#pretzelweek

--

She comes to slowly, blinking grit from her eyes as she struggles to adjust to the light - or lack of it. The ground beneath her is strangely spongy, cold and damp, and the air tastes thick and bitter and stagnant on her tongue.

“Don’t breathe it too deeply,” comes a voice from the murk. “It gets inside you.”

“What does?” she asks, struggling to her feet as the ground seems to wobble beneath her.

“Why,” says the voice merrily, “the magic, of course!”

“I’m not afraid of magic,” she says, sending a pulse of light through her arm and into her palm and holding the resulting blue flame up as proof.

“Lucky you.”

The voice sounds a touch pained, but still just wry enough to have her narrowing her eyes against the light to try and seek it out.

The walls of the room are green and dripping with algae, strange protrusions reaching out every few feet with long tendrils of waterweed hanging from their tips. The floor is covered in much the same wet green carpet, undulating underfoot as she turns about.

“Where are you?”

“Can’t you see?” The voice is wry now. Wry and tired. “I’m right here.”

It's close alright, almost right by her ear but echoing strangely at the same time, almost as though it's owner is speaking from the end of a long tunnel, or from somewhere -

She looks up.

The ceiling is covered in the same soft mossy substance as the floors and walls, and it too undulates strangely the surface almost wavelike as it dips and curls.

And in the centre of it, is a face.

“Hullo,” says the face, its dry, chapped lips cracking into a smile. “What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She screams, and the light putters and dies leaving her - them - alone in the gloom.

“Don't panic,” says the man, because that is what he must be (must have been) as she gathers her knees to her chest. “Listen to me, you mustn't panic love.”

“Says the man in the ceiling,” she spits out, rocking slightly as the ground shifts beneath her.

“On the ceiling, if we’re getting pedantic about these things,” he says, and lets out a long sigh that ruffles her hair. “Now how about that light, hm? Quite impressive that.”

“Hardly,” she mutters, but another blue spark flares to life in her palm, and she lifts it so that she can see the reflection of the fire in the ceiling man’s eyes. “Where am I?”

“Exactly where the crocodile wants you,” he says, dark brows furrowing as the moss around his jaw shivers. “That's the only place any of us go around here.”

“And he wants you there?”

The man laughs, short and humourless.

“Not exactly.”

“Do you,” she takes a deep breath, considers the stupidity of her next question, and asks it any. “Do you know how to get out of here?”

“Of course,” he says, one eyebrow arching meaningfully as he looks her up and down. “I stay for the scenery.”

“Are you - are you flirting with me?” Emma snorts. “Tough luck buddy. I don’t date barnacles.”

The eyebrow stays high, but the twinkle in his eye dulls.

“Well, that’s a shame love because in a few hours you’ll be one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Keep still a moment,” he says, not unkindly. “Do you remember what I said to you? About the magic? Can you feel it yet?”

Emma rolls her eyes but does as he says, lowering her hands and the light into her lap as she concentrates on the feel of the moss beneath her. It’s still cold, and wet, and pretty disgusting, but there’s something more to it now. Something that crawls over her skin and makes her blood run cold.

The ground is moving, swaying, almost imperceptibly, and as she sits there a single strand of green has winds its way around her left ankle. She yelps, leaping to her feet, the man in the ceiling hissing out an oath as her magic sparks higher, catching at where his chest should be.

“What is this stuff?” she spits, rubbing at her ankle with her other foot, her heart hammering in her ribcage.

“Magic,” he says. “I did warn you.”

“Oh,” Emma scowls, her face wrinkling in determination. “Oh no, no, no. No way. Not happening.”

She shakes her hands, the light from her palms bouncing off the uneven walls as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

“This might sting a bit.”

“Excuse - ”

She doesn’t wait for him to finish, closing her eyes and channeling her magic through and up and out until she can feel the walls vibrate, the floor jolting beneath her until she opens her eyes and -

Release.

Lightning pours from her fingertips, the vegetation shrivelling away to nothing as she concentrates on one bare patch of yellowish rock. All she needs is one crack, one -

“Little help here, love?”

She tears her eyes away from her magic to see the man straining against the shaking ceiling, the moss tearing along the line of his throat, his collarbone, his… arm?

“You’re a man!” she gasps as his fingers break free. “An actual man!”

“Kind of you to notice,” he groans, sweat breaking across his brow as he attempts to pull his arm free. “Although, not entirely correct.”

“What are you doing?”

“You appear to be quite set on pulling this place down around us, excuse me if I don’t fancy being crushed to death!”

He struggles harder, but that seems to anger the vines which start to curl and nip at his exposed skin.

“Oh for goodness - here!” With one hand still directing her magic at the gradually crumbling wall, she tosses her practice sword and he snatches it up with his free hand, sawing at where she imagines his legs to be. “Better?”

He drops to the ground beside her with a wet splat, black leather and a rusty steel hook all she spots before a heavy, grinding sound draws her attention back to the now bulging wall.

“What do you suppose,” she asks out of the corner of her mouth as her magic flickers and dies, the wall groaning alarmingly. “Is behind that? Actually?”

“I suspect we are about to be the first to find out. May I suggest holding your - “

She doesn’t hear his next word, though she can guess at it, as the wall finally cracks open, white as bone, and a cascade of water sweeps her off her feet. It tosses her helplessly against the far wall before sucking her back and under until she’s no idea which way is up. Her lungs are burning, her eyes stinging as she struggles to open them against the briny murk. She manages to catch hold of something solid, her fingers slipping over cold metal and then another surge takes her, and she’s lost.

--

“Wake up, love. Love? Come on, this is no time for a nap.”

She blinks blearily up at the turquoise sky, a dark cloud hovering just above her.

“Am I dead?”

“Not quite. You gave it a good shot, though.”

The cloud resolves itself into the waterlogged hair and grey-white face of the man from the ceiling.

“You have very blue eyes,” she tells him, struggling to focus on the slight twitch of his lips. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Never, love,” he says, but though her ears are ringing she’s sure she can still hear the grin at the edge of his words. “Bad form to laugh at a lady. Especially when she’s swallowed half the ocean.”

“Oh,” she says, and her stomach roils. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

He rolls her onto her side, rubbing her back in small circles as she retches into what appears to be fine silver sand and mumbling words in a language she doesn’t know.

“What happened?” she finally pants, spitting the taste of bile from her mouth and sitting up to rub the back of her hand across her sore lips.

“You saved me, I saved you,” the man says lightly. “Fair trade. Although I’m confident my way was a little less dramatic.”

“So you say,” she snaps back.

“I do say.” His eyes are twinkling and it makes Emma want to do something ridiculously childish like throw sand at him. “You're welcome, by the way.”

