother; they seemed like generally pleasant folk, but somewhat distrustful of him. He supposed he didn’t blame them for that, even if his reputation had yet to precede him here.
But it did make him wonder what it was like to have a family—a real one. Zoso had cared for him, as much as the Darkness would allow. But he’d long resented his birth parents; what kind of people were so desperate that they’d trade their child to a demon?
He had to assume they were nothing like Sybil’s mother, whose wariness clearly came from a place of love. And watching the playout of her relationship with her brother made him wonder how different his life might have been with a sibling (any peer, really).
Was that what he wanted? Would that make him happiest? He’d never considered an alternative to becoming the Dark One, but it seemed as though a viable option was being presented.
Even his friends noticed the change in him. Basil at first commented on his frequent absences from their gatherings, but Oscar picked up on the reason why immediately.
“He’s in love.”
Love? Love. Yes, that’s what this was. It had to be; he’d never felt anything like it. He just knew that thoughts of Sybil invaded his mind constantly—even more than the dream of finally murdering Rumpelstiltskin.
Like gossipy ladies, his mates demanded to know all the details. And while he normally kept such personal things close to his chest—he’d not once uttered anything about the Dark One since coming to this realm, leaving even those closest to him unaware of why he’d truly traveled here—he found himself telling them everything.
“Sounds like you’re halfway down the aisle,” Basil joked.
“Aisle?” He wasn’t yet familiar with that reference.
“He means you mean to marry her,” Oscar explained. “I’m inclined to agree.”
Marriage. That wasn’t something he’d ever considered for himself. But that was what someone did when they loved someone, right?
He asked her about it that night, after her performance in Romeo & Juliet. She accepted without hesitation, and her joy spilled over to him.
His friends congratulated him on the event, though he honestly wasn’t sure what followed. He barely knew wedding customs in his home realm, let alone this one. He just knew that whatever he did next, he wanted it to be with Sybil.
The next night, she was performing as Desdemona again (he was becoming intimately acquainted with a number of that Shakespeare fellow’s works). Basil and Oscar insisted on accompanying him, eager to meet the young woman who’d so taken in their friend.
He’d seen her in this role several times since the first viewing, each time more impressive than the last. She always shined and he felt a sense of pride of being able to show off something so seemingly humble to two men from far more privileged, richer lives.
She looked just as perfect as ever when she first took the stage; both men smiled at him and nodded their approval.
And it was a typically wonderful performance—at least, he thought so. Perhaps not as exciting as the first time he saw her, and there were a few mistakes, but none that truly tarnished the show.
After the curtain fell, he turned to his friends to see what they thought. But, to his surprise, they exchanged an awkward look.
“She is indeed beautiful,” Basil started. “But…”
“But she can’t act,” Oscar finished. “We must take you to see a real show if this is all you’ve seen.”
“I beg your pardon?” he snapped at both of them. “She’s brilliant.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s as sweet as you say,” Basil placated. “But I dare say she’ll make a better wife than she does an actress.”
“When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance,” Oscar added.
He told them off and left them behind to make their own way home. How could they not see how incredible Sybil was?
Or were they right, and he had been duped? No, it wasn’t that—Sybil had never pretended to be anything else other than when she was playing a character on stage. Perhaps it was his own judgment, then, that was flawed?
It was wholly possible. He was still ignorant about many things in this realm. All of a sudden, he felt horribly off-kilter, questioning every decision he’d made since he arrived in this godforsaken place.
Sybil; he needed to talk to Sybil. She’d make him feel grounded again. Right?
Like after every show, he slipped back to her dressing room. She was quick to embrace him and he leaned into it. “Is everything alright, my Prince Charming?” she asked, sensing his discomfort.
“I…I’m not sure,” he replied.
“How can I help, then?”
There was such earnestness in her bright eyes, such tenderness and care even below the stage makeup, that there was only one thing he could tell her.
“You can’t.”
He regrettably stepped out of her space, but he had to. He couldn’t let this wonderful woman throw away her life with him when he was so unsure of himself.
To his shock, she just laughed—that light thing he loved so much. “What, cold feet, my darling?”
“No, my dear,” he said, taking her hand in his. “You deserve so much better than me.”
“I’m fairly certain it’s the opposite,” she countered. “A man of your standing shouldn’t even want to be seen with the likes of me.”
“My…standing? Sybil, there’s so much you don’t know about me.”
“Then tell me,” she encouraged, reaching for his other hand. “There’s nothing you could say that would change my feelings.”
He barked out his own laugh at that, but there was no humor behind it. “Oh, darling; you’ve no clue.”
He let go of her and stepped back, then summoned balls of flames to his open palms. (Not as quickly as he would have liked, either; his magic was slow from disuse.)
Her eyes grew wide; he thought he saw fear in them, but it didn’t last. “Dorian, that’s incredible,” she breathed. “I knew there was something extraordinary about you.”
“And that’s exactly why this can’t be,” he lamented, extinguishing the fire in his hands. “I don’t—I don’t belong here,” he admitted, both to her and to himself.
“You belong wherever you want to be,” she told him sagely; there was certainly some truth in her words, but if he didn’t know where that was, how could he ask her to follow him?
“Perhaps I’ll let you know when I figure that out,” he told her. “But until then—take care of yourself, love.”
He couldn’t look at her as he turned and left. Her cries of his name followed him out the door of the room, but he transported away before she could attempt to change his mind.
He reappeared in Basil’s studio. The rest of the house was silent, so he was still alone for the time being. It’d been a few weeks since he’d been in here and, oddly, felt like something of a homecoming. Not merely because it was where he’d been settled for the past few months, but being surrounded by the potion ingredients—it took him back to learning how to brew in Zoso’s castle.
Back in his home realm, he’d been drifting ever since Rumpelstiltskin took over the mantle of Dark One, having been unceremoniously and unexpectedly evicted from his quarters in the castle. He maybe rented a room for a month or so at a time, but was ultimately transient.
This space had been the closest thing he’d known to home in close to a decade, but as he studied all the magical elements across the room, as well as their products in the paintings along the walls, he realized—he wouldn’t truly be happy and settled until he fulfilled his birthright once and for all.
As much as he loved Sybil, he couldn't fully give himself to her until that was settled—however long that took. In his perusal of the room, he’d stopped in front of his own still-unfinished portrait, perched on an easel. There had to be a way—
His thought was interrupted by the sound of the key in the front door, indicating Basil’s return. But before he could address his friend, a frantic knock sounded at the studio door.
He lifted the enchanted window covering to glance through it; Basil’s footsteps sounded behind him but stopped short. Outside, he could see Sybil, not even changed out of her costume, panting and banging her fist on the door. “Dorian? Are you there? Please, talk to me!” she was shouting.
Almost too quickly, he unlocked and pulled the door open, and Sybil stumbled inside; he just barely caught her. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m here for you, obviously!” she answered, once she’d righted herself. “Dorian, please—I don’t care who or what you are; I just want to be with you.”
Couldn’t she take a hint? She was making this harder on both of them than it had to be. “It can’t be, Sybil.”
“Yes, it can,” she said, reaching for his hand. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“To a whole other realm?” he threw back. “Because that’s where I’m headed.” The bean still weighed heavy in his pocket.
Sybil swallowed nervously, but then her resolve hardened. “Wherever, Dorian, and I’ll do whatever you want—as long as I can be with you.”
“You’ve no clue what that means,” he snarled, now annoyed. He was trying to make a clean break from her, but she was making it difficult. “Just go back to your life and to your family, darling; you’ll be much happier that way.”
“That’s not for you to decide!” she yelled at him. He wasn’t used to being scolded, and it rankled something within.
“Maybe not, but I’m perfectly capable of making decisions for myself. And for now, I need to be alone,” he insisted, then stepped back from her.
“Dorian!” she cried—in both senses of the word; tears were brimming at her eyes. “Please, my love; my heart is yours.”
“Is it?” Something snapped in him; his temper finally broke loose in a way it hadn’t in months. In two strides, he was back in front of Sybil, and without thinking, his right hand dove into her chest, and came back out with her still-beating heart.
“Bloody hell,” Basil gasped; Dorian had forgotten his so-called friend was still there. Sybil, for her part, was merely staring in shock, though her hand slowly drifted to the now-empty place on her chest.
She could drag this out all she wanted; but now, he could end it whenever he felt.
The room was quiet but for the somewhat amplified beating of the heart in Dorian’s hand. No one moved; no one knew what to say.
Dorian began to pace with the bright red organ in his hold. It was no surprise that it was such a pure color; gods only knew what kind of discoloration his own bore. Then his eyes fell back on his portrait, and he remembered his previously interrupted train of thought.
“Say, Basil,” he said slowly, turning to the painter. “Are there any spells you know of that work in reverse? Perhaps one that might keep the subject of one of your pictures looking the same as when you painted it, but let the painting grow old and decrepit?”
Basil sputtered. “Only dark magic can do that.”
“Oh.” Dorian looked over at Sybil, still stunned, then reached for Basil’s hand.
Into the open palm, he began to crush the heart. He made himself watch as the light—that had once been so brilliant and pure—left Sybil’s eyes, and her body collapsed as the crumbled bits of her organ fell, too.
He swallowed whatever bit of feeling he still had for Sybil (which was quite a lot) and turned back to Basil. “Is that sufficiently dark enough for you to use?”
Basil was staring agape. “I…I…I won’t do it,” he finally said.
Dorian quirked an eyebrow. “But that means it’ll work?”
Basil blinked. “Uh, yes, it should,” he confessed. “But I won’t—I refuse to do it.”
The remnants of Sybil’s heart were beginning to drift to the floor, and some remained on Dorian’s hand. So he grabbed the mortar bowl that Basil used when mixing ingredients for pigments and brushed the dust from both his hand and Basil’s into it, then bent and gathered what remained. “Well, you have everything you need here,” he began. “And if you insist on not doing it, well…” Then he grabbed Basil’s own heart. He didn’t do this often, but if he was burning his London bridges, he may as well do it in spectacular fashion. “You will,” he said into the organ, and he watched as Basil moved not entirely of his own volition. “And you’ll finish it by morning.”
Basil glared at him, but set to work right away (not like he had a choice).
Dorian held tight to the heart, but not so much as to cause damage (though maybe some pain) and went up to his room. He dreamed that night of murdering Rumpelstiltskin, which he took as a sign that he’d made the correct decision.
(He was ignoring the fact that the Dark One’s dying screams came out in Sybil’s voice.)
The following morning, he went down to the studio. Basil was asleep in his work chair, but, as commanded, the painting was done. The background had been filled in with a gritty black color, and the eyes seemed impossibly brighter. It was perfect—and it’d be even better if it did what he hoped it would.
He then spared a glance over to the door; it was shut, and there were odd trails in the dust on the wood floor. It looked as though Sybil’s body had been dragged out at some point in the night. Good; he didn’t want to look at it again.
He turned back to Basil and shoved his heart back into his chest unceremoniously; he subsequently woke with a start, falling from his seat. “Shite,” he cursed. “Have you always been such a bloody demon?” he asked.
“Not yet, but that’s the hope,” he answered, feeling more and more like his old self. “Excellent job, by the way.”
