#cssns21

It was perhaps a cruel jab, but not entirely untrue; and he wasn’t about to divulge his entire life story without hearing any of hers.

Of course, that’s when they began to near another town and actually came across some morning traffic—as much as three horses and a couple carriages could be considered traffic—and they settled back into silence until potentially overhearing ears were gone.

“I only stayed in Storybrooke for a few years,” Emma started, “until I was 14 or 15. As much as Granny thought she was getting me on the straight and narrow, I was really just...perfecting my art,” she explained. 

“Getting better at pickpocketing?”

“Yeah, that. I always returned everything, though, at least until the last grab. That’s when I ran away again.”

“Why?”

She paused for a minute—long enough to make him wonder if he was the first to ask that. “Well, you’ve seen Storybrooke. Even if I wanted a home, a family, I didn’t want that. I saw girls not much older than me getting married and starting families and if that was all that lay ahead, it wasn’t for me. So I ran off before anyone could try to tie me down again.”

“Ruby’s not married yet,” he pointed out.

“Only because her first fiance died.” Ah; that was a good counterpoint. “But she and her girlfriend probably will soon.” Then she sighed. “And I’m probably going to miss it. Dammit.”

There wasn’t much he could say in response to that, but it didn’t matter anyway as they were entering the town. “Lean against me,” he murmured, against his better judgment. 

“What?” she hissed, stiffening contrarily. 

“If you lean against me, I can hide the shackles from view,” he explained. “Unless you’d like people staring at the prisoner.” Really, he just wanted to avoid drawing undue attention—a loving couple stood out far less than a criminal in custody and her captor. He’d have avoided the town altogether, but the only alternate route would have added a day’s travel. 

She didn’t comply right away, but quickly settled against him when she noticed someone working outside the first home on the edge of town. Killian didn’t hesitate to settle his arms over hers, covering her wrists from view. 

As expected, the homeowner hardly gave them a glance, nor did the rest of the town. They easily blended in with the thickening crowd as they approached the town center, and Killian had to admit that it was far too easy to play the doting lover; he had to restrain himself from pressing a kiss to her temple. 

Bloody hell, why had he even suggested this? It felt far too natural to hold her tight in his arms. It was hardly acting. Sure, he could play it off as a decoy to prevent any other bounty hunter from catching onto their trail and trying to claim the prize for their own (it did happen, though Killian had never done so, nor fallen victim to such a scheme), but that was a half truth at best. 

At least they weren’t stopping—but they were only halfway through town and he was already regretting his decision. 

It was impossible to tell from his position what Emma thought, but she also seemed to be playing her role with ease. 

He could only hope she didn’t feel the racing pace of his heart for the duration of their shared contact. 

(It was also at this point that he noticed the lighter-colored hair at the roots of her part; it was odd that he only noticed it then, but he supposed he was so desperate for a distraction that he was picking up on minutiae. At least this made it obvious she was concealing her natural hair color—which gave him a weird sense of relief that she had indeed been lying about one thing.)

After an agonizing amount of time, they finally found themselves on the other side of the town. Emma sat up straighter, putting space between them, nearly as soon as the road began to narrow, but Killian still waited for the village to be farther behind them before stopping.

Lunch was a quiet affair. He knew that he was wrestling with his conflicting thoughts towards Emma; it wasn’t as easy to see what kind of warring thoughts were going through her mind, but the furrow of her brow as she worked on her ham sandwich made it obvious she was at odds with herself over something.

Of course, the only reason he noticed was because he kept stealing glances at her like some lovelorn school boy—and the awkward moment when he looked over to find her staring back didn’t help matters at all. (Or the fact that they could only move a few feet apart, but he wasn’t ready to undo the longer shackle yet.)

He busied himself with organizing his saddlebag as she finished her meal—it was already pristine, but it was a distraction—so he didn’t think much of it when she wiped the crumbs off on her skirt and turned to face him.

“When is your birthday?” she asked.

He looked at her incredulously. “What?”

“I’m trying to break the ice, considering the last couple hours have been painfully awkward. Should I have gone with something harder, like your favorite color?”

Well, that had her desired effect; he chuckled, though he wasn’t sure if admitting he’d recently grown partial to a particular shade of green would help anything. “Actually, that one would be easier, since I’m not exactly sure of my birth date.”

“You’re not? How?”

He shrugged and closed the bag. “We never really celebrated when I was young, and any birth certificate I may have had is long gone. Liam remembered that it was shortly after Yuletime and there was snow on the ground, so as far as keeping track of my age, I just mark it as the first of the year.”

“That...was not something I expected us to have in common.”

“I thought you said you had your birth certificate?”

“I do, but the date is only an estimate. A close one, but I have no idea if it’s correct or not.”

“Well, what does it say, then?”

“October 23.” Still a couple months away, but one she’d likely spend incarcerated.

“Happy early birthday, then,” he said, since he probably wouldn’t get another chance. 

“Thanks,” she said simply, and then hopped back up on the saddle. He followed her and she continued, “So what is your favorite color?”

“Blue,” he not-quite-lied as he kicked Roger into motion. “Like the sea.”

She hummed in agreement. “Mine’s red, like the sunset, or the leaves in the autumn.”

“An excellent choice.”

They continued to make similar smalltalk for the duration of the afternoon. Nothing terribly personal, nor deep—other favorites, childhood memories—but were it not for the consistent press of cold steel against his wrist, it would have felt like two (somewhat more than) friends out for a ride. Though Killian knew better than to let down his guard like that, he also knew he had the upper hand, as it were. 

If anything, it made the time pass quicker. There were no other cities on their path until they reached Longbourn, nor anything more populated than the occasional homestead or caravan. In other words—a horrifically boring ride, save for the sounds of birdsong and whatever sea shanties he normally sang to himself. 

There wasn’t another enchanted campsite like they’d stayed at the night before, but he still knew of one well enough off the beaten path to avoid notice; he actually had to get down and guide Roger there on foot. They reached it just before sunset and went about getting settled for the night. Even though they were still awkwardly attached at the wrist, they seemed to be enough in sync now to work together through any awkwardness. (Emphasis on the latter when it came to relieving themselves.)

Though this spot didn’t have a protection charm, it was equipped with an enchanted ember that constantly burned, making it easy to build a fire. They warmed their sandwiches (noting that there were only enough left for breakfast) and settled casually on a fireside log to eat and continue chatting—and discerning truth from fiction in what they’d already discussed in the past. (Other than her name, just about everything had been accurate—but perhaps she was better about keeping things vague than he was.)

“I’m guessing a crocodile didn’t actually eat your hand, then,” she asked when she was done eating. “Although I suppose that’s not incredibly far outside the realm of possibility.”

He chuckled lightly. “No, it wasn’t; though the man did look an awful lot like one.”

“A man ate it?”

“No, no...actually, I don’t know what he did with it. But his sword was much sharper than his teeth.”

Emma winced. “Ouch.”

“Aye, it had quite the bite.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but laughed. “Yeah, you’re definitely a dad with jokes like that.”

He gave another terrible wink.

“Just what did you do to piss this guy off?” she continued casually.

“I took his wife,” he answered, just as nonchalantly.

She nearly choked on her last bite of sandwich. “You what?” she gasped.

“All the things you’ve stolen, yet you balk at that?” he teased.

He could see her start to protest, but rethink her argument before she spoke.

He forged on. “It wasn’t so much theft as...we simply fell in love. I was still reeling from the loss of my brother; she was stuck in a loveless marriage. We met in a pub and it blossomed from there.” He stared into the fire, remembering. “We found ourselves at our lowest points, and looking back, I don’t know that we entirely lifted each other up, but we definitely helped each other. Until her husband found out, of course.”

“He took your hand?” Emma was incredulous.

“And then some.” He swallowed. “He killed her.”

Emma’s breath hitched. “So she really did die,” she added quietly.

He couldn’t fault her for wondering—he had a handful of similar questions about their conversations from their time in Storybrooke. But that didn’t stop the stutter his heart gave at the memory. “Aye,” he eventually answered. “Slide my sleeve up,” he directed, offering his right wrist to indicate which one.

She did carefully, and he tried not to focus on the gentleness of her fingers as she revealed the tattoo on his forearm. A jagged-looking dagger struck through a heart, and ribbon over the top bore the name Milah.

He jumped when her finger began to trace it, but again, she was almost reverent in her caress and study of the image. Somehow for the first time, he noticed her own ink—a flower on the underside of her left wrist. He was about to ask about hers, but then she surprised him with her next question.

