#silver hook

She rolls her eyes but smirks again as the sheriff slides a key into the ancient looking lock. “Yeah, I know. Come on, Graham’s going to let you off with a warning -” 

He nearly falls flat on his face when the door he’d been leaning against swings open. 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay with him, Em?” 

Oh great, they know each other. He’d be more annoyed at her cozy relationship with the unreasonably attractive sheriff if he wasn’t a little bit grateful to the man who caught him and is still holding him up now. If he can just get his legs to go back under him where they belong… 

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” 

Killian feels himself being passed from the man who smells strikingly of the forest, to the woman with the irreplicable scent of honey and drugstore soap that overwhelms him with the memory of every time he’s had his mouth or his hand on her skin. The fingers of his one remaining hand burn with the urge to feel her under them again so he balls them into a fist as she drapes his arm over her shoulders. “What about you?” It takes him a moment to realize that he’s who the question is directed at. “You going to be okay to walk out of here?”

Sheer determination not to make an even greater fool of himself than he already has in front of Emma Swan is the only thing he can attribute to both not falling right over with the nod of his head, and the steadiness of his first step as she leads him out the door. 

He stumbles three times between the building and her car. She catches him every time with a hand on his chest, her head turning so that her hair brushes his cheek and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t do it on purpose after the first time - though he can’t really trust his own thoughts at this point since they have to be yelled at him through an ocean of rum. 

“It’s your bug!” he beams at the old, yellow car. “I love your bug.”

“You hate my bug.” 

Oh, right. He does hate the car that broke down every other time they drove to his hotel in the middle of the night, the one that had broken down the night they met. ‘I swear I’m not trying to stand you up. It’s just my car is literally on the side of the road right now and the tow won’t come for another hour at least and there’s… smoke.’ 

It had been an interesting night, getting an Uber in a strange city to go pick up a stranded woman from a dating app who'd been on her way to his hotel for anonymous sex - a woman he found out had lied about her age when she pointed out that the 1993 beetle was older than she was. ‘I didn’t think you’d swipe right if you knew there was a whole high school senior between us.’ ‘Anything else I should know about?’ he’d teased when they were back at his hotel room where she’d managed to get him out of his shirt with impressive speed. ‘Is Anna even your real name?’ ‘Uhhh, about that…’

She leans him up against the aggressive yellow of the door as she fishes in her pockets for her key. Her cheeks have gone red from the cold and it reminds him of the flush that would sometimes come over her skin if he found the right words or the right touch. 

“You’re so lovely.” His thumb is tracing over her cheek though he doesn’t remember raising his hand or reaching for her. 

She snorts. “Yeah, okay, Jones. So not gonna happen tonight, but nice try.” This time her smirk is wicked and if he had any real control over his body or his brain he would kiss it right off her smug mouth.

“I wasn’t trying to do anything!” he swears, prosthetic on his heart as she unlocks the passenger side door. “I’m just grateful you came all the way out here to rescue me. My knight in awful yellow armour.” He gasps. She rescued him from a dungeon. “Bloody hell, Swan -” He speaks slowly, managing to get almost every word out coherently. “I’m the princess.”

He’s waiting for her to come to the same mind-blowing realization as he has, but she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Get in the car, your highness.” 

It takes an impressive amount of self-control for him to sit still and keep his hand to himself despite his racing heart and thoughts as she leans over to help him secure his seatbelt. Because he’s not supposed to have those thoughts. And his idiot heart can keep its cruel reminders to itself. He shouldn’t have called her. He hasn’t called her - not in months. Not since he realized his mistake and knew this thing between them had to come to an end. 

He’s missed her so bloody much. 

“Killian.” She’s beside him now in the driver’s seat and saying his name like it’s not the first time she’s asked him this question. “Where are you staying?”

“Oh, I…” Shit. He knows this. He’s got this. Think. There was a hotel. A big hotel with really good room service. Maybe they could go there and he could buy her room service. She always liked that. ‘Listen, I know I came over here for sex and that was great and everything, but there’s a freaking lobster grilled cheese on this menu so do you think I could be here for sex and room service tonight?’ She’d looked at him with that same wicked, eager smile and he was already reaching across her for the phone. ‘I feel like I should be concerned that you seem more turned on by this sandwich than you did by anything else tonight.’ ‘Well, it’ll probably take them a little while to deliver it if you want another go at out-seducing bread and cheese.’

“A hotel,” he tells her finally. 

“Yeah, I kind of figured. Which one?”

“Which what?”

“Which hotel, Killian? Which hotel am I driving you to?”

“Oh.” He knows this one! “Mine.” 

She sighs, forehead falling against the steering wheel for a long moment. He waits, not sure what he did wrong but positive that he did something. “Okay,” she says, sitting up and starting the car. “It’s late. You can sleep it off on my couch for tonight and I’ll drive you back in the morning when you’re less… wasted.” 

She sounds frustrated and he thinks it might be his fault. He looks at her carefully as she turns out of the parking lot, really looks at her for the first time since she walked back into his life a moment ago. Holding his breath against the eyes and hair and skin that always try to steal it away, he takes note of her messy hair, the lack of any makeup, the grey sweats he knows she likes to sleep in. He looks at the clock next, the late - or rather early - hour shining angry, bright and orange. He can figure this out. 

“I’m sorry.” He’s an idiot. She glances at him before turning back to the dark highway ahead of them.” “I shouldn’t have called you.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not.” He hangs his head, hoping he looks sincere and not just as pathetically pissed as he is. “I woke you up.” 

“Really, Killian, it’s fine. I was just going to bed.” He looks at the clock again and he envies her youth not for the first time since meeting her. He supposes he’s up this late as well, but that wasn’t by choice. That was the rum’s decision. The rum always makes bad decisions. 

“But it’s cold.” She must be cold. She’s always cold and he made her go outside. She hates outside. She probably hates him now. ‘Listen, I’m all for this whole hooking up when you’re in town no strings thing.’ She waved a hand in his general direction. ‘Big fan of everything you’ve got going on here. But it’s cold as balls outside, so from now on you can come to mine and I can stay inside where it’s warm, or I’ll see you in the spring.’ 

The smirking curl of her mouth tugs at her cheek but he doesn’t reach for it again. “Yeah, it’s November.” 

November. The last time he saw her it had been the dead of summer, both of them hot and sticky and barely dressed, stretched out in front of the single standing fan by the bed in her little apartment with no bloody air conditioning. 

He misses that apartment. Misses being there with her and letting her make him boxed mac and cheese while he complained about her eating habits. Misses the ridiculous sheets with little Millennium Falcons on them that she’d found when he was running late to meet her that one time. He’d made her wash them before putting them on her bed - ‘fine, mom’ - and then listened to her make Star Wars puns from between her thighs until they tightened so hard against his ears he couldn’t hear anything at all. 

And he misses the way she would smile at him when she opened the door, just before she dragged him inside, asking about his flight between heated kisses and frustrated hands. ‘I hate your stupid ties’. 

He’s a bloody idiot and he should have never stopped calling. Or he should have stopped calling a long time ago, before there was anything to miss. They had a good thing going, an understanding, no strings. He’d reach out when he was in town for work and they would meet for one or however many nights he was staying. No expectations or dates or sleepovers, none of the complicated stuff. And he’d screwed it up.

His feet slip dangerously against the icy ground - at least he’s pretty sure there’s ice, or the ground isn’t staying still again - as Emma practically hoists him out of the car. “You remember the stairs right?” she asks, ducking under his arm again to steady him. She fits well there with her arm wrapped around his waist. 

He hadn’t remembered the stairs. Though he should have, he’d complained about them enough times. ‘What’s so wrong with an apartment with an elevator?’ ‘Aw, can your old knees not handle it?’ He’d caught her as she bolted up the last few flights at his glare, laughing the whole way, and he’d spent enough time on his ‘old knees’ to make her take it back. This time, he’s not so sure he can handle it as he looks up at the rotating stairs that seem unable to settle on a height. 

“It’s either that or you’re sleeping in the lobby, Jones.” 

He considers it. “Is that David guy still your landlord?” The one who was particularly hostile to the man in his forties coming over at random hours of the night to visit his twenty-eight year old tenant. ‘Give him a break, he still thinks I’m the sixteen year old kid he illegally rented to when I first moved here.’ 

In fairness, Killian would probably judge himself too if he were in the landlord's shoes. He has judged himself many times for becoming a stereotype of Dicaprio-sized proportions. But the alternative would have been resisting Emma Swan, something he’s incapable of doing - or at least had been until that morning he ruined everything. 

“Okay.” The stairs are still moving.

“Hold on.” She takes out her phones - there’s definitely two of them - and holds them in front of his face. “I just want to get you on camera saying that I’m not liable if you fall down these stairs and break your neck.” 

“Is that really necessary?” He got that whole sentence out in one try. 

“I know you have a lawyer.” ‘You have a what? Wow, I knew you were older but I didn’t know you were like, old old.’ ‘I don’t think it counts if you’ve stolen from parent’s liquor cabinet.’ 

“Fine. Don’t sue Emma if I die. She’s very nice and doesn’t have any money anyway.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’ll never hold up in court.” 

“That would be way more convincing if you could pronounce all your consonants.” 

The climb takes twice as long as it should and he’s forced to stop once when he makes the mistake of looking down and his stomach rolls violently. ‘I swear to god if you puke in my hallway I’ll leave you here to sleep in it.’

“I don’t remember there being this many floors.”

“It’s four floors. You’ve done two.” 

He might die.

He doesn’t die, but just barely, and when Emma leads him through the door and into the studio, she practically drops him onto the old couch. It’s not her fault; he’d made himself very droppable in the last few minutes. At least he landed on the couch and not the collection of wooden crates she’s glued together next to it. ‘That’s not a coffee table, Swan.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, is that or is that not your coffee cup on it right now?’

He doesn’t see her for a few minutes, his head too heavy to lift, but he can hear her moving around the apartment and he can picture her, walking through the kitchen on her toes. ‘It’s not weird, shut up.’ ‘I just thought you’d like to know that most people use their whole foot.’ 

When she finally comes back, he forces his eyes open, unsure who exactly glued them shut or how they did it without him noticing. Fuck she’s beautiful. Even through the boozy marinade he’s made of his head he can see that, and he wants to tell her. He could. He could blame it on the rum. But that would be a bad idea. Complicating things between them would be a bad idea. They’d already gotten complicated enough. God, he’s such a fuck up. Things were good, they could have stayed good. He just had to go and ruin a good thing with his stupid, greedy heart. 

“Here.” Two little pills and a frighteningly large bottle of water are set down in front of him. He’s not sure what the pills are but he’s also pretty sure she wouldn’t try to poison him even if he is an asshole who called her in the middle of the night after ghosting her for months. Pretty sure. The water sounds like a good idea. 

“Have you eaten anything or did you have rum for dinner?” 

“There were peanuts at the bar,” he tells her after guzzling down enough water to drown himself with. She shakes her head and walks out of his line of sight again. This time she comes back with a bag of crisps and he thinks maybe she doesn’t hate him as much as he thought because they’re the kind he likes most. 

“Eat that, drink that, and take those,” she orders, pointing to each with a stern look. “And then lie down on your side so I know you won’t choke to death in the night, and get some sleep.” 

“Yes ‘mam,” he salutes.

“Don’t get cute with me.” He wasn’t trying to be cute. But it makes him unreasonably happy that she thinks he is. She rolls her eyes at his probably once again dumb smile and repeats, “eat,” before disappearing where he can’t see her again. 

When she comes back this time her hair is down, falling over the shoulders of her oversized Jonas Brothers t-shirt she’s apparently had since she was twelve, and he wants to whine or cry at how desperately he wishes he could reach for her and what an idiot he is for being the reason he can’t. She’s carrying an empty garbage can, a blanket draped over one arm. 

“Do not puke on my rug. It’s the only new thing in this whole apartment and I love it more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.” 

Killian leans over from where he’s stretched out on the couch that’s too small for him, running his fingers over the blue and white pattern and nods. “It’s lovely, very soft.” 

She’s silent for long enough that he looks up again, only to find her with her lips pressed so hard together against a laugh that he can see her chest lurch with the force of containing it. He frowns, looking from her to the rug and back again before realizing that he’s been stroking the rug with his prosthetic hand. 

“Emma… I might be drunker than I thought.” 

The laugh that bursts out of her is loud and horrible and obnoxious and it’s the best sound he’s heard in a long time. He’s missed that sound, the one that had shocked him so completely the first time he heard it that they’d both ended up on the floor, stomachs hurting and eyes tearing, neither able to remember what had set her off in the first place and unable to stop giggling like teenagers. 

“Aw, babe,” Emma crouches down in front of him with a pitying look before beginning to work the straps of his false hand loose. Her hand settles soft against his cheek once it’s free, smirk still lingering on the corner of her lips. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been as drunk as you are right now.” 

Her face is so close to his that his heart forgets how it’s meant to work, stopping and racing of its own accord. He wishes she would close the distance, that he could feel her mouth against his for the first time in months, or that she’d simply stay here with him for the rest of the night because the distance and the silence between them has been more than he can take. He doesn't know how he ever convinced himself that staying away would eventually make the ache for her fade. 

She smiles at him again, giving his cheek an affectionate pat before draping the blanket over him, the soft one he knows had been her prized possession before the rug. “Get some sleep, Killian. I don’t think anyone’s ever been as hungover as you’re going to be tomorrow either.” 

He’s not sure whether or not the way his fingers close around hers before she can pull away was his idea or the rum’s, but she’s looking at him, waiting for him to say something and he doesn’t know what he was going to say or what he was thinking. He just knows that he missed her and he screwed it up - and then he screwed it up again, possibly beyond repair the second time. 

Being in this city that he managed to avoid for months in the hopes that he could forget about her has been one of the worst decisions he’s ever made. To think he really believed that he could live here, that he could take the job that was offered and not be haunted by her every waking moment, not dread and hope to see her around every corner. 

Being naive enough to think he could ignore the draw of her is how he ended up in that bar tonight. He’d tried to figure out how many shots of rum it would take to make him forget that he loves Emma Swan, but it seems there isn’t enough rum in the world for that - or at least not enough in that bar. 

She’s still looking at him and he wishes she wasn’t watching him with a hesitation and a carefulness that hadn’t been there before. It had always been so easy between them; he’d never felt less self-conscious with another person in his life and now it’s all consuming. She’s lost the carefree warmth he used to see in her eyes, like he took it with him when he left that morning and didn’t come back. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment in her sigh. “I already told you, it’s fine.”

He shakes his head. “Not for calling you tonight. For not calling you. Every other night. I’ve been an ass and I’ve been a coward. You didn’t deserve that.” By the grace of whatever gods might be listening to his poor apology, he doesn’t slur a single word.

Her pause is long enough that he worries he said the wrong thing, and he can’t read her expression through the haze of booze and exhaustion swimming around in his head. He should let go of her hand, but he’s painfully aware that this could be the last time he gets to touch her and she’s not pulling away. 

She sighs again. “Why don’t we talk about this when you’re feeling better?” 

He lets go. “Aye, Swan, whatever you want.” 

She walks away. Beyond repair then. 

***

“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else.”

Killian jumps, heart pounding. He feels like he’s woken from a coma, body so heavy with sleep that parts of it aren't responding to him and never having been more confused than he is in these first few moments. It’s daytime, but it’s not morning, the light is too dim, and he’s asleep but not in his bed or in his hotel room, on a couch he recognizes but can’t really place. He has a vague recollection of things that may or may not have happened while he lay here; the sound of someone moving around the room, someone saying his name, a door shutting, an angry car somewhere far off and the bark of a dog somewhere close, the sound of keys and the strange sensation someone poking him in the face - hard. 

All of it feels like a fever dream now as he looks towards the tinny sound of the belligerent man’s voice coming from the phone in her hand.Oh no. Oh god what the hell had he done last night? He recognizes the room, the soft blanket he’s under, the long legs clad in grey sweatpants perched on the table in front of him. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to look at her.

“Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.” 

If you’d like to save this message, press - there's a loud beep before another message begins to play. Bloody hell. He remembers the pub, and the cop - sort of - and he remembers that little line on his phone screen. ‘Absolutely not’. From the looks of it, he absolutely did. 

“Heey, isme again. I don’t think I told you where I am. Is’not great, Swan. They put me in the jail.”

He winces, sitting up carefully, head still light and disoriented. “Did I…”

“Mhm.” 

Another wince. “Are they all-”

“Oh yeah.”

“‘M not even that drunk. The sherfs just got a commpelex or something.”

“Swan, we really don’t have to -”

“Shh, this is my favourite part.” 

Killian hangs his head. “I - Oy, I’m on the phone, sherirff! Don’ they teach you manners at cop school? The cops in your city are rude, Swan. Hey! No - iss my phone. I can call whoever I want.” There’s a shuffling sound that stirs up a faint memory of trying to back deeper into the cell, then a small shout and he remembers why his ass hurts and that he’s probably got a bruise on his hip the size of the one on his ego. Emma has her lip caught between her teeth again, flashing him the same look she had when she arrived at the station. 

“Hello? Swan? Oh, right. Yur prolly asleep. You should be asleep, that’s good. I jus’ called ‘cus I…” For a blissful minute he thinks he might have had the sense to hang up, the silence on the other end dragging on and he almost breathes a sigh of relief. But then the message rings out again. “I can't remember why I called you. I think somethin’ made me think of you.” His voice gets softer and so does her expression for just a moment. 

“That happens a lot. I been thinking ‘bout you a lot, all the time, really. And not just in a sexy way and not just yer face.” Killian hangs his head. “Even though I’m a fan of your face. And all your other parts too.” 

He wishes he could just perish right here and now, wishes the dull ache in his head would become an aneurysm and take him out without a fuss. 

“I been thinking about those ridic’lus tiktoks you used to send me and when I was in meetings ‘n I jus’ wanted to be with you. I don’t know anything about Taylor Swift anymore, Swan - I don’t know how to find those myself.” There’s another pause but he knows better than to hope this is over, much of this coming back to him now in mortifying waves. 

“I’ve too many shirts in my closet now - It’s so many shirts. I always brought extra ‘cause I knew you’d steal ‘em an’ then you’d walk ‘round your kitchen in ‘em with no pants like yur a sexy Winnie the Pooh or somethn’ and I had to watch you climb yur counters while I had a heartattack  ‘cuz you wouldn’ jus’ let me get things off the top shelf for you. Bloody stubborn.” There’s a sigh over the machine. “I don’t want this many shirts, Swan…

‘Anyway I - What? Who does? Sorry, Swan the sherf is being rude again. He wants to know if yur picking me up. Are you picking me up?” There’s so much hope in his past self’s voice that he almost feels bad for him. But he also knows what a bloody idiot that man is and it’s hard to feel anything but the overwhelming urge to disappear into this couch and not have to listen to any more of his drunken rambling. “That would be nice. But it’s okay if you don’t want to. I’d understand. Gnight, love.”

To delete this message press - She hits a button. Message saved.

Killian braces himself for the next one. Gods, how many of them are there? But this time it’s not his voice that comes out over the speakerphone, it’s another man, Irish and vaguely familiar through the sleep and the unfortunately returning memories. 

“Hey, Emma, it’s Graham.” Killian’s heart drops into his stomach at the sound of another man calling her in the middle of the night. Of course she wouldn’t have sat around pining like he did, not for a man who treated her as carelessly as he had. Of course - “Listen, I don’t know who this guy is but he says he knows you. I thought maybe he was one of your clients but when I asked him how he knows you he just asked me if I’ve ever been in love...”

The brow Emma raises at him is equal parts question, challenge and amusement and he feels the blood rush from his face. Fuck. He wonders whether four floors would be high enough for him to end this misery if he just went out the window. 

“Anyway, just let me know if this is another Walsh situation and I’ll make sure he stays in here, alright? Goodnight, love.” Killian can’t even begrudge the man or the endearment he adds to the end of his message when he’s only looking out for her. Probably a good thing she has someone to keep old, drunk dickheads away from her. 

He hears another beep of her mailbox and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. “Hi, love, ‘m sorry for calling so much. I know I made too many ms’takes to be ‘loud to say this, but… I miss you, Swan… And I’d jus’ really like to see you again.”

End of messages. To - 

Emma shuts the phone off, setting it down next to her on the coffee table. She tilts her head to see his face which he’s currently trying to bury in his hands. “Sounds like you had quite the night.” 

“I thought I’d be more hungover.” His head hurts and he’s tired and his mouth is dry but he expected to be near death after the way he threw them back last night.

“It’s four in the afternoon.” Oh. He does the math of how long she’d let him sleep in her apartment after everything he’s done - after she picked him up. 

“At one point I had to make sure you were alive. But I figured if you were able to leave such eloquent voicemails last night that you probably weren’t in danger of alcohol poisoning.”

“Swan, I…” He’s fully aware that he deserves her mocking but he’s too humiliated to even begin to try and explain his behaviour last night. How can he without explaining everything right down to that morning in July where he messed up the best thing in his life.

She takes pity on him, giving a small shrug. “Forget about it. Everyone says stupid stuff when they’re hammered. Everyone calls people they know they shouldn’t.”

“No, Emma -” He finally lifts his head to look at her. “That wasn’t…” He needs her to know that wasn’t what this was, she wasn’t just some drunk dial in the middle of the night. He thinks of how many times in the last three three months he’s looked at that contact in his phone, her name replaced with a reminder that he should not and absolutely could not go there. She mistakes his hesitation. 

“You okay?”

“No.” He needs to talk to her, to apologize and beg her forgiveness. But he can’t find the words in his tired, muddled head to tell her without telling her everything. “I’m a bloody idiot.” 

Emma smirks. “Yeah, we established that last night - a bunch of times.” 

“I mean it. It wasn’t -” He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear the sleep and avoid looking at her. “I didn’t just call you because I was drunk. I’ve wanted to call you. For months. Last night just gave me an excuse.”

“You needed an excuse to call me?” 

He sighs. “I was coward enough to convince myself I did.” 

When he finally forces himself to face her, he finds her watching her phone, fingers wrung in her lap and lips pressed together tightly the way they always are before she asks something that’s answer matters to her. 

“How much of last night do you actually remember?” 

“Most of it, I think.” It’s been coming back to him in increasingly horrifying details since she played that first voicemail.

“You said a lot of stupid stuff.” 

“I know.” 

“How much of all of that was true?”

“All of it.”

She raises a brow. “All of it?”

“Aye.”

“Sexy Winnie the Pooh?”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “I stand by what I said.”

He wonders which parts of what he said she’s focusing on as her silence stretches between them, heartbroken when he sees a little wall go up. This is why he stopped calling. He knew this would happen. 

“It’s fine. It’s not like you owed me anything. We weren’t -”

“Don’t do that.” His hand reaches out for her, fingers playing carefully with the fabric of her too-big sweatpants. “We may not have been in a relationship but we weren’t nothing.” He won’t let her excuse his behaviour, not after they spent over a year in each others’ lives only for him to disappear from hers. “I shouldn’t have acted like we were.” 

“So then why did you stop calling?” It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever heard her sound even though she hides it well and he can’t bring himself to look at her. “I liked what we had going. I liked spending time with you.”

“Aye, so did I.” Too much. 

“I guess I thought - I guess I thought we were friends at least.” 

“We were.” His fingers dance along her calf through the fabric he can’t stop fiddling with and he feels the muscle tense but she doesn’t pull away from him. 

“So then what gives?” The anger in her voice makes his gaze snap up to hers. Finally. He’s been waiting for her to be angry with him, she deserves to be angry and he deserves it too. It gives him that small flicker of hope he’d been unable to find until now, a hope that if she’s angry, it’s because she cared enough to be hurt. “Why did you just…” She gestures vaguely with her hands. Disappear. 

“Because I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

“Do what? Hook up? Jesus, Killian, I’m a big girl. You didn’t have to run away because you were over the benefits part of this friendship.” 

“I wasn’t. I left because I broke our rules.” 

“What rules?” 

The ones they’d so carefully established when they decided to continue this arrangement beyond the first and second time he saw her. The ones that were meant to keep either of them from getting hurt like they both were now. 

“The last time I was here, we fell asleep and woke up in the morning still in your bed and I…”

“That’s why you freaked out? Because you accidentally slept over? That’s a bit dramatic don’t you think?” He can hear the disbelief in her voice and also the relief but he’s not done. “It wasn’t like a hard and fast rule -”

His fingers curl around the back of her knee, squeezing as he draws her attention. “That’s not why.” He traces his thumb over the fabric covering her shin and he knows he has to tell her because he can’t do this anymore without telling her and he can’t go back to how things were. 

And he thinks that just maybe, she’ll want to hear it. Because as small and insignificant as it may seem, those aren’t her sweatpants, they’re his, lent - stolen - after a rather frantic afternoon in his hotel room six months ago where he may have torn her skirt in his haste to get it off. ‘You need better quality clothes, love.’ ‘Is this you finally offering to be my sugar daddy?’ They have his bloody initials on them - a strange gift from his lawyer friend. And she hasn’t gotten rid of them, didn’t toss them away when he did the same to her. She still sleeps in them. 

“I freaked out because I liked waking up with you, and I started thinking that I’d like to wake up with you every morning.” He’d been hot and sweaty and sore from sleeping on her old mattress but he’d looked down at the woman wrapped around him despite the stifling heat, her cheek pressed to his chest and her hair in his mouth and he knew that he wanted this, wanted her, maybe forever. He hears her small intake of breath, his thumb still stroking her skin though the fabric as though it’ll give him the strength he needs. “And I hadn’t felt that way about anyone since…” He can’t finish and so she does for him. 

“Milah?” 

“Aye.” His reason for never wanting anything more, love lost in the same instant that cost him a piece of himself. He’d told Emma about her, one night when they’d lingered a little too long entangled in the aftermath. He didn’t know the details of her reason, only that she’d been far too young and that he’d hurt her deeply enough to make her wary of anyone who claimed love or devotion. 

“I hoped that if I stayed away for a little while that it would fade away and that we could go back to how things were because I knew that if I told you I would lose you. But the longer I stayed away, the more I missed you and the more I wanted you and I realized it wasn’t going to go away - because I loved you.” 

Killian watches her for a reaction as he tells her the truth he’d been hiding from her for months and from himself for far longer, but she remains unreadable, fingers still wringing nervously in her lap, breathing a little shaky. But there’s no abject terror in her gaze as she waits for him to finish.

“And by then I’d avoided you for too long and it was too late to tell you or try to go back to how things were and I lost you anyway. Then I managed to convince myself that it was for the best because this wasn’t what you wanted and you deserved better anyway.” Better than an old widower with a used up heart who’d run the moment things became real. “But I thought you had the right to know that I didn’t leave because I didn’t care about you. I left because I cared too much.” 

Fabric slips from his hand as she stands, circling the coffee table and leaving him feeling untethered without her and with a barrier set between them. He focuses on the rug, her reaction expected but no less painful, as she paces the length of her glued together crates a few times. 

“Okay two things.” Her tone snaps his gaze up to where she moves anxiously and restlessly in the small space. “First of all, that’s the last time you make a decision for me.” He hadn’t expected this reaction. “I don’t need anyone to decide what I do or don’t deserve or what I can or can’t handle. If you want to know what I want, you ask me. You talk to me like the grownup you keep pretending that you are.” That one hurts but he nods. It’s all rightly earned. 

“You’re right.” 

“Good.” She stops, shoulders squared as she faces him from across the table. “Second.” He waits, the anger from before no longer sustaining her as he sees the wall she hides behind slip just a little. “You said you loved me.”

He’s not sure what answer she wants, but he gives her the truth. “I love you, Swan.” Try as hard as he did not to, he knows it’s not going away. And he’s not willing to attempt another eight shots of rum a second time to make sure. 

She nods. He waits, or she waits, he’s not sure who’s supposed to speak here only that he needs to know how she feels and he’ll wait as long as he needs to. 

“Well? Are you going to ask me what I want?”

“What do you want?” He’d give her whatever she asked for at this point as he watches her bite her lip and definitely doesn’t wish he was the one biting it.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Fair enough. 

“Look, I get running away from feelings - I’m very familiar with the concept. But the way you did it was really shitty and -” Her voice goes quiet, arms wrapping around herself in a move so full of self-preservation that it breaks his heart a little. “It hurt, okay?”

Her words, thick with betrayal and rejection, pierce sharp through his chest, painful and deserved as she avoids his gaze as determinantly as he’d avoided hers. God, he’s an ass. He’d pieced together enough about her past from the small glimpses she’d given him late on those nights where they were still tangled naked in her sheets and the dark lent them the boldness to be vulnerable to know that she’d been left before. 

He joins her on her side of the table, reaching to touch the soft, golden waves that he’s spent months wishing he could tangle his fingers in again. “I’m sorry.” He pushes them behind her ear, thumb stroking over her cheek like her skin could break beneath his touch. 

When she looks up at him her eyes are red and wet he pulls her to him without thinking. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, Emma feeling fragile in his arms for the first time since he met her. She’s a force, his Swan, a tempest that could devour a thousand ships and it hurts to see her storms wane. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter, pressing a kiss to her temple as he brings a hand to stroke the hair at the base of her neck, feels her lean into him. “I’m sorry,” he speaks against her brow. “I’m so sorry, love.” His lips brush over the crown of her head and he feels her arms slip around his waist, holding tight to the back of his shirt. He holds her just as tightly, nose settling in the crook of her neck where he presses another kiss and whispers a thousand more apologies. “I’m an ass.” 

“Yeah, you are.” Her voice comes muffled from where her face is pressed against his collarbone and he laughs in relief to hear her tease him. He pulls back enough that she can lift her head to face him, eyes still red as he wipes at the dampness left on her cheeks. All he wants is to kiss her and spend the night and the next day and every day after that making this up to her, but he knows better than to push her.

Her hands slide from his back to his chest as she meets his gaze and takes a steadying breath. “I still don’t know what I want. You’re not the only one who’s bad at dealing with feelings and you just put some pretty big ones out there.”

“I know.” He doesn’t expect to hear the words back, not after three months of silence. But if she gives him the chance to stay and try to win her heart then he’ll spend forever earning back her trust. 

“But maybe, if you’re still in town for a bit, you could stay for dinner.” 

It takes everything he has to contain the ecstatic smile that wells up from his chest, afraid he’ll scare her off. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.” He’s not leaving her again. Not unless she sends him away. 

***

“When do you go back?” she asks when they’re sat at the kitchen island. ‘What, exactly, do you have against real furniture? Especially tables. They seem particularly discriminated against.’ ‘Do you see any room in here for a twelve-piece dining set?’ He swallows the bite of the boxed mac and cheese she’d made him cook ‘Because I’m still pissed at you and I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer through this.’ ‘Sadist. Can I at least add -’ ‘No.’  

Killian looks at his watch. “My flight was an hour ago.”

“What? You should have said -”

“And miss all the delicacies that Maine has to offer?” he asks, lifting his mismatched bowl. “It’s fine, Swan,” he adds when she looks genuinely concerned. “I’d rather be here.” He can get another flight at the last minute before he’s due back in New York on Monday. Getting his things back from the hotel, however, may be a tad more difficult. 

“That’s sweet and all but I think you’d also rather be employed.”

“Aye, well, I may not be employed there much longer anyhow.” 

Her eyes widen. “Oh god, don’t tell me you left them voicemails too.”

Killian snorts. “No, I’ve just… had another offer.” 

His heart pounds frantically as she asks, “where?” terrified that he’ll scare her off. 

“Here.” 

“Here?”

He nods. “I wasn’t going to take it, not after realizing how much I’d miss you if I was here. But, well, that was before I drank a full bar. And this town does have its benefits.” 

She gapes at him and he can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes. “You’re not moving for me, right? You want the job? Because I told you I don’t know what I want or if I can even do… whatever this maybe is and I -” 

He reaches for her hand, calming the rambling that had started. “I do want the job, but of course I’m moving for you, Swan. And I know you’re not ready to decide anything, and I’m not asking you to. But whether you do or don’t decide that what you want is me, I’m going to be right here while you figure it out. I’m not going to leave you twice, Emma. I don’t want to miss you like that again.”

Emma just stares at him, mouth opening and then shutting with questions that don’t find voice and he sits, stewing in the worry that he said too much, asked for too much. He swallows as she jumps out of her seat, his turn to ramble now as she rounds the island.

“I mean, I will have to go home and get my things and resign but I -” 

“Shut up,” she tells him, hands sliding into his hair and mouth colliding with his. 

He’s more than happy to do exactly that, wasting no time in gathering her up in his arms and pulling her close, returning the kiss he’d missed so damn much all these months, missed the feel of her soft and warm against him like this, for the little sound she makes when his own hand tangles in her hair just hard enough that he can keep he there a little longer.  

“Wait,” he breathes and her hands pause where they’d been working the buttons of his shirt free. “Maybe we should slow down.” There’s a part of him screaming at his stupid mouth right now for the words falling out of it. “You said you don’t know if this is what you want. So maybe we shouldn’t rush things.”

She barks out a small laugh. “You’re moving to another city for a ‘maybe’ and you don’t want to rush things?” He doesn’t really have an answer for that. 