“Strange thing to be grateful for. Being stuck here, wherever here is, with you, whatever you are.”

“Dashingly handsome?” he offers, his eyebrows waggling.

Emma wrinkles her nose and reaches out to pluck at a strand of fern that’s clinging to the top of his slightly pointed ear.

“You still smell like seaweed,” she tells him as he flicks it behind her, and he scowls.

“You're not all that fresh yourself, love,” he says, crossing his arms. It’s only then that she remembers the rusty old grappling hook that has taken the place of his left hand. He seems to recall it at more or less the same time, stuffing it under the sleeve of his battered leather coat and averting his eyes.

“Who are you, anyway? And why were you stuck in that - in that place?”

“Killian Jones, at your service,” he says, dropping into an ostentatious bow so ridiculous it makes her blush. “And you are?”

“You didn't answer my second question.”

“Tit for tat, love. One each hmm?”

“Emma,” she says. “Crown Princess of the Enchanted Forest.” And then, as an afterthought, offers him an awkward curtsy. She might be lost, and cold, and wet, but she’s still royalty after all.

Killian’s eyes go wide, and he lets out as low whistle, looking her up and down as though he’s assessing what she might make at market. She clenches her hands into fists and glowers at him in reply.

“Snow White’s girl?”

“Woman,” she spits. Killian grins.

“Oh don't worry, that's very clear.”

“And you?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Your turn. Tit for tat, right?”

“The King and I have… history. He'd have liked me as a permanent addition to his dungeon decor, but dear old mum was of this realm - and if there's any rule the fair folk bother to obey, it's that you cannot touch kin. The rest of my crew were not so fortunate in their... ancestry.” He flexes his fist reflexively as he speaks, his already pale skin seeming to glow in the cold light of the pale sun. “May the gods have mercy on their souls, and the sea take their bones.”

Beyond him Emma can see the tide receding from the shore, the thick, dark waters leaving a greenish slick in their wake, and thinks of the dark, clammy cave below. Of the rock walls that perhaps were not rock at all. She shudders, her eyes burning from more than just the salt water still clinging to her lashes.

“What does he want with me? The Fairy King?”

“Well, that I don't know, love,” sighs Killian. “Nothing good going by your first accommodations I'll wager.”

“I need to get out of here. I need - I need to go home,” she stands, swaying slightly on the shifting sands, and turns towards where pinkish cliffs rise from the silver dunes. “Can you show me the way?”

“Not that easy love,” he says, resting his hand on her shoulder, his voice perhaps a little sad. “Only your family can pull you from this place, and only on one day - a year and a day from this day. We may be able to get a message to them, but beyond that...”

He trails off, giving here shoulder a slight squeeze. Emma shrugs his hand off, frowning at him over her shoulder.

“So what? I just… hide?”

“Not your style, love?” asks Killian, his lips twitching as her expression darkens. “Nor mine, at that. But the King has spies everywhere, and once he realises you helped me to escape his blood will be high. I do have... one idea, however.”

He scratches at his ear as he speaks, and the pointed tip reminds her that this is no mere man she’s bargaining with on this strange shore.

“You say you’re one of them. I know better than to trust the fair folk.”

Both eyebrows rise this time, in what she thinks is mock offence. “But not better than to watch your step on May eve?”

She bows her head slightly in acknowledgment, before casting another glance at the impenetrable range before them.

“Alright. What's your idea.”

He half-closes his eyes before he answers her as if he’s not quite sure if he dares to look at her.

“Marry me.”

Emma gapes, the wooziness of almost drowning returning tenfold as she stares at him in disbelief.

“Pardon?”

Killian looks briefly to the sky, mouthing words she cannot understand, then returns to watching her warily.

“He cannot touch kin, remember? If we were to marry - ”

“I'm not marrying you!” Emma snaps. “That's - that's ridiculous!”

“I wouldn’t - ” he half closes his eyes as if expecting a slap, “I wouldn’t expect anything - ”

“I should hope not!”

“And it wouldn’t be binding, not beyond this realm, you could return to your sweetheart and I would never presume - ”

Emma opens her mouth to spit another retort - about how she has no need for a sweetheart in this realm or any other thank-you-very-much - but he speaks again before she can, his voice low and almost ashamed as he nods slowly, scuffing the toe of his boot through the sand.

“On second thoughts,” he says. “Perhaps you’re right. I am a wanted man, after all. Mayhaps you will do better alone.”

He turns as if he’s planning on walking back into the sea, and for a single frantic moment she thinks he’s about to do something truly stupid, catching at his sleeve before he can dip his toes back into the green-black waters.

“Wait!” she cries, wincing slightly as he turns to her in surprise. “What are you- where are you going?”

“Somewhere the King won’t find me, or, at least, somewhere where I can give him a run for his money.” He taps the side of his nose with his forefinger. “A man has his secrets, Princess.”

“And you truly believe you can help me?”

“I believe two heads are better than one. In the main, at least. There are some beasts of this realm that may lead me to reconsider.”

Emma closes her eyes, imagines her mother’s face if she knew she was even considering such a thing, and takes a deep breath.

“I can't believe I'm doing this.”

He shrugs, the leather of his coat cracking under her fingers thanks to its layer of salt and grime. “This morning I was ceiling decor, love. This day has taken quite a turn for both of us.”

“That’s an understatement,” Emma says, dropping her hand as if burned, and wiping it surreptitiously on her sodden overskirt. “So, what do we do now?”

“We aim inland to the meadows of annwl, I may have some friends left there that can help us both.” He holds out his hand, wriggling his fingers slightly as she considers it. “Do you trust me?”

She spares him the smallest of smiles as she slips her hand into his, his palm surprisingly warm against her own chilled skin.

“Not at all.”

By the fourth night he is done. Before she leaves the room he asks her to explain once more, as he has come to expect, she refuses. When she creeps out the door, he waits a moment, then peers out the door after her.

She heads down the corridor, then looks left and right before opening the door to the attic. Curious, Killian follows her path down the hallway and he too sneaks into the attic. He climbs the stairs as stealthily as possible, cursing inwardly when he steps on a creaking step. He pauses, waiting to be caught, but when Emma doesn’t appear to berate him he continues on.

He expects to see Emma when he reaches the top of the stairs, but there’s no sign of her. What he can see is a curious cupboard, it’s door slightly ajar. He strides over to it, throws it wide open, and is startled to see a whole new world through the door. A winter wonderland.

He steps back, looks around the cupboard, peers around the room for Emma. She must have gone into the cupboard, if he’s to find out what has become of her, he has no choice but to follow. He wishes he needed time to consider whether this was really a wise decision, but who is he kidding? He’d go to the ends of the world for her. Or into another world entirely, apparently.

