#ditlot

She loves it. The JRII makes Killian so happy and she adores that. She loves him, almost as much as she loves this town. For the first time ever, she can’t leave something like this behind. She’s known what she’s going to tell him for a while. In all honesty, there was never really a question as to whether it would happen. It was just a matter of when once Emma realized that Storybrooke was home.

“We’re staying here,” she says softly, leaning up against the Roger’s railing and trying not to show how much excitement lies under her skin.

“What?” Killian asks, utterly stunned. “But you said...Henry…” Emma nods, encouraging him to at least finish a sentence. His hand runs through his hair and he’s breathing in little pants of disbelief.  He points at her. “You said you’d go where there’s a job. A constant paycheck so you can care for the lad.”

She shrugs casually. “I’ll find a job,” she says. “I’ll ask the station to give me my job back.” Turning away from the warm colors that come from sunset, Emma looks Killian straight in the eye. There’s something so earnest in his gaze that he solidifies her decision, even if she struggles through putting her feelings into words. “I haven’t had a home in so long and when we moved here, I thought it was another stepping stone.” She shrugs a little and leans into him. “I didn’t realize it was the end of the path.”

“Emma.” He says her name as a question and an answer, a threat and a compliment. Killian leans into her, but doesn’t move any closer or show any intention of touching her.

So she does, taking his hand in both of hers as she scoffs. “Look, you know I’m a woman of action over words. So here’s me taking action.” Emphasising her point, she shakes their entwined hands. “You need me and Henry.” Killian chuckles, because they both know that, while what she’s said is true, there's so much more to it. “Henry needs you.” He gives her another look - smouldering eyes and the hint of a smirk on his lips - that makes her rolls her eyes. “I need you in my life,” she admits on a sigh.

“What happened to this –” he lets go and points to her, his hand waving about to encompass her body entirely, “and that –” he gestures to himself, smirking, “never gonna happen?”

Emma shrugs. “I’m like the ocean. One simple breeze and I can change my mind.”

“I don’t know whether to find that comforting or unnerving.”

Her laughter causes her to fall comfortably into his arms and Killian easily pulls her into his chest. “Yeah, I heard it too,” she says, sighing and relaxing into his embrace. “I run the camera, buddy, I can’t pull eloquent metaphors out of thin air like some people.”

She can feel his wide smile when he presses a kiss into her hair. “They worked on you, didn’t they love?”

“Don’t be so smug,” she scoffs, pulling back from his embrace to fully see his face.

That ridiculous grin is still there, growing wider by the second, if that’s even possible. He’s got mischief in his eyes. “Not smug, darling,” he corrects her. “Victorious, perhaps, but not smug.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Aye,” he says dreamily. Killian’s hand comes up to brush at the few strands of hair a breeze has blown into her face. His fingers trail over her cheekbone and around behind her ear, where he lets the tips of his fingers trail down her neck. It’s loving, his movements, and it reflects the same emotion in his gaze and his soft smile. “And you love me for it, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer him right away. Instead, she sends him one of his signature smirks and looks back out over the water. Let him stew in my unanswer, she thinks. He knows her well enough by now. Better than anyone ever, she thinks.

He knows.

@sotheylived: Steph, you are a godsend. From the moment you hopped in to the Google doc, you were encouraging and helpful and such a pleasure. I looked forward to getting your edits, which is not something I ever thought would happen. This story would not exist without you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

@shipsxahoy: My goodness, I've never met someone as enthusiastic about fic art as you, Bianca. Heart of gold. The vivacity you had for this story was incredible and I doubt I'll Internet-meet someone like you ever again. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

“Mm, we were up this morning. I just didn’t think to greet you until now,” he reasons, gripping her tightly. His hand slides from her waist to chest and brushes a thumb beneath her breast. Emma inhales sharply through her nose, surprised at how cold his fingers are when the rest of his body is so warm. “And what a good morning it is.”

The giggles come on suddenly and with little sigh of relief. She sounds hysterical, trying to muffle the noise by hiding the bottom half of her face with the blanket. Turning over her shoulder, Emma tries to make eye contact with Killian. “We did that, didn't we?” she asks quietly, laughter still evident in her voice.

“Yes, we did.” He seems just as happily surprised as she is, his thumb skimming tender skin. His hand moves further down, across the muscles of her stomach until it rests between her thighs, asking a silent questions. “I'd be happy to give a repeat performance if your memory needs refreshing.”

Emma hums and flips over to face him. His arm resettles on the small of her back, the other sliding beneath her neck and wrapping around her shoulders. His eyes are still closed, but he’s got a dreamy grin on his lips.

“Maybe later,” she says, burrowing into his chest. The coarse hair there scratches at her nose. Killian starts tugging at the ends of her hair, a sound reverberating deeply in his chest, like a cat purring. Hearing the noise makes Emma sigh. “Let’s just bask for a minute.”

“I'm amenable to that plan.” His fingers begin to comb through her hair, untangling the knots he made last night. The moment is calming, so much so that it nearly makes her fall back to sleep. But his hands move from her hair up to her neck, his fingers tracing along the hickeys he made the night before. She watches Killian open his eyes, watches his eyes focus in on her, bright blue shooting right through her.  the pads of his fingers lightly tap at each one. “This is a lovely color on you,” he whispers.

“Stop,” Emma groans, pushing at his chest and laughing. His grip on her tightens, pulling her back to him. “How am I supposed to leave this house now? How am I supposed to face Liam? Or Henry?” she asks. “How am I supposed to face about in this town with these marks on my neck? You know they're going to asking who did it.”

Killian shrugs, displacing her head from his shoulder. “You tell them whatever you want. I have no shame in telling people that these marks are from me.” He leans closer to her, and, for a moment, Emma thinks he’s going to instigate a repeat performance as he promised. Instead, his nose dives to the skin of her neck, the tip of it finding unblemished skin. “Mm, but you make it so simple and easy. I feel like I just must have you, must claim you.”

Giggles begin anew as Emma pushes him back again. “Whoa, down boy.”

“I know, I know.” His head comes back up and their eyes match gazes. Somehow, even with him so close, she can still see his wink to her right before his lips press sweetly against hers. “At least it's cold enough for turtlenecks and scarves to be in season,” he says.

“Well that's something.” With a few more unintelligible grumbles, Emma flips on her back. She sighs and leans her head against his shoulder. “If the boys find out, they'll come for you,” she says quietly, the sheets susurrating beneath her as she turns to face him. “You know that, right?”

Killian shrugs again, gently knocking the corner of his shoulder into her temple. “We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.” He kisses the top of her head. “In the meantime, I find myself a tad bit hungry.”

But she knows he's not hungry for Granny's, or any food for that matter. Not with the way his pupils are dilated when she catches a glimpse of them, or with how what started off as a chaste press of lips is rapidly turning into something more heated. “We should do something about that,” Emma murmurs, letting her hand drag down his bicep to his forearm. “Can’t let you waste away.”

Chuckling, Killian says, “Indeed not.”

His body comes to hover over hers, elbows by her ears as his hips settle against hers. She feels his smile against her lips and knows there’s a matching one decorating her mouth. Emma feels him begin to grow against her thigh, encouraging him to come closer with a roll of her hips.

But the heavy thudding against his bedroom door interrupts any activities that they may have engaged in. Killian groans and falls next to Emma on his back.

“For the love of god, little brother, it’s nearly noon,” Liam shouts through the wood. “I need your help cleaning off the  Jolly ’s deck before it rains again this afternoon!”

Killian gives a frustrated sigh. “Give me a moment,” he replies, scrubbing at his eyes before dragging his hand down his face. “I had a long night.”

Even through the door, Emma can hear Liam’s scoff. “Of course you did. I'm sure Netflix kept you up until all hours.” The floor creaks under Liam’s body weight and she hears him take a step away before taking a step back. “Hurry up, arse, and we can try and stop by Granny’s on the way.”

“Aye, fine, go.” Killian groans again before his brother’s footfalls grow quieter and noise begins to echo up from the kitchen.

“You’re lucky your brother isn’t one of those siblings to barge in,” Emma says, scooting up the bed until she can lean up against the headboard. She pulls the quilt up and over her chest, watching Killian ease himself out of bed.

She thinks he says something like “I can honestly say that that is not usually the case,” but she’s a bit distracted by the image of him in all his naked glory before her. She hadn’t really had the chance to take it all in last night before, but seeing it in the current light of day - honestly, it’s a miracle she lasted against his advances and their chemistry as she did.

(And now that she’s had a taste of what could be, Emma isn’t too intent on letting it go.)

From across the room, Killian looks at her, pulling up and zipping a pair of jeans. He winks at her before turning back toward his dresser and rifling through a drawer for a shirt.

“You just gonna leave me here?” she asks, and while she would, at some point in time, like to spend a day or more lolling about in his bed, today isn’t the time for that.

“I assumed you'd want to make a quiet exit, what with Liam downstairs,” Killian says, his head poking out from the hole in his shirt. A salacious smirk overtakes his face as he comes to lean over and kiss her cheek. “Or you can stay in bed all day and I'll hurry through the work and come back for another round.”

Emma chuckles, scooting to her own side of the mattress, pulling the blanket along with her. “As much as I would love to, I do have a child to pick up from a sleepover,” she reminds him. Bending down, Emma grabs the shirt he lent her last night. It’s as she pulls it over her head that she realizes aloud, “My clothes are still in the dryer.”

Something hits her in the back, and it’s when she turns to see a pair of sweatpants that things makes sense. “You can get them on the way out,” Killian says. “Those’ll be a tad big on you.”

She pulls them on and stands, rolling the waistband far too many times before she can spot her toes amid the billows of cotton below.

“God, you weren’t kidding.”

He turns from searching for a pair of socks. A funny little expression crosses his face, his head tilting to the side as he considers her. Emma’s brows raise, silently asking,  What?

“As unusual at this may sound,” Killian starts, “those look good on you.” He points toward her neck, effectively ruining the soft possessive moment he had. “Not as good as those, but still quite good.”

Shaking her head, Emma can’t help her stupid smile. “God, you’re such a man,” she mumbles, heading toward the door. He catches up to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back for a second.

“Aye, a man who’s spent the night ravishing the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.” The words are whispered right in her ear, the bite of his teeth skimming her skin. It causes shivers up and down her body, her tongue peeking out from between her lips as she pushes him away.

(Otherwise, she’s not getting Henry from his sleepover  at all .)

After a quick kiss to the cheek, Emma jogs out of his bedroom and down the stairs to find Liam in the kitchen. The morning’s newspaper is spread out on the kitchen counter for his perusal. He glances up, his mouth open to surely admonish Killian for his laziness this morning, but his jaw goes slack when he sees her. She watches his eyes trace down her person - the bruises on her neck, the clothes she’s wearing, the mess that is her hair.

It’s exactly the reaction she was hoping for.

Still, his expression makes her blush, the heat rising on her cheeks, but smiles good naturedly. “Good morning, Liam,” Emma greets him cheerfully before ducking into the laundry room. Her clothes are still in the machine, a little wrinkled but otherwise unharmed from last night’s wet outing.

Soft footsteps grow louder, and Emma turns to the door just as Killian enters the room. She smiles at him before picking up the hem of the shirt she’s wearing and lifting it up. A hand halts her and brings it back down to her waist.

“As much as I enjoy your enthusiasm, I really must help my brother on the ship,” Killian quips. “Or at least lever his jaw off the ground.”

“I was going to change and give you these back, you horny ass,” Emma responds, slapping him on the arm.

“Nonsense. Take them home.” His hands come to rest at her waist, swaying them from side to side a little bit. It reminds her of the night they first kissed, at the wrap party what seems like a longer time ago than it actually was. “A little something to remember last night,” he says with a small part of his trademark swagger.

“I suppose you're right.” Emma leans into him, letting her head come to rest on his chest. She bites her lip, debating whether or not to tell him what she’s thinking.

She goes for it.

“You'll need something to wear when you've got to walk home next time.”

She can feel his body tense in surprise. “Next time?” he asks eagerly.

Stepping back from his embrace, Emma nods. She gestures to her neck. “I demand payback for these.”

He laughs. “I look forward to your vengeance.”

“I always forget how small new babies are,” she murmurs, leaning down to slyly smell Roxana’s head. She remembers the first couple of months after Henry was born. He always had the scent of cleanliness and newness, something she clung to on the nights they were sleeping in her car.