“As if I’d do anything else,” Basil sneered.
“It’s done, then?”
“Almost,” Basil replied, then stood and walked across to the counter, where he picked up a small bowl with uncolored powdered pigment. “It has yet to be signed, but there’s one thing I still need to activate the spell.”
“Which is?”
As he moved past Dorian again, Basil seemed to pull a blade from thin air—and promptly used it to slice into Dorian’s left cheek.
“What the hell?” he hissed, his hand rushing to his face as blood spilled over his fingers.
“It’s the final part of any of my spells,” Basil explained coolly, holding the bowl under Dorian’s chin and catching drops of blood in it. He was avoiding eye contact, but seemed to take some amount of pleasure from Dorian’s discomfort. He couldn’t blame him, honestly.
Basil set the bowl down on his chair and, with the pocketknife, performed a similar ritual on his own hand (which curiously had no scar, despite the number of times he’d likely done this).
Once both bloods were in the bowl, he found a small spoon to mix up the paint. When it had reached a satisfactory consistency, he picked up a fine-tipped brush and painted his name on the corner.
He dotted the “i” on his first name, and the whole canvas briefly glowed red, then returned to normal. “Is that it, then?”
“Yea; it’s done,” Basil confirmed, still refusing to meet Dorian’s gaze. “And then some. You have a wicked soul, sir, and that leaves its mark on a person; the portrait will carry all of that.”
“Oh?” Well, that was a nice touch. Gods above only knew what kind of sins he could get away with, then. “Well, let’s test that out.”
With a flick of his wrist, Basil’s knife appeared in his hand—and then disappeared into Basil’s chest, right above his heart.
Basil gasped and finally looked up at him. There was a tear on the cusp of falling and a look of hurt and betrayal that he wasn’t able to put to words—probably because of the blade in his lungs.
Blood slowly seeped out onto Dorian’s hand—not for the first time, and likely (hopefully) not for the last. But to hasten the whole process, he yanked the knife out and watched as Basil collapsed and quickly expired, the red pool on his white shirt hardly having a chance to grow.
“What the devil…?” Dorian turned at the voice; he hadn’t heard the door open, but Oscar was standing in it, a look of shock on his face. “I saw her outside, and then I…you?”
“Aye, me,” Dorian answered. He tossed Basil’s knife aside, grabbed a paint-covered rag from the easel to wipe the blood off his hand and face, and gave Oscar a vague rundown of what had gone down here in the last several hours.
“You’re a monster,” Oscar finally stammered.
Dorian picked up the painting from the easel and tucked it under his arm, then fished the magic bean from his pocket. “That’s kind of the point,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
He thought of home, then tossed the bean towards the vacant end of the studio. The portal appeared almost immediately. “Farewell,” he shouted over his shoulder, then jumped through, finding himself back in the Enchanted Forest.
The magic in the very soil of the place sang to him immediately; he took in a deep breath and let it tingle through his veins. Yes, he was home—at least, until he was finally able to reclaim the one of his youth (the one he was entitled to).
That entire adventure in London certainly wasn’t what he thought it would be, nor had he done what he had hoped to accomplish there. But if this portrait truly did what Basil said it would, it was the extended lease on life he needed.
He grabbed the canvas out from under his arm to take another look at it. Indeed, the wry smirk that Basil had first painted had fallen a bit; the Dorian in the image was scowling a bit—a touch of cruelty in the mouth—with frown lines at his eyes and mouth and a jagged scar across his cheek.
Just to check, he summoned a looking glass to his hand; there was no change in his reflection whatsoever, aside from the cut. Excellent. What did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas, then? He would be safe. That was everything.
He would need to find someplace to keep this safe—it wasn’t practical to tote around a mid-sized painting everywhere—but surely there was a gallery or a museum in some town he could stick it in and not have to worry about its safety.
And so he set off on foot for the next closest city (he did prefer to walk sometimes), painting in tow and a spring in his step.
At least—until he heard it. He thought it was imagined at first, but no; it was quiet—almost an echo—but he was hearing the definitive sound of a heart beating that wasn’t his own.
He spun around, looking through the trees to see if someone was following him, but it was closer than that. He paused to listen closer, and then he realized: it was coming from the painting.
It beat at the same tempo as his, but just a hair behind. He placed his palm on the back of the canvas, and he could almost feel the steady thump-thump coming off of it; it felt like something from deep within, rather than the relatively thin fabric of the painting.
He sighed and closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sybil,” he whispered; now that the adrenaline had run off, he could let the regret and heartbreak wash over him.
But it also solidified his resolve: he had to see this through now. He’d given up the only other thing that had ever meant anything to him.
(All too quickly, though, the guilt wrought by that quietly beating heart forced him to find a place to hide the portrait, sooner and much less ostentatiously than he’d wanted. He’d found his way to an ageless realm—one supposedly of “untold stories”—and made the acquaintance of a moderately wealthy woman with an art collection. She promised to take care of it; he warned that he’d know if she didn’t.
The years continued on, and nothing changed in his reflection, regardless of how many realms he crossed and sins he committed.
However, he did find himself avoiding dark-haired women at the brothels he began to frequent again. Anytime his efforts took him to the Land without Magic, he made sure to never go near London. And he stayed the hell away from actresses.)
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic
It was a fruit bat. A rather large one, at that. It stared calmly back at them with its wide, dark eyes, and twitched its ears. It seemed completely unbothered at being a bat-burrito, suggesting it was accustomed to being handled. It yawned, exposing sharp canines, one of which had a small chip in it.
-----------------------------
“We’re fine with strangers - so long as they don’t bring trouble.”
He grinned, flashing sharp teeth. “And I look like trouble?”
Emma arched an eyebrow.
His smile widened. Oh, he knew exactly how he looked.
“Killian Jones,” he said, offering his hand. Emma lifted a brow when, instead of shaking, he brushed his lips across the back of her hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She hmmphed, refusing to be charmed by his old world manners.
A LOT happens in this seemingly quick adventure, but it's such an interesting world that's been built! Also--I had no idea how freakin' adorable fruit bats were until this story. Please take the time to check it out and send wyntereyez some love!!!
Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]
A/N: Things stay a bit steamy this week in my @cssns story...hope you enjoy it! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl !)
rated M | 4.7k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8
For the first time since Dorian had crashed into their lives, things were suddenly quiet after Killian’s encounter with him on the ship. No one was fool enough to think that meant he was gone—they were still ever on alert—but the reprieve from actively being on the defensive was appreciated.
Killian still had a few magic lessons, but after his emotional breakdown, he seemed to have made an equal breakthrough when it came to using his powers at will.
Even in the middle of the forest, he easily extinguished the ring of fire Regina conjured. She waved the subsequent steam away from her face with a wince, but then arched an eyebrow. “That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen magical flames put out. Impressive, pirate.”
He smirked and hoped she attributed the flush in his cheeks to the lingering heat and not the blush it actually was.
It was mainly his elemental magic that he’d mastered, but he did begin working on testing out some more general magic. Not with much success, but Regina was unusually patient. “You’ve done the hard part; the rest will come with time,” she assured him.
At least that was going well. He was having less success to adjusting to life without his hook. He’d searched all over the deck of his ship the morning after his confrontation with Dorian, but it wasn’t to be found; he had to assume his arsehole brother had taken it, but couldn’t fathom why (other than to make his life harder).
He’d had that hook longer than he ever had a hand—it’s what he was accustomed to.
He did, however, find a burn mark in the railing the size and shape of a cigarette; he was fighting back the part of him that wanted to similarly scar Dorian.
Until he figured something else out, he’d dug his false hand out of storage; it was better than nothing, but not what he’d prefer. It was too bulky and imprecise. But it beat the alternative of nothing, especially given that he wasn’t yet confident enough to go without his brace in public. (Though he had come to appreciate, since they’d begun to cohabitate, the way Emma massaged the blunted end of his wrist after he removed the brace at the end of the day.)
(He also wasn’t going to complain about the way the use of his false hand was apparently reminding Emma of their adventure in the past, particularly the ball, and that she’d taken to slow dancing with him in the evenings while holding tight to it. Or that it inevitably led to a more horizontal form of dance.
Perhaps he’d have to ask Regina if it was possible to learn how to transform clothing, to truly recreate that night—and finally act on the things he’d only imagined doing with her when he held her close in that red ballgown.)
At least now Belle couldn’t admonish his handling (or, rather, potential damaging) of ancient book covers as she once had, though it had long since become a joke. They were still doing research to figure out whatever they could about Dorian and what he hoped to achieve, largely from Gold’s personal collection; he may have given up the Dark One’s powers, but not their library.
For what it was worth, Killian did also read the novel supposedly written about Dorian, but as its inspiration had said, it appeared to only be very loosely based in truth and while an enjoyable story, was less than helpful.
They were following any potential lead they could, particularly anything about dark magic, but also whatever they could find about Killian and Dorian’s inherent magic. There was so much Killian didn’t know about his parents and family; if he could learn anything about his background this way, he’d like to.
During their down time at the library, they worked their way through whichever books Belle had brought from home, if only to take stock of each one’s subject matter even if it didn’t hold any answers.
Killian was skimming over a volume on magical botany (and quickly losing interest) when he noticed a sudden but well-known change in Belle’s body language as she studied her own tome. First, she leaned closer over the page. Then she followed several lines of text with her index finger. She picked up the whole thing, bringing it close to her nose, eyes darting as she read.
Then she nearly slammed it back on the table (as carefully as she dared to slam a book that was twice as old as he was—which was saying something) and exclaimed.
“Holy shit!”
Well, that took him aback; her excited outbursts were usually far less profane. “Language,” he chided, though far from serious.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, briefly. “Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but, “but I found something big.”
“Something relevant?”
“Yeah—though I’m not sure how you’ll react.”
He quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. “What is it?”
“If I’m translating this correctly—and I’m almost positive I am—it implies that the magic of twins born around Cailleach is connected.”
Killian tilted his head. “How so?” He found that curious, given how long it lay dormant in him.
“Well, it’s anecdotal, but it talks of a set of twins who used their powers together. But then one died unexpectedly—and the other lost the ability to use magic.”
He hummed in thought. “It could have just been due to the loss of their twin, though—that’s a hard emotional hurdle to overcome.” He knew he’d have been unable to use his powers after the loss of Liam—at least, not with any control.
“Perhaps,” she agreed, but her eyes were still on the page. “But it goes on to talk about another pair who had lived apart for decades; their powers never faded, but when one eventually passed, the other’s magic went with it—even before they learned of their sibling’s death.”
“So…” He quickly did the math in his head. “You’re saying the easiest way to stop him…would be my death?”
She gasped at him. “Of course I’m bloody not saying that! I’m saying that if he died, you’d lose your powers.”
“That doesn’t exactly negate my conclusion.”
She huffed. “I suppose not—but have a little self-preservation, okay?”
“Can’t say that’s something I’m known for,” he quipped back—though it wasn’t far from the truth, given his track record.
But then he realized— “He likely already knows about that, then.”
Now it was Belle’s turn to be confused; her brow furrowed, until she apparently remembered. “Oh, right; you died.”