Her brow and mouth quirk up in one devastatingly attractive motion that has him ready to go back on everything he just said. “This was never our problem,” she reminds him, fingers tugging the buckle of his belt loose. “We’re good at this part. Everything else is where we get messy.” She works the button of his jeans open next. “So just try not to make any more big confessions while you’re inside me…” She runs her teeth over the skin below his ear as she slides her hand into his jeans and he nearly chokes. “And we should be fine.” 

“Bloody hell.” His rational self may judge him later, but his current self has Emma Swan with her hand around his cock trying to get him out of his clothes and he’s already established that he’s not a very smart man. “I promise.” 

***

It’s a strange feeling to be laying here, wrapped up in an old duvet and Star Wars sheets with Emma’s head on his shoulder and her fingers drawing patterns over his chest. They’ve never done this part, never lingered beyond the time it took them both to catch their breaths before untangling themselves from one another and going about their day - or tangling themselves again. He likes it, but it’s strange, new, something he hasn’t done in a long time. Not with anyone. 

“This is kind of weird right?” she asks, breath warm against his neck. 

Killian laughs. Bloody mind reader. 

“Aye, a bit. I think I’m out of practice.”

“I never practised in the first place.” 

He presses a kiss to her hair. “But, it’s not bad, right?” She can probably hear his stupid heart racing as he waits for her answer. 

“No,” she shakes her head, sliding her arm around his waist and fitting herself more snugly against his side. “It’s not bad.” He can feel her smile against his skin, glad she can’t see the absolutely ridiculous one stretched across his own. They lay there a little longer, the room darkening with the earlier and earlier nights as he begins to dread the fast approaching hour where he’ll have to leave, until Emma shifts. “My neck hurts.” 

“My arm’s asleep.” 

She sits up and his arm is flooded with the sudden relief of no longer being squished, but he misses the warmth and the closeness of her immediately. He has two arms. Who really needs both? He’s done fine with one hand. “Where are you going?” he asks when she rises from the bed, reaching for his shirt that she tossed on the floor and he made himself leave there. ‘Do not fold your clothes while we’re in the middle of having sex or I swear I’ll put mine back on you fucking weirdo.’

“Thirsty,” she says as she finishes buttoning it. “You?”

“Aye, thanks.”

“Water? Or would you prefer rum?”

“Hilarious.” His stomach rolls, not finding her so funny. She certainly seems to think she is, smirking as she fetches two water bottles from the fridge. “You know you’re going to have to give me my shirt back this time. It’s the only one I’ve got.” At least until he finds out if the hotel hung onto his suitcase when he missed his checkout. “Unless you have the others squirrelled away here somewhere.” 

“I thought you had ‘too many shirts, Swan,’” she reminds him in a poor imitation of his accent and he rolls his eyes. She hops back onto the bed, climbing into his lap to sit astride his hips. His hand and wrist settle on her waist, the shirt in question riding up and making him groan at the feel of her pressed against him. 

“Aye well I’ve only got the one to wear out of here tonight and while you look infinitely better in it than I do -” 

“Like a sexy Winnie the Pooh, would you say?”

He sighs. “I’m never living that one down am I?”

“You want to show me your hundred acre wood?” Killian lets his head fall back against the headboard as she laughs herself silly. “I have another solution,” she tells him, hands wringing nervously in the sleeves of his shirt. “I was thinking, maybe, since you’ve already missed your flight, and you probably don’t have a hotel room anymore, that you could stay here tonight. And maybe we could give that whole waking up together thing a shot.” 

Her cheeks are flushed, freckles bright against the soft pink as she looks up from her hands to catch his eye. He kisses her hard enough that she’d have fallen right off his lap were it not for his arms holding her steady and close to him. 

“That a yes?” she asks, mouth curling against his and he catches that smirking bottom lip between his teeth like he’s wanted to since she showed up at the station. 

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She nods and it’s him smiling against her mouth now. “For tonight at least. But I think there’s still a lot of grovelling in your future before it becomes a regular thing.”

He kisses her again, rolls her onto her back beneath him. “Then I’d better get started right away,” he says, lips finding the length of her neck as he begins to work free the buttons of his stolen shirt. 

“Well, you did promise you would write poetry about my boobs.” 

“I what?” He looks up only to see her wearing the same confused frown as himself before her eyes widen with laughter and she covers her mouth with her hands.

“Oh my god. You haven’t seen your texts have you?”

Fuck. 

*******

Tagging the usual people but let me know if you want to be removed or added!

***

She’d been such an idiot, thinking she could cover her hair with a hood, hide her dress beneath a cloak and on one would recognize her. Thinking she could walk onto the first ship she found and buy passage out of the kingdom and no one would question it. She wasn’t so naive, the fear and the haste with which she’d made her escape not giving her time to think, to reason. 

She should have known better, she should have thought, then maybe she wouldn’t have found herself here, now, facing off with an angry pirate who seemed less interested in the bounty he’d receive for delivering her to the queen, and more interested in making her suffer. 

She hadn’t meant to do it. But they’d grabbed her and she’d panicked and now two of his crewmen lay at her feet. God she hoped they weren’t dead. From the look on Blackbeard’s face, she knew he would make her pay regardless, for the embarrassment to him and his crew. He wouldn’t kill her, she knew that. She was too valuable alive. But he could make her hurt. 

The man drew his sword, towering over her, a giant with silver hair that hung in ropes around him, beard still black as night. There was a darkness in his eyes she’d never seen before. She had no sword of her own, ducking as he approached to pull one from the hopefully-not-dead pirate’s belt.

The sight of her raising a sword between them only seemed to anger him, the first blow coming down furiously upon her. His blade hit hers so hard she felt the shock reverberate through her bones, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding him back. Blackbeard snarled, raising his sword and striking again, and again as she continued to ward him off, each of her reactions slower than the last. There was no chance to strike back, no opening left that wouldn’t leave her too in danger of catching one of those attacks. Each block grew weaker, his blows closer, she wouldn’t be able to hold him off much longer.

It happened too quickly, her grip not sure enough, the sword knocked from her hand, the sound of it clattering to the deck echoing in her ears where silence had fallen, everything else tuned out as she waited for what would come next. She turned away at the last moment, instinct at seeing the weapon coming for her and fearing he might actually kill her in the end. What was one ransome? 

It was the blood she noticed first, a puddle of it forming at her feet, dozens of drops raining down on the deck as they came together and soaked it. It wasn’t until her hand landed in it, splashing against her cheeks that she saw it was coming from her, the fabric of her dress already soaked through, rivulets sliding down her arm like little rivers, pooling in the spaces between her fingers.

Then the pain came, white hot and raging, so sharp it took the air from her lungs, took her ability to scream, to make a sound. The sound returned next, the deck loud with chaos once again. Emma raised her head just enough to see his shadow, see him lift his sword a final time, and she squeezed her eyes shut. 

But the blow didn’t come, the scrape of metal against metal jarring as she looked up and saw his blade, inches from her neck, caught by a hook. She couldn’t lift herself enough to see him, whoever it was that had just saved her, the pain too sharp if she moved, her head spinning when she raised it. She just needed to get up. Get up and fight like she’d been taught to her whole life. 

The clash of swords echoed across the deck, the two taunting one another like they knew each other well, and then silence. Suddenly she was yanked up by her hair, a blade pressed to her throat by one of the pirates. When the pain cleared from her eyes, she could see the man standing over Blackbeard, a sword pointed at his heart. 

“He dies, and your lass dies with him!” the man behind her shouted. She clawed at the hand that held the dagger. This man didn’t know her. She wasn’t his anything. She had no strength left, but if she was going to die, she would go down fighting to the last second. 

When she looked back at the man, he was staring at the one who held her, a threat in his eyes, and then he lowered his sword. The dagger left her throat and she was tossed towards the deck, caught by the stranger who rushed to her side.

“Can you walk?” he spoke against her temple as he helped her to her feet. “Don’t you die on me now. How would it look if I saved the damsel in distress only to have her collapse in the escape.” He backed them slowly towards the gangplank, Emma leaning heavily against him. 

“I’m not a damsel,” she snapped - or would have if she had any strength.

His laugh sounded forced. “What? Is that the thanks I get for such a dashing rescue?”

“I was handling it.” 

This smirk was real. “I could see that.” Her feet stopped cooperating, he alone keeping her upright now. “We need to get you to a healer.” 

She shook her head. “No.”

“A witch then -”

“No! No magic.” 

“You’ll die.” 

“Don’t be dramatic.” Every word made her wince.

“Love…”

“I can’t.” It was too much of a risk. She could be recognized again, brought back to the castle. She couldn’t let them find her. “They’ll…” speaking and standing at the same time was becoming difficult. “If they…”

She could see the moment he put it together. “Bloody hell. Who are you running from?” 

“Please,” she begged.

He sighed, definitely not happy with the decision. “Alright, come on,” he said, tucking his hook beneath her knees and lifting her into his arms. 

***

Killian riffled through the various chests in his quarters while she watched him sleepily from an armchair. “This won’t be pleasant,” he warned, digging out the needle and thread from his desk. He’d stitched wounds before, but never with any skill. Milah had always been better at that. 

“Unlike the rest of our evening?” the girl slurred from her perch. He stood behind her, carefully unlacing her overdress to see the wound.  “Aren’t you supposed to buy me a drink first?” He couldn’t believe the smirk that tugged at his lips. “Ow! What the fuck!” she shouted, jumping when he poured rum over the gash. “That’s not what I meant!” The wound was big, the width of her shoulder blade and it would leave a nasty scar. 

“I warned you,” he reminded her when she turned to glare at him, more alert now from the shock. “Last chance to find a healer.”

She clenched her teeth, some of that fear breaking through her bravado, and shook her head. Bracing himself, Killian took a swig of his flask for himself - this would be unpleasant for the both of them - and then offered it to her.  “For the pain.” 

She winced enough as she swallowed for him to know she didn’t indulge often. That was good - it would take effect sooner. 

It was slow, and long, and while he tried his best to get it over with as quickly as he could, he also needed to do it right. His fingers were still dexterous from decades of knots and mapping, but his eyesight struggled in the dim light. Her fist clenched each time he pushed the needle in, but she didn’t make a sound, not until he reached where the wound was deepest. She let out a curse that would make the men on his crew blush and he fought a laugh. 

“Do you need something to bite on?” he teased, hoping to distract her as he pushed the needle in again. 

She cursed again. “I’ll bite you if you don’t shut up.” 

He caught his lip between his teeth to keep from smirking at her threat. Though, taking in the long pale curve of her neck, the golden curls that hung over her other shoulder, and recalling the striking green eyes that had been glaring at him moments ago, he couldn’t pretend he was totally opposed to the idea. 

Stop it. She was at least a decade younger than him if not more, and fierce, and beautiful, and clearly above the likes of a pirate like him. And while he’d been with noble women before, that had been when he was a devilishly handsome young scoundrel, not a weary, greying man with nothing to offer. 

“Sorry.”

He shook his head though she couldn't see it. "Threaten me all you want, love, so long as you're around to follow through on them."

Her small hum of laughter was weak, but it made him smile nonetheless. And when he chuckled as she hissed out 'fuck!' he could feel her glare. "I'm glad you find this amusing. This a habit of yours? Casual sadism?"

"Oh, aye," he smirked. "Is this a habit of yours? Consorting with pirates?"

"Not usually. Son of a bitch, are you doing it on purpose?" 

He thought about teasing her for complaining, but a fine sheen of sweat had begun to dampen her still too-pale skin even as she remained cold to the touch, and he knew the pain had to be immense. 

"I don't think I've ever encountered a lady with a mouth quite like yours."

She tensed and he paused in his work. "Who said I was a lady?" A poor attempt at sounding nonchalant that may have succeeded under different circumstances. 

"That's a very fine dress you're wearing.” Or it was anyway.

"Maybe I stole it." He could hear the challenge in her voice. A weary, long forgotten part of him begged to be allowed to rise to it, drawn out by this woman who surprised him each time she opened her mouth, and charmed his old, beaten heart with every word. It had been a long, long time since someone surprised him and despite the fact that they'd been fighting for their lives - and she still was - he couldn't remember the last time someone had made him smile quite so much. 

But he didn't, as much as he may have wanted to; it was too dangerous. A woman like her was the kind he could lose his heart to if he didn't hold onto it tight enough. And what would she want with a worn and hollowed heart? 

"Ah, so you're a thief, then. Is that it?" Her shoulders relaxed, at least enough that he could make another stitch. 

"Maybe," her voice was strained, spoken through gritted teeth. 

“So just who are you, love?” 

“Nobody,” she sighed, sounding tired again. “I’m… nobody special.” 

Killian cocked his head, “I doubt that.” The words felt too much like flirtation as they passed his lips. Some stupid, forgotten version of himself finding its way out from where he’d long kept him buried. She kept doing that, finding the bits of himself he’d given up on, drawing them out, drawing them to her. 

She glanced over her shoulder, brilliant green shaded by dark smudges against pale skin. He tried to keep his hand steady as she offered him a small smile, dry, pale lips brightened with a warmth he hadn’t expected.

“Thank you. For saving me tonight.” 

Killian cleared his throat against the old, unfamiliar rush that crept through his chest. “We’re almost done here,” he promised, finishing the last stitch.

“Will I live?” She sounded exhausted, humour falling flat.

“Aye.” 

“That’s good. But… I think…” He frowned as he tied off the thread and helped her to her feet. “I think I might -” She didn’t get to finish her thought, falling into his arms as she fainted.

Killian sighed. “I suppose you’ll be spending the night, then.” 

***

She felt something ghost across her wrist, warm and rough and gentle, and blinked her eyes open slowly. A man sat across from her, the man who’d saved her last night - the one she’d threatened to bite. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, his hair and clothes rumpled. She wondered if he’d slept in that chair all night. 

He was holding her wrist, finding her pulse with his thumb and keeping it there. There was blood on both their hands, old and dried and likely all hers. He looked up, surprised to find her awake.

She smiled. “I’m alive.”

He cleared his throat. “Aye.” 

She waited for him to remember how conversations worked, then glanced down at her hand when he didn't. “Are you just double checking or…?” she teased and he released her quickly, his cheeks going red as she smiled again. He looked different this morning, not that she’d really had much of a chance to look at him last night, too busy trying not to die and all… 

All she’d remembered was the solid feel of his shoulders, keeping her upright, the strength of his arm holding her weight when she couldn’t anymore, and the foreign way he pronounced the words with which he teased her. 

So she looked at him now, her hero, she almost smirked - they were, after all, on a pirate ship. He was striking, dark hair and bright eyes. His beard and his temples flecked with silver somehow made him more handsome than he had any right to be, pieces of it falling over his brow, head bent above her in his chair. 

There were lines at the corners of his eyes, but she hesitated to think they came from laughter, not when she met them, that deep blue fixed just as intently on her. There was a sadness in them, an ancient, deep melancholy far beyond his age and her heart broke for him. She reached for his cheek, wanting to comfort him in some way but she’d barely moved before a brutal, sharp pain ripped at her shoulder.

“Motherfucker.” 

She saw him bite down hard on a laugh, his shyness fading as he spoke. “Killian, actually.” Emma raised a questioning brow at him as she settled back down on her side. “Killian Jones. Though some know me by my more colourful moniker, Hook.” He raised the appendage in question for emphasis. 

Ah yes, she remembered that too now, the way it had caught Blackbeard’s sword and the feel of his brace beneath her as he’d carried her to his ship. “Pleasure.” 

He began to smirk when the silence hung a moment too long. “This is the part where you tell me your name.”

“I’m Emma -” she started automatically, the introduction drilled into her since birth. The shape of her last name and title forming on her lips before she stopped it, looked away so he wouldn’t see the hesitation and the lie. The less he knew about who she was the better. She looked away, needing to think of something -  “Swan. Emma Swan,” she finished, testing the name, liking the sound of it.  

Killian met her gaze for a moment, cocking his head and she held it defiantly until he turned to look over his shoulder to where her eyes had darted. When he looked back, his face split in a wide grin. Fuck. 

“Are you certain about that?”

“I think I know my own name.” Her cheeks burned, but she kept her chin high. 

“You’re absolutely sure it isn’t Emma Kraken? Or perhaps Emma Horse?” he teased, gesturing to the two illustrations that flanked the one of the swan behind him. She glared and he laughed. “Alright, then, Swan.” he conceded. “You should rest some more, eat something.” She sighed in relief that he was letting her have this one.

“Could I trouble you for some water? I’d like to wash the blood from my hair… and my skin… and my dress.” And his sheets, she realized, noting the blood stains that would probably never come out. 

“There’s a hip tub behind the partition. I’ll bring you some water.” 

She caught his wrist before he could leave, tanned skin dark against her own, the blood on his fingers matching hers. “Thank you for saving me - I know I wasn’t the most gracious victim last night.” 

“You were hardly a victim,” he said kindly as she let go. “And I can’t hold you accountable for things that were said under the influence of pain and rum.

“Well, I’m sorry I called you a sadist… and probably a lot of other things… and threatened to bite you.”

Killian smirked. “There’s soap by the basin.” 

Sitting in the small tub, the lilac scented soap worked through her hair again and again until the water ran clean, she stared at her hands. Maybe it was gone for good, maybe all her problems would be over and she could go home and pretend like nothing happened. 

As though it knew she was trying to wish it away, she felt the soft hum in her fingers, the glimmers of light beginning to dance between them. Emma let out a cry, shoving her fists beneath the water until it stopped, and then letting her tears fall into them. She could never go home. 

***

He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d ended up with a long-term guest aboard the Jolly. Neither had suggested she stay, but neither had suggested she be on her way either. And somehow it had been three days since that morning after he’d brought her on board.

He’d woken up disoriented, and somehow even more exhausted, his back and neck protesting painfully from sleeping upright in the armchair he’d dragged to the side of the bed. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, watching her, counting every rise and fall of her breaths, fingers sliding softly over her wrist a dozen times to feel the slow but consistent pulse beneath his thumb.

When she’d emerged from his quarters, hair damp and blonde again, loose waves hanging down her back and colour returning to her cheeks, his breath had caught. She’d smoothed her hands over the dress he’d brought her - ‘I think yours has seen it’s last sword fight’ - Milah’s dress. The faded red was nowhere near as fine as the silk she’d discarded, but she’d looked stunning nonetheless and he’d found himself at a loss for words again. 

“Thank you for the clothes.” He hadn’t trusted himself to do anything but nod. “I hope whoever’s this is won’t miss it.” 

Pain had caught in his throat at the memory of her - still, after all these years. “She won’t.” 

“Oh.” He’d met her eyes and wished he hadn’t, a sadness in them like they’d reached out and touched his own and he could tell that she’d read his heartbreak as easily as if he’d spoken the words aloud. He’d never been good at hiding his feelings, better and masking them, burying them between anger and bravado. “Who was she?”

“Someone from long ago.” 

To his relief, Emma hadn’t pushed, sitting down with him at the table and sharing the plate he’d put together. She hadn’t brought the topic up again, even when he’d gifted her another dress that morning.

***

They’d fallen into a routine, or she’d fallen into his, one he couldn’t shake after centuries of habit, waking with the sun and taking breakfast in the galley. He’d taken to sleeping in Mr. Smee’s quarters, unsure she realized who’s room she was in. 

He spent the mornings charting courses to upcoming destinations, planning future raids and deciding if they should take on passengers in the interim. She sat pouring through the small library he kept on board, learning everything about what he was doing, asking all the right questions. 

She’d wanted to be helpful, so Killian had taught her knots - easier ones with her arm in a sling. There was less to do when they were in port, but Emma seemed determined to be of service and a part of him wondered if she felt the need to earn her keep. 

That first evening, she’d sat at the small harpsichord in his room, fingers tracing carefully over the ivory keys until he’d asked if she played.

“My parents made me learn. Do you?”

“Poorly,” he’d smirked, holding up his hook. 

As a young man he’d loved the instrument, dedicated himself to mastering it when he and his brother had joined the navy and for the first time in his life he’d had the opportunity to learn anything he wished. He’d chosen everything. He’d told her all this, secrets of his past and the joys and heartbreaks of his life spilling out of him of their own volition. It had been a long time since anyone had cared to ask, let alone to know. And yet he still only knew her first name. 

“Play with me,” she’d offered. “I’ll take the left and you take the right.” 

“You haven’t got a left at the moment, love.” She’d dismissed it but he’d refused nonetheless, prefering to hear her play. He’d refused the second time she asked as well, and the next.

***

When the wake of the tempest that had brought them into port had finally slipped away, the air no longer heavy, the skies no longer blanketed by black clouds, the anxiety that always lingered in his bones and pricked at the back of his neck when they were near subsided. 

Emma watched him, charting a course to Agrabah where he’d heard rumours of a magic lamp that kings would pay a fortune for. “Have you been before?” 

“Aye,” he didn’t look up from his work, used to her questions now. 

“What’s it like?”

“Hot. Have you travelled much before?” 

“Nowhere interesting,” she sighed. “Just neighbouring kingdoms, and Arendale.”

“Why Arendale?”

“I have a friend there.” 

“What’s it like?”

“Cold. Tell me about Agrabah.” He laughed at her impatience. She was a lady, he’d figured out that much, but the mold didn’t suit her. The manners and demureness she performed - likely trained since childhood - so easily forgotten when she was excited, or annoyed. He so enjoyed bringing her out.

Killian looked up at her then, met with eager anticipation. “The air smells of spices.” She smiled, catching it between her teeth, waiting for him to go on. “The entire kingdom is covered in sand, mountains of it, as far as the eye can see. And it’s ruled by a great and fearsome queen, and a king who was once a thief.” 

“What?”

“That’s the story they tell: the princess and the street rat.” 

“That can’t be true.” 

“Perhaps, though they say the king of this land was once a shepherd, so maybe true love does conquer all.” 

Emma tensed at the mention of the king and his playful smile faltered even as she slipped back into her polite persona. “You’ve been to so many places.”

“Aye well, I’ve lived a long life.”

She raised a brow at him, the real her breaking through once more. “Not that long.” 

“I’m older than I look.”

“How much older?” 

Killian huffed a laugh. “That’s a very complicated question.” Her brow rose higher, waiting. “Time doesn’t move the same way in some realms. The lines between days and years get blurry.” 

“Guess.” 

“Too old,” something he had to keep reminding himself of when she rolled her eyes at him like that, or smiled at him, or looked at him, or found herself too close - like now as she rounded the table to look over his shoulder at the maps.

“How do you read these? There aren’t any roads to follow.” He sucked in a breath as silently as he could, her breath hot against his ear.

“Latitudes and longitudes, the stars, charts.” She reached for his maps, constellations laid over sea and land, and traced the lines reverently. The warmth of her pressed against his back made him tense, everything about her so bloody inviting. “We also have compases, sextants,” he listed. 

“That thing?” she asked and he was forced to raise his head to follow her gaze to the sextant resting on the table. His cheek brushed against her temple, her hair catching in his beard, but she didn’t seem to mind. 

“Aye.” 

“It’s beautiful.”

“It was my brother’s.” He spoke without meaning to. Secrets of his past and the joys and heartbreaks of his life spilled out of him of their own volition these days. It had been a long time since anyone had cared to ask, let alone to know. And yet he still only knew her first name. She put a hand on his arm, not needing to be told what fate had befallen Liam. Her touch calmed his pain at the memory of that horrible day, feeling like he could take a breath, and stirred longing beneath his skin, a long forgotten desire for the feeling, and it left him uncentered and untethered. 

He reached for the sextant, handing it to her, an excuse to put distance between them. Emma took it carefully despite the way he practically thrust it into her hands, and examined the instrument. She raised it up to try to look through it. “Is it like a telescope?”

“Did you not live in a port town?” he teased and she rolled her eyes even as she shut one, squinting. 

“I lived near a port town. I probably know more about the forest and tracking than you do. You only seem smarter because we’re on the water.” 

Killian smirked. “Aye, you probably do.” He adjusted the sextant, his hand closing over hers with no other place to hold it, his hook looping around her other wrist as he tilted and raised it. “You need a horizon,” he explained, moving his hook to slide the index arm enough that the mirrors shifted and she bit her lip, concentrating. “But you can use it to find where you are using the sun.” 

She lowered the sextant when he let go so she could look at the number now indicated below it, hair falling over her shoulder as she did. “So it keeps you from getting lost.” 

“Aye.” He reached out to tuck her hair back behind her ear and she turned her head. He froze. He hadn’t meant to do it, but now she was looking up at him, green eyes searching his own. His hand was still by her cheek, thumb still at her temple, fingers still woven through the soft strands, and she was close enough that he could feel her breath against his chest.

He thought of how easy it would be just to fall into her, to kiss her again and again like he’d wanted to for days now. He wanted to feel her mouth under his, feel her skin under his hands, under his tongue, to know what she tasted like, what she would sound like when he touched her, when he was inside her, what she would look like when she fell over the edge.

He thought he imagined the way her chin lifted, just a fraction, when his gaze dropped for a moment to her lips. And a blush pinked her cheeks when he came to his senses and dropped his hand and said, “I think that’s enough maps for one day.” 

****

“You know this one,” she accused, pausing in her playing. A small smile was tugging at his lips from where he sat listening.

“I know all of them.”

Emma rolled her eyes. Of course he did. “But you know this one. You know how to play it.” 

“Aye, well, you never forget your first,” he smirked, and she raised a brow in delighted surprise at his boldness.

“Even if it was such a long time ago?” she teased and he managed to look offended and amused at once. “Prove it, then.” He smirked at her challenge but didn’t bite. “Are you ever going to play with me or am I to be your personal concert pianist?” 

“Well, you’re doing a lovely job.” 

“Killian,” she warned. He hummed in laughter before sighing. 

“You’re not going to stop asking, are you?”

She beamed; she had him. “I will if you say yes.” 

With another sigh he rose, rolling his eyes at her triumphant smirk, and took a seat next to her on the bench, leaving as much space between them as he could. Emma slid over under the guise of reaching for the center of the keyboard and she felt him stiffen as their shoulders brushed. She could feel the heat of him where her thigh was pressed against his, even through all the layers of fabric.

Something had happened a few nights ago. He’d stopped it, but she’d felt it for a moment, his hand at her cheek, his fingers in her hair. There had been a moment, one where she thought he might lean in, might kiss her, might let her kiss him.

She didn’t know what was holding him back. They had an age difference but it was hardly anything obscene at ten or fifteen years. And she’d seen the way he looked at her, had felt the way he reacted to her touch. What did it matter how many years were between them if they both wanted the same thing? 

But she remembered that sadness she’d noticed in his eyes the first time she’d really looked. Something had left him broken, as though she could see each piece of his heart shattered into a thousand pieces and reflected in the stormy depths that shone such a brilliant blue in the light. Maybe that light had been absent from his life for so long he’d forgotten how to live in anything but darkness.

She turned to him, wondering if she’d see that sadness again, if there was hope of chasing it away, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. He watched his hand instead, playing the first few notes of the song and prompting her to join. 

They played the song, and then another, his fingers clumsy and forgetful after not having touched the instrument in so long. He paused at one point - ‘I don’t remember…’ - Emma reached over, playing the notes slowly for him. He watched her hand, then watched her and she could feel her skin warming beneath his gaze, looking at her again in that way that sent her heart racing, like he wanted to consume her, like he was afraid she would consume him. 

She felt the brush of his fingers against her palm when she pulled her hand back and froze, the music that had been surrounding them coming to an abrupt silence. His hand turned upwards from where it had been resting on the keys, she watched as he played his fingers along the length of hers. Careful, tentative, he slipped into the spaces between, testing, and folding around hers when she didn’t pull away. 

He was still watching her, the weight of his gaze growing more intent, and she turned to meet it, that stormy grey tinged with the lightest of blues. He said her name, soft, imploring, as he looked from her eyes to her lips and sent her heart racing in that agonizing way it did right before a kiss and then… no, not now. The warmth that had begun to spread through her turned to a burn, a pulse she couldn’t control, something inside of her called out by him, to him.

She stumbled back off the bench, hands snatched from his, balled in a fist behind her back where he couldn’t see, where it couldn’t hurt him. He looked at her, shock, confusion, regret, as she whispered, “I’m sorry,” and ran from the room.

***

Hoofbeats and metal jarred him from his sleep, or something close to sleep at least. He hadn’t been able to find any rest after last night, after she ran from the room, from him like he’d burned her. 

He lunged from his bed as the thundering sound approached, grabbing for his sword. Shouts carried over, orders being called out, growing closer. He hurried down the hallway, had nearly reached the captain’s quarters when Emma burst from it, dressed in only her shift and looking wild with panic. She ran to him, crashing into his chest, fingers grasping desperately at the sleeves of his thin shirt.

“Can we get out of here?” she demanded, looking back over her shoulder toward the stairs that lead above deck. “Can we get away in time?” He shook his head. He could hear them boarding ships already. Whoever they were, they’d be here soon. “Can you hide me?” she begged. “Somewhere they won’t look?” He frowned, still catching up to what was happening. Were these the people she was running from? Why would such a large cavalry be sent after one woman? “Killian,” Emma snapped, fingers tightening in his shirt and yanking him to attention. He felt a burn on his arm, hot and gone in an instant when she released him. “If they find me here, with you… they’ll kill you.” 

That seemed to frighten her more than the idea of being found and he tried to search her face, anything she’d said over the last four days that could explain any of this, but the men were boarding the ship now, and he hurried her back into his room. “Come on,” he urged, leading her to the inconspicuous looking wall beside his bed. Pressing the spot he knew by touch and memory, he opened one of the smuggling compartments, the one where he kept the magical artifacts he’d collected over years of hunting a way to kill the Dark One. 

“Don’t touch anything and stay quiet.” She nodded. “I’ll get rid of them.”

***

“They’re gone,” his voice carried through the wall. 

She was still staring at the artifacts around her, rows and rows of shelves in the narrow room he’d hidden her in, filled with things as mundane as a tailfeather from a bird she didn’t recognize, to a flame burning inside of a quartz the size of her hand. 

He’d told her not to touch anything and she hadn’t, but she could feel every item in the room, calling to her, singing to her blood and making it answer in turn. She could sense the power that flowed from each, felt some of it draw on hers, some feeding her own. It was like standing in the middle of a crowd, everyone talking, the sounds becoming nothing but an overbearing buzz and trying to single out a lone voice. 

She felt frantically for the door in front of her, afraid she’d go mad if she kept listening, and breathed a small sigh of relief when she shut it tight behind her. Emma followed the sound of scraping furniture to the galley, coming upon Killian righting benches that had been turned over in the guards’ search. They’d trashed the whole ship, leaving it in disarray, all because of her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said from the door, fingers playing sheepishly with the hem of her bodice. 

He stopped tidying. Leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms, a practiced pose, one that was both authoritative and non-threatening. He cocked his head at her. “Do you want to tell me who you’re running from, love?” 

She hesitated, lips pressed together tightly. He had a right to know what he’d gotten himself involved with - though she suspected he knew already. They really would have killed him if they found her, on a ship with a pirate with his notoriety, injured, and dressed as they were too… her father would have run Killian through himself before she could explain.

 “My parents.” 

Killian blinked, so maybe he hadn’t been expecting that. “And who are your parents?”

She couldn’t look at him as she answered. “Snow White and Prince Charming.”

“Bloody hell,” he groaned, pinching his brow. 

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ll go, I’ll just -” 

“Why are you running from them?” he asked, rubbing at his temples with finger and thumb before dropping his hand and waiting. 

She froze. Telling him who she was was one thing, but telling him why she ran… If he was anything like her parents she’d be better off running now. But he was waiting for an answer; he was trying to understand.

“... The room you hid me in, it’s full of magic, isn’t it?” 

Killian frowned. “Aye?”

“Why?” Because he hated it? Because he loved it? Feared it? Wanted to destroy it?

“It’s a collection I’ve accrued over the years. What does this have to do with -”

“My parents hate magic. They think it’s dark and evil and something to be locked up in the dungeon or destroyed. Do you believe that?”  

Tears were burning her eyes and his expression softened when she met them. “No, love.” Killian spoke quietly, like he was trying to calm the storm she could feel brewing within her. “I’ve been to many lands. I’ve seen all kinds of magic. It’s not magic that makes someone good or bad. It’s the person wielding it that chooses what to use it for.” Her lip trembled and she caught it between her teeth, taking a breath to calm herself. He didn’t think she was evil. “Emma, why are you running?” he asked again. 

She could feel it starting, the warmth blooming in her palms, the rush coursing through her skin like adrenaline, like relief and panic and pleasure all at once. Not now, not now, she begged. She just needed to calm down. But it was too late, he’d seen the light shining through the cracks between her fingers even as she shut them tighter. She couldn't contain it. It was stronger than her. 

“Do they know?”

Emma shook her head. “I didn’t know. I was angry one day and I just… broke something without touching it. And now whenever I’m upset or afraid it just,” she lifted her hands between them. The golden-white light burned in her upturned palms, the magic she held in them. But it came from within her, this awful, terrifying thing that she didn’t want. “They would lock me away, Killian, or worse.”

“They’re your parents… I’m sure they’d -” 

“Regina was their family too.” 