“I’ve got to give it to you, mate,” Killian says, relaxing into the couch, his stunted arm casually slung over the couch behind her. “You two make some cute kids.”

“Cute and loud,” Robin says with a sigh. “Regina wanted you to come over just so she could spend some time with Roland, maybe convince him into taking a nap with her.”

“Oh,” Emma says, looking up and across the room to where Robin stood. “If you had told me that, I would’ve left Henry at Granny’s. He could’ve come and visited another day.”

But Robin’s already shaking his head. “No, Roland’s been cooped up in here with us for a couple of days,” he tells her. “We’ve been too tired to take him anywhere. It’s good for him to have someone to play with that isn’t us.”

That gets laughter out of all of them, softer from Emma so as not to wake the baby. From the other room, Roland starts calling for his father, asking him to come and be on his team for the next game. Robin sighs.

“Go ahead,” Emma encourages him with a smile. “She’s sleeping. Go tell Roland how good of an older brother he’s being.”

With a nod, Robin takes his leave. Emma watches him leave before turning back to the sleeping child, running her fingers slowly up and down her stomach. Roxana inhales deeply, her stomach expanding with the action, and sighs happily.

Glancing over to her side, she sees Killian staring down at the baby, a sweet expression on his face.

“Do you want to hold her?” she asks. His eyes go wide and he vehemently shakes his head. Tilting her head in confusion, Emma adds, “Why?”

Behind her, he holds up his handless arm. “I can’t,” he says simply. “I’d be afraid to drop her.”

Emma scoffs. “Please. You have arms and she’s surprisingly resilient.” His teeth bite into his lower lips, a show of nerves at a level she doesn’t think she’s ever seen on him. And then a thought occurs to her. “Killian, have you ever held a baby?”

He shakes his head, embarrassed. “Haven’t really been around them this young,” he says. “Roland was already walking when I met him for the first time.”

Rolling her eyes, she uses the hand not holding Roxana to position his arms in front of him, making a cradle. “All you really need to do is support her head,” she explains. “Just make sure her head stays in your elbow and she’ll be fine.”

With rusty but practiced ease, Emma transfers the baby into Killian’s hold, his shoulders tense at first until Roxana settles down. She stays asleep the whole time, her little lips smacking together as she turns her head into his chest. Killian chuckles in disbelief, his eyes rising to look at her. Emma smiles in turn, leaning her head up against his shoulder.

“See?” she whispers. “Not so scary.”

And, as Emma watches him interact with the baby, she begins to realize that this moment means a lot more than just holding their friend’s child for the first time. Since coming home from the hospital, he’s fought with himself over the loss, not only of his brother, but of his own hand. She’s heard whimpers of pain a couple of times, seen him rub at the scars more often than that, and she assumes that he’s got phantom pains by the way he sometimes glances at his wrist. Try as she might, she knows that everything she does to assure him that he’s still the same snarky scallywag that he was - touching his stump as if his hand were still there, kissing his cheek and brushing his hair away when he feels the pain during sleep - it doesn’t really get to the root of the problem.

But here, holding little Roxana, she can see his psyche knitting itself back together. That, yeah, he can hold babies and make dinner and eventually sail a ship again and everything a normal man can do besides clap his hands together. He just needs to learn how to do it differently. Life goes on with him in it, and he might as well thrive.

(She’ll never tell him that she saw this coming. That she knew this is the exactly type of thing he needed. That she texted Robin, asking if it was okay to come over because Killian needed to get out of the house, needed something to brighten these gray winter days. He needed something to anchor himself, to give him hope in the future.)

“You’re a precious little lass, aren’t you?” he asks the baby quietly, totally entranced, allowing her small fingers to wrap around his pointer finger.

(For the briefest of moments, Emma lets the idea of Killian holding his own child, rocking them to and fro in order to soothe them on stormy nights, consume her.

And maybe the baby has her chin and his eyes, but that’s where that fantasy ends.)

(Yeah, he’s going to be fine.)

0000

Though he’s too stubborn to meet any sort of professional in the wake of the wreck, Killian does start opening up to her whenever something concerns him. Emma’s heard the story of the night of the wreck multiple times, each telling adding a little more detail.

She acts as his sponge, soaking up all this information and cleaning up the mess in his mind. But she never gets squeezed out. It’s not like she can tell anyone else about it - it’s certainly not her secret to tell. So she keeps it all bottled up because if it’s off Killian’s shoulders, then what does it matter? At least he’s healing.

But the sponge loses its ability to soak up information, calls it quits when Jefferson convenes the crew of Sea of Chaos at his house for an announcement. The second season airs in a couple days, and Emma hopes beyond hope that maybe - just maybe - Sea of Chaos will go on. Even she and David, Jeff’s top confidantes in this matter since the beginning, have no clue as to what this meeting could be about.

The whole event has a different vibe than any of the other ones. From the get-go, it’s more solemn, which, when Emma thinks it over, makes sense. In the past two years, they’ve lost three crew members and both their ships. The two crews have been condensed to one, and everyone - from their surviving captain to the on-shore help - has lost a fraction of their livelihood.

It took some haranguing to get Killian to agree to coming. Emma promised him to stay by his side for the duration, as if she would be anywhere else these days.

(But she fought back equally.

“You need to get out of the house, Killian,” she reminded him. “Sitting in here and moping isn’t good for anyone.”

“I’ve gotten out of the house,” he countered, pointing toward the front door. “We visited Robin and Regina. We went to your house for crew dinner just the other night.”

Emma groaned, rubbing her hands across her face. “You know that doesn’t count, you ass.”)

But there she is, by his side as promised, her hand wrapped around his elbow as Jefferson steps up on to his coffee table.

“Are you sure you haven’t a clue what’s going on?” Killian whispers to her, leaning down so his lips brush against her ear. The motion sends shivers down her spine, a smile rising on her lips as she shies away.

“No idea.”

Jefferson clears his throat. The crowd gathered, already quieter than normal, comes to complete silence.

“Due to recent events, the network has decided Sea of Chaos will take a hiatus,” he announces. It’s not like she hadn’t seen it coming, but Emma still feels her heart break a little bit. So much of her life these days she can attribute to this show. It seems like ages ago - Killian rushing out of Granny’s to help Liam alert the appropriate people as to their decision. She and Liam talking on the phone after arguing with Killian. It hasn’t been that long in reality, only about two months or so, since...well, since most everything changed.

“They have expressed interest in a third season,” Jefferson continues, looking each person in the crowd before him in the eye. “It would be shortened by half and we’d start filming next trawling season. At Killian’s behest,” he points to Killian, who blushes, nods, and gives a solemn wave to all the people who glance over at him, “we’re going to put it off indefinitely.”

Over the din of the crowd’s groan, Emma turns on him and glares. “You knew about this?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t know he was going to tell everyone like this,” he whispers. “I merely told him I thought it would be in everyone’s best interests if we didn’t go on.” Next to them, little Roxana begins to fuss in Robin’s arms. Killian, probably anxious to get out of the spotlight, silently offers to calm her down and take the baby out of the room. Robin, being the tired parent of a newborn, gladly accepts the help. With a bounce in his step, Killian leaves.

“Now, now, that’s not the right sentiment,” Jefferson chides everyone. “The network has high hopes for syndication and if Captain Killian out there changes his mind, you all will  be my first calls.”

Even to Emma’s ears, that sounds like a good deal. And she has enough faith in Jeff to hold him accountable to his word, even if she doesn’t see Killian changing his mind at all. He no longer has to sleep facing away from the harbor, but it’s taken longer for him to stroll along the piers, let alone get on or in the water.

“So, as this is our last time together for a while,” Jefferson concludes, arms wide and inviting, “let us drink and be merry.”

Weak cheers come from the crowd as conversations break out and the get together tries to rebound from the somberness of their producer’s announcement. Jefferson claps his hands as everything kind of returns to normal before hopping off the table and approaching Emma.

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” she sarcastically greets him.

Jefferson nods, his lips curling around his teeth and his steepled hands coming up to his mouth. “Emma Swan, I’m going to be straight with you,” he says quietly. Furrowing her brows, Emma steps closer, concern and curiosity getting the better of her.

“They want to film this,” he says carefully.

Confused, Emma shakes her head because her friend’s not making sense. “Film what?” she inquires.

“The aftermath.” His eyes flit over her shoulder and out to the other room, where she knows Killian took the baby. “The mounted cameras got some footage before the Jolly Roger went down, the network could easily get something from the hospital.” He pauses, letting Emma come to the conclusion on her own. “Viewers would eat this story up, you know that.”

“Story?” It’s not like she didn’t hear him the first time: she just can’t believe that any human being would even contemplate the idea of doing what Jefferson is suggesting. Emma looks over her shoulder to make sure Killian isn’t coming back. “Jeff, this is Killian. Your friend,” she whispers harshly. “His older brother died. Liam was the only family he ever had. He can barely look at the water, let alone get on a ship!”

“But…” Emma puts on her fiercest glare, one she imagine would adorn her face if Henry got arrested or if he came to tell her he accidentally got a girl pregnant. It’s scathing, giving her the inklings of a headache. Jeff sighs, relenting for the moment. “Would you at least ask him if he’d consider it?”

“No!” Insulting by the idea, Emma steps away with frustration before whirling back on him and pointing. “If you want him to do it, ask him yourself.” And then she shakes her head because that is an even stupider-as-shit idea. “Actually, don’t. He’s not doing it, Jefferson. Tell the network to shove it up their asses. Killian is a human being. A hurting and healing one, at that.”

Jefferson starts to interrupt her. She cuts him off. “No. No filming if and until there’s another season and, as you said, that’s Killian’s decision.” With a sharp wave of her hand, Emma dismisses him. “Go.”

Proverbially tail between his legs, Jeff nods and goes off to play host for the rest of the party, leaving Emma to bite her lip and wonder if she did the right thing. It is Killian’s life, but she’s gone on and decided on a part - a pretty significant part - of his future without consultation.

(She doesn’t have the right to do that, wouldn’t want somebody doing the same if the tables turned. Except for maybe Killian. Maybe.)

(Oh god, she’s in deep.)

The sound of the door opening behind her breaks Emma from her reverie. She turns to see Killian coming back into the room, handing a napping Roxana off to her father. Spotting her, he sends a small smile her way and comes up to her, his arm curling around her shoulders.

“Did I miss anything important?” he asks.

Emma opens her mouth, but pauses before saying anything. If she lies, he’ll never have to even know that pigs like the network executives and, to an extent, Jefferson himself exist. It’s not just her maternal instincts kicking in - she knows if this were Henry’s future, she wouldn’t tell him at all. Killian’s a grown man, owns a house and had a business, but she feels the strong need to protect him from the worst in life, especially after so much has happened in such a short timespan.

But then, she thinks back to how disappointed and upset he was when he found out she was looking for jobs without telling him. He’s still healing, still just getting back to some sense of normalcy. Now is certainly not the time to get into another argument like that. And that’s the more important factor in this situation.

So she settles on answering him honestly. “Apparently, the execs wanted a third season or a special or something,” Emma explains in a breath.

Raising an eyebrow, Killian says, “But we don’t have any boats.”

“They wanted this.” She gestures around them, then directly at his chest. “They’ve apparently got some footage from the hospital, from the Jolly Roger on that night.” Closing her eyes, Emma plays with a loose strand of hair. “They want to exploit you and the rest of the crew after losing Liam for money.”

“Excuse me?”

But she’s already shaking her head, her hands on his shoulders, sponging up any information and psychological trauma that might bubble up. “Don’t worry, I told him no,” she tells him.

“Swan.” There’s an undertone in his voice that makes her doubt her decision, but she pushes it away stubbornly.

“No, you are not arguing about this with me. It’s not right,” she says. “It’s not good form, right? I’m not going to let them punch you one last time just to make a quick dollar. Mulan and August and Robin and Scarlet, you all deserve better than that.” Letting her hands drag down his arms to entwine the one with his fingers and wrap the other around his stump, Emma smiles up at him. “No one moreso than you.”

His hand squeezes hers and he tugs her into his chest. He leans down as she presses up and throws her arms around his neck. “If it isn’t too wrong to say so,” he murmurs, swinging them back and forth a bit, “you are quite beguiling when you’re defending me.”

Emma rolls her eyes and pulls back a fraction. “Killian,” she moans playfully.

