#captain hook ff

Emma liked being pregnant in the winter. She often finds herself boiling, so she welcomed the cold Maine air to cool her down. Now that it’s late-April and she’s almost 35-weeks pregnant, though, she’s a bit miserable.

April in Maine shouldn’t be this hot. In fact, it isn’t very hot. There was still snow on the ground a week ago. Killian still wears his long leather pants, button downs, and leather jackets every day and never complains of the heat. Her mother is still wearing sweaters and thick tights. She hasn’t seen her dad in short sleeves since last August. But here Emma lies in their living room—no, in Killian’s living room—in a black maternity cami and workout shorts with a tower fan pointed directly at her.

She isn’t sure how she’ll survive the next 5 weeks if the temperature keeps rising. Someone should do something about that.

She told Killian that she would finally pick out an accent color for the baby’s room today while he was out with David picking up the crib, but she can’t seem to get herself off the couch. She barely sleeps more than two hours at a time each night, her little bambino taking any and every opportunity to practice their gymnastics routine on her bladder, ribs, and lungs, so she takes any chance she can to nap. Killian keeps referring to his many apps to try and give her advice on how to combat her insomnia, but she thinks if she hears, “maybe some warm milk, darling,” one more time, she’ll snap, and her baby will be tragically born without a father.

Once she’s fully out of her sleep-induced brain fog, she hoists herself into a seated position, somehow, and reaches towards the coffee table where Killian left the paint swatches for her to peel over. It’s difficult to decide on a color when they still don’t know what they're having. The little yellow envelop still sits on the kitchen table, although it’s been shoved to the side in favor of mail and ultrasound pictures. For a while, she was tempted to open it up and find out who their little baby is, but Killian finally whispered into her neck one night that he thinks he wants to be surprised. The concept is nice, and far be it for her to ruin this for him, so she’s been going along with it.

Although, if she were to somehow find out, she wouldn’t be upset. It would probably make this whole nursery decoration thing a lot easier.

They decided together that they wanted the nursery to be nautical-themed. She figured it would be a cute and relatively gender-neutral way to decorate their baby’s first bedroom, and when she suggested it to Killian, his blue eyes lit up brighter than she’s ever seen them. The walls are still white, but she can’t decide if she wants to paint the wall with the window sky blue or a warm shade of gray.

“Hello, my darling,” her doting baby daddy greets gleefully as he enters through the front door, holding it open for David, who’s holding up a large and seemingly heavy box. Once the door is propped, he pulls the box while David pushes the other end, scraping it loudly against the textured tile floor until it’s inside.

“Hi.” The grin he wears is adorable as he rounds the coffee table and bends down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

“Good nap?”

She shrugs, laughing internally at the fact that he just knew she was napping despite the fact that she was doing dishes when he left. She watches him make his way back over to the box and quietly count to three before he and David hoist it and start walking towards the baby’s room. “This thing kept whacking me,” she says, gesturing towards her enlarged belly, “so I wasn’t able to sleep for long.” She finally stands from the couch and follows them into the nursery.

“Blasted child,” he grunts out, finally dropping the box to the floor with a slightly-too-loud crash as Emma winces.

“I think I want gray,” she tells him, hugging her dad with one arm once he’s catches his breath and stands up. “On the wall.”

“That’s a good idea,” David says in agreement. “Where are your scissors?”

“Next to the stove. It’s a nice gender-neutral color, don’t you think? I thought blue would be good but what if it’s a girl?”

“I believe that in this realm, girls can also like the color blue, but gray is a lovely choice as well, Swan. We can run out for the paint and start it tonight while your father’s still here.”

She smiles at him, striding over as best she can with her crampy calves protesting, and wraps her arms around the back of his neck. “Sounds like a good plan.”

He hums and smiles down at her, swooping in to press a gentle, chaste kiss to her lips. “I hope you at least got a bit of sleep. Little pineapple needs you well rested.”

She laughs lightly at his remark. Each week, he checks his pregnancy apps to see how big the baby is, and he then spends the week referring to it by whatever comparison he likes best. This week, it’s a pineapple. Killian had never tried one before, so they picked up a can during their weekly grocery haul, and he loved it. She can’t wait until they're able to get some fresh. “They're gonna have to cool it with the hip hop, then. I don’t even know how there’s any space left in there.”

“Aye, well, you now have more baby than amniotic fluid, so their movements are feeling sharper. Less of a— what was the word they used? — less of a cushion.”

“Is that why I saw a hand earlier, doctor Jones?”

“Did you?” he laughs excitedly, kissing the tip of her nose as he often does.

She nods, taking his hand off her hip and pressing it softly into the bottom of the left side of her bump. She often found that giving a few light taps encouraged the baby to tap back. Sure enough, the little turd gives his or her dad an enthusiastic high five. “This kid will not stop moving. We’re gonna have to enroll them in all the sports.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Perhaps some rum on the pacifier will calm him down once he’s here.” He raises his brows in quick succession.

“Killian!” she swats at his chest.

“No one is giving my grandchild rum until they’re at least 35.” She spins back to the door, smiling still as her dad enters and starts to cut away at the excessive packaging. “Killian, I was thinking you could go grab the paint while Emma and I work on the crib, what do you say? Mom will be here soon so we can start painting once you're back.”

“Sounds reasonable, mate.”

“Ugh, forgot my drill in the truck. I’ll be right back.”

Killian walks around Emma so that he’s facing her again, brushing away a strand of hair that fell out of her top knot. “Which swatch was it, love?”

“It’s called Dolphin Fin.”

His face twists. “Nasty buggers, if you ask me.”

“But they do make a nice wall color.”

He chuckles and presses a soft kiss to her mouth, barely slinking his tongue along her bottom lip. “I’ll be back.”

“Okay, thanks. Love you.”

He freezes. Emma freezes.

What the hell? Did she seriously just say that?

He said it weeks ago. Months ago. She still hasn’t found it in herself to say it back, no matter how many times she’s thought it. Archie says she’s scared that if she admits it aloud, it makes it real, and it means that she risks losing him.

Too late to consider that now, she supposes.

Her heart is racing and her palms are sweating; the baby even stills it’s wiggles in her stomach, as if to say mom, what the hell are you doing?

He squeezes her shoulder after a moment of silence, and it’s as if he needed the time to take in what she said before he can respond. “Aye,” he says softly, more quietly than ever. “I love you, too, Emma.”

She already knew this, but that knowledge doesn’t stop the doubts as she asks, “really?”

“I thought it was rather obvious,” he laughs, “considering I’ve already told you.”

She laughs now too, tipping forward slightly (and not gracefully—she’s so front-heavy that once she starts going, she is physically incapable of stopping), pressing her forehead into his collarbone and breathing in the soothing scent of leather and new cologne. “I haven’t really said it to anyone since… well, it’s been a long time.”

“Aye,” he replies, running a hand down her back and pulling her as close to him as the bump will allow. “For me, too. It’s alright, darling. I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. Not even if you try and force me away.”

“I won’t,” she says against his skin. “And I… I love you, too.” It comes out in a whisper, and she’s never felt so scared and excited in her life—with perhaps the exception of learning that she was pregnant. With a man whom she loves.