The magic roared inside her, angry, terrified, how would she be any different than the Evil Queen? Her mother would see the danger of it, and only the danger of it. How many times had she been told that Regina was good until she was corrupted by the evils of magic? 

She squeezed her fists shut again, the light almost blinding, desperately trying to calm it, to control it. And then he was there, Killian taking her shaking fingers in his hand and hook, setting them on his chest and for a moment she panicked, afraid that she would hurt him as he lay her palms flat against silk and skin.

“You’re alright, love. Nobody knows you’re here. I promise you you’re safe now.” 

He wasn’t afraid. He’d pointed her magic straight at his heart and yet she could feel it beating slow and steady under her touch. He wasn’t afraid of her. 

He took her next inhale with her, exaggerating it, breathing out slowly. She followed his exhale and the light began to dim. Another breath and it was out. 

“Where were you going?” he asked and she only stared at him, still too stunned to do anything else. “When you tried to barter passage with Blackbeard, where were you headed?” 

“I… I hadn’t gotten that far,” she admitted. “I just ran.” 

“Where would you go? Is there someone you could have gone to? Your friend in Arendale, maybe?” 

“Do you want me to go?” Her voice sounded small even to her own ears.

“No, love, I don’t want you to go. But we need a plan.” 

***

She’d given him two letters to mail. 

“This won’t be the last time they come looking for you.” He’d warned her. “Write your parents, tell them you left for whatever reason they’ll believe and let them think the letter took a few days to arrive.” 

“That’s.. Very smart.” 

“You needn’t sound so surprised.” 

One letter was written to her parents saying she’d gone to visit a friend in Arendale, and one to that friend, explaining the lie and asking her to cover for her should anyone ask questions or come looking. ‘And what does your friend think of you sailing off with a pirate?’ ‘Well, I didn’t tell her all the details…’ 

He wondered what Emma had told her, the letter heavy in his hand with the temptation to peak. How exactly did she describe him or her situation to a friend she obviously trusted? 

A wicked smile had pulled at her lips later that day when he’d asked that very question. “I told her that I’d had enough of royal balls and diplomatic visits and that I’d run off with a handsome sailor I met at the docks to get away for a little while.” He’d nearly choked on his rum. “The best lies carry truth, after all.” 

“Not one for dances?” he asked. 

She shook her head, her smile softening to something he may have called flirtatious if he hadn't been so busy adamantly convincing himself that was impossible… She was too young for him, too beautiful for him, too good, a bloody princess. “I love dances.”

Killian cleared his throat, knowing his ears were red and that she could certainly see it, and stood, tucking his flask back in his pocket. “We should set sail. I’ll show you how to weigh anchor,” he nodded towards the hall for her to follow. “You can help mind the tiller when we’re far enough out at sea that no one will see you.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” 

***

“Are the stars different there?”

“Not there, though other realms have their own constellations.”

“How do you keep track of them all?” 

“Each one has a story that goes along with it.” 

“Can you tell them to me?” 

“I can show them to you.”

He showed her all of them, some she knew by name from lessons or books but the stories were all new to her and even in the darkness he could see her eyes light up as he told them. She laughed about the three bears and the cobbler elves, listened raptly to the story of the girl in the tower as he pointed out the seven stars that made up her braid, and she cried for the little mermaid who lost her love to an evil sea witch.

“I know you’re making that one up,” she insisted, lying next to him on the deck of the Jolly and turning her head so he could see her roll her eyes. He’d been telling her about the Pirate, a dashing rapscallion who went about wooing all the other constellations and sailing the stars looking for treasure.

“I’m not,” he insisted. He was. But it was so fun to watch her work out the true stories from the false ones - she was brilliant, and quick. “It’s right there, by the sea serpent.” It wasn’t. 

“That,” she said, pointing to where he suggested, “is the frog who turned into a prince - unless you were lying about that one too.” 

Killian laughed, she was a very quick study. “Alright, fine.” He told her the story of the princess trapped as a swan next. Cursed to regain her human form only between sunset and sunrise, and her prince who found her and broke the curse with love’s kiss.

“Are you making that one up too?”

“No, Swan, I’m not.” She narrowed her eyes at the use of her definitely false name and probably the reason she doubted this story. “He’s up there too with her.” 

“Where?” He pointed, explaining where to follow the stars to the end of the swan’s wing and she shut one eye, squinting as she tried to follow it with her own finger. “There?”

Without thinking he took her hand in his, sliding across the sky until she found the right spot. “Those three make up his crown,” he explained. “And if you look beneath it,” he guided her hand again, “you can see the sword he carries.”

“I thought that was her wing.”

“Aye, their stars are intertwined, like all great love stories.”

“I like that one,” she said, still looking at where he guided her hand. “I like that they got a happy ending.”

Killian hummed in agreement. “Aye, those are all too rare in this life.”

They were both still gazing up at the constellation when he felt her hand shift in his. Heart trembling rapidly against his ribs, he watched it turn, slowly, carefully, barely brushing along his skin, rough callouses under soft touch, enough that it could be dismissed as an accident. She grew bolder, fingers slipping tentatively into the spaces between his own and his next breath shook. She watched them too, both focused only on their hands, barely entwined, and the stars behind them. 

It would be so easy just to turn his head and meet her gaze, to kiss her - entangle his fingers in her hair instead of her hand and feel her lips against his the way he’d been longing to for days now. And he may have, if he was ten years younger - or two hundred - and he hadn’t lived the last few decades maturating in his own remorse, his failure of Milah, his disappointment in himself, in this life. She had a light inside of her, bright and beautiful and strong. He wouldn’t snuff it out. 

His hand tightened around hers, stalling her movements and dragging them both from the intimacy of the moment. She turned to look at him and he didn’t dare do the same. She was too close, too tempting, and he was not a strong man - not with her.

“You’re cold, love. We should get you inside.” Dropping her hand, he stood, reaching with his hook to help her to her feet.

What was it about this woman that left him so out of sorts? Even with Milah, even when he loved her most deeply, he’d been able to keep his wits about him. Perhaps that had been the foolishness of his youth, the belief that the world was theirs for the taking, that he was worthy of the love she gave in return that made it so effortless to fall into. But he’d failed her. He failed at saving her from the Crocodile, failed her boy in Neverland, and failed to avenge her after two hundred years of hunting the monster who took her from him. 

He didn’t know what she saw in him, if he was imagining what he thought he saw when she looked at him, but if he gave into whatever spell it was that she cast over him and she saw the truth of what he was, not the hero who saved her, not a man of honour anymore but an old, tired pirate who’s heart was too battered by time and tragedy to be of use to anyone, he would only disappoint her.

He lay in bed that night thinking of the warmth of her hand in his. Killian could still feel the ghost of her breath on his cheek, imagining what could have been if he’d met her earlier, when he was the man he’d once been, young and foolish and brave enough to have turned his head.

****

There was something almost heartbreaking about seeing her in the sunlight. After so many days hiding in the cabin he’d not noticed the freckles on her nose and cheeks, or the way her hair turned gold in the sun the same way it turned silver in the moon. She was almost too beautiful to look at, the light making her eyes shine and her skin glow. She turned her face up to the sky, sighing at the feel of the heat on her cheeks as she stood on the deck, the wind whipping wildly through her braid.

“Have you got a hat?” she asked.

“A hat?” 

“Yes, they go on your head.”

“I know what a hat is, Swan.” 

“You just seemed confused.” 

This woman was absolutely insufferable sometimes. And it was far too enjoyable to be teased by her and tease her in return.

“Is your delicate complexion being blemished by the sun, Your Highness?” Emma glared at him, hating the title. 

“You’re just jealous that I’ll have retained my youthful glow when I’m your age.” His laugh burst from him, catching him by surprise and he noted the pleased grin on her lips. “Which is…?” she hedged and he shook his head. Her determination to know his true age since his comment about being older than he looked had turned into a sort of challenge for her, one he refused to lose. 

“You could look in the trunks in the crew’s quarters,” he offered. People left all kinds of things behind when they went ashore. None would miss a hat. 

Emma stood. “You could use one too, you know.”

“It’s too late for my youthful glow - save your own.” 

He turned his own face up to the sun, having missed it as well, spending his days below deck with her before they left. He wondered how he’d gotten himself into this situation, on the run from bloody royalty, on a ship with no crew and no destination, and a fugitive princess with magic glowing hands. You know exactly how you got here. A strong-willed woman who’d threatened him while he tried to save her life, and eyes the colour of sea glass. 

The scream was so faint he thought it was the wind, the whistle as it crossed the ocean, the sea empty for miles around them. But the second was his name, piercing, terrified and coming from below deck. He’d never run so fast in his life, nearly breaking his neck on the steps from the helm and into the cabin. 

There was smoke, the hall filled with a faint blur that stung his eyes and burned his nostrils. Emma shouted his name again and he rounded the doorway to the crew’s quarters, heart pounding. Two of the bunks were aflame, every candle in the room blazing high and wild, the curtains at the far end beginning to smolder. It was spreading.

“Swan!” he shouted, searching for her. 

“Killian!” Her voice came from the other side of the bunks, and he covered his nose and mouth as he pushed past them to find her curled in the corner.

“Let’s go, love. We have to get out and put this out.” He reached for her but she flinched and the curtains burst into flames. 

“It’s me,” she shouted, terrified. “I can’t stop it. It’s following me. You have to go,” she told him. “Get off the ship!”

Like hell was he leaving her here. A piece of the bunk fell to the floor, enveloped in flames and she screamed, the fires around her roaring hotter in answer. It was feeding on her fear, terrifying her more and repeating the cycle. 

He removed his coat, smothering the fallen beam and the curtains, then kneeled down in front of her, taking hold of her arms. “Swan, listen to me, you need to calm yourself or it’s not going to stop.” Her breathing was coming in hiccups and stuttering inhales. She wasn’t breathing, not between the smoke and the panic, not enough to calm down. He remembered how she’d calmed when he’d taken her hands last time, but she held them tight under her arms, fists balled tight. So he reached for her, tugging her against his chest and holding her. “You’re alright, love, don’t let it feed on you. Your magic belongs to you. You don’t belong to it.” 

His lungs were starting to burn, hers no doubt also, but she took as deep a breath as she could and he watched in terrifying awe as some of the flames flickered. “That’s it,” he told her and slowly they became a fire and not an inferno. “Keep doing that,” he said and stood again, pulling a blanket from another bunk and setting to smothering more flames. 

Killian hissed as he caught his arm, shirt burning. Emma called his name as he used his brace to stop it charring more of his skin. She rushed to his side, using her dress to smother the last of it. The pain was white hot and he gritted his teeth against it until he felt a drop on his cheek. He looked up. More drops fell from the ceiling, a blanket of them. It was raining. Inside. 

He looked at her, mouth gaping as the impossible rain fell over the fire, reducing it to smoke and ash. She was crying, rainwater falling on her cheeks and mingling with her tears. Whatever magic it was that she had, it was fearsome and powerful unlike any he’d ever seen. No wonder she was terrified of it if this is what it did without her even trying. If she could learn to wield it, she would be an unstoppable force. 

She still held his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I found something that reminded me of home and it was so stupid but it made me sad that I couldn’t go back and then angry that I had to leave at all and… I’m so sorry.” He brushed the tears from her cheek, the rain slowing around them. Moving his arm burned, like the fire was there all over again. Emma pushed carefully at his sleeve when he hissed again.

“Let me see,” she insisted as he let her look. She held his wrist, fingers feather light around the outside of the burn as she examined it. Suddenly there was a faint shimmer of light, golden like sun after the rain, that spread over his skin. And then the wound was gone, the pain along with it. Emma turned wide eyes on him. “I didn’t mean to do that.” 

It took him a few moments to find words. “I think… perhaps you did. It hears you, love. You just have to learn to make it listen.” 

She stared at his arm, then up at him. “How?”

“Practice.”

***

“What do you usually do for fun?” she asked when they’d dropped anchor again, the sun long set and the night quiet around them. 

“I don’t have fun,” he said, sounding even older than he felt. It was only mostly a lie. 

“Well that’s not true,” Emma challenged. “You all spend weeks out here, months even. What do you do to pass the time?” 

“Bored already, Swan?” She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes they play music, we had a man onboard for a while who was a bard before he turned to piracy. There are card and dice games too, and drinking.” 

“Let’s do that,” she said excitedly and he frowned. 

“Drink?”

“No, the games. Will you teach them to me?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On how much coin you brought with you in your escape.” 

The number turned out to be upwards of a lot. So he taught her piquet, and 21, and cheat and liars dice. ‘Such wholesome names these games have.’ ‘Pirate.’ The dice were her favorite, and she was good at it, frustratingly so.

“You’ve taken all my money, Your Highness,” he accused when she won another round. She made a face at the title.

“It’s not my fault I’ve always been good at telling when people are lying,” she giggled - they’d decided to try the drinking too. She hummed. “I wonder if it has anything to do with the magic…”

“I think that counts as cheating.” 

“Pirate.”

Killian laughed. “One day at sea and you’ve taken to the life?” 

Emma shrugged. “I’m on a pirate ship, on the run, wanted by the King and Queen, and I’ve already made an enemy of Blackbeard. What would you call it?” 

“Well regardless I’m out of bets to make.” 

“What if we bet something else?” 

That sounded like a dangerous proposition and he eyed her carefully. He’d had his fair share of wild nights that had begun with that same suggestion. “What did you have in mind?” 

She thought, rolling her lip between her teeth and he hadn’t had nearly enough rum to justify the way heat burned in his stomach at the sight. “Truths.”

“How does that work?”

“Loser has to answer a question for every round they lose - and answer it honestly. One truth for every lie you’re caught in.” A very dangerous proposition. 

She won the first two rounds, asking silly things, trying to make him blush or share an embarrassing story. The third was his - ‘Did you really write what you said you did to your friend?’ ‘Yep.’ - and the fourth hers again. 

“How old are you?” He sighed and she beamed in a way that suggested she’d been waiting to ask this one. 

“Roughly?” She nodded. “Two-hundred and thirty years old.” Emma blanched, clearly not the number she expected. “I told you, far too old.” 

“You look amazing for your age.” 

He laughed out loud and collected his dice. They rolled again. 

"Who’s Milah?” His breath caught and her next question. “I saw your tattoo,” she confessed. He couldn't find words. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to tell me. I’ll think of something el-” 

“She was my first love,” he confessed. “The only woman I’ve ever loved.” 

“In two hundred and thirty years? There’s been no one else?” She sounded surprised but there was no judgment in her question. 

“I’ve not been a saint,” he admitted, thinking of how far he’d fallen into sex and drink and debauchery in the years that followed her death, even further than he had after he lost Liam. “But no. No one else.” 

He'd started gathering his dice when she spoke. “She was lucky, you know. To be loved by you so deeply that centuries couldn’t temper it. That’s what we all want in the end, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, voice caught in his throat at her words. He’d never thought of Milah’s loss as anything but a tragedy. But what she said was true, he’d loved her with his entire being and likely always would. 

They rolled again, bet again, his win. 

“Have you ever been in love?” He wasn’t sure where the question came from, perhaps a deep need to know if she’d lost someone the way he had, or if there was someone who still held her heart now. But the wisdom of her last comment, for someone so young, left him wondering who may have loved her - or hurt her.

“No. I thought I was… once. But no, I’ve never been in love.” He had so many things he wanted to know, so many questions to ask, but the next round was hers. “Do you think you could ever love someone again?”

The question felt impossible. For centuries the idea of finding love again had felt like a betrayal of Milah. So much of her memory was wrapped up in vengeance, darkened by those horrible, final moments, and twisted by his guilt, every good memory turned bitter sweet, every thought of her marred with heartbreak and shame.

He’d used her memory as an excuse to keep out love, so afraid that if he found and lost love again, it would break him completely this time. And worse he feared that he’d forgotten how - how to give someone his entire soul and trust that they wouldn’t misuse it. He’d forgotten how to let someone love him, how to let them see all the darkness in his past and in his heart and still hold him close. 

Killian had buried himself in revenge and hatred and, as time caught up with him, in the emptiness that losing all of it had left behind. And he’d accepted it, not wanting to betray Milah’s memory by finding someone else, by replacing her. But he considered, for the first time in a long time, if that emptiness meant that there was space for something else, if there was any part of his heart that had come out unscathed, and what it would mean to risk it all again.

“Perhaps, I could... I don’t…” She saw his struggle, like she saw so much, and he wondered if she knew how much of it had to do with her, that he’d never even thought about any of this until she came into his life and began disrupting his melancholy with smiles and laughter. 

Emma gathered up his dice, handed him his cup. “Let’s go again.” 

***

She found him in the galley the next day like she did every morning, watching him fill a mug with spiced tea that she knew was for her. ‘It’s a bloody good thing I’m already planning to return to Agrabah. You’ve drunk more in a week than the whole crew in a year.’ 

Emma was a little surprised to see him standing. They’d switched to rum after his last confession, a drink for every loss, and he was very good at losing.

He smiled softly when he saw her. He was so unfairly beautiful, too-long strands of black and silver falling into his eyes as he stood in his shirt and leathers. This was her favorite time of the day to see him, before he donned all his layers, covered up so much of himself, hiding from the rest of the world, protecting himself. 

He looked softer in these moments, less the imposing Captain Hook who had faced Blackbeard on his ship, but just Killian. In his galley, on his ship, in the first grey light of dawn, she got to see the kind, gentle man beneath all the armour, the one that looked at her like she was the most captivating and terrifying thing he’d ever seen - like he was now.

Emma crossed the room, taking the mug he offered and setting it back down on the counter beside him. She studied him for a moment, his brow lowering in confusion. She took another step, close enough now that she could feel the heat of him, always warming the space between them, the scent of leather and salt enveloping her and making her head swim with the desire to be nearer, to have him wrapped around her. 

Waiting just long enough to see if he’d pull away, she ran her fingers through the silver at his temples, combed back the pieces of his fringe that had fallen into his eyes so she could see the devastating blue of them. Then she took his face in her hands. Emma could feel his heart pounding through his chest, into her own as she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, soft and warm and perfect beneath hers. The taste of the spiced tea still clung to his lip and she almost smiled. She would never be able to drink it again without thinking of this. 

Emma pulled away before he could kiss her back, before he could decide if he would or not. Killian was frozen against her, eyes shut and lips parted, holding onto the moment for just a little while longer. She brushed at an errant tear that fell down his cheek and he finally blinked his eyes open, watching her. 

“What… what was that for?” 

“Because I wanted to.” And because she knew he wouldn’t. She’d seen it last night, even if he hadn’t told her, how terrified he was. Two hundred and thirty years. He’d been alone and unloved for so long. After so many years keeping themselves closed off from the world, she’d imagine a person would forget how to let someone care about them, how to feel any of it. “And because I wanted you to know that you could… if you wanted to.” 

“I…” She didn’t expect an answer now. 

Emma took her mug, thanking him for the tea and leaving the galley. The first taste of spice on her tongue made her smile, made her hope, even more than before, that he’d let her kiss him again.

***

“It won’t work.” 

Emma stared down at him from the helm. She’d only just left him in the galley after having turned his whole world upside down in a moment. Killian could still feel her mouth on his lips, the smell of lilacs still clung to his skin. She cocked her head as he emerged from the cabin. “Why not?” she demanded. 

Slowly, Killian made his way across the deck, calling to her over the distance and the wind. “There are too many obstacles stacked against us, love.” 

“Like what?” He could tell she was gearing up for a fight. He sighed; he’d already had this fight with himself, night after night since she came into his life, and he’d lost every time. 

“I’m too old for you.” 

Emma scoffed. “What if I don’t care?” 

“It doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.”

“Not good enough,” she called down.

Insufferably stubborn lass. He reached the stairs to the helm, stopping at the bottom and looking up at her. “What about your parents? You’re a bloody princess, Swan; what do you think they’d make of a pirate on their daughter’s arm?” 

“What they’d think doesn’t matter.” 

He took a step up. “You’ll have to go home eventually.” 

“What if I don’t? What if we just kept sailing and never looked back?”

“They would turn the world upside down searching for you.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Aye, I do.” He was almost at the helm now, exactly what he’d hoped to avoid. He’d hoped he could convince her before he reached it, because now that he was near her, he could hardly convince himself. 

“How?” she challenged.

“Because I’ve met you.” Killian brushed away an errant strand the wind seemed determined to free from her braid. “And I would.”

She set her chin defiantly. “Is that all you’ve got? That I’m too young and my parents won’t approve of you? Because I have to tell you, Killian, bigger obstacles have been surmounted. People face those problems every day.”

“Not with two hundred years and a throne to inherit between them.” 

“Why are you so determined for this not to work? Give me a real reason. Even if it’s because you don’t want it to, at least tell me the truth.” 

“Swan,” he murmured, reaching for her when she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. He didn’t know how to touch her, how to soothe her when he needed her to realize that she shouldn’t be with him. He needed her to be the one to make that decision, because he couldn’t. He pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her even as she stayed in her stubbornly defensive position, elbows digging into his ribs. But she sank against his chest when he held her. “Of course I do.” 

“Then why are you being an idiot?” Her voice was muffled against the leather of his jacket and he’d have laughed if he wasn’t trying to get her to break his heart. 

“Because you should be with someone who can give you the life that you deserve - a prince, maybe.”

“I’ve met a lot of those. They’re overrated.”

“Is this really the life you want?” Always on the run, always in danger, no land to go home to, just the sea, the ship, and him. 

“It could be,” she said quietly into the hollow of his throat, arms loosening to settle on his chest. 

He sighed. “You deserve-”

“Stop telling me what I deserve,” she groaned, lifting her head to glare at him. “I get to decide what’s right for me - nobody else. You only get to decide for you.” 

He said it anyway, the truth she’d asked for. “You deserve better than me.”

“Killian,” she slid her arms around him, tucked under his coat and holding him tight. “I wish you could see…” He waited while she found her words and she ducked her head, pressing a kiss over his heart like she could feel it beating furiously against his ribs.

“Do you know how scared I was that night you saved me? Between my magic and Blackbeard and almost dying? Do you know how hopeless I felt when I woke up on your ship? I’d lost everything, my whole life, my family-” 

Her voice broke and he pressed a kiss to her temple.

“That. That right there,” she said, looking up at him. “The way you just… You make me feel safe, Killian. You’re the kindest man I know. The fact that you can’t see that kills me. You made me smile and laugh on the worst day of my life. You made me feel like everything’s going to be okay. You still do. Don’t I deserve,” she said the word like a curse and he’d have laughed if there’d been room in his chest for anything apart from this nearly painful hope that he’d forgotten he could feel. “... to be with someone who makes me feel like that?”

He had to swallow against the emotion in his throat, the words still coming out choked. “Aye, you do.”

“And maybe you deserve to have someone try and make you feel even half of the way you make me feel. You’ve suffered in whatever penance you think you owe for a long time. You’ve earned the right to let someone try to love you.” He squeezed his eyes shut and felt her hand on his cheek.

He let out a shaky breath, eyes burning into hers as he carded his fingers through her hair. He tried to find the part of him that knew better as they cradled the back of her neck, but couldn’t, and he let his forehead fall against hers. There were so many reasons this wouldn’t work, couldn’t work, but she’d laid waste to all of them and now there was only him standing in their way. And she’d laid waste to him long ago. 

Her words were barely a whisper breathed against his cheek. “Let me try.”

He pulled her to him, capturing her mouth with his and kissing her with all the desperation of refusing to let himself touch her until now, with all the heartbreak and hope of thinking for so long that this would never happen for him again, with all the feelings - too soon and too fast - that kissing her sent flooding to the surface. 

He tasted her with lips and tongue, slow and deep and thorough, stamping down the hunger that wanted to take her right there against the bloody helm. He took his time, learning how they moved together, what made her seek more, what made her lean in or breathe little sounds against his mouth that drove him mad. He’d lived over two hundred years, kissed hundreds if not thousands of women in that time; all of them were different, and none of them were like this.

She chased his mouth when he pulled away, his breathing ragged, Emma’s shaky against his lips. She kept her forehead pressed to his, fingers hanging on to the lapels of his greatcoat. Her nose brushed his cheek when she tilted her head towards him and drew in a breath, waiting. She wasn’t done yet.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he panted and Emma leaned in, close enough that he thought she could taste his words. “Since you told me off for saving your life.” He felt her smile against his own.

“Took you long enough.” 

He chuckled. “I’ve had many years to practice patience, love.” 

“Yeah, well I haven’t,” she said and yanked on his coat, bringing his mouth crashing back down onto hers.

***

“You’re getting better at it, you know.” 

Emma looked up when he draped his coat over her shoulders, the air cold and angry around her. ‘A storm’s coming,’ he’d said. ‘Any day now.’ She had a mug on the ground before her, one she’d broken by accident that morning, startled by a bloody cat in the galley when she’d been making tea. ‘That’s just William,’ Killian had explained when he’d run in after hearing the crash. ‘He’s the reason we have no rats on board.’ 

She’d been focusing, sitting cross legged on the deck while she tried to channel her magic into something good. If it could do good maybe it wouldn’t be so terrifying, maybe she wouldn’t have to hate it. The pieces of ceramic had slowly been coming back together, one at a time, a long and arduous process. 

“It would have been faster to mend it without magic,” she said, sounding as petulant as she felt. 

Killian laughed.“You know you can practice inside, aye? Where you won’t freeze to death?”

“I’m fine. It’s not that cold,” she shrugged, the mist from the sea and the drizzle that had started like ice against her skin. 

“Your teeth seem to disagree.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, and then more softly. “I don’t want to risk it again until…” The sight of those flames still plagued her every time she tried to use her magic, the heat of them and the sight of Killian’s arm so vivid in her memory. 

“Swan,” he said gently, sitting down beside her with a grunt and a look when her lips curled up at his effort. “You can control it. I know it doesn’t feel that way and that it’ll take practice but you forget, you healed me. You made it bend to you instead of letting it take over. You’re more powerful than you think” 

“It’s not the same,” Emma insisted, watching one of the little ceramic pieces of the mug - his favourite mug - tremble pathetically on the deck. “I was only able to do that because I was so upset over hurting you. I can only bring it on when I’m feeling big feelings.” 

He smirked, “big feelings?”

“Yes,” she gave him a look that suggested that it would be in his best interest to keep his mouth shut. “When I’m just trying to call on it or make it do what I want it’s-” she gestured at the still mostly broken cup in frustration. Killian hummed, understanding, and frowning at the mug. When he didn’t say any more, she went back to her task, trying to focus on making the many pieces one again. 

Her breath caught. His fingers traced delicately over her skin as he pushed her damp hair behind her ear.  “What are you doing?” His thumb grazed the shell of it before continuing on to trace the length of her neck where it met her shoulder. He hummed again, in question this time, the sound far too innocent as he shifted, settling slightly behind her, his breath hot on her neck. A shiver ran through her when she felt his lips press to the back of her shoulder through her dress. “Killian.” It would have been a warning if her voice hadn’t come out so breathy. 

“Carry on, love. I’m just seeing if I can bring on any of those big feelings.” Emma felt his smirk against the neckline of her shirt. She said his name again when he found the dip where her neck met her shoulder and pressed another kiss there, this one longer and slower. “I’m just trying to help,” he spoke against the skin of her throat, teeth grazing gently and she let out a shaky breath. She’d be angry if she didn’t enjoy the big feelings he was stirring so much. 

When his lips closed around her earlobe she let out a small sound that might have been his name, hand reaching to grab at the opening of his vest. His tongue flicked over the spot behind it, working a mark into her skin as he sucked it gently into his mouth. She could feel it building in her - whether magic or desire or both, she wasn’t sure - prickling beneath her skin and demanding more. 

He hadn’t touched her since their kiss a few days ago, not beyond the gentle kisses he gave her along with her tea now in the mornings or when he bid her goodnight, and the way his fingers kept finding their way into her hair almost unintentionally, ghosting against her skin every time. She’d been going mad trying not to push him, not to make him rush into anything too fast after spending so much time grieving the woman he’d loved. 

But when he smirked against her neck, beard and teeth scraping at the sensitive skin, whatever it was she was feeling overtook her. She wrenched her head away, turning and pulling on his vest so that she could steal a kiss. His hand came to her cheek immediately, not the gentle caress she’d gotten used to but fisting in her hair and holding her there while he took control and devoured her mouth with his. 

This kiss was different, hungry and intense, his hook snaking around her waist to drag her closer to him as he bit at her lip, tongue soothing it before pushing into her mouth in search of her own. She let out a low moan, trying to press herself closer to him, hands finding purchase in his hair and he deepened the kiss at the sound. His hand came to her waist, squeezing before sliding up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through her corset. Yes. Finally. 

She arched into his touch, the need and the want building inside of her, threatening to burst when he pulled away to find her neck again, working another mark into her skin. She gasped, his hand inching closer to where she wanted it when she heard something shatter. Killian released her, breath ragged and eyes dark, yanked out of whatever had taken over him. They both looked down at where the mug now lay, broken into even more pieces. 

“Well,” his voice was rough. “Not quite the effect we were looking for but at least you’ve found your magic.” 

Emma balked at him, no words, too stunned and breathless and confused. He smirked, pulling back and pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “I’ll let you get back to your practice.” 

“Are you kidding me?” she demanded when he stood again, still panting from his kiss. He smirked again and she glared.

“Pretend to be as angry as you want, Swan,” he said. 

“Pretend?” 

He nodded, reaching down and stroking her cheek. “You’re glowing.” 

Emma frowned, looking down at herself and startling as she saw the faint glow. The golden light that hovered in her hands had become a thin, swirling magic across her whole body. Killian smiled when she met his gaze again, more genuine this time, and winked. Then he walked away and left her on the deck, glowing. 

She stared after him and then turned to the mug, waving a hand over it and watching bitterly as it traitorously put itself back together.

****

Killian was used to storms, to the tempests that turned calm seas into rough waves and turned the sky he lived his days beneath violent. He had two hundred years of weathering the roar of thunder and winds that shook the ship, and of the downpour that soaked him through in seconds, chilling him to the bone. Emma did not. 

She sat curled by the windows in his cabin, watching the storm that raged with anxious eyes and tense, restless limbs. She had a finger raised to her mouth, chewing on the nail absentmindedly as she watched the waves throw themselves against the hull, the Jolly swaying under the assault. She didn’t like storms, waiting it out with that same uneasiness he’d had the first time he’d faced one at sea as a boy, the night his father left. 

Thunder crashed and she jumped, looking out the window as though she could see it as Killian counted the seconds until the lightning lit the sky. “We’re alright, love. It’s far away. We’re just catching the edge of it.”

“For now.” She didn’t even glance over at him and he pressed his lips together, not wanting to laugh at her when she was genuinely upset. He’d already explained that the storm was blowing away from them, that it would last a few hours - maybe the night - and pass in the morning. 

“I thought you wanted a life at sea,” he teased. 

“Yeah. A life at sea. Not a death.” 

He smiled despite himself, walking over to the window where she sat, brushing a hand though the back of her hair before pressing a kiss to her crown. “We’ll be fine, love. The Jolly has weathered more fearsome storms than this.” She didn’t look at him but she leaned slightly into his side, resting her temple on his stomach. “We’ve anchored the ship, battened down the hatches, all that’s left to do is wait it out dry and warm below deck.” 

Emma nodded, but he knew she wasn’t convinced. Then, suddenly, she jumped, straightening. “Where’s Will?” 

“The cat?” She’d nicknamed the bloody cat. 

“Yes, the cat! He could be out there! Oh my god, Killian he could get hurt, or die!”

“I’m sure he’s deep below deck. Animals know to find shelter in storms.” 

“But what if he wasn’t yet and we locked him out?” She sounded almost frantic.

“He probably knew it was coming before we did, found some place to wait it out.” 

“Maybe…” she said, though her eyes were still wide and wet with worry, and he saw the way her lip trembled before she caught her thumbnail between her teeth again. 

Killian shoved at one of the barrels in the hold, heavy and full of grain, scraping across the floor as he looked for the blood rat cat. He called its name. “Probably don’t even know your own bloody name,” he grumbled as he searched behind boxes and bags of storage, stumbling when a particularly strong wave rocked the ship. 

He heard a mewl from behind him, obviously not the only one displeased with his being here. “Ah, there you are,” he said when he found the creature, black as night and nearly invisible in the shadows, and picked it up by the scruff of its neck. The cat let out a sound of protest and Killian hushed it. “I’m not happy about this either, alright? But if I don’t bring you back, Emma’s going to go out looking for you in this damn storm.” William meowed again and Killian sighed. Talking to a bloody cat.

To his credit, the creature did seem to help. Emma still sat by the window, but busied herself with stroking it’s head instead of chewing her nails down to the quick. The cat, for his part, seemed more than content curled up in her lap, nudging her hand whenever she became too distracted by the storm and stopped in her attentions. They sat in a slightly more comfortable silence, Emma watching the storm, Killian watching her when he looked up from his book, and the cat - he swore - watching him, smug. 

“I’m going to go check the mainsail,” Killian told her after a few hours had passed and the storm hadn’t let up. “The ship is moving more than I’d like.” He’d lowered it, but the wind was stronger than he’d anticipated and he suspected it would need to be taken down less it send the ship spinning at the wind’s discretion. 

