The man known to most as Captain Hook leaned against a low wall, arms and feet crossed, wind tousling his dark hair. His relaxed stance belied the turmoil inside him as he looked out across the bay, brows drawn together, eyes squinting in the sunlight.

He'd come down here to think and to calm down, but since his thoughts insisted on circling around Emma Swan, any hope of calm seemed far-off. She was infuriating. Impossible.

Irresistible.

The deal with the crocodile had been a bad idea. He knew that. He knew, too, that it was his own fault that he'd ended up in service to the Dark One, although the whole sorry business with the heart would have happened no matter what.

He hadn't expected to get away with it after that initial wave of relief at his survival. Emma hadn't broached the subject until the matter of the hat came up again – Belle was trying to find a way to release its victims, with no success so far. They'd asked him about it, and he'd confessed the whole sorry story again, this time to Emma's face.

She was furious.

Even in that, she'd surprised him, because it wasn't his blackmailing ways or the atrocities he'd committed in the Dark One's service that incurred her wrath. Killian had barely begun to express his regret for those actions when she'd cut him off and told him that she'd thought that he trusted her.

He'd protested that he did, and he'd meant it, but she wasn't having it. He hadn't trusted her to believe him. He hadn't trusted her to accept him the way he was.

It had gone downhill from there. He'd denied it, she'd insisted, her accusing tone had raised his hackles and his voice, and eventually he'd yelled back at her. She could hardly expect him to trust her to believe him when she hadn't before, and she had given him reason aplenty to think that a man with one hand was not enough.

After that, he'd stormed out, needing to get away from the stricken look on her face and feeling guilt and regret coil around him as soon as his anger cleared a little.

He wished he could take it all back. But at the same time, he wasn't quite willing to concede defeat, either. After all, she'd wanted the truth, hadn't she? It wasn't his fault if she didn't like it.

He rubbed a hand across his mouth and chin, feeling the stubble there scratch his fingers. He still never shaved it. He'd ditched the black leather pirate's garb in favour of clothes from this realm, but something in him rebelled at the idea of that goody-two-shoes Prince-Charming look.

But he had changed. Ever since meeting Emma, he'd begun to rediscover parts of himself that he'd denied, or thought lost. When he'd gone back to the Enchanted Forest, back to his pirate's life, he'd found that it no longer fit. That life had belonged to a vengeful man with no care for anyone but himself.

He couldn't go back to that. But he couldn't go back to the man he'd been before Liam's death, either. He couldn't give up the pirate completely, anymore than he'd managed to divest himself of the man of honour. It was all part of him now, and he was doing his best with everything he had.

He just wasn't sure, anymore, that it was enough.

He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes briefly before looking back out over the sea. It was oddly quiet, he realised. He was pretty sure that it had been windy until a few minutes ago. The sky showed no signs of an approaching storm, but the water was too calm to be trusted.

Something caught his attention then, a brief movement out in the water. He pushed away from the wall, hand already reaching for the spyglass tucked in his jacket pocket. But he didn't need it to tell him that that was a person out there, and he had years of experience reading the movement of people in the water. That deceptive calm, no regular motions to indicate a swimmer, no thrashing or waving or yelling – whoever that was out there, wherever he'd come from, he was drowning.

Conflicting thoughts crashed through his head. It wasn't really his problem. He didn't know the drowning man. Any honourable man would dive in and save him. There was no one else around. No one else would help him. No one would know if Killian let him drown, either. And the sea looked damned treacherous. And he did have something far better than vengeance to live for, these days...

"Bloody hell," he muttered, and broke into a run. Stripping off his jacket, he let it fall behind him and reached for his belt. He stopped at the edge of the pier to kick off his boots and tug off his trousers, took one last look to mark his target, and dove into the water.

It was cold enough to drive the air from his lungs, and for a moment he remembered the last time he'd been in the water, held there by the Dark One's magic until darkness took him. But again, years of experience took over and his muscles seemed to remember what to do before he even finished worrying about it.

Swimming was one activity where the hook was completely useless, weighing him down rather than helping in any way, but Killian had long since adjusted to that, too. Legs kicking, muscles burning, he darted forward through the water.