“The beautiful Emma Swan,” he chuckles lovingly. “My savior.”

She bites at her bottom lip before nervously asking, “So it’s okay that I prevented you and the rest of the crew from profiting off of your grief?”

“Swan, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.”  Killian laughs again at her astonished expression, leaning to press a kiss to her forehead. “You’ve been making my decisions for me for the last two years, whether you knew it or not.”

“Huh.”

When she doesn’t answer further, Killian licks his lips in anticipation. “Does that make you feel powerful?” he asks. “Knowing you hold a man’s heart in the palm of your hand?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. She barks out a laugh before catching herself and matching his gaze. “I kind of like it,” she admits. “Is that bad?”

“Far from it,” he assures her. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in long while, love.” Killian’s smile lights up the room, wide and bright, just like the smile she felt herself falling in love with all those months ago.

Slowly but surely, Killian begins pulling her toward the edge of the room. More specifically, toward the door he’d disappeared behind with Roxana not too long ago. The door, she knows, that leads to the mudroom, which leads out of the house all together. “Do you think the lad could fend for himself tonight?” he asks conspiratorially. “I’d like to take you home and,” he pauses before allowing a smirk to take over his face, “thank you. Properly.”

She catches up to him and wraps her arms around him, backing him up against the wood of the door. Her hand lingers on the doorknob before gently turning it and nodding toward freedom.

She and Killian stand at the front nurse’s desk, a cool breeze coming in from the automatic sliding doors behind them and stray snowflakes following.

The nurse reads something off of his file and then looks up at him without a hint of empathy. “You’re going to be on your own, correct?” she asks.

“Aye.” The answer sounds so sad and un-Killian. Emma hears him take a deep breath before he adds, “Just me nowadays.”

With a curt nod, the nurse begins to give him directions, telling him to set alarms to take medications at this time and schedule check ups on that day. Standing beside him, Emma pays attention almost as attentively as she did when Henry got sick for the first time ever.

(He thinks he’s going to be alone for the foreseeable future, but if there’s one thing Emma Swan is, it’s stubborn, and she cares about this man too much for him to believe that he’s the only person he can rely on in this world especially at Christmastime. Not anymore. Not on her watch.)

Handing over a thick pile of forms and instructions, the nurse finishes off her spiel with another nod. Killian quietly thanks her and turns to the exit. Emma follows, digging her keys from out of her bag.

Killian’s still somber, even in the way he walks. Instead of his usual too-proud swagger, his shoulders slump forward and forge the path toward her Bug, parked under the covered entryway. Killian gets in, shoving himself carefully into the passenger’s seat while Emma goes around the front to get in the driver’s side.

He stays silent for the short ride, only picking at the already unraveling bandage on his left wrist and staring at the snow fall. Emma glances at him every once in awhile, just to make sure he’s still there and hasn’t sunk into the old leather of her car.

When she pulls up to the curb outside of the his house, Emma flips the engine off and sits there for a minute, just staring at Killian. She knows she shouldn’t - when people did that to her when she was in bad shape, it just made her angrier - but she really is worried about him. After about a minute or so, she yanks the driver’s door open. Killian does the same, opening the door before reaching behind him to grab his duffel. However, she’s already popped her seat forward and is reaching for it herself.

“I can do it, Swan!” he snaps bitterly.

With a sigh, Emma growls, “I know you can, Jones. I’m just trying to be nice.”

“I’m not an invalid,” he continues. “I only lost one hand. The other one is fully functioning.” Tugging his bag free of the backseat, he storms off with his shit and goes into the house.

Emma sighs heavily, letting the stress in her shoulders roll over her body. Slamming the driver’s door shut, she removes her phone from her back pocket and calls Henry.

“Hold on a second, I have to wash my hands,” her son says by way of greeting. She hears the other end of the line clatter on a counter, the rush of water from a spigot, and then Henry asks, “What’s up, Mom?”

“Before you and David bring the food to Killian, can you run back home and grab my clothes from the top of the dryer? Put them in a bag.” She hesitates before adding, “And bring something Christmassy. Lights, bring some lights.”

Muted voices float through the connection. Henry must be asking David to stop next door before leaving. “Yeah, we can do that,” he answers. “But why?”

Sighing again, Emma juts her hip out and leans against the Bug. “Killian shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“So you’re going to stay with him?” She nods and makes an affirmative noise. “Can I come?” he asks.

“Umm.” Normally, she’d be fine with it. Henry is a great help and distraction for Killian. But with the way he’d snapped at her just now, the mothering instinct in her wants to protect her son from that. “Maybe tomorrow night,” she suggests. “We don’t want to overwhelm him.”

She can practically hear him roll his eyes. “Fine.”

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

“Alright,” he grumbles. In the background, a timer goes off. David’s deep voice says something indistinctly while Henry laughs. “We’ll be over in like a half an hour.”

“Okay. Are you behaving for David?”

“Yes, Mom,” he sighs. “Anything else?”

“No.” Despite the somewhat sour mood she’s recently sunk into, Emma smiles. “Thanks for being such a good kid.”

“I do my best,” Henry replies.

Hanging up, she takes a deep breath and mounts the stairs up to the Jones’ front door. It’s still slightly ajar, as if Killian threw it back but it didn’t catch in the jamb. Emma gently pushes it open and walks in.

There’s crashing in the general direction of the kitchen and she follows the sound quickly. She finds Killian rummaging through the cabinets, almost all of them open and the dishwasher gapping and half empty.

“I don’t need your help, Swan,” he grumbles even though she hasn’t murmured a word.

“I know you don’t,” she relents. Standing in the kitchen entryway, Emma watches as he goes back and forth between the dishwasher, one cup or a bowl in his hand, and the cabinets. It explains why the doors are all open, but the bowls are where the plates are meant to be and there’s a spatula in with the mugs.

When he realizes his mistake, Killian throws the plate he’s holding down on the linoleum. It shatters, thankfully into larger pieces, and he practically dives for it headfirst.

“Killian, stop,” Emma reprimands, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him up. “Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I can’t stop, Emma!” His face is that of a broken man, in all the ways one might think. His eyes are bloodshot, his five o’clock shadow is well past midnight, and there’s something crazed about the set of his mouth. “If I stop, then it comes back. I need to distract myself because if I don’t, Liam haunts me and I can’t.” He runs a hand through his hair frantically, pacing the kitchen and whirling back toward her when he finds his words. “It’s my fault. He was trying to talk to me about you, told me to get my head straight and apologize, and my temper got the better of me because I knew I was being unreasonable and I jerked the wheel,” he says. “We all went overboard because of me and Liam died because of that.”

Frozen in the middle of the kitchen, broken plate at his feet, Killian stares blankly over her shoulder. And then he breaks, tears streaming down his cheeks, his voice cracking. “I can’t, Emma. I’m sorry for all of it.”

Without a word, Emma approaches and embraces him, holds him in the middle of the kitchen and she feels even more assured of the favor she asked Henry. He buries his face into her shoulder, his arms squeezing her tightly, as if she’s the only thing he’s sure about right now.

“I know, Killian,” she mutters, stroking his hair. “It’s okay to can’t right now.” She pulls back a little bit and takes his chin her hand, forcing him look at her. The blue in his eyes is the saddest hue she’s ever seen, like the cloudless sky in the middle of a drought. “But you will. Liam loved you, no matter what. You know that.”

(If she were braver, she’d tell him she loves him too. Perhaps not as much as his brother, but very nearly.)

She gives him a little smile, her hand coming around to to cup his cheek. “He would want you to move on eventually. He’ll always be watching over you now and you know the last thing he wants to see is for you to be miserable.”

Killian sniffs, wiping the remains of salt and sadness off his cheeks. His blunted arms comes up - he seems intent to keep a hold on her waist - but once more he realizes there’s nothing there to help him, and he reluctantly switches arms.

“Are you sure?” he asks softly. She nods. “‘Cause sometimes he was an insufferable arse.”

Emma chuckles. “I’m well aware,” she answers just as gently. “Sometimes you can be too.”

He snickers, the light in his eyes confirming that her jests and jokes are a different way of accepting his apology. “That’s right, Swan, knock a man while he’s down.”

“My specialty.” She lightly slaps him on the cheek. “I feel like it’s only fair, considering the circumstances.”

Sighing, Killian’s shoulders slump forward. “I am sorry about before,” he apologizes quietly. “It was unnecessary and rude. I just…” He licks his lips. “I didn’t want to think about the Jolly Roger crew without you in it.”

“I should’ve told you I was looking for jobs,” Emma replies. “It wasn’t a matter of not trusting you. You seemed so hopeful that the show would keep going. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

A watery chuckle comes from his mouth and pulls her tighter to him. “Why must you always be so thoughtful, love?” He kisses her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. But it doesn’t excuse you for being a dick.”

Confident that he’s alright for now, Emma lets him go. She picks up the few chunks of plate from the ground, throws them in the trash, and starts unloading the dishwasher. In his own time, Killian joins her. He stands guard next to the open dishwasher and hands her a dish at a time, which she places in its proper home.

It’s in these small moments of silence that Emma hazards to inform him of her plan. “Um, so I was thinking I stay here for a couple of nights,” she says, turning around to grab another mug. At his look, she shrugs. “Or at least tonight.”

“Why? What about your lad?”

“Henry’s going to stay with the David and Mary Margaret.”

Killian hums, leaning up against the counter. “It sounds a lot like you’ve invited yourself into my home.”

Emma cocks an eyebrow. “Hasn’t that been your end game for a while?” He shrugs without feeling, eyes looking everywhere but at her. “No one should be alone, Killian, especially at a time like this. I of all people know and understand that.” He still doesn’t say anything. Emma takes a step back toward the front door. “I’ll leave if you want to be alone.”

A moment of quiet settles around them while he contemplates her proposition. She keeps putting dishes away on her own. He comes up next to her and places his hand on her shoulder and drags it down to her hand. He curls his fingers over hers.

“I’d love it if you stayed,” he murmurs, giving her hand a squeeze. “I need someone to make sure there aren’t any monsters beneath the bed.”

Emma laughs. “I knew it. I knew you had to have a flaw.” The dishes put away and the washer closed, she surveys the kitchen. It’s immaculate - the Jones brothers wouldn’t have it any other way - leaving her at a loss of what to do next. “Are you hungry?” she asks. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

“Swan.” Eyes wide, she turns around to find Killian staring at her, a smile perking up the corners of his mouth. “I can feed myself.”

Shaking her head, Emma giggles to herself. “Sorry, mom habit.”

“How about I make you something?” he offers instead, pushing off the counter to search the cupboards.

“Killian, you don’t have to.”

“No,” he insists. “You’ve been looking after me for far longer than I want to know and I repay you by being insufferable, as you so delicately pointed out.” He takes hold of her hand in his and squeezes it.  “Let me treat you well.” He looks in fridge, then the pantry. “Well, we’ve got a wide variety of options. Do you want pasta or frozen pizza?”

Emma chooses which one she thinks will be easiest with his one hand. “Pizza sounds great,” she says, settling into his former spot against the counter as he turns the oven on. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the food. I have it on good authority that you’ll have plenty of it in a little bit.”

Almost as if they’ve been summoned, the doorbell rings. Both Killian’s eyebrows raise in confusion. Emma nods toward the door with a grin. “Well, go answer it. Aren’t you a gentleman?”

Cautiously, Killian goes and answers the door, allowing Henry, David, and Mary Margaret in, the latter two weighed down with disposable pans and her son tangled up in twinkle lights and a Santa hat.

“What’s all this?” he asks, following them into the kitchen. Mary Margaret takes charge, directing her husband where to put the pans while she loads them into the freezer.

“We made you food!” Henry declares. “And Christmas cheer!”

Still dressed in her work clothes and running out of room in the freezer, Mary Margaret opens the fridge to see it empty. “Because we knew this was most likely the case.”

David leaves for a second to drop a duffel bag in the entry hall before returning. “Em, your bag is in the hall.”

Emma thanks him and glances at Killian, who seems completely surprised by the turn of events. He looks to Henry, still smiling proudly as he supervises the adults try and fit all the food into storage.

“You know I’ve got some lights of my own, right, lad?” he inquires.

“Yeah, but Mom didn’t know where they were.” Henry finds an outlet and powers up the lights, letting them shine brightly in a ball on the counter. He comes up to Killian and beckons him to bend down. Once he does, Henry places the Santa on his head. “Mom said I could sleep over tomorrow night. Is that okay?”