“What?” She stood as he did, the cat jumping, irritated, from her lap and darting across the room. 

“I won’t be long,” he promised. He wasn’t worried; there was no need to worry. But she didn’t know that, no matter how much he tried to tell her. 

“Let me help.” 

Killian smiled at her. He’d no doubt that one day he would. But she didn’t know what needed to be done and there was no more terrible time to show her. “Next time. I’ll teach you how when the storm clears, aye?” She nodded but her brow was pinched with worry so he smoothed a thumb over her cheek, leaning in to press a kiss to her lips. “I’ll be right back,” he promised again. She caught him before he could pull away, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down to kiss him again before letting go. 

“Be careful.” It was a warning, an order, not a request. He gave her a salute with his hook before heading out. 

“Make sure the bloody cat doesn’t get out.” 

It took him longer than he’d have liked, the sail and the rope fighting him as the wind whipped rain and sea water in his eyes. He was soaked through when he finally shut and locked the doors to the hull. His boots made a wet sound as he walked down the hall to his bosun’s room, and he kicked them off. Some of his clothes had been moved here since Emma had come aboard. She’d been upset when she figured out he’d been letting her take over in his quarters while he stayed elsewhere, but he’d managed to convince her at last - how, he’s still not certain.

“Killian,” he heard from the doorway, turning to see Emma standing there with William in her arms, staring at him in relief and disapproval. 

She dropped the cat, who took off running back towards the hold, and she came inside. “You’re soaked. You’re going to freeze,” she insisted, reaching for his greatcoat and pulling it off his shoulders. It felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds, watered down and cold and it hit the floor with a satisfying sound. She came around in front of him, unbuttoning his vest and she’d nearly finished when she halted her movements, seeming to realize what she was doing. Her cheeks flushed a lovely pink. 

“Sorry… I was just…” Killian could only stare, frozen in place while his whole body burned, heart beating heavy and loud. “You should get out of your wet things…” she tried to explain, unable to meet his gaze. 

“Aye,” he nodded and his throat felt like it wanted to swallow every word that was desperate to come out. 

They hadn’t gotten this far - not that it was very far at all in the grand scheme of things - a few heated kisses, affectionate touches, and that one moment on the deck. But he’d been hesitant, waiting, both for her and for himself. He didn’t know her past, if she’d had lovers or not, if she had been hurt or made afraid. He didn’t want to rush her, didn’t want her to feel she had to do anything or that he wanted anything from her unless she wanted it too. 

And he… he hadn’t made love to anyone since Milah. He’d been with women - many women - in the years after she died, trying to quell the emptiness that had taken up a permanent residency in his heart. But they had never meant anything. He’d been kind to them, made sure they found their pleasure as well, but it was never more than satisfying a need or a desire - for sex, for fun, or just to have someone to lay with him at night when the loneliness of an empty bed began to ache. Emma would be none of those things. She would mean something, the start of something he hadn’t been sure he was ready for. 

“I should,” he finished and her eyes darted up to his, reading them. Something unspoken passed between them as it so often did. She caught her lip between her teeth and then raised careful hands to the edges of his open vest, holding his gaze as she worked it off his shoulders, as though she was as afraid of pushing him as he was of pushing her. 

Her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, the few that were done up - more than he had in his youth but old habits died hard. Every brush of her fingers against his skin sent desire burning where she touched him, stomach clenching as his breath grew more shallow with every button. 

When she finished, she reached for his collar and he caught her hands, held them there at his shoulders and waited for her to turn her face up. He studied it, looking for any sign of wariness or discomfort. 

“Are you sure?” His words were a whisper and she met his eyes, a small nod, a small smile before he felt the slide of her hands against his shirt and let go so she could remove it. The wet fabric slid down his arms, getting caught on his brace and he lifted his wrist to work it the rest of the way off. He unfastened his hook next, setting it on a table nearby. 

He hadn’t expected to be so nervous, standing before her, young and beautiful, shirtless and bared to her. He’d once considered himself quite handsome, his body strong and well built, his shoulders broad and solid from life at sea. But the years had lengthened his muscles, leaving them leaner, less defined, his stomach softer, the hair that blanketed his chest now peppered with silver. 

Emma’s eyes ran over the length of him, lips parted as she reached for him, hands falling on his shoulders, sliding over his chest to his waist and back up. He could see the desire in the way she looked at him, his heart racing at the fact that she would want him, that she wasn’t disappointed by what she found. Her fingers traced the curve of his shoulders, over his biceps like she was making a study. One hand slid along his forearm, the other over his brace and he tensed, drawing her attention. She didn’t say anything.  

“It’s… it’s not pretty.” 

“Okay.” There was no judgement, no expectation either way. 

He wanted to. He knew that Emma was a woman he could love someday. He wanted to lay himself bare to her, but there was so much ugliness beneath that brace, not just the scars and knotted skin, but the tragedy that had caused it, the darkness that had followed, and it was too much. He’d never taken it off with anyone.

“I’m not…” He wasn’t ready. 

“Okay,” she said again, so patient, so understanding. 

“I don’t - I -” He couldn’t find the words he needed, a tightening in his chest where they stuck and faltered. 

“Hey,” Emma took his face in her hands as she had that morning in the galley. “It’s okay.” He let out a breath and she cocked her head at him. “Are you sure?” Killian nodded, all the anxiety, all his fear leaving him at once when she stroked the lines of his brow and cheek, and jaw. He’d not been so sure of anything in his life until this moment. “Good.” 

A smile tugged at his lips before he bent to kiss her, slow and thankful and completely in awe of her. He kissed her for a long time, her mouth chasing his every time he tried to break the kiss so that he could touch her, drawing him in again, pressing herself closer like he was trying to run from her. Her hands caught the back of his neck, refusing to let him move when he went to trace his mouth along her throat like he’d been wanting to since that day on the deck. 

He laughed against her lips, wondering if this was all they were going to do tonight and not necessarily minding. He’d forgotten what it was like to laugh with someone like this, out of happiness rather than teasing. She was the one to pull back. “What?” 

“I just wondered if you were going to let me kiss you anywhere else.” Well, maybe a little teasing.

“Oh.” He smiled again. “Yes, sorry… You’re very good at that. I got carried away.” 

Killian beamed, a vain sort of pride filling him at her confession. “Feel free to carry me wherever you like, love,” he said before capturing her mouth again. He drew out every kiss, the lighthearted, gentle touch of his lips against hers growing deeper, longer. 

Her grip tightened in his hair, gasping soft sounds and shaking breaths into his lungs as his brace slid across her lower back, tugging her until she was flush against him. He slid a hand over the laces at her back, finding the knot and working it loose with practiced fingers. She sought his tongue with hers as he drew the laces free, touch ghosting over the skin of her back through her shift. 

Emma let him go so that he could pull the dress from her shoulders. He kneeled when it reached her hips, tugging the fitted material down and letting it fall to the floor so she could step out of it. He kissed her stomach through the thin fabric that hid her from him, her ribs and between her breasts as he stood, finally finding her neck and tracing his lips and tongue over the length of it. He wanted to hear that sound she’d made on the deck, finding the dip of her shoulder, the spot behind her ear. She let out a quiet little cry, one that she tried to hold back as he dragged his teeth across her skin. There it was. 

Slowly enough that she could stop him if she wanted to, he slid his hand to cup her breast, thumb rolling over the stiffened peak and she moaned, low and wanton and he felt himself growing hard at the sound. He did it again, desperate for the way she arched her hips into his and then ducked his head to close this mouth over her covered nipple. 

Her hands were vice like in his hair as he teased her breast, moving on to the other, pulling the hardened peak into his mouth as he brought his hand to the other. She let out a moan that might have been his name, tugging at him until he lifted his head from her chest and he nearly shuddered at the want in her eyes.

She took hold of his hips, guiding him along with her as she backed them towards the bed and he’d almost reached it, almost fallen onto it with her when he stopped. “Wait.”

Emma blinked up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, everything was perfect, except… “But I’m not making love to you in Mr. Smee’s bed.”

She raised a brow at him. “So then where are you going to do it?”

Killian growled, there were so many places on this ship that he wanted to have her. He wanted a memory attached to every inch of the Jolly so that he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without remembering what it was like to be inside her, to watch her fall apart. 

“I have a list.” Emma looked at him in amusement. “But for tonight,” he said, taking her hand and walking her out across the hall to his own quarters - her quarters. “I want you in my bed.” He shut the door behind them even though there was nobody who could walk in - except maybe the bloody cat - and trapped her against it, enjoying the way she gasped at the press of his cock against her center. “I’ve thought about you sleeping here, night after night, jealous of my bloody bed and dreaming of making you come apart against the sheets.” 

He kissed her neck again, her breathing ragged as he sucked at the sensitive skin, his hand skimming over her breast to open the tie at the front of her shift. Killian kissed along the neckline, lower now, hanging off her shoulders. He traced his tongue along the exposed curve of her breast. He stepped back when she reached for the thin fabric and slid it over her shoulders. 

Killian could only stare as it fell to the floor. Gods she was beautiful, every long pale line and dip and curve of her body on display for him. He wanted to touch every inch of her he could reach, taste every bit of skin. Her hands came to his belt and he couldn’t help the way his cock hardened even more beneath her palm as she worked open his leathers and pushed them down his hips. 

“Bloody hell,” he cried out, when her palm slid over the length of him, taking him by surprise. He almost laughed in disbelief when she wrapped her finger around him, the feel of her so unbelievably perfect, and he feared this night wouldn't last as long as he’d planned. He fell into her with a groan when she stroked him, pressing his forehead against hers and wanting nothing more than to kiss the self-satisfied smile off her lips. 

He caught her wrist. “Love, you need to stop. I have too many things I want to do with you to spill myself in your hand before we even start.” 

Emma pouted but released him and he reached for her thighs, pressing her against the door so he could lift them over his hips. She wrapped her legs around him, arms draping over his shoulders as he turned to walk her to the bed. 

She didn’t look real as he lay her down, her skin like moonlight against the dark sheets, hair a mess of golden waves spread over his pillow. He could see the fading marks across her throat and chest where he’d run his tongue and teeth over her and he groaned. He wanted to leave more, to ensure not an inch of her remained untouched. But they would have time later. He didn’t want to tease her; he wanted to worship her. 

He kissed his way up her stomach as he crawled over her on the bed, taking a moment to trace his tongue over her breasts. Her fingers found purchase in his hair as he settled between her thighs and Killian groaned at the way she arched her hips into his, cock sliding against her wet heat and making his mind go blank for a moment. 

When he came to his senses he pulled back, searching her face at her obvious invitation. He wasn’t sure how to ask her, didn’t want to offend her. But he wanted to know how careful he should be, how slow to take things. 

Emma understood him, of course she did. “You won’t hurt me,” she promised, and he kissed her again, then her neck and over her ribs and stomach, her breath hitching when he reached her hips and drew his tongue over the delicate skin on either side. 

Killian thought he heard her ask something when he pulled her leg over his shoulder, words lost to her shaking breath. But when he looked up she only nodded and he ducked his head, pressing an open mouthed kiss to her clit and dragging his tongue through her folds.

“Fuck,” she whispered, and he should have known she’d curse in bed. He licked her again, tongue finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and working over it in little flicks and circles, pulling on it with lips, with teeth, learning what she liked. He took his time as he did with everything; age truly had taught him patience. He watched, listened, repeating anything that made her moan or gasp, slowing and restarting when she grew quiet. 

When he found a rhythm that had her gasping and panting, he rested his brace across her stomach, holding her there and sliding a finger inside of her in time with the roll of her hips against his mouth. He added another, fucking her with tongue and fingers, feeling her legs tremble and tighten around his shoulders. 

The gasps she made turned into cries, Killian surprised and smug at how quickly she was racing towards the edge. She called his name, back arching as she began writhing on the mattress, feet slipping against the sheets and he pressed his hips into the mattress to relieve some of the ache, painfully hard at the sight, at hearing his name fall from her lips in pleasure. 

She cursed again, words that would make a sailor blush, and her knees began to tremble. Her whimpers of ‘yes’ and ‘please’ drove him mad with want, her fingers grabbing at his hair, fisting in it as he continued to work her until she bowed off the bed with a broken cry.

He pressed kisses to the insides of her thighs as she sagged against the mattress, boneless and spent and panting. But when he rose to join her she reached for him, pulling him into her arms. Her mouth was hot and eager against his, tongue sliding past his lips, curling around his own and drawing a moan from deep in his chest.

“I want you,” she breathed into him and he groaned, her fingers sliding along the length of his back. She traced over scars and skin, pulling him closer until his hips were flush with hers once more. 

He’d planned to make her shatter on his tongue and fingers so many times before taking her, but the small whimper that left her when his cock nudged at her entrance was his undoing. She was whispering pleas in his ear and rolling her hips against his and then he was pushing inside of her until he was buried to the hilt.

“Yes,” she sighed, sounding so completely content, already having found her pleasure once and wanting him again, and he couldn’t believe that he had found her, that she’d found him, that she wanted him. This beautiful, magical, fierce woman wanted him and she could have him for the rest of his days if she desired it.

He slid from her slowly, drawing out all the way before thrusting back in just as slowly despite every muscle in his body demanding that he just take and take and take. She rolled her hips with every drag of him inside her, one of her hands leaving his back to take hold of his hip, trying to draw him even closer. He shifted, pressing his chest to hers, angling his hips so he ground against her every time he sheathed himself inside the unbearable heat of her. 

She cried out. ‘Yes’ and ‘just like that’ and ‘don’t stop’ breathed like a mantra against his lips. “You won’t hurt me,” she reminded him when he started to tremble from restraint, from keeping the slow, careful pace he’d set. That wasn’t what he was afraid of.

“Aye, but you may destroy me,” he confessed, a whisper into her skin.

She kissed him in answer, the slant of her lips against his fervent and full of that same longing he’d felt when he’d kissed her on the deck, when she’d asked him to let her try to love him. He decided he didn’t care if she destroyed him. He would go willingly, like a sailor following a siren’s call if it meant one more moment with her, one more moment of this. 

He thrust into her harder, faster and she swore against his lips, nails digging into his back and hip. Her head fell against the pillow, eyes watching him, half-lidded in pleasure and it was the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen. 

“Fuck, Swan,” he hissed, so close to the edge. It had never been like this, so intense, so easy, like they were the only thing in the world that made sense, the only thing that was truly right. 

“I know,” she gasped, “I know.” He felt her begin to shudder around him, walls vice like on his cock and he choked out a growl as he watched her fall apart. Every candle in the room suddenly burned bright and high as she broke, lips parted in a silent cry and she dragged him along over the edge, spilling himself hard inside her. 

His whole body trembled, hardly able to keep his weight off of her as their panting breaths filled the quiet room. She didn’t seem to mind, wrapping her arms around him and absentmindedly stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Did I do that?” she asked, and he followed her gaze to the candles. 

“Aye, but only the candles this time.” He kissed her. “Are you alright?” 

She nodded. “Are you? You’re shaking.” 

He chuckled, nodding as well and he felt her shift and the sound, legs tightening around his hips where he was still buried inside her. His stomach dropped. “Fuck. Swan,” he said, sliding from her. “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t thought, hadn’t had the presence of mind to consider what he was doing before coming inside her like a bloody teenager with no self control. 

“It’s alright. I take a tonic.”

“But I didn’t know, and I just -” 

“Killian, it’s alright. I don’t think I could have stopped to think of it either. That was… Don’t ruin the moment,” she said sternly, hand at his cheek to make him look at her. He nodded. He would be more careful in future. He didn’t want to derail her life by saddling her with his child because of his lack of thought. “Although,” she added, “I’ll probably have to find more tonic soon because we’ll definitely be doing that again.”

He smiled, kissing her gently and slowly before laying down beside her. “Aye.” He draped his arm across her stomach, pulling her close, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She yawned. “Sleep, love,” she said. “The storm’s over.” It was, the rain only a drizzle against the window now. She hummed in agreement and he pulled the blanket over her. 

“You’re not staying?” she asked, sounding hurt when he rose from the bed. 

“Aye, but someone lit all the bloody candles,” he pointed out and she giggled as he stood. He could feel her eyes on him as he circled the room, blowing out each little magic flame and tried not to blush when he turned to find her smirking appreciatively with a raised brow. “Perhaps next you could learn to put them out,” he teased. 

“I can.” 

“What?” She focused on the one still lit on the table next to the bed and beamed as it flickered out. Then she lit it again. He smirked, unable to hide his pride even as he shook his head at her. “And yet you let me leave the warm, comfortable bed to blow them out?” 

“I was enjoying the view.”

Sliding in beside her, he pulled her against his chest. She squealed with laughter when he nipped at her neck. “Bloody vixen you are,” he accused.

He settled under the covers, his braced arm across her stomach. She traced patterns sleepily over the leather, not seeming to mind that a part of him was missing, not treating the straps and buckles any differently than she would his skin and it made his heart clench. He shifted, the still damp leather chafing and rubbing uncomfortably. 

“Is it hurting you?” she asked, turning her head to look at him. 

“Aye, a bit.” 

“I can’t imagine it’s very comfortable to sleep in.” 

“No.” He spoke into her shoulder. He knew what he wanted, heart pounding against his ribs. His voice was unsteady as he spoke. He was terrified, vulnerable in a way he’d never been. “Will you help me with it?” 

Emma nodded, sitting up and loosening the straps one at a time, pausing whenever his shaking breath became almost panicked and waiting for him to calm and nod before continuing. She didn’t remove it once the straps were undone, that hadn’t been what he’d asked, but he nodded at her again, taking a steading breath through his nose and she slid the brace off his arm. He pressed his face into her shoulder, eyes burning with tears that dampened her skin when she rubbed at the places that had gone red from the friction. 

“Better?” she asked and he finally dared to look at it, at her. 

She was tracing patterns again, over his skin now and his voice cracked with emotion when he answered. “Aye, thank you.” 

She kissed him, brushing her thumb over his cheek to wipe at a tear the way she had that morning in the galley. Then she turned in his arms, pressing her back to his chest and reaching back until he extended his blunted wrist. She took it gently, pulling his arm around her and holding it carefully to her chest.

He’d been wrong. She wasn’t a woman he could love someday. He was far too deeply in love with her already. 

***

Emma woke to kisses being pressed across her back, one to her shoulder, above the scar that had begun to heal, one to the crook of her neck, one to her ribs. Her hair slid across her back as Killian moved it out of the way, lips finding the length of her spine and she hummed at the feeling, still half asleep, flat on her stomach, body warm and relaxed and tingling wherever he touched her. 

“Good morning,” he spoke against her ear before nipping at the shell and she let out a small moan. He continued his exploration of her back, mouth hot and wet against her as he kissed her ribs, licked at her spine, grazed his teeth over the dimples at the base. She groaned his name when his fingers traced her thigh, curling to the sensitive skin on the inside. She gave a small, tired moan when they dipped between, touch feather light against her center. 

She raised her hips, parting her legs to give him more access and he grinned, beard scratching at her lower back. Everything felt so good, all of her so at ease, hypersensitive to everything - his mouth, his breath, his fingers. The thrill of not being able to see him, her cheek pressed into the pillow, made everything more intense, unable to anticipate where he would touch her next. 

His hand slid up her thigh to trace the curve of her ass, squeezing and giving an experimental smack. She let out a sharp little gasp and he gave a low moan of appreciation. His mouth traced over the rounded curve of her backside to her leg, nipping at the inside of her thigh before soothing it with his tongue. She remembered the feel of his mouth on her last night, heat and desire making her slick with want, wondering if he would do it again. She’d- 

“Fuck...” His fingers had slipped between her legs again, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and teasing it slowly and she rocked her hips against his hand. 

“Gods you’re a wanton thing in the morning,” he teased, the smirk evident in his voice and she could only nod, going mad with the tease of his touch, just too light to give her what she needed. His fingers pushed inside her and gasped. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, sounding truly wrecked. “Already so wet,” he slid his fingers in and out of her painstakingly slowly, stretching her with ease. “Do you think you’re ready for me?” he breathed. 

Emma nodded again. “Please.” 

His hand slipped from her heat and he shifted to lay between her thighs, spreading them wider to make room for him. The press of his chest against her back was sinfully good, the scratch of his chest hair, the way it pushed her breasts harder into the mattress. And oh, god, he was hard, his cock pressing against the curve of her ass, velvety steel, and her mouth watered, wanting him inside her. 

She’d not expected his size last night; having only been with one man before, she was taken aback by the length of him, how thick and heavy he was in her hand. If it had been anyone but him she’d have been worried it would hurt. But after he’d made her see goddamn stars she’d wanted all of him, deep and full and perfect.

He slid his blunted arm under her hips, angling them up as he took himself in hand and guided his cock into her. He inched in more carefully than last night, her body not as prepared this morning, but the stretch and the burn as he filled her made her groan wantonly, gripping the pillow under her head and she pushed back against him until he was as deep as he could go. 

She gasped into the pillow when he pulled out and thrust back in, slow and lazy like he had all the time in the world. When he believed she would keep her hips up, he moved his blunted wrist, both arms on either side of her shoulders as he fucked into her. The weight of him pressing her into the mattress made her tremble, breasts and clit rutting into it with every drive of his cock. His hand slipped between her and the bed, playing over her center in slow, patient movements and suddenly she felt a ripple of heat and pleasure shudder through her as she came, small and lazy and leaving her more boneless than before. 

Killian froze. “Did you just…” She hummed, nodded, sated, sleepy. “That may be a personal best.”

Emma spoke into her pillow. “Well done.” He laughed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder and sliding from her. “Hey, wait, we’re not finished,” she insisted, even as the words were mumbled. He hadn’t come. It wasn’t fair.

“Sleep a little more love,” he told her, brushing her hair from her face. “We can continue this when you wake.”

“Okay, just a little bit,” she agreed, so sleepy, eyes already drifting shut.

The second time, she woke before him, curled against his side, her head on his chest, having rolled in the night - or had it been morning? She propped herself up on her elbow, careful not to disturb him. She’d never seen him asleep. He looked peaceful, and younger, the lines around his eyes softened and the heaviness he carried in his brow and his eyes lifted for a moment. 

He was so bloody beautiful, she thought, borrowing his word, because it was the only one that fit. The fact that he didn’t seem to know it, that he thought his age had done him a disservice rather than make him handsome in a way that men her age weren’t broke her heart. You deserve better than me, he’d said. She would prove him wrong. One day she would make him believe her. 

Emma traced the lines of silver in his hair, ghostlike, careful not to wake him, and played her fingers over his jaw, the beard that was a beautiful mix of ginger and black and white. If he’d somehow been more attractive when he was young, she was glad she hadn’t met him then - she didn’t think she could have handled it.

He stirred slightly when she pressed her lips to the corner of his jaw, but didn’t wake. She shouldn’t wake him… She should let him rest. He never slept enough, late to bed and up with the dawn. But they had unfinished business. 

Killian let out quiet sighs and hums in his sleep as she traced her mouth over his neck and chest, climbing over him. His cock twitched as she moved lower and he woke with a deep inhale when she traced her tongue over his stomach, kissing below his navel.

“Wha-” Emma looked up, smiling at his sleepy, confused expression before she kissed his hip and he mumbled a curse, fingers sliding into the back of her hair. He hissed her name when she licked the length of him, liking the way his grip tightened, and took him into her mouth. His moan was choked, a small, disbelieving laugh blooming from his chest as she worked him with her hand and tongue, swallowing as much of him as she could. 

“Bloody hell,” he groaned, back arching and head thrown back. She sucked hard on her next pass and his hips bucked up into her mouth. “Fuck, sorry.” Emma only did it again, moving faster and harder as she watched him coming apart. She liked knowing that she had this effect on him, that the way she felt when he touched her, untethered, unbound, insatiable, may also be the way he felt when she touched him. 

She’d never craved someone like this, never wanted to drive them mad with pleasure, never enjoyed it quite like this. With Neal she’d done it because he asked, because she cared about him and wanted to make him happy. But Killian hadn’t asked, he’d stopped her from touching him last night when he thought he wouldn’t be able to give her her pleasure if he found his too soon. He'd pulled away this morning and let her sleep, gentle and content and in no rush. It was all so foreign to her and left her overwhelmed with the need to make him find his release, feeling bold, and wanton, and powerful now where she’d only felt compliant, embarrassed in the past. He was the one at her mercy, not the other way around. 

Emma studied him the same way he had her as she licked and sucked his cock, finding what he liked from the way his hand fisted in her hair, from the curses he let slip, the little movements of his hips he was so annoyingly in control of now. She’d never watched a man come undone from her touch, from her mouth and it was an addictive sight. His head tossed back against the pillow, lifting to watch her swallow his length again only to fall back again with a sound that made her thighs press together. Never had doing this made her own desire stir so violently, torn between wanting to watch him finish like this and wanting to sheath herself on his cock. 

Killian gasped, teeth clenched and jaw tight when she slipped her other hand between them. “Love, if you want - if you don’t want me to -” He cried out again when she redoubled her efforts, taking him in faster, harder, her tongue sliding over every inch of him she could reach. “Gods, Emma, I’m going to -” 

She felt the sharp tug on her hair, a warning to back away if she didn’t want him to come down her throat. But she did, letting him sink deeper into her mouth, feeling him tense and strain, then tasting his release on her tongue when he fell over the edge with a strangled shout.

He was still panting when she crawled up the bed, tucking herself back against his side and resting her cheek on his shoulder, biting her lip proudly. His blunted arm came around her automatically, settling on her hip as he stared at the ceiling with his brow furrowed and his cheeks red. Emma pressed a kiss to his chest and wrapped her arm around him. 

After a minute his finger crooked under her chin, turning her face up to look at him. “Are you bloody real?” he frowned. Emma smirked, tilting her head to kiss his palm and he took hold of her chin so he could urge her up, lips finding hers softly and slowly. 

“Killian,” she asked, head back on his shoulder, fingers playing absentmindedly with the hair that blanketed his chest. He hummed, he’d been quiet so long she thought maybe he’d fallen back asleep.“That thing that you did last night…” 

“You’ll have to be more specific, love.” His voice was rough with sated pleasure.

“You know… before.” She felt her face go red. 

“Ah, that,” he smirked, cheek resting on the crown of her head. “What about it?”

“Is that…” She didn’t know how to ask, feeling inexperienced and shy. “Common?”

Killian craned his neck, trying to look at her but she steadfastly avoided his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Is that something that people… that you would do often?”

She heard the hesitation in his voice. “Did you not like it?” 

Emma laughed, disbelieving. “Oh, no, I liked it. I’ve just never…” 

He shifted then, looking at her with concern, and guilt she couldn’t understand. “I’m sorry, Emma. When you said I wouldn’t hurt you, I thought you meant that you’d laid with a man before.” His hand came to her cheek, stroking it carefully searching her face. “Are you alright? Did I -” Her face burned. He thought he’d taken her virginity. If she hadn’t felt inexperienced before she certainly did now.

“No, I have,” she insisted and he frowned. She shouldn’t have said anything. “I’ve just never done that.”

He frowned again, understanding dawning and then birthing more confusion. “You did it to me.” 

“Yeah, I knew I could do it to you. I just didn’t know it… went both ways,” she shrugged, unable to look at him again. “Nobody’s ever done that for me.” He was still and tense beside her and when she faced him again she was thrown by the set of his jaw. “Are you angry?” 

“Not at you, love,” he promised, turning and pressing his lips to her forehead. “Just at whichever men you were with before me.” 

“Man,” she corrected and he raised a brow in question. “Just one man.”

“Well, that will certainly make him easier to track down,” he mused, “knock some sense into him.” Emma rolled her eyes and he smirked. “But to answer your question,” Killian continued, rolling them until she was on her back, hovering above her. “Yes, it is common.” He bit his lip at her word and she shoved his chest, blushing again. He laughed, ducking his head to capture her lips, speaking against them, “and I intend to do it very often,” he promised before sliding down the bed and pressing a kiss to her stomach.

***

It had been two months since they’d sailed away from Misthaven. She’d written her parents twice in that time, promising she was having a lovely time in Arendale, and her friend, Elsa, almost weekly. ‘I want her to know I’m okay,’ she’d explained when he’d found her at his desk writing yet another long-winded letter. He hadn’t missed the way she’d hid the contents from his view. ‘Hmm, and how does she know I’m not holding you captive and making you write all this?’ he’d asked, busying himself with trailing kisses up her neck. ‘We have a code.’ ‘A code?’ She’d shrugged. ‘We’re princesses… we thought it would be a good idea - just in case.’ ‘In case a pirate stole you away and spent his nights ravishing you?’ His hand had slid over her shoulder tucking into the neckline of her dress and watching her shudder with pleasure as he’d teased and tortured her breasts and neck until she’d shoved the chair away, Killian tossing her onto the desk and hiking her skirts up around her waist. 

He’d been making good on his list, slowly making their way through the ship, finding a way to have her in every corner, on every surface. He couldn't go into the galley without remembering her splayed out on the table, his tongue between her legs, or picturing her bent over the counter, knocking tea and cups to the floor, searching for something to hold onto as he pounded into her. The walls had seen them both pressed against every panel, seen both of them on their knees while the other fell apart. The helm… the helm would never be the same, not after she’d taken him in her mouth while he steered and then asked him to fuck her against the wheel before he fell over the edge. 

They’d stopped at an apothecary in one of the towns they’d docked in to pick up more of her tonic. ‘A stronger one,’ she’d blushed, apparently at the shopkeeper’s suggestion. She’d refused to tell him what had led to the suggestion. Perhaps it was her age - or his age that made him notice at all - but she’d been insatiable. She seemed to want him for no reason other than that he was standing there, or looking at her, or the weather was bad and they had to hide inside, or the weather was good and she wanted to sit astride him on the deck. 

‘It’s like bread,’ she’d explained, the two of them straddling a bench in the galley, picking at a plate. He’d raised a confused eyebrow at the piece in her hand. ‘This is really terrible bread,’ she’d gone on, making him take a bite. It was terrible. ‘But it’s still bread, and bread is delicious, so you still like it and still want to eat it.’ He’d nodded even though he’d not been sure he was following. ‘So imagine you’d only ever had this bread, and then someday somebody gives you a really, really good piece of bread, the kind that makes your mouth water even just to think about, and they serve it to you with all sorts of other delicious things you’d never even heard of.’ A ridiculous smile had forced its way onto his lips and he'd had to hide it behind his hand while she kept explaining. ‘You wouldn’t just have a piece, you’d have the whole loaf, you’d have as many loaves as you could get your hands on.’ ‘Am I bread in this scenario, Swan?’ She’d nodded. ‘Well,’ he’d grabbed the backs of her knees sliding her across the bench, making her squeal and giggle, as he laid her back against it, taking the piece of bread from her hand and tossing it across the room. ‘You won’t be needing this, then.’

When they weren’t busy making bread - ‘We’re absolutely not calling it that, Killian.’ - Emma had been practicing her magic. She was a wonder to watch, her focus and determination, and her joy when she succeeded. She’d managed to get a handle on it, to figure out how to keep her magic from using her as a vessel. ‘It’s like thoughts. They’re always there and sometimes they’re loud when I don’t want to hear them, but I get to decide when they get turned into words. Magic’s always there, I always feel it now.’ ‘It’s a part of you, love.’ ‘Yeah, but now I get to decide how big a part.’ Though they did, occasionally, light an accidental candle or ten. 

“Have you been thinking about it?” he asked, wrapped around her in their bed, Killian tracing her fingers as she let a glow of magic trail in his wake. 

“No, and I don’t want to.” 

“Swan,” he sighed, kissing her shoulder. He didn’t want to think about it either. “You have to go home eventually. Elsa can only keep your secret so long and it’s just a matter of time before your parents start to suspect something, or go looking for you.”

“I know.” 

“You’ve got control of your magic. You don’t have to worry about them finding out.”

“I know.” 

“Emma…”

“I know, okay? I know.” She took her hand back, curled it against her chest. Killian slid both arms around her, enveloping her completely, holding her close and tight like he knew she needed when she got like this. “I’m just not ready.” 

“To face them?” he asked gently into the crook of her neck.

Emma shook her head. “For this to be over.”

His heart fell, dropped from her hands and landing somewhere hollow. He hadn’t realized that her going home would mean the end of them, that that was what she wanted. He swallowed, the words sharp in his throat. “Does it have to be over?”

She must have heard something in his voice because she turned in his arms, fingers tracing his jaw. “No, not us,” she said gently and he tried not to let the relief show on his face. “But this - I love this little life we’ve made here. I love being with you, here, where it’s just you and me and the rest of the world can’t find us.” She looked up at him then, fingers tangling in his necklace. “I love you.” He thought his heart may have stopped. Those words had never fallen from her lips before. He never thought he’d hear someone say them to him again. “I don’t want anything to cha-” 

He cut her off, mouth crashing down onto hers, wanting to hear the rest of what she had to say, but she’d just told him she loved him and he felt like his entire soul was trying to throw itself from his body so that it could touch her, hold her, tell her. His lips slanted over hers, hard and deep as he caught the back of her head, holding her firmly to him as he kissed and kissed and kissed her. If it was possible to hold someone so close they became a part of him he’d have done it, but he tried his damndest nonetheless.