“Is that the Dark One’s dagger?”

“You know it?” Though the legend of the man who was once referred to as the Dark One was known around the realm, few knew many details about the infamous criminal—unless they had close calls with the demon and his weapon of choice, such as Killian had. (Several times.)

Emma nodded. “Neal...he’s his son.”

“Neal?” Oh no.

“My ex, I guess. The one who framed me.”

“Bloody hell.” Of all the similarities they’d thus discovered in their lives, this connection was not one he anticipated. “Milah was Neal’s mum.”

“Shit.”

A heavy silence descended on them for what felt like an interminable amount of time. If Killian’s emotions had been a tangle before then, they were truly a convoluted mess now. “What are the odds?” he finally commented, but his tone was humorless.

“Shit,” she cursed again, then stood and began to pace, unceremoniously taking his wrist with her. “Fuck.”

“What is it?” He jumped up to join her, but bit back the “love” that normally would have ended that sentence.

She turned to face him and looked up, horrorstruck. “He killed the wrong guy,” she whispered.

“Who...what?” he stammered.

“Neal. He thought he was going after the man who took his mom and ruined his family. But...it wasn’t him.” She buried her face in her hands and was visibly taking deep breaths.

This was too genuine a reaction for her to fake. He moved closer and began to rub a hand down her arm in what he hoped was a calming motion. But he was still slightly lost. “I need you to go back a bit; can you tell me what happened before that? Why were you with Neal and why did he go after Graham?”

She dropped her arms and huffed. “You want the long story or the short one?”

“I don’t have any other plans.”

“Okay, but you should probably sit back down; it might take a while.”

He obliged, and she returned to her seat next to him. And began her tale:

They’d met rather inauspiciously—she stole the wagon he was sleeping in…which he’d already stolen. But she fell hard and fast, and they began thieving and running across the kingdom, starting small but eventually getting more daring. They continued to gain notoriety and skill—“And, honestly, we kind of felt untouchable. No one could catch us.”

“Hard to catch them when you’re looking for a female instead of a feline.”

She laughed a bit and looked down at her shackled wrists, brushing her tattoo with her opposite thumb. “I actually had that skill before I met him. When Ruby first started her transformation, she got lonely; so we paid a visit to the witch in town and she did this,” she explained, nodding at the ink. “It’s what lets me transform.”

“That’s awfully clever,” he had to admit.

“Neal thought so, too. It definitely got us out of some close calls. And everything was going great, right up until the day he came home, shouting that he’d finally found him.”

Killian’s bounty hunter instincts wanted to ask just where “home” was, but he held them back. “Found who?”

“The pirate who stole his mother away,” she said wryly, glancing up through her lashes. Heat grew under Killian’s cheeks. “He’d rant about it occasionally—list all the things he’d do to the man who broke his family apart if he ever found him. I’d usually just nod and laugh until the day he claimed he’d found him. Then…gods, I was right to be scared.”

Killian had known Milah had a child when she ran away with him—the lad would have been in his early teens when she left, if that—and it pained her to leave him behind, but at the very least, she trusted her husband to raise him right. That was before the man had gotten involved in darker, less-savory pursuits; perhaps it was no surprise the boy had grown up on such a similarly less-than-ideal path, with half-truths told to him about his mother’s actual fate. Still—it was disheartening to learn his own actions had potentially put into play a subsequently damaging series of events that, in a way, led them here. 

He couldn’t dwell on that now, though; there would be time enough for brooding later. “What did he do?”

Her eyes were glued to the ground as she explained. “He planned a sting, more or less; we were genuinely after some stuff—some jewels belonging to one of the rich townsfolk—but Neal wanted to do it clumsily, so the sheriff—the man he thought it was—would show up.” 

Graham had been the sheriff in a village outside Longbourn for quite some time; he and Killian had worked together many a time, and he was in fact the one who connected him with Nemo (after yet another drunk and disorderly arrest), setting him on a path out of his own darkness. He was one of the best men Killian had known—dedicated to keeping his town safe and looking out for his loved ones. 

Suffice to say, he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of learning the details of his friend’s death. But he knew he needed to. 

“And it worked,” he added, knowingly.

“Yeah. Probably too well. Should have expected the sheriff wouldn’t take long to notice a break-in at the mayor’s house. And it’s not like we were subtle—we weren’t exactly quiet, and we lit just about every lantern we could find.” It was easy for Killian to see where this was going. “So he bursts in, sword aloft, and Neal didn’t waste any time leveling his pistol at him. I was too focused on clearing out the safe to really pay attention to what they were saying—until the gun went off.”

Killian’s breath hitched at that, making her look up at him and grab his hand.

“I swear, I didn’t know he was going to murder him,” she effused. “I knew Neal was angry; he blamed this guy for his mom leaving and his dad becoming…what he did; he was even upset that he arrested his dad. Gods—and he was so wrong,” she added, running a hand down her face in disbelief.

“Well—not entirely; Graham did help arrest the Dark One, too.” He chuckled sadly. “Probably why he got confused.”

“Oh, right,” she realized, glancing at his prosthesis; it was no secret that Captain Hook had led the charge in taking down the Dark One. “I know what we were doing wasn’t right, but what his dad did was worse—all those people he killed? He deserved to be captured. And that’s what gets me: we had promised we weren’t going to do anything that bad. Even if we were breaking the law, we weren’t really hurting anyone. And then Neal shot your friend—right in the chest. It wasn’t even in defense; the guy hadn’t moved. I stopped what I was doing and ran over to him, trying to staunch the bleeding, but there was nothing I could do.” 

Her voice caught at the end of her statement, and he could see tears—genuine ones—brimming at her eyes. He found himself having to look away—though whether it was to conceal his own reaction to Graham’s demise, or his response to hers, he wasn’t sure. “And then?” he asked, then winced; his voice betrayed any emotion he was trying to hide. 

She sighed. “Like I said, I couldn’t do anything to help. He went too fast. I yelled at Neal, asking why he did that—why he went that far. He tried to say I wouldn’t understand, since I never had parents; I told him that didn’t make it right and I wasn’t afraid to turn him in; there was no going back or escaping from that. Then he turned the gun on me, spewing all kinds of bile—how I was just a lost little orphan who’d never understand what family meant, how he knew he could take advantage of me because of it—how he never loved me.” She took a deep breath before finishing. “By then, the gun was practically in my face, so I transformed and made for the nearest window. He tried to shoot at me, but missed; it was enough to startle me, though, and I knocked an oil lamp into the window curtains. I got out quick and just ran, as fast and far as I could. And then I saw the wanted posters a few days later. I wasn’t all that shocked he tried to pin it on me, but you know what hurt worse?”

“What?”

“He couldn’t even get my eye color right,” she almost whispered. “At least it proved he hadn’t lied about never loving me; he hadn’t even taken the time to notice that. And it made it that much easier to just dye my hair and go on the lam. Which was going great, until you showed up.”

“My apologies,” he offered, only half meaning it.

“You’re just doing your job; I can’t fault you there,” she waved off. “And I certainly haven’t stayed on the right side of the law. I just didn’t do all of that.”

“No,” he replied. “I don’t think you did.”

“You believe me?” She seemed surprised. 

He didn’t blame her; he was slightly surprised himself. But he told her as he began to fish around in his pockets, “Aye; I do. I’ve heard many, many sob stories over the years and heard many tall tales.” He found what he was looking for and pulled it out. “Yours was one of the few that were genuine.” Then he reached for her wrist and unlocked both sets of shackles. 

Emma’s mouth hung open in shock, even as she flexed and rotated the likely stiffness from her wrists. “Really?”

“Yes; though I hope you don’t mind if I keep the other one there,” he confirmed, nodding at the magic-blocking cuff. “You are still technically in custody.”

“No, I get that,” she said, nodding. “I…wow. Thank you. Not many people believe me anymore.” He was about to comment on that fact when she went on. “I know, I know—hazard of my job. Both of ours, I guess. I just…I appreciate it.”

“Don’t make me regret this.” It was as much a warning as a confession. 

“I won’t,” she promised. And he believed her. 

Fatigue quickly got the best of them, so they turned in, calmly sharing the blanket this time though still back-to-back. 

As he drifted off, his thoughts lingered on their conversation. Fate sure had a sense of humor, he decided, to intertwine their lives so much. He wasn’t exactly complaining, though. 

But tonight’s revelations brought about another problem: if Emma was truly innocent of murder, how did they clear her name of that charge—and how long would it take him to track down the actual culprit? 