Killian looks at Emma, who shrugs. “Didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

He sends her a small grin before directing his focus toward her son. “Henry, I would be honored if you slept over tomorrow night.”

Throwing his hands up in the arm, Henry shouts, “Awesome! We can watch movies all night and then we can go find a tree after breakfast!”

For the first time since being cleared for discharge, Killian’s laugh is genuine and might even portray a hint of excitement. “It sounds like a plan, Henry.”

0000

He puts on a good face, but Emma can read him like a book. As she expected, he’s having a tough time adjusting to the loss of his hand. She’ll watch him in the kitchen from her perch on his couch: reaching for a box of cereal with his left hand only to remember that there isn’t anything at the end to grab the box. He’ll stop mid-action, frown at his stump, and shake his head as the one arm raises and the other lowers. He’ll grab for the remote to change from whatever claymation Christmas special she’s got on to watch Discovery Channel and knock it off the coffee table instead.

At least three times a day, Killian will do something along those lines. He’ll get frustrated and annoyed at himself and run off to his bedroom in a huff. When Henry’s over, he and Emma wait awhile and nose-goes to see who will talk to him this time. When it’s her alone, the task falls to her.

(She says it’s for his own good, Killian really shouldn’t be alone right now, but there’s a bit of selfishness in her actions as well. She’s gotten used to being around him that when they’re not together something is...off.)

He’s usually sulking on the bed, curled up on his side and facing the wall. His bedroom window looks over the water, hundreds of yards away, now a traumatic reminder of what took his brother instead of the calming balm it once was. More often than not, the TV is on, an attempt and failure to provide distraction. She’d tried talking to him the first couple of times, but when she received no response, she fell back on to her trusted ways: actions over words.

Hesitantly, she crawls on the other side of the bed and curls up behind him, spooning him with an arm over his waist. She buries her face in his shirt between his shoulder blades and just lies there, letting the warmth of her breath against his back speak the volumes of words she can’t verbalize.

You’re not alone. I’m here. It’ll be okay in time.

(It all reeks of love, and while Emma most definitely can’t say that, she certainly feels it toward this man, no matter how broken he might think he is.)

It’s when he starts to lay his arm atop hers, his fingers twisting together with hers, that she really starts to believe in her own words. That day, he flips around to face her on the bed and it’s just as momentous, as it is wrought with emotions.

“What are you doing, Swan?” he asks.

She shrugs, looking at their hands between them instead of his eyes. “Procrastinating wrapping presents,” she responds.

That gets a deprecating chuckle out of him. “Don’t you have a job to attend to? A son?”

“Henry’s at school during the day and I…” She hesitates in telling him that she technically quit her job to watch over him. He’ll react poorly, go on about how he doesn’t need a nurse, and this is the first time they’ve actually talked during his episodes. She settles on, “I don’t have to worry about work right now. I’m focused on taking care of you.”

Killian’s head falls forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “Emma, love, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: I can take care of myself,” he mutters.

“I know, but you don’t have to,” she whispers back, brushing the tip of her nose against his. “Try something new: it’s called trust.” He chuckles once at his own words parroted back. “Trust me, Killian. You’re my person, Killian. For everything. And if I have to guess, it’s true the other way around too.”

Laughing outright, he pokes at her side. “Who’s sounding a little self-obsessed now?” Pulling her closer to his body, Killian rolls onto his back and Emma’s head comes to rest on his chest. For a moment, they lay in silence, Emma listening to his heartbeat and steady breathing. “Did they fire you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” she sighs, relaxing against him. “I was spending more time in your hospital room than at my desk, so I took a leave of absence.” He’s so warm and comfortable that her eyes start to droop. “Even when I was at work, I was worrying about you.”

She must be more exhausted than she thought she was. Her eyelids are much heavier than they were two minutes ago. Her fingers scratch against his chest beneath his shirt and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you, Emma,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

(It’s what people do when they’re in love, she thinks.)

“I got a job,” Emma says when she’s on the phone with Killian one night. Henry’s spending the evening planning his perfect Halloween costume - he’s looking to go as Poe Dameron, but only if he can find a costume size to fit him. That’s left her to folding the laundry in the other room, her phone on speaker.

“So do I,” he chuckles, the slam of a cabinet covering his amusement. “You remember we work together, right?”

“I know,” she sighs, “but it’s getting to crunch time and I need to have some source of income.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, the only indication that he hasn’t hung up the beeping of a microwave in the background. Finally, he asks a bit too harshly to her liking, “You were applying to jobs?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “And I got one. At the TV station outside of town.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice deeper than normal. Usually, that means he’s next to her, behind her with his arms twined around her waist, his nose buried in her skin and mischief in his future. But now, on the phone, it’s kind of frightening.

“It didn’t seem important.” She puts down the shirt she’s folding and takes him off speaker. With the phone up to her ear, she asks, “Why does it sound like you’re getting frustrated? Or upset? I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“I thought you would’ve told me,” he says curtly, his voice containing none of the warmth and kindness Emma is accustomed to. “You can’t say we aren’t close, Swan. And I thought that you’d have a little more faith in us.” He pauses before adding, “In me.”

It catches her off guard. Finding another job wasn’t something she advertized - she had only told David, Mary Margaret, and Henry, but only because David was in the same boat and he couldn’t keep a secret from his wife if his life depended on it. It’s not like she hadn’t thought about telling Killian: it just hadn’t come up and she didn’t want to doubt his hope in what the network might say. “It’s just Jeff hasn’t gotten back to us and in my experience, that doesn’t bode well,” she explains gently. “And I wanted to be prepared. Just because I’m not going to be on the ship with you doesn’t mean I don’t have faith in you.” She swallows something back, a lump edging up her throat that threatens to overcome her. “I trust you, Killian. I thought you knew that.”

“Then why don’t your actions speak to that?” he counters sharply. And it’s not necessarily the worst barb she’s been stuck with in her life, but his tone certainly doesn’t soften the blow. “Aren’t you a woman of action, not words?”

And that hurts, her own words thrown back in her face. Because, loathe though she is to admit it, he’s almost got a point.

Almost.

Killian scoffs. “Best of luck in your new endeavors, Swan. Tell Henry I say hello.”

“Why are you angry with me?” Emma asks, beginning to get hysterical if she trusts the quiver in her voice. “I told you before, I need to go where the money is. Thankfully, the money is just ten minutes outside of town.” There are tears threatening to roll down her cheeks and she isn’t quite exactly sure why. Why she’s getting emotional like this, why Killian’s turning on her. All she can think is how fortunate it is that Henry’s in the other room. “We’re still going to be down the street. We’re staying here, this is our home, Killian.”

He doesn’t respond. Emma pulls back her phone and sees that the line is still open. He’s just sitting there, letting her stew in his silence. And that is the final straw. “Fine, be an ass. Don’t talk to me. Whatever. Have a good life.”

She hangs up, sensing like she should feel victorious in standing up to his asshole tendencies. Instead, she feels raw. And if she lingers in the laundry room far after she’s finished folding clothes, then there’s surely some other reason besides licking the wounds that Killian’s inflicted on her.

0000

Emma doesn’t talk to Killian for a while. Months, actually - her birthday passes with much more fanfare than the year before, but without a word from him. Liam answers Henry’s knock on Halloween, sending her a small, sad smile while her son digs through a bowl of candy. Thanksgiving passes with burnt fingers and happy bellies, but Emma comes home to a sadness no amount of pie or tryptophan can even come close to curing. She only hears of his wellbeing through infrequent texts from Liam.

And it hurts, not just her. Henry begins to wonder why they all stop hanging out and Emma can’t even begin to explain what happened because she doesn’t know. He just got angry without rhyme or reason. Any way she looks at it, there really isn’t any logical reasoning behind his outburst.

So she calls in the big guns.

“Sometimes, he just snaps,” Liam confides in her, the sounds of the harbor cluttering the phone line. “It happens on occasion. I believe…” he pauses, as if determining whether or not to share a particular anecdote with her. “Personally, I feel like it might be something to do with our father. He broke promise after promise and my little brother forgave each one of them until the day he never came back.”

It’s the one piece of the Jones brother puzzle she hadn’t been able to find herself. She’d had the inkling that Liam played a huge part of Killian’s life, the way their relationship went deeper than she assumed a normal fraternal relationship would go, and when the elder Jones tells her that, it all makes sense. Liam was Killian’s Henry - the only blood he’s got in the world, the one who’s been there since the beginning through thick and thin.

And then the realization that Killian thinks she’s leaving him hits. But she’s not, she argues, just changing direction a little bit. They’ll still live down the street, they’ll still be around, hell, they could still hang out every day. She knows what it’s like to be left and she isn’t going to do that to him.

“No matter what he says, Emma, Killian adores you,” Liam reassures her. “You and Henry. You’re as much as part of his life now as I am or the sea is.”

“I guess,” Emma sighs, crossing her arm over her stomach. She’s looking out her bedroom window, the tops of some of the boats and ships visible from across the way. It’s the beginning of December, the end of trawling season near. This has to to be one of the last time the Roger and her ragtag crew will go out this year. She can just imagine Liam standing on the pier, everyone on the Roger getting ready to cast off for another day out on the water. “I still think he’s overreacting.”

Liam scoffs. “Have you met my brother? Biggest drama queen I’ve ever met.”

That makes her laugh, lightens the mood even if only for a second. “If you could, I don’t know, put in a good word for me?” she asks.

“I see how it is,” Liam groans. “Making the big brother the middle man. Sending me in to try and sweeten him up.”

(It’s not a lie, but Liam seems to understand what was going on from both sides of the argument. Besides, Killian would give anything or anybody a second chance if Liam asked.)

“I’ll talk to him, Emma. We’re taking some of the old crew and heading out in a moment.” She sighs, thankful that at least one of the Joneses has a head on their shoulders. “But whatever decision he makes, however inane, is his own.”

“Yeah, I know.” She hears a commotion downstairs and assumes Henry has finally come home from school. “Thanks, Liam. I’m glad you guys come as a pair. He’d be a giant pain if you didn’t calm him down.”

“He is a giant pain even when I do calm him down.” She laughs before the sounds of bellows and yells echo through the phone line. “Duty calls. Be good, Emma.”

“I’ll do my best,” she says. “Be safe. All of you.”

“Your concern is touching.” More shouts sound come from the background and it sounds as if Liam, muffling his phone, responds to them. Then he comes back on. “I’ll watch over him. He’ll get some sense knocked into that thick skull of his if it’s the last thing I do.”

0000

After tucking Henry into bed at David and Mary Margaret’s house, Emma resigns herself to another boring night shift where she expects nothing interesting to happen. In a town as small as Storybrooke, it’s not unusual to get through all of her assigned tasks – mostly leftover work from her shifts earlier in the week – and spend time reading about news around the rest of the world. Tonight, the top story is the weather: it’s raining, might turn into snow in the early morning hours. Storybrooke - such a riveting place to live.

She’s cutting together a segment about a high school unity concert – little snippets of kids greeting and taking ticket money at the front door, or their verbose and hilarious faces as they sing – to the voiceover of their teacher or principal or some administrator talking about how proud they are of their students. Honestly, it’s so small town, she lets her eyes go out of focus, only seeing flashes of color on the screen, as the woman’s soft voice from her earphones lulls her to drowsiness.

Her peace is broken when the police scanner whoops to life. Ripping her earbuds, Emma focuses her attention. It’s the Coast Guard siren, the one only used when a man’s gone overboard.

Or worse.

The two other people on call tonight stand as well, already hustling about and grabbing their gear to head out to the scene. There’s information to find out – the who, what, when, etc. – and Coast Guards to interview for the morning’s news. But Emma stays seated: someone’s got to stay behind on the off chance that something else newsworthy happens at the same time. She’ll be the one to actually listen to the radio and recount it to her coworkers when they eventually call or text her asking where to go or what to ask.

“Be advised,” the discombobulated voice says. “We have reports of a crash on shore four miles due north of Georges Bank. Five bodies on board, five missing. Be advised.”

“Damn,” she mutters to herself, turning back to the rolls on her screen. “Hope they find the bastards.”

“Be advised.” And, for some reason, this time around makes her stomach sink. She’s lived here in Maine for over two years now. She’s heard that siren handfuls of times and never felt the sense of dread she’s experiencing now.