They were both breathless when he broke away, pressing his forehead to hers. “Say it again.” 

“I love you, Killian,” she repeated and he captured her lips a second time, a third. 

“I love you,” he said against her, breathed it into her between kisses. “I love you.” Another kiss, longer, slower. “I love you.” The words were barely a whisper that time, both of them panting into the space between them. “And nothing, not time, or distance, or a bloody kingdom is going to change that.” She looked up at him, eyes wet and still worried. “It doesn’t matter where we are, Emma. Nothing about us will change.” 

She nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. “Do you promise?” 

Her voice was muffled against his skin and Killian turned his head to kiss her hair. “Aye.” He traced fingers up and down the length of her spine until he felt some of her tension start to ease. “Besides,” he gave a smirk he knew she couldn’t see. “It might be fun to sneak around.” 

She huffed a laugh. “You’re the one risking the dungeon if we get caught.” 

He hummed. “If you want me in chains, lass, just say so.”

***

Their last night had been the hardest, even as he insisted it wasn’t their last. ‘I’ll meet you in two weeks, at the tavern by the dock. Find an excuse to be gone a night or two, aye?’ He’d made love to her slowly and painstakingly, as though they had all the time in the world, bringing her over the edge again and again until the sun came up. And even then she’d refused to let him leave, convincing herself that if they just stayed in bed, then tomorrow could never really come, and she wouldn’t have to leave. 

But it had come, and they had spent the day sailing back to Misthaven. Despite how strong he’d been when she couldn’t, constantly reassuring her that it would be alright, Killian hadn’t been able to stop touching her. He reached for her when he stood at the helm so he could pull her back against his chest and steer with her in his arms. His hook had tucked around her thigh as they tried to eat though neither were hungry, his hand slipped into hers, through her hair, traced the length of her spine, her arms, lips finding her shoulder, her temple her cheek as they waited out the longest day of her life. 

He’d been the one to break, pressing her against the mainsail when Misthaven became a shadow on the horizon, mouth and hand frantic against her, the thrust of his hips hard and fast as he took her roughly against the pillar until she’d screamed out her release. ‘We have time,’ he’d growled, fingers slipping between them. ‘Give me another,’ he begged, rutting into her, shoving at the neckline of her dress so he could taste her, building her up again before she’d even come down. ‘We have time. We have time.’ He’d repeated it like a mantra against her skin, into her ear, on her tongue as he fucked her like it would be the last time, shattering with her when she came again. 

But they were out of time. His crew would see the sails soon, no doubt wondering where their captain had been, and she was expected home before sundown. He pulled her hood over her head after they’d docked, wiping an errant tear from her cheek and offering her a watery smile. “Two weeks,” he promised. 

Emma nodded. “Two weeks.” 

He kissed her, even though he probably shouldn’t have, too many people who could see them now, but neither cared enough. He led her off the ship, pointing her to where the ship from Arendale would be docking, where she could pretend she’d gotten off with the rest of the passengers. It had taken all of her strength to let go of his hand.

If her parents noticed her heartbreak, they didn’t say anything, acting the same as always, asking about her visit, Emma reciting the stories she and Elsa had agreed on, and waiting. The days dragged on and she couldn’t find anything that quelled the emptiness left behind, nothing that was interesting enough to distract her as the days passed. It was fine, she told herself. It was just because it was the first time. It would get easier. 

And then two weeks had gone and she’d found herself in that tavern, holding a glass of rum she didn’t drink and looking up each time the door opened. When he finally walked in she forgot herself, running across the room and throwing herself in his arms. He backed her quickly towards a dark corner, kissing her as though he’d been away a year rather than a fortnight.

“You came,” she beamed.

“Did you doubt that I would?” She didn’t answer and she didn’t have to. The fear would be ever present now that he wouldn’t come one day, not because he didn’t want to but because he’d been delayed, or injured, or worse. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Swan. I’ll be here until you send me away.”

“Never.”

***

They’d carried on this way for a year. Meeting her in that tavern every time he was in port, never gone for more than a fortnight. He’d heard the rumblings of his crew, trying to figure out why their captain seemed so keen on this town, or worse, complaining behind his back. The ones that had been here the longest, the ones who had known Milah, didn’t have to wonder. They knew. And they knew better than to say anything.

He’d met Elsa, a complication when her parents had insisted on joining her in Arendale and he’d gone to collect her once they’d left. ‘So you’re the other Elsa,’ she’d said, looking him over carefully and he’d smirked. He liked her. And to his great relief she liked him too, enough that she continued to help them with their ruse. ‘One of these days you have to actually come visit me though,’ she’d insisted, saying goodbye to Emma.

The days at sea with her were never enough, the nights in their room above the tavern - where the barkeep was paid handsomely to keep his mouth shut - were always too short. He wrote her every chance he had, letters addressed to her maid, a young, discrete woman who read far too many romance novels. 

He loved her. And she loved him. But he could tell she was growing weary. He’d never trade anything for the time they had together, but this arrangement wasn’t what either of them wanted. Stolen moments were exactly that, time that didn’t truly belong to them. These days together were an interlude in their lives, a little world that existed outside of reality. He wanted to live in that little world with her forever, tired of sailing away month after month. And he saw the toll it took on her to watch him leave her again and again.

“What if we just ran away?” Emma ducked lower under the water letting it swallow her up to her ears. Her hair fanned out around her, collecting rosebuds and lavender sprigs that floated across the surface. She looked like a bloody siren, beckoning him to follow her and all her dangerous ideas. 

“Shall we plan another trip to Arendale?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and slinking across the tub. Her arms folded over his chest, chin resting on them and he shifted, letting her lie across his body. His fingers found the base of her spine, splaying his hand over her skin, tracing the length of her back and wishing he had two to touch her with. “I mean for real. We could take the Jolly, sail to another realm where they can’t find us.”

“And where would we go?” he asked, wishing such a thing were possible. 

“Where would you want to go?”

Killian brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek, leaving a petal behind in his wake. “I’d go anywhere with you, love.” 

“I’m serious.”

“As am I.” 

“No, Killian,” she said, rising from the water, hands settling on the ledge over his shoulders. He had to force himself to hold her gaze as she brought herself eye level with him, cock twitching as her breasts met the cool air, peeking through the wet curls of her hair that hung around them, temptingly close. “I’m serious. We could go today, right now. I don’t ever have to go back to the palace; no one would know.”

She meant it and it broke his heart. He sighed. “There’s nothing I would love more, Swan.” Then her hands were holding his face, her mouth on his, smiling into the kiss. Killian pulled back, watching with remorse when her expression shifted from excitement to confusion to disappointment as he sat up. Water sloshed over the edges of the tub as they rose, Emma perched in his lap. “But we can’t do that, my love.”

“Why not?” He didn’t have to tell her why not. She knew as well as he did. “Don’t you want to?” 

He leveled his gaze on her pointedly. “You know I do.” 

“Then do it, whisk me away to some far off land,” she said, leaning down to kiss him again. “Let them all wonder what happened to the princess of Misthaven,” she smirked, lips closing on the skin below his ear. He laughed even as his blood started to warm and his hips shifted below hers. He sucked in a breath when her tongue flicked over the spot. 

“And have the whole kingdom think I stole you away?”

Emma hummed, mouth on the hollow of his throat now, licking at the water that clung to his skin. “Could be fun, the princess and the pirate. We haven’t played that game in ages.” He still argued that it didn’t count as a game if it was true, but she was settling in his lap now. 

“Swan...” he warned as she rolled her hips over his length that hardened almost instantly. 

“We could go to Agrabah,” she suggested against his ear, moving her hips over his again. “You could show me the sand and spice.” She ground against him in a slow, steady rhythm that had his focus faltering, hand gripping her waist tight. Her lips were at his throat. “Spend our days hot and sticky from the heat and our nights finding ways to keep each other warm.” She bit at the curve of his shoulder, moving faster and he let out a moan he tried to hold back. Her own breathing was heavy now. “Or we could go to the Fae realm, exist where time doesn’t matter and we do nothing but eat and drink wine and make each other fall apart.” 

Her hands slid over his chest to his stomach and he caught them, panting. He raised a brow at her. “Swan, you can’t seduce me into kidnapping you.” 

She raised one back, her smirk wicked. “Are you sure?” 

He wasn’t. 

“I don’t want to spend the rest of our life running,” he told her, lifting one of her hands to kiss her palm.

“But you want to spend it hiding?”

“If it’s the only way to be with you, then yes.” 

She looked away, down at the petals that floated between them. “What if we couldn’t hide anymore?”

Killian frowned, something in her expression foreboding and he felt his intuition creep across his neck. Something had changed. “Why? What’s happened?”

She stared at the water, gaze far away until he curled his palm around her cheek, imploring her to meet his eyes. “Nothing,” she said, finally looking at him, hiding whatever it was that was upsetting her. Emma leaned down, kissing him.

“Love -”

She shook her head. “Nevermind. It was a stupid idea. Let’s not ruin our night.” She kissed him again. He tried to say her name again, her fingers coming over his lips. “Please. Can you just take me to bed and we can pretend that things are easy and normal between us?” 

Killian hesitated, knowing he should press her. But he knew her well enough to know he wouldn’t get any answers tonight, and that she needed him now to make her feel safe, to make her feel like everything would be alright, to pretend that they could have this despite the world being pitted against them. 

He nodded, standing as she wrapped her arms and legs around him, and walked them across the room that wasn’t theirs to the bed they could pretend belonged to them. After all, that was what these nights were for. 

***

“And that, little love, is the story your papa told your grandmother so that she wouldn’t cut his head off.” 

“Killian.”

“What, Swan, don’t you want her to know the story of how her parents met?”

“She’s too young to understand any of it,” Emma says, reaching for their daughter who’s stretched out on her father’s chest in the grass, just barely able to hold her head up while she tries to eat the pendants around his neck. She pulls Hope into her lap, covering the baby’s ears. “But she may remember something about her grandparents trying to kill someone,” she hisses. 

“Of course she understands,” Killian insists, rolling over to face the two of them. “Look at how bright she is.” His daughter stares at him with wide, fascinated eyes as he beams at her, tickling her tummy with his hook, dull now where it used to be sharp. She reaches for him, already a daddy’s girl - ‘Ha, get used to it,’ her mom had said dryly - and Killian’s already wrapped around her finger. Hope grabs his hook with strong little fingers and sets to chewing toothlessly on it. “She should know where she comes from and why she has all that magic.” 

“We don’t know if she’ll have magic yet.” 

“She will.” He says it with such certainty, not even looking up from where he’s making faces at the girl and it melts her heart a little. Even before she was born, he’d been adamant that Hope was the product of true love - ‘just like her mother’ - and he’s not wavered in his belief. ‘What else could nearly cause the downfall of a kingdom?’ ‘That’s a bit dramatic.’ ‘And what other force in the world could have kept your father from running me through when he found out I’d put a little pirate in you.’ ‘I don’t know how much you want to brag about that one considering how close it actually came. He drew his sword.’ 

He does look up when he feels her hand on his cheek. Emma smiles, thumb stroking the grey and white that’s slowly taking over the ginger. She leans down to kiss him, his mouth warm and soft against hers, the gentle scratch of his beard familiar on her chin. He kisses her back like it’s the only thing he’d ever want to spend his time doing, slow and lazy and deep and her heart aches for all the tenderness in him, all the kindness and humour and love. 

When she was a little girl, her parents raised her on stories of shepherds and princesses, of knights and bandits, and she’d grown up knowing what true love looked like. She saw it every day in her parents, in the way they looked at each other, and held each other, and laughed, and argued. But knowing she came from true love didn’t mean she believed she’d ever find it. And as the years passed and after a first heartbreak, she’d stopped looking at all. 

Then one stupid decision almost two years ago had brought it barreling into her life wrapped in leather and metal. Maybe they were predestined. Maybe every Emma in every reality had a Killian and it was just fate that decided when they would meet. But true love never comes easy and they’d fought for theirs, against the centuries that should have kept them apart, against her family, and against Killian’s fear that he wouldn’t be able to love again, that it would break him, that he’d forgotten how. 

She’d fought him the hardest. Because she knew then just like she does now that no one loves as much, as well, or as completely as him. She’d seen it when he’d let himself love her despite his feelings for his first love, and again when Hope was born. Killian never has to try and find room for someone in his heart, he simply makes more.

Emma can feel his smile when she pulls away, lips still touching and she speaks against them. “Marry me.”

“Aye, when?” His smile deepens. She expected a bit of a fight, or at least some teasing considering she said no when he asked her six months ago. 

‘Are you asking because I’m pregnant or because my dad threatened to give you another hook if you didn’t?’ 

‘Neither.’

‘I don’t believe you. I’m not marrying you because my father is making you.’

‘Love,’ he’d laughed, ‘are you really not going to marry me so that you can rebel against your father?’ 

‘No, but I’m going to have a baby.’ 

‘I’m aware.’

‘So in a few months our whole lives are going to change - and that’s good - but I don’t want to spend the little time we have left planning a wedding.’ 

‘We could elope.’

She’d laughed out loud. ‘You think my dad is scary? Try suggesting that to my mother, I dare you.” Emma panicked when she saw the challenge in his eyes. ‘I just want to be able to be us, just you and me, no sneaking off to taverns or lying about being in Arendale. This, right now, is everything I wished for and I just want to be with you and love you before we share that love with someone else.’ 

‘That’s the most beautiful refusal I’ve ever heard,’ he smiled, deep and soft and sincere before kissing her. ‘Take however long you need, love. I’ve all the time in the world.’

So when he says yes right away, tugging her and Hope down to lay in the grass with him, both curled against his chest, there’s only one answer she could ever give. 

“As soon as possible.”

*****

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“Aye, I was just thinking the same thing.” She was from Boston, he was pretty sure - at least that’s what her profile had said. “Are you staying in town long?” 

She raised a brow at him. “I live here, so yeah a little while,” she teased. 

“Oh.” That complicated things. But so did the slow, appreciative way she was eyeing him, gaze casting over his face and down across his chest, not bothering with false modesty as it continued past his belt, tongue running across her bottom lip giving her something to look at. “I didn’t know.” 

“It’s new,” she shrugged. “This is my welcome wagon.” She gestured to the group of women seated with her and Killian was relieved that he wasn’t seeing any of them for the second time, apart from his friend David’s wife who beamed at him. 

“Killian! It’s so nice to see you! Sit down.” 

He froze for a moment. This was a very bad idea. “Um, I don’t know if -” 

“Sit,” she ordered, slightly tipsy and Killian was at a loss to do anything else but obey. Taking a seat across from Leia, Mary Margaret introduced him to everyone as David’s friend, and the woman he’d spent the night with as Emma. His eyes only widened in shock for a second before he had to hide his laugh behind his fist. She’d given him a fake name. Even he’d never gone that far for anonymity. He gave her a mirthful, knowing look that she returned with a blase shrug. It shouldn’t have been so goddamn attractive.

He was answering a question about work, small talk and pleasantries with his old friend, when he felt something brushing along the inside of his calf. He nearly choked, taking a deep swallow of his drink to cover it. When he looked across the table at Emma, she was speaking to her friend, nodding in interest even as he felt her foot slide up towards his knee. He tried to catch her eye, to read her. What are you playing at, love? 

But she paid no attention to him, laughing at something her friend said and stroking her bare toes along the inside of his thigh, dangerously close to where he could feel himself hardening in excitement at her little game, at her touch. And she knew it, her gaze finally flicking to his out of the corner of her eye, something wicked in them, a promise, a question, before she found the length of his cock, stroking it through his jeans. Killian sucked in a slow, shaky breath, hand fisting around his glass as he tried to steady himself and she only smirked, pressing harder. 

When he thought he would lose his mind or spill himself right there under the table, she pulled away, giving him a pointed look before standing and announcing she was going to the bathroom. Killian watched her walk towards the restrooms in the back of the bar, appreciating the view, but also confirming the invitation he was pretty sure she was giving him. She threw him a look over her shoulder, nodding her head towards her destination. Well, rules were made to be broken after all. 

Pulling out his phone and making a show of looking at it, he said that he had to take a call, thanking Mary Margaret and waving goodbye. He’d only just reached the hallway when he saw Emma ducking into one of the single-stall bathrooms. Following her in, he found her leaning back against the sink with a raised eyebrow and a suggestive smirk that caught between her teeth when he locked the door.

He didn’t hesitate, crossing the room in two quick strides and capturing her mouth with his, hands finding her waist as he pulled her hips flush against his own. She let out a small moan, mouth opening under his as she sought his tongue with hers. Killian’s hand found her breast, remembering what she’d told him she liked, having thought about that tone with which she’d demanded what she wanted many, many times since.

“Me first,” she ordered against his lips, catching the bottom one between her teeth and making him groan. 

“What happened to age before beauty?” he questioned and he swore he felt the ghost of a grin pressed to his mouth.

She pulled back, exposing her neck to him and he latched on to it, licking and sucking a bruise beneath her ear. “I thought you’d be more old fashioned, given your age,” she quipped and he nipped her collarbone, smirking at the small gasp that left her. “What happened to ladies first?” 

“Well,” he breathed, “I’m nothing if not always a gentleman.” Lifting his head to claim her mouth again, he rolled his thumb over the hardened peek of her nipple through her shirt and her nails dug into the skin at his hip. She let out a desperate and frustrated little growl and he obliged. 

Lifting her onto the counter, he dropped to his knees and slid his hands up under her skirt to tug her underwear down her unbearably long legs. Then shoving the tight leather of her skirt up and bunching it around her waist he dove between her thighs. He heard her curse, fingers fisting in his hair as she arched her hips towards his mouth and he yanked her to the edge of the sink, resting her legs on his shoulders. 

It was an unfamiliar experience, already knowing what someone wanted, what they liked, how to make them bite their lip hard to stop from screaming in a public toilet. A small shiver of anticipation passed through him as he realised that she would remember too and he tried to imagine it. If the first time had been that good, the second time…

She was getting close, knees trembling on either side of his head as his own old joints started to protest the kneeling position he was holding. But he didn’t relent, sucking on her clit in time with the hard, rough thrust of his fingers inside of her until her whole body was bending, until her grip on his hair became near painful. She climaxed with a sharp cry of release, rasping gasps for breath that distilled to a soft, exhausted chuckle. He remembered that too. 

Standing he raised a brow at her. “So Emma, was it?” 

“It’s just a name,” she giggled, amused with herself. 

Killian hummed, setting his hands down on the counter on either side of her. “I at least remembered it.” 

She shrugged, eyeing him again. “Your name wasn’t the most memorable thing about you.”  

Reaching for the hem of her shirt, he fingered the fabric and the skin just beneath. “I’m always happy to make an impression.” Killian leaned in, nipping at her earlobe before whispering, “Come home with me.” 

Emma let out a whimper that was both needy and conflicted. “I don’t usually do this,” she said. 

He blinked at her. “What? Sex with strangers?” 

“No. Sex with… non-strangers.” 

A smile tugged at his lips. So, they were just as alike as he thought. “Me neither,” he confessed. “But in fairness, I had sex with Leia a few weeks ago.” She smirked and he pulled her to him, pressing his denim covered erection against her center and she gave a small whimper. He brought his lips to her ear, speaking low and pointedly. “So I don’t think it would be breaking any rules if I took you home and fucked you.” Her legs tightened on either side of his hips. “Just this once.” 

“Just this once?” she repeated, confirming. 

“Well, just this one night,” he amended, nipping at her lip before soothing it with his tongue and then sliding it into her mouth for a kiss she moaned into. She was panting when they broke apart. 

“Let’s go.” 

***

Emma collapsed against his chest, her own heaving as she tried to catch her breath, fingers clenched in the salt and pepper hair that blanketed it. After a moment, she sighed a little laugh, patting his shoulder and rolling off of him to land heavily on her back. “Okay. Well done, you,” she complimented because the man deserved it. 

The first time they’d been together had been good - really good actually for a one night stand. But this time, she hadn’t even had to tell him what she wanted, he’d just done it and now she was laying boneless, three orgasms later and thoroughly impressed. “Must be all those years of experience,” she added with a cheeky smile, finding herself hilarious. 

Killian hummed in agreement, laying on his back with his eyes closed, blissed out and sated. “That and natural talent,” he mused. 

She breathed heavily again, waiting for her heart to slow. “I’ll head out in a sec,” she promised. “I’m just waiting until I can feel my legs.” 

He chuckled and turned his head lazily to look at her and she caught herself studying him. He was so damn attractive, older than the men she was used to being with, but also handsome in a way they never were. When she’d seen his picture, the silver at his temples and streaking through his otherwise inky black hair, the crazy blue eyes with the beginnings of permanent laugh lines crinkling at the corners, she really hadn’t given a fuck how old he was. Besides, it wasn’t like she was going to date him, so what did an age difference matter? She had to admit that on top of the whole silver fox thing he had going for him, there really was something to be said for experience. 

Killian’s eyes began to blink more slowly as he watched her watch him, something unreadable in his expression before they fluttered shut and she heard his slow, relaxed breathing. Her own lids felt heavy, his mattress comfortable and her limbs heavy and she sighed in contentment. And then panicked. 

Falling asleep in his house - in his bed - was not an option. She hadn’t been invited to and she didn’t want to. That was something else. It meant something, and Emma wasn’t interested in somethings. 

Sitting up carefully so as not to disturb him, hoping he’d fallen asleep, she began tiptoeing across the room collecting her clothes from where they were scattered - a boot under the bed, a jacket thrown on a chair, her shirt annoyingly unlocatable. She turned back to see if maybe she’d left it discarded somewhere in the sheets and jumped when she saw Killian awake and leaning up on his elbow looking at her. He smirked when she clutched her skirt to her chest, heart racing. 

“What are you doing?” she demanded. 

He only shrugged. “Just enjoying the view of you sneaking out,” he answered, gaze roving appreciatively over her standing half-naked at the foot of his bed. 

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t find my shirt. Have you seen it?”

“No, but perhaps it’s in the bed here somewhere. Why don’t you hop in and I can help you look for it.” Patting the mattress next to him, he gave her a grin that was clearly an invitation and she nearly laughed. 

“It’s almost one,” she pointed out. “I’ve got to catch the last bus.” 

“I could call you a cab.” 

“Okay boomer,” she laughed. 

He scoffed, offended. “Excuse me? I may have a few years on you, lass, but I’m fairly certain we’re still the same generation.” 

“You sure about that? Nobody calls cabs anymore.”

He rolled his eyes this time. “Fine then, an Uber,” he amended, sitting up so he could grab her wrist and pull her back towards the bed. “I hear they run very late.” 

“I thought we agreed this was going to be a one time thing… again.” 

“It still counts as one time so long as you don’t leave the room.” He tugged again, gently, cajolingly, and she put one knee up on the mattress, then the other. The man was persuasive as hell, and so were the many orgasms she could likely count on if she agreed to stay a little longer. His hand slipped around her waist, lips finding her neck as he coaxed her back down on top of him. He was convincing, and charming, and even a little endearing and Emma caught herself biting her lip against a smile. 

And that was what stopped her. Sleeping with someone twice was a dangerous precedent to set. Sleeping with someone twice who she found so annoyingly likable was a definite breaking of her rules. One night. That’s all this was supposed to be and it had already become two. She wasn’t supposed to enjoy being around the men she went home with, not when they weren’t actively hooking up. 

“No,” she said and Killian stopped, releasing his hold on her with a sigh of disappointment. “I really have to go.” He nodded as she stood back up, reaching over his side of the bed and picking up her shirt, holding it out to her. She narrowed her eyes at him and took it, hopping into her skirt and shoes. He only grinned. “Well, thanks for the sex,” she added, pulling her shirt over her head he chuckled. 

“Likewise.” 

***

Emma almost hadn’t accepted Mary Margaret’s invitation to her husband’s birthday party. It felt weird to go celebrate a stranger’s birthday, especially when she’d only known his wife for a couple of weeks. But when she'd started at the school as the new guidance counselor, the teacher had foisted her friendship on Emma almost immediately. 

“It’ll be great!” she promised. “There’ll be lots of people there. You can get to know them, make some more friends. It can be lonely coming to a new town. Oh, please come,” she’d implored and, in the end, Emma had relented.

It wasn’t until they were pulling up to the drive, her and Ruby squished into the back seat of David’s truck, that she realized what a colossal mistake that had been. Because she’d been to this house before. Twice. The little bungalow on the coast, just down from the harbour with its huge bay windows and cozy, cottage-like exterior… Fuck. 

“Emma!” Killian greeted when she walked in, surprised but not displeased. He recovered quickly, wiping the shock off his face and playing innocent. “How lovely to see you again. Settling in alright?” 

“You know each other?” David asked. 

“Only a little. We met briefly at the bar last week.” She didn’t know whether to thank him for his easy bending of the truth or glare at him for the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips that betrayed exactly how well they knew each other - at least to her. 

“Small world,” David remarked. 

“Small town,” Emma corrected. 

“Let’s get you a drink,” Killian declared to his friend, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and leading him towards the kitchen. 

“I need him conscious when we leave tonight!” Mary Margaret called after them in warning. “Or you’re gonna have to come help me carry him in again!” Killian shot her a thumbs up over his head and she turned to Emma. “Come on, there’s some people I want you to meet.” 

Those people had all been men. Apparently, the second her new friend had found out she was single, she’d taken it upon herself to rectify the situation. It wouldn’t have been so terrible, if she hadn’t been so acutely aware of a specific man’s gaze on her the whole evening, or her own gaze drifting to him. It was strange to see him like this, lighthearted, a little tipsy, at ease with his friends, none of the seductive turns of phrase and looks she was used to. He was like a completely different person.

She was caught in a conversation with one of the guys Mary Margaret had thrust upon her - some furniture-maker who talked too much for her to get a word in long enough to make an excuse to step away - when she caught his eye. Killian looked between her and Walsh and he struggled to hide his laugh behind his hand, pretending to rub at the scruff on his cheeks. He shot her a slightly pitying but largely entertained look and Emma glared, turning away and making a point to seem as interested as possible in the chair Walsh was describing. 

“Emma, love?” Her shoulders sagged in relief at the familiar voice. Both of them turned to face the person who had joined them. “Mary Margaret said you put David’s cake somewhere - would you mind helping me bring it out? We can’t seem to find it.” 

“Can’t it wait?” Walsh asked, put out. “We’re in the middle of something.” 

“Ah, no, it can’t because…” Emma watched him struggle to find an excuse.

“It’s… an ice cream cake,” she blurted out.

“Aye,” he nodded, pressing his lips together. 

“And if I didn’t put it in the freezer-”

“Then we have a problem.” 

“Yeah.” She looked at Walsh. “Sorry, it’s an emergency,” she told him with as much false disappointment as she could and hurried off towards the kitchen with Killian. 

“What are you planning on doing when he realizes it’s not an ice cream cake?” he mused when they were safely in the other room.

“I don’t know - you were the one who came up with the whole cake thing.” 

“I was trying to rescue you,” he defended, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter.  

“I don’t need rescuing,” Emma rolled her eyes. 

“Sure looked like you did. And trust me, I did you a favor.” 

She raised a brow. “How do you figure that?” 

His smirk was caught between his teeth. “I know his ex.” Emma balked at him. “Really, love, I thought you had better taste.” 

“I went home with you didn’t I?” she quipped and he laughed. 

“Aye, my point exactly.” She shook her head at him. His self-esteem was unparalleled. 

“How long do you think before it’s safe to go back out there?” 

“In a rush to return to your fascinating conversation?”

“God no. But Mary Margaret seems really determined to set me up with someone here and I don’t think I can dodge her for long. If she comes in here and finds us together she might get ideas.” 

Killian’s bark of laughter caught her by surprise. “Trust me, she won’t. She’ll more likely try and warn you away from me. She doesn’t approve of my views on romance.” 

“And what are those?”

“Non-existent.” His lip quirked up and it caught her interest. It wasn’t uncommon for her to meet a guy who only wanted sex. But to meet one who had absolutely no interest in any kind of relationship, ever it seemed, was intriguing… and appealing. 

“Oh shit, I think they’re looking for me!” She nearly dove behind the kitchen island and Killian bit his lip hard against his laugh. 

“You’re welcome to hide in the bedroom if you like. I’m sure you know the way quite well by now.” There was the suggestive smirk she was used to. 

“You need to watch that mouth of yours, bud,” she warned and regretted it the second the mischief clouded his eyes. 

“Apologies, love. Please let me know if you have any suggestions for how it could be put to better use.” 

She raised a brow at him. “You’re a bit of a slut aren’t you?” 

He only grinned invitingly.

***

“This was a mistake,” Emma told him, pulling her jeans back on while he lounged, sated and content, against his headboard, bare apart from the thin sheet across his legs. 

This time had been an accident. They’d stayed too long hidden in the kitchen, David had had too much to drink and had to be taken home early. Mary Margaret felt too guilty, refused to make Emma leave and begged Killian to drive her home. They’d been cleaning up after the last guest had left and she’d bumped into him when he was moving to put a glass in the dishwasher, and then he’d kissed her and she hadn’t stopped him and now here they were. 

“Absolutely,” he agreed even as his lazy grin betrayed his words. 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know. But it does seem to be a mistake we continue to make.”

“Yeah. And we’re gonna stop making it,” she told him firmly.

“Aye,” Killian nodded, lip caught between his teeth. “Or…”

Emma looked at him in disbelief. “Or?” 

This could be a very bad idea. He knew that. But he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t want to see her again. This was by far the best sex he’d ever had and he’d had too many partners to count. It felt like a shame to give that up. 

“Or we could do it again,” he suggested. 

She frowned. “What, now?” 

Killian smiled. “Aye, certainly, if you like. But I meant another night.” 

“That won’t work.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you’re not a stranger anymore.”  

“I don’t know about that… What's my last name?” He raised a brow in amusement as her forehead wrinkled, trying to find something he never gave her. 

“You know that’s not the point. I don’t do anything serious.” 

“I’m not asking for serious.” He’d thought that was obvious. “I’m not even asking for casual.” She still looked unconvinced. “I thought that perhaps we could work out some sort of arrangement.” 

“... What kind of arrangement?”

“Sex, love. Was that not clear?” 

“That never works. And I don’t do friends with benefits either.” 

Killian waved a hand dismissively. “The friends part isn’t crucial. Look, I’ve never met a woman so clearly as uninterested in any kind of romantic relationship as myself. I’m not going to fall for you and I’m certain you won’t develop any feelings for me. So this might be the first time in the history of attempts at casual sex, that it could actually work. Storybrooke is a small town, love. You might not find it so easy to meet strangers here,” he added. 

That seemed to sway her. While there was no shortage of women coming to town for girls’ weekends or bachelorette parties, the men, he knew from experience, were few and far between and often dragged here by a wife or girlfriend.  

She crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him suspiciously. “I’m still gonna sleep with other people.”

“Naturally.” She’d insisted on using protection the first time they’d been together, as had he, as did he always, so he wasn’t worried about any risks there. 

“How do I know you’re not gonna change your mind about wanting something more serious and make me regret agreeing to this? Because that’s what’s happened every time I’ve tried this.” 

He hesitated, but felt he owed her the truth. “My wife died.” Her face dropped. “Seven years ago.” He cleared his throat at the memory, trying to banish the grief that would never truly go away. “So while I’m sure you have many amiable qualities, believe me when I tell you that I have no interest in ever falling in love again.” Something in his confession seemed to strike a cord, her demeanor less opposed to the idea than it had been had a moment ago. “You have to admit,” he smirked, trying to break the heavy mood that had creeped in. “We are very good at it.” 

She smirked. “I’m amazing at it. You’re alright.” 

Trying not to laugh, he stood up off the bed, not missing the way her eyes drifted lower when the sheet fell from his hips. “Funny,” he started, stalking towards her. “I remember you having a very different opinion a few minutes ago. You were quite vocal about it, in fact.” 

She hummed as he tugged at the waist of her jeans she’d just buttoned, unfastening them once more. “Refresh my memory.”  

With a growl lifted her up off the ground, turning and tossing her unceremoniously on the bed. Yanking the offending jeans and underwear down her legs and landing on top of her, he dragged his tongue across her neck and his teeth over her nipple before pulling it into his mouth. His fingers slid between them, dipping into her center and finding her still wet from before, her clit sensitive under his touch and she hissed as he flicked it.

Killian ducked his head, dragging his mouth down the length of her stomach to between her thighs and drawing his tongue between her folds. Emma let out a small whimper when he slid it inside her, fucking her with his tongue as she arched her hips into his face in time with his thrusts. When he pulled back and wrapped his lips around her clit she cried out, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him away. 

“Just fuck me,” she demanded and he raised a surprised brow.  

“Well, alright, then.” 

Pushing himself up so he could kneel between her open legs, he wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself so he could take her. They had just finished their first round after all and he wasn’t in his twenties anymore. The way the twenty-something spread out on the bed was watching him, tongue coming out to wet her lips, certainly helped. 

“Need a hand there, old timer?” she teased and he narrowed his eyes at her playfully. 

“No, but if you’re offering…” he trailed off suggestively. 