She hears the squealing buzz of the drill coming from down the hall and lets Killian gently press on her shoulders to help her to an upright position.

“I’ll be back, Swan.”

She smiles as David enters the room and makes his way back towards the crib. “Oh, Killian!” Emma calls. He turns at the door and hums, raising a brow at her. “We’re out of Cheez-Its.”

“Bloody hell,” he mumbles as he makes his way into the hall. “How?”

“Thank you!”

~~~~

“This is a nice one,” David says once the crib is finished. Emma’s been wrestling with getting the fitted sheet over the little mattress for at least five minutes now, and it’s honestly ridiculous for her to be struggling this much. “You can adjust the height of the mattress as the baby gets bigger.”

She nods, finally succeeding over the damn thing and passing it towards her dad so that he can plop it into the crib.

“I do have good taste, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “About that…”

“Uh oh,” she retorts awkwardly, “am I in trouble?”

He chuckles, walking over to her once the mattress is in place to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Quite the opposite, actually. It seems like you two are in a really good place.”

She nods, smiling as she leaves the nursery and makes her way to the kitchen for some water. All she can hear in the back of her mind is, “must stay hydrated, Swan.”

“We are.”

“I must say, it took a bit for me to get over my reservations about the pirate.”

“Oh, I remember how long it took,” she says, thinking back to her birthday and how much her father distained the idea of her inviting him.

“It may have taken a bit,” he continues pointedly, “but you two are going to be fantastic parents.”

She won’t cry, honest. “Thanks. We… well, we’re really excited. Everything happened kind of out of order, but we’re happy where we are, I think.”

“I can see that. And I'm sorry I ever pushed you towards Neal.” She nods. “If I had known last year what I know now…”

Before she can argue with him that they’ve already had this conversation, the door opens and Mary Margaret steps inside, carrying grocery bags filled with dinner ingredients.

Emma’s violent aversion to meatballs has subsided, and now she can’t get enough. They have at least a dozen in the freezer, but she still requested them for dinner tonight.

“Hi honeys!” Mary Margaret calls as David takes a bag out of her hand and guides her into the kitchen area.

“Hey,” Emma responds before making her way to the table just outside of the kitchen and taking a seat. She picks up the closest ultrasound printout and smiles at the baby’s strong profile.

Killian and David are wrapping things up in the nursery, almost finished painting with the door shut so that she wasn’t exposed to the fumes, and Mary Margaret closes the oven once the tray of meatballs are formed and placed on the rack.

“Oh, Emma, I just can’t wait to meet this little one,” her mother says over her shoulder, placing a gentle hand on the top of her belly.

“Me too,” she says with a grin. Her mother takes a seat next to Emma and pours herself a glass of wine.

“I have had a heck of a week. It’s like all of the kids pooled money for an espresso machine.”

“You're still liking being back at school though?”

“Oh, I’m loving it. It’s like being back where I belong.” Emma smiles and nods, waving in front of her at a fly that decided to make an appearance. “The nursery is going to be so cute, sweetie. Killian must love the theme.”

“Yeah, he does. I was mostly his idea. He wanted,” she swats at the air again, “damn fly. He wanted to raise the kid on the Jolly Roger without actually endangering them at sea.”

“So thoughtful. He’s gonna be a great dad.” Mary Margaret brushes her hand through the air too as the fly invades her space.

“He already is.”

“I know we’ve sort of had this discussion already, but—”

“Mary Margaret—”

“Just hear me out. Please?” Emma nods, giving her consent to continue. “Neal is a great father to Henry; I can’t doubt that. Ever since he came into his life, I’ve seen nothing love and care towards his son.”

“I know.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that what he did to you 12 years ago is unforgiveable.” Emma nods in agreement. “And your father and I, mainly me, trying to push you towards him before we knew why you were so hesitant about him being back is unforgiveable.”

“Mary Margaret…”

“I’m not saying this because I want your pity or your forgiveness. I want you to know that I’m sorry. That I see the fault in my behavior, and I want to make up for it. I’ll never stop trying to be the best person that I can for you, Emma. I hope that Neal does the same for Henry. And I know that you and Killian will do the same for your child.” She pauses for a breath and a sip of wine, swatting at the fly again before continuing. “It’s something that doesn’t always come naturally to some parents, and I was honestly worried about Killian at first, but I can see now that it is coming naturally to him, and I’m so happy that the two of you are getting the opportunity to raise a child together. I wish I had accepted these feelings months ago.”

Emma isn’t really sure what to say. They’ve talked briefly about her past with Neal over the last few months, mostly about how Emma’s working on getting past it. Emma even brought Mary Margaret to a session with Archie once. But she’s never really heard the depth of emotions that her mother was experiencing.

“Thank you… that means—”

Mary Margaret swats a bit too animatedly and bumps her hand into her glass of wine, causing it to topple over and spill onto the table. “Oh shoot!” she jumps, reaching for the soiled mail as Emma heaves herself up for some paper towel. “I’m sorry, honey, let me get this.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Oh, this is soaking through the paper. I’m so sorry. Can I take this stuff out of their envelopes? I don’t want whatever’s inside to get ruined.”

Emma nods as she rips a few pieces of paper from the roll.

Maybe she should’ve said no, though.

“Just a few bills and ads and other junk,” she says as she quickly discards of the wine-soaked envelopes. It’s all well and good until Emma’s making her way back to the table, rounding the kitchen island, and sees Mary Margaret tearing open that small yellow envelope.

“Wait!” she shouts, holding up a hand and hurrying over to the table, but it’s too late. Or, she’s incapable of moving any faster.

Mary Margaret gasps. So does Emma.

Written on the small piece of paper that her mother pulls out is the four-letter word Emma’s been thinking about for months.

GIRL, it says, with a bold line drawn underneath, as if the technician was excited to write it down.

“Oh my.” Her mother’s eyes blow wide.

“Oh my god,” Emma whispers, placing her hands over her mouth before thinking better of it and sliding them over her bump. Over her baby girl. “Oh my god.”

“Emma…” Mary Margaret starts, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know it was in here!”

“Mom,” Emma laughs, tears pricking her eyes, and whispers, “it’s alright.”

“You’ve…” she walks over to Emma, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve never called me that before, not really.” Mary Margaret’s eyes are glossy, too.

She laughs out a soft sob, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “It’s a girl.”

Mary Margaret nods, pulling her daughter in for a hug as tight as the two of them can manage. “Do you have any names?”

“No!” Emma laughs out again, sniffling. “Killian didn’t want to know, and I haven’t been thinking about it much. You won’t tell him, right?”

“No! It’s—”

“All set, Swan, you're allowed in the room in a week!” Killian calls from down the hall, making his way into the kitchen. She crumples up the paper she’s holding and shoves it between her boobs. Ouch.

She sniffles once again and spins around, too quickly so that she gets a little uneasy on her feet, smiling at him. “Thank you.” Mary Margaret takes the paper towels from her grip and brushes it over her own cheeks before she starts to blot up the wine.

“No worries, Swan, you don’t need to cry over spilt wine,” he says, walking to her and kissing her forehead before taking the reddened towels from her mother.