He steps through and finds himself in Narnia. Presumably. He climbed through a cupboard and is now surrounded by snow covered trees. He’s fucking freezing. He’s only wearing his PJs and slippers after all.

“Swan?” He calls uncertainly, “Emma? Are you here?”

He hears rustling behind him and whips around, looking for the source. He sees nothing.

“Emma, love? What’s going on? Are you ok?”

“You shouldn’t be here.” Relieved, he begins to turn towards the sound of her voice. “Stop!” She cries out, he freezes in place, “Don’t turn around. You can’t, you can’t see me like this.”

He considers his options and for the moment, respects Emma’s wishes. “Emma, you have to explain this, now. I’m not going back until you do and I’ll probably catch pneumonia, maybe even trench foot with the way the snow is soaking through my slippers.”

“Killian, please just go.” Emma sobs and she sounds so distressed that he nearly does.

“You’ll have my death on your conscience, love, it’ll be a tragic ending. Cause of death: stumbled into bloody Narnia chasing the woman he loves.”

“Wh - what?” She breathes out. “What did you call me?”

Too late he realises his mistake. He closes his eyes and waits for the fallout. Emma doesn’t say a word. The silence continues for so long that he’s sure she must have left. He turns.

The creature before him both is and isn’t Emma, she seems to be stuck somewhere between a bird and a woman. Her usual smooth skin is now covered with feathers, her hands look more like talons, but her eyes: her eyes are the same brilliant green he sees in his dreams.

“Emma, my love, what is this?”

“I was cursed.”

In other circumstances Killian might’ve questioned this, but it’s frankly one of the most logical things he’s encountered in the past half an hour.

“Apparently I hooked up with a witch’s fiancé and she didn’t take too kindly to it. You don’t even want to know what she did to him.”

“I see. And the Narnia thing?”

“I have a choice. She gave me the power to open a portal to this… place. I have a choice: hide at home and hope nobody finds me or come here to freeze my ass off where my secret is safe.”

“Hell really does have no fury like a woman scorned.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And is this…” Killian isn’t quite sure what he wants to ask, he settles for “permanent?”

“It happens every night. That’s why I needed you to come with me this week. I’m sure my mum has her heart set on me dating the town sheriff, but who could love a monster like me?”

“Oh, Emma,” he deliberately avoids calling her his usual pet name of Swan, given her current condition. He steps forward and strokes the downy soft feathers on her cheek. “The real question is: who wouldn’t love someone who is passionate, kind and always, always thinks of others before themselves?”

She looks completely stunned and seemingly unthinkingly leans into him. But then she catches herself and looks away. He gently cups her chin in his hand and tilts her head up, before leaning down and softly pressing his lips to hers.

He feels a pulse of energy flying out from them and a moment later he realises that he’s no longer stood outside in the cold. He breaks away from her and looks around. They’re back in her attic. He looks at Emma, she has returned to normal and is staring at her hands in wonder.

“What the bloody hell just happened?”

She looks up at him in wonder, “I think you just broke the curse.”

He frowns wondering what on earth she might mean until it hits him, “wait, like a Disney princess, true love’s kiss type thing?”

“Yeah.”

“So you love me too, Emma Swan?” He runs his tongue along his lips, raising his eyebrows cheekily. God he hopes she says yes. She rolls her eyes at him and swats him playfully.

“You’re such an ass, Killian Jones.”

He feels his face fall, his shoulders droop and he looks down at the ground. The next thing he knows her arms are around his neck and her lips are at his ear.

“But I love you anyway.”

The bar wench appeared once more and slid a tankard of ale across the table to her, then flitted quickly away once more before Emma could appeal to her for some assistance.

The large man chuckled. Emma could only see the meaty, heavily-scarred paws he rested on the shabby wooden table. She dared not look up at him for fear of being recognized. “Then let’s not be strangers, eh?” The table creaked as he leaned down to peek beneath her hood.

“So sorry I’m late, darling,” another male voice, this one much less intimidating, came from behind Emma’s current company. “Did you order me one?”

Emma looked up to see a rather dashing young man approaching, the thumb of his right hand looped into his belt as he swaggered in her direction. His eyebrow raised at her and he nodded slightly.

She understood immediately and gave a slight smile. “Silly me, I forgot. Here, have mine. I’ll order another,” she raised her hand in the general direction of the server.

The younger, smaller man patted the larger, oafish man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir. Thank you for keeping my lass company,” he grinned. “We’ll be having our drink now.”

“She’s yours, eh?” The large man stood again to his full height. Emma examined him. His face was scarred and pockmarked, nose standing crookedly to one side. He seemed to be missing one half of an eyebrow, and his large biceps were nearly the size of her rescuer’s head. “Don’t see your name on her.”

Although the newcomer was smaller, his confident grin told her he had no problem coming to her rescue. “Well, mate, if I play my cards right, she might take my name. Why don’t you see if one of the wenches feels up to entertaining you while I enjoy a night with my love, hm?” He took a step closer to the other man, and it was only then that Emma noticed the light glinting off of her hero’s left hand. Or, where his left hand should have been. In its place was a sharp silver hook. Raising his left arm, the smaller man used the hook to rub just underneath his nose as his eyebrow flicked upward in a warning gesture to the intimidating intruder. Emma suddenly wondered which man’s intentions were worse.

The larger man took a step back and raised his hands in surrender. He silently turned back to his corner as the smaller man eased into a seat across the table from the Princess. He raised the tankard to his lips, muttering behind it, “Are you okay?”

A second tankard appeared on cue and Emma moved to slide another coin across the table. She was bested by the man across from her, who flicked one to the bar maid first.

Emma cleared her throat. “I’m really not looking for company of any kind, just so you know, but…thank you,” she adjusted her hood back just enough to let him see the sincerity in her eyes as she spoke.

Her rescuer’s shining blue eyes took a moment to examine her. He smirked slowly and gave a nod, “Understood.”

Lifting her own mug, Emma took a deep swig and closed her eyes, letting out a breath she swore she had been holding since early morning. The ale was bitter and lukewarm, but it soothed her senses in a way that the palace wine could not.

“Hard day, Love?” The man asked, watching her.

“You have no idea,” she replied, placing her tankard back down onto the table. Although she had claimed not to want company, the idea of venting her frustrations to the handsome stranger niggled away at her. “My father. He’s a complete hypocrite.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the blue-eyed stranger replied. He licked his lips slowly and tapped the fingers of his remaining hand against his tankard. “I’d offer a hand, but it’d give us away. Killian Jones.”

Emma thought carefully before replying. She knew if he had not yet recognized her, the name may tip him off. “Elsa,” she replied in a low voice.