“For a few weeks, if I recall correctly.”
She shrugged. “I kind of lost track of time when I was under that sleeping curse.”
“Fair,” he chuckled (because that was really the only reaction he could have to that entire line of conversation; as Emma frequently said, “What even is our life?”)
“But if he only just found out about you, then he may not have made the connection yet,” Belle pointed out.
“Mm, true.” He thought more about what they knew of Dorian’s plan. “And if he does mean to kill me, then that would be cutting himself off at the ankles before he even got to finish it.”
“...Which would make your death rather convenient,” Belle had to concede.
“Told you,” he teased.
They thought in silence for a moment, Belle staring away in thought and drumming her fingers on the table. “I wonder…” started, then skimmed over the pages again.
“Wonder what?”
She read for a bit more before replying. “I can’t find any specific evidence to support it, but I wonder if simply one twin losing their magic would be enough to cut off the other one.”
He leaned back and considered her hypothesis. It was certainly a safer option, but still had its risks. “Were you thinking him, or me?”
“That’s why I wasn’t sure how you’d react,” she told him.
He studied his hand—which, for once, wasn’t pulsing with blue lights, but he could feel it simmering under the surface. “It’s definitely the easier of the two options.”
“But?”
“But this is all I have to protect Emma from him. And if it doesn’t work, I lose that.”
“You know she can defend herself,” Belle lectured.
“Oh, I’m fully aware. But for once, I’d like her to not have to.”
Belle gave him a somewhat melancholy smile and placed her hand over his. “Let’s keep it in our back pocket, then, alright? Besides, we don’t even know how to remove your magic anyways.”
“Yes we do,” he quickly reminded her. While he wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea, it was a solid backup plan—and he knew exactly who to talk to.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
He probably should have called or texted ahead, but when faced with making such an odd social call, Killian found himself somewhat nervous. He wasn’t even sure how the phone number ended up in his device, as he’d never once used it, nor had they—it was purely for emergencies, which had thankfully been in short supply lately.
So he figured it might be better to simply show up at the door and see what kind of reception he got. He still hesitated to knock, though; his hand hovered over the weathered wood as he second-guessed this entire meeting.
Before he wavered any longer, he quickly rapped on the door, firmly and fast. And held his breath.
It took a moment, but he heard footsteps approach the other side of the door, then saw the lace curtain in the window briefly move aside and fall back. The deadbolt turned, the door swung open—
—And a blade was at his neck. Zelena was holding a kitchen knife to his carotid, her other hand fisted around the open edge of his coat.
“Which one are you?” she snarled.
“The one with one hand,” he snapped back. “Is this how you treat all unexpected visitors?” (It checked out, if he was being honest.)
“Glamour spells are easy,” she countered. “Prove it’s you: tell me how we escaped from the Dark Swan’s cave?”
He squinted his eyes shut at the memory (and also because he could feel the edge of the knife on his skin). That wasn't a moment he ever cared to revisit; as such, it had stayed private between the two of them. “I had an enchantment in my hook and used it to remove the magic-blocking cuff; you did the rest.”
She stepped back and let go of him, seemingly satisfied. He still checked his neck where the blade had been, but no blood came back.
Zelena leaned out of sight, setting the knife down inside the house, and then crossed her arms as she glared at him. “Well, now that that’s settled, what do you want? Robyn’s asleep so I’ve only got an hour to myself, if I’m lucky.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but might I come in? I wanted to ask you about something.”
She smirked and raised her eyebrow. “This should be good. Come on in.”
He’d somehow never been inside her farmhouse. It was cozy, if a bit messy, but not any less than the Nolan’s home; he supposed that came with the territory of small children. “I just put some water on for tea; care for any?” she called over her shoulder.
“Depends; is it laced with nightroot? Because we really don’t need another evil version of me,” he couldn’t help but quip.
“Fresh out,” she deadpanned. “I only have green.”
“How in-character of you.”
They settled at the worn kitchen table and took a few sips from their mugs (it was actually very good tea). But now that he was here, he wasn’t exactly sure how to start the conversation.
Zelena had no such hesitation. “Out with it, then,” she started, setting her mug down. “What is it you come seeking my expert advice on?”
He let a sip of his tea wash down as he debated how to start. “When you gave up your magic, what did it feel like?”
“What, already tired of yours? Regina said you were actually catching on.”
It felt incredibly odd to receive anything resembling a compliment from Zelena. “Not quite, but…it might make things easier.”
“For you, maybe; it wasn’t for me. But you’re already used to doing things manually.”
“That’s it?” he asked, incredulous. “You could no longer wave your hand and have things done for you? That was the only change?”
“Of course it bloody wasn’t!” she said angrily. “It felt like…losing a part of myself,” she admitted. “It wasn’t unlike the emptiness I felt after I gave birth—like there was a hole inside.”
“Do you still?”
She stared at her mug. “Most of the time, no. Just like after I had Robyn, it healed, mostly—but it also left its marks. I still feel the loss sometimes.” She glanced up at him. “A few days ago, your twin was here and I just…handed over my daughter, because I thought he was you. I was so mad at myself. If I still had my magic, I could have sensed that he wasn’t who I thought—that he had his own magic. But what scared me the most was that I couldn’t have protected my child if he’d wanted to hurt her.”
That was a deeper confession than he was expecting. Despite all they’d been through together and the fact there was a tenuous level of trust, they weren’t exactly what he’d call close. But he did come here to seek her advice, right?
“I appreciate your honesty,” he told her. “And I know how you feel—that’s my greatest concern as well.”
“You have a backup, though,” she scoffed. “You’ve got your sword and years of fighting experience to rely on; I’m not quite so skilled.”
“Those only go so far when your foe has magic,” he countered. “Especially when he’s out for blood.”
“Yeah, Regina told me,” she said. “I assume you think losing your powers would have an effect?”
He explained Belle’s hypothesis regarding the connection of their magic and the possibility of severing it. She listened intently and then sat back, staring up at the ceiling in thought.
“It’s definitely a valid theory,” she told him. “I mean, that’s essentially what happened when I gave up mine—once that was gone, the Black Fairy couldn’t use those crystals anymore, even though they were more a side effect of my magic than anything.”
“Do you still have that object you used—that heart thing?”
“The Crimson Heart,” she corrected. “And I don’t, but Regina does; she stuck it in her vault for safekeeping, so gods only know where exactly it is in that mess.”
He glanced at the state of Zelena’s living room through the entryway from the kitchen, but made no further comment.
“I’ll talk to her; we can probably get it out whenever you want. How soon were you thinking about doing this?”
“The sooner, the better,” he decided—not just on when, but that it was the right course of action as well. If it worked, Dorian was so reliant on his magic that its loss would likely render him bereft, and Killian was indeed skilled enough to fend him off.
“I’ll ask Regina about it tomorrow, then.”
“That works,” he agreed. “Cheers,” he ended, offering his mug in a toast.
She clinked hers against his and they made small talk as they finished their tea, as if they hadn’t just had a fairly serious conversation.
Not long after, whimpers came from the baby monitor sitting on the counter. “I’ll leave you to that, then,” he said, intending to excuse himself, and stood up.
“Oh no you don’t,” Zelena countered. “Robyn is in an intense water phase right now. If you want to return the favor, you’ll flex some of that magic for her before you ditch it.”
He had to smile at that. “Aye, we can manage something.”
Little Robyn was thoroughly entertained by the fountains, splashes, and whirlpools he created in the stoppered basin sink (and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Zelena was impressed, too—though he didn’t miss the bit of melancholy in her eyes, likely from what they’d previously discussed).
He finally left feeling a bit lighter than when he’d arrived, though still obviously trepidatious. He’d talk it over with Emma, though; she’d either confirm he was doing the right thing, or tell him he was being a bloody idiot.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
“You’re sure about this?”
“It’s the easiest way to ruin his plans. We don’t have a ton of options here.”
Emma had listened to Killian’s explanation of the plan to get rid of his magic, but wasn’t completely sure she was on board, even if it made sense.
She set her mug of cocoa down on the kitchen table and leaned back in her chair. “I know, but you were there when I tried to give up mine. It might not be the easy way out you think it is.”
“I’m aware,” he acknowledged from his seat adjacent to her. “But we also both know that if I was just doing this because I didn’t want to take ownership of my powers, I’d have pursued this a week ago.”
“Yeah,” she conceded. “And at least it’s not Gold this time.”
She slightly regretted bringing up that memory when Killian shuddered; that whole situation—with the hat and subsequent theft of his heart—had been far more traumatic for him than her, though who knows what would have happened without Elsa’s intervention.
“Indeed,” he finally said. “If this works the way we think it will, it’ll make sure this whole situation is resolved without any bloodshed—most importantly, yours.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hey—yours too,” she chided. “And what if it doesn’t?”
“Then we come up with a new plan,” he assured her. “And I start wearing my sword belt again.”
She chuckled a bit, if only because she enjoyed the way the leather sat on his hips (though she also admired the fit of a gun holster on his shoulders, even if his stint as deputy was short-lived). But then she sighed. “I meant it when I said I was into the whole power couple thing,” she told him. “I’m gonna miss that.”
“You’re far better at it, darling,” he tossed back. “But perhaps if our time is limited in that regard,” he went on, leaning in and looking down coyly, “we make the most of it?”
Now he was glancing up at her through those long lashes of his, a smirk cutting a dimple into his scruff.
Well. She could never say no to that.
So she leaned towards his ear and whispered, “Race you to the bathroom.”
(She won, for the record.)
They’d long since mastered the most efficient removal of clothes; the lone perk to Henry being out of the house was that no one was around to judge them for the trail of shirts and underwear left on the stairs and hallway landing.
She may have assisted their water heater in getting the shower up to temp; once it was nice and steamy, she dragged Killian in and wasted no further time in getting on with things. It wasn’t the first time they’d had an encounter in the shower since he’d mastered his magic, but knowing this was the last time, she was impatient to get going (and was going to loathe the end).
As the hot water washed over her, she shivered, both at the heat on her skin and in anticipation of what was to come. Killian, too, was eager, it seemed—both by the way he wasted no time in pressing himself against her back and wrapping his arms around her waist, and by the beginnings of an erection that she could feel against her rear.
She turned in his embrace and similarly placed her arms around him, resting them at the small of his back, and aligning as much of her body to his as she could—even though the initial brush of his chest hair against her nipples made her arch her back.
He smirked at her reaction, but then it turned into a softer, more intimate smile that she only ever saw come out in these shared moments, and he buried his hand in her wet tresses to press a tender kiss to her lips.
They took their time, sharing languid kisses, hands gently wandering and gradually building the best kind of tension between them.
The water continued to rain down on them, drawing meandering paths down their bodies. But…was some of it going backwards?
At first, she thought it was just spray bouncing up at her ankles. But then it felt like droplets were trailing up her back alongside his fingers.
The sensation continued, swirling subtly up her legs and abdomen; when it eventually traveled over the sensitive area between her legs, she knew exactly what was going on.
She went up on her toes—partly in reaction, and partly to look him closer in the eye. “I felt that,” she jokingly accused.
“I bloody well hope so,” he countered. “Was wondering when you’d acknowledge that.”