(He chose to ignore the hopeless romantic side of him that was far too hopeful for a renewed chance at a happy ending for them. 

He also consciously ignored the nagging voice in the back of his mind that still questioned her.)

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“Then you’re going to let them watch you fall from grace.” Emma gestured at the window in front of them, guiding Killian’s eyes to gaze out at the possibility of unwitting passersby spotting their activities, before taking him in hand once more. “You’re going to let them see you give all of yourself to a demon.” The guttural groan he made only spurred her on as she continued to pump him. “Unless you can’t handle it.”

Killian’s head fell back when Emma interrupted her stroking to grip his balls with a taunting squeeze, and he muttered under his breath, “God, forgive me,” as his eyes fluttered closed. Bucking his hips, he tried to coax her to go faster, “Yes, Emma, please yes,” but she smiled as she removed her hand and relished the whine that left his lips.

“An angel eager to sin.” She slipped her hands beneath the back of his trousers, kneading his ass for a moment before stripping off the leather, trailing kisses down his spine as she sank to the floor with the material. “Step.” With a tap to the backs of his knees, she removed the trousers completely and tossed them aside.

Emma ducked between Killian’s legs and twisted her body in one fluid motion so that she sat with her back to the window, greeted by his cock pointing right at her face.

“I want to taste you,” she said and lifted his cock so she could lick a slow stripe from base to head, swiping her tongue over the sensitive tip. Looking up at him from beneath her lashes, she cupped his ass and pulled him toward her as she took him into her mouth until he hit the back of her throat. The staccato sounds that left his lips convinced her to hold him there as long as she could, flexing her tongue along the length of him, until she had to lean back to take a breath.

“Delicious,” Emma sighed and took him in again, and again, this time guiding him back and forth, in and out, her tongue darting out to tease his balls with each plunge.

Killian panted her name amidst a slew of encouragements, lost in the way she licked and sucked and consumed him. Her grip on his ass tightened, and he bit back a moan when her finger made its way to the center and circled its find before dipping just barely inside.

“Ooh, sounds like you like that,” she parted from him long enough to tease, continuing her carefully intrigued prodding as she asked, “shall we sodomize an Angel of God?”

“It wouldn’t—” he gritted his teeth as she gave his cock a particularly strong suck, straining against the curtains holding him at her mercy, or lack thereof, “—wouldn’t be the first time, love.”

“Oh?” Emma raised an eyebrow at him, pausing for a moment before bringing him into her mouth once more, staring up into his eyes as he watched her intently.

“Aye. Though I much prefer to give than to receive.”

Of course you would, Emma thought, the pun of angelic nature not lost on her. She hummed her assent around him and sent a ripple of pleasure coursing through his body. 

It was too much and not enough. As Emma relentlessly devoured him, Killian fought against the material holding him back. With one forceful downward motion, he tore the curtains in half and freed himself as he sought his glorious ascension.

His fingers laced into her hair, and for once, he allowed himself to take. His frantic thrusts were met with surprised and hungry moans, the vibrations of which sent him soaring over the edge.

“Ohh fuck. Fuck,” he cried as he spilled himself down her throat. He felt it when she swallowed as he held her still and his cock continued to pulse.

“Such a dirty mouth for such a pure being,” Emma remarked as she caught her breath when he at last let her go. She got to her feet and stood facing him, using her tongue to trace the lines of the cross tattoo on his chest as she rose, and she yelped when he pulled her flush against him, his arms tight around her.

“Oh, it can be much, much dirtier,” he growled, making her gasp as he gave a harsh tug to her hair and attacked the exposed skin of her neck with sloppy kisses and less than gentle nips and searing hot breath. She arched up into him, and it was his turn to pin her against the glass. His hand and hook frantically tore at her blouse while his mouth continued its expert assault as it made its way to hers and along her jaw until he caught her earlobe between his teeth. “Would you like that, demon?” he asked, slipping his hand beneath her waistband and trailing his lips down to the swell of her breasts. “Would you like my mouth on you where you’re warm and wet and wanting for me? Teasing you as you’ve done me, making you long for my cock as much as I long for the feel of you around me?”

Emma suddenly couldn’t find the words, too caught up in the thrill of hearing him, an angel, her angel, talk like that. Hoping to get the point across, she threaded her fingers through the haphazard locks on his head and shoved him to his knees.

“Shall I take that as a yes?” he grinned, holding her gaze as he lifted her incredibly short skirt and ran his thumb along the already soaked strip of lace she considered panties before pulling it down to her knees.

Emma leaned forward to allow the remnants of her blouse to fall to the floor before reaching for the support of the window once more as he canted her hips toward himself with the curve of his hook pressed to the small of her back.

Killian’s wing curled forward to assist with holding up the material of her skirt, the feathers tickling the top of her thigh, so he could focus his efforts on her aching core. Too eager to taste her, he wasted no time, choosing instead to start right with his mouth at her clit. She jumped at the unexpected jolt of pleasure, and he steadied her with his hand splayed against her inner thigh, inching his fingers toward her center.

“How can you be from Hell when you taste so divine, Emma?” he praised. “I could spend eternity quenching my deepest thirst between your legs.”

“Then shut up and quench it,” Emma barked. She didn’t really mean it, not completely. She loved his silver tongue, especially when he used it to talk dirty, but right now she craved him putting it to a different use.

“Ask and ye shall receive.” As he gave one more suck on her clit, Killian plunged two fingers inside her, soon increasing it to three as he stretched her and coaxed out more of her arousal onto his expertly explorative tongue.

“God, you’re so fucking good at that,” Emma sighed, tugging his hair as she rode his tongue and fingers, relishing the warm vibrations his pained groans and hungry moans ghosted over her sensitive skin.

“Oh no, love,” Killian said without relenting, looking up at her as he continued working her between words. “Don’t blaspheme. I’m not Him. I worship at your altar, Emma, and there’s no better place to be on my knees.”

“I like your Word better, anyway.” Emma’s head tipped back as her hips began to buck, but her moment of near bliss quickly turned into one of frustration. “No,” she gasped, shocked and almost offended as he pulled away with a smirk and stood to his feet, leaving her clenching on nothing and far from sated. “Come on, Killian, please! I thought you were all about giving! And how is this worship?”

“I meant what I said, love. I adore you, I do. But I am an angel, after all.” Killian chuckled. “We tend to enjoy when someone is brought to the edge before they’re granted their salvation. I need you begging for it.”

“Fucking tease,” Emma huffed, turning away from him with her arms crossed in front of her.

“Mmm,” Killian mused, “perhaps you are ready to receive more.” He nudged her legs apart with his own, a soft blow with the side of his foot kicking one out to the side, and Emma scrambled to reach her arms out in front of her for balance, her hands slipping on the window as her legs spread. Snaking his arms around her, he set his chin on her shoulder as he held her in his embrace and mused, “What do you think, love? Shall we bare you to them as I take you and show them what they can’t have, or should we keep this sinful skirt on and show them how eager you are to be ravished by an angel?”

“On, off, I don’t care which you’re into, just fuck me!”

“A bit of both then.” Killian pressed the side of his hook to her stomach and pulled her to him, holding her so that her back pressed against his chest. Lifting the front of her skirt, he handed her the bottom hem. “Hold this up for me, love.”

With a smirk, she took it between her teeth, stretching the waistband higher and pulling the material taut between her breasts as she leaned her head back onto his shoulder and winked at him.

“There’s a good girl.” He smiled and raised the bit between them with the tip of his hook, taking himself in hand. “You pretend you like to rebel, but you behave so well for me. Now, tell me what you want.”

“I said, I want you to fuck me,” Emma answered, slightly muffled by her skirt, frustratedly trying to swivel her hips in the hopes of getting him inside her.

He draped her skirt over his hand and wrapped his hooked arm around her once more to still her. Her annoyance encouraged him to tease her all the more, and he brushed the tip of his cock between her folds agonizingly slowly as he said, “I need you to be more specific, love. What do you want?”

“Fuck, Killian, I want your cock inside me.” Emma almost dropped her skirt when he filled her in one smooth slide, her jaw instinctively ready to fall open, but she caught herself and clenched it instead, biting down hard on the material with a groan at the sudden stretch.

“Very good.” The tip of his hook dimpled her flesh, dangerously close to piercing her, as he held her against himself and slammed into her from behind. His fingers laced themselves between hers and he caressed up the side of her body as he brought her hand to rest on the back of his neck. Emma raised her other hand in kind, and Killian moved his to her breast, kneading and squeezing it as he lost himself in the feel of her.