“Vessel confirmed as Jolly Roger. All crew missing. Be advised.”

Feeling her eyes go wide and her jaw drop, Emma understands the emotion now. The Jolly Roger – practically her second home. And the crew, all five of them, missing.

“No,” she mumbles to herself. “No, not him.”

She runs to the camera operator heading out to film the live spot. Grabbing his shoulder, Emma yanks him back. “You’ve got to let me film this one.”

“What?” her coworker asks, stunned. “No, Emma, you stay here, that’s how it alwa- ”

“I don’t care if that’s how it always is!” she shouts, gaining the attention of the few others in the office. Her breathing is intense and heavy, a pain stabbing deep throughout her body. “I need to be out there. Please.”

Taken aback from the swiftness of her outburst, her wide-eyed coworker rolls his eyes and relents. “Fine,” he says, shrugging out of his rain slicker. “Any reason not to go out in this weather.”

“Thank you.” She takes equipment from him and follows reporter out to the truck. In her haste, she gets drenched from the storm while loading the van. It’s as she’s running back out, now donning her jacket and hood, that she whips out her phone. She’s in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut and revving the engine, and dialing Mary Margaret’s cell.

Her friend barely answers the phone, obviously having been fast asleep, before Emma’s breathlessly explaining the situation.

“The Jolly Roger went down. They don’t know where any of them are. I’m heading out there to film a spot right now.” She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, and a sharp right down toward the Coast Guard’s station. “Mary Margaret, they’re out there,” she says quietly. The anchor filming the spot is too involved in calling sources and figuring out how much information he knows to pay attention to Emma’s conversation and verge of a breakdown. Still, she can’t be too sure.

On the other end of the line, Mary Margaret calmly asks Emma how she can help. “Just, watch Henry for me. I’ll send you updates when I can. Try not to worry him too much. And call Jeff. He’ll want to know.” She sighs heavily, taking another turn far too fast. “Hopefully I’ll see you soon.”

Emma pulls into the gravel lot of the station shortly after hanging up with Mary Margaret, the anchor running up the slickened steps as Emma grabs the equipment.

By the time she gets inside, Whale, Scarlet, and Mulan have been found, pulled up into the rescue copter, and brought to the Coast Guard headquarters. They’re huddled up together in the corner, wrapped in blankets and soaking wet. Quickly, Emma sets up the tripod, the camera atop it while the reporter asks all the important questions of the lead officers, and then runs over to them. She hugs them all at once, careless as to her own state of dryness or lack thereof.

“Are you guys okay?” she asks, holding herself back from kissing all three of them out of pure joy to see them alive. “What happened?”

“Don’t bloody well know, a’ite?” Scarlet grumps. “One moment, we enjoying ourselves, catching great, the next I’m swimming in the world’s coldest bath.”

At a loss for words, Emma just stares them over, maternal instincts kicking in. She’s observing them, looking for any bodily damage.

“Honestly, we’re gonna be fine.” Whale’s words stop her glances. “Minor bumps and bruises and cold, unless we’re stuck in these clothes much longer. Then we’re at risk for hypothermia and that’s never a nice way to go.”

Emma looks to Mulan, who she knows won’t sugar coat the actuality of the situation.

“I think Liam and Killian were fighting in the captain’s post,” she says. “The ship turned too sharply over a swell and...” Still wrapped in her towel, Mulan motions going overboard. She shivers and cuddles back with her blanket. “Any word on them?”

Emma shakes her head. “Not that I’ve heard.” The reporter calls her over, snapping at her. She rolls her eyes. “I suppose we’ll find out in a minute.”

“They gonna be okay, Emma,” Scarlet says, his entire countenance softening despite the tenseness of the situation. “Them Joneses are survivors.”

Nodding, she hurries over to her set up, flicks the camera to rolling, and points toward the anchor, telling him to get on with it. She kind of zones out until a name - his name - crosses his lips.

“Captain Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, still remain unfound. Coast Guard air rescue is looking, but with each passing moment, their chances of survival shrink.”

She covers her mouth, doing her best to stay professional. Emma has to choke back a sob because her coworker is right. The longer it takes for the Coast Guard to find them – if they find them – the worse of her Jones boys will be. It’s cold and wet on land: she can only imagine how bad it is in the water.

After they’ve finished the spot, the reporter makes one more round in the station, gathering all the pertinent information and contact numbers, before coming up to Emma as she makes sure for a fourth time that what’s left of the crew of the Jolly Roger is okay. “You ready to head back and edit this bitch?”

A slight glance toward the door and the bustle of station, everyone trying to save those men, has Emma crossing her arms and looking at her coworker. She jerks her head toward her friends, still huddling on the bench, warming up but waiting for news. “No, I’m going to stay here.”

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug. “If a new lead comes in, call me and I’ll come back down.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says, her attention turning back to the crew members of Jolly Roger in their vigil.

The night goes fast and slow. For the most part, the four of them are quiet, getting lost in their own thoughts. It’s close to one in the morning when Emma hears the garble of the radio again. It interrupts a memory she’d been reliving - a movie night with Henry, Liam, and Killian, in the middle of last winter - and wakes her up for a little bit as she strains to hear the message. She catches only a few words – two, medevac, unknown – but it’s enough to spark the flame of hope in her heart.

“They found them,” she whispers, elbowing Mulan next to her. “They found them.”

“How do you know?” she asks groggily.

“They said it on the radio. They were both medevaced to Storybrooke General.” Emma stands abruptly.  “I’ve got to go.”

“Where you going, Emma?” Whale asks.

“The hospital.” She runs a hand through her hair, getting it caught in a knot at the tips. “I need to know they’re okay. Do any of you have your phones?” They shake their heads and Emma nods. “Okay, I’ll call Ruby and tell her to get down here and I’ll keep her updated.” She nods again, more to clear her head than anything, and she gives each one of them a hug. “Get warm,” Emma says by way of goodbye.

Texting Ruby as she walks out the door, Emma gets confirmation that her friend will be there soon. She’ll get to take care of Whale, which both parties will enjoy, and Mulan and Scarlet can derive some sort of joy from ragging on them. Once she rushes out of the Coast Guard post, she realizes she’s stranded. Her coworker took the channel van back to the office. Luckily the hospital isn’t that far away, so she runs. It’s still raining and it’s as she runs around a corner through an alley that she gets a flashback to being drunk and running down her street. Running through puddles to get to Killian, that night where she force her way into his house and he forced himself into a Killian-shaped hole in her heart for good.

The idea of never being able to do that again spurns her legs to go faster.

Along the way, she calls Mary Margaret again, updating her as promised.

“Please tell me it’s good news,” her friend greets her.

“They found them,” she gasps out, the hospital coming into sight. She doesn’t slow down though, still jogs until she reaches the end of the entrance canopy. “Coast Guard found Killian and Liam. I’m at the hospital right now to see them. I’ll text you when I get some more info.”

Mary Margaret doesn’t even say goodbye, just says, “Okay” and hangs up.

Emma gets to the hospital’s front desk, huffing and puffing and says to the nurse behind it, “Coast Guard just brought in two men.” Emma bends over the desk, her palms flat on the surface as she struggles to catch her breath. “Medevac,” she manages to get out. She takes another couple of deep breaths before she can form another actual sentence. “I need to know their condition.”

But the nurse behind the desk shakes her head and returns her gaze to the computer screen. “I can’t tell you that, ma’am.”

“What? Why not?”

The woman sighs and rolls her eyes. “Ma’am, I can’t release that information to someone who isn’t family.”

“I am,” Emma insists, jabbing her finger into her chest and then toward the elevators. “They are. They’re my family.”

“I know you might really want to know, ma’am, but I must insist. I’m not allowed-”

“I don’t care!” she shouts. As it was in the newsroom earlier that evening, all eyes turn to her. Emma feels her cheeks heat up in embarrassment and frustration. Again, she points toward the elevator. “Those two men are the closest thing to family I’ve got besides my son and I will not lose them!”

The nurse is startled and starts to stutter through a response. “Ma’am, I-”

Emma groans and leans forward on the desk. “Is there someone else I can speak with? I’ll tell you whatever you want. Go ahead, try me.” She tries to calm herself, settle herself down by stating facts. “My name’s Emma Swan, I’m looking for Liam and Killian Jones.”

“Jones?” Another woman comes out from behind a partition, probably separating the front room from the break room. She looks vaguely familiar and Emma realizes why when she speaks again. “I treated Liam when he was in here a couple months ago.” Her eyes narrow as if she’s trying to see past the rat’s nest of hair and drenched clothing hanging off Emma and then she nods. “His brother put you down as a secondary contact.”

Emma sighs in relief. “Thank you,” she says, her voice breaking.

(Later, when the dust has settled, she’ll think back to what the nurse’s words actually meant. That, had anything gone wrong that first time, Killian wanted her to be in charge in case they couldn’t get through to him.)

Stepping closer to the desk, the edge digging into her hips, Emma pleads with the nurse. “You know me, I’m sorry I forgot your name, but please, can you tell me anything about either of them?”

This new nurse looks at the first nurse, then ushers Emma over to entrance of the desk. She leans over the partition. “I can tell you they’re both here, but it’s really rough right now,” she whispers in her ear.

“What’s wrong?” Emma catches the hint of hesitation in her eyes and she has to hold back another groan of despair. “Look, I don’t want the bullshit. Just tell me.”

The nurse sighs and starts typing away at another computer nearby. “They’re taking Killian into surgery now. The rope was wrapped around his wrist too tightly for too long.” Then she looks directly at Emma. “They’re going to amputate his left hand.”

Her hand goes to cover her mouth in shock. “Oh my god.”

Squinting at the screen, the nurse explains, “He’s a bit touch and go right now. He hasn’t really been lucid, but he’s breathing on his own for now.”

“That’s good, right?” Emma clarifies. “That he’s breathing on his own?” The nurse nods and a small weight lifts off her shoulders. He’s fine, for now. He’s a survivor. Both of them are. “And Liam?” she asks. “What about Liam?”

When the nurse looks away from the computer screen, it feels like a boulder takes up residence in her stomach. The pause that follows makes it even heavier. “I’m sorry, Ms. Swan, but as for Liam…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but then again, she doesn’t really need to.

Emma shakes her head in disbelief. She can’t imagine a world without Liam in it, his silly stories and teasing. And while it’s going to be really tough for her to fully comprehend, it in no way would compare to the train of thought she’s on when she asks her next question:“Does Killian know?”

The nurse says no. It makes sense, with Killian being in and out and hardly conscious, but it still hurts. Emma silently starts to break down, the remnants of her run - gasping breaths and rivulets of sweat - turning into sobs and streams of tears. Offering her condolences for Liam’s death, the nurse comes from around the desk and leads her to a chair in the waiting room. For a moment, the nurse wraps her arm around Emma’s shoulders and just holds her, a weak attempt to glue her together as she falls apart.

After a few minutes, she gets up and gets back to work. “I’ll let you know when Killian gets out of surgery,” she assures her.

A wobbly “thank you” comes out of Emma’s mouth as the nurse leaves. A moment later, she crumples up on a chair and cries. She brings her knees to her chin, the heels of her sneakers perching on the edge of the chair. The sobs reverberate off the waiting room’s walls and Emma’s reminded how lonely being sad can be.

She knows he’s playacting for her pity, but Emma still feels the need to comfort him. “I don’t think there’s anyone in town who isn’t Granny’s favorite.” She reaches across the table to pat his hand. “Don’t worry, you’re one of my favorites,” she says.

He grins. “As much as I will cherish that admission,  I don’t get free food out of our relationship.”

“Hey, I still have to pay for this stuff,” she whines. “And I can make you food.” His eyebrows shoot up and she shrugs. “It’d be free for you.”

“I feel like we’ll have more time for that in the near future, what with there being only one ship in our possession.” Sighing again, Killian rests his head on the table in front of him, grasping blindly for her hand. He entwines their fingers together. “What are we going to do, Emma?”

“I don’t know,” she grumbles, relishing in the warmth and weight of his hand in hers. “We’ll figure it out.” In the meantime, Emma uses her other hand to slide her plate reluctantly between them, a silent offer for assurance in the form of onion rings.

Peeking up from his arms, Killian smiles. He actually thanks her this time as he takes an onion ring and munches on it thoughtfully. “What do you think Jeff’s going to say about the show?” he asks.