“Maybe I was enjoying it too much to say anything.”
“Then I suppose I better get back to it,” he said, just as she felt simultaneous threads of water swirl around her nipples.
After that, it was like every drop that fell on her had a destination; as much as his fingers drew designs on her skin, the water similarly made patterns all over her body: circling her breasts and navel, spiraling down her thighs, caressing her shoulders and back, even tickling the sensitive spot just under her jaw. (That one may have earned him a similar touch under his arms, making him briefly squirm away.)
She was getting completely lost in the sensation—of him and his magic all around her—when something made her jump. It felt like when Killian went down on her, but he was obviously still fully upright.
She gasped when it happened again—the same gentle but firm touch, right over her clit.
“Oh, that is so not—fair,” she admonished, stuttering as he did it again. Typically, he just raised an eyebrow at her, somehow both in pride and challenge.
Well. She had a few tricks up her sleeve, despite being very naked.
She slipped her hands around his waist and found his lips again, mainly as a distraction. And then she called her magic to her palms, making them tingle with heat and light.
She let her fingers graze over his hips, sparking a bit as they went, then reached down in between them to his hardening cock and gripped it carefully but firmly.
“Fffuck,” he hissed, throwing his head back. She smirked and stroked his length. “Bloody…hell,” he gasped.
“What’s it you say? ‘Turnabout’s fair play’ or something?” She was probably butchering that line but he couldn’t exactly respond when her extra-warm hand had a grasp on his manhood.
But he could growl, which he did, making tension coil deep in her core. He placed his hand and wrist on her hips and rested his forehead against hers—she thought in bliss at first, as she continued to massage his shaft, but then a mini maelstrom took over their shower stall: droplets began to float and whirl around them, hissing into steam when they hit her overheated skin.
That was new. To test it, she drew a line with the index finger of her free hand down his bicep; it sizzled the whole way, but left no mark. “Did that hurt?” she asked softly.
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
She experimented further, letting go of his cock and pressing her palms against his pecs. She dragged her fingers through his chest hair and he sucked in a breath, both at her touch and the ensuing steam.
His eyes had fallen shut, but he opened them when her hands reached his collarbones—and fire was in his gaze, almost literally given how hazy it had gotten in there.
He surged forward and grabbed her ass, sliding his hand down her thigh to lift her leg and press his hips against hers. She inhaled sharply at the brush of his erection against her keyed-up clit.
“Now?” he asked with a further nudge of his hips.
“Not yet,” she answered; she was probably ready for him, but wanted to play a bit more first.
She found his lips again and continued to kiss and press herself against him. Her skin was beginning to tingle as water drops continued to evaporate as soon as they hit her; she had to assume his was, too, as her wandering hands still hissed wherever they went, especially when she squeezed his pert, perfect rear end.
Well, that may have been her undoing—or close to it, because when she gripped those firm muscles, it brought them even closer together, making her realize just how much she was aching for him.
“Okay, now,” she whispered in his ear.
He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. He just carefully guided her to the wall behind her so it would be easier for him to get leverage. Normally, she had to brace herself for contact with the cool tile, but it was unusually warm tonight.
Killian guided her leg to sit on the footrest she’d put in the shower for this exact reason; between that and the wall, it just made things so much easier. Although her foot slipped the first time she tried to set it down; despite no longer being directly under the shower head, water was still coming down on them, from every direction, it seemed; definitely Killian’s handiwork.
Once she was in place, he pressed one more kiss to her lips, then gave his cock a couple of strokes (not that it really needed any further priming, but she certainly enjoyed watching). And then he expertly found her entrance and slid in.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes at first. “So warm,” he breathed; but she was caught up as ever in how perfectly they fit together.
But now that he was inside, she craved friction; she moved a bit to let him know, and he took the hint. With the way they were positioned, it’d be more him than her in action, but she wasn’t worried about not finding her own release.
(Not that she ever was, but there again was a stream of water gently circling her clit that probably meant she’d be coming sooner than anticipated.)
He pulled back and pressed forward, languid at first but then picking up the pace. She met him on each press as best she could, but now there was water on her breasts again—still all over both of them—and she was getting a bit overwhelmed as she quickly approached her peak.
He noticed, like he always did. “How close?”
“Pretty damn.”
“Aye.” And then he increased his speed as much as he could, given the awkward angle, and it felt like her clit was going to drown, if that was possible, with the sudden whirlpool it suddenly was at the center of.
She tried to hold out as long as possible—to revel in this experience—but—but—
“Let go,” he murmured—and she did.
Her release crested over her much like the falling water had, until she was entirely awash in it. Killian came just a bit later; she could tell not only from his actions, but also because the constantly moving water suddenly stopped like it had been instantly frozen, sitting still on her skin.
It wasn’t long until he pulled out and the water trailed away like it was supposed to, falling off their bodies to the tile below. He took her hand and led her back to the space under their shower head, letting it take care of the clean up.
“That. That is what I’m gonna miss,” she told him as she curled into his chest.
He placed a kiss on her temple. “Then we best make the most of this, eh?”
They certainly did, not fully crashing until a couple hours later. She made a point to memorize every detail of that night; hell, she was debating preserving it in a dreamcatcher.
If that was the last night they’d have like that, then at least it was a perfect one. She smiled to herself, thoroughly content, as she drifted off in his embrace.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic
Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]
A/N: So here's the chapter of this @cssns story where things finally earn the M rating ;) (Also—not just because of that—this might be my favorite chapter of the whole thing.) Hope you enjoy it! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl !)
rated M | 5.7k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
Killian took a pull from his flask as he stared out at the horizon. The sun had just set, its orange hue still painting the edge of the sky where it met the ocean, but stars were starting to twinkle in the inky blue overhead. The sight was normally soothing, but it wasn’t quite doing the trick tonight.
He should probably just go home; brooding on his ship was not going to give him anywhere near as much respite as Emma’s embrace would, but after the day he’d had, he also sorely needed a moment (or a few) alone to try to quell the internal tempest that was currently raging.
He was also desperate for Emma’s light, but knew he had to find his own first. (And not just the blue glow he could see pulsing in the vein at his wrist.)
That day saw him at yet another magic lesson. He’d slowly been getting better at harnessing his powers, but maintaining focus was still a challenge. Today was especially difficult as not only had they met in the woods—in an effort to teach him to channel his powers away from the call of the sea—but he’d already been distracted before he met Regina. His thoughts still lingered on the number of townsfolk giving him the cold shoulder; while he knew it was because of Dorian’s actions and not his own, it was still disheartening that his neighbors would be so quick to assume the worst in him, after his consistent work to the contrary.
Despite the progress he’d been making, he gave into those feelings of hurt and anger while harnessing his magic. It had resulted in some powerful moments, albeit uncontrolled—though he at least had enough magical acumen now to clean up the mess he’d made in the clearing in the forest.
Towards the end of the lesson, Regina huffed with her arms crossed and gave him a curious look. “What?” he snapped, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm the shaking in his limbs.
She pursed her lips. “It’s a good thing Emma isn’t here, is all.”
Before they were supposed to meet, Emma had to run off to tend to a break in at Any Given Sundae—Dorian again—so he’d originally attributed his inability to focus on the lack of her presence (though he knew he’d have to stop using her as an emotional crutch at some point). “And why is that?”
Regina strode closer. “I’m the last person to talk when it comes to warning you against feeding your magic with anger; we both know where that goes. But we also both know it’s easier that way.” Then she smirked. “And I know that it feels good.”
He swallowed; he wanted to refute that statement but…he couldn’t. Those angry outbursts—and the accompanying bursts of magic—tingled through his veins in a way that felt oddly euphoric. He was coming to enjoy the sensation of magic flowing through him, but he only felt it strongly when he let his darker emotions take charge. It still felt better than when the Darkness was coursing through him—more natural—but he was starting to worry that it might feel too good. And he was no stranger to addiction.
“So what do I do?” he asked, in a smaller voice than he intended. (Regina was not someone he’d ever thought he’d be vulnerable in front of.)
She shrugged. “You know I can’t answer that for you. But if there’s anyone I know who can figure it out, it’s you.”
Regina was far more confident in his abilities than he was—and it showed in his next failed attempt (or successful, depending on how one looked at it: his anger overtook him once more, and a nearby rock split in half).
She tutted as she put it back together with a(n annoyingly) casual wave of her hand. “You literally turned your back on the Darkness; this should be easy. How did you do that?”
After catching his breath, he said, “Well, Emma was quite literally having the life choked out of her; I’d rather not reenact that.”
Regina shook her head. “Both of you are so literal. It wasn’t the act; it was the emotion. For someone who wears their heart on their leather sleeve, you’re being awfully dense.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but channel your love for Emma, or something.”
He smirked at her discomfort.
“Look, that’s the best you’re gonna get from me; you’ve gotta talk to your mother-in-law for all the lovey-dovey crap.”
It got a little better after that—but only his control; there was nothing so powerful as when he reacted instinctively and frustratedly. Regina seemed content enough at the end of their scheduled lesson, as the sun started to cast long shadows, but despite her uncharacteristically encouraging farewell, he still felt off-kilter.
Which brought him here, drinking on his ship, hunched over the railing, in what was proving to be a vain attempt to settle his soul. (Though he realistically should have known that would be no easy feat; it was well-documented that his soul was quite troubled.)
One terrible thought kept plaguing him, especially as he felt the magic in his blood sing in reaction to his proximity to the water: if his love for Emma wasn’t as strong as the anger at his core, then what did that say about him? There was no doubting the immensity of his feelings for her—True Love and all that—but, despite everything they’d been through in the last couple years, had he not yet risen above the depths of his own depravity enough to outweigh it?
And if so, would he ever?
Perhaps he and Dorian were still more similar than he’d like to admit.
“Drinking alone?” Speak of the devil. Killian stiffened at the noise, though; he still wasn’t used to the sound of his own voice coming from someone else. “Doesn’t seem very heroic.”
“What would you know about that, anyway?” he tossed over his shoulder at Dorian. Footsteps sounded as the other man apparently descended on the deck.
“Oh, nothing; just figured you’d be off with your lovely wife and all your friends, getting high on your own innate goodness.”
Killian turned around—only to find he was well and truly looking in a mirror; As he’d suspected, Dorian was wearing his clothes, his hook, and even more of his face than usual. “Bugger off,” was the only quip he could produce.
“What, trouble in paradise?” Dorian went on. “Color me surprised.” His smirk said the opposite.
“Sure you are,” Killian answered dryly. “And where does this little rendezvous fit into your futile plan? Come to see how well you’re ruining my life?” He was being a bit of what Henry called “emo,” but he figured it was deserved.
“Why must everything be part of some grandiose plan?” Dorian tossed back casually. “Everyone’s been telling me I should take a lesson from you; what if that’s what I was doing?”
“I’d say you need to study better,” he lectured.
“Ah, I was never much of a book learner. Too flammable.” As if to emphasize it, a burst of flame licked over him from head to toe as he dropped the glamour he’d been using.
“At least that’s one thing we don’t have in common.”
“Definitely more than that,” Dorian continued, either oblivious to or willfully ignoring Killian’s less-than-chipper mood. “You’ve got terrible taste in liquor, too; could barely drink half the rum I stole.”