“Fuck, you feel fucking amazing around me, Emma. Not even heaven compares to the feel of you.” Killian licked a stripe along Emma’s collarbone and clamped his mouth over the spot, digging his teeth into her flesh. She moaned at the thought of the mark she’d wear tomorrow.

Bringing his arm back, Killian pressed it across Emma’s shoulder blades, pinning her chest to the glass in front of them with an arch in her back that jutted her ass out at him, and this time Emma did drop her skirt as her mouth opened on a loud moan at the forceful change of angles. Killian grunted and tucked his hook beneath the waistband, ripping it apart with the sharp tip and watching it fall as he pounded into her.

“I told you to hold that,” he growled against the shell of her ear. “Perhaps you are a naughty little minx after all.” Killian swatted Emma’s ass with an open palm before grabbing the reddening flesh and massaging it, in theory to soothe the sting but so roughly that she thought he might leave a bruise if he continued, one she’d be more than willing to bear as a reminder of their time for several days to come.

“Forgive me?” she teased in a mocking tone as she met his thrusts with each backward roll of her hips, almost inclined to make prayer hands at him if moving them wouldn’t risk her falling.

“Not exactly a sincere repentance, is it, love?” Killian struck her ass once more before grabbing a fistful of her hair and tugging her head backward. “But it is rather tempting to grant you reprieve nonetheless.”

“Ah, so why don’t you give into that temptation, angel?” Emma gritted.

“Don’t try to persuade. Ask me for it.”

“Please, Killian, I’m so close.” Emma couldn’t take it anymore. “Make me come, angel. Please!” Emma sighed through a string of curses as Killian moved the curve of his hook to her clit, pressing the brace against her flesh just above it as he rubbed quick circles over the swollen nub.

“What say you, demon?” he asked, breathless himself as he brought them both to the brink. “Shall we chance our own breed of Nephilim?”

“Yes please,” she panted desperately. “I’ve already tasted you. I want to feel you. I want to feel you come inside me.”

“I’ll give you what you want, demon, but I want to hear you scream my name when I do, not God’s.” Killian’s mouth travelled from Emma’s neck to her shoulder and back as he pistoned his hips with abandon. His teeth scraped her flesh before he moaned against her cheek as he found his release, “Emma, fuck yes, Emma,” filling her with it and pushing it deeper as it dripped down the length of his cock.

With his brutal thrusts and relentless teasing, Emma granted his request soon after, crying out, “Killian!” at the top of her lungs as her knees buckled beneath her.

He practically lifted her off the ground when he caught her with his arm wrapped around her middle, holding her tightly as he drew every last drop of ecstasy from within her before he slipped from her core and spun her into a lightheaded kiss, caging her against the window with his arms once more.

“Well, that was fucking hot.” Emma smiled against his lips as she pulled one into her mouth to bite it playfully, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. “Who knew you had it in you, angel?” One hand anchored in his hair as the other clutched at his ass, and she pulled him closer to her so she could rut against his leg, letting their releases spill down her thigh onto his and making him groan.

“It was the other way around, love,” he joked with a certainly devilish smirk, “but I concur, it was fucking hot.” Tucking his arms beneath her legs, Killian hoisted Emma into them and carried her to the bed, tossing her not so gently onto the mattress.

Emma giggled as she taunted him with one curled finger, beckoning him to her as she spread her legs wide, an invitation he happily accepted as he knelt between them and crawled above her body with a guttural growl.

“You might just convince me of the divine benefits of your side,” Emma purred, running her hands down his sides to grip his waist, “but I think I need to witness a bit more firsthand to make sure I believe, if you’ve got another miracle in you.”

“Angels are eternal, darling,” he said. “I’ll never leave you if that’s what it takes to really fill you with the spirit.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

——

A/N: "Glorious ascension" to describe an orgasm? Yeah, I'm going to hell.

——

He looks at her quizzically while tapping his fingers together in a classic villain pose, the fingers tapping under his chin as if deep in thought. His eyes keep darting about as though he’s looking for someone else. Maybe he thinks by kidnapping her White Swan will come and rescue her? While she does have magic (and the ability to walk on water, and fly, and morph into any outfit she wants) she can’t use it right now without giving herself away. She’s going to have to use her own brute strength to get herself out of this mess. She looks back up at The Captain and he’s still deep in thought, his fingers still tap, tap, tapping. Click, click, clicking.  

Clicking?

She hears the clicking before she registers what it is. In their battles it is always so noisy, it would be impossible to hear the almost insect-like sound she is now hearing. Emma finally realizes it is coming from his hand.

No!

Not from his hand!

It is his hand.

Fuck! It’s so obvious now that he has a mechanical hand in his glove. Put that together with the all too familiar blue eyes, scruffy beard, British accent, and what Emma is sure are dark locks underneath his head scarf, and it all adds up to “Killian?” she wonders aloud.

He tries to ignore her, but Emma can see that slight tension that courses through his body when she says his name.

“Killian!” she says, a little more forcefully now. She’s on the verge of tears because she desperately doesn’t want this to be true. Her kind, sweet, friend couldn’t be this crass, cold, calculating villain.

The minute The Captain turns to look at her, though, all hope of her being mistaken flies out the window as she recognizes the sullen expression she’s seen on his face a million times.

“Emma, I…” but then he suddenly stands up straight, and his expression hardens before The Captain is in full command. A cocky smirk spreads over his face and he slowly starts pulling the fingers off of the glove on his false hand until Emma clearly sees the metal gleaming.

“You always were a smart one, Emma. Too smart for your own good.” He throws the leather gloves to the ground and flexes the metal appendage, the clicking like nails on a chalkboard to Emma’s ears. “Though, not smart enough. Who would ever think that Killian Jones, writer for the Boston Globe, and Emma Nolan’s puppy dog, would also be that dashing rapscallion, The Captain?” He flashes another cocky grin at her.

“Scoundrel is more like it,” she huffs, still trying to take in the fact that her best friend and permanent resident of some of her more naughty dreams is also her arch enemy. “What do you want with me?” she asks sadly and with an edge of fear. Is it possible he’s figured out who she is?

“I want White Swan. I want to hurt her like she’s hurt me,” he says simply while biting his lip. Emma’s heart is beating frantically in her chest. He moves right into her space, his lips practically on hers. How many times has she imagined kissing those lips? “You are basically her exclusive photographer. I want you to tell me her secret identity so I can be done with her once and for all.” Emma’s heart drops in her chest, because this is the one thing she can’t give him. She can’t tell her arch enemy that he has, in fact, captured his prey, only as her secret identity. So she decides to play on her strengths, because even as Emma Nolan, she’s not only a smart cookie, but a tough one as well.

Emma gives The Captain a smile, as if she will tell him what he wants to hear, then she rears her head back and head butts him.

“OW!” He screams holding his nose which is now gushing blood. Emma’s pretty sure she broke it. “What the fuck was that for?” He sounds so much like her Killian at this moment and not like The Captain that she almost hesitates to continue on with her plan. His blue eyes look up at her, the spark she’s used to seeing in them has returned. He’s looking at her like he has no idea what she’s doing there, but she doesn’t have time for The Captain’s theatrics, because she’s almost got her hands free from the ropes.

“Emma?” he asks, his voice muffled through his hand. He’s looking around the room as if it’s the first time he’s seen it and hasn’t been holding her captive for however long they’ve been here. He looks down and notices what he’s wearing, again with a look of surprise. His eyes are comically wide behind his mask and he jerks his head back up, probably from the pain in his nose. “Love? What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Emma asks incredulously. “What’s going on?” She asks again, her voice getting more hysterical. “Apparently you’re The fucking Captain and you’ve kidnapped me to get information on White Swan. That’s what’s going on!” Killian shakes his head again as if trying to clear water in his ears. He sweeps the scarf over his head revealing his dark hair sticking up in all directions, just the way she likes it.

No! She needs to focus on freeing herself and not lusting over Killian’s hair. This would be so much easier if she could use her magic.

Killian is staring at her, his eyes showing a sadness Emma’s only seen once before, when his brother, Liam died. Is that when he turned into a villain? Emma tries to think how long it’s been since The Captain has been on the scene while she continues to try and free her hands. She’s so close now. 