She shrugs this time. “He’s probably going to refer back to whatever contract you guys signed, then take it up to the channel execs. See what they say.” Ruby finally returns with his cup of coffee and another small plate of onion rings for her. “It’s a huge guessing game until the end of this season. I’m sure it won’t end badly. They might just find another trawler somewhere nearby and focus on them instead of the Jolly Roger and the Jewel.” She rolls her eyes. “Who knows?”

Looking off into space, Killian reaches over to the plate of fresh onion rings, only to be met with empty air. He looks up to find Emma hoarding the plate close to her, Gollum protecting the one ring.

“I don’t care how good looking you are,” she threatens him. “You want onion rings? Fucking order some and stop stealing mine.”

A huge smile breaks across his face before he salutes her sarcastically. “Message received loud and clear, love.” Still, he actually stands up and grabs one last ring from her possession. “They just taste so much better when it makes you feisty.”

Bending over to press a short kiss to the top of her head, Killian pops her onion ring into his mouth and smirks on the way out of Granny’s, leaving Emma fuming.

0000

Jefferson’s reaction, at least according to Liam and how Killian relays it to her on the phone later that night, is more positive than either of them had expected. While Emma prepared herself to hear about screaming and cursing in true Jeff fashion, Killian tells her that their producer understood considering the circumstances.

“Liam said that Jeff said that he’d inform the proper executives and get back to me if there was anything else he needed,” his voice crackles through the line. Emma’s walking in the front door, a bag of Chinese food dangling off her elbow and her cell wedged between shoulder and ear.

“Well, that sounds kind of promising,” she assures him, shutting the door behind her. “Hold on a second.” Taking the phone from her shoulder, Emma yells for Henry to set the table before returning to their conversation. “Do you think he’ll have something to get back to you with by the barbeque?” she asks.

“Dunno,” he grumbles. She can just imagine him scratching behind his ear, the uncertainty of the future causing a frustrated blush to rise on his neck. He sighs, and then says, “I’ll let you and the lad get to supping. See you soon, love.”

“Bye.”

Emma hopes for all their sakes and sanities that Jefferson does have something to tell the crew by the time the Nolans’ barbeque rolls around in a couple of days. It’s the end of summer though it feels more like fall, coming up on the end of regular trawling season, and to celebrate that or maybe just help each other grieve and mourn the recent past. Either way, Mary Margaret had brought up the idea and Emma had wholeheartedly volunteered her and Henry’s manpower to help set up.

“Mom, Phillip’s mom was gonna take us to a movie,” he complains where she tells him of their plans.

“Well, you’ll have to call Phillip and tell him sorry,” she says. “It’s going to be a beautiful day and David promised me there would be ice cream.” Flopping back on the couch they share and changing the channel, Emma adds, “Invite him to the party while you’re at it. Phillip and his parents.”

“This is Mary Margaret and David’s party, remember?”

She shrugs. “We’re setting it up, I’m saying we can invite people.”

And Emma really begins to agree with her own words as she’s helping David set up the eighth fold-out table in an hour in their backyard, his wife directing them on its placement and Henry plugging in lights around the fence. Mary Margaret keeps saying she needs to keep an eye on food she’s pre-cooking in the kitchen, but Emma’s sure she just doesn’t want to do the heavy lifting. Literally.

All the while, the possibility of having to leave Storybrooke - of no longer being able to use her son for chores, of no longer being close to Mary Margaret and David, or Ruby, or even the Joneses - lingers in her mind.

It’s something she doesn’t want to do unless it’s absolutely necessary.

But now that there isn’t a second boat and no intention of getting one, there might be no show that needs a camera for her to operate. She’s in a bit of a tight position. She has enough saved up for her and Henry to survive for a little while, but the mastering of camera operation can only take you so far in life.

These frightening thoughts sneak in and out of her mind during the party, almost ruining the beautiful sunset that cools what remains of a scorching day. Henry’s having a blast, he and Phillip shooting each other with water guns in between hot dogs and ice cream. Mary Margaret’s in full-on hostess mode, talking with everyone she walks by to make sure their drinks are cold and their stomach are satisfied. And David, standing next to Emma, taking in the scene with his own internal commentary.

“What am I going to do?” she asks David in one instance of darkened thought, beer in hand.

Reading her mind, he shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “What are we going to do?”

Emma chuckles darkly. “At least Mary Margaret’s got a job.”

“Hey,” David reprimands her. With a shrug, she rolls her eyes at him. “I know you don’t particularly like asking for help, but you know you don’t have to do this alone.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he pulls her into his side, a brotherly gesture of comfort. “Some other project will come up. And in the meantime, enjoy your time with Henry. Relax.”

“Easier said than done,” she grumbles. She takes a swig of her beer only to find it empty. A frown growing on her face is halted by the somewhat magical appearance of another drink in David’s other hand.

“Maybe you just need a little push in the right direction,” he suggests, handing the beer over.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

David nods to Killian, who’s now chasing after Henry and Roland, Liam and Robin and Regina laughing at his antics. He’s spent the majority of the evening doing so, choosing the adventures of children over alcohol for entertainment. Liam even had to scold him for running about the deck too fast.

(He’d been sheepish naturally, being treated like a child, but Emma had to admit that the entire situation was adorable.)

“Don’t make me spell it out for you,” David nearly begs.

Catching his drift, Emma grimaces. “You’re gross.”

“I’m right.” She glares at him as he takes another drink of his beer, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smug smile. When he finishes, David shakes his head. “Look, I don’t want to know anything about it.”

“There’s nothing for you to know, we just - ”

“Don’t want to know,” he interrupts her, his hand coming up between them. “All I need to know is if he makes you happy. Because I can lie to myself all I want and pretend that you’re happier here because you have us. But even I have to admit you look a hell of a lot happier when he’s around these days.”

Taking a moment to contemplate the idea, Emma finally shrugs, hints of a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “I’m not unhappy.”

David nods once sharply. “Good enough for me,” he says, taking another drink. “The rest of that stuff, you can talk to Mary Margaret or Ruby. Not my department.”

Emma nudges his shoulder in good humor. “You mean you don’t want to know the intimate details about-”

“Nope,” he interrupts her. “Not my department. Not at all.”

With a nod and a smile, David takes his leave, mumbling something about making sure there’s enough food. It’s as much a fake excuse to get away from the uncomfortable conversation as it is an inside joke - like Mary Margaret would ever let anyone go hungry at her house.

As though his ears were burning, David’s space is quickly occupied by Killian himself, out of breathe and damp from being chased with water guns.

“Those lads are quick,” he says nonchalantly.

Emma chuckles. “What, Captain Hook can’t keep up with the Lost Boys now?” she teases him. “Finally admitting defeat and letting old age and a croc get you?”

Killian’s frown is so dramatic - honestly, it makes him look like a blobfish - that her laughter flourishes into guffaws and even a few tears. “I am affronted, Swan,” he says. his voice equally put off. “How dare you insult the captain as such. I should make you walk the plank!”

So she’s had a few drinks, as he probably has too, but that matter doesn’t do anything to quell the warmth that bubbles up inside with this ridiculous man next to her. She thinks of what David said and maybe it’s just become obvious to her how obvious she and Killian are together. How often and how much time they spend with each other, how their countenances change when in each other’s company.

It nearly makes her sad when she forces the conversation to other, less amusing topics.

“Did Jefferson get back to you yet?”

Shaking his head, Killian runs a hand through his hair. “I even inquired about it the other day after Liam’s check up,” he tells her. “Alas, nothing from executives or any other higher up.”

“I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything,” Emma assures him, though a different discussion sets off in her mind. She knows better than Killian that, unlike in other realms of the world, no news in show business isn’t good news. Sea of Chaos is quite a money maker for the network: it’s grown a fanbase, it’s interesting enough and original enough that it could bring in more ratings, and the cast is memorable enough that they can quote them on merchandise. Changing it in any way - or worse, cancelling it - could be detrimental to their entire lineup.

But Killian doesn’t need to know that.

“No news is good news, right?” Emma lies easily.

“Swan, are you…” he starts, and then dissolves into chuckles. “Swan, are you drunk?”

She shrugs, nervously twisting at the waist. “I’ve had a drink,” she admits. “Or seven.”

His chuckles grow louder as he shoots her a delighted smile. “Oh Swan,” he murmurs, holding out his hand. Naturally, she takes it. “My lovely adorable drunken Swan.” That makes her happy, a dopey grin growing on her face as she takes a step closer to him. “Where’s Henry?”

“He’s at a sleepover.”

“Well, I suppose it’s good you don’t have to care for him tonight.” Killian ushers her inside, tugging on her hand. He disappears for a moment, letting her drip alone on the hardwood floors of the entryway, and comes back with a pair of socks way too big for her as she ungracefully flops on the couch. Ever the gentleman, he takes one of her legs and places it on his lap, carefully rolling the socks up and onto her foot. He does the same thing with her foot, before tapping her shins.

“I’d suggest we start a fire, but we haven’t any firewood, so I’m sorry about that.”

“But then we could make s’mores.”

He laughs, sparking some warmth within her better than any fire could. “Yes, Swan, we could, but that would involve burning some furniture and I shouldn’t think Liam would be too pleased with me.”

She sighs dramatically, sinking further into the cushions. “Who cares?” She gets up, goes to kitchen to get herself some water, and peruses the fridge’s contents. Even the mention of s’mores makes her hungry for something sweet. Maybe they’ve got whipped cream and ice cream.

Emma opens up the freezer at the same time, trying to focus one eye on each side of the appliance, but all it’s doing is giving her a headache. She shivers.

“Is there something specific you’re looking for?” The contrast of the cool blast in front of her and the heat of his body behind her is far more intoxicating than the alcohol she’s drunk. It forces her to unconsciously sway back into him, her shoulders gently nudging into his chest. She takes a swig of water and turns around, letting both doors close behind her.

“No. Not really.” She shivers again.

Killian gazes down at her, a little smirk on the corner of his lips. “You should get out of those wet clothes,” he says, taking a step back. “Can’t have the boss falling ill, can we?” He takes her hand once more and drags her to the laundry room.

“I’m not your boss,” she whines, coming to a stop right in the doorway. Killian releases her and goes digging through the clean laundry. He hands her a shirt and a pair of shorts from atop the washer. “What are these for?” she asks.

“Change into them.” He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. Through the wood, he says, “Change and throw your wet ones in the dryer. And when you can’t figure out which buttons to press, go ahead and shout.”

Emma wrinkles her nose. “I know what buttons to press, asshat,” she shouts.

She strips down and throws her clothes in the machine. She puts his shirt on and take a quick sniff and, ugh, even his shirt smells good.

(Bastard.)

She wants to prove him wrong, she really does because she’s not that drunk. She ran down here, didn’t she? And she didn’t fall flat on her face nor did she get any glass in her feet or skin her knees on rocks. Emma is a strong independent woman who doesn’t need help from any man.

“Killian!” she yells. “Killian, the dryer is broken!”

Far too quickly, he enters the mudroom chuckling. “Are the words moving as well?” he asks. “Is that how it’s broken?”

“The buttons won’t go down.”

“That’s because you’re not pressing on the buttons, you’re pressing about two inches above the buttons.” He programs the machine and it starts to rumble to life. When he sees she isn’t completely dressed, he turns away, the one ear she can spot tingeing red. “Those shorts should fit you. A conquest of Liam’s left them behind.”

Looking down at herself, Emma can see that the hem of his shirt covers her ass and, yes, it falls a little high on her thigh, but she’s covered. When she goes to give him a sassy reply, he’s already gone. To appease him, she forces her legs into the gym shorts, grumbling under her breathe the entire time.

Emma heads back to the living room and sprawls her body across the couch. “Where is Liam, anyways?” she asks.

“Last I knew, he was on a date with Ms. Belle French.”

“I knew it.”

Killian replies in surprise. “You know her?”

Shrugging, Emma begins to play with the tips of her hair, curling them around her finger in front of her face. “She hung out with Liam in the hospital when you needed to shower. And Henry reads like I film during the summer. We always gets to know the librarians.” She sighs and nods harshly. “About time. Good for them. Good match.”

“I’d have to agree,” he says, joining her on the sofa. Killian stares at her feet for a moment before deciding to forcibly lift her feet so he can sit. Her heels come to settle on the tops of his thighs. “The lads and I have been trying to get them to agree to dinner for quite some time.”