“Poor you.”
From nowhere, a cigarette appeared in Dorian’s fingers; as he approached Killian, he snapped the fingers of his opposite hand and a flame danced at his fingertips that he used to light it, then shook the fire away as he took a drag.
“No smoking on my ship,” Killian warned, then doused the roll with a quickly summoned bit of seawater.
Dorian pouted, but then tossed the wasted cigarette overboard before leaning backwards against the railing next to him. “I have a feeling we could swap stories on where to find the best booze in all the realms; have you ever been to—”
“Not interested,” he interrupted, and corked his flask to hopefully put an end to that conversation.
“Suit yourself. But perhaps you can tell me: last time you were in Agrabah, how were the brothels? It’s been so long—”
Killian stepped to the side to face him. “Why don’t you go there and find out for yourself—and leave me the hell alone?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Dorian’s smirk was both audible and familiar—far too similar to Killian’s own, right down to the dimple that Emma had often told him was adorable, but just seemed insincere on the other man’s face.
(Though…he couldn’t deny he’d used it in the past to lull others into a false sense of security.)
He turned away and crossed the deck, no longer wanting to look at his counterpart. He imagined this was similar to what Belle once saw looking into the Ice Queen’s mirror: a twisted vision of one’s most intrusive thoughts brought to life.
“Do you really expect me to believe that Captain Hook, of all people, enjoys life in this…hamlet?” Dorian went on. “It’s just so…boring.”
Killian scoffed. “I had two hundred years of exciting; I’m fine with a bit of boring.”
“Please; you’re a wanderer. For all our differences, I know that’s the same.”
“It’s not; not anymore.”
“I think you’ve just forgotten,” his twin hypothesized, and he could hear and feel his steps getting closer. “Come on, man—let’s take this thing out and set sail. Do some pirating in the Caribbean, eh? Head back to our home realm and visit Pleasure Island. Or we could go to Agrabah, like you said; check out those whorehouses ourselves. Bet things are getting pretty dull with the missus, eh?”
It was like a spark ignited in Killian at the mention of Emma—how bloody dare he assume that? (Especially when it couldn’t be further from the truth.) He didn’t even think; he just dropped his flask, whipped around, pulled his right arm back, and unleashed an instinctive punch right on the side of Dorian’s nose.
He staggered back, bringing his hand to his face; his fingers came back bloody. The other man sniffled, but it did nothing to stop the sluggish flow from his nostril.
He glared at it for a moment, but then laughed. “Oh, it’s definitely still in you, Hook,” he snarled, glancing up with a wicked grin. “It never leaves.”
“What is?” Killian demanded.
Dorian jumped into his personal space. “The darkness,” he hissed. “Admit it: part of you is fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”
Killian shoved him away. “Fuck. Off,” he bit out, but he knew he was talking to his own doubts and worries just as much as he was to Dorian.
“You can’t deny it,” Dorian told him cockily. “It’s always going to be a part of you. Each of us has heaven and hell in him.”
If Killian had been thinking straight, he’d have remembered Dorian was talking about that shred of the Dark One deep within; but with the way his day had gone, all he heard was that he hadn’t truly changed—not enough.
“You know I’m right. I can fucking feel it.”
Killian glanced down and saw a tempest forming in his palm; he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or the waning light, but he swore he saw hints of black within, much like when he was the Dark One.
“Tell me, brother: how much blood has that hook spilled?” he prodded.
“Apparently not enough,” Killian spat back, grabbing Dorian’s lapel with his hand pressing the tip of his hook to the other man’s jugular; he could hear the metal scraping against his stubble.
“Do it. I fucking dare you. See what everyone thinks when you’ve murdered me in cold blood.”
“If only that would work. But I get the impression you’d find a way to weasel yourself out of death.”
“Something we’ve both done.”
“No.” Again, he pushed Dorian away, rejecting such selfish similarities. He wasn’t that man anymore—right?
“You can try to deny it, but the facts speak for themselves.”
Killian blinked back tears of frustration. No—he’d come too far from the man he once was—had done so much to make amends—and yet—and yet—
It wasn’t enough. No matter what he did, he’d always be Hook first to everyone.
He glanced down at his namesake appendage. It glinted in the waning light, almost taunting him.
With a dejected cry, he twisted the tool out of its socket, yanked it from its brace, and threw it with all his force at the deck; the point stuck in the wood.
“That doesn’t change anything and you know it,” Dorian taunted, lighting another cigarette.
He was right; it didn’t. But what would anymore?
Rain started to fall on them despite it being a clear evening; the way it sparked against his skin told him it was his own magic overreacting to his emotional turmoil. Oddly, though, it just sizzled against Dorian as he stared on, unfazed; it didn’t even touch the ember at the end of his cigarette.
Killian’s heart was racing and it felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack; he hadn’t had one of those in over a century. His vision blurred and it got hard to breathe, and he could feel his magic racing through his veins. He needed—he needed—he needed Emma.
The next thing he knew he was standing in their bedroom at home, sopping wet, and the room was beginning to spin.
He fell to his knees on the rug beside the bed as stars began to swim in his vision; he could still see effulgent blue in the veins of his hand, but faded from where it was a moment ago.
“Killian?” Emma was on the floor in front of him, worry furrowing her brow. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“I—” he gasped, but had no idea what to say.
A sudden rush of fatigue took hold, anyway; his eyes refused to stay open any longer, and he was aware of his arm buckling underneath him as he fell forward.
The last thing he heard was Emma frantically calling his name before darkness took over.
Good. That was what he deserved.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
Emma was trying to process…whatever the hell was going on. Why had her husband just appeared out of nowhere in their room, soaking wet, and promptly passed out in her lap?
Regina had texted earlier, letting her know that his lesson had been a little rough, so she knew to at least expect him in a stormy mood. But not to look like he’d been caught in an actual tempest.
His hook was missing, and she could see light fading in the veins at his neck as his magic receded; she still had to ask Regina or Gold why his powers did that. But he didn’t appear to have any other injuries; he’d probably just used too much magic at once and overexerted himself. (She’d definitely done that a few times.)
His brow twitched when she pushed the hair out of his eyes, but he didn’t move otherwise. She knew she should let him rest, but if something was wrong, she needed to know.
But first, she dried him off with a wave of her hand; the subsequent sparking that appeared all along his body in reaction to her magic told her that whatever downpour he’d been caught in was one of his own creation. (That and the fact that she hadn’t seen a cloud all day.)
She’d hoped to rouse him in a more gentle way, but his eyes flew open at the shocks; that was probably hard to sleep through, even if he’d been completely unconscious a moment ago.
“Hey; you okay?” she asked as his eyes darted around from where he was still laying on her thighs, until they finally settled on hers. The normal clear and bright blue was edging on a turbulent grey—a good tell of where he was mentally.
He suddenly jolted upright and then scurried away from her; not far, but enough that there was some distance between them, and he was facing away from her.
He was sitting with his legs bent up, arms resting on his knees, and was staring at his hand, turning it over to look at both front and back—and it was shaking.
“Killian?” she asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” he said on a breath.
Knowing him, that was probably hyperbole, but it was clear he wasn’t in a good place, mentally or emotionally. Normally, she’d check to see if he needed space, but he’d already had that tonight and he’d come home (or, at least, his magic had brought him here) for a reason.
Slowly, she got up and moved over to him. He didn’t notice her barefoot steps on their plush rug, so she whispered “hey” when she got close, before she gently took his hand in hers.
He tried to pull his hand away but she held on tight. Then he glanced up at her, eyes watery, but still apparently speechless.
“What happened?” she asked as she knelt in front of him. “Talk to me.”
“How can you even touch me, love?” he replied. “After everything I’ve done?”
She made a mental note to call Archie as she wiped a tear from his cheek; he’d come a long way from where he used to be in regards to self-loathing, but still regularly wrestled with his guilt. “Because I love you, that’s why. Pretty sure that’s well-established, certified by the gods and all.” She pressed a kiss to the back of his unsteady hand. “And you’ve come so far from where you used to be; you’re not that man anymore, I promise you.”
“I had thought so, too, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
It didn’t take any further prodding for him to tell her what had happened that day—his growing frustration with the way the town was giving him the cold shoulder thanks to Dorian’s shenanigans; how that affected his lesson with Regina and their subsequent conversations; and then the confrontation he’d just had with Dorian on his ship, including their physical altercation and his rejection of his hook (which answered that question). He held onto her hand like an anchor through the whole thing; she just listened and gradually lowered herself until she was sitting next to him.
“What if I haven’t done enough?” he finally asked her, voice thick. “He’s right—I will always be fighting against my baser instincts. It’s constantly there, simmering beneath the surface. It’s easy enough to ignore when we’re just going about our daily lives, but when tensions rise—when things get unstable—I don’t know that I’ll make the right decisions. And, Swan,” he continued, “I know I love you more than life itself; why isn’t that enough for me to overcome it?”
Well, shit; that was pretty heavy. But they’d both gotten used to helping ease each other’s burdens.
She pulled his hand into her chest and turned on her rear to face him. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but yeah, you are always going to be fighting against it. You were in the dark for a long time; that’s always going to be a part of you.” He visibly swallowed at that, and she perhaps slightly regretted that choice of words when it came to, y’know, the actual piece of the Darkness that was supposedly inside of them somewhere. Anyways. “It won’t be easy—just ask Regina; she’ll probably tell you it’s a constant choice. And no, you might not always make the right one, but guess what? I won’t either; we both have a long track record of just that. I know my experience was a bit different, but I remember what it was like, with the Dark One whispering my deepest desires in my ear—and enabling them. But we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you hadn’t already proved you’re capable of rising above all that.”
He blinked and sniffed. “Logically, I know all that. But deep down…what if I fail, Emma? What if I succumb to that again?”
“Why would you?” she countered easily. She couldn’t imagine any scenario where he—either of them—would risk losing everything they had now to pursue anything that could place them on a darker path, other than something drastic.
Which, of course, was exactly what he was imagining; should have known that someone who had literally lived through the worst things possible would very quickly find themselves reliving that, or envisioning worse. She could feel his magic sparking against her palm as his emotions began to spiral again.
“Hey—no,” she said firmly, cupping his face with her hand to make him look at her before he could follow that train of thought further. “Nothing is gonna happen.”
“You can’t confidently say that, Emma.”
“And yet, I just did,” she winked, hoping to lighten the mood. He gave a tiny smile back; she took it as a win. “And if for whatever reason you ever did go that way again—well, I’m not so pure and light either, regardless of my savior status. I’m not going anywhere; I will always be at your side.”
His eyes bored into hers and she was expecting some grandiose statement of love, but instead, he surged forward, finding her lips with his own. Well. She recognized well enough when actions spoke louder than words.
She leaned into the kiss without hesitation, her free hand drifting down to his chest. He still held tight to her hand but used his left arm to pull her into his lap, which she promptly straddled. He had a death grip on her whole being and was hardly giving her room to breathe, but she wasn’t complaining; she’d let him have whatever he wanted.
When they did finally come up for air, he gasped out, “Emma; I—I need—”
“What?” Her voice was just as breathless.