Eyes darkening, Emma rose, swatting his hand away and pushing him onto his back as she crawled over him. Her fingers wrapped firmly around his cock, so much better than his own as she stroked him once and then leaned down to drag her tongue along the length of him. Bloody hell. She was right, she was amazing. His hand fisted in her hair as she pulled him into her mouth, sucking and swirling her tongue against his shaft. He was already hard as she took him deeper, mouth hot and wet, lips soft and swollen around him, humming when he thrust his hips up by accident, only moving faster. She would be the death of him. 

“Enough,” he managed to bite out, dragging her off by his grip on her hair and growling when she flicked her tongue out against his head in defiance. 

Killian pushed her back on the bed and he could see her self-satisfied smirk as she flicked her gaze down to his straining member. Grabbing her waist, he flipped her over onto her stomach and she complied eagerly, pushing up onto her palms as he lifted her hips into the air, exposing the gorgeous curve of her ass to him. He trailed his hand across one cheek, giving it an experimental smack. She gasped and he made note of that for later. 

Reaching over her into his bedside drawer he fished out a condom, ripping it open and rolling it on before lining himself up with her entrance and thrusting in to the hilt. Emma choked out a wanton, needy sound and pulled back, dragging himself nearly all the way out before slamming back in. The pace he set was punishing but the moans and curses she let out with every thrust and the way she pushed back greedily to meet him only egged him on. 

His hand slid over her sweat-dampened spine to her waist and then around to her breast, rolling her nipple under his thumb. She arched her back, cursing again and then grabbing his wrist, guiding his hand to where they were joined, pressing his fingers where she wanted them and crying out when he worked her in tandem with his hips. 

“What was that you were saying?” he smirked against her ear, folding himself over her back and taking the lobe between his teeth. “About my being just alright at this?” 

“Shut up,” she breathed and then “fuck” when he thrust into her harder. “You’re so full of yourself.” 

He chuckled. “The only one full of me right now is you, love. And I’d like you to take it back,” he continued. 

“Make me.” Killian grinned wickedly, nipping at the crook of her neck before snapping his hips hard against her, arm hooking around her hip to pull her into him each time, fingers working relentlessly against her clit. Curses and words tumbled from her mouth, rambling, stumbling over each other as he felt her start to shake in his arms, falling to her elbows.. 

“Better than alright?” he pressed, his own words and muscles strained with effort. She made a sound that was neither confirmation or denial and he lessened the pressure of his fingers. 

“Killian,” she whined, somehow still managing to make it sound like a threat. 

“If you want to come you’re going to have to say it,” he warned, hoping he could hold his own climax off long enough to get this bloody stubborn woman to give in. 

“Yes,” she yielded, spitting the word at him and he chuckled triumphantly.

“There’s a good girl. Do you want more?”

“Yes.” There was no bite left to her words this time. 

“Harder?” he asked, finger pinching her clit as he slammed into her. “Faster?” 

“Yes. Yes,” she keened, answering both of his questions as he resumed his pace from before. 

She breathed the word once more before she was shaking again. Fingers fisting in the sheets, face pressed to the mattress, his grip became bruisingly tight against her hip as she broke, walls vice like around his cock as she went slack in his arms and he spilled himself with a guttural groan. 

His lips pressed between her shoulder blades, along her spine, teeth closing over the skin there before he pulled out, helping to lower her hips back down to the mattress. She lay limp on her stomach as he disposed of the condom and then collapsed on his back next to her, spent. Emma turned her head to face him, cheek squished against the pillow, arms tucked under herself and looking half asleep. She gave him a lazy grin. 

“Okay, maybe this could work.” 

“I’ve no feelings for you apart from the desire to fuck you again,” he promised mirthfully. 

She laughed. “I think I like you even less.” 

“Excellent.” 

“So how would we do this?” 

“I’ve no idea. Maybe you give me your number?” Her eyes widened in terror and he had to laugh. “Relax, Emma. It’s not like I’ve asked you to marry me. I just want to be able to call you to set up another rendez-vous.” 

She scoffed. “First of all, nobody calls anymore. You’ll text me. And how about you give me your number. Then I’ll text you if I decide I still want to do this in the morning.”

“Seems reasonable.” 

She reached for her phone with great effort, opening her contacts and handing it to him to fill out. He did and handed it back and Emma looked at it, then at him. “Jones, huh? I guess this means we know each other now huh?”

“Certainly not. We’re not friends or even acquaintances. We’re just… non-strangers. Or at least I am to you, Emma…” 

She hesitated but then sighed. “Swan.” 

Swan. He liked it. It suited her, perhaps even more than Emma. But he didn’t tell her that. She lay beside him for another moment and then stood up, dressing and grabbing her things. He had to admit he’d never tire of watching her walk around his room naked as she got ready to leave. 

“When we do this next time - if we do this -” she corrected herself. “We're gonna do it at my place so I can fall asleep while you get your shit and take an Uber in the middle of the night.” 

“Fine by me.” 

“Cool. Okay, well, thanks for the sex. See ya, maybe.” 

“Feel free to message me next time you’re horny,” he waved as she headed out of the room, a ghost of a smile just caught on her face.

***

It was a week before he heard from her again. His phone lit up with an unknown number, the sound of it vibrating against his bedside table having woken him from his sleep. Squinting at the screen, he’d tried to make sense of her message. re u awaje? 

What? He debated deleting it, thinking it was spam before he remembered that he’d given Emma his number. The ellipses of someone typing showed up on the bottom of his screen for a very long time, as though someone were writing a lengthy message. 

are you awake? He tried not to laugh at the obvious effort it had taken her to type the message with no spelling mistakes. 

Swan?

yeh. are you awake?

Obviously, or I wouldn’t be answering… 

The ellipses returned, and then two messages followed in rapid succession. 

You’re an asshole.

Come over 

Killian glanced at the time. It was after 2AM. Another text: an eggplant emoji. He wished he could say that he thought about it, even for a little bit longer than he did, but he was already typing when she sent him three water droplets. Where are you?

my place

He sighed. Yes, I gathered that; I don’t know where you live. 

you even text like an old man. who uses the dot comma thing in a text?

A semicolon. Adults do, Swan. She sent him an eye rolling emoji, but it was followed by an address. He was surprised at how close they lived to each other. It was a small town, he supposed. On my way.

hurry up

Killian didn’t have to be told twice, jumping out of bed and finding something to wear before getting into his truck and making his way the few blocks to her apartment. There were no names on the apartment numbers in the lobby and it was almost two thirty. He really didn’t want to risk waking up an irate neighbor, so he pulled out his phone and called the number he’d saved as Swan in his contacts. When she didn’t answer he called again. 

“Why the hell are you calling me?” 

“Lovely to hear your voice too, love.” She really wasn’t kidding about the not calling thing. “I’m downstairs. I don’t know which number to buzz.” 

“Oh,” she said, sounding mollified. “108. I’ll let you up.” He couldn’t fight the silly grin that tugged at his lips the whole way up to her apartment, biting it down as he knocked.

She’d barely opened the door, barely given him the chance to step inside before she was on him, cutting off his greeting with her mouth. Her hands caught hold of his lapels, dragging him into the hallway and he only stumbled after her for a second before kicking the door shut behind him and turning them so he could press her against the wall beside it. It wasn’t until she was shoving his jacket from his shoulders and he noted the taste of whiskey on her tongue that he pulled back. 

“Hey!” Emma protested, trying to drag him back to her.

“Wait.”

“No thanks.” She tried to kiss him again.

“How much have you had to drink tonight?” 

“Like three - maybe four?” she answered offhandedly, rising up on her toes to try to catch his lips. “I dunno. It was a while ago.” 

“Perhaps this isn’t a good idea.” 

“What? Why?”

“You’re drunk, love.” 

“Oh my god,” she sighed, dragging out the last word and rolling her eyes. “I’m fine. I’m barely drunk. And I’ve had sex drunker.” When he didn’t answer she finally pulled back, crossing her arms and leveling him with a look. “You said I could message you next time I was horny. Drinking makes me horny.” 

“I did but…” 

“Hey, look,” she said, putting a hand on his chest and giving him a sympathetic look that was just slightly endearing in her state. “I don’t wanna make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with. So we don’t have to do this and you can just go and I’ll text someone else. No big deal.” Her smile was a light and silly. “You’re just really good at it so I texted you first,” she shrugged. 

“Wait, hold on.” He followed her as she walked away towards the kitchen where her phone was. “Emma,” he insisted, taking the phone from her hand as she unlocked it.

“Hey! That’s mine.” He tried not to laugh at her childish frown, tried to take it seriously. He wasn’t going to just let her call some random guy to come over and do god knows what. Killian wasn’t perfect but at least he knew she was safe with him. He didn’t like the idea of not knowing if she was without him. 

“Maybe we should get you some water and get you in bed.”

“Now you’re talking,” she beamed, grabbing for his shirt again. 

He smirked. “I meant to sleep.” 

“Nuh-uh. This is not gonna be some cute little moment where you tuck me in and kiss my forehead and nothing happens,” she said, gesturing between them. “That’s not what we are. That’s a friends move. That’s a boyfriend move,” she said, making a disgusted face. “If you wanna stay we’re boning.” 

Killian laughed. “Boning?” 

“Mhm. Boning.” Her hands slid up around his shoulders, her smile and limbs still relaxed and lazy, her eyes mostly clear and heavy lidded as they met his, and his hands reached for her waist on their own. 

“Trust me, Swan, I absolutely want to stay. Only you’ve been drinking -”

“A little,” she interrupted.

“And I haven’t.” 

Emma perked up at that. “I’ve got the perfect solution!” Then she was running to a cabinet and pulling out a bottle of dark liquor. “Problem solved,” she beamed. 

Killian chuckled. “You want to get me drunk?” 

“Do you want me to want to get you drunk?” she smirked, raising a brow. 

“... A little.” 

She turned, grabbing two tumblers and filling them halfway. “What?” she asked when he eyed her as she picked one up and handed it to him, keeping the other. “I’m gonna let you catch up but I don’t want to lose my buzz.” 

It was probably a bad idea, but Killian brought the glass to his lips and drank. 

The problem with Emma trying to keep her buzz, Killian realized, was that he couldn’t seem to catch up to her. The fact that she was only in her mid to late twenties and about a hundred pounds soaking wet probably didn’t help either. By the time he was tipsy, she was a little drunk, giggling and silly. By the time he was giggling and silly, she was hyped up, putting on music and insisting they dance. And by the time he was hyped up enough to dance, she was swaying in his arms in that lovely, careless way that felt like being high. 

That was when they finally got on the same level, when he stopped her from having another drink while he had a few more and she laughed at all his ‘old-fashioned’ dance moves and he called her jealous. The world was fuzzy around the edges, but in a pleasant way and she was right at the center of it, vivid and bright and happier than he’d ever seen her. She kissed him, slow and lazy and without purpose before letting him twirl her around to his ‘grocery store music’ as she’d dubbed it. 

She kissed him again, breathing deep, arms draping over his shoulders and fingers playing absentmindedly with his hair. His hands found her back, palms sliding up over her shirt, pressing her to him as his tongue sought out her own in a slow, lazy caress. 

Somehow they ended up on her couch, Emma sat astride him, the weight of her warm and pleasant in his lap as she continued to kiss him. He had the fleeting thought that this was the longest he’d spent kissing a woman - only kissing - since Milah, and it didn’t hurt him the way he expected it to. Didn’t feel like a betrayal the way he’d always expected it to. 

“My legs are asleep,” she mumbled against his lips and he found himself disproportionately concerned about it. He turned them so she could lay back on the cushions, an awkward, giggly shuffle passing between them as he tried to find a way to settle comfortably beside her. When he finally did, wedged between her and the back of the sofa, he pulled her back to him, not quite done kissing her yet. 

His eyes and limbs were growing tired, heavy with the early hour of the morning and the alcohol buzzing in his veins, but not in a bad way, in a cozy, soft way that had him reaching for her, seeking more. It was like making love in the morning, when the world hadn’t sunk in yet and bodies were still relaxed from sleep. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that until now. Emma hummed in pleasure, her own soft sounds matching his mood, as he trailed his mouth to her neck, tongue and lips drawing lazy patterns over her skin and she arched into him.

“Touch me,” she sighed and he chuckled softly against her collarbone that she could still be demanding even when both of them were being so temptingly pulled towards sleep. His hand found her breast over her shirt, teasing gently, enjoying the weight of it in his hand. “That’s nice,” she breathed dreamily, and rolled her hips against his, leg hooked over his own. 

Killian hummed at the warm, slow wave of desire that settled in his stomach. “That’s nice too.”

“I’m sleepy,” she told him and he nodded into her neck, eyes having drifted shut long ago. “We can’t fall asleep though,” she insisted, voice growing quieter, breath steadier and deeper. 

“No,” he agreed. “Breaking the rules.” But neither of them moved. 

“We gotta bone,” she reminded him, words so mumbled that he barely caught them. 

“Mhm. Absolutely,” he breathed into her skin as the world drifted further and further away. 

When he opened his eyes again it was morning. It took him a moment to figure out where he was, to figure out why his back was sore and his arm was numb until he noticed the beautiful woman tucked against him, still asleep.

“Shit,” he cursed, realizing their mistake and sitting up quickly. “Oh fuck,” he cursed then as the sharp, splitting pain sliced through his head. Oh god. His head, and his back and his stomach. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. His mouth felt and tasted like sandpaper. He was pretty sure he must be dying. 

Emma stirred, looking over her shoulder at him. “Killian?” she frowned, still half-asleep. And then he saw it hit her. “Oh shit!” 

“Shhh,” he begged, holding his head, eyes squeezing shut against the light. “Please.” 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice at least lower. “It’s morning.” 

“I’m aware,” he said with more sarcasm that he probably would have otherwise. “I swear I was just trying to sneak out but then my brain decided to have an aneurysm.” 

She sat up, pulling one of his hands away and making him look at her. He struggled to keep his eyes open but noticed the concerned line forming her brows. “Are you okay?” 

He nodded. “Hangover. Much, much worse after forty.” He saw her press her lips together against a smile, the effort not to mock him clearly immense. 

Killian waved weakly. “Could you save any age jokes for later? Write them down or something. I’m sure they’ll be just as hilarious when I’ve stopped dying.” 

She huffed out a little laugh. “You’re not dying.” Standing, he heard her walk out of the room, heard the incredibly loud sounds of a cupboard being open and a glass clanking against another and then the tap before she was back and holding out a cup of water for him. “Drink,” she ordered and he took it gratefully. 

“Thank you,” he rasped, downing the whole thing in one shot. 

“What’s your hangover cure?” Emma asked. “Maybe I’ve got it here.” 

He chuckled humorlessly. “Those stop working after thirty, I’m afraid.” 

“What?” 

“Shhh.”

“Sorry.” 

“Just give me a second, I’ll be out of your hair,” he promised.

“Killian, can you even drive like this?”

He laughed and it hurt. “It’s a hangover, love, not a head injury.”

“You could still be drunk.” 

“I don’t think it would hurt this much if I was.” 

“Just…” she hesitated, sighing, “stay until it passes okay? Or at least isn’t so bad that you can’t open your eyes.” He tried to open them to make a point, but ended up making hers instead as he winced in pain. “Hold on, I’ll get you some Tylenol.” 

She came back with another glass of water and some pills and he took those gratefully as well, glancing at her out of the corner of one half-closed eye. “You’re just fine aren’t you?” 

Emma shrugged. “I’m a bit tired. And I could go for a grilled cheese.” His stomach rolled at the mention of grease and bread and dairy.

“I’ll be fine. I just need a minute for the world to stop spinning.” 

“Killian…” 

“I can call a taxi if it makes you feel better.”

“What about your car?” 

“I’ll come back for it tonight.” He gave her his best attempt at a seductive smile. “Maybe I can make it up to you for last night too.”

She laughed. “If you’re conscious.” 

“No promises.” 

“Last night was fun,” she said to his surprise, shrugging. “Definitely shouldn’t happen again, but so long as you’re not in love with me now, no harm no foul.” 

“Aye,” he chuckled. “Not in the slightest. But next time I agree to get drunk with you, don’t let me.” 

Emma held both hands up in defense. “Hey, you were the one who wouldn’t hook up with me unless you were drunk too.” 

“Call me old fashioned but one doesn’t take advantage of inebriated women who barely know him. Even if she is begging for it,” he added with a quirk to his lips. 

“Please,” she scoffed. “I’m pretty sure I offered to call someone else. I wouldn’t call that begging.” There was a pause. “For the next time though, I’m giving you permission to hook up with me when I’m drunk,” she declared, smiling ruefully at him. “You are a non-stranger after all.” 

“Good to know. But perhaps nothing we haven’t already done before.” 

She fought a giggle. “Well, you know what they said about old dogs and new tricks.” 

“Write it down, Swan,” he sighed. “I’ll laugh later.” 

***

Emma gasped with pleasure as she moved over him, nails scratching down his chest when he canted his hips up into her, making him hiss at the red lines that appeared beneath the dark and silver hair that blanketed his skin. It had become a regular sort of thing, sleeping with Killian. Over the past few months they’d gotten in the habit of meeting several times a week, sometimes meeting before to hang out with their now mutual friends at a bar or a restaurant, sometimes having dinner or breakfast together after - because they had to eat, didn’t they?

She tried to remember the last time she’d hooked up with someone else and couldn’t, realizing it must have been before they’d started their agrangement. It was just so much easier, more convenient to have someone she could call who was almost always available and willing to meet. Someone who knew her body so well that she didn’t have to explain it to him, she loathed the idea of having to talk someone through how to get her off like she always used to need to, and that was without the guarantee that they’d succeed. 

And the truth was, he wasn’t terrible company. Yes, he had awful taste in music and he turned his nose up at her love of junk food, and he sometimes made references to shows or movies she’d never heard of, but he was fun, and nice and made her laugh, and he was so goddamn sexy. 

She didn’t know when she’d developed such a weakness for the silver at his temples and flecked through his beard, or the way his body was soft and hard at the same time, muscles strong from labor working down at the docks rather than hours spent at the gym. And he cooked, and he dirty talked like a character out of a Victorian romance novel and Emma didn’t know if it was all older men or if it was just him, but she found herself craving it all the time, craving him. The fact that he was also so amazing in bed just seemed unfair. 

He flipped her over onto her back, hooking an arm around each of her thighs and kneeling between them, dragging her towards him until her hips were in the air, shoving a pillow under her ass and driving back into her.

“Fucking fuck,” she swore at the change in angle, toes curling into the sheets. How had they not tried this before? How had she not tried this with anyone before? That was the thing. Why would she sleep with anyone else when this was what she got with him? She could make all the jokes she wanted to about his age (and she did) but she would be forever grateful for his years of experience on her. Emma was far from inexperienced, but still he found things to teach her, new ways to make her fall apart.

“I need you to come, love,” he groaned, brow pinched tight, taking her hand and bringing it to her center, urging her to touch herself. “I’m not going to last much longer.” She nodded, face turned into the pillow biting her lip hard, her climax already building as they worked together to bring her over the edge. “That’s it,” he praised, the lines of his neck going taut as he held himself back and she cried out, back arching off the bed with the shock of her orgasm ripping through her. 

Killian followed, crying out his release before collapsing beside her, arm draped across her stomach, legs still tangled. They never cuddled, never even held each other. That was against the rules; it would be crossing a line. But these few moments right after finishing, when they were both spent and boneless and relaxed, when she liked to be touched and he liked to touch, this small amount of intimacy was allowed. 

“Are you staying over?” he asked when he’d gotten up and gotten rid of the condom, bringing her a cloth. 

“You could just stay here,” he’d offered a couple of weeks after the night they got drunk together. Emma had been at his place and they’d lost track of time and it was nearly three in the morning by the time she realized she should leave. She’d frozen, staring at him in disbelief. “Look, I invited you over here after midnight and now the bus has stopped running and it’s too late to walk and the Uber ride is a waste of money. Besides, we slept together before, remember? It didn’t change anything. I’m not in love with you,” his grin was rueful. “I’m just offering you a place to crash.” 

She’d eyed him wearily. “You’re not gonna try to like… cuddle me, are you?”

Killian had rolled his eyes. “I can sleep in the guest room if you’d rather.” (He hadn’t.) “And you can sneak out before I wake up,” he added with a cheeky smirk when she still hesitated. 

“Yeah, okay,” she’d agreed. And, after they’d woken up on opposite sides of the bed and he’d gone on to wish her good morning with his head between her thighs, the occasional sleepover had been deemed acceptable.  

Emma shook her head. “Mary Margaret’s coming over for breakfast tomorrow. I don’t want to have to wake up early enough to go home and make myself look like I didn’t spend the night fucking her husband’s best friend.”

He waggled his brows with a cocky grin. “Think she’d be jealous?” 

“You wish,” she laughed, tossing her pillow at him as she got up to gather her clothes.

“Do you still need a ride to Robin’s barbecue on Sunday?” 

“Yes, please,” Emma nodded, sitting down to pull her boots on. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Hardly a detour.” 

“Awesome, thanks,” she said, standing and pulling on her jacket. “And thanks for the sex,” she added, making that private little smile cross his lips. She wasn’t sure when exactly it had become an inside joke. He’d said it the first time he left her place after hooking up, making fun of her words that night after the bar when they’d both broken their rules for the first time. Now it was just the way they said goodbye, and it always made them grin like idiots. 

“Anytime.”

***

“Emma,” Mary Margaret ventured carefully. “Are you seeing someone?” 

Emma froze. “What? No. Why would you ask that?”

“You have a drawer of men’s clothes in your dresser.” Shit. She’d forgotten about that when she’d told her friend to go ahead and grab the shirt she wanted to borrow for tomorrow’s barbecue. 

“That’s just - sometimes guys leave things behind,” she lied poorly. By now her friend had given up her matchmaking efforts, realizing that Emma wasn’t a relationship type of woman and that her efforts were fruitless. “They’re like trophies,” she laughed, hoping she’d buy it. 

“You keep their boxers?” Mary Margaret questioned, not buying it one bit after all. “And they just leave your place without their shirts on?” 

“I…” 

Emma didn’t know how to get around this one. She should have said that they were hers, that she liked to sleep in them or something. But she was pretty sure there was a pair of jeans in there too and she’d already chosen the wrong lie. 

The fact was that after a few months Emma had started keeping a few little things at Killian’s apartment. Just leave some stuff here if you like. No sense in you carrying a bag with a whole separate outfit every time you come over. I know you hate putting the same clothes back on in the mornings. After a while, she’d offered him the same courtesy, and before either of them knew it, they each had a small, dedicated drawer with their things in the other’s apartment… and a toothbrush. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” her friend promised. “I was just curious.” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Okay. But…” she ventured. “Would it really be so bad if it were?” 

Yes. It would be. The last time Emma had had feelings for someone, had been in a relationship, had loved someone, he’d sent her to jail for his crime. Maybe love was easy for someone like Mary Margaret, but for her, it was a threat, a weapon to be used against her. She knew that it led to nothing but pain and loss. So did Killian. It was the reason they worked so well, why their arrangement was possible. They understood each other. 

“You know, they’re not all like him,” her friend added when she didn’t answer. 

“Like who?”

“Whoever it was that hurt you.”

Maybe they weren’t, she acknowledged. But she wasn’t willing to risk betting on the wrong one. Not again. Never again. 

***

“Killian, what the hell?” Emma demanded when he showed up at his house the next day. He’d called her that morning asking if she could meet him at his place for the ride to Robin’s rather than him picking her up.

He stared at her blankly. “What?” 

“What the fuck happened to you?” He looked down at his arm, currently wrapped up in a sling, like he’d forgotten about it. 

“Oh this? I dislocated it yesterday at work,” he shrugged with his good shoulder. “...Wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing and - what?” 

“I didn’t know you were hurt,” she got out weakly. 

“I’m fine. It’s happened before. I just walked myself to the hospital and they fixed it up right quick. Really, it’s nothing.” 

“You walked yourself? You were alone?” She didn’t know why it upset her so much, she could tell how irrational she was being, but the thought of him in the hospital, in pain, alone… He’d been hurt. He’d been hurt and she hadn’t known about it and now she had unwelcome stupid tears burning at the back of her eyes and anger burning in her skin.

“What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong is you should have told me! I could have helped, given you a ride or something -”

“You don’t have a car, love.”

“That’s not the point! The point is when you get hurt you’re supposed to call the people in your life so that they know you’re okay! You’re supposed to call your friends so they can help! Or at the very least so you don’t have to be alone when it happens!” 

 “Okay,” he said gently, soothingly, reaching for her and wrapping his uninjured arm around her shoulders to pull her to his chest. “Okay, I’m sorry.” He rested his chin on the crown of her head, and she tucked her cheek against his neck. “I’m really okay,” he assured her again. “I only have to wear this thing for another day or two and then I’m right as rain.” 

Emma nodded. “Just tell me next time so I don’t show up and see you like this and start imagining the worst.” 

“I promise. But I’m an old man, love,” he teased and she could hear his smirk even if she couldn’t see it. “I fall apart all the time.”

“All the more reason,” she grumbled, pulling back, feeling normal again. “Plus,” she teased, “don’t you know that getting hurt means you get sympathy sex?” 

He gaped at her. “Well if I’d known that I’d have called right away!” 

“Too little too late,” she shrugged. 

“I don’t know about too little…” Emma rolled her eyes as he laughed at his own joke. “You’re going to have to drive though,” Killian told her, handing her his keys. “That’s why I asked you to come here.” 

“And you still didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” She shook her head at him in disbelief. 

“I said I was sorry,” he reminded her as they walked out to his car. Once they were inside and she’d adjusted the seat so she could see over the hood of the massive truck, she found him grinning at her, amused. 

“What?” 

“So we’re friends now, are we?” 

“Shut up,” she grumbled, annoyed at how smug he seemed to be feeling, turning the engine over and starting the car. “You know we are.” 

It wouldn’t be until a few weeks later, when she’d get a call from the hospital, telling her that Killian had come in with a cracked rib that she’d realize he’d put her down as his emergency contact. 

“I was afraid of what would happen if I forgot to call you,” he’d tell her, the slightly teasing chuckle dying away when he winced in pain. 

“He’s on a healthy dose of pain meds,” the nurse would tell her. “He’ll need you to drive him home. 

She’d tell Killian he was an idiot, ask him what the hell he and the guys were thinking when he’d tell her it happened falling through the kitchen window of Will’s house when the two of them, David, and Rob had gotten themselves locked out after a few too many drinks.

“It’s not my fault Will lost his keys!” he’d insist, offended. “Also, this is not the treatment I was promised if I called you when I was injured,” he’d pout, drugs making him loopy and ridiculous. “I thought you were supposed to take care of me and feel bad for me… not yell at me. Don’t I get pity sex?”

She would roll her eyes at him like she had a hundred times and would a hundred more. “Not when you’re a fucking idiot you don’t.”

***

“So what’s up with you and Emma?” Will asked that afternoon at the barbecue, handing Killian a beer and clinking his own against it as they stood on the deck waiting for the burgers and hot dogs to be done. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Mate, you arrived here together. You always arrive places together. We can’t invite one of you out without the other one just showing up anymore. You’re a bloody packaged deal.” 

Killian scoffed. “She doesn’t have a car. And we’re friends. So what?” 

“Bollocks. We’re friends and I don’t see you lookin’ at me like you’re tryna figure out what bloody undies I’m wearing.” 

“That’s because she looks like that,” Killian explained, gesturing to Emma who was laughing with Ruby and wearing an unbearably small sundress. “And you’re an ugly hobgoblin.” 

“So you’re shagging her then,” Will concluded and Killian nearly choked on his beer. “Bit young for you ain’t she?” He didn’t answer. Not wanting to risk giving away anything unintentionally. “Well, whatever you guys are doing, you better figure it out quick. You’re getting too old to keep picking up women in their twenties - especially women like her. You better lock it down before you can’t get anyone at all.” 

“Cheers, mate.”

Will beamed. “Anytime.” 

When Emma drove them home that night, Killian didn’t miss the smug look Will shot him. 

***

“What about this one?” Emma asked, dragging him to another car in the lot, this one an old red Mini Cooper that was definitely priced for more than it was worth. 

“Swan, you can’t just keep picking cars based on how ‘cute’ they are.” 

“First of all,” she said, looking up from the window she’d been peering in and holding up a finger. “That’s sexist. And second of all,” another finger. “Yes, I can.” 

“It’ll cost you a fortune in upkeep,” he explained. “All these fancy foreign cars will. You have to special order the parts.” 

“Fine,” she sighed. “What do you suggest then?” 

“A Delaurian. So we can skip ahead to the end of this whole day.”

He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten roped into going used car shopping with Emma this weekend. He wasn’t even sure she’d even asked him, she’d just kind of… implied they were going and then he’d been picking her up and driving her to the lot. A whole Saturday wasted. He only got every other one off of work. 

“I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” 

“Come on, Killian. I don’t know anything about cars. I need your help or they’re gonna try to scam me because I’m young and cute.” She gestured at herself like it was undeniable and completely out of her control.

“And what does that make me?” he asked, small smile tugging at his lips. Emma smirked, biting her lip against a grin in a way that she knew drove him crazy as she sauntered over to him. 

“Mature. And sexy,” she answered, stroking his ego and he let her even though he knew she was doing it to get what she wanted. She combed her fingers through the hair at his temple, the silver she seemed so fond of. “Dashing.” Okay, now she was really trying to play him. “And,” she added, fingers dancing over his chest along the buttons of his shirt. “The guy who’s probably gonna get laid in the back of whatever car he helps me pick today…” she trailed off suggestively. 

“Let’s try over here,” he suggested immediately, taking her hand and leading her towards a set of newer models, her giggle trailing behind him the whole way.

“Wait! Hold on,” she said, stopping abruptly and nearly ripping his only recently healed arm out of its socket. “This is the one.” 

“Which one?” he asked, scanning the row of cars before them, following her gaze to the one she’d fixated on. “That one?” 

“Yeah. That one. That’s my car.” Killian cocked his head at the old, beat up VW Beetle. “Can’t you picture me in it?” He could. The yellow bug was somehow very fitting. But he could also picture her in it when it broke down, stranded on the side of the road somewhere when the engine decided to give out. 

“It’s like I said with the Mini, love. It’ll cost a fortune in repairs. Especially a vintage one like this. 

“I don’t care. I love it. It’s a good car.” 

He sighed, knowing there was no winning this battle. There was no winning any battle with Emma, not when she’d set her sights on something and especially not when she’d declared she loved it. Killian went around to the back, popping open the compartment and taking a look at the engine. He had to admit it was in pretty good shape. As was the mileage when he checked it. 

“I’m right aren’t I?” she asked, pleased with herself when she saw his expression after he’d finished his inspection. “It’s a good car?” 

“It’s a good car,” he agreed. “And a good price too. But you could probably negotiate.” 

“Or you could negotiate for me.” Her smile was sickly sweet and he shook his head, chuckling. 

“Swan…” 

“Killian…” 

“You negotiate. I’ll stand by and make sure you don’t get swindled, alright? You’re a tough lass. Don’t let him underestimate you.” 

The look that crossed her face was unreadable, unfamiliar to him even after knowing her all these months. He wondered how often someone had bothered to tell her that she was strong, that she was capable. It hurt a little bit to see how strongly such a simple truth affected her. He wanted to do more but he wasn’t sure what. Hug her? Take her hand? Kiss her? Luckily the salesman came and joined them before he could do anything so stupid. 

In the end, she’d gotten a pretty good deal, even used his argument about the upkeep as a way to talk the guy down in price. Within an hour she’d signed the paperwork and was being handed the keys. Killian couldn’t help the smile on his face at the sight of her own shining bright and proud and accomplished. 

“Not too shabby, huh?” she asked. 

“Aye, it seems we make quite the team, Swan.” 

“Come on, get in,” she told him, pulling open the driver’s side door for herself. 

“I drove us here,” he reminded her, laughing. “I can’t just leave my truck behind.” 

Her smirk was playful and wicked and it sent his blood rushing. “I just thought you’d want to let me give you a ride. It looks like it’s got some pretty spacious backseats but -” 

He was already yanking the passenger door open. And when they were pulled over on a quiet road, Emma’s hips rocking over his as she gripped the headrest and cried out his name, he decided that there were worse ways to waste a Saturday. 

***

“I need to ask you a favor,” Emma hedged when they were in bed one afternoon draping herself across his back, looking at him over his shoulder. 

“Oh?” He tilted his head towards her, amused brow lifted. “The fun kind?” 

She pressed her nose to his shoulder blade, hiding her face, teeth closing gently over the skin there. “No… the real kind.” He waited and Emma tried to muster up the courage to ask. She wasn’t sure if this was breaking the rules. Technically it probably wasn’t but it felt dangerously close. “I have to go home to Boston next weekend… for a wedding.” 

“And?” he pressed. She hid her face again, horribly embarrassed. 

“My ex is going to be there.” She could remember the dull, empty feeling in her chest when Elsa had called her with the news. 

Anna, the bride and four years younger than her and Elsa, didn’t know the truth of what happened between her and Neal, too young at the time to understand, and they’d never told her. They’d only said then that Emma had needed to go away to a different home for a while - far away. By the time she was old enough, Emma had just wanted to forget it. “Apparently he plays hockey with the groom.” 