“That’s nice.” Emma crinkles her nose, overwhelmed by the menial tasks of comprehending Liam’s love life as well as the comforting feel of physical touch.

Naturally - and drunkenly, let’s face it - she decides that’s been enough of that.

“I should probably leave then,” she says. Emma takes her feet from Killian’s lap and struggles to get vertical. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shrugs again, this time much more awkwardly. “Wouldn’t want to intrude of any after-date activities.”

“No.” Following her suit, Killian stands, reaching out to rest his hand on her arm, steadying her. There’s a bit of urgency or something else along the same lines in his voice that surprises her. “He’ll text me if something should occur, though I don’t think it will.”

“Yeah, Belle is a bit of a prude.”

“Emma,” he scolds her sternly. “Watch your tongue. That’s not only my brother’s date, but a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, licking her lips. “I don’t know why I said that. Belle’s super nice.” He’s still touching her, his hand slowly falling down toward her wrist, and it’s a bit distracting. She shakes her head, trying to clear the fog in her mind, regardless of whether it originated from alcohol or tension. “Can we watch a movie or something?” Emma asks, her gaze flicking toward the TV to her right.

He chuckles. “First you show up at my house unannounced, nearly break my dryer, insult my brother’s date, and now you ask if we can watch a movie?”

She shrugs, casually returning to the couch. “I’m not used to being in that big house alone.” Emma lies down again, letting her body span the length of the couch. With one eye squinted, she looks up at Killian. “So can we?”

Killian sighs and takes a seat on the couch once more, lifting her feet up to take their place and setting them gently on his lap. “What genre do you want?” he inquires, stretching out to the coffee table for the remote and turning on the TV. Save for the shift of bending forward, Emma’s feet stay snug on his lap.

“Something funny,” she requests. “Or something with a car chase.”

“How about Hot Fuzz?”

“Never seen it.”

She’s staring at the screen, which automatically scrolls through newly-added titles instead of the quick flicking Killian usually took to. Glancing down the couch from her, Emma sees his eyebrows touch the tips of his bangs. “Then that’s it,” he declares, leaning closer to her. “It’s both funny and has a car chase.”

Emma gasps dramatically, her hand falling on her chest. “Be still my beating heart.”

“You’re going to love it, Swan,” Killian assures her, searching through the menu until he finds it.

After pressing play, he rests his hands on her, one on her foot and the other on ankle. It’s almost domestic, like they’re on a date night in or something, the rain gently pitter-pattering on the windows and the hum of the movie on in the background. The alcohol still buzzes through her veins and gives her an overall sense of contentment. Her eyes begin to droop and she must fall asleep, for the next thing she knows, she is coming to surrounded by fluffy pillows and a luxurious blanket that most certainly aren’t hers.

The beginnings of a hangover headache gently knock on the inside of her forehead. Emma groans and fights her way out of the little cocoon she’d wrapped herself in. Her feet touch hardwood floors and she knows she’s not home.

“Killian,” she grumbles, wiping at the sleep still in her eyes. Her voice is deep and gravelly, so she clears her throat and repeats herself a bit louder.

Her ears perk up at the sound of quick footsteps in the hallway and before she can properly search the room for a weapon against an intruder, the door creaks open and Killian’s face peeks in.

“Everything alright, Swan?” he asks, his voice scratchy as well.

Emma pushes herself off the mattress and walks toward the door while Killian presses it open wider. “Yeah, I was just surprised to wake up not in my bed,” she explains.

“Oh,” he says, his voice and eyes falling a bit. “I thought I heard you call for me.”

“I mean I did,” she admits. “Kind of. I was trying to figure out what was going on with my voice.” His mouth opens slightly in understanding. “How did you hear that?”

“Ah,” Killian says with a smirk. He gestures to the room next door. “I was resting in Liam’s room. For as lavish as this house looks, the walls are deceptively thin.”

Emma nods, glancing about the room. “So this is your bedroom?”

“Yeah.” She hums, taking it in. It’s pretty sparse, but somehow perfectly encapsulates Killian. His window looks over the backyard and the waters beyond. The floor is spotless, his closet doors and drawers closed completely. A few aesthetic pictures - mostly of ships, unsurprisingly - decorate the walls and his dresser has a few shells and what looks like a photograph of the Roger’s crew on display.

(The man lives and breathes the sea.)

A movement catches her eye and she looks at him as he goes to scratch behind his ear. “I figured it’d be bad form for you to be woken if my brother and Belle decided to come in.”

“He’s not home yet?” she asks. “What time is it?”

“Close to two, I think.”

Silence falls between them, Emma hovering by his bed and Killian still standing in the doorway. “I should get home,” she murmurs, searching for her phone and readying herself to cool dampness outside.

“Don’t.” His request startles her, the earnestness and sincerity behind it confusing. She whirls around to face him and, if she’s not mistaken, she detects a hint of a blush on Killian’s cheeks. “You’re still a little inebriated, which means I would have to walk back with you and it’s still raining,” he explains. His hand casually gestures between the two of them before falling to his side. “Besides, you don’t want to be alone.”

Ignoring the army of butterflies that begin fluttering in her stomach - he remembered, she didn’t want to be alone - Emma’s independence roars its head. “I could walk home fine by myself,” she insists.

Killian gives her a side eye and scolds her in a low voice: “Swan.”

They stare each other, mentally willing the opponent to concede. Always up for a challenge, Killian takes a step closer to her, and Emma does the same, until they’re sock-clad to bare feet.

(It’s not fair, her mind tells her. Even when he’s not doing anything, the color of his eyes are distracting.)

“Fine,” Emma finally says on a groan. “I’ll stay here tonight.”

Grinning wide, Killian wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her into his body. His warm, sturdy body, a weakness even when she’s completely sober and awake. It’s basically her kryptonite now that she’s coming down from intoxication and a nap.

Emma hears the tell tale sound of the front door opening and closing a floor below them. The heavy fall of male footsteps swiftly follow.

“Looks like Liam’s home,” she remarks quietly, pulling away from Killian’s embrace.

“Indeed,” he murmurs, letting her move freely. He takes a step back, closer to the door. “I’m going to speak with him, but you can go back to bed. I’ll bring you some water.”

She nods absentmindedly before his words really register. “Wait, where are you going to sleep?”

“The couch,” he said, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world. Then he points to himself, a wry smile growing on his face. “Gentleman, remember?”

“Killian, no, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Emma offers, moving toward the bedroom door herself. “I came here unannounced and interrupted your night. Let me sleep on the couch.”

“I won’t have it, Swan.”

Groaning, she throws her hands up in the air, exasperated. “Fine. Then we’ll share your bed.”

“What? That, Swan, sounds like the exact opposite of any sort of solution.”

“No.” Emma, grumpy as she is from being woken from her nap, makes it back to the rumpled sheets of the bed and sits on them, staring intently back at Killian. “You won’t let me sleep on the couch and I demand you sleep in your bed.” She throws her arms wide, gesturing toward the empty side of the mattress. “It’s big enough for the both of us.”

Killian glances over his shoulder quickly before shutting the door. “Of course,” he mumbles, shuffling over the hardwood toward the bed. “Won’t even notice you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Now that he’s settling into his side of the bed, Emma allows herself to bury beneath the covers, barely warm from her earlier snooze. She sighs contently and falls unconscious with the echo of Killian’s constant breathing ringing in her ears.

0000

She’s awoken at a much more reasonable hour by the heat of a heavy weight on her hip. On her hip and across her stomach. It’s not uncomfortable, per se, just unusual. Henry’s not one to cuddle up to her like this. No, her son is very much a child to lay on top of her, just as she positioned him on her chest soon after he was born.

But this weight comes with more hair and muscles than any 11-year-old should have, even if they’re a chronic steroid abuser. As she’s waking up - much faster than she originally thought she would - Emma comes to realize that it’s not Henry.

It’s Killian.

Emma breathes deeply through her nose, a reaction of surprise more than anything. It’s been a long time since she slept - just slept - with anyone who wasn’t Henry. It’s comforting, she finds, coming to with the knowledge that someone else is beside you.

Carefully, she turns about to face Killian, trying her best to keep his arm around her. He’s a lot closer than she expected: her nose skims the tip of his as she establishes herself in her new position.

For a moment, she observes him in what will likely be the last moments of unconsciousness. He’s always been a looker, she won’t deny herself that. But there’s something about him when he’s not putting on an act. He’s not in front of the camera, pulling off the dickish captain, or Liam, acting as the worshipful little brother. There’s lines around his lips that show past laughter and bags under his eyes from endless night at sea and otherwise.

He’s even more handsome like this.

She must unconsciously move some part of her body, for Killian stirs, his eyes blinking away the remnants of sleep slowly. His vision must come into focus because he squints, as if he doesn’t really understand the sight before him.

“I insisted on sharing the bed ‘cause I couldn’t stand the idea of you sleeping on the couch,” she explains quietly, running her hand up his arm. It’s the first question she would’ve asked - what are you doing here? - were she in his situation.

Killian opens his mouth with an ah of comprehension. “I do remember that now,” he says. “Practically dragged me into bed, if I recall.”

“Did not,” she chuckles, squeezing his upper arm. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Perhaps.” His hand tightens at her back as he stretches, chin dipping to his chest and legs extending beneath the sheets. When he settles, his blue eyes connect with hers. “Although you have to understand why I’d think that when I have a lovely woman who forced me here in the first place is wound around me.”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I’m the one who woke up with someone hanging off me.”

He sighs, burrowing his face into her neck. Emma can’t help but giggle.

(She tries not to focus on how nice this feels, the scratch of his scruff on her still sleep-warm skin, the comfort she draws from his breath on the crook of her neck. It’s more than she thinks she can handle.)

Killian keeps his face buried in its spot, his thumb rubbing at the small of her back. She returns the favor, moving her hand up into his hair and echoing the motion. They stay wrapped up in one another for what could be minutes or hours. Emma can’t be sure.

“I don’t think I realized how nice this is,” Emma says softly, trying to extend the moment for as long as possible. At his indistinct questioning noise, she adds, “Just sort of hugging someone. Holding and being held.”

Readjusting to be better heard, Killian asks, “How long has it been since someone held you, Swan?”

Emma shrugs, her voice going deep and hoarse. “I couldn’t even guess.”

“I’m glad I could be of service.” Groaning, Killian extricates himself from her hold, sitting up and scooting back until he sits against the headboard. His arms go up, coming to rest behind his head and Emma feels the loss keenly. “If you should need anything else, I shall strive to be of assistance.”

As silence settles between them, a traitorous thought pops into Emma’s mind. There is one thing he can...assist her with.

(And honestly, the fact that she’s even considering this means something. What exactly, she can’t be sure, but she is sure that in this moment, with him, she feels warm and safe and happy.)

Before she can stop herself, Emma leans forward, cupping his face in her hands. She kisses him, almost attacking him how hard she presses her lips to his. And for one moment, she’s shocked him. It’s a bit like kissing a pillow or a dead fish, something that doesn’t kiss back. For a moment, she regrets even thinking there was any sort of attraction between her and him, even though they’ve done this before. Maybe all those times was just the alcohol talking.

But then Killian’s one hand is tangled in her hair and the other is wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer to him, causing her to straddle his legs. He tugs at her hair to direct her, tilting his head in turn.

“Emma,” he mumbles, his lips leaving hers. “We shouldn’t. You’re-”

“Please,” she whispers, her voice hoarse again. He pulls back a fraction and she shakes her head. “Killian, I swear, I want this. This isn’t alcohol or the moment or whatever or anything. This…” Her laughter fans off his cheek and back to her ears. She’s nearly breathless when she admits, “This is a long time coming.”

Even as close as they are, Emma can still catch the raised brow he sends her. She feels the grin against her own lips. “Are you saying you’re in this for the long haul?” he murmurs back.

She chuckles again. “Let’s start with the one time and reassess from there.”

Killian adjusts her on his lap, pulling her hips closer into his. “Well, if I only get one time, I’m damn well sure going to make it count, love.”

He’s passionate, to say the least. His lips are insistent on the skin of her neck, leaving marks and bruises and making her sigh in pleasure more than she’s ever done in her life. Back with Neal, he’d been more to the point: get her wet enough to get his dick in without hurting her, then getting himself off in as few minutes as possible. Between borrowed rooms and simple selfishness, she’s sure, there was never really time for them to actually enjoy sexual acts.