Killian took another drag from his mug. “Pure swill, innit?” He asked, making a face at the ale, “I prefer rum.”

With a smirk, Emma shrugged. “Can’t say I’ve ever had rum.”

Both of Killian’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well then,” he gestured again to the waitress and pulled a gold coin from his pocket. “A bottle of rum and two glasses, please.”

“I don’t think I should really…” Emma laughed.

“Just give it a try. No obligation to drink any more than a sip,” he winked at her and pushed the ale aside. “So tell me about this father of yours.”

It was near dawn before Emma stepped out of the tavern. She had found out she was not exactly a fan of rum, but the conversation had been enough to keep her interest. She was followed by Killian, who during the course of the night, she had learned to be Captain of a pirate vessel called the Jolly Roger. Oh, if only her father could see her now.

Since the intimidating oaf had not yet left the tavern, Killian had offered to walk Emma ‘home’. So far, she had managed to keep her true identity a secret. All talk of the pending arranged marriage was discussed in terms of earning a new farm with a couple of goats for her family, rather than large tracts of land and a new summer palace. Keeping up appearances as they left was important, given the pair of eyes which watched them depart.

“I’ve met with my fair share of pretty lasses,” Killian noted as they strolled down a cobblestone street arm-in-arm, “but I believe, Miss Elsa, that you take the cake.”

Emma laughed softly and shook her head, “I’m hardly your type, Captain Jones.” She drew in a deep breath of the cold night air. “I come with many, many complications.”

“Seems so,” he replied, conceding to the facts he had learned earlier in the evening. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not my type.”

The Princess was not stupid, by any means. She knew there to be a dagger strapped in her boot, and should a man with bon mots such as the Captain try to accost her, she would be able to protect herself. “Well, Captain,” she muttered, stopping at the end of a long street of cottages, “I thank you for your assistance tonight. Save travels.”

With a smirk, Killian nodded. He grasped Emma’s hand and bent to press his lips to her knuckles. “My absolute pleasure, Miss Elsa.”

She felt somewhat guilty, lying to him as she had. But giving up her identity to a pirate was probably not the best idea. She smiled politely and drew back her hand after he had kissed it. As she took a step backward, she heard a shuffling of feet. Large feet. Both Emma and the Captain glanced side-eyed toward the first alleyway down the street.

“Bloody hell,” the Captain breathed. He grasped Emma’s hand in his once more and tugged her toward a darkened cottage just past the alleyway. “Play along,” he whispered quickly.

Emma nodded and found herself twirled in a circle. With a loud giggle, she twisted around as prompted by Captain Jones. He then slid his arm around her waist and backed her up against the wall of the cottage. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, but Emma and her sixth sense could tell it was not completely genuine. In a second, his soft lips were upon hers. She drew in a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and reciprocated, just slightly allowing her tongue to flick out and taste the rum lingering on his lower lip.

“He’s too dim to realize this house is empty,” Killian whispered breathlessly after breaking the kiss. He leaned in to capture her lips again. Emma silently wondered if the kisses were genuine or part of the act. Her fingernails dragged slightly down the back of his neck, her hand coming to rest upon the high collar of his black leather duster. “Duck inside. I’ll make sure he’s gone before I signal you to leave.”

With a nod, Emma gazed for a second longer into Captain Jones’s eyes. She bit down gently on her lower lip, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his one last time. As she parted, the blush in her cheeks was clearly visible in the light of the full moon. She stepped into the cottage and closed the door behind her.

Killian backed slowly away from the cottage, winking as he turned to leave, whistling softly. He lingered for a moment near a barrel at the end of the alley, glancing down in the most inconspicuous manner he could muster on that much rum. Finally, he gave one bird call-sounding whistle and Emma darted from the dark cottage, hurrying down the lane toward the castle. She knew the road would curve so much to hide her true destination from him.

--

“Your Highness,” a servant said softly as she stood next to the Princess’s large canopy bed, “are you yet awake?”

Sunlight had streamed in through the windows early in the morning, but Emma had buried her head beneath her feather-stuffed duvet to be able to get a few more hours of shut-eye. She groaned in reply and turned over, pushing her messy hair from her face. “Well, now I am,” she sighed.

The servant bowed her head and curtseyed appropriately, holding out a small silver tray. “This has come for you this morning,” she said, offering up a letter with sweeping, elegant handwriting.

With a frown, Emma took the letter from the tray. The servant curtseyed again and dismissed herself from the room. Breaking the wax seal on the envelope, Emma tugged out the parchment.

Your Highness,

It was a pleasure to meet you last night. Should you tire of your gilded cage, know there is a smoldering-eyed pirate at the docks who would gladly whisk you away to exotic destinations upon your whim. Just say the word.

Captain Killian Jones

And the lights, to his own childlike delight, were scattered playfully throughout the crowd, whipping in and out around shy, early buds; among the whimsical hairstyles of the kingdom’s most fashionable ladies. The moon itself seemed to shine brighter than he had ever seen it, the world abuzz with the Princess’s impending marriage. To him. Killian, a nobody, a foot soldier and royal guardsmen with not much to offer.

From his dark, hidden nook by the doorway he observed the tense standoff between Emma and her father. “I won't hear of it,” her voice sharper than he could ever remember, her tongue clicking against the back of her teeth, “not with the wedding so close.”

They were very quickly approaching the final ceremonies after days of celebration that had included drinking, eating, and dancing; the marriage itself scheduled to begin in just a few hours. And the Princess, Emma, sounded alarmingly concerned given the immediacy of their impending union.

“I only ask that you consider your people, Emma,” the King urged quietly, “this is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

Killian loved Emma, had loved her for longer than he cared to remember. And he wasn't naive, to be sure, he knew how odd it must seem; the Princess of the fairies, a blessed, bountiful kingdom, marrying a poor soldier of mediocre standing. But for whatever reason, she had chosen him. Despite all her beauty, grace, and kindness, she had seen fit to love and wed him. He knew her parents had been… less than enthused about their marriage, but it was quite another thing to hear it spoken of mere hours before they exchanged vows.

He heard Emma release a long, drawn out breath betraying a deep and overwhelming exhaustion. He would be concerned for her obvious unhappiness, only he found himself distracted by the vice of insecurity tightening its hold around his rapidly beating heart. Was she having second thoughts? Did she really want to marry him—?

The startling sound of shattering glass interrupted his mutinous, worrisome thoughts, as well as any reply his soon-to-be wife may have made, in his defense or otherwise. Fearing both David and Emma’s ire at being caught eavesdropping, he fled for the central ballroom, his face flushed and legs shaky. What might she have said?