“I need to feel…” he whispered, eyes squinted shut.
“Tell me.”
He opened his eyes, and frantic blue was looking out. “Good.”
“You are good,” she reminded him.
“I just…I need you.” He sounded desperate.
“Always.”
They made quick work of their clothes in tandem; wherever he touched her as he helped her undress, sparks danced along her skin. Once she slid his shirt and vest off of his shoulders, she had to bite back a gasp at the way his veins glowed from within all across his body. She stared at it for a moment, but he didn’t let her linger long, gently guiding her chin back up to claim her lips again.
Awkwardly, they shimmied out of their pants (but they were used to that being a bit unpolished in their usual hunger for each other) and fell against their mattress side-by-side. She was about to ask how he wanted it, until he wrapped his arms around her and rolled on top.
But he hesitated, even though he was hovering above her (and she was more than ready for him). “What?”
“Can I…?” It wasn’t hard for her to tell what he was asking. They usually kept things fairly reciprocal in the bedroom, but every so often, for whatever reason, one or the other would take the lead. Given that Killian was feeling somewhat out of control at the moment, she knew what he was asking.
“Of course,” she answered, reaching up to cup his neck and toy with the short hairs at the nape of it; he seemed to melt a bit at her touch. “Take what you need.”
His expression softened, and he again kissed her lips as he carefully lowered his hips against hers.
There was no formal foreplay—he was too anxious, and frankly, she was already worked up—but the way his length brushed against her folds as he began to move above her felt divine and had her eager for more.
His leather brace was cold against her increasingly flushed skin where he rested it along her side, but his hand was warm where it gripped her waist. They hadn’t yet broken the kiss, but he came close a few times—either from his own growing arousal, which she was increasingly aware of, or from the play of her fingers through the hair of both his head and his chest. The way his veins continued to pulse incandescently was tell-tale, too.
Finally, he did pull back a bit, but not much—only just enough to give her a little breathing room (not that she wanted any). He sat back on his haunches and stroked himself, but the way his hand was shaking was visible.
So she propped herself up on one arm and stilled his trembling hand with her steady one. “Let me?”
He closed his eyes, somewhere between frustration and gratitude, and nodded. “Aye.”
Gently, keeping her hand around his, she helped him get the rest of the way to hard—which didn’t take long, but long enough for her to admire the wrecked look on his face and the way his long lashes sat on his cheekbones. Then she guided him to her entrance; he needed no help pressing in, though. (But she wrapped her legs around his waist, anyway.)
For a moment, they both adjusted to the feel of him being inside her; she never tired of the perfect way he filled her (both physically and emotionally). He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking down at her with not a small amount of lust, but there was still some trepidation in there.
“You are a wonderful man, Killian Jones,” she murmured, cupping his cheek. “And I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said on a breath, then pressed himself closer as he began to move.
She figured at the outset, she’d have been the one loving on him; and yet, here they were, with him sucking kisses into the most sensitive parts of her neck as he continued to pull out and press in, delivering the best kind of friction that had her steadily climbing to her peak.
She’d never had as giving a lover as Killian, and in her experience, those were few and far between. In her opinion, that said enough about what kind of man he was.
He picked up his pace as they both chased release; she urged him on, pressing her heels into his lower back. “Emma—are you—?”
“Almost,” she breathed.
He reached between them and found her clit (seriously—he was on another level), massaging it gently, but she still gasped at the sensation. How he was able to work it without losing his rhythm was a mystery to her, but she was the farthest thing from complaining.
“I’m—I’m—” she stuttered, approaching her apex.
“Come for me, love,” he whispered, and she did, with a cry and a jolt—literally.
It felt like her every neuron was lit up as she hit orgasm—which wasn’t unusual, but the fact that her magic was humming beneath her skin was new. Tiny pinpricks of electricity sparked along her spine and through her veins, then danced at her fingertips.
With the way she was gripping his shoulders as she fell into oblivion, she hoped she wasn’t hurting him—from either her grasp or her magic. But he didn’t seem to give any indication of discomfort as he found his own release a few moments later.
Once she caught her breath, her eyes fluttered open to look up at him—and her breath was immediately stolen again, because he was entirely alight, the blue glow of his magic shining from within. She wasn’t sure if the sheen on his skin was sweat or an expression of his own water powers, but each drop was almost fluorescent.
She brushed his wet (again) hair from where it hung in his face; there was again a reaction when her own inherent electricity met his personal precipitation. His eyes flew open at her touch, and even his irises seemed to be lit from within.
“What is it?” he asked softly, his eyes darting back and forth as he studied her face.
“Just…look at you,” she told him. “You’re incredible.”
His brow furrowed in confusion, but then he glanced down at himself. He stilled at first, but then slowly sat back (pulling himself out in the process) and held his arms out in front of him, staring.
At first, she couldn’t quite tell if he was in awe or shock; there was an unusual lack of expression on his face as he studied himself and the magic flowing through his veins, glowing especially bright under his breast—at his heart.
He clenched his hand into a fist and closed his eyes. She propped herself up on her elbows as she watched…whatever he was doing. It still seemed like he wasn’t sure—until she saw his jaw clench in a determined way.
Not just that—no, he suddenly seemed confident.
The beads of water all along his skin seemed to glow brighter for a second, then lifted away from him. Slowly, they began to twist and swirl, circling Killian and coalescing into one spiral of luminescent liquid.
Few things she could recall looked more beautiful.
The coil of water made a few more revolutions before snaking away—towards the bathroom, she realized; of course, he’d be conscientious about cleaning up his mess (they’d deal with the other one later).
The glow under his skin had faded as the physical evidence of his magic disappeared, but a different kind replaced it: he opened his eyes—and grinned.
“Believe me now?” she asked—a bit smug, but mostly proud and just so, so in love.
“Aye, I think I do,” he answered; she thought he was being unusually modest, especially when he scratched behind his ear, but then he was glancing up at her through his lashes, gaze filled with lust. “But maybe you could remind me again?”
“Mm, I think that can be arranged.”
Round Two was just as magical. (So was Round Three.)
Some time later, calm and sated, they fell into bed again, but this time for rest. She was tucked into his side, her hand resting over his heart on his bare chest, and he was holding her close.
“Thank you, Swan,” he murmured as she began to drift off.
“For what?”
“For helping me come back to myself.”
She tilted his head to face her. “Always. But I hope you don’t need it as often now.”
“I hope so too, but—”
She stopped him mid-sentence by pressing a finger to his lips. “Uh-uh. No buts. Do you honestly think a selfish man would have made me come four times tonight?”
He chuckled. “I suppose not.”
“You are one of the best people I know, Killian, and it’s because you once weren’t that makes you so good now—you’ve walked that path, you know what it was like, and you learned what not to do. Nothing and no one can change that.”
“No, I don’t think they can,” he agreed. “Not as long as I have you by my side.”
She cupped his cheek. “Well, I’m not going anywhere, but you don’t need me. Remember—I know what your heart looks like, and it is the brightest red.”
“There’s a bit of black.”
“A bit. The part that kept you alive long enough for us to find each other. And the part that’s a reminder of how far you’ve come. Don’t ever forget that, okay?”
“I won’t.”
She pressed a kiss against his lips and settled her head on his chest (her favorite pillow). “Good. I love you.”
“I love you too, darling. Eternally.”
“Same. Now stop being melodramatic and go to sleep.”
He laughed again—she loved the feel of its vibration under her cheek—but complied, and they both drifted into a peaceful sleep.
And hopefully, that was the last time she had to convince him that he was no longer defined by his past. They’d certainly had that conversation before, but this one had a sense of finality—of closure.
Whatever lay ahead—whatever Dorian had planned—it was even more unlikely to succeed now.
And that was the comforting thought that put her to sleep.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
Back on the ship, Dorian stood over where his twin’s hook still sat lodged in the deck. He was smirking, and frankly impressed with himself.
He knew he’d have to get his hands on it at some point, but hadn’t expected it to be this easy. A piece of metal that had been touched by all three former Dark Ones? (Everyone knew the story of Hook attempting to stab Rumpelstiltskin with his namesake appendage, and he’d seen the sheriff touch it more than once.) A rare thing to come by but crucial to his plan.
He extinguished his cigarette on the ship’s railing, leaving the ashes behind, then knelt down to inspect it. So unassuming, but so much potential.
He fished a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his coat and wrapped it around the curved metal. It took more force than he anticipated to free it from the wood, but once he did, he tucked it in his jacket and then transported himself away, back to the room he was squatting in.
While that was an important ingredient, it wasn’t all he needed to complete the spell. Obviously, blood was required, and there was still the matter of getting at their souls, but progress was progress.
Though the night was young, it was definitely past closing time for most businesses, so his next step would have to wait a bit. He’d seen another bar that day that looked to be less trite than the Rabbit Hole; it’d be good enough to spend an evening.
He took out the hook and put it in the drawer of the bedside table, ignoring the overflowing ashtray atop it, then placed a locking spell on it that only he could undo (he wasn’t fool enough to think a blood lock might hold, even if Killian was nowhere near that kind of magic yet).
Tomorrow, he’d keep moving forward. Tonight, he’d just have fun.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy@mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic
Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]
A/N: Greetings from band camp! But that won't stop me from updating my @cssns story! Hope everyone is having a great week! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl !)
rated M | 5.1k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
Dorian hadn’t been seen since his encounter with Regina the previous morning, but Killian knew better than to let his guard down. Every time the bell rang in the library, Killian was alert, ready for the worst (even if logically he knew his twin wouldn’t announce his presence—though, they did share an affinity for melodrama…). And he’d put on his sword belt for the first time in ages, for both comfort and protection.
He was reshelving a few books when the bell chimed again. He paused to listen, but was mildly surprised when Leroy’s voice rang out in the otherwise quiet library—and sounded more than grumpy. “What the hell, pirate?”
Confused, Killian shoved the book in his hand on the shelf and quickly made his way to the lobby. “Watch the volume, mate,” he chastised. “What’s the problem?”
Leroy was glaring at him and huffing. “Don’t pretend you don’t know; I saw you! Taking a joyride on my boat this morning, using all my gas, and then you just left it adrift. It almost ran into the shipping lane!”
“Why would I take your dinghy when my ship is right there?” Killian countered. “It was probably my good-for-nothing brother.”
“Then why was he dressed like you? And I saw your hook!”
He rolled his eyes; of course Dorian would find a new way to make trouble for him. “Well it wasn’t me! I’ve been here all day, and my wife can provide my alibi prior to that—in detail, if you’d like,” Killian threw back, biting back a smirk at the memory of what they’d gotten up to in bed that morning.
“No thank you,” he responded, stepping back with his hands up. “Just—keep that asshole in check, okay?”
“He’s not my responsibility.”
“Whatever,” Leroy grumbled, and left as quickly as he’d arrived.
Killian was irked by the encounter. Not so much at Dorian’s antics, annoying though they were (and would probably need his attention at some point)—but he was somewhat perturbed by the fact that Leroy was so quick to assume it had been him. There was definitely a time he may have done that, but now? After everything in the past few years? Did the dwarf truly still think so little of him?