Liam died three years ago; a freak accident on board his ship where he’d been a Captain in the Navy. Killian had been his lieutenant, losing his hand in the same accident. Killian had vowed that someone would pay for the gross negligence he felt had happened. The Captain came onto the scene about six months later, now that she thinks about it.. At first he just seemed to go after government institutions. A pirate bows to no leader! had been The Captain’s motto. And Killian had almost seemed…. happier all of a sudden. Emma had chalked it up to acceptance of Liam’s death and the huge settlement he’d received for that and his hand, but could it have been because he’d taken up the mantle of The Captain?

How had she not seen his descent into madness? Every villain she’d come up against had an element of madness to them. Something that triggered them and then sent them spiraling into fanaticism. ‘The Hatter’ had his child taken away so he went after Child Services and foster homes ‘freeing’ the children while looking for his daughter. ‘The Evil Queen’ had felt that her fiance’s death was the direct result of someone revealing a secret, so she’d gone crazy setting fires to people’s homes that knew the gossiper while dressed in extremely gaudy clothes and a tiara. And what had White Swan done to The Captain?

He’d started out small; stealing files, exposing corrupt politicians. Nothing had ever been exposed about the ship accident though. Considering Killian Jones was a reporter for the same publication that Emma worked at, he would have had access to all the same information she did. And he’d definitely researched everything he could to see if that accident could have been avoided or if it truly was random. He’d never been able to prove anything, but he’d been convinced they were carrying something extremely hazardous that had directly caused the accident. But lately… well, lately, The Captain had been doing some villainous work that seemed out of character for him. She’d thwarted his plans to steal valuable works of art just the other day, and most recently, she’d even caught him trying to steal priceless artifacts from the Boston Museum. While his villain persona may have been a pirate, he’d never so blatantly acted like one. 

“What has White Swan done to you?” Emma asks, realizing that with the exception of stopping his schemes, she’s never personally gone after him. At least not to warrant this kind of behavior from him. They tend to have a ‘trade barbs back and forth while he (she) flirted obnoxiously kind of relationship (and wow, Emma’s only now realizing how blind she must have been to not see that The Captain and Killian are one in the same). He’s more of a small time nuisance in a pirate costume rather than a super villain.

The sadness in his eyes shifts into anger. The wide eyes that looked horrified to see her held captive, now slits that hide the beautiful blue color of his irises. His back straightens up and the swagger comes back. He removes his headscarf from his nose, the bleeding finally stopped. 

“Now, dearie, is that anyway to treat your best friend?” His demeanor is cold and menacing and not something Emma has experienced from him as Killian or The Captain. Killian is shy and sweet and doesn’t realize what a catch he is. The Captain is cocky and trades barbs with her as if they were going out of style. This… this is something entirely different, and Emma doesn’t know what to make of it. He has moved to kneel in front of her, but he’s far enough away that she can’t head butt him again. Emma knows when the adrenaline wears off she’s going to have a wicked headache.

“Maybe if you were acting like my best friend I would treat you better.” Admittedly, not her best comeback, but she is still reeling over the fact that her best friend and her arch enemy are one and the same. 

“Ah, yes. Emma Nolan has to have everything figured out, doesn’t she? Can’t let anyone past those walls, no matter how desperately they want in,” he practically sneers at her at this ‘revelation’ about her. Emma feels tears pricking her eyes. Killian would never talk to her this way. 

Never.

“Don’t act like this is something new, Killian.” He practically flinches when she says his name, like that’s not who he is at the moment and he doesn’t want to be reminded of that. But Emma doesn’t give a shit. She is tired, and her arms ache from being in this position, and her head is now starting to throb. 

“Did you drug me last night?” she asks, the realization of what must have happened at the bar finally dawning on her. “Did you suggest drinks last night so you could get me in this position?” She’s the one being cold and callous now, but she doesn’t care. Killian was her person. The one person in all the world she could trust not to hurt her. He was the person she dreamed about building a life with, even if she was too chicken shit to actually make a move. And, okay, he didn’t know about her super hero persona, but she thought she’d been protecting him. Turns out she was still protecting herself. 

A cold, maniacal grin spreads across his face. It makes him look positively evil, and a little crazy. “Oh she’s a smart one isn’t she?” Goosebumps creep down her arms the way he’s speaking to her. This whole night has been a bizarre chain of events. The fact that Killian suggested going out on a Friday was odd, because they usually went out drinking on Saturdays. Then they’d end up at one or the other’s apartments watching movies all day. He’d insisted on doing shots all night, which was another thing that was out of character for him. Emma loves shots, but Killian is a rum fan through and through. It also occurs to her that he was asking a lot of questions about her latest series of White Swan/The Captain photographs that she’d submitted. Not that that was completely unusual. She usually showed them to him to get his opinions on which ones were the best to submit, but he was extremely interested this time around about how she’d managed to get the pictures. How she knew where she’d be. Usually, he just made quips about how The Captain needed to get himself an exclusive photographer so maybe he could get a following as large as White Swan’s (something Emma is realizing was a big fucking clue since she sets up her phone to take the pictures, something she learned from watching fucking Spiderman).

But back to the question at hand.

“You never answered me. What has White Swan done to you that makes this so personal? How has she hurt you?” God, if she could only get this hand free. She’s so damn close.

“What concern is that of yours, dearie? I just need you to tell me who she really is, and then you can be on your merry way.” Emma’s skin prickles again. Something in the way he’s speaking to her keeps triggering it, but she hasn’t figured out exactly why yet. 

“It is my concern. I’m not going to tell you who she is just because you have a vendetta against her. Half the villains in this town have a vendetta against her. But you’ve definitely played your hand by revealing yourself to me. Unless you think you’ll get her identity from me and then kill me.” She says it smugly, as if it’s not even something she’d considered, but looking into Killian’s eyes that are gleaming with malice, she realizes that she might actually be in this situation. She knows the second he comprehends her fear as the gleam in his eyes swiftly changes to something more feral, more carnal.

He swaggers over to her but stays far enough away so that she can’t head butt him again. “Have you always imagined this, Emma?” The way he says her name sounds almost menacing. “Me and you in a secluded room together? Have you had fantasies of me tying you up? Mine to do with as I please. Did you dream about kissing these lips?” He taps his lips in an almost playful manner before he reaches out toward her with his metal hand, and Emma has to physically gulp down her repulsion. She wouldn’t have minded it on Killian, but on this villain before her, she doesn’t even want to think about it. He must notice her discomfort (because when has Killian not read her like an open book?), because he pulls it away and almost looks upset. But Emma couldn’t care less because she has finally managed to get her goddamn hands free.

Emma stands up and immediately rears back and punches Killian full on in the mouth (hopefully bruising those lips she still would want to kiss). She almost gets ready to fly out of the warehouse, but then remembers that she is currently Emma and not White Swan, so she looks around to find an exit of some sort to start running toward. She glances quickly at Killian to see if he might be coming after her. He also can fly as The Captain (and now she’s pretty sure that Killian is right about what might have been on that ship if it’s left him with super powers), so she doesn’t want to be caught unaware if he’s right on top of her. But he’s still standing where she left him, again looking very confused, exactly like he did when she head-butted him. She should continue running, should proceed to find that nearest exit, but that puzzled look on his face is giving her pause. It’s happened twice now, the real Killian peeking out after she hit him, and she’s feeling that it might be significant.

“Killian?” She says it softly, almost as if she doesn’t want him to hear it, almost as if he’ll turn back into The Captain if he does. He looks first at the empty chair, and a look of relief comes over him. Then he looks over at her, and fear spreads over his face.

“Emma!” He says, his voice higher than she’s ever heard it before. “You need to leave. You need to get out of here!” He’s frantic now. He’s clutching at his pirate’s luck he wears around his neck like it’s a lifeline. Sweat has started to cover his brow. Emma wants to go over and soothe his fears, but she also knows that Killian isn’t afraid of much, and if he’s this worried about her, something is really wrong. “Please, Emma!” He pleads.

“Killian.” Emma doesn’t know what the fuck is happening, but something is really wrong with Killian, and she’s determined to figure it out, even if it means sacrificing her freedom again.

“Emma, please. It’s not safe for you here. He’s coming ..ahhh!” His pleas are broken by his hands coming to his chest and him doubling over in pain. Instinct immediately takes over and Emma runs to help him.

“Killian, please, talk to me. What is going on right now?” She is behind him, trying to get him up from the ground where he has crouched down. He is still holding his hand to his chest, his screams coming in waves, almost as if something was squeezing him.

Oh, shit!

As if something was squeezing his heart!

No! No, no, no, no, no, no!

Fuck!