~~~~

She hit 36 weeks of pregnancy on Tuesday, and when wakes up from her nap the following Sunday, it’s to round ligament pain, cramps in her legs, her esophagus essentially on fire, and gas… oh god, the gas. Poor Killian.

“It’s really just the most contemptable thing, my love. Peter Pan was perhaps the most treacherous foe your daddy has ever faced. Well, aside from your mother on that damn bean stock.”

“You better not be soiling my baby’s image of her mother,” she says groggily with her eyes still shut. Her breath catches as she inadvertently discloses the sex of the baby, but Killian thinks nothing of it.

“Could be a boy,” he responds, and damn him for stealing her line.

She smirks, because no she couldn’t, but looks down at him. When she opens her eyes, she sees that he’s holding the copy of Peter Pan that she gave him for Christmas, his head resting on the pregnancy pillow that replaced him weeks ago next to her thigh, and he’s reading to her again.

He’ll be the best dad.

“You should be getting up soon, love. Regina still wants to take you to lunch.”

“I can’t believe that. When has she ever shown any interest in spending time with me?”

He shrugs, his shoulder bumping into her leg, and presses a gentle kiss to the bottom of her belly, close to where the baby’s head is resting.

A thought dawns on her then, fueled by his refusal to answer her. “It’s not a shower is it? It better not be a shower.”

“You could take a shower, I guess. But I think you smell nice.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a Sunday afternoon three weeks before my due date, Killian. If it’s a shower, I’ll kill you.”

“Please don’t threaten me with physical violence in front of my son,” he says seriously, and she laughs.

“Could be a girl.”

“Could be.”

~~~~

It was a shower.

Regina picked her up at 1:30 and drove her straight to town hall. She didn’t even try to disguise it.

“This was your mother’s idea,” she tells her apathetically as she parks in her front spot. Emma is glad to have such a short distance to walk, or should she say, waddle.

The hall is decorated similarly to how the nursery is, ornamental ropes and netting and shells scattered along the tables and blue and pink streamers cascading from the ceiling.

Everyone she’s ever known is there, and while she thought she would hate the attention, she’s actually happy to see all of the friends she’s made since arriving in Storybrooke. Even Anna and Elsa made their way over via portal from Arendelle.

Her mother also provided snacks and desserts, and Emma couldn’t be happier to have a big bowl of Cheez-Its sat in front of her for the entire party. There are also onesie decoration stations, polls for guessing the due date and gender, and plenty of games to keep everyone busy before cake and gifts. The cake was beautiful; Granny somehow created one in the shape of a ship’s wheel. Emma doesn’t cry, she doesn’t.

The guests for most of the shower are women, but at the end, David, Henry, and Killian arrive to say hello to everyone and help to pack up. She received so many things that she didn’t think she would need, but her parents also gave her the things she had planned on buying herself, like the stroller and car seat she’s been looking at.

She doesn’t cry. Really.

“Hi baby,” Killian says, bending to kiss the top of her belly, and then, “hi baby mama,” as he stands straight and kisses her chastely.

She laughs, taking his face between her two hands and kissing him back with a bit more heat, slipping her tongue against his and pulling his hair. There were a few weeks there when she didn’t really feel like sex, but for some reason that she isn’t questioning, her drive is back. Her doctor says it’s healthy, so she’s taking that knowledge and running with it.

“Easy tiger,” he says, “we’ve got company.”

She hums out a laugh, leaning her forehead against his. “Just hoping to induce labor. I don’t know how I’ll survive another three weeks and two days.”

He snorts and ignores her statement in favor of asking, “where would you like us to bring the gifts, my love?”

She grins at his addition of the word my and shrugs. “Home, I guess,” she teases.

“Your home or mine?”

Did she seriously forget that they don’t actually live together? Seriously?

“Oh, um…” she starts, taking a moment to consider her answer. There are so many things she could say. She could tell him to send the things to his house. To the baby’s house, because honestly, she knows that’s where the baby is living. But instead of being blasé about the situation, she thinks about what Archie would say. About how she could start putting herself and her needs first, without worrying about the consequences that she makes up in her own head. So, she softly says, “ours,” and looks at him timidly.

“Ours,” he repeats, breathing out a laugh and shaking his head lightly. “Really?”

She nods. “I think… well, I want to live with you. Officially. I know everything in life is uncertain, but I know for sure that I want to live with you and the baby. Full time. That is… if you—if you want that.”

There could have been a more romantic time or place to have this conversation. Her family and friends are running around trying to pack, she’s eaten more cake in the last hour than she cares to disclose, and she’s trying really hard to hold in a fart. But something about this feels right, and when she sees the grin that splits his face in two, she knows that she made the right call.

“Well, when you put it like that, I would love to live with you,” he says, leaning in towards her and kissing her so gently and passionately that she can feel it in her toes. He tries to pull her in closer, but the child between them makes it pretty difficult, so he laughs into their kiss and rubs his hand along the side of her bump. “Shall I tell Dave to move your things into your new abode, my darling?”

She laughs and swats at his chest before leaning in to kiss him once more. “That sounds perfect, baby daddy.”

~~~~

Emma’s been in labor before. She knows the difference between Braxton Hicks and actual contractions, but each time she stops where she stands and rubs her belly, breathing deeply, Killian rushes over and asks if it’s time. She knows he’s excited, and he seems pretty calm, but it for some reason, that agitates her.

“No, god dammit,” she would hiss, gritting her teeth through it, trying to shake it off. She knows that if it goes away when she moves, she’s in the clear. He doesn’t ever seem to know how to respond to her outbursts, so he just kisses her temple and goes back to what he’s doing. Usually, he’s getting her a snack.

At a few days shy of 39 weeks, she supposes she could be in a much worse mood.

She’s moved past the nesting stage and straight into obsessive planning and cleaning. She’s made Killian rearrange the nursery at least four times, moved the position of the bassinet in their bedroom twice, and has yet to decide what side she wants the car seat installed. At least he’s now had plenty of practice on how to properly install it.

The worst part is how anxious she is. She wants this baby to come out more than anything—revels in the idea of finally meeting the tiny life they’ve created. She wants to meet her daughter. But she also wants to keep her safe. How is she supposed to keep her baby safe if she isn’t inside her? She’s built a lovely home for this kid over the last 9 months, thank you very much.

So, every time she has a Braxton Hicks contraction, she panics a bit. Because as much as she wants to give birth and not be 9 months pregnant anymore, she’s absolutely terrified of the idea.

Sometimes, though, the late-term pregnancy symptoms are worse than the thought of staying pregnant forever. She could do without lightening crotch and weird discharge for the rest of her life and be perfectly content.

It’s her turn to consult the apps, searching for ways to encourage labor when the heartburn and pelvic pain become too much to bear, and while walks and exercise balls are nice ideas, her favorite suggestion is sex.

Killian was nervous when she started coming on to him, but he seems to enjoy himself based on the way he runs his hand along her body, presses his mouth against her heated skin, and tucks his throbbing erection tightly into her from behind and comes with a long, deep moan.

When they're finished and she’s panting with her knees and face pressed into the mattress and her ass in the air, she sighs. “Still nothing.”