Emma’s father was a just and fair ruler, by all accounts a good man, but Killian couldn’t help the niggling feeling of betrayal that began to worm its way into his subconscious as soon as he had overheard the King’s concern. And Emma, whom he loved dearly, who he could barely wait to wed, when faced with the possible truth of those same doubts, seemed to pause in considering her answer, and Killian could hardly be expected to keep from worrying. Would she live to regret him?

When he stood in front of his wife mere hours later, he tried to quell the disappointment and uncertainty. The ceremony was just as beautiful as he had anticipated, his bride even more so. Her hands were just as warm and delicate as they had always been, her lips the same, blushing pink—the taste just as sweet as he remembered… and yet.

He said all the right words at all the right moments, squeezed her hand, brushed his lips across the high apple of her cheek; danced and drank and sang, he took part in the festivities as any blissful husband might, burying his doubts and fears beneath the love in her eyes, and the evident happiness of their kingdom. She loves me, he thought, watching the light of the moon twist and bend to suit her shape, and I love her.

25 years later…

“The list of offenses,” the well-dressed cricket reads aloud, “are as follows…”

A small, unfailingly polite insect, wearing the tallest top hat by far, regales the audience with his long, cleverly worded list of over fifty sins committed within their borders in the many years since the Princess’ marriage and subsequent rule. An exhaustive, but by no means complete, compilation of the King and Queen’s many squabbles, and they had, all of them, finally had enough.

“Their last argument kept my tree from blooming the last three summers,” the bluebird chirps, her voice high and clipped, “I’ve had to fly over hill and dale just to find a scrap to eat!”

“The water in the lake has been putrid for months,” complains a young buck, “what are we supposed to drink?”

“Friends, friends!” The cricket interrupts with a sonorous cry, his chirping pleas silencing the outrage of his friends and countrymen, “You’re all angry, and rightfully so—”

“We have to do something,” a squeaky voice interrupts from somewhere in the crowd, “this is intolerable!”

“Enough!” He is loud for so small a creature, his voice and his words a familiar source of comfort and strength in these uncertain times. He adjusts the bow around his collar and continues, “If you’ll allow me,” and he smiles, genially, “I do have a plan.”

5 years later…

The loud, rambunctious sound of their combined laughter rang pleasantly through the forest. It was a joyous, familiar harmony, as Prince Henry and his boyhood friend had played, hunted, and otherwise spent their free time with one another over the years.

“Do try to keep up, Henry,” Marcus laughed, his voice echoing beneath the canopy of leaves above their heads, “We can’t have your new bride thinking you a cripple, now can we?”

Henry sighed and forged ahead, his heart violently lurching at the prospect of his bride-to-be. Marcus had seen fit to mention Princess Violet an alarming amount these days, and Henry had tried, desperately, to understand its significance. Would he simply miss his friend? What with his position in the Navy, they were unlikely to spend much time together regardless, so the fact of their separation seemed irrelevant.

“I’ll never understand how you can be so excitable this early in the morning,” Henry groused, the heat from the sun causing an uncomfortable chafing between his collar and neck, “it’s unnatural.”

Henry paused at Marcus’ uncharacteristic silence and glanced around the seemingly empty path, his eyes thinning suspiciously at his friend’s lack of reply.

“Don’t be mad—” Henry yelped in surprise at the somewhat alarming sight of Marcus’ unnervingly charming, upside-down visage, his long hair falling dangerously close to the forest floor, a wide and playful smile on his face, “It’s not my fault we can’t all be so dashing in the morning.”

Marcus hung quite precariously from the branch of a nearby tree, his knees firmly hooked over the gnarled wood, and his face was endearingly flushed with the sudden rush of blood.

“One day you’re going to break an arm,” Henry scolded, his head falling to the side, “and I’ll be happy to leave you wherever it is you fall.”

“Ah, young Prince,” Marcus playfully replied, “you’re too good a man for that kind of talk.”

Watching Marcus drop gracefully to the ground, Henry tried, in vain, to ignore the small spark of attraction that seemed to hum along his arms and down his long, annoyingly elegant fingertips. Marcus had never been the most humble of boys, and Henry had grown used to the strange, conflicting urge to be both absurdly proud and jealous of his friend. A remarkably active child, Marcus had a somewhat nauseating aptitude for acrobatics—which tended to come in handy wandering crowded streets looking for food to steal, or climbing the rigging of his father’s many ships.

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Marcus answered with a grin, his gaze softening despite the caustic tone.

The usual tittering of the forest seemed to suddenly taper off with a swiftness that felt almost rehearsed, as if all the birds and insects had unanimously decided to cease their usual chattering. Henry tried not to despair at the return of their own silence that seemed to inevitably follow in its wake. It had started a few months ago, shortly after the proposed engagement to Princess Violet, and like Marcus’ frequent jabs, Henry had spent a good deal of time trying to make sense of it.

He had experienced the miserable reality of tense silences before, being royalty, awkwardness was, unfortunately, an inevitable side effect, but he had never felt that same pressure in the company of Marcus. Until now, that is. And it was then that he noticed the way the light seemed to fall over his face, catching the sharp loveliness of his features that Marcus had become famous for; the varying strands of brown hair that could only be distinguished in just the right light. And his eyes, nearly black most days, now betrayed an almost inhuman array of earthen tones, the same colors that rendered him almost mythical on the deck of the Nautilus.

“What is it you think you’re doing, my love?”

Emma spared the barest hint of a glance towards Killian’s sullen expression, his eyebrows resting dark and heavy over his stormy gaze. His words rang painfully hollow, still, even after so many years of hearing their emptiness echo inside her heart. How I wish you wouldn’t call me that, she thought miserably, trying to soothe a thirty-year ache she could never quite cure.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, my darling.” A similar bite, a familiar warping of a common enough endearment shared between a husband and wife. Although she had wondered, from time to time, if she could even call them that anymore. In quieter moments she might return to a softer, happier time—when her name on his lips was a comfort rather than a cruel condemnation. When his touch had been frequent, a natural and expectant thing, as opposed to the stiff, ceremonial performance that it had become.

Henry and Marcus reminded her of who they used to be, two friends, floundering in the uncertainty of something more. The love in Marcus’ eyes whenever he beheld Henry was a painful reminder of the earnest glances that Killian had often sent her from across the room, his playful teasing and invasive questioning a constant companion in the years before their marriage.

She had only wanted to help, to free them from this infuriating, fruitless game that she had been watching them play for years now. So she had asked the sun, politely of course, to shine a bit brighter in that particular moment—had lifted a graceful finger into the air and the trees had obliged, shifting in just the right way to let the light shine through; to expose the otherworldly beauty of Captain Nemo’s only son to the one person who seemed unusually blind to its brilliance.

“I think that light is playing a little too generously,” he observed from over her shoulder, his words dripping with disapproval. She scoffed and kept a careful eye on the fragile scene before them, the very life of the forest moving carefully in line with her performance.