She backs away from him slowly while he’s still gasping for breath. She should have figured this out months ago when The Captain’s MO changed. 

She should have guessed when he stopped being flirtatious and started being cruel. 

She should have known the second he called her ‘dearie’ and not ‘love.’

“Killian?” She asks trepidatiously. She’s backing up from him, making sure to put a good amount of distance between them. She doesn’t want him too close. Sure she’s managed to get the upper hand twice, but she’s afraid her luck may be running out, especially if she’s right about what she thinks is going on with Killian.

“Killian?” She asks again, finally gaining his attention. He lifts his head up toward her, his blue eyes colored with fear. Not for himself, she realizes, but fear for her. He’s afraid of what he might do to her. Because….

“Does The Crocodile have your heart, Killian?” She’s not even sure why she’s asking, she already knows the answer is fucking yes. The ‘dearie’ was the clincher. No wonder she broke out in goosebumps every time he said it to her. It’s creepy coming from The Crocodile, let alone from her best friend’s mouth. “God, Killian,” She runs her fingers through her hair, pulling at the ends. “How did this even happen?”

If The Captain was pretty low on the totem pole of villains, then The Crocodile was the ultimate super-villain. His skin was a shimmery gold and he didn’t even look human, hence his name. It had been rumored that he’d been alive for centuries, part of his super powers, along with magic, the power to blink in out of anywhere, and the ability to take someone’s heart from their body and control them with it. And now Emma knew exactly why The Crocodile wanted White Swan. Her magic was as strong as his and she’d actually managed to physically hurt him. In their last battle she’d managed to injure him quite severely. He’d been down for the past several months without nary a trace of him.

“I’m so sorry, Emma.” Killian gasps again, his hand still at his chest where his heart should be. I didn’t even remember until now. He’s….” Killian grunts in pain again. “He’s letting me have my memories.” He falls onto the ground, now also holding his head as apparently all the memories from when his heart was taken come flooding back to him, a process Emma has heard is pretty painful.

“He will make me hurt you to get White Swan, Emma. You need to leave me here!” Emma is torn. If she could use her powers she could find his heart, but if she uses them, The Crocodile would know. He would know who she really is, and then it wouldn’t matter, he’d kill Killian as he’d be of no use to him anymore. She had to trust that leaving Killian and finding a way to save him would be his best chance.

“I’m sorry, Killian.” Tears have started to fall from her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” Emma runs to a door she’s finally located on the other end of the vast warehouse. She discreetly uses her magic to open it and sees that she’s only a few blocks from her apartment, although she knows she can’t go back there. She turns back one more time to see Killian still. He stands up, his eyes now blank, The Crocodile having taken over again. Emma quickly closes the door and flies off before he can follow. She magically changes into her White Swan uniform (white bodysuit with swan feather arms, and a white swan feather mask) in case The Crocodile uses The Captain’s flying powers to come after her, but no one comes out of the warehouse that she can see. She breathes a sigh of relief and flies towards her parents house. She needs to come up with a strategy to get Killian’s heart back quickly before The Crocodile uses it to hurt Killian or come after Emma again.

“I promise I’ll find you, Killian,” she says to herself, removing her mask to wipe the tears from her eyes. “I promise, I’ll always find you.”

Tag List: (Let me know if you want to be added or removed)

“Oh—sorry,” Emma apologized, averting her eyes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Nothing to interrupt,” Belle waved off and moved back toward the stove. “Coffee?”

“Please,” she practically moaned, drawing a chuckle from the others. Almost instinctively, Killian stood and pulled out a seat for her, which she accepted, albeit cautiously—as though she was afraid she might break something or commit a faux pas.

Until the mug was in front of her and she pounced on it, draining it in one gulp.

“Did you sleep alright, love?” he had to ask.

“Oh, best I’ve slept in a while,” she answered. “Almost too well. Is that mattress magic? Because I could very easily fall back into it right now.”

Belle laughed and refilled Emma’s mug. “No; it’s exceedingly normal. But probably better than sleeping in the woods.”

“By far.”

The three of them started in on breakfast—Alice wouldn’t be up for a bit—and made light conversation, but he could tell something was bothering Emma.

So could Belle. “It looks like a question is caught in your throat,” Belle said to her. “You can ask.”

(He wasn’t sure what it meant that, despite her reservations, Belle seemed just as comfortable around Emma as he was.)

Emma briefly worried her bottom lip while glancing between the two of them. “I didn’t mean to overhear, and if I’m prying, you don’t have to answer, but…what you were talking about when I came in. Where exactly is it you’ve been before?”

Killian looked over at Belle, who had also sought out his attention. Even though his own history had been nagging at him the past few days, he’d hesitated to share it with Emma, for what were hopefully obvious reasons. But Belle’s tale wasn’t his to share—even if, he now realized, they had discussed it in part. Still—it was a fairly loaded question and he’d need a boost of confidence from Belle to be willing to divulge it.

The far-too-casual shrug she gave was enough.

“I haven’t told you about Alice’s mother, have I?” he started, facing Emma again.

“No,” she confirmed. “But I got the impression she was out of the picture.”

“Aye, and with good reason.” Belle was already topping off his mug, knowing he’d need the extra fuel; he swallowed it down and began the story:

After Milah died, after he’d lost his hand, and early in his bounty hunting career, he was still an angry young man but no longer quite so rebellious. That said, he still enjoyed his fair share of vices—most notably, booze and women (and the combination thereof).

He was no stranger to dive bars as both a place for recreation and information, and found himself in one such locale on a quest for news of the Dark One—one of the most sadistic criminals the kingdom had yet known. He wasn’t just after riches; he was after power—of the magic variety. It wasn’t uncommon to find a wake of bodies with their hearts ripped from their chests in his trail as he sought the magical objects that would grant him what he sought. 

One of those bodies was Milah’s, though that one was obviously a bit more personal.

When Killian’s less-than-legal pursuits of the demon proved fruitless, Nemo had offered him the chance to do it the right way—and he’d jumped on it. Granted, there were some bits of procedure and bureaucracy back then that he found pointless (and, if he was being honest, still did), but he was certainly making more progress than his previous attempts.

That night in particular had ended up being a bust; whatever tip Graham had passed along to him was a dead end, so he decided it best to salvage the evening any way he could. He started by ordering a bottle of cheap rum from the bartender and quickly downing a few shots, which apparently drew the attention of another patron. 

Her name was Eloise, and though he couldn’t recall her opening line, he remembered being charmed by it—as well as her strawberry-blonde curls and the bit of wildness in her smile. They began to exchange words and shots, until they had a hearty buzz going on. He made up a story about still being a sailor; she told him she worked as a maid for a local aristocrat. In hindsight, he should have known she wasn’t being forthright when he wasn’t either, but he didn’t rightly care in the moment.

She invited him to her room above the bar. He accepted. And they spent one very pleasurable night together, before bidding an amicable adieu in the morning.

Though he wouldn’t have minded seeing her again, he wasn’t naive enough to expect he ever would—especially as the chase for the Dark One picked up. He’d honestly forgotten entirely about her as he worked towards, and eventually succeeded in, taking down the demon in the next few months.

It wasn’t until several months later, when he was tasked with bringing in a con artist named Eloise, that the memories of her and that night began to trickle in—but it was a fairly common name, and he had no reason to assume the two were the same. She hadn’t struck him as the type to prey on others under the guise of an expectant mother in need of help, only to rob them blind and disappear.

Not until he actually tracked down the mark to where she was operating, in a town not far from where they’d met, and the woman on the other side of the door at the address given to him by her latest victim proved to be none other than his past paramour.

They were both briefly stunned, but he recovered sooner than she did. “Well, hello again, love. Should I be flattered that you didn’t steal from me, too?” he asked as he quickly handcuffed her.

“It wasn’t me,” she protested, albeit weakly; even she knew the jig was up. “I’m just an innocent young mother—”

“Sure you are,” he sneered, glancing her up and down as he slipped the magic-blocking cuff on her wrist and took in the noticeable lack of belly; he had to assume it had been an illusion and he wasn’t about to let her use any power she might have to escape. “You’re not even actually pregnant.”

“Not anymore,” she scoffed.

“What?” That made him pause, but the subsequent wails of an infant from farther back in the room drew his attention.

“Yes, I really had a baby,” she continued, sounding more annoyed than happy over the event. “No thanks to you.”

“What?” he repeated, further in disbelief.

“She’s yours. Go on, look.”

A pit had formed in his stomach, and his instincts warned that she could be lying. Although—he thought back to the date of their tryst, and the math did add up.