But this. This makes her toes curl. Feeling his mouth follow as she swallows, his nose brush against the tense tendons of her neck. He bites softly at her collarbone through her shirt and, if she were younger, she’d lose her mind completely.

“Fucking fuck,” she breathes, enjoying the new-old feelings that bubble up in her stomach.

“Finally,” Killian chuckles against her skin, words partially garbled as he moves back to her neck. “A verbal reaction.”

Glancing down as best she can, Emma asks, “Is that what you’re trying to get out of me?” When he doesn’t answer immediately, she grabs at his hair and gently tugs it back to look him in the eye.

“Among other things,” he admits with that smirk of his. “I like to think of verbal responses as the gateway to the rest of your inner thoughts.”

“Trust me, you do not want to be inside of my head.”

“Your head is not the first thing of yours I want to be inside right now.” He cocks his eyebrow, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. “But if it takes me that way, then I’ll gladly take the detour.”

Emma’s laugh turns to breathy moans as his hand falls a little lower and he grabs at her ass. “Fuck, Killian.”

He stops.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it again.”

His words catch her off guard. All she’s said is...oh. Oh. “Killian, please,” she groans again, taking joy in the way his breath catches in how his name comes out. She realizes then that, though she’s trying her best, she still doesn’t use his given name too often. To say it in an intimate context as this - she gets it.

(She wonders if he gets the same thrill in the pit of his stomach as she does when the Ms in her name roll off his tongue.)

“Fuck, Emma.” He attacks her anew, pulling at the collar of her shirt to reach still-untouched skin. Her head rolls back on her neck, relishing in the feel of teeth lightly nipping at her collarbone.

“That’s the goal,” she responds belatedly.

He chuckles against her sternum. “My god, Swan, your commentary is both welcomed and unnecessary.”

“How so?” Emma asks, arching her back unconsciously, trying to get closer to him as his nose skims across sensitive skin.

Pressing a kiss to the side of her breast, still tucked away in her bra and shirt from last night, Killian rises up so he’s face to face with her. “I’m a fan of every part of you,” he whispers into her pulse point. “From the snark to the sky high walls I’m knocking down brick by brick.”

A sappy smile crosses Emma’s face. “Stop talking like that, you’ll build them again.”

Killian mimics it, smacking his lips to hers before working his way further down her body. “Then by all means,” he mutters.

She’s got more hickeys in this moment than she’s ever had in her life combined, surely - she can feel at least three blooming on different places on her neck and another with the way he’s mouthing at her skin right now - and she loves it. Killian’s marking her as his, belongs to her, no one else’s but –

“I’m not yours,” she grumbles, her words a little muffled as, together, they quickly disrobe him of his shirt.

“What’s that now?” Killian asks.

“I’m not yours.” She pulls back for a moment to connect their gazes. It’s a bit silly, she’ll realize in the afterglow, because Emma knows that Killian knows her boundaries. But still, it’s important he understands. “I’m my own person. I am me and no one owns me. I’m just sort of…” with a hand on his shoulder, she gestures wildly with the other one, looking for the phrase best suited for the situation, “lending me to you.”

He cocks an eyebrow in question. “I know that, darling,” he answers, his thumb brushing at the underside of her bra. “I never asked or said otherwise.” Killian kisses her gently, lingering but not heating it up. “But I do hope you’d like to ‘lend’ for now at least, maybe longer.”

“One step at a time, Jones,” Emma says with a chuckle. “For now, just kiss me again.”

He does as she wishes, a peck before whispering, “With pleasure.”

His hand may or may not drag up her outer thigh – and her inner thigh for that matter – while she scoots closer to him. And she might grind herself against him unabashedly but she doesn’t care. Killian has done so much for her and she so much for him since moving to Storybrooke and honestly? That shoulder to cry on he and his brother keep telling her about? She’s found it.

She’s found it in him.

He does something weird and oddly pleasant with his tongue, dragging it between her breasts above her shirt and she can’t be having that. Pushing him away gently, she tears her shirt up and over her head until just her bra is left.

“Go hard or go home, right?” she jokingly asks.

“Darling, your words couldn’t be more correct.” He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her hand down to his prominent erection, jutting up between their bodies.

“I feel like we should take care of that,” she quips.

Killian tilts his head to the side, rolling into her tightening grip. “Only if you want to.”

She smiles genuinely. “Are you not going to add ‘because I’m a gentleman’?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Well, I think this is the first time it actually fits.”

Killian draws back and rests a hand on his bare chest. “Love, that almost hurts me enough to diminish this.” He gestures down toward where they’re still clothed but connected, her hand still resting on him.

Emma places her hand atop his, and entwines their fingers together. “Alas, not enough completely.” She kisses him with renewed vigor. “I’ll have to assuage you somehow.”

His hand buries itself between her skin and her clothes, gripping at her ass beneath her pants.

(He’s an ass man. Killian Jones is most definitely an ass man.)

“I’ve got a couple of ideas on how to remedy that,” he says with his signature smirk.

The tears roll down Emma’s cheeks almost nonstop.

The nurses work around her, like she’s another machine working to keep Killian alive at the side of his bed. And, in a way, she thinks, she is. Without Liam, he needs a reason to fight, to come back.

To fight and come back to her.

When she first came into his hospital room, about four hours after initially arriving, it was jarring. Killian was breathing on his own, thank god, but the sheer number of wires and tubes leaking into his body was breathtaking. And his arm: his left arm stopped short of his wrist.

“Be careful of his left side,” the nurse advised her. “It got the brunt of the wreck. It’s going to be tender for a while.”

Emma nodded wordlessly, the image before her choking back any sort of verbal response.

“He’s going to be fine, Ms. Swan,” the nurse said quietly. “He’s a fighter, but he probably won’t wake up for 12 hours at the least. He can hear you, though.” Gently, she pressed Emma into the room. “Talk to him. It’ll help his progress.”

A scratchy “thank you” was all Emma could say. The nurse nodded and headed back to the nurses’ station, leaving her all alone with her hurting, healing pirate.

The nurse was the first of many to tell her to talk to Killian. They said so every time they came in to check his vitals, but it feels wrong. She wouldn’t be talking to him – talking to him involved banter, a back-and-forth, god even his incessant flirting. No, she’d be talking at him.

So she does the next best thing: she scales her own walls to cross over his while they are down. Her hand slips into his where it’s lying on the bed. It’s cold and there’s an IV in the way. But she doesn’t let go. Not even to itch her nose. Her hand stays in his because it is the one reassurance she can give him.

During the night, when she finds herself uncomfortable or her back aching, all she does is glances up at Killian’s face. It’s peaceful, laugh lines evident and eyes flitting behind the lids. If not for the slight bruises forming and marks on his cheeks, she could be sitting next to him on his bed, waiting for him to wake up and partake in round two of three of mind-blowing sex. Maybe she’d even been able to persuade Killian into torturing Liam with theatricalities through the thin bedroom walls.

Then she remembers the news that’s waiting to be told when he awakes and Emma reevaluates her circumstances.

At some point, she miraculously falls unconscious, her head pillowed on her elbow resting on the bed. She doesn’t hear the nurses come in periodically or the hum of the machines. The only reason she knows she ever fell asleep is the sensation of pressure squeezing her hand.

Slowly uncurling from her hunched position, Emma squints. The sun peeks through the blinds, far brighter than it should be. There’s a kink in her neck and her back and – well, she’s going to pay for her sleeping arrangements all day.

But then the pressure grabs her attention again. Looking down at her hand, she begins to piece together the meaning. Her eyes follow the lines of his body – from his wrist, up his arm, across the scratches that marred his face to the hazy blue of his eyes.

Killian’s awake, and the first thing he sees is her, puffy eyes, rat's nest hair, and all.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been this happy and sad in her life.

“Swan, darling,” he says, his voice scratchy and low. “What are you doing here?”

Ten minutes ago, Emma would’ve said she was fine. She’s been through hell and worse in her eyes. But the moment Killian asks his question, the tears start anew. Without saying anything, he can read Liam’s death in her eyes and he shakes his head minutely. He squeezes his hand and hers by default.

“No.” It’s desperate, but not begging. He sighs in distress, turning so his eyes stare up at the ceiling instead of at her.  “I was with him,” he says quietly, eyes closing. “The storm was too much and he was getting cold, so he and I hung on to each other to keep warm.”

Biting her lip is the best she can do to keep from breaking. The pain and threat of blood centers her, lets her focus on Killian’s pain. That’s what matters most right now: he’s lost everything.

“We’re survivors, Emma, Liam and I. We get through anything together.”

But that rips her heart to pieces, and the waterworks begin in earnest. “Coast Guard picked you both up at the same time,” she tells him, trying to keep her sobs to a minimum to get the information out. “They had the hardest time prying you two apart, but once they figured out…”

She needs to get the words out. They both know that. Killian will not be able to start grieving properly until he knows without a shadow of a doubt. Emma takes a deep breathe before quietly, solemnly saying, “He’s gone, Killian. Liam died honorably.”

“What?” Killian spits out. “In a crash? In a storm? He survived that, Swan. To be killed as he’d already been beat isn’t honorable.”

Emma shakes her head and squeezes his hand. The motion brings his attention back to her, his eyes shooting to hers. “He died protecting his baby brother, Killian,” she whispers. “He died so that you could live.”

Killian corrects her immediately, a pavlovian response  – “Younger brother.” – and she watches his eyes widen as he realizes that never again will his elder brother tease him.

And that’s when he breaks.

0000

Having had the misfortune of being around Killian when he’s tired, hungry, angry, and just about every other negative emotion on the spectrum, she has an idea of what to expect with grieving Killian.

It’s completely wrong. While she suspected he would rage, he doesn’t: he just sits silently more often than not. He’ll greet her when she comes to visit, engage in small talk because he’s gentleman enough to not leave her hanging, but that’s really it. He doesn’t laugh at her bad jokes. He doesn’t crack a smile. He just...doesn’t.

The only time he seems remotely happier is when she brings Henry along on her visits. It’s like her son can understand where Killian is mentally. They discuss the weather and the basics of Henry’s schooling, but then Jones will fall silent. So Henry fills the air with stories – he brings in the story he has to read for class or the anthology of fairy tales he loves and reads them aloud. Emma can see the tension slowly ease out of Killian’s rigid positioning while her son’s young voice bounces off the walls.

It all comes back, though, when a nurse walks in, or she sneezes, whenever the magic of the moment is broken. And it breaks her.

She knows that he’s strong – hell, he fought back death for a couple more decades at least in his weakened state – and she knows that he’ll recover both physically and mentally eventually, but his emotional state has her worried.

He needs to talk about it, to someone. If not her, than David or one of his crew boys. A therapist even, though she knows he won’t approach or even contemplate that method of healing.

So for now, Emma brings Henry along with her as much as she can. Because at least when her son’s around, Killian seems almost like his old self.

And she knows that their time together is helping Henry heal, too. Emma insisted on being the one to tell him, coming home from the hospital to shower once Killian was stable enough. Belle had taken the seat by his bed, had decided to talk to him because, as it turns out, she and Liam were together. They were supposed to go camping that weekend, and they were going to tell everyone officially once they returned. They were going to pick out a Christmas tree for Belle’s apartment, have the holiday dinner together. He was going to meet her father.

But some stories get cut short.

(It’ll do her good, Emma reasons. She gets to tell Killian about a different side of his brother. It’ll help both of them cope somewhat healthily. Hopefully.)

Henry’s still in his pajamas, staying home from school at her request under David’s eye. When she goes to pick him up, ragged and tired beyond belief, he immediately rises from the couch and hugs her. He has no idea what’s wrong, but he can tell she’s in pain. Her baby boy knows that, right now, she needs to be sure that he’s okay, just like he needed to make sure he was okay when the storm nearly mowed the Roger over.

The favor is returned mere minutes later, after Emma explains the whole ordeal and he’s sobbing into her shoulder on the couch. He’s lost one of his best friends, if the Jones’ spot on their Christmas list was any indication, and she’s sure it hurts more than anything he’s ever experienced. Liam was nothing if not an older brother to all three of them - knocking Killian into shape for the majority of his life, teasing Emma at every opportunity, and entertaining Henry when no one else had the patience or wherewithal to do so. Together, they’re a little quartet that’s lost their leader.

And they’ll get through it, eventually.