“It’s not time yet, love,” he says soothingly to her left, running his hand along her arched back and landing it on her ass. “You can’t be comfortable like this.”

With her belly hanging down and resting against the mattress, she’s surprisingly comfortable, the pressure finally releasing from her hips, but she’s going to have lines pressed into her face if she doesn’t move soon.

“It’s almost time, though. I’m literally going insane over here. I can barely breathe from the heartburn and these huge feet shoving into my lungs. Can’t she just pop out a little early?”

“While I would love to be able to prove you wrong sooner rather than later, I think that he is enjoying his time in the safety of your womb, my love.”  

She snorts at his insistence and flops over onto her side so that her back is pressed to his front, his hand sliding around her to hold her huge belly.

“I’ll be full term on Tuesday. They can come out any time they want.”

“That’s still three days away, and then you’ll only be 39 weeks.”

“I can deliver at 39 weeks. I was 37 with Henry.”

His small strokes slow when he asks, “were you?”

She nods against his chest, feeling her eyes getting heavy and her breathing finally evening out a bit. “Can you get my pillow? I think I might actually fall asleep tonight.”

“It’s only 7:30.” She shrugs. “Of course, Swan.” He chuckles lightly, kissing the back of her neck and pulling away, replacing his missing body heat with a blanket and tucking her pillow between her knees.

When she wakes to a professional dance routine just before eleven, it’s to their empty bed, the soft glow of a light down the hall illuminating her path as she gets up. As she makes her way to the bathroom, she feels a warm trickle starting down her legs and suspects that her water must be breaking, and she nearly squeals in excitement.

Then she panics, because labor and delivery is no walk in the park, but she tries to focus on the fact that her baby is on her way.

In a few hours, she’ll get to meet her daughter. Their daughter.

How is she going to raise a kid from day one? Henry was easy, all the hard work was done for her and she was left with an awesome 10-year-old. This one is all on her, though.

Well, on them. Archie would ask her why she feels the need to burden solely herself.

Shit, they should’ve discussed names more seriously.

No way is she naming her child Gertrude.

Once she’s cleaned up both herself and the floor (as best she can by rubbing a towel against it with her foot), she knows she should be heading to the hospital soon to ward off infection or illness, but she also knows that she has a long road ahead of her, so she first heads out to the living room and grabs her phone from where she left it on the couch and shoots a text first to her mother, and then to Ruby.

“Swan?” she hears from the nursery. She starts to smile, but then she feels what she assumes is the start of a contraction and she stops in her place. The pressure and pain on her back and belly are strong, starting from the top of her bump and rolling down in a wave, but it’s over pretty quickly, so she isn’t too worried. Of course, Killian is worried, though. “Swan!”

“It’s—”

“Is it time? It’s too early! The baby isn’t done cooking yet, there’s still a week to go!”

“No,” she breathes out as she sits down on the couch, bringing him with her. “It’s okay, the baby is almost full term. If they're ready, they're ready.”

“it’s too soon, Swan. I thought we would have another week.”

“What difference is a week going to make?” she snaps, calming her voice as she continues. “It’ll just be more baby for me to push out. I’m perfectly okay with delivering now.”

This was new. Usually Killian was the cool and collected one of the two of them, but it appears he’s currently losing his mind over this. “I can’t…” he starts, his eyes darting in every direction and his brows practically hidden under his thick hair. “What if I can’t do it?”

“Killian…”

“I was… I didn’t have a father. Not really. How the bloody hell am I supposed to know how to be one myself? I’m no role model for a young lad.”

“You already are a father, Killian. You’ve been the most amazing dad to this baby since the minute you found out about them,” she sooths, taking his hand in hers and drawing it to her lips to kiss his knuckles.

“What if it is a boy, and I raise him to be like me?

“That wouldn’t be so bad, but—”

“Like the worst version of me?”

“No, baby, that’s not—”

“Swan, I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this. I can’t raise a child— I can’t raise a son.” He’s practically in tears, and she can feel his hand shaking in her grasp as his breath catches in his throat.

“Killian,” she says more firmly because, let’s face it, she doesn’t have much time for breakdowns here, and she grabs his cheeks between her hands. “There is not a doubt in my mind that you are, and will continue to be, the most amazing father that this baby could ever dream of having. You and me… we understand each other, remember? Neither of us know what it’s like to be raised by loving parents. But it’s a challenge that we’re going to face together. We get a chance to love this kid the way we wish we had been.”

He can’t seem to meet her eyes with his, either because he doesn’t want to, or because he worries that if he moves them the tears that are threatening to fall will begin to cascade down his cheeks. Something dawns on her then, though, and she realizes that the thought of having a son is weighing heavily on him. Before she can consider whether it’s a good idea or not, she opens her mouth. “I know you don’t think you're capable of being a father, but… well, that ship has sailed, Hook, and your daughter’s on it and waiting for you to jump on.”

He freezes, finally looking her in the eyes as the tears roll down. “My what?”

Emma smiles, running her hand gently along his cheek before leaning in to kiss his lips tenderly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but I thought it might be helpful for you to know.”

He shakes his head and lets out a breath, saying, “it’s a girl?”

“I found out by accident a few weeks ago,” she nods, her nose rubbing along his. “Are you mad at me?”

He laughs breathily and kisses her, shaking his head. “How could I ever be mad at you?”

“I know, right?” she jokes, but this conversation has gone on for too long, and she feels the wave of another contraction starting. She forgot to check the time after the last one, so she isn’t able to tell how close together they are, but she knows more will come for her to track. “Ugh,” she says, breathing as deeply as she can. “What time is it?”

“11:16.”

“Count,” she demands. She continues to breathe deeply through circled lips as he sits by her quietly and rubs her knuckles with his thumb. “Okay,” she breathes out finally.

“That was about 26 seconds.”

“From when I told you to start counting?”

“Aye.”

She figures it’s safe to add 10 seconds and takes out her phone to mark it down. “We should go. I could still talk through that one, but my water broke, so I have to go to the hospital.”

“Your water broke? When?”

“When I woke up. Don’t worry, I cleaned it. Can you get the baby’s bag from the nursery, and mine from the closet? And don’t forget yours, too.”

~~~~

Her parents meet them at the hospital once they arrive, only after she shouted at Killian from the car about all of the things she thought she forgot. When they arrived, she realized she forgot deodorant, and it took a lot of convincing on Killian’s part to get her inside rather than turning the car around.

That doesn’t mean she didn’t send him to the gift shop to get her deodorant.  

“How am I going to change a diaper with a hook for a hand?” Killian asks in another panic during one of her fiercer contractions, and she squeezed his good hand so hard she thinks she might break it.

“Fuck!” she shouts through it, then glares at him once it subsides. “I’ll magic your fucking hand back on if it’ll make you happy, okay? Fuck.”

She’s panting and sweaty, but she wanted to wait a bit before she got the epidural. She isn’t sure why the hell she would do that.

“Do you think that’s an option?” he asks as he rests the cool, damp cloth on her forehead, and she sighs.

“I don’t know, Killian, maybe. Maybe we can ask Regina.”

“Maybe Gold would know,” her father pipes in, and Emma rolls her eyes.

“You're not going anywhere near Gold, got it? He’ll probably just manipulate you until he gets what he wan—ahh, fuck.”

Another wave starts and she reaches for Killian’s hand again, drawing a grimace from him. The poor thing. He would probably have an easier time with this process if he could switch hands between contractions.

“The doctor will be in soon, my love,” he says once it passes as he kisses her temple. “She’ll check you again and then you can get your epi— your epi—epinephrin.”

She breathes out a laugh as she drops her head back to the pillow, panting and closing her eyes. “It’s an epidural. Fuck, you're so cute. I love you so much.”

He laughs now, kissing her cheek and running his crushed hand through her matted, sweaty hair. “I know you're just saying that because of all the hormones, but I love you too.”

“Sorry I keep yelling at you.”

“It’s alright, Emma, I still quite fancy you.”

“Sweetheart, do you need more ice chips?” She had honestly forgotten that her parents were in the room. She wasn’t planning on having them with her the whole time, but she thought she might want the extra moral support.

“No, I’m fine, but can you guys do something for me?” she asks, now fixated on the idea.

“Of course, anything.”

“Can you go ask Regina about Hook’s hand?”