Cautiously, he stepped toward the bassinet in the middle of the bare-bones room. The babe’s cries picked up in intensity, and he was overcome with the need to comfort her. But he remained wary.

However, he knew it was true the moment he stood over her. Her features were unmistakably similar to those of his mother, most notably the slightly pointed ears he had also inherited—a trademark passed down from their elfin ancestry several generations back.

“Can you take her?” Eloise asked. “Honestly, I was about ready to give her up.”

Fire quickly replaced shock. “And you weren’t going to tell me?” The idea of any child being abandoned like he was, let alone his own flesh and blood, was horrifying.

“How would I have?” she spat back.

She had a point; they’d only ever exchanged first names. But she couldn’t truly expect him to be thinking rationally at the moment, not with the weight of the information—and responsibility—she’d just dropped on him.

He swallowed, and then turned his attention back to the babe, and carefully picked her up, careful to keep the sharp end of his hook away from her. She quieted nearly as soon as he pulled her against his chest, and looked up at him with her big blue eyes—and that was that.

Thankfully, he’d been working the job with Graham, who soon arrived to see what was taking so long. Graham took over from there, after Eloise assured him that she wanted nothing to do with the child. “She’s all yours. Good luck—she’s a screamer.”

“And then I took her home, and, nine years later, here we are,” he concluded. “It’s not something I’m the most proud of, but I wouldn’t trade Alice for the world.”

“Wow,” Emma sighed, but the way she was staring at the table and seemed to be hunched in on herself told him she was feeling a bit of shame. He hadn’t told her the story to make her feel bad, though there were some obvious parallels in choice of careers. “What happened to Eloise?” she asked timidly.

“She went away for a while,” he answered simply. “Unfortunately, I heard that she passed a few years ago. Though, if I’m being honest, it was something of a relief—I didn’t have to worry about her changing her mind about Alice anymore.”

“It’s her loss,” Emma told him. “Alice is amazing, and you’ve done a wonderful job with her.”

“Thank you,” he replied, blushing per usual. “But Belle gets a lot of the credit, too. Although the look of shock on your face when I arrived home with her is still seared in my memory,” he chuckled, glancing over at Belle.

“How else was I supposed to react? You didn’t even send a letter to warn me!” she chided, but she was laughing, too. If they hadn't been able to find any humor in the things life had thrown at them, gods only knew how insane they’d be driven by now.

“I guess that partly answers how long you’ve been living together,” Emma continued. “You said you were siblings, or sort of?”

He and Belle exchanged another look that probably only served to confirm their type of relationship to Emma, even though it was a fair bit more complicated than that. “Well,” he started, but wasn’t sure how to continue without getting into Belle’s story, and he didn’t want to be the one to share it.

Thankfully, she took over. “Actually, that’s where my own tale comes in,” Belle started. “I’ve been with him since the take-down of the Dark One…because I was with the Dark One.”

“He had you captive?” Emma gasped.

“No, I was…I loved him.”

The fact that she used past tense didn’t escape Killian’s notice; it had taken Belle some time to come to terms with her feelings towards the man, even if she’d been glad their relationship was over and he’d been imprisoned. 

Emma’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re that Belle?”

Belle tilted her head in confusion. “Beg your pardon?”

Now Emma looked nervous—although Killian was quickly connecting the dots in his head. “I guess I forgot to mention last night that my ex was Neal—the Dark One’s son,” she explained.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Belle cursed. “So I was nearly your mother-in-law?”

“Apparently,” Emma replied, laughing slightly in disbelief. “It always bugged Neal that his dad was dating someone not a ton older than he was.”

“I can’t say I was unaware of the situation, but Neal came around so little, it wasn’t a significant concern on my end.” Belle sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry to hear his life went in that direction, though; I know he didn’t like the idea of following in his father’s footsteps, but it sounds like he didn’t stray as far from it as I might have thought.”

“He hates magic, but otherwise, he’s not afraid to go to any end to get what he wants.”

“That definitely sounds familiar,” Belle commiserated. “Well, I suppose that all was more of an answer than you expected to your initial question.”

“A bit,” she concurred, “but I guess I’m not all that shocked that the world is slightly smaller than I thought it was.” The warm look she gave Killian then suggested she didn't mind that fact.

It was strange for Killian to think that, in another life, they all might still have found their way to each other; it was an idea he was about to voice when Alice practically ran out of her room, shouting her good mornings to everyone.

As she usually did, Alice became the focus of everyone’s attention, and hers was unsurprisingly fixated on Emma, who thankfully had already had her meal or she wouldn’t have been able to eat between Alice’s endless questions.

But as the day wore on, his mind wandered back to his previous thought—had fate actually brought them all together? The overlaps in their lives were too numerous to be coincidental.

Or was he merely grasping at straws in an attempt to justify the feelings that wouldn’t budge? Because if there was one thing he realized while reflecting on his past liaisons—particularly with Eloise, and the memories of Milah that always came up when mentioning the Dark One—it was that, despite knowing he shouldn’t, he most certainly still had them for Emma as well, far deeper than he thought he did.

Belle had been correct in her warning; she usually was. But only he could mitigate the impending heartbreak.

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Killian tried to keep his distance from Emma over the next couple of days, but the house was only so big, and there was still the matter of determining a plan before they headed for Longbourn that necessitated they spend time together.

To make matters worse—or better; he wasn’t sure—Emma seemed to fit into their little life all too well. She was patient with Alice; she got on well with Belle; and seemed comfortable exploring the woods nearby and lounging on the seashore the house overlooked. She insisted on helping with chores when Alice wasn’t dragging her away to show her something, even though he and Belle both assured her she was fine—but he knew it was old instincts (orphan instincts) trying to make sure she was useful so they’d keep her around, even if her stay had a definitive end date.

Those couple evenings were spent far too casually and comfortably in the great room, everyone chatting, reading, or just with Emma in her cat form curled up and purring in Alice’s lap. Ever inquisitive, that was one of the first questions Alice had begged of Emma after she interrupted their breakfast conversation. (Though they feigned disinterest, the other adults were curious about that, too.)

Emma had shown Alice her tattoo, explaining how it was imbued with transformation magic. “All I have to do is think about it, and then it just…happens.”

Alice traced it with her index finger. “Does it always hum like that?”

“Hum?” The question seemed to take Emma aback.

“Aye—you don’t feel it? It’s like—warm and vibrate-y.”

Emma looked over at Killian with a confused furrow in her brow, but Killian could only raise his and shrug in response. Considering he and Belle were only ever on the periphery of magic use, they had long since learned to roll with whatever Alice said about her own innate sense of it.

“Can you show me?” Alice continued, oblivious to the adults’ bewilderment.

“Of course,” Emma answered, sounding glad for the redirect. She shifted forms right on the chair, and then shifted back, all while Alice stared with stars in her eyes.

“Papa, can I get a tattoo like that?” she nearly begged.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, but had to tell her, “Maybe when you’re older.”

Alice briefly pouted, but then grabbed Emma’s hand and pulled her away on a tour of the house and yard, and that had been roughly the situation for the duration of those couple days.

At night, after Alice was asleep, they discussed the best way to deal with Emma’s predicament and to hopefully deal with Neal at the same time. They’d come to something resembling a plan, and Killian had Belle send a letter to Nemo when she made a trip into the closest village the day before they set to depart—a moment he was both eager for and dreading.

Obviously, he hated to leave Alice again so soon, even if he’d only be gone a few days and not the almost interminable weeks he’d spent chasing Emma. But despite his best efforts, it was far too easy to fall into playing family with Emma there, and more than once, he had to catch himself—from admiring the way the sun hit her braided-back hair while she worked in the yard, hinting at its natural golden color; from grinning at the way she and Alice were giggling and holding hands upon returning from a hike; from realizing just how close their bodies—especially, her lips to his—were while hunched over a map of the kingdom. (She may also have jumped away upon noticing the last one, much to his simultaneous relief and dismay.)

(The number of times one of them caught the other’s eye while trying not to stare was countless.)

At least he had a bit of a respite during nightly story time with Alice, even if the book was intrinsically linked with Emma. Seeing it through Alice’s eyes gave it a different life, though, and he was enjoying picking up on details he had missed in his first furious read-through while also seeing Alice’s reactions. And gods, he prayed she never grew too big to share this tradition with him; even if she was well on her way to adolescence, having her tucked into his side as they read made it feel like she’d always be his little girl—and like he wasn’t missing out on watching her grow when his work took him away for far-too-long stretches of time.