Whereas Emma had taken a perverse sort of pleasure in observing Henry and Marcus’ relationship the last few years, Killian seemed to actively hold the two boys in contempt—a suspiciously bitter taste on his quick, cruel tongue. Always making some kind of thinly veiled criticism of their “courtship,” the King found them to be a “mismatched pair.”

“To force them together,” he condescendingly explained, “would be an unusual kind of torture, even by your generous standards.”

“At least someone would be happy,” she mumbled under her breath, the two boys seemingly frozen in the soft, buttery light of the sun, their chests moving imperceptibly slowly with every quiet breath.

Henry’s eyes had begun to water, as if they had been open for hours instead of minutes. And it seemed as if the sun had begun to set, even though he could have sworn that they had set out moments ago, an hour at most.

“When did it get so late?” Marcus asked, his words an eerie echo of the confused thoughts rushing through Henry’s own mind. He turned slowly towards the full, towering trees, his gaze bright and sharp. “We should head back,” he suggested lightly enough, the gentle hand on Henry’s shoulder offering a fleeting sense of comfort, “Meet your Princess tomorrow.”

“You worried?”

“Me?” Marcus laughed, his chest a bit puffier than usual, “Never.”

Emma watched the two boys walk away with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Don’t fret, they’ll be back tomorrow,” the usual, exasperated sigh falling from his lips. “You can play with your toys then.”

“They’re not my toys,” her long, blonde braid whipping around to frame her slender neck, “and I’ve had just about enough of you today, thanks. Isn’t it about time you retreated to your little hovel, anyway?”

Killian’s eyes closed at the sound of her fading footsteps, somehow both impossibly light and furious all at once. He knew how, of course, Queen that she was, a study in so many contradicting, impossible things.

When he opened his eyes he could still see Henry and Marcus ambling away in the distance, the width of their slim, boyish shoulders brushing against one another in the silver moonlight. He could see the twinkling lights of the village at an even further stretch, the inky blackness of the sea beyond the quaint homesteads, and took a deep, cleansing breath. If he really focused, he thought he could still smell the salt of the ocean, hear the bustling sounds of the villagers going about their day. He could even feel the heat of the sun that morning, feel Emma’s warm, eager presence at his side all those years ago.

35 years earlier…

Killian was beginning to suspect that this assignment had been given as a punishment. Being tasked with guarding the Princess had seemed like a blessing at first, he could barely believe his good fortune… and then he had met her. Every short, fiery inch of her; impossible to reason with, to watch over, to do his job.

Just as beautiful up close as she had seemed from afar, her golden hair falling to her waist as if it were a waterfall, cheeks and lips flushed varying shades of pink and red. She even smelled remarkable, like the first, gentle scent of honeysuckle in early spring, it’s floral headiness mixed pleasantly with all that rain.

“Killian!” his name harsh and clipped in a loud, commanding tone, “Follow me.”

The King and Queen stood frozen and worried, staring pleadingly at her departing form, and a sick feeling started to take root in his gut. “Um, Your Majesty—”

“Don’t question me, guard,” she interrupted quickly, her feet moving in time with her swift, angry puffs of breath as they moved through the trees, “We’re leaving.”

“I’m sorry, Princess, but… leaving?”

Generally quite proud of his careful, well-articulated speech, he couldn’t help the internal berating of his own stuttering questions, his less than stern comportment with his charge.

“Princess,” he said again, quickening the pace of his own steps, trying (and failing) not to be distracted by the usual overabundance of loveliness, when he realized she showed no signs of slowing down and gently gripped her elbow, “Emma—”

She finally paused at his touch, her gaze furious at his attempts to stop her, “Your Majesty,” he said again, carefully removing his hand from her arm, “Where are we going?”

“I can’t take it anymore!” she whispered, her eyes inexplicably wet and soft when moments earlier they had reflected nothing less than hardened steel. “They just want me to stay here all the time, do nothing… sew tablecloths, meet… suitors, stand around hosting meaningless parties… and all these things I’m supposed to do, and I don’t—”

Killian meant to interrupt, maybe to reassure her that she was on a path meant for great things, or maybe that she was lucky to live such a blessed life, but all that came out was her name and an ill-advised suggestion, “Come with me.”

A whole day and evening spent amidst the hustle and bustle of a human village, warm and alive and he had never seen her so happy. All it took was a simple cloaking spell, some drab clothing, a hooded cloak, and no one had suspected a thing. A normal day, where Emma had just been… Emma. Where she could run, play, and dance with no one watching, no expectations to meet. She had looked beautiful in that dirty old cloak, wandering among the busy, dirty stink of life that they rarely saw in their own idyllic kingdom.

His love for her then had been an entirely pure thing in his chest, a doubtless certainty that he had never thought to question. Until all his dreams had come true, until she had fallen in love with him; until their wedding day, until her blasted father and all his bloody concern had rather rudely interrupted an otherwise perfect ceremony. And she had never admitted it, not once, not in all their years as a married couple, as rulers of their kingdom, had she revealed an unprompted truth: That their marriage, for all its pomp, had been an illusory, regrettable event. Killian was no King, no husband fit for her or anyone.

He had simply wanted her to admit it.

“Ahem.”

The soft clearing of a throat roused him from his sad reverie, and he turned to find Archibald, the well-dressed cricket, standing quite patiently at his elbow.

“Your Majesty,” he began, bowing so low it seemed as if his ridiculous top hat might tumble right off his head, “may I have a word?”

Killian sighed, he was overdue for a monotonous, repetitive speech about the citizenry and their many dramatic and ill-founded complaints. “What it is now, cricket?”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, I only wish to make a… suggestion.” The King raised a skeptical brow, and he continued, “If I may.”

“Well?” Killian prompted impatiently, “What is it?”

The cricket contemplated, removing his top hat and fingering the rim, carefully picking and choosing the right words in order to bring his plans to fruition without offending the King. A tall order for a tiny bug, to be quite sure.

“Her Majesty the Queen,” he started slowly, hesitating at the King’s small intake of breath, “has quite a vested interest in those boys.”

“Yes,” his sharp tone akin to the snapping of his fingers, “I’m well aware, so if you wouldn’t mind arriving at the point…?”

“As a man fond of a good wager, Your Highness, I do believe you might find that interest to work quite handsomely in your own favor.”

That seemed to catch the King’s otherwise divided attention, his handsome face betraying a quiet interest. “And how have you arrived at that conclusion?”

“She would be quite willing to see them happy,” the cricket pressed on, his limbs stilling on the brim of his hat as his confidence grew, “and I do believe you could use such a desire to your considerable advantage.”

