Several times in his too-long life, Killian Jones looked at Emma Swan and thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
The first surprised him, buried as he was under that pile of bodies to see her incredulous (remarkable, radiant) face as he was pulled out of it. His startled expression certainly fit well enough with the role he played, an innocent blacksmith until those piercing green eyes saw straight through him, but it wasn't acting, not really.
He was able to push those thoughts away easily enough once she put a knife to his throat and threatened his life - attributed his pathetic reaction to her on her innate kindness, innate goodness, a welcome respite after watching Cora decimate that village and knowing he couldn't raise a hand or hook to stop it. And she certainly was beautiful, after all. He'd have been blind not to notice it.
Being chained up on a beanstalk quickly cured him of his curiousity.
The second time happened in a hospital bed. He blamed the haze of the drugs that left his mind vulnerable and weak, and shoved his thoughts aside once more in favor of his mission. He had a Crocodile to skin.
The third took place on the doorstep of an apartment in a monstrous, overwhelming city. She didn't recognize him, not yet, but something about her slightly-unkempt hair and baggy sleeping attire made his stomach flip, his grin impossible to contain at seeing her comfortable and unguarded and finally, the longest year of his three centuries blessedly concluded. A well-placed knee wiped the smile from his face, but only for a short while.
She held his heart in her hands, quite literally, the fourth time.
The fifth involved a knowing glance with her father as she descended a grand staircase, flowers in her hair and a dress that looked so much like a bride's it made his heart twist painfully, gorgeously in his chest - possibilities in an uncertain future that only strengthened his resolve to save her. He kept his thoughts to himself, mostly, simply savored the dance and the light touch of her hand on his hook.
A sword and a flash of magic accompanied the sixth, along with pain, Gods, a white-hot agony in his gut that made the loss of his hand pale in comparison. But it was tempered just enough by the sight of her, hair loose and golden and her red jacket and like she was before, clinging to him as he struggled to keep his hand against her face. It was enough, just enough to soothe his battered heart before he closed his eyes and let himself rest.
The seventh was the hardest, tears clouding both their eyes as he tried to memorize her face one last time before kissing her, clinging for one desperate moment before sending her up that elevator. The tears were there once more for the eighth but they mingled with the rain and were washed away by her frantic kisses and delighted smile. He'd thought of her, pictured her face as he walked into the light, but seeing her tired and cold and grief-stricken and alive and perfect was better than anything he could ever commit to memory.
They weren't alone for the ninth.
Killian was the first to finally find her, tearing into the castle tower with Henry right on his heels and Emma's parents just behind. It had taken months, endless, sleepless months of researching and near-misses and realm-jumping, and he froze when he saw her, laid peacefully on the ornate bed.
He'd never seen a sleeping curse in person. Her stillness was unnerving, no gentle rise-and-fall of her chest as he'd seen on many a morning when he'd awakened before her - she laid frozen, completely suspended in time, some twisted version of the curse of Neverland.
But it was still Emma, Emma, and the sound of Henry's breath catching behind him was enough to make him take another step towards her, and then another, and another until he'd perched next to her on the bed, the air stolen from his lungs as it settled in that they'd succeeded, that they'd won.
The smile spread slowly on his face as he turned to look at Henry, still a few paces back, hopeful but tentative. "Well, lad," he said, looking from son to mother and back again, "would you like to do the honors?"
The boy paused for a brief moment before a smirk, one that looked suspiciously similar to the one Killian saw in the mirror, spread over his face. "Nah," he said, shaking his head. "I think you've got this."