(And he was actively avoiding thoughts of the bounty he’d likely collect when this adventure was all over, considering the cost it was going to come at.)

On that last night of their detour, he had kept reading until Alice was asleep—which didn’t take long, as she’d spent the better part of the afternoon running around in the ocean’s shallows with Emma. When he reached the end of that chapter, he made sure to put the bookmark at the end of the previous one so she wouldn’t miss anything when they picked it back up.

He set it on her bedside table and slowly stood from the mattress, being careful to not disturb Alice too much. She noticed, though, and was blearily blinking her eyes even before he’d pressed a kiss to her forehead and wished her a good sleep.

“Papa, I like Emma,” she muttered sleepily.

His heart skipped the same beat it’d been hopping over for the past few days. But he responded as casually as he could. “I’m glad to hear that, starfish.”

“Do you like her?” she asked innocently.

“Aye, I do. That’s why I’m helping her.”

“But do you like-like her? Like how Westley likes Buttercup?” 

He sighed. It was far too late into the evening to even try to give that a proper answer. “I…I don’t know, love,” would have to suffice for now.

“Well, you should,” she told him, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He had to chuckle at her bluntness, even if the statement reminded him why he didn’t want Alice getting attached to Emma in the first place. Ah, well—he could deal with the fallout from that later, whatever it ended up being. “Good night, Alice,” he farewelled, tucked her in with a kiss, and turned down her lamp. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Papa,” she replied—at least, it sounded vaguely like that, as she was well on her way back to sleep.

Emma had already turned in when he went back out to the main room, and he probably should have, too, but Belle was staring into the fire with a pensive look on her face that usually meant she wanted to talk.

“Well,” he started as he eased down into his chair opposite her. “What lecture do you have for me now?”

She rolled her eyes at his bluntness, but then her expression turned soft. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he deflected, though it was more for his own benefit than to get her off his case.

“Killian David Jones,” she chided. “You know what I mean. You always do.”

“Isabelle Colette French,” he threw back, but didn’t have much more of a retort. “Aye, I’ll be fine…eventually,” he conceded. “I’ll have to be. Though I may brood for a bit.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” She stood and stretched, yawning audibly, then rested her hand on his shoulder. “And it’s a bloody shame; I really like her. You’d be so good together.”

His jaw dropped in shock; that was quite the opposite of her position just the other morning. He looked up at her to see whether or not she was being serious, but she was already walking away to her room. She wasn’t one to tease in matters of the heart, though (well, other than mocking over the occasional pass made at him by the Widow Feinberg in the village, but the older woman did that to any man under the age of 40).

As good as the validation of his feelings felt, there wasn’t much to be done about it. He still had to get Emma to Longbourn—she was still a wanted criminal. He sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand down his face in something resembling exasperation, though more with the situation than anyone in particular.

He stared at the dying embers in the fire for another long moment, before deciding it best to head to bed himself; they were planning on setting off by midday, and there was still packing and other chores to be done before they could leave, so he’d need his rest tonight.

Of course, it wouldn’t come. Anxiety and anticipation for whatever was to come the next couple of days wouldn’t let him rest, along with the ongoing uncertainty towards how he should approach his feelings for Emma. 

Should he just give in, and enjoy whatever they might have for this brief time? Or start pulling back and brace for the inevitable withdrawal? (He’d experienced that a couple times in this life, purging alcohol from his system, and it hadn’t been pleasant; while this might hurt less physically, the emotional toll would probably come close.)

He tried all the tricks he normally used when sleep evaded him—listing off constellations, making lists of what needed to be done, even simply counting his breaths—but any time he managed to drift off, it wasn’t for long; he was far too consumed by nervous energy.

Finally, some time near sunrise, he gave up altogether and threw the covers off in a fit of exasperation. He got up and grabbed his dressing robe, stepped into his slippers, then tiptoed outside as quietly as he could manage, lest he disturb his sleeping housemates.

He wandered out to the beach, hoping the gentle waves and rising sun would give him a chance to calm his erratic nerves, only to find he wasn’t the only one with that idea. Emma stood near the edge of the shore, arms wrapped around her as she stared out at the horizon. A slight breeze blew her skirt around her legs and her hair into her face, and she shivered; apparently, he was the more prepared of the two of them.

“You should be asleep,” he said softly as he wrapped his robe around her. “Or at least dressed more warmly.”

She had jumped when he spoke, evidently not hearing his approach, but relaxed when she saw it was him and didn’t hesitate to pull the robe tighter around her. “So should you. And I guess I forgot how cold it can get by the ocean; I don’t remember it being this chilly in Storybrooke.”

“We’re a bit farther north, and Storybrooke has some natural insulation from the wind with the way its harbor is shaped. Your skirt certainly doesn’t help,” he added lightly.

She had borrowed a dress from Belle to wear while her cream gown was being washed; it fit, but she had a good few inches on Belle and it left her lower legs uncovered. There wasn’t much light but by the way she was standing, he had to assume her skin was covered in gooseflesh. (His certainly was, but he was also more accustomed to the temperature. Still—he was grabbing a sweater when they went back inside.) 

“I’ll survive,” she brushed off, but the way she seemed to nestle even further into the robe showed her appreciation. As did the genuine “thank you” that followed.

“I’d be a piss-poor host to drag you all this way and then let you die of a chill in what's supposed to be a haven. But you’re most welcome.”

They fell silent, watching the sky and sea as the waves lapping at the shore tried to drown out the unsaid words between them. The horizon was just beginning to lighten, slowly hiding the stars that hung low in the sky.

“So, why couldn’t you sleep?” Emma asked quietly, her eyes staying forward.

He hummed in thought—not because he didn’t know the reason, but because he wasn’t sure he wanted to confess how much of it was her. “Just…a little bit of everything,” he settled on, hoping that was equal parts vague and descriptive enough to define his mental state.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” she replied, sighing a bit. At least he wasn’t alone in that. 

She seemed very intent on rolling a stone around under her boot, so he didn’t say anything to interrupt her, but he did notice that she seemed a bit restless. It wasn’t surprising, really, when he thought about it; not only was she on the cusp of going to prison, most likely, she also hadn’t taken a chance to really pause in the last couple months. He had chalked it up to life on the lam, but it was just as likely she enjoyed being constantly on the move. Before Alice, he’d much preferred constant motion, lest his ghosts catch up with him, and goodness knew Emma had a few of her own.

But…she was still here. So he had to ask, “Why haven’t you run away?”

She stiffened a bit at the question, but wasn’t outright offended—which told him he’d hit close to home. “I thought about it,” she said, sounding almost disappointed. “Even this morning, I debated just transforming and making a break for it. But I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” His voice was far more unsteady than he intended.

“It’s kind of like you said,” she shrugged, eyes still on the pebbled ground. “It’d be incredibly rude of me to take advantage of your kindness only to make my own escape, and probably end up getting you into trouble in the process. There’s been enough collateral damage around me lately; I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to you, too.”

The familiar stutter of his heart allowed the breath he was holding to escape. He hadn’t doubted that she cared for him, but hearing that was somewhat bittersweet: she cared enough about him to not hurt him, even though it was coming at the cost of her own freedom. And he didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I…I appreciate that, greatly,” he eventually told her. He also finally dared to look over at her, only to find her giving him a small, slightly sad smile that he both understood and returned.

Another shiver took over her then, so he stepped closer and wrapped his arm around her. Only then did he realize that he hadn’t put his brace on, but if she noticed his blunted left wrist resting on her shoulder, she didn’t acknowledge it; all she did was rest her head on his shoulder, bringing them ever closer.

They stayed like that until the sun fully rose, bathing everything in its orange light. It wasn’t hard to imagine starting the day like this more often than not, but such daydreams were moot at this point.

A shudder wracked his body; it was his turn to feel the effects of the cool temperatures, even if the sun was warm on his face. Emma only chuckled, though, and stepped back, but reached for his hand. “C’mon; let’s head back in. Do you have any cocoa?”

“Maybe?”

“I hope so. Let me make you some.”

Thankfully, they did, and she made it with care. He was mildly amused when she dug out some cinnamon from the pantry to put on hers, but when he tried it for himself, he immediately understood the appeal: sweet with just a hint of spice—much like the woman sitting across from him at the dining table. (Belle and Alice seemed to enjoy it, too, when they eventually rose.)

While he would have much preferred that morning be the first spent in a similar manner, if it had to be the last, he would take it.

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