“Do you have to go?” 

“Yeah,” she sighed, laying her cheek on his shoulder. “She’s my foster sister.”

Killian turned then, rising from where he’d been laying on his stomach, arms crossed under his head, and propping himself on his elbow to look at her. “I didn’t know you had a foster sister.” 

Emma nodded. “I have two. Well, technically I had a lot more than two but they were the ones I was with the longest.” And at the end. 

“And you can’t ask your sister to uninvite him because…” 

“Because I’d have to tell her what he did and then she’d be upset and I don’t want to cause a whole drama around her wedding day.” 

“What did he do?” Killian frowned, trepidation marring his brow, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know or was afraid of her answer. Emma wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him. But she remembered the honesty he’d offered her about his wife that night he’d asked to see her again. He’d shown her why he was broken, why love couldn’t work for him anymore. Now it was her turn. 

“He framed me for a crime he committed.” His mouth fell open, shock and anger obvious in his expression and something else she couldn’t read. “It could have been worse. I had to do a year in juvie. He’d have had to do real time so I guess he figured if I -” 

“Juvie?” he demanded, sitting up. “How old were you?” 

“Seventeen.” 

“And when you say he’d have had to do real time, that’s because he… ” he pressed, his jaw and shoulders tight. 

“Wasn’t seventeen,” she confirmed. 

“How old was he?” Killian asked, and Emma couldn’t name the feeling that crossed his expression or the one that settled in her chest. 

“Twenty four - twenty five?” She’d never actually been sure of Neal’s age. She’d only known that he was older and interested in her and she’d felt special because of it, mature. 

Emma didn’t tell this story very often, and rarely did she get the same reaction twice. But she’d never seen anything like the outrage and fury that was burning through Killian. Maybe close, in Elsa, but they’d been teenagers then; they hadn’t really comprehended just how fucked up what Neal did really was. 

“Is the favor to take out a hit on the guy? Because I must say I’m not entirely opposed to the idea.” 

Even as anger flared in his eyes, his hand was gentle against her cheek, tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear and she was overwhelmed by the desire to keep him there, to press her cheek into his palm and let him comfort her, let him be angry on her behalf. She wanted to tell him more, let him know the truth of who she’d been and all the shitty things that had happened to her when she was young. She wanted him to care - like she cared when something bad happened to him. 

“No.” She shook her head. What she wanted to ask was somehow more nerve wracking than murder. “I was hoping… you’d come with me.” 

He seemed surprised. “As your date?” 

“As my friend,” Emma corrected. “With benefits,” she added with a little smirk. A small one pulled at his lips too. 

“I thought you ‘didn’t do’ friends with benefits.” 

“Well, you’re my friend and we fuck,” she laughed. “What would you call yourself?” 

His arm wrapped around her waist, dragging her to him. “A bloody lucky bastard,” he smirked suggestively, teeth nipping at her shoulder before nosing at her collarbone. “So you  want to what? Make him jealous? Confront him?” 

“No, I want to avoid him at all costs.” 

“So you need me to..?” 

“I don’t know, distract me I guess? Stop me from doing something stupid?” They both knew that wasn’t the real reason. She could ask anybody to go with her for that. But she wanted him there. She wanted him to be the one to help her face this because nobody else made her feel like she could. “I just want,” she started, looking away, avoiding his gaze, fixated on picking at a nail bed as she admitted, “to feel safe.” 

“When is it?” Her eyes snapped up to his, having half expected him to say no, but his expression was soft, kind. 

“Saturday. I know you work though so if -”

“I’ll figure it out,” he promised and Emma found herself doing something she never imagined. She hugged him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as she shifted forward into his lap. Both of them were still naked, but his hand only stroked the length of her back, the other holding her to him. 

“Thank you,” she sighed, voice small in the quiet room. He turned his head, kissed her neck. Her heart raced, a flutter of something other than lust. 

“I’m your friend, Swan,” he said softly. “I don’t ever want you to feel unsafe. Besides,” he added and she could feel his grin against her skin. “In addition to being an excellent lover,” Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m also an excellent dancer, which is essential in a wedding date.” 

She laughed. “You know I’ve seen you dance right? You can just be one of those awkward dudes who spends the whole night at the table.” 

“Out of the question,” he refused, flipping her onto her back easily and she squealed. “Though you raise a good point. We definitely need some ground rules.” 

“Like what?” 

“If I see this ex, am I allowed to hit him?” 

She giggled. “No. Probably not.”

“Hmm. So then light maiming is probably out of the question too?”

“Killian.”

“Fine. I won’t hurt him. Perhaps I’ll just… threaten him a little.” 

“You’re gonna be with me, helping me steer clear of him, remember?” 

“Ah yes. Which brings up another set of rules. For instance, are we telling people we’re ‘friends who fuck’, as you so eloquently put it?” He leaned down to press a kiss below her ear. 

“Absolutely not,” she groaned and he nodded. 

“So I take it that means I can’t kiss you,” Killian continued, catching her lips as she began to shake her head. It was a slow, drawn out, heated kiss, mouth slanting over hers and tongue teasing her own. 

“No,” she answered shakily, panting when he pulled back. 

“Not here either then,” he continued, mouth trailing the length of her neck to her collarbone. “Or here,” he agreed, moving between her breasts and over her stomach.

“Uh-uh,” she shook her head, the sound coming out breathy and wanton. 

“And what about touching?” he asked, looking up. “Can I touch you?”

“Depends.” His hand slid over her waist and she nodded, then up her arm and over her shoulder and she nodded again. Then his playful smile turned wicked as he dragged his palm down over her breast, gathering it in his hand and pinching her nipple between two fingers.

She let out a small moan. “I think that’s generally frowned upon in polite society.”

“Aye, you’re probably right. So is this,” he added, pulling her other nipple into his mouth and tormenting it with his tongue. “So that’s out of the question.”

“Mhm,” she agreed weakly, grunting in annoyance when he pulled away. 

“Here?” His hand started a slow journey across her stomach and she nodded, continued to nod every time he looked up at her, brow raised in amusement. When his fingers slipped through her folds and she sucked in a breath, he gaped at her with false shock. “I can touch you here?” Killian gasped, sliding a finger inside of her and she shook her head even as her lip caught between her teeth. 

“You can kiss me there.” 

“At the wedding?!” he demanded, sounding scandalized. 

“Now.”

“Well alright,” he conceded, lips pressing to her thigh. “But don’t blame me if I get confused on the night of.” Then he slid his tongue over her clit and she really didn’t think she’d even care if he did. 

***

Emma was radiant, her long, silky gown falling perfectly over her curves, the soft, pale skin of her arms and back exposed, golden hair curling down to her waist. Killian couldn’t take his eyes off her. Standing with her in his one good suit, the same one he’d worn to David and Mary Margaret’s wedding almost a decade ago, he felt both unworthy of and bloody lucky to be the one on her arm tonight. 

He’d met one of her sisters and some of her friends, all of whom had looked at him in shock and then at Emma in disbelief as she introduced him. It didn’t take long for Killian to realize that, like himself, Emma was more the type to leave a wedding with a date than arrive with one. And from the way she was squeezing his hand, white knuckled as they made their way towards their seats for the ceremony, it was clear that she really had been terrified of coming here alone to have broken that pattern and asked him. 

“You alright?” he whispered against her temple as they sat. She nodded distractedly and then tensed and he tried to follow her gaze across to the groom’s side. He was the one to squeeze her hand this time. “It’s gonna be okay,” he promised and she nodded, somewhat focused on him this time. “Which one is he?”

Emma tilted her head across the aisle, only a few rows back. “Him. In the brown suit.” 

Killian searched the crowd, finally finding the man in question and it took everything in him not to let his anger get the better of him. That bastard had been with a teenage girl as an adult and he’d used her and sent her to jail to save his own ass and now here he sat, completely carefree and without consequence. But Emma didn’t need him to be angry right now. He’d promised to distract her. 

“Him?” he repeated, scrunching his brow in disbelief. “Really? Had you not started wearing your glasses yet?” He saw her press her lips together against a smile. “Clearly your tastes have improved or I need to re-evaluate my self-image.” 

“Stop it,” she smirked, hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Don’t make me laugh.” But even as she said it she bit her lip, shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed giggles. 

“But I am prettier than him, right?” he insisted.

“He’ll hear you!” she whisper-hissed at him, still trying to get herself under control. He did hear them, the man looking up and spotting Emma. A look Killian didn’t like crossed his eyes, expectant, like he assumed she’d be desperate to meet his gaze. Killian reached out, wrapping his hand posessively around Emma’s thigh and her breath hitched, lip slipping between her teeth again. The smugness in Neal’s expression weakened, doubt creeping in, and jealousy. Good.

“If you’re gonna keep your hand there for the whole ceremony you better be planning to follow through tonight,” she warned him, voice low so only he could hear. He smirked, sliding it higher, running his thumb over the silky material that hid her skin from him. Emma cast a glance around the room, checking for onlookers and finding none - apart from Neal perhaps - and parting her legs just a fraction. 

“Rest assured, love, I have many things I plan on following through with tonight.” 

***

“You’re not going to go try catch the bouquet?” Killian teased her when Anna was getting ready to throw it, all the single women there lined up in hopes of catching it. 

Emma scoffed. “Not on your life.”

“It’s tradition!”

“So is the groom taking the bride’s garter off with his teeth and then flinging it at a bunch of dudes,” she pointed out, eyebrow raised. 

He smirked. “Point taken. I prefer to keep all the garters I remove to myself.” 

“Is it hard? That women don’t wear garters and petticoats like when you were young?” 

“Watch it,” he warned, hand at her waist pinching her side and she giggled. 

He was surprised at how well the evening had gone so far. He’d managed to keep her distracted like he promised, had done his best to charm her friends and subtly steer her in another direction whenever Neal was near. 

The death grip she had on his hand before hadn’t returned, but he couldn’t help noticing that every now and then her fingers would slip between his own, or that when he reached for hers she didn’t pull away. He also couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t mind it, that he even liked it. He also liked standing here with her now, arms wrapped around her waist as she leaned back against him. 

Both of them were a little giggly off of champagne toasts, though Killian feeling more drunk off the smell of the skin at her neck that he kept turning his nose into than the wine. He hummed at the way she shivered when he brushed his lips against the spot below her ear, her neck tilting a little to give him more room. 

“I thought we agreed that was a bad wedding kiss,” she reminded him. 

“Did we?” he asked and she sucked in a breath, hands tightening in the sleeves of his suit jacket when he dragged his teeth over the spot. “It’s my memory, love; it starts to go with age.” He kissed her again and she sunk into him a little, ass pressing back against the front of his pants and he had to remind himself that they were in public. “What’s an appropriate amount of time before we can make an Irish goodbye and head back to that hotel room you so graciously booked?” 

“After the cake,” she said so quickly that he laughed against her neck.

“Hungry?”

“It’s free cake!” 

“If I buy you cake, can we leave earlier?” He let his fingers trail a little higher, over her ribs, the fabric of her dress slippery and soft under his touch. Emma caught his wandering hands, holding them firmly at a more appropriate level - but still around her, he noted. 

“Maybe. What kind of cake?” 

“Any bloody cake you want,” he promised and she was the one to laugh this time. 

“Okay then, after Anna and Kristoff have made their rounds and said hello.” 

“Well, it looks like they’re heading out to the dance floor now,” he pointed out, others joining the couple, the floor filling quickly. “Might be our best bet.” 

“Is that you trying to ask me to dance?”

“It might be. Depends on if it worked.” He was nervous. Never in his life could he remember feeling nervous asking a woman to dance. Not since junior high anyway. But she was Emma, she hated romance and feared anything that could be construed as such - even if they were currently holding one another at a wedding. But still, he asked. “Do you want to? Friends can dance, right?” She only hesitated for a moment.

“Yeah, okay.” 

The song was slow and Killian shook his head at her amused smirk when he took her hand in his, the other going around her waist, enjoying the bare skin under his fingers and that he had an excuse to trace them along her spine. “You have to let me lead, Swan,” he sighed, rolling his eyes when she seemed to move against his every step. “I know it’s not your strong suit -”

“Watch it.” Emma narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know how to do this,” she reminded him sharply and he was surprised at what he picked up beneath it - nerves. Perhaps she was as nervous agreeing to dance with him as he’d been to ask.

“Just… trust me,” he smiled softly, trying again, slow, easy steps and after a moment she seemed to relax, following his lead. She grinned up at him proudly and his chest warmed at the sight. 

“How did you learn how to do this?” she asked as the song transitioned to another. He felt himself go stiff, fingers at her back tightening at the question. 

“For my wedding,” he confessed. He’d hated it, finding the classes trying and pointless. But Milah had loved it; she’d wanted them to have a ‘proper’ first dance. And he’d loved her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly and he shook his head. 

“It’s fine. I don’t hate talking about the good parts.” 

She raised a brow. “Dancing was one of the good parts?” 

“The wedding,” he corrected, a small smile pulling at his lips. “She wanted to have it outside under the stars, but it was pissing rain. David and I spent hours on a bloody ladder sticking those stupid little glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. Nearly broke my neck.”

“Killian Jones,” she accused. “You lied. You’re a romantic.” 

He laughed, shaking his head. “No. Perhaps once upon a time. Now I just lure beautiful women onto the dance floor so I can seduce them with my superior waltzing skills and have my way with them.” She rolled her eyes, smiling ruefully as he slowed them down a little bit to match the pace of the music. 

“You’re stunning, tonight, Swan,” he told her, because he’d been wanting to say it all evening.  

A blush spread on her cheeks, one he’d never seen before, coloring the skin under her freckles. And it was mesmerizing. She pressed her nose to his shoulder, hiding her expression from him. “You don’t clean up so bad yourself.” 

“Was that a compliment?” he dipped his head, trying to catch her eye so he could tease her. She gave a long-suffering sigh. 

“Just accept it, would you?” 

He chuckled, letting it go, chest to chest now, her temple resting in the crook of his neck as they danced. It was nice, the feel of her in his arms, her hair against his cheek, the smell and the softness of it familiar, comforting. He stroked his fingers over her back, drawing patterns across her skin and she sank into his touch. 

Suddenly Killian’s brow darkened, trying not to stiffen, trying not to alert Emma when he saw the man he’d never met but hated crossing the dance floor, clearly looking for someone, for her. He held her closer, as though he could physically shield her from him, knowing that he would if he needed to. Emma’s arm slipped from his shoulder to his waist, tucking inside his jacket.

Neal spotted them and for a second Killian thought the bastard might come over, that he thought he had some possible right to ask anything of her. Fierce protectiveness took over him, like nothing he’d ever felt before, an overwhelming need to keep her safe, to keep her from those like him who would cause her harm. 

Neal froze when Killian leveled him with a glare, a threat he’d be more than happy to follow through on regardless of the fact that he’d technically agreed not to hit him. Emma was strong, she was self-assured and she was a force when she wanted to be. But he’d seen the way she’d shrunk when she’d told him what Neal had done, had felt the vulnerability in the way she’d wrapped herself around him. He watched the other man slink away, Killian’s fingers tangling loosely in the ends of her hair that tumbled and curled down her back. He would keep her safe.

“Thank you, by the way,” she said then, as though she knew. “For coming with me tonight.” 

“Of course, love. Anything you need. I hope you know that.” 

And as he said it, he realized that it was true. He would do anything for her. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, if it had been all at once or slowly, little by little since that night she’d first showed up on his doorstep, but there it was. He’d broken his own rule… he’d fallen for her. 

And while fear burned like adrenaline through his veins and his own once broken, damaged heart screamed at him to run, he didn’t want to. This was everything he’d been afraid of; she was everything he’d been afraid of. But right now, holding all of that fear in his arms, holding her to his chest and against his heart… letting go was a thousand times more terrifying. 

“Emma…” he started, not sure what to even say, how to begin to tell her something he was just figuring out himself. 

She lifted her head, green eyes soft in the dim light. The little line he’d discovered appeared between her brows when she was concerned about him starting to form. The one that had been there that first morning in her apartment, that afternoon when she’d found out he’d hurt himself and didn’t tell her. The one that told him she cared, even if just a little.

He leaned down, pressed his lips to hers, kissed her slow and careful, heart racing when she returned it, when she didn’t shy from it. The hand that had been holding hers moved to her hair, fingers carding through the soft mess of curls as he held her closer, tried to pour every feeling and revelation that was pounding in his chest into it. 

Her hands now both slipped under his jacket, fisting in his shirt at his back, pressing herself closer where he couldn’t pull her anymore. Her mouth opened under his and he tasted her lips with his tongue, the heat of her against him unbearable even as he craved more. 

“Do you want to…?” he rasped, ripping his mouth from hers. He needed to get her somewhere, somewhere away from here, where he could tell her what he felt, where he could show her. 

“Yep,” she nodded immediately and they hurried out of the ballroom. 

They raced down the hallway to their room, on the same floor but far enough from the party that they couldn’t hear the pounding of the music. Still, Killian felt the pounding through his veins regardless, heart racing, breath unsteady. Kicking off her heels she caught his waist, dragging him inside and towards the bed where she pressed herself against him, rising up on her toes to kiss him with the same passion they’d shared on the floor. 

He wanted nothing more than to let her, to help her as her fingers reached for the buttons of his shirt and began working them free, to take her right then. But he couldn’t. Because he’d broken their rule. And she needed to know, deserved to know that he’d done exactly what she’d made him promise not to. 

“Emma, wait.” Her fingers paused against his chest, caught in his own as he tried to get himself under control, to make sense of the thoughts rushing through his mind. “I can’t…” 

“What’s wrong?” A hand slipped free, coming to his cheek and frowning at him, worried as she made him meet her gaze. 

Killian sighed, shutting his eyes, and letting his forehead fall against hers. “I lied to you. I didn’t mean to but - I promised that I wouldn’t make you regret this, that I wouldn’t change my mind and want more from you…” He took another hesitant breath, “That I wouldn’t fall for you.” He pulled back, enough so that he could see her eyes, afraid of what he might find there. He couldn’t read the green staring back at him, too many emotions playing across them too quickly to name. “But I do want more,” he confessed. “I never thought that I would again, not after I lost Milah. But I -”

“Killian, please don’t say it.” 

“Emma…”

“Look, it’s a wedding. Everyone says things they don’t mean and feels things they don’t really feel.” 

“What do you feel?” 

She sighed. “I feel like you miss your wife.” 

“Of course I miss her…” he said gently. 

He would always miss her. That was what grief was - it never truly went away. But with time the pain started to dull and the longing began to subside until they became bearable. When he’d lost her, Killian thought his heart was broken forever, that it would hurt forever, that nothing would ever fill the space she’d carved out in his soul and then left barren. 

And for a long time he’d been right. Then he’d met Emma. And she hadn’t filled the space that Milah left, no one ever would. But she’d carved out her own little space, settled there without him knowing, and the emptiness had shrunk to make room. 

Her nod was sad and he saw her harden, hide from him behind those walls she’s built so well. “But, Emma,” he said quickly, hoping to stop whatever thought was forming behind that dampened green, whatever untruth was telling her to run from him. “What I feel for you has nothing to do with her.” 

She looked almost sympathetic. “I think what you’re feeling is lonely. And you’re hoping that I can fix that for you, but I can’t.”

“What are you talking about?” he frowned. 

“I can’t be a stand-in for the love you lost, Killian. It doesn’t work like that. I’ll never be Milah.” 

He took her hand, held it to his chest. “I don’t want you to be.” He shook his head, dismayed that she would construe his feelings for her as loneliness, as a need to fill a void. “I want you.” It broke his heart that she couldn’t see it. “We’re alike, you and I,” he reminded her. “We know what it is to lose everything, to be left behind and forced to pick up the pieces. And we rebuilt ourselves stronger, harder, indestructible so that it could never happen again.” She looked at him then, really looked at him and he felt a flicker of hope. She knew him, saw herself in his words and his pain the same way he did in hers. “But it did happen. You happened to me. And you’re not some ghost or surrogate, you’re the first person to make me believe that the risk could be worth all the pain again.”

Her voice was small when she spoke, and he could hear the tears making it rough, shaking as he words left her. “What happens when that’s not enough anymore?” There was defiance now when she looked at him, hiding the pain and the fear of being vulnerable that he knew all too well. “What happens when I’m not enough anymore?”

“How can you even ask that?” 

She swallowed, like she could force down the emotions she so valiantly fought, push them back into her chest where she wished they would stay. “I never have been.” 

His heart broke for her, for every time someone had made her feel small, had made her feel worthless, less-than, unworthy of the love she so intensely deserved. He took her face in his hands, thumbs stroking over the few tears that had managed to break free and stain her cheeks. 

“I love you.” His declaration took them both by surprise, but he knew it was true the moment he said it, he was sure on some level he’d known it was true for a very long time. “I’ve been with countless people since I lost Milah, women, men, confident, funny, exciting and beautiful… But I couldn’t love any of them. I didn’t want to love any of them. Because they weren’t you - passionate, kind, brilliant, brash, beautiful, stubborn, uncompromising you.”

“Those last two mean the same thing.” She narrowed her eyes at him, sniffling slightly, and he chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.

“And infuriating even when I’m trying to confess my love for you,” he added and the corner of her mouth turned up. “How could you ever not be enough?” 

She didn’t say anything, reaching for the back of his head and pulling him down until his lips met hers. Killian shut his eyes tight, kissing her with everything he had, relief pouring through him as he wrapped himself around her, until she was pressed to every inch of him, until she was there and real and his in his arms. 

“I love you too,” she breathed into the moment that passed between them, between their mouths parting and finding each other again. 

He didn’t need the words, but they were everything coming from her. He knew how terrifying they were to say, how much weight they carried with them, leaving her vulnerable and unguarded, bared to him. But he’d already vowed to keep her safe, to make sure she spent every day knowing that she was loved, that she was enough, and he carried her trust inside of him like something to be cherished, to be protected and returned. 

“What do we do now?” Emma asked when the fire of emotion had settled into a comfortable, slow-burning warmth that they’d nestled into, wrapped up in each other in the middle of the room. She was tucked against his chest, cheek pressed to his collarbone as it had been when they’d been dancing and he only held her more snuggly to him, turning to speak against the crown of her head. 

“I think we just… carry on as we have been,” he admitted. In hindsight he realized that they’d been in a relationship for months now, both stubbornly blind and in denial of their own feelings. Idiots. Afraid. 

“Do I still get to make fun of your age?” she ventured and he could feel her smirk against his shirt. 

Killian chuckled. “I’d be concerned if you didn’t.”

“I guess we tell everyone too.” The smile that split his face at her suggestion was one that pulled at his heart, his whole body lightening with it.

“Aye.” He couldn’t keep the joy from his voice. “And you let me take you on a date.” 

“We’ve been on dates,” Emma pointed out, looking up at him. 

He tilted his head to meet her gaze, to grin mirthfully at her. “Ones that don’t serve the sole purpose of getting each other in bed.” 

Her eyes widened. “You want to stop sleeping together?” 

“Gods no! I just want to spend more time with you, clothed as well as unclothed. Perhaps even in public.” 

“Probably better to be clothed for those ones.” 

“Unfortunately. But I do like the idea of being able to kiss you when others are around, and even maybe hold your hand.”

She laughed softly, fingers lacing through his own as she tucked herself back against his shoulder. “You really are a romantic aren’t you?” 

“I wasn’t,” he admitted. “I never intended on being one again - on even seeing you again after that first night. But it seems we were inevitable, Swan.” He felt her kiss against his neck, warm and soft and sweet before they fell into a gentle kind of silence once more. 

“Killian?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m really glad you decided to come over and say hello again at the bar.”

“Aye, love. Me too.” And he always would be.  

*****

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“Mom?” Emma asks and Snow frowns, clearly concerned at the way her voice wavers. “Where are we?” 

The lines in her brow deepen. “At home, of course.” She raises a hand to Emma’s cheek, pressing the back of it to her jaw and then her forehead. “Sweetheart, are you feeling alright?”

“Where is home?”

“Emma?”

“I know it sounds crazy but please just answer me.” 

“The palace,” she says then adds, “the Enchanted Forest.” 

Emma winces, almost afraid to ask the next question. “And how long have we lived here?”

“What do you mean? We’ve always lived here.” 

“Did you…” she starts, the pieces beginning to fall together. She wished she was never the Savior, she’s living in a castle in the Enchanted Forest, she has ballgowns and her parents are in the right age… “Did you ever send me away?” 

Snow’s eyes go wide. “Send you away?” she demands. “Why would we ever send you away? Sweetheart, you're scaring me. Should I send for Doc?” 

Emma sighs, her head falling. They never sent her away. She was never the Savior, which means they never had to send her to the Land Without Magic, which means she grew up here, with them, as a fairytale princess. 

“No,” she says finally, shaking her head. “I don’t need a doctor I just - I had a bad dream,” she lies, wishing this were the bad dream. Because if she grew up here with no curse that means she never lived in Portland, never met Neal, and never had Henry. This may have been her wish but she hadn’t meant it - not like this. 

“Oh,” Snow breathes in relief. “Alright, well I came to get you ready for the big day!” she says, heading over to the curtains and yanking them open. Bright sunlight beams into the room, making Emma squint.

“The big day?” 

“Your birthday of course.” She frowns again. “That must have been some dream. You never forget your birthday.” 

Emma wants to laugh because she has, on many occasions, forgotten her own birthday - or at least, the people who were supposed to be taking care of her when she was a kid forgot. “Right,” she says, trying to think fast. She needs to find a way to get out of here. “Um, I was thinking I might go for a ride, maybe go into town. If that’s okay,” she adds quickly. 

“Of course it’s okay. I’ll get a servant to come help you get ready and fetch your riding gear,” her mother smiles. 

“No worries,” Emma says quickly, not really having the time or the patience to deal with waiting for a servant. “I’ve got it.” She waves her hand, pulling at the little well of magic inside of her and her nightgown is replaced with a pair of comfy pants and a rather pretty shirt and corset. She smiles up at Snow but it and her heart drop when she sees the fear in her wide eyes. “Mom?”

“How did you do that?” Snow asks, taking a step back from her. 

“Do what? Magic?” She takes a step towards her but Snow backs away again, recoiling from her outstretched hand. “Mom,” she tries again. 

“How did you do that? Who taught you?” she demands.

“Nobody taught me. I was born with it. I’m -” She freezes. She was about to say the Savior. But she’s not the Savior anymore, not here anyway. Does this version of her not have magic? Is that possible? But she’s the product of True Love. She can’t imagine a way that her other self could have gone thirty-two years without discovering her magic, not here. 

The terror in her mother’s eyes is heartbreaking and she remembers that most of Snow White’s experience with magic had been the Evil Queen, dark magic that was taught, that did harm. She remembers the way her mother had been hesitant to have Regina teach her magic in Neverland, the way she’d recoiled from her, and protected her son from her when Emma’s magic had gotten out of control. 

Emma fights the tears that burn in her eyes. She needs to get out of here. She needs to get back to her family. She wants her real life back, her real family. And as she takes in the way her mother cowers from her now, she knows there’s only one person she can count on to help her. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “I’ll fix this.” 

***

She finds him in a tavern, the same one he’d brought her to on their trip to the past and she almost smiles. He’s always been a creature of habit. A small part of her wants to laugh at the ridiculous fact that even when he’s not trying to be, he’s the most dependable person in her life. 

He looks different. Older, though not quite as much older as her mother did and she guesses a few trips to Neverland may be to thank for that. She watches him for a while from her table in the corner, taking in the laugh lines around his eyes. She’s always loved the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, when he really smiled, and she likes the fact that they’re becoming a permanent part of him, branded into his skin as a reminder of how much laughter and happiness he’s capable of. 

His hair is different too, silver at the temples in a way that she finds unfairly attractive, with streaks catching the moonlight through his bangs. She’d spent all day here, certain there was no chance her parents would come looking for her in a place like this. It didn’t seem like a typical haunt for a princess. She’s already seen four fights break out and it’s not even ten o'clock. 

Killian cheers with his crew, clearly having won some round of the dice game they’re playing, and a barmaid brings him a drink. He takes it, thanking her distractedly and Emma raises a brow in surprise. She was quite pretty. She’d have expected Captain Hook to flirt or at least make some innuendo. 

In fact, so much of this scene is familiar, hiding in the corner watching him play games and get drunk. Except for one significant detail... last time he’d had a woman on either side of him; tonight he’s alone. He didn’t even flirt with the waitress. She wonders if he’s slowed down in his old age, or if perhaps - her stomach tightens in dread - he’s found someone already. 

Emma shakes her head. She doesn’t have time to waste mooning over the fact that this version of Killian may have another true love. He isn’t her Killian. For all she knows this version of her is with someone too. Her stomach clenches even more at that. No, she doesn’t think there would be anyone else for her, no matter who she’d grown up to be. 

But none of that matters now. Right now, she needs his help. Which means, she has to get his attention. She smiles to herself, jilted barmaid or not, she at least knows that is something she can do. She considers her options. She’d kept a cloak low over her head as she sat in the dark corner, knowing she’s much more recognizable now than she was last time she was in this tavern. She can’t exactly waltz up to him in front of his whole crew. She needs to draw him away, pull him into the dark corner with her. 

She stands, heads over to the bar and orders a bottle of rum, throwing down a few gold coins she magics into her pocket. Heart racing, she makes her way over to his table. If there weren’t so much at stake this would almost be fun, almost a sort of game. How many times can she seduce Captain Hook away from his crew for the night? 

She breezes past them as casually as she can, slowing only long enough to discreetly trace her fingers across the line of his shoulders when she passes his turned back. When he looks up in surprise she turns her head, catching his gaze and holding it just long enough for him to know it wasn’t an accident, then makes her way back to the table in the corner. 

Her breath catches when his eyebrow twitches, when the corner of his mouth turns up in a hint of a smile. But he has that same look in his eye that he always does when she surprises him. His tongue traces the inside of his bottom lip and she knows she got his attention. 

She sets the bottle on the table and then purposefully sets the two small glasses next to it. She’s the one to raise a brow at him this time and a smirk draws over his lips. He stands, not bothering to make any excuse to his crew and crosses the room, folding his arms over the back of the second chair as he casts his gaze over her casually. 

“That’s quite a big bottle for one lass,” he points out and she can’t help it, a smirk tugs at her mouth, her cheeks flushing and heat flooding her belly. This is Killian, the man she loves and who loves her, he flirts with her nearly every day. But this is different. He doesn’t remember her and he looks - god, he looks amazing. 

Up close she can see the silver of his hair so clearly, can see that the hair on his chest is peppered with it too. His beard is a little longer, still groomed but now a mix of black and ginger and white and she imagines briefly what it would feel like against her skin, if it would burn in that delicious way that Killian’s does or if it would be softer. 

The thought crosses her mind that her Killian will look like this someday and she bites her lip. She can’t wait. He’s always been older than her but to finally see it in the slightly sharper angles of his cheeks and jaw is a wholly different thing. He must look what now? Fourty? Forty-five? She swallows. That’s only ten or fifteen more years to wait. 

“Are you offering to help?” she challenges. He smirks, pulling the chair out and taking a seat. He leans in, probably closer than he should considering they don’t know each other. 

“I simply wouldn’t want to leave a young lady in the hands of all these blaggards and thieves,” he says, gesturing at the other men in the bar without looking away from her. “I believe it may be my duty as a gentleman to keep you and your rum company for the evening,” he tells her with a cheeky smile and she can’t help herself. 

“So you’re a gentleman now?” she asks. “Weren’t you just cavorting with those same blaggards and thieves a moment ago?”

He huffs a laugh and reaches for her hand, pressing a lingering kiss on the back of it. When he speaks she can feel his breath hot on her skin. “I’m always a gentleman… Unless requested otherwise,” he winks. 

Emma has to fight every instinct to just grab him and let him have her right here on this table, plan be damned. He’s leaner, his muscles longer and maybe less defined than her Killian’s but just as strong. She wonders what else about him might be different. She wishes his stupid shirt and vest weren’t hiding so much from her view. He knows the effect he’s having on her if his sultry, smug grin is anything to go by. 

She clears her throat, pulling her hand back so that she can open the bottle and pour two glasses. When she speaks, her voice is a little rougher than she’d like. “I’ll share my rum,” she agrees, sliding the glass across the table to him. His fingers cover hers as he takes it, holding on a little too long, tracing across her wrist when she pulls back and sending a small shiver through her. “But I need something in return.” 

He smiles and she knows that damn smile. “Whatever the lady needs, I’m happy to oblige.” 

“What I need,” she says, “is a favor.” His eyebrows raise, looking genuinely surprised and she feels a little bad breaking this flirtation. She reaches out, brushing her fingers carefully over the inside of his arm. “I know you don’t know me, Captain,” she begins and his eyes narrow, the corner of his mouth curling a fraction and she thinks she’s got him back. “But you did say you were a gentleman.” She looks up at him through her lashes. “I’m looking to procure something, and I’ve been told you’re a pirate who may be able to help.” 

“Ah, so you know who I am. And who are you, then? A damsel in distress?” 