Quite willing, Killian thought as his eyes returned to the empty path the boys had tread, their forms now barely discernible in the darkness.

“Yes,” he answered decidedly, his gaze never wavering from the village beyond, “I do believe I could.”

“I’m sorry, you’d like me to agree to what?”

Killian had to suppress a chuckle at the delicate arch of her suspicious brow; it was, after all, the only bit of her he could discern from his end of the table. Their breakfast was piled unusually high that morning, with pastries both sweet and savory, piles of fruit so fresh they still sparkled with the dew of early morning, decanters of wine so rich it was as if the very air between them became intoxicated by their scent.

“A simple wager, my darling, I’m almost certain you know what those entail.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she answered hotly, pouring herself another glass of wine, “What are the terms of this… ‘wager?’”

“Simple, really,” he paused at her predictable scoff and continued, “if your sweet Prince Henry can defy the wishes of his family and choose the person he really loves, as you so desperately believe, then you, my love… will finally win.”

“‘Win’ what?” she answered innocently, lips pursed suspiciously tightly.

“Don’t condescend, love, it doesn’t suit you,” he replied happily, his own wine tasting bitter in his mouth, “You know perfectly well what I mean. I will concede to you in all things, exactly as you wish.”

“That’d be a neat trick.”

“Ah, yes,” his finger raised pointedly in the air of war between them, “but if I win, and young Master Henry meets my every expectation, you must admit to the truth of our blissful nuptials.”

“Well, then,” she answered after a careful moment of silence, another elegant sip of wine, “in the greater interest of my happiness I see no reason as to why I should decline your generous offer.”

He raised his heavy, bejeweled goblet in the air, an infuriating smirk on his face, “Shall we make a toast?”

“We shall,” raising her own wine in challenge, “May the best woman—”

“...Or man,” Killian interrupted playfully, his large ring tapping meaningfully against the rim of his own cup.

Emma glowered. The Gods only stole fated babies, ones that were meant for a great destiny, ones they could use and mold to their purposes, it was easier for Emma to be angry with her parents for abandoning her rather than face the idea that the Gods were using her.

“I’m sorry, that was unfair.” Belle looked contrite for a moment and then the grim determination returned to her features. “I just need to know what has happened to my boy. And if you won’t help me then–“

“I’ll help you. But only because you are likely to get yourself killed if I don’t and I won’t have that on my conscience.”

That had been over a week ago and Emma still wasn’t sure she had made the right decision. Especially when the trail had led her to Ireland, where the land and air were thick with faerie charms and wards. The Faerie and the Blessed weren’t enemies but they weren’t exactly friends either. At best it could be said they worked toward opposite ends and Emma had made it a point to stay out of their way, as long as they stayed out of hers. But all that would change if it turned out they had stolen Belle’s son to make him a changeling.

“Can I buy you a drink, love?”

Emma looked up sharply from her mug annoyed that she had been too lost in thought to notice the man’s approach. Dressed in a black leather jacket and dark jeans he didn't seem to quite belong. He was taller than most in the room and attractive with a strong jaw covered in stubble and bright blue-green eyes. He flashed her an uneven smile and raised an eyebrow. Emma felt the chill go up her spine. He had just tried to use some kind of trick on her, perhaps a charm or something inherent in his nature meant to attract and disarm. Whatever it was, whatever he was, Emma sensed trouble–not all monsters look the part.

She nodded and smiled back fluttering her eyelashes as if she had been entranced as if she wasn’t favored by the Gods to be immune to such otherworldly manipulations. He nodded even as his eyebrows knitted together as if he was both satisfied and annoyed by her reaction. He turned to signal the bartender and then slid onto the stool beside her.

“So what brings such a beautiful lady to this backwater of a town?”

“Oh. I got lost and then it got dark so I figured I should get gas and find some place to sleep.”

He smirked. “Well, lass, I might be able to help you with your problem. That is if you don’t mind sharing a bed.”

Emma suppressed an eye roll at his audacity, he wasn’t even trying to use whatever power he had but seemed to be relying on his own personal charisma.

“That’s very kind of you but I really couldn’t.”

“The pleasure, I assure you, will be all mine.” He shifted closer to her, his voice dropping low as his eyes dipped to her lips and back up. Emma felt a shiver that had nothing to do with her favor and everything to do with the swooping of her stomach. A cleared throat broke the moment as the bartender practically slammed down their glasses and stormed away.

“Thank you, Leroy.” The man called to the bartender’s retreating back. The flash of an earring drew Emma’s eyes to his ear and the slight point at the tip made her stomach drop. No wonder he was arrogant and cocky, he was Fae. If they had sent someone to distract her (or possibly eliminate her) then she must be on the right track.

He handed her a glass, then picked up his own and tipped it toward Emma. “To new acquaintances and warm beds.”

Emma groaned, resting her forehead on the desk. She turned her head to look at him, her cheek pressed against the wood as she watched Jones attempt to bend the metal rod. It was a simple spell, one she had done several times but this was his umpteenth attempt and all he had managed was a small dent.  

This week couldn't get any worse.

"Focus, Jones! It's not that hard," Emma said, frustrated.

He threw his hands in the air, almost poking her eye out with the wand. "Easy for you to say, love. I haven't actually done this before. What's the point of this anyway," he groused, slumping back in his seat, a look of defeat on his face.  

"Everyone has to learn basic spells. You're lucky you haven't been thrown out of class yet," she told him, lifting her head off the desk and flipping through her spell book.  

"Must be me charming self," he drawled, gesturing to himself as if she needed a reminder about his charming self.  

"As if," Emma scoffed.  

"You disagree," he pouted.

"Not the point." Emma rolled her eyes, slamming her book shut and moving to stand behind him. "Let me show you."

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, ignoring his sharp intake of breath. She pointed his wand at the rod and chanted the spell. Within moments, it was a bent into a near perfect circle. Emma smiled, dropping his hand and picking up the metal piece. She turned to Killian, placing it on his head like a crown and beamed at him. "See? Easy. Now you try."

She placed another rod on the table, leaning forward on her elbows and giving him an encouraging nod.

Emma was wrong.

This week could most certainly get worse.

"I'm going to kill you," she growled at him as they walked up the library steps.  

"Now, Swan. No need to get antsy. There's got to be something in there that'll help," Killian gestured with his free hand.  

"For your sake, you better hope so. I have a test on Friday. I can't show up with you on my...arm," she finished lamely, running a hand through her hair, gesturing to the handcuffs.  

She heard Killian bark out a laugh which he quickly attempted to cover with a cough. He cleared his throat. "Come on then, love. Time to crack open some books,"  Killian said jovially, tugging on the chain and pushing open the doors.