There were only a few bubbles and a vague dark shape to tell him that he'd reached the drowning man. Taking a deep breath, he dove.

He knew better than to open his eyes, but his foot touched something and he reached down with his hook. Another push downwards, another swipe with the hook, and he snagged something and pulled.

At first, it felt like tugging something through treacle, which was odd since bodies tended to float. Killian gritted his teeth, praying that the man hadn't gotten tangled in a fishing net or something, because cutting him free of that without being able to see would be almost impossible. He dove down a little further, to get more leverage, and wrapped his arm around the drowning man. The pressure seemed to ease. He tugged again, kicked furiously, and then his head broke the surface of the water.

He blinked his eyes open. A dark-haired man drooped against him, eyes shut and body limp.

Killian cursed, still kicking to stay afloat, and reached with his good hand to slap the man's cheek. "No, no, don't do that. Come on, mate, wake up."

Something moved to his right, beneath the waves. He caught the telltale blue-green glint, and his heart sank.

Mermaid.

That explained why the man had been drowning... or did it?

She broke through the surface with a splash, but before he had time to panic, he recognised her. Red hair, pretty face, a mouth that looked made for smiling, and big blue eyes: Ariel. And, judging from the way her eyes widened, she recognised him, too.

But she barely gave him a glance before focusing on the man in his arms. "Eric! Is he okay? Is he alive? Eric!"

"Don't know," Killian managed.

"Give me your hand. And don't let him go." Before he could comply with the first order, she'd seized his arm, and then they were moving towards the shore. Killian quickly abandoned any attempt to help with the swimming or to right himself, settling for turning his head to avoid the waves and gripping Eric as best he could with one arm and a hook.

They reached the shore in about a quarter of the time it had taken him to reach Eric. Ariel took Eric from his arms and hauled the prince out of the water. By the time Killian had managed to get onto the pier – not an easy task with tired muscles, one hand, and water-logged clothes – Ariel was bent over Eric, trying to revive him.

Killian dropped to his knees beside the prince, looking at that too-still face. "Try it again," he told Ariel. "You breathe. I'll push."

They worked in silence, desperation driving new strength into Killian's muscles as he pushed down on Eric's chest, trying to make the lungs do their work. They had to work. He had to live.

And live he did, sputtering and coughing in Ariel's arms, and as Killian helped the prince sit up, he felt the weight lift from his own chest.

But Ariel didn't seem to share his relief. "We have to get away from the water," she said. "Please. Help me carry him."

"He's safe n—"

"No, he's not! None of us are!" Ariel's eyes were wide with appeal. "Please, you have to believe me. That's Davy Jones out there. We have to get away from the water."

For a moment, Killian only stared at her as his heart lurched, and the fingers of his good hand automatically curled to cover his palm to ward off the sign of the kraken, a superstitious reflex he hadn't known he still had.

Davy Jones. The name alone was enough to drive terror into the heart of every sailor under the sun. Neither dead nor living, he was said to sail the seas in his lost ship, seeking out cursed souls to drag down into the depths of the Locker with the help of the kraken at his beck and call. Killian remembered listening to the stories as a lad, feeling that delicious shiver of fear running down his back. He'd all but forgotten about them during his time in Neverland, when he'd had other nightmares and terrors to keep him company.

"It can't be," he said. "He's not of this realm. You're back in Storybrooke, you—"

"I know where I am, Captain!" Ariel shot back. "We came here to warn you. Now come on."

Her urgency combined with the lingering fear in his chest moved him back into action. He half-carried, half-tugged Eric along the pier while Ariel collected his discarded trousers, boots, and jacket, the latter of which she tucked around Eric's now-shivering shoulders.

When they reached the end of the pier, a truck pulled up beside one of the warehouses up ahead, and Killian raised his hand, almost dropping Eric. "Hey! We need some help here!"

The driver turned out to be Leroy, who helped load Eric and Ariel into the back of the vehicle. Killian strapped in beside him as he put the truck in reverse.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

It was, Killian reflected as he glanced back at Ariel and the shivering, sodden form of Prince Eric, a very good question.