He shook his head; Leroy didn’t have much faith in anyone. It was just a stupid misunderstanding; perhaps he’d go down to the docks and see if he could use his powers, meager as they were, to tow the boat back into harbor. But it was nothing to be truly upset over, not on his end.
The day went on without further event and the encounter was nearly out of his mind when he ran into another dwarf outside the sheriff station. Sneezy was coming from the opposite direction and reached the door before he did, but then paused and faced him.
“Uh, Captain,” he started, then characteristically sneezed. He went on after wiping his nose on his ever-present handkerchief. “I was about to report what happened earlier, but I’d be happy to settle now, if you want—if you’d rather Emma not know.”
“Know what?”
“About the rum you stole,” he said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t exactly hide it.”
Killian scoffed; he’d never been impressed by the rum selection at the pharmacy, nor was he desperate enough to shoplift subpar liquor. “I’ve been at the library all day, mate; you should hit up my lookalike for the cash. Or go ahead and report it; may as well add to his rap sheet.”
The dwarf tilted his head, confused. “But—your hook—and clothes—”
“—Are easy to replicate with magic like his,” Killian sighed. “Really, mate? I thought you knew me better.”
Sneezy at least looked a bit like his brother Bashful at that, then uttered a quick apology before nearly running back in the direction from which he’d come.
Killian pinched the bridge of his nose, again frustrated.
It didn’t stop there, though—on the entire walk from the station to Granny’s with Emma, he was on the receiving end of glares, muttering, and people keeping their distance. Granted, that was typical treatment from the gaggle of fairies they passed, given their history.
But even mild-mannered Gepetto, upon his exit from the diner, turned suddenly angry at the sight of Killian and wasted no time getting in his face and yelling in his native tongue. Killian was skilled at languages but not well-studied in that one, save for a few curse words—all of which he heard in the tirade.
The carpenter didn’t give Killian a chance to reply before storming off, leaving him fatigued and Emma confused. “What the hell was his problem?” she griped.
“No clue—but I’m willing to bet it was my brother; that’s been happening all afternoon.”
“Ugh, that dick,” she cursed. “But can’t people tell the difference by now?”
“You’d think,” he sighed, knowing that didn’t mean a damn thing if a glamour spell was involved.
“Sounds like he needs to be punched in his pretty nose to make sure it’s more obvious,” she suggested, stepping into Killian’s space and tapping his own nose.
“You think my nose is pretty?” he flirted back.
“All of you is. Way more than him,” she assured him, then dragged him into the restaurant.
He obviously knew he was innocent of the various misdemeanors he’d been accused of, and he was certainly no stranger to being a suspect. But that hurt feeling from earlier crept back up in him as he fielded side-eyed stares from his seat across from an oblivious Emma while they ate.
Hadn’t he earned this town’s trust? Weren’t they well past any questioning of his actions? Yes, his history was rocky—but he’d literally died for the residents of Storybrooke.
And it was no secret he had a doppelgänger running around. So the fact they were so quick to turn on him was far more painful than he’d like to admit.
“Babe? Your glass—are you okay?” Emma’s concerned voice pulled him from his morose thoughts, and he realized a whirlpool was threatening to spin out of his glass of water.
“Sorry,” he answered quickly, and focused on calming the tiny maelstrom. “Just—thinking about everything,” he said, simplifying the truth.
“I know.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Good thing you’ve got another magic lesson in the morning, huh?”
He groaned in response; she giggled.
“Come on; let’s get you home. You’ll need your rest,” she said suggestively as she got to her feet, taking him with her, hinting that they would spend time not resting as well.
The lascivious smirk Granny gave him as Emma paid their tab was less out of place than his other interactions today, but was at least positive. So he did still have some friends, it seemed.
And as he and Emma finally collapsed in each other’s arms later, sweaty and sated, as long as she was still on his side, who else did he require?
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
Though Dorian was no stranger to using a glamour spell, and had certainly used far more dramatic disguises in his life, this one was perhaps the most initially uncomfortable—mainly in how little changed.
As it was, he and Killian were nearly mirror images to start with—what with their scars on opposing cheeks and the fact that they parted their hair on different sides. So to see such minor differences in his reflection was a somewhat out-of-body experience—this was close to what people actually saw when they looked at him.
He allowed his minor existential crisis to persist for a minute before finishing the transformation; at least his brother had decent style, if a bit different than his own. (How could he stand these tight jeans?) The false hook over his left hand was awkward, but necessary.
Anyways. It was time to see if he could pull this off; after all, he was far too wise not to do foolish things now and then. He headed down to the diner (after peeking around a corner to make sure neither Killian nor Emma were already there—though the fact that he’d slept in probably prevented that) and slipped onto a stool at the counter.
This time, when Granny greeted him, it was much warmer. “Early lunch?”
“Aye; the usual, my dear,” he tested. “And I just couldn’t wait to see you,” he added with a wink.
Granny blushed and chuckled, then shuffled off to the kitchen. Good; she was receptive to his flirting. If he was bold enough about it, surely that would stir up some ill will towards his brother; just what kind of man brashly flirted with a woman who wasn’t his wife? And there was a reasonable audience, even if mid-morning was somewhat slow.
So hopefully someone noticed when he grabbed the bottle of whiskey sitting behind the counter and snuck it into his lap.
A few minutes later, the older lady was back, sliding over a plate of fish and chips; predictable of his brother. “Fresh caught, extra vinegar on the chips—just how you like it.”
“Oh, you spoil me,” he replied, holding back a gag at the smell of the vinegar. He leaned across the counter, continuing, “If there’s anything I can do to repay you, you know where to find me,” then suggestively licking his lips.
To his shock, she just laughed and patted his cheek. “You know you couldn’t handle me, sweetheart.” And went back to her business.
Hm. Well, that wasn’t quite the response he expected. But he at least passed for Killian; that was a good sign. (Unfortunately, he had to sell it by actually eating this meal; thank the gods for the whiskey to wash it down.)
He headed down to the marina next, finding the easiest boat he could hotwire (which, with his magic, was all of them) and took a bit of a joyride, then poofed ashore when that got boring.
After a trip through the pharmacy, where he got a five-finger discount on some mid-range rum, he relieved himself in the shrubs outside a convent, knocked over the displays outside the florist, pretended to need the services of the carpenter but just dumped wood stain over his wares, and dragged the tip of his hook along some parked cars.
Briefly, he took a smoking break outside the elementary school and let the half-burnt cigarette fall into a bush outside a classroom, setting it alight. He was enjoying watching the slowly growing fire when the room’s window flew open and a petite woman with short, dark hair attacked it with a fire extinguisher. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” she snapped at him.
“No,” he answered succinctly, and transported away, hopefully leaving a scorch mark on the lawn, too.
He’d noticed a friendship between his brother and the librarian—the gorgeous woman who had seemingly questionable taste in men. He’d be shocked if the two of them had kept things purely platonic, despite their respective well-known relationships. And if they hadn’t…well, it was time for him to explore that, even if for his own enjoyment.
The bell on the library rang as he entered. “You here, love?” he called out, suddenly realizing he’d never caught the lass’s name.
“Right where you left me,” she shouted; shit, he forgot his brother worked here. That was a close call. He followed the sound of her voice to the next room, where he found her desperately trying to reach something on the top shelf. “Perfect timing; can you lend me a hand? Pun intended.”
“Ha,” he answered awkwardly, not sure if he should be acting offended or not. “But of course.”
He didn’t hesitate to grab the volumes she asked for, but rather than just hand them over, he took the opportunity to move into her space. “Oh, uh, thanks,” she said, trying to take a step back, but she didn’t get far before bumping into a cart.
“That’s all my assistance is worth? ‘Thanks’?”
“Killian, you know I appreciate you—”
“So let me appreciate you, darling,” he said on a breath, leaning in close. “Don’t tell me you’ve never felt something…more…between us.” Subtly, he raised the blinds in the room so any passers by might see his attempted pursuit of someone who clearly wasn’t his brother’s wife.
She looked up at him, lips parted, and he was aware of her heightened heart rate. She narrowed her gaze briefly. “No, I haven’t—Dorian.”
“Who’s Dorian?” he lied.
Her knee found his crotch swiftly and strongly; she might be short and slight, but she was the perfect height to do optimum damage to his manhood. He stumbled back, dropping the books and holding his groin, groaning, with stars beginning to cloud his vision.
“I can’t believe I almost fell for that,” she yelled. “You really thought I wouldn’t be able to tell?”
“Ah, but you almost did,” he countered, even though his voice was incredibly strained.
He could see her blushing even through his squinted view. “Never,” she insisted, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “I won’t do that, and I won’t help you.”
He scoffed as his breath started to come back. “What use are you to me? Just a silly librarian; even if you are married to the Dark One.”
She smirked. “I’m used to people underestimating me. I suggest you don’t again. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that painting of yours, would you?”
“My painting?” He wasn’t surprised she knew of it—this was a library, obviously, if even the book he’d inspired was largely fabrication—but he’d left it behind in another realm, hoping the distance (and that particular realm’s timelessness) would prevent its aging, or at least slow it.
But then—he felt it. A faint heartbeat in his ear, just a millisecond behind his own but the same tempo: the heart of his True Love, continuing to carry a rhythm for him even though it was shattered and locked in canvas. It seemed to be coming from above them; he glanced up, trying to locate it, but didn’t get very far before his gaze was forced away rather painfully.
Belle had slapped him—again, stronger than he expected, but he’d been hit so many times that it hardly stung. “Get the hell out of here, and leave us alone.”
“Alright, alright,” he replied, and immediately poofed away—right into the attic of the library. The drumbeat of the heart was even louder up here, and he was easily able to follow it—while stepping lightly enough to not make a sound—to one end of the cluttered storage room.
And there it was: his iconic portrait. It…wasn’t pretty. Not that it had been when he’d stashed it in the Land of Untold Stories, but it had definitely continued to deteriorate, though thankfully less than it probably should have. There was part of his soul that certainly felt like the withered, grayed, gnarled mess of a man in the image before him, but only a small one.
Actually, it was a good thing the portrait had made its way here; perhaps, when he achieved his plan, he’d also be able to sever his tie to this in favor of the dagger. He’d leave it here for now—but he’d be back for it later.
He had at least one more stop to make. So he transported again to an alley by the sheriff station, knocked over a mailbox, and casually headed inside. While it would be fun to see how far he could take things with Emma, he had no doubt she’d be able to see through this disguise even quicker than the librarian had. But the other deputy, the blond one—he might be slower on the uptake.
“Hey, Hook,” the man said, barely glancing up from the paperwork he was filling out. “Emma’s doing rounds.”
“Aye; I’m aware,” he said, sauntering closer. “I was here to see you, anyway.”
“Yeah?” The man—David, judging by the name plate on the desk—looked up at him. “What’s up?”
Dorian wasted no time in taking a seat right in front of him on the desk, cupping his (rather handsome) face, and quickly finding his lips.
The ensuing chain of reactions was honestly hilarious: the other man stilled at first, then leaned into it, but then seemed to realize who he was kissing and pushed away, jumping to his feet.
“What the hell was that?” he spat, wiping off his mouth on the back of his hand.