~~~~

A beautiful baby girl is born at 7:22 on the morning of June seventh. She weighs eight pounds and four ounces, and she’s 19 inches long.

She’s absolutely perfect.

She comes out screaming and crying, but relatively easily otherwise, and the second that Emma hears her cries, she breaks down into sobs herself and reaches for her daughter. She’s placed on her bare chest shortly after her birth, with Killian resting his head against Emma’s and crying softly into her hair as he looks down at their baby.

Emma has never felt such bliss and joy in her entire life.

The last time she was in this position, she was broken. She had been heartbroken by the person she loved, whom she thought loved her. She had been betrayed by the system that was supposed to protect her.

Now, she has her family, a man she loves by her side, and her chubby, beautiful, flawless daughter in her arms.

She has almost no hair, just a few light whisps at the top of her head, and Emma suspects that she may inherit her blonde locks. She hasn’t been able to see much of her eyes yet, but she suspects that she has Killian’s.

Killian takes the baby from the nurses once she’s been weighed and measured and cleaned, and Emma notices that he’s removed his hook. The way he cradles her like she’s more impeccable than the most precious piece of treasure he’s ever pilfered makes her heart skip a beat.

She’s floating on a cloud, or perhaps on a ship, and she couldn’t be calmer and happier than she is now. Although, perhaps that’s also thanks to the hormones her body is emitting.

Her parents appear after a while and coo over the new bundle of joy as Emma rests her eyes. She’s soothed by the sounds of her mother and father doting over their grandchild and praising her parents for how beautiful and perfect she is.

A few moments later, Henry arrives and immediately give Emma a hug, making her tear up. He sits on the bed with her as Killian places the baby in his arms, encouraging him to support her neck the same way that he learned to. (“This YouTube is a wonderful thing, Swan.”)

Henry brings Emma flowers, and says that his dad helped him pick them out from the gift shop. It doesn’t bother her as much as she thinks it could have, knowing that he’s here, or at least dropped off their son. She sees the effort that he’s making and appreciates that he hasn’t been around to bother her in several months. Henry is their kid, like it or not, and if Neal continues to put him first and leave everything else out of their coparenting relationship, then maybe they can bury the hatchet one day. Again, though, perhaps that’s the oxytocin talking.

She was thrilled to see her family and to discuss the new light of her life, but when Ruby and Granny walk in with a greasy paper bag, she almost jumps from the bed and launches herself towards them. She thinks better of it, of course, and once her hands are clean, she trades Granny the baby for the grilled cheese and onion rings. She even feels generous and shares a few with Henry.

Granny hugs Killian tighter than she’s seen her hug anyone. She looks down at the sleeping baby and back up at Killian and has tears in her eyes. It’s genuinely the most unexpected, beautiful relationship Emma may have seen in Storybrooke.

Regina makes a brief appearance when she comes to pick Henry up later and takes a quick look at their baby girl with a smile on her face. She wishes them congratulations and tells them that she’s beautiful, as if they didn’t know already.

In the late afternoon, when everyone has blessedly left and Emma starts to breastfeed their daughter again, Killian speaks from the chair next to her bed for what feels like the first time in hours.

“What are we going to call her, Swan?” He’s nearly whispering, the quietness of the room setting a soft and placid mood.

“I don’t know. She’s so beautiful and perfect, we need to find the perfect name.”

“So, Gertrude.”

“No!” If she was thinking clearly, she would know that he was joking.

He stands from the recliner and makes his way to sit at the side of her bed with her. He couldn’t stay away from the two of them, and she didn’t mind. “We’ll think of something, love,” he says with a kiss to her temple, then another to the tip of her nose, and then a final kiss to the top of the baby’s fuzzy head. “She looks like my mother.”

“Does she?”

He nods. “Just a bit. I think she may have my eyes.”

“I was hoping for that,” Emma says with a grin. The baby finishes eating and spits the nipple out, impatiently wiggling around until Emma can readjust her in her arms. Her behaviors in the womb seem to match those she’s displaying outside.

He kisses Emma’s head again, lingering his lips against her hair and breathing in deeply. “Did you just smell me?”

“Not intentionally, although you do smell delicious.”

“I’m sweaty!”

“Only because you just gave birth to the most beautiful being in all the realms. That makes you smell nice.”

“Shut up,” she laughs. “Don’t make me curse at you in front of my daughter.”

“Corrine,” he blurts out suddenly and with no preamble.

“Corrine?”

“Aye, Corrine.”

“It’s…” she looks down at the baby again, at her soft cheeks and sloped nose and her closed, puffy eyes, and smiles. “It’s perfect. How did you come up with it?”

He shrugs, dropping a kiss to her shoulder this time. “You just kept saying ‘we have to think about names, Killian’, so I thought about names. Didn’t you?” He’s smirking at her, the cheeky bast—so and so.

“Not really,” she laughs. “I just knew I kind of wanted the middle name to be Ruth, after my dad’s mother.”

“Corrine Ruth. It’s rather fetching.”

“Corrine Ruth Jones,” she nods with a smile, looking down at her and running a finger along her fair brow.

Killian stills, his jaw stiffening against her head. “Jones?” he asks tightly.

“What, now you’re questioning her paternity?” The baby, Corrine, opens her eyes and looks up to Emma as if to confirm that she is most definitely a Jones. Or perhaps to tell her to be quiet, she’s trying to nap.

“No,” he says softly, touching a finger to the silky skin of Corrine’s cheek and nose. “No, look at these eyes,” he laughs. “I just didn’t realize… I know that in your realm, it’s customary to give a child it’s father’s surname, but I also know that tradition is fading in popularity…”

She sighs contentedly, leaning her forehead against his and kissing his cheek. “I always wanted her to have your name. Jones is a little more dignified than the name I gave myself when I was ten, anyway.”

“I am a rather dignified fellow.” He laughs, and she nods. “Are you sure, love?” he asks with less confidence.