“You could say that,” she smirks. 

He catches his lip between his teeth and pulls his chair closer until one of his knees slides between hers. “And which are you hoping to find tonight? The pirate or the gentleman?”

Emma considers for a moment, knowing that if she asks for the gentleman he’s likely to leave her be, never one to trespass where his advances are unwanted. But if she asks for the pirate, well, she can tell by the way his hook is brushing feather light against the outside of her thigh that he’ll be far more interested in getting her in his bed than helping her just now. 

Killian had told her once about the things he collected in his travels. Treasures and artifacts, anything different and new and beautiful he could get his hands on. He’d spent nights showing them to her, weaving tales of where and how he’d found them.

But he also collected magic. Potions and enchanted objects. It had begun as an attempt to find a way to defeat Rumplestiltskin, and later an attempt to free himself from Pan’s service. And, when he was in Neverland, he’d kept a supply of magic beans for transport between realms. 

If there was anyone who might have what she needed to get home, it was Killian, and it would be on his ship. So, she needs to get on his ship, and the fastest, most effective way of making sure she does is definitely… “Pirate,” she tells him and his answering grin is wolfish as he leans in closer in the bare space between them. 

“Well then,” he begins, his nose tracing a line along the length of her neck. His beard is soft, she discovers, but his teeth are not as he nips below her ear. She lets out a shaky breath, fingers clenching tightly around her glass. “Perhaps we ought to bring this bottle back to my ship where I can happily bestow upon you whatever favors you might desire.” 

Fucking hell. She swallows, nods and feels his smirk against her skin. She thought she was supposed to be the one seducing him. Killian stands, offering her his hand to help her to her feet. His palms and fingers are rougher than she’s used to, calloused from additional decades out at sea and she can’t stop herself wondering what they’d feel like on her. 

She’s trying her best to stay on task. She needs to get to his ship and find a magic bean or some other magical object that will let her cross realms - she assumes this is another realm, like the Author’s book - and home to her family and to her Killian. 

She doesn’t really know what she expected to find when she came to the tavern. When she met him in the past he was the Killian she first knew - angry and haunted, hiding it all behind a laugh and an innuendo. When she met him as a deckhand he was nervous and shy, all of the bravado stripped from him. 

She’d expected this Killian to be different, to be darker, a villain still. And while he’s not short on innuendo or insinuation, there’s something so very similar to her Killian about him, a softness, like something or someone has chipped away at the darkness he carried for so long. 

Maybe it was just time. Maybe these last thirty odd years had finally allowed him to let go of his vengeance. Or maybe he’d gotten it. She looks at this older, still confident but wearier version of the man she loves and not for the first time, wonders what happened to him without her, where his life took him instead. She wonders if she’ll ever know. 

Killian drops her hand to pick up the bottle, his hook settling on the small of her back as he leads her out of the tavern and out onto the vaguely familiar streets. They aren’t far from his ship, the harbour less than half a mile down the winding, narrow streets, but they’ve barely made it a block before he’s pulling her into a darkened alleyway, crowding her against the wall and slanting his mouth over hers. 

Her shock only lasts a moment before she’s pulled in by the familiar slide of his tongue, the press of his body against hers, and all her rational thinking goes out the window in favor of tangling her fingers in his hair and finding a way to pull him even closer. His lips curl against hers, pleased at her reaction, his beard rough against her chin as he snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her hips flush with his, making her gasp into his mouth. 

When he pulls away suddenly, leaving her breathless and dazed and chasing his kiss, he grins smugly at her. “Apologies,” he says insincerely against her lips, tongue darting out to lick at the panting seam of them. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you walked past my table.” 

“And you waited till now?” she rasps. 

“Well,” he begins, leaning back in and kissing her jaw this time. “I did say I was a gentleman. And I’m not much of an exhibitionist,” he teases, mouth at her collarbone now. Emma fights her smirk, remembering a time or two at the station, and the hallway at Granny’s, and an alley much like this one. Sure he’s not. 

“I thought we were going to your ship,” she reminds him as his lips trail lower, his hook dipping into the waist of her pants. 

He hums against her breast before regretfully pulling away. “Aye, that we are. I believe there was something you were hoping to come upon…”

She snorts. “You mean find?” 

His smirk is sinful before he leads her back out of the alley and down the road. “Is that not what I said?” Emma rolls her eyes but accepts the crook of his elbow when he offers it, looping her arm around his own. It’s fine. It’s just flirting. It was just a kiss. She’s not going to sleep with an older, alternate version of her boyfriend…. Probably. 

“So what is it you’re hoping to acquire?” he asks as they reach the docks. 

“I -” Emma hesitates, looking back at him as he leads her up the gangplank onto the Jolly. “Something that I need,” she finishes lamely. 

He looks thoroughly amused. “Aye, so you’ve said. Can you be more specific?”

She tries to find words as they make their way down the ladder to his cabin. She can’t figure out how to tell him that she’s actually from another realm and hoping he has something onboard that can send her home without leaving herself open to a lot of questions. 

If she can just get him to let her look through the secret little room off his cabin where he keeps his magical treasures, hopefully she can find what she needs and figure out some sort of fair payment. 

“No,” she says finally. “I can’t.” 

“I see,” he nods, stepping closer until the back of her legs hit a hard surface. He leans over her under the guise of setting the bottle of rum on the table behind her. “So you’ve come aboard an old, rather dashing pirate’s ship in search of something you desperately need.” 

Emma’s suddenly all too aware of exactly how this sounds, and the fact that he’s now effectively caged her in against the table, arms on either side of her. Her cheeks flush, though she’s not sure if it’s in embarrassment or because he’s standing so damn close. 

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” he hums again and his hand comes up to her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips, still red from his attention in the alleyway. “Let’s see if we can find it then, shall we?” 

Before she can even form a coherent thought, his mouth is on hers again, his kiss hot and slow and making so many promises that she’s very tempted to let him fulfill. When she doesn’t stop him, he opens her mouth under his, tongue finding hers as his fingers card into her hair, fisting in it so he can angle her head the way he likes. 

She lets out an involuntary little moan and he swallows it with a hum before catching her lip between his teeth and pulling another from her. It’s unfair the way he kisses. She’s always thought so. Just his lips and teeth and tongue and her legs go unsteady, every thought in her mind replaced by a need for more of him. It seems this version of him is no different. 

He deepens the kiss, hips pressing into hers as his fingers slide down from her hair and over her neck, her shoulder and across her breast, making her arch into his fleeting touch. His hand and hook slip under her thighs, hoisting her onto the table and when she wraps her legs instinctively around his hips, trapping him against her center, he snarls, mouth growing hungrier as he devours her. 

Her hands fist in his hair, fighting to take over the kiss and his groan reverberates in her chest, rippling through her to where she’s pressed against the straining length of him. When she cants her hips and his mouth finds her neck, blazing a steady path down to meet his hand that’s sliding up her corset, she has a brief moment of sanity. 

“Wait,” she gasps. She can’t just… she shouldn’t… 

He stops, lifting his head to meet her gaze, the blue of his eyes nearly swallowed by black. “What is it?” she can read the concern on his face. 

“I…” 

His hand drops from her breast, settling on the table beside her. “Love,” he starts, his voice softer than it was before, all innuendo gone. “If you’ve really come because you’re looking for something, because you need my help, tell me.” 

Emma gapes for a moment, the words refusing to form as she studies him. His eyes are different. In the sparse candlelight, behind the teasing and the lust and the doubt she can see the weariness that she sometimes catches a glimpse of in her Killian’s eyes when he feels his age. She supposes it settled in at some point. 

A lock of black and silver hair falls across his forehead, making him look older and boyish all at once. He raises a brow at her, a question as his still mouth hovers an inch away from hers. She should probably say yes, should probably push him away and find a damn magic bean and get back to her Killian.

“I did,” she admits and he nods but doesn’t back away, her legs around him still keeping him close. 

“Tell me.” He runs his fingers along a lock of her hair in a surprisingly intimate gesture that makes her breath catch. That, combined with the soft, hushed way he speaks to her and the still hard and hot press of him between her thighs makes her realise what she should have figured all along. She’d want any damn version of Killian Jones. 

“Later,” she promises before pulling his mouth back to hers and cutting off any question he may have. 

His arms wrap around her, pressing her tightly against his body as he makes her tremble with another of those unbearably deep kisses. Finding her throat again, he nips and sucks at all the most sensitive spots, the ones that make her gasp and moan and whimper as though he already knows where each of them are. 

She throws her head back, offering him more access and encouraging him lower with a fist in his hair. She feels the soft scratch of his beard as he smiles against her but he does as she asks, fingers making quick work of the laces of her corset and the buttons of her shirt until he can free her breast, palming it, thumb rolling over her nipple and making her whine. 

His mouth follows next, dragging his tongue over the stiff peak before catching it between his teeth, nipping just hard enough to hurt and then soothing it again. His lips move to her neglected breast sucking and mouthing at it while he strokes and pinches the other. 

“Fuck,” she curses, already writhing under him.

“Such a dirty mouth,” he scolds against her nipple before pulling it into his mouth and making her let out a litany of senseless words, some worse. He clicks his tongue. “We’ll have to do something about that,” he warns. 

“What? Are you going to gag me?” she challenges. 

He raises a brow at her, lust burning in his eyes as he slides hand and hook up her torso, catching the open edges of her shirt. “Well now that’s an interesting proposition,” he muses, whipping her shirt down her arms and trapping them behind her back for a moment. The position forces her breasts up and towards his face and he smiles, pleased with the development. “But no. I’m rather interested to find out what other words you know,” he says, dragging his tongue over her again before freeing her arms. 

Emma curses at him and grabs for him, trying to work the buttons of his shirt open, but he catches her hands, pushing her onto her back and holding them above her head. “Stay still,” he commands in what Emma’s come to know as his ‘pirate voice’, a tone that always promises wonderful things. She swallows, biting her lip. 

“Yes, Captain,” she says. She doesn’t want to read into why she’s so unbearably turned on by this silvered Killian ordering her around. All she can focus on is the way his eyes widen slightly and then darken at her words. 

“Oh, I like that,” he tells her. “And I like these,” he adds, running his palm and hook up the inside of her thighs, stroking the soft suede of her pants. “Almost feels a shame to take them off.” His hand reaches the crease of her thigh, thumb reaching out to brush over her center through the fabric and she twists beneath him, seeking more friction. “So responsive,” he smirks and she glares at him. 

She loses any credibility though when he touches her again and she lets out a whining ‘please’. 

“Please, what?” Killian asks, thumb hovering over where she wants him as his hook teases at the laces. Fuck, she’s going to make him pay for this. 

“Please, Captain,” she repeats, barely able to put any real bite behind it, her voice coming out needy and wanting instead. 

He grins, “good girl,” and Emma lets out another moan, wet heat pooling between her thighs as she waits for him to do something. Making quick work of her laces, he rids her of her boots and pants, pausing to take in the small scrap of fabric that covers her with heated curiosity. “Now this I like very much,” he tells her, the tip of his hook tipping into the waistband. 

“I thought you might,” she says without meaning to, having remembered his counterpart’s first reaction to modern lingerie. And then she panics, worrying that she’s let slip that she knows him. But he just gives her a slow smile. 

“Did you? Well now I’m wondering if you didn’t seek me out for just this purpose,” he muses. “I believe,” he adds, pulling the fabric from her and discarding it with a somewhat forlorn look before turning back to her, eyes raking over her naked form. “I did promise to bestow some sort of favor after all.” 

He kneels between her legs and Emma cranes her neck to try and see him without moving, worried he’ll stop if she doesn’t listen. She knows exactly what he can do with that mouth of his. His beard tickles at the inside of her thighs, somehow both rough and soft, his breath hot on her center before he licks slow and purposeful through her folds and she lets out a little whimper of relief and anticipation. 

“That’s it, love,” he praises, giving a soft nip to her thigh before diving back in. Emma’s back arches off the table as he closes his lips over her clit, licking and sucking fast and relentless. She was already on edge when she followed him down here, already on edge when he kissed her, when he made her call him Captain. But even then, the speed with which she can feel her climax building is unbelievable. 

Licks of heat shoot through her spine and belly and legs with every swipe of his tongue, his arm across her hips holding her steady as she tries to cant up into his mouth, her heel digging into his shoulder as she urges him to bring her over the edge. But right as she’s about to fall, he stops his intense assault, pulling back, mouth moving slowly over her, tongue sliding inside of her lazily and she can feel her release slipping away from her. 

“Killian,” she whines, trying again to arch into him and he chuckles against her, laugh hot and rumbling where his mouth is still occupied. She’s going to murder him. First, she’s going to make him finish what he started, but then... His teeth scrape over her clit and her hips jump under his brace, a gasped ‘yes’ falling from her lips. 

“Something you want, darling?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock innocence. Emma sits up, already done with this game. If she had more time she knows she’d let him edge her until she lost her mind but time is not a luxury she has right now. 

“Yes,” she says, grabbing him by the collar of his vest, realising he’s still fully clothed. She yanks him to his feet, sliding her mouth over his as her hands claw roughly at his clasps and buttons. Sensing her change in mood - always so perceptive - he helps her shuck his shirt and vest, both falling to the floor unceremoniously. 

He surprises her when he reaches for the buckles and straps of his brace, discarding it as well. It had taken Killian weeks of being intimate before he’d been able to take it off in front of her. But his lips are on hers again, and then on her neck and then on her breast and she can’t think of anything apart from the fact that she needs to get his stupid pants off him. 

She makes quick work of his belt, the buckle and his sword clattering the floor with a solid, satisfying sound. She pulls at his laces, a task made more difficult by the heat of his mouth sucking at her nipple, her fingers fumbling over and over until she finally loosens them enough that she can shove them down his hips and wrap her fingers around his length. He groans, hot and hard and heavy in her hand and she’s glad to see that some things are still the same. 

She strokes him firmly, enjoying the way his nails dig into her hip before he practically snarls, capturing her lips again and batting her hand away, lining his hips up with hers. “Do you want me to take you right here on this table?” he asks, mouth close enough that his lips brush hers when he speaks, silver and black falling into his eyes as the head of his cock just barely pushes into her. 

Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she digs her fingers into his hair and her legs around his hips, drawing him in deeper. “Yes, Captain,” she breathes into his ear and he slams into her. The table rocks beneath them, legs scraping against the floor of the cabin with each thrust of his hips.

Killian pushes her onto her back, folding himself over her, pulling her hands from where they’d taken root in his hair and holding them down above her on the table. The sounds she lets out as he drives into her again and again are near embarrassing. But the hard wood of the table rough against her back, the weight restraining her arms, and the punishing pace he’s set are all too much. She’d asked for the pirate, she’d asked for the captain, and she’d gotten him. 

Her back begins arching, her legs tightening around him, her skin sweat slicked and burning, he nips at her ear, his hand coming down to her hip while his wrist still holds her in place. “That’s it, darling, I know you’re close.” His fingers snake between them, finding her clit and circling roughly until she’s writhing desperately. “Come now,” he commands, pressing harder, hips snapping faster, and she shatters around him. 

When she comes back to herself he’s no longer inside of her, lips drawing slow and lazy over her collarbone. She can feel him still hard against her stomach, and frowns in confusion. “Did you not -” she starts and he glances up, brow raised. “I mean did you…” 

He follows her gaze to his still straining cock, smirking and raising a brow at her. “I’m not some wet behind the ears youth, quick to drop his sails, love. One of the benefits of being an old pirate I suppose.” 

“You’re not that old,” she says, smiling at him fondly. He returns it but there’s something sad to it. 

“Too old for a young lass like you to be wasting time with.” 

She sits up, hopping off the table, steadying her hands on his shoulders when her legs tremble. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” she tells him firmly before turning him so his back is to the table now. 

“And what are you doing?” he asks with an uncertain but amused grin. 

She runs her hands over the length of his chest now that she finally has a moment to take him in properly, the longer, leaner lines of his torso, the still defined muscles of his shoulders and arms that she loves so much. While his beard is going white, his chest hair is still mostly black apart from the center where white and silver has started to spread, as though blooming from his heart. It makes sense, he always does lead with his heart first. 

“Making you put your money where your mouth is,” she answers, dropping to her knees. “Or rather, where my mouth is,” she smirks to herself. He frowns, clearly unfamiliar with the expression, but when she takes him in hand and drags her tongue along the length of him, he doesn’t seem to care.  

He grips the edge of the table, knuckles white when she pulls him into her mouth, humming in appreciation at the taste of both of them on her tongue, a stuttered ‘bloody hell’ falling from his lips. 

Killians fingers tangle in her hair as she sucks him, hard and fast, the way she knows drives him wild, sending him over that edge despite his best efforts. He gasps and breathes shakily above her, his grip tightening and a broken moan escaping him when she swirls her tongue around the head of his cock. 

She has to give him credit, he lasts longer than she expected. But when she swallows around him, taking him deeper with each pass and his hips begin to thrust towards her mouth of their own accord, his grip pulling her just that bit closer, she knows she has him. She moans around his length, digging her nails into his ass until it hurts, until it leaves marks, and he spills himself down her throat with a broken cry of her name. 

Emma stands, smirking at him, sagged against the table, panting for breath, that look of absolute sated release on his face and she brushes his too long bangs out of his eyes. “Not bad for an old man,” she taunts, turning away, towards the little secret room. “Now about that -” 

He lets out a little growl, catching her wrist and dragging her back to him so that her back collides with his chest. His face buried in her neck, she laughs as he threatens, “I’ll show you an old man,” before he brushes her hair off her back, mouth hot against the skin of her neck, sliding down to her shoulder, seeking something. Then he freezes, his grip on her tightening, no longer playful but angry. 

“Killian?” she asks, suddenly worried.

He releases her, shoving her away from him and she stumbles back a few steps, eyes wide as he bends down to pick his sword up off the floor. 

“You’re not Emma,” he says darkly. 

“What do you mean? Yes I am,” she stammers. But how does he know that? She hadn’t told him her name and yet here he is accusing her of not owning it. She realises then that he’d called her name when he came. 

“No, Emma has a scar on her left shoulder. Nasty thing. I was there when she got it. I don’t know who the bloody hell you are, but you better get talking.” He shouldn’t be this terrifying, standing naked in his cabin with his sword pointed at her, but she knows that look in his eye, it’s the one he’s turned on so many foes that have come after her. She doesn’t answer and his glare turns more threatening, his lip curling up in a snarl. “If you’ve hurt her in some way -” he starts but she holds her hands up between them.

“Killian! Listen to me, I am Emma,” she insists. “I’m just… not the Emma you know, I think,” she says trying to put the pieces together. This Killian knows her? Knows this realm’s version of her? 

He doesn’t lower his sword. “Start talking,” he orders.

“Can… Can I at least put some clothes on?” she asks awkwardly, looking at her discarded shirt and pants. Killian considers for a moment and then nods, but picks up his own shirt and tosses it to her. He’s always been smart, probably assuming she might have something hidden in her own clothes, a dagger or worse. She wraps the shirt around herself, feeling a little more comfortable now that she’s dressed. He doesn’t seem to hold any such inhibitions. 

“Explain yourself.” 

“My name is Emma, Emma Swan,” she starts. “I’m the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming.” He looks at her like he’s about to accuse her of lying so she continues before he can. “But I didn’t grow up here. I come from another realm. In my reality, the Evil Queen defeated my parents and they sent me away to a world without magic and I didn’t find them again until four years ago. And then I found you,” she adds, her voice softening and she sees the way his frown lightens. “But then I messed up. I made a wish and I didn’t think it through and suddenly this morning I woke up here.” 

“So then where’s my Emma?” he asks and the way he says my Emma, possessive, protective, loving, she nearly wants to laugh or cry because of course, of course they found each other in this world too. 

“I don’t know.” She hadn’t even considered the fact that this realm’s version of her had to go somewhere. “My best guess is that she got sent to my reality, or she’s somewhere in limbo. If you want her back, I think your best bet is to help me get home.” He still looks hesitant and so she steps forward, braving the length of his sword and she pleads with him. “Please, Killian, I have a son in my reality. I just want to get home to him.” 

His eyes widen, voice breathless and wistful. “Is he…” he starts, unable to finish the thought. Is he mine? 

She shakes her head and then wants to cry at the disappointment in his eyes. “No. But he may as well be.” 

He takes a moment to process that and she lets him. “You sought me out. Why?”

She sighs. “Because in my world, you love me.” His breath catches. “And I hoped that somehow there’d be enough of that you here to want to help me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to deceive you. If I’d known you knew me - or this version of me - I wouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

He considers her a moment longer, and then drops his sword. “Alright then, Swan,” he starts and she wants to cry in relief at the sound of her nickname on his lips. “Let's get you home.” 

“Thank you,” she says and she means it. He nods, reaching for his pants. 

“You said you come from a land without magic. Do you not have magic then?” he asks, sliding one leg in. 

“No… I do.” She frowns, remembering Snow White’s reaction this morning. She’d assumed she didn’t have powers in this realm. “How do you know about my magic?”

He smiles a small smile, doing up his laces. “It’s how we met.” 

Emma can’t help her curiosity. “How did you meet?” 

“Emma - my Emma - had just discovered her magic. She was afraid and thought her parents would reject her. So she ran, tried to barter passage on a ship out of town.”

“With you?”

“No,” he corrects her, his tone darkening. “With Blackbeard.” Emma sucks in a breath. Shit. “He recognized her, tried to take her hostage. By the time I heard the commotion, she’d taken down two of his men,” he smiles proudly before it slips. “But Blackbeard had wounded her badly.”

“The scar,” she realizes. 

“Aye. She was too afraid to go home or let me take her to a healer for fear of being recognized. So she made me stitch her up. That’s why it left such a nasty scar. I’ve sown wounds shut before but not with any talent beyond what’s necessary. I let her stay with me, let her hide on my ship until she was ready to go home, and…”

“She fell in love with you,” Emma finishes with a fond smile. Of course she did. 

He clears his throat. “I don’t know if I’d - I fell in love with her. I keep trying to tell her that she should go, find someone better, younger, someone more suited to her, someone who deserves her but…” 

He scratches behind his ear, looking uncomfortable, that same self-deprecating look she’s seen so many times on her Killian’s face mirrored in his. She reaches for him, places her hand on his cheek, turns his gaze up to hers from the floor. 

“Don’t wait for her to leave, Killian. Because I can tell you right now that she never will. If how she feels about you is anything close to how I feel about you - my you,” she smiles. “Nothing in this world or any world is going to keep her from you.” He swallows and she can see the unshed tears he fights back. “True love is worth fighting for,” she says, echoing the words she’d heard so many times but didn’t believe until she’d lived it, until she met him. “Even if you have to fight yourself for it,” she finishes with a knowing smirk. 

He smiles softly at her. “I’d go to the end of the world for her,” he confesses. “Or time, to Hell itself.” 

She can’t help herself, she leans in, presses a kiss to his cheek. “I know.” 

He clears his throat again after the quiet draws out longer than he’s comfortable with. “And what about you? How did we meet in your reality?”

Emma snorts and he cocks an eyebrow at her in question. “You were a villain. I held a knife to your throat.” 

Killian huffs out a laugh. “Now that, I believe. Come on,” he says, leading her to the hidden room. “Let’s see if we can’t set things right.” 

“Do you have any magic beans?” she asks, hoping more than anything that he does.

“Aye,” he nods. “But only one.”

“Shit. That would only get me there. We need some way to make sure she can come back too.” He looks at her strangely then, like something’s only just dawned on him. “What?”

“You really are her, aren’t you?” 

She flushes. He’s looking at her the way her Killian does. “What else have you got?” she asks and he gestures for her to step inside. 

***

“I really am sorry, you know,” she says as they scour through shelves upon shelves of magical objects and artifacts, Emma leafing through a tome or two of spells. 

“For using magic in front of the Queen? You didn’t know, love. Magic is a part of you - of both of you. We’ll deal with that when things are back to normal.” 

“No,” she starts, wincing. “For sleeping with you.” 

“Well now that’s not a review any man hopes to receive,” he says with a cheeky smirk. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t apologize, Swan. You didn’t know about my Emma, and I can’t imagine your Killian would mind so I don’t think my Emma would either. Do you?”

“No,” she admits, pretty sure that, if anything, both of them would just consider this further proof that they couldn’t stay away from one another. 

He’d been jealous on their trip to the past, but that had been different. She’d kissed a former version of him, one he loathed and resented while she rejected him and all his efforts to be a better man. But this Killian… he was her Killian, through and through. And she was sure that his Emma, whoever she’d been before, they were the same now. Finding their true love had changed them. It had made them who they were meant to be. 

“Wait,” she starts. “Why did you pretend you didn’t know me in the tavern?” 

The whole time he’d acted as though they were strangers, hadn’t even uttered her name until the last moment. But there had been that familiarity, that intimacy between them, and the way he knew how she liked to be touched, the moment where she now realises he nearly dropped the facade when she’d hesitated. 

His ears go red. “I assumed it was a game,” he shrugs, not quite able to meet her gaze. “So I played along.” Emma laughs. Oh my god, she’d accidentally role played ‘sexy stranger in a bar’ with Killian. 

“Right… And if I were to suggest a similar game when I get home do you think -”

“Oh, I think he’d like it very much indeed,” he tells her with a wicked smirk. 

“Good to know.” She smirks, remembering a particularly fun night. “You know, you might want to suggest…” she clears her throat, now the one who can’t meet his eye, not even sure how to put it in this realm’s terms. He perks up, listening attentively. “A lady of the night?” she winces, face burning. 

“Really?” he asks, genuinely shocked but absolutely interested. 

“Oh yeah,” she mumbles, looking fixedly at the pages of her spellbook. 

“Huh.”

***

“Blast,” he curses after hours of searching. “I don’t think I’ve anything that could be of use to us, darling.” She sets down a bottled potion, feeling defeated. “We could always try to procure another magic bean, but what if you reach your world and my Emma isn’t there?” 

Emma nods. “It’s too risky.” She lets out a groan of frustration, her head falling into her hands. “I wish I’d never made that stupid wish!” 

When he doesn’t answer she looks up to find him considering her. “Perhaps that’s the problem,” he says. 

“That I made the wish? Yeah, I know.” 

“No, that we’ve been trying to find a way to undo your wish or simply send you home. Perhaps what we need, is to make another wish.” 

“I don’t know, Killian, that’s what got us into this mess in the first place. Genie magic is tricky. What if it makes it worse?” 

“Genie wishes aren’t the only kinds of wishes,” he tells her. “There are other, less risky types of magic. Wishes born of light magic. Milah -” he pauses, voice getting caught as it always does when he speaks of her. She puts her hand on his arm. “Milah once told me of a girl she knew as a child. A girl who found a fallen star and made a wish to save her father.”

“What was the price?” Emma asks hesitantly. 

“There was no price. Light magic doesn’t trick, it doesn’t trap. She said the star sees into your heart and grants it’s desire.” 

“Well that sounds great but where are we going to find a fallen star?”

“They’re not easy to come by,” he admits. 

“Of course they’re not.” 

“But I… I might know someone.” A shadow falls over his face and Emma resists letting the hope fill her completely. Killian’s silent for a long moment and she wishes she knew what he was thinking, who this someone is that might be able to help them. She wonders briefly if it’s Gold, if he’d risk it, and then feels panic grip her when she realizes that of course he would. 

“Killian -” she starts but he doesn’t let her protest. 

“Get dressed. Wait for me at the tavern and I’ll come find you.” 

“Killian, please don’t -”

He takes her hand, bringing it to his lips and offering her a hopeful smile. “Trust me, Emma,” he says. 

She nods, even as anxiety grips her. 

***

It feels like hours. Hours of sitting there in the back of the tavern, pretending to drink from her full mug of beer, picking at the loose grain in the table, gazing up hopefully every time the door opens and someone comes in. It’s the longest wait of her whole damn life and she sits and hopes that he’ll come, that he’ll find his way back to her. 

Finally, when she’s about ready to crawl out of her skin, when she’s imagined every possible awful thing that could have happened to him, every awful place he could have ended up, she sees him. He slinks into the tavern, head held low, clutching a box to his chest. She jumps up, rushes across the room and practically throws herself into his arms, knocking the wind out of him and clinging so tightly she’s sure to leave marks. But she doesn’t care. He’s safe. He's back. 

“Hey,” he says softly when he catches his breath, hook rubbing soothingly over her back. “It’s alright.” 

“I know. I was just scared,” she admits against his shoulder. “So just… give me a minute would you?” 

She can feel the smile that curls against her temple, then the kiss he presses to it. “Aye, love, take the time you need.” 

When he finally feels solid enough in her arms, when her head is full of the smell of him and her skin is warm with the heat of him, she can at last bring herself to let go. He offers her a gentle, comforting smile, switching the box from his hand to his hooked arm so he can wipe away the few tears that had fallen from her eyes. 

“Come on now, you shouldn’t worry about me,” he says. 

Emma scoffs. “Of course I’m going to worry about you, you idiot. I love you.” As she says the words she realises they’re true. She hasn’t known him long but there’s no version of this man that she wouldn’t love, no version of him that she wouldn’t be devastated if she lost. 

Killian’s brow pulls up, that soft smile there again. “Aye,” he agrees. “I love you too.” 

“Good,” she says, nearly pouting and she can see him holding back a laugh. She finally looks at the box he holds in his arms. “Did you find it?” she asks. 

“Aye,” he nods, leading her back to the table. She reaches for the lid but he stops her. “Don’t open it,” he warns. “If you do, everyone will know what we have and we won’t get another chance before they’re on us.” 

“How did you get it?” she asks.

“I bought it,” he says vaguely. “Traded for it.” 

“With who?” her tone is wary, terrified of what it may have cost him. She knows how magic works in this land. She can tell how much he’s trying to pretend this is no big deal, but she knows him, she can read him as easily as he can read her. “Killian, who did you trade for it?” she presses when he doesn’t answer. 

“Blackbeard.” 

Emma sucks in a breath, the name alone sending dread through her chest. She knows how much Killian loathes the man, knows what a monster he is. But this Killian has additional history with him, the man who hurt the woman he loves. She knows what a sacrifice it must have been to go begging to him. 

“What did you give him?” she asks, thinking of all the things in that hidden room that Blackbeard might want, all the terrible and powerful magic, all the riches. But no, he’d have wanted something more, something personal. 

“The Jolly Roger.” 

Emma doesn’t know what to say. She’s no more prepared for this revelation now than she was when he did the same for her two years ago. He traded his ship for her, traded his home to be with her and she knew he would every time. 

“Killian…” 

“It doesn’t matter, love. None of it matters. It’s just a ship. You matter,” he says, taking her hand in his. “We matter. All of us,” he adds with a small smirk. “Now come on,” he says, pushing the box towards her. “Make your wish. Send everyone back where they belong.” 

Emma hesitates with her hand on the lid, glancing up at him, his expression encouraging and hopeful if not a little sad, and she realises that this is goodbye. She trusts him. She knows this will work and she’ll leave. And he knows it too. 

Reaching out, she cups his face between both her hands, taking him in the way he is now, the silver in his hair, the lines around his eyes, the narrowness of his cheeks, and the love in his gaze, always love. She leans in, kisses him one more time, lingering a moment and feeling the softness of his beard against her chin when he returns it. 

When she pulls back they both have watery eyes. “I’m really looking forward to meeting you again,” she says knowing that she will, because he’s her Killian after all, she just needs to wait fifteen years or so. He smiles, taking her hand and turning to press his lips to her palm. 

She reaches for the box, thinking of home, of Killian back in Storybrooke, of this Killian here. And then she thinks of his Emma wherever she is, and how much she must be longing to see the man she fell in love with, despite circumstances, despite age differences, despite magic and doubt and fear. Because they’d always find each other. Because they belong together, in any realm, in any world. 

Opening the box, a bright, ethereal light shines out, filling the room with blinding starlight. She can only just make out his features in the brightness but she can feel his fingers wrapping around hers. He’d had it right.

“Send us back where we belong.” 

When she opens her eyes again she’s in her house, in her room, piles of spell books open on the floor. She’s in one of Killian’s t-shirts and when she looks up, sees him sitting beside her on the rug, young again and frowning at the pages, she can’t help the excited laugh that bursts from her. 

“We did it!” she exclaims, throwing herself into his arms. 

He hesitates a moment, frozen in shock. “Swan?” he asks like he doesn’t dare hope. “Is it really you?” She nods against his neck and suddenly his arms are wrapped tightly around her, his face buried in her hair. “How did you do it?” he asks, relief palpable in his voice. 

“You did it,” she says, pulling back. “You brought me home.” 

She knows he has questions, but for now all she can think to do is kiss him, to pull him to her and feel his lips on hers, the familiar scratch of his beard against her skin. Home. He brought her home, where she belongs. When she pulls back he only smiles at her.

She wonders then if the wish realm Emma made it back to her Killian, if she’d come here in her place like she’d suspected. It's then that she notices the mess of sheets and comforters on the bed, the shirt she’s wearing and nothing else. 

“Emma…” Killian starts hesitantly when she turns back to look at him. But she only smirks, a shit eating grin taking up her whole face before she kisses him again. 

Any time, any realm, any version of them, they belong together.