Rows and rows of books greeted them, the ancient texts and the faint trace of magic in the air giving a calming feel to the library. Calming, when she wasn't faced with the prospect of having to comb through all these books to find one spell.

"It's quite something," Killian said, a note of awe in his voice.

"Yeah."

"Well, we best get started."

They started their search and two hours in the closest they could find was a spell which required one of them to lose a hand. Killian turned to Emma with a horrified expression, shaking his head vigorously.

"It would be a shame to lose these digits, love," he waggled his fingers for emphasis.  

Emma scoffed, pushing his chest  with her shoulder and re-shelving the volume. She pulled him towards the next shelf before the sound of her name caught her ears.

"Emma! What're you doing here?" Emma looked up to see Belle rushing toward her, a stack of dusty books in her arms.

"Belle, hey. I'm just studying," she motioned lamely to the pile of books on the desk.

"I think I found something!" Killian called from around the other side of the stacks. He popped his head around, waving a book in front of her. Belle raised an eyebrow at Killian's sudden appearance, turning her questioning gaze on Emma.

"Oh, this is Killian Jones. My new partner," she gestured at Killian who nodded at Belle in acknowledgement.    

"Pleasure to meet you milady."  

Belle looked like she wanted to say something else but was cut off by Mrs. Potts calling for her. "Oh, I've got to get back. I'll see you tonight, Emma?"  

"Yup!"

Emma watched as Belle walked away, giving her a small wave. She turned to Killian, rolling her eyes at the stupid grin on his face.

Killian waggled his eyebrows. "What's tonight?"

"Girls' night," she answered.  

His grin brightened, both eyebrows shooting up.

"You're not invited."

"I would never dare to intrude. But I think you’re forgetting something."

He nodded downwards and Emma groaned, snatching the book out of his hand. "Gimme that." She placed the book on the table, tracing the embossed inscription on the front. Alchemy and Transmutation. She opened it, skimming through the contents. Her eyes brightened as she found something that could work. Turning to the correct page, she traced a finger down the path of ingredients.

"Hmm. Any ideas where we can get those?" Killian asked, brow furrowing.

"It's the strong stuff. Granny should have some though," Emma told him, copying down the page into her notebook.  

"Granny?"

"Yeah, she's in charge of potions and elixirs. Makes a mean grilled cheese too."

Killian shrugged."If you say so. Come on then. Let's away." He said, helping to pack her things. Emma cringed as she checked the time.

"What's wrong?"

She closed her eyes, answering through gritted teeth.

"Girls' night."

 Emma Swan is a genius if she does say so herself. From the tone of his voice, Killian disagreed.

"Are you sure about this?" Killian asked, eyeing her warily.

"This'll work. Trust me," she assured him.

Emma pulled out the garment from her locker, holding it out triumphantly.   

"Is there a reason you have an invisibility cloak?"

"Ruby's idea of a birthday present."

"Ah. I see."

Emma handed him the cloak, helping him to put it on. "Just don't take it off until the coast is clear."

"Aye aye captain," he saluted before she pulled the hood up. Adjusting her bag so it covered the bit of chain that was still visible, Emma started the walk across campus, making her way to the dorms. With Killian cloaked she almost forgot he was there, only being reminded when he tripped and knocked into a tree.

"Bloody hell," he cursed, "watch where you're going Swan."

"I'm pretty sure you can see underneath that. Not my fault you have two left feet."

He huffed at that and she was sure he was silently fuming beneath the cloak.

They arrived at her dorm room and Emma entered to see her friends gathered in the kitchen area, responding to the chorus of greetings with a wave of her hand.

"Studying hard?" Ruby teased, a wolfish grin on her face.

"Ruby!" Belle lightly smacked Ruby's shoulder, turning to Emma with an apologetic smile.

"Come on, Belle. I believe your words were 'eyes like the ocean at midday'," Ruby giggled. "I should feel threatened but even I can appreciate that," she finished, smiling at Belle and kissing her cheek.

Emma heard Killian chuckle underneath the cloak and stomped her foot down hard where she was sure his toe was. His answering yelp was all the confirmation she needed and she bit her lip to try and hide her smile.  

"Did you say something?" Emma looked up to see three pairs of eyes regarding her curiously and she shook her head, stuttering.

"I- uh- I think I might have to skip tonight. I have my test on Friday. Gotta study."

"You've spent all day studying, Emma. There's only so much preparation you can do," Mary Margaret said, settling a fresh batch of muffins on the counter.

"I know. I just, I'm exhausted. And I've got Principle Mills as my examiner..."

Her friends winced in unison, a stream of commiserations sent her way.

"I'll see you lot tomorrow, yeah?" She ducked down the hallway, not waiting for their response. Once she was in the safety of her own room, Killian threw off the cloak with a dramatic flourish, letting it fall to the floor.

"It's bloody hard to breathe in that thing," he grumbled, pointing at the offending garment. "So, this is the Swan's nest, is it?"  

"Yup. Welcome to my humble abode, mi casa es tu casa, yadda yadda yadda," she waved a dismissive hand at her room, the unmade bed, cluttered desk (which she tidied yesterday dammit) and the closet which looked as though it was about to vomit all her clothing out.

Killian laughed, eyes taking in the scenery before he bowed slightly. "I am honoured."

Emma threw her bag on her desk chair and took out her wand.

"Woah, Swan. I promise to behave."

"Relax Jones," she said, casting a quick spell to change into her pyjamas.

"Is that a part of your nightly routine?" he teased, grinning at the yellow duckling pjs.

"No, but I wasn't going to take a shower with you," she told him, stuffing her wand back into her bag. She cringed as she realised what she had said, ignoring Killian's bright smile.  "Shut up. Not like that."

"So you would be willing to-" he started, eyebrows waggling. She swears his eyebrows have a life of their own. Considering his inability at casting simple spells she wouldn't be all that surprised if they did.

"Nope. Not listening," Emma sang as she climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up with her left hand. She turned on her side to see that Killian had settled on the floor, his left arm resting on her mattress.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, burying her head in her pillow to hide her smile.

"Ah, I didn't want to presume-" he started but Emma laughed, eyes twinkling.

"Killian," she grinned at him.

"Aye, Swan?"

"Get on the bed."

He gaped at her before nodding and climbed in beside her. It was a bit awkward and they shifted a few times before finding a reasonably comfortable position. His arm was draped over her waist, and her hand came to rest on his chest, their legs tangling together. It was intimate and unexpected but with the circumstances, there wasn't anything to be done.

Yeah. That was it.

"Is this okay?" Killian asked, his body stiff even as he tried to even out his breathing.

Emma hummed, her eyes drooping, the events of the day catching up with her. "Sleep."

"Emma-" she shook her head, cutting him off.