Dorian hopped off the desk and moved closer to David. “I was always curious; you mean you weren’t?”
“No!” he shouted. “Not like—just, no!”
“Was I that bad?” Dorian flirted, tilting his head.
“No, you were—not my son-in-law,” David sighed, realizing who he was talking to.
“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Dorian replied. “And you’re only a halfway decent kisser.”
“My wife thinks I’m just fine,” David threw back, somewhat offended. “And if you’re trying to turn people against Killian, you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”
“You almost bought it.”
“Please; Killian only has eyes for Emma. Not that you’d know anything about True Love, I bet.”
Dorian glowered. “You don’t know anything about me, pal. Maybe get off your high horse with your generalizations.”
David stepped closer and put his hands on his hips; Dorian couldn’t help but feel like he was about to get a lecture. “I don’t know everything about you, but I’ve known enough people like you. I actually had a twin, too.”
“Oh? More than one of you? Must have been terribly dull.”
“Actually, you’d probably have gotten along with him famously; he was a selfish cad, too.”
“And where’s this fellow now?”
“Oh, he’s dead,” David went on. “From what I heard, he got a little too cocky, a little sloppy, and it came back to bite him. Or, well, stab him through the chest.”
“Ouch,” Dorian deadpanned. “And your point is?”
“Maybe you should ease up on making enemies. Because you don’t know which one is going to finally take you out.”
“And what—make friends instead?”
David shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Though I also can’t say you have good odds of finding many here, after all the drama you’ve stirred up so far.”
“No thanks.”
“Hey,” David said, softer, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’ve spent a long time chasing one thing, and it seems like you have nothing else to live for. But I watched your brother change his path; it’s not too late for you.”
Dorian gingerly pushed David’s hand off, like it was something disgusting. “Look, I know you hero types, and I know you mean well and want what’s best for me, or whatever. But I also know this: you have to want to change. Clearly my brother did. Me, though? I find good advice rather annoying. So save your breath.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I will, thanks.” And he transported back to his pilfered room at Granny’s.
His conversation with David was already forgotten; the deputy had probably hoped his words would linger and Dorian would reconsider his entire life. But no—he knew what he wanted.
And now, he just had to wait to see what fallout his (mis)adventures today wrought.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
Late 1880s
Dorian stepped out of the portal onto a dirty cobblestone alley. Once the gateway closed behind him, he placed his second bean in his inner coat pocket for safekeeping, and sealed it with magic—which thankfully worked; he wasn’t sure what to expect as far as being able to normally access his powers in this so-called Land without Magic, but was glad to see they were so far unhindered.
Of course, the irony of this realm carrying that name was that he had come here seeking magic out. It wasn’t fully devoid, he could tell, but he’d heard that it was far-flung, infrequent, and hidden from the general populace.
Which was probably why it was so dark in this backstreet; what kind of uncivilized society hadn’t figured out proper outdoor lighting yet? He could see some primitive lanterns at the end of the way, on what looked to be a main street, but could smell the fuel in them from here.
As such, he conjured a fireball in his hand to get his bearings. He’d arrived in the corner of an alley that went between and behind buildings—great, grimy brick monstrosities. Some parchment sat atop abandoned crates along one side; he inspected closer, reading The Daily Telegraph across the top of the page, followed by a picture of a man identified as the Prince of Wales, which he had to assume was a meaningful title as no proper name was given.
He further studied the fashion of the man, then glanced down at his own clothes, which were decidedly not of this realm from what he could see. That was easy to fix, though, and with a wave of his hand, he was wearing a garment that closely resembled what he saw in the image: a coat with long-ish tails, slacks, and a waistcoat. He didn’t hate it, but the vest wasn’t quite his style.
Anyways. That settled, he reached into a different pocket (he’d made sure the contents of those stayed the same regardless of what his jacket looked like) and pulled out a slip of paper with a name written on it: Basil Hallward. From what he’d been told, this man could help him find the magic he needed to get him one step closer to the Dark One’s powers.
(That Rumpelstiltskin bastard had placed so many protection spells over the Dark Castle, it was bordering on ridiculous. Didn’t he know it was once Dorian’s home? But no—the demon wouldn’t even grace him with a meeting to grant him access to his old quarters. Granted, he’d have been an idiot to, but one could hope. But perhaps here, in this land that seemed to reject magic, he’d find that which could break through those spells and reclaim his birthright.)
He glanced down both alleys in front of him. The one towards the street was empty—just brick walls and boarded-up windows—but going the other way, he could see a light glimmering outside an inconspicuous door.
And if he wasn’t mistaken, the light in the lantern was not fueled by whatever oil illuminated the streets; no, this one was quite similar to the ball of fire in his hand. The portal had placed him in the right spot.
Before he headed to the door, he placed the slip of paper in his own flare, letting it fall to ashes on the stone pavement. Then he extinguished it with a shake of his hand and headed over.
Upon closer inspection, the lamp was indeed his variety of fire magic, though there seemed to be an object at the center of it that kept it burning. Clever, he thought; it meant less mental effort to keep it lit (not that he had to exert much anymore for such simple spells).
The door itself was painted roughly to match the exterior wall—or it had been, once upon a time, and now was faded and flaking, but he could still make out where “B. Hallward” was written in yellowing letters.
He knocked, firmly and insistently, and then waited. He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d get an immediate answer, or even to think he’d be seen tonight, but there was also no sense waiting.
He listened close to the door for a minute or so, but if there was anything to hear, it was unnoticeable. Then he paced a bit, keenly aware of the sounds of his unfamiliar shoes tapping on the stones.
But after nearly 10 minutes, he had to concede that either Mr. Hallward was out for the evening, or didn’t wish to be disturbed. Well, surely a town of this size had a red-light district; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent a night in such an establishment (usually willingly).
He began to walk towards the sounds of society, at the far end of this alley, when he paused; he thought he heard the turn of a deadbolt. He turned back to look at the door; it was still shut, but the color of the flame in the lantern had changed to blue. Curious.
He moved closer to it, and to his surprise, a small window appeared from nowhere. There was no glass inside it, but he could see nothing but blackness behind it. “Yes?” a voice called out from the void.
“Basil Hallward?” he asked.
“Who wants to know?” the voice replied.
“Someone who has traveled a great distance to seek you out.”
The voice cursed, probably realizing he’d revealed his identity without meaning to. “What for?” he finally came back with.
“A bit of magic,” he answered, then called forth his own fire again.
The window disappeared and the door swung open. “Come in,” the other man called out; Dorian didn’t hesitate to oblige.
Whatever he was expecting—this wasn’t it. Despite whatever spell lay on the entryway—and he could feel it as he stepped through—it was actually fairly light inside, with more enchanted lamps around the open space, which revealed the absolute clutter everywhere. And, to the back of the room, what appeared to be a painter’s studio.
“You’re an artist?” he exclaimed, minorly disgusted.
“That I am, sir,” the other man replied, and Dorian finally got a look at him: he seemed young—younger than him, at least—and the narrow mustache above his lip did nothing to make him appear older. He pushed his dark, curly hair out of his equally dark eyes. “What of it?”
“I came here looking for magic,” Dorian spat. “Not to sit for my portrait.”
“A pity; you’d make an excellent subject, with that profile. But I do both, actually.”
“Both?” He raised an eyebrow, skeptic.
“Aye; let me show you.” Basil beckoned Dorian towards his work bench; he hesitantly followed. The man picked up a vial of what Dorian assumed was pigment off the cluttered surface. He uncorked it and held it out. “Do you recognize it?”
Dorian narrowed his gaze and peered inside. It was just a black powder, but he recognized the smell. “Adder’s fork?”
“Good eye,” Basil commended. “And this?” he asked, holding out a small dish with a bluish powder.
“Magic works differently in this realm,” Basil explained. “No one here is born with it inherently, but what makes its way here usually requires a conduit—some physical tether. Me, I learned how to embed it in my paint, using these ingredients.”
“And then what?”
“Whatever you want,” Basil answered. “Within reason, of course.” He showed off a portrait of an expectant mother, explaining that the woman and her husband had been trying to have children for several years when he painted her; “Now, she has three children and another on the way.” Another painting displayed a vagabond sitting on a street curb. “His wife discovered he was cheating on her; now he’s destitute and she kept his wealth.”
“So you grant wishes?”
“In a sense. A fertility spell was embedded in this portrait, a curse of ill-luck in the other.”
Dorian glanced back at the work space and saw a good number of potion books—many of them he knew—across a bookshelf above it. “Ahhh,” he sighed in understanding. “Then you likely don’t have what I’m after.”
“Which is?”
“A way to break into a heavily fortified castle?”
Basil shook his head. “Afraid not. But if you have something of its occupant’s, we could probably find a way to cast them out, or at least make them horridly uncomfortable.”
“If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be here.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Hope you didn’t come far, then.”
“Only a few realms away.”
Basil whistled low. “Then I at least owe you a drink. What’s your poison?”
“Whiskey?”
He nodded and led him over to a sitting area, where they proceeded to chat over (some damn fine) liquor. Basil was curious about the magical realms—he had some acquaintances who passed through the other worlds who supplied him with his materials, but had never been himself. Dorian wondered how he’d fallen into this line of work, then.
“The man I apprenticed with taught me; passed on all he knew.” Well, that sounded familiar.
As such, they got on famously, to the point that Basil offered Dorian use of a spare bedroom in his home for as long as he was staying in this realm.
What the hell, Dorian thought. The Dark One wasn’t going anywhere—he could enjoy himself for a bit. (It wasn’t like he ever needed an excuse to do so.)
For the next few weeks, Basil showed him about this curious town—London, it was called, and far larger than he realized—and introduced him to many interesting people (and vices; opium was a delight, though he saw enough of the strung-out folks addicted to it to use in moderation).
They went to countless parties, gatherings, concerts, sporting events. At one such dinner, he met a writer named Oscar who seemed to be infatuated with him; he couldn’t say he disliked the attention. The man became a regular fixture in their outings as well (and maybe a few private nights).
Dorian did oblige Basil to pose for a portrait eventually; far be it for him to deny the world his beauty. “And what enchantment will you weave into this one?” he asked, peering over his friend’s shoulder; Basil had finished painting his face and form, but nothing else yet.
“None,” Basil replied simply. “You have enough magic on your own.
(There may also have been a few nights he spent in Basil’s room, as well. He was hardly a choosy lover, so long as someone caught his interest.)
He smirked cockily at the praise and admired his face and form on the canvas. Basil was truly a gifted artist and, in his personal opinion, had perfectly captured Dorian’s handsomeness, strength, and form, down to the color of his eyes.
However, later that night as he readied for bed, he caught a glimpse of something new in his reflection in the looking glass: was that…a wrinkle?
He pulled at the flesh around his eyes, watching as it stretched and returned. Indeed, there was a fine line—a few, even—in that delicate skin.
He was 30 years old; he knew it was inevitable he began to look it (even if he dare say he looked better than most men his age). But it was a sudden, stark reminder: the being he was chasing was immortal; he, however, was not.
(There was probably some sage advice somewhere about avoiding vice to extend his longevity, but…where was the fun in that?)
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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