“Positive.”

~~~~

“Are you ready?”

“Aye.”

“Are you sure about this? You can still change your mind.”

“I’m sure, Swan.”

Corrine tuts happily in response from her rocker in the living room. At five weeks old, Emma and Killian have found that she’s happiest when she’s moving; she settles down almost immediately when being rocked or gently bounced, but as soon as the motion stops, she’s squirming and fussing just as she was in Emma’s stomach. They purchased a rather expensive rocker a few days after she was born and found it to be life changing.

“Is your daddy ready, angel? Is he?” Emma makes her way over to Corrine from the kitchen and coos at her. “Is he ready to have his hand back, baby girl? Hmm?” She responds in kind with a kick and a contented blubber, and Emma can’t resist unstrapping and picking her up to smack a succession of kisses to her chubby cheeks and still bald head. She was born with some extra fat around the edges, and after just over a month, she’s put on plenty more. She’s a very, very good eater.

“I’m ready, love. Think about how much easier your life would be if I could change a poopy diaper on my own.” Never in her life did Emma think she would hear Captain Hook utter the phrase poopy diaper, never mind want to change one himself.

“Okay, I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do this, you know? This has been a part of you for years.”

“Aye, I know, darling, but… Captain Hook is no more. He’s retired, if you will. I want to move on with my life; from that time in my life.”

She nods, understanding what he means. When they discovered from Regina that Emma should have the ability to return his lost limb, they thought long and hard about it. Killian was quiet for the last few weeks as he seemed to consider his options, but after not too long, he told her that this is what he wants. “I want to hold my daughter with both hands, love.” Emma was the one to put it off, nervous to mess it up.

Now, though, they have the disturbing jar from Gold’s shop, courtesy of Belle, sitting on their kitchen table, and she’d like to get the ominous Halloween decoration away from their baby sooner rather than later. “Ugh,” she says. “I can’t believe he kept it.”

She places Corrine back in her rocker and straps her in safely before making her way back to the kitchen, hesitant to look at the floating hand for too long. She thinks back to what Regina told her, delving into her magic as deeply as she can before it feels right. She waves her hand in Killian’s direction, feeling the magic flowing from her core in a string towards him.

Before she knows it, he’s raising his arm and wiggling the fingers of his left hand between them. “You did it, love, thank you,” he says with a smile. He walks to her and touches her cheek with his newly returned hand, grinning at her brightly as he lets it travel into her hair. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.”

She leans into his touch before pressing a kiss to his palm, trying to ignore the fact that it was just in a jar of Rumpelstiltskin’s creepy magic water. “I love you,” she says, taking his hand in hers and leaning in to kiss his lips. “Now go pick up your daughter with that thing. I think it’ll change your life.”

“You're just saying that because, if my nose is correct, she needs a change,” he says, although his tone is far from annoyed.

She nods back at him, kissing him one more time before turning him around and pushing him towards her. “Maybe, but it’s your right as her father. One that you’ve been sorely missing out on over the last few weeks. I’m just looking out for you.”

“You always are, aren’t you, my love?” he asks, and once he’s undone her buckles, he wraps his hands around her middle, supporting her head with his left hand. He breathes out meaningfully once he pulls her from her seat and lifts her towards his face, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I never thought I’d be here,” he says softly, rocking her gently as he keeps his lips close to her cheek, his eyes closed.

“I know,” Emma says, making her way towards the two of them and rubbing one hand up his back and reaching the other around him to stroke a finger along her fuzzy bald head. “Me either.”

“You’ve given me so much, love. Everything I never knew I needed.” His voice is thick with emotion, and Emma can feel her own throat tightening. “There was a time centuries ago when I thought I wanted to be a father, but after everything… I just never thought it would happen. I never thought I’d be in a place where I was actually in love with the mother of my child.” She blushes at his evocative words, reaching her arms around his waist from behind him and pressing a kiss to his back between his shoulder blades. “I love you,” he says, turning in her arms. “Thank you.”

With Corrine starting to wiggle between them due to his stillness, he laughs lightly and begins to sway back and forth within Emma’s arms, and she reaches up onto her toes and kisses him softly.

Before she knows it, he’s leading her, somehow, in a gentle dance through the living room, softly humming some song she’s never heard before. Her eyes meet Corrine’s— they still match Killian’s— and she leans her forehead against his chest so that her face is just above their daughter’s. Even with the unfortunate smell suspended between the two of them, everything is perfect.

~~~~

~~~~

Children were ushered indoors, even as they strained against their parents in order to catch a glimpse of the legendary vessel as it berthed, the distant barks of her captain drifting on the breeze that whistled through the harbour.

Edward, who had no such parents to restrain him, could only scamper closer.

A boy of little more than ten, his smaller frame darted around sailors and merchants alike, the scuffed leather of the shoes gifted to him by Old Emrys marking his pace with loud thuds across the wooden deck. Used to the boy’s presence, most merely let out irritated grouses if his sharp movements unsteadied the cargo in their arms, but Edward couldn’t bring himself to care as he sprinted across the mariner towards the Jolly Roger.

He just wanted to see, that was all. A glimpse.

Yet the closer he drew, the slower he found himself moving, until only a single, long jetty lay between him and the ship. Edward slowed to a stop, watching from a distance as crew members began to disembark with peculiarly shaped crates. His hand lingered on the railing, his heart thudding as he stared at the swaying off the mast — fear had stayed his movements, certainly, every story every told in their modest port about the exploits of Captain Hook surging to the forefront of his mind. And like any child, he bore a morbid desire to lay eyes on such a man; he just couldn’t quite make himself approach.

As his little fingers finally let go of the tether to shore, he bolstered his courage and stepped out onto the jetty. He was rewarded with a sight that almost sent him darting backwards, as a man jumped on to the Jolly Roger’s gunwale, one hand gripped on the rigging and dark eyes surveying the work being done below him. All clad in black, even from a distance Edward could see he was of a powerful build, shoulders drawn back, but it was his other hand that he eagerly wanted to see, and he caught just a flash of steel —

Before he was suddenly hauled backwards and dragged onto the quay.

“And where do you think you’re going, wretch?”

Old Emrys peered down at him with his one good eye, throbbing and ugly with bloodshot lines like lightning around the iris.

Edward struggled momentarily to form a sentence. “I was — I was just —”

“Hoping to catch a glimpse of old Captain Hook, were you?” The man spat with laughter, a cruel sound, and a few sailors lingering nearby joined him. An angry flush worked itself into Edward’s cheeks, but he kept his eyes averted. “Perhaps you were hoping to sneak on board the Jolly Roger, take your chances with witchcraft over Old Emrys?”

“No!”

“Honestly, I give you room and board when I could’ve left you in that sinking skiff, and this is how you repay me?” He lunged forward and tangled his fist in the boy’s collar, jerking him upwards when he whimpered. “All I ask is you give me an honest day’s work, and you can’t even do that.”

Edward’s mouth opened, trying desperately to give voice to every protest he’d let lie there for years — that it had been scarcely a rescue when his parents, stranded in the water on the outside of that skiff, had been deemed useless and left to the mercy of the ocean; that he spun yarn into rope until his fingers bled; that he was deathly afraid of heights yet he climbed everyday up to the lookout point when he was told, in the hope that one day Old Emrys would keep his promise and secure him a place on a ship as a cabin boy, and get him out of the bay.

That with every sloop that swept from the harbour, it took a little piece of him with it. His heart had been won by the sea long ago, and at little older than ten he didn’t yet know how to win it back.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Please, let me go.”

Old Emrys released him, but before he could scurry away a heavy hand landed on his shoulder again.

“I tell you what,” Old Emrys started, kneeling beside him and motioning for the attention of a few nearby dock workers. “You’re a light-footed lad, aren’t you Edward?” The boy blinked, but Old Emrys didn’t wait for him to confirm it. “They say Captain Hook marks his doubloons with his crest, and they fetch a fair price if you know where to sell them.”

Edward swallowed.

“Climb aboard the Jolly Roger, if that’s what you want. Steal me three of the captain’s doubloons and I’ll set you free. Get you on the next ship out.”

The air rushed out of his lungs in a whoosh.

Free?

The other men laughed, that doubtful, dismissive noise, and it only strengthened Edward’s resolve. He thought of the power of the sea beneath him, the wind at his back — his own ship, like he’d only ever dreamt of before.

With a final defiant look at Old Emrys’ smirking, grisly eye, the boy tore from his grip and charged down the jetty, the howls of the dock workers biting at his heels.

Purpose spurring him onwards, Edward attempted to shake off the fear that had paralysed him before. The closer he drew to the ship the busier the docks became, members of the crew lumbering back and forth with cargo to sell and supplies to store. The man on the gunwale had disappeared, and Edward tried to see how best he could climb aboard. He was no stranger to stealing his way onto a ship, he’d pilfered ship’s stores for Old Emrys before when the larger brigs moored in the warmer months, usually taking back the stock the old man had just sold.

Usually he snuck past depending on how attentive the crew, or jumped into the harbour and literally clambered the hull, depending on how close the gun ports were to the water line. No such option appeared immediately available, the entire crew prickled with magic, and it wasn’t just the thought of a life free of the port and Old Emrys that made gooseflesh erupt on his skin. He didn’t imagine his regular tactics would work on the crew of the Jolly Roger.

Just then, Edward spotted a smaller crate amongst the larger ones the pirates were carrying aboard, and he sprinted for it.

At the snarl from the watching crew member, Edward flinched, but did his best not to cower away. “I — just want to help,” he said earnestly, lifting the crate as quickly as he could. Mercifully, the pirate let him carry on, perhaps doubting how a boy so young could do any harm. His smaller arms strained against the weight of the crate, trembling as he trudged up the gangplank, but he pushed through, following another of the crew and dropping it on deck with the others.

“Oi!” a voice roared, and Edward instinctively whirled around. “Careful with the captain’s merchandise!”

“S-sorry,” he said, licking his lips and his eyes wide, heart galloping in his chest at the idea of being discovered. He knew enough about ships to know where the valuables were kept, especially something like the captain’s own marked doubloons — his cabin.

Acting entirely on impulse, Edward stepped slowly back to the gangplank as if he were to return for more cargo, but at the last moment peeled away and stole down the steps to the crew’s quarters.

Beneath the deck silence loomed, oppressive and ominous, as the muffled shouts from above continued. There were no torches lit, almost every crew member above and tending to the carrying of trade, so Edward found his way largely unimpeded. Before then, he hadn’t exactly considered the possibility of success so seriously, but he could imagine it now — the look of astonishment in Old Emrys’ ugly eye as he presented the doubloons, the freedom he would win.

The knowledge that he had stolen them from under the hook of the most dreaded pirate in all the realms.

Edward flushed with pleasure at the thought.

The captain’s quarters were easily found, and the door astonishingly left unlocked. Undoubtedly, the captain didn’t expect any in his crew to ever commit such a theft, and it wasn’t as if the Jolly Roger was boarded often by those that weren’t invited. The door opened with a loud creak, and Edward quickly threw a glance behind him to check he hadn’t been followed, before he slipped inside.

Up until that point it had been about urgency, the speed of his infiltration and the adrenaline pumping through him, but for the first time he really paused to examine his surroundings. The full gravity of just where he had broken into had his young body practically humming with excitement. Not an hour ago he had been desperate to even catch a glimpse of the man whose reputation preceded him in almost every port across the Enchanted Forest, and now he was standing inside his quarters.

Shelves of books and trinkets lined the walls, a bunk in one corner with impeccably made linen sheets, and a desk lay in the middle of the room with its surface an array of maps, charts and some intricate and delicate instruments that Edward couldn’t identify. It was altogether more — mortal, perhaps, than he’d been imagining. Captain Hook was a spectre to him, a legend. To see something as normal as a bed was almost disconcerting.

Edward inched over to the desk, small hand reaching out to something gold which he belatedly recognised as a sextant. A beautiful image of a winged horse had been welded into the side, and he was just tracing the curve of its mane when the door suddenly clicked shut behind him.

“Well then,” Edward’s heart leapt into his throat as he whirled around, snatching his hand away. “What have we here?”

The figure stood leaning against the door, his face almost entirely shrouded in shadow, but the coat was unmistakable — this was the man standing on the gunwale. A hook, glinting silver and dangerous in the low light, was held in front of him, a ring adorned finger of his other hand gently tracing the curve of it.

Edward, petrified and rooted to the spot, found any defence he’d been about to utter crumbling into dust.

The man stepped forward, revealing his mouth quirked upwards in half a smirk, although his deep, tempestuous eyes spoke more of threat.

This man was Captain Hook.

Edward instinctively moved to back away, stumbling over the desk as he did so and fighting to regain his footing.

“An intruder, perhaps? A stowaway?” Hook continued to advance, his footsteps heavy and slow. “Dare I suggest it — a thief?”

Edward squeaked in response, jolting against the back of the cabin as he attempted to keep the desk between them.

“Do you have any idea what I do to thieves caught in the captain’s cabin, thief?”

His pulse was racing so loudly in his ears; he was sure the pirate must have been able to hear it.

“Because believe me, boy, I’ve done far worse to lads your age for less.”

“I—I had to!” Edward stuttered, forcing the words out. “Old—Old Emrys, he said if—if I stole three of your doubloons then he’d let me go free. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t — please —”

Hook arched an eyebrow. “Old Emrys,” he clicked his tongue, “the harbourmaster put you up to this?”

Grasping desperately at the chance to blame another, Edward nodded vigorously. Hook continued his advance, circling slowly around the desk.

“He’s been saying—he said he’d get me a post on a ship as a cabin boy,” he added, “if I got the doubloons. I w—want to get out of here, away from him.”

“How old are you, boy?”

Edward swallowed. “Ten.”

Hook surveyed him carefully, his stare even and penetrative as if he were being tried before the devil. Apparently, the pirate must have seen something in his fearful expression, because he broke out into a dangerous, magnetic grin. Edward’s heart stuttered at the intent behind it.

“The trouble is,” he started, the hook stretching slowly out towards the boy when he was within reaching distance. His breathing sped up rapidly as the cool steel made contact with his cheek. “I need to be able to trust the harbourmasters of the places I make port, as our business is… unusually sensitive.” The hook dragged slowly up into his hair, and Hook stared down at him darkly. “And this, well. This is deplorably bad form to say the least, sending a lad to complete a coward’s job.”

Finally, his head tilted to the side.

“Would you care to partake in a double-cross?”

Edward trembled. The word carried such weight; piracy, adventure. Everything he’d ever dreamed of.

With a swish of his long coat Hook abruptly turned from him, crossing the small space until he reached what appeared to be a chest of some kind, secured with a lock. Edward watched with wonder as Hook twisted his hook from the brace, and slid the attaching mechanism into the lock. As it opened, Hook held out his free hand to summon him over. Unsure if he was moving out of fear or fascination, the boy drew cautiously up beside him.

His eyes blew wide with surprise when he realised Hook was pressing three golden doubloons into his palm.

It was more money than he’d ever held in his life, and when he turned them over he could see a hook etched into the corner in jagged, violent strokes. These were the coins Old Emrys had wanted.

“Old Emrys,” Hook stared at him carefully, vivid blue eyes almost paranormal in the near dark, “your master,” he spat the word, “he has gold, I take it?”

Edward nodded.

“Take these doubloons to him, earn your freedom. If you return tomorrow with all three and a bag of gold, you may set sail with us.”

Edward’s eyes widened. “With — with you?”

“Aye,” Hook grinned, “with me. It’s what you desire, is it not? A life on the open sea?”

“More than anything,” the boy breathed.

“Well, the Jolly Roger is certainly short of a cabin boy or two.”

Edward could scarcely believe what he was hearing — Captain Hook, dread pirate and scourge of the realms, was offering him a place on his ship. His sparkling gaze spoke of wonder, adventures unseen, of fear. Adrenaline, heartache. The vivacity of a life being lived. The boy practically tripped over himself to agree, before thanking the captain and darting the door, doubloons clutched painfully tight in his palm.

“Boy,” Hook said, and it drew his attention before he could slip through. “We depart with the rise of the sun. Don’t be late.”

Edward beamed. He wouldn’t dare.

-/-

It had been worth it purely for the stunned silence the doubloons had incited in Old Emrys. The fury had come after, of course, but Edward had at least half a dozen witnesses to the deal they had struck — he was free. It would be his last night in the harbourmaster’s care, and he could scarcely sleep for the excitement of it all.

He would be traversing the realms on the Jolly Roger. The legend, the spectre that had towered over his childhood at port.

As Old Emrys drank himself into a thunderous stupor, Edward wisely kept out of his way. Stealing a bag of gold would be simple enough, and it was the old man’s fault that the boy had become so wily. It was the pirate in him, he decided. He liked the sound of that. The dread pirate Edward; for surely that was what he would be, once Captain Hook took him under his wing.

Old Emrys kept his gold in his mattress, only a stone’s throw away from the chest he usually caught thieves pilfering their way through — he was a sly old dog if nothing else, but Edward was better. Quieter. And he knew exactly where to look.

By morning he hadn’t slept a wink, and emerged into the dusty light of dawn. Being so near to the open seas, a chill wind always brushed through the harbour, but on that particular morning a thick fog had begun to shroud the town and in his short, excited skip to the docks, he had nearly fallen over no less than three times.

He leapt from the quay to the jetty, the wood protesting under the heavy thud of his shoes, weighed down only further by the small satchel with all his belongings, the bag of gold Hook had requested with his three doubloons inside.

With relief he realised the Jolly Roger was still berthed, but the gangplank had long since been raised and the crew were already beginning their early preparations to weigh anchor.

“Captain!” Edward called up into the mist, “Captain Hook!”

Through the haze, the figure of the familiar man appeared and he leapt up onto the gunwale as he had done the day before. Edward had to take a moment just to admire it — he was truly a magnificent man. And his ticket to freedom.

“Lad!” Hook exclaimed delightedly. “How wonderful. Do you have my doubloons?”

“Yes!” he said, eagerly holding up the bag. “With the gold!”

“Excellent.”

With his hook in the rigging to secure his balance, Hook held out his only a hand in a gesture to receive them. Edward hurled the bag up to him, and he caught it with a dextrous clink of the metal against his rings. The captain lifted it to his ear, shaking it a few times to try and confirm how much gold was in there.

“You’ve done well, boy. I thank you. Mr. Smee!” he hollered behind him, and one of the men Edward recognised from the day before stepped forward away from the preparations. Hook thrust the bag of gold into his chest. “How fairs the wind, Mr. Smee?”

“With us, but we’re not sure for how long. The tide too.”

“Then I believe it’s time to weigh anchor. Inform the crew.”

A chill that had little to do with the cold of the morning began to settle at the base of Edward’s spine.

“Captain?” he called uncertainly. Surely they needed to lower the gangplank in order for him to board, unless they expected him to climb.

Hook merely smirked and continued calling orders over his shoulder, his eyes never once leaving Edward. The boy shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, feeling unnervingly like the captain was watching for his reaction, and realised with dismay that the ship had begun to pull out of the harbour.

“Wait!” he burst. “You said I could come with you!”

Hook shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

Edward’s heart plummeted to somewhere below the jetty.

“But — you said — the gold!”

The boy’s mind began to race, desperate for something, anything to say that would call the ship back into its moor. When he looked back up he could see Hook’s playful expression, the lightness in his features he had seen in the cabin yesterday had vanished, something hard and awful taking its place. The captain turned on the gunwale, taking a few steps towards the stern so as to remain within talking distance of Edward.

“Regrettably, there is no room for nice little boys in the waters we sail,” Hook continued loudly, darkly, a shadow passing over his features. “Only the nasty ones survive.”

“But you — you promised!”

Would you care to partake in a double-cross?

The Jolly Roger began to fade into the mist, Hook watching him as parts of the ship faded away.

“We’re pirates,” Hook mocked from the fog, “what did you expect?”

In moments, only the biting breeze, the moist air and his empty palm were evidence the ship had docked at all.

-/-

Of course, Edward did one day captain his own ship, but not before he endured years back in the service of Old Emrys, coloured with violent taunts and barbaric reminders that he had been foolish to think he’d find his escape on a vessel like the Jolly Roger.

Not before his heart had turned cold, or before he’d murdered Old Emrys in cold blood and stolen a sloop to finally leave port. Not before he acquired a reputation for sailing mercilessly, taking no prisoners and betraying all who crossed his path. Not before the name Edward vanished into the stroke of the waves, as the boy became a man and became widely reputed as one of the most bloodthirsty pirates to ever sail the open waters of the Enchanted Forest.

As Captain Hook faded into legend.

For over thirty years, the boy never caught sight of him again.

Of course, when he’d passed an old, deserted port and found an aged ship, a legend moored there like a phantom, no perceivable crew to speak of, dragged there by some curse or another amid stories of heroism surrounding the man he had once feared and revered — of course he had claimed it. To walk the deck of the ship that had haunted his nightmares, that was a triumph unlike any other, however short-lived it had been. She would be his again.

For Captain Blackbeard championed the seas, sailed under the crimson flag and gave his enemies no quarter.

And nothing, in all his life, had been half as satisfying as leaving Hook marooned on the shores of Neverland at his hand.

“We’re pirates, what did you expect?”