When she gets the first text from an amused/annoyed store owner one Saturday morning, she thinks nothing of it. He's done stranger things, after all. But after the second and third message from different sources, she thinks maybe it's time to investigate.

She finds him at Granny's, in a booth rather than propping up the bar, armed with a large mug of black coffee and a weary expression. He looks at up at her approach, his eyes brightening with anticipation, and the usual flutter of something dances through her stomach. "Do you always look this radiant so early in the morning, Swan?" He tilts back his head, his gaze sweeping down to effortlessly catalogue her from head to toe. "Or is that something best discovered, as they say in this realm, up close and personal?"

She really should be used to his flirting by now, she really should, so why does she suddenly feel as though her underwear is suddenly two sizes too small? "I heard you were doing some shopping this morning." She smiles down at him, watching carefully as a muscle flickers in his clenched jaw. "Or trying to, at least."

"News travels quickly in Storybrooke, it appears."

She ignores his sour tone. "You were looking to buy," she glances down at her phone and recites the second text message she'd received that morning, "an ink pot, a new quill and parchment. You were also asking each store owner, and I quote, what kind of bloody stupid establishment won't take gold coin in payment?"

He scowls at his coffee cup. "Are you quite finished?"

"Oh, I haven't even got started yet." She slides into the booth beside him, enjoying his startled reaction. Normally she endeavours to keep a healthy distance between them - no sense asking for trouble before she's ready to deal with it - but there's something about his disheartened expression that makes her heart twinge. "Are you running low on writing supplies?"

He hesitates for a few seconds, then breathes out a loud sigh. "I'm afraid so." He picks up something from the seat on the other side of him and she can't help smiling, because Henry has obviously bequeathed one of his unused notebooks from school, plus a ballpoint pen that's clearly seen better days. "I encountered your son in here earlier, and he was most helpful, but this pedestrian writing tool isn't worthy of the strangely coloured ink that fills it, to say nothing of the poor quality of this parchment." Drumming his fingers on the notebook, he gives her a small smile that borders on wistful, and she finds her breath catching in her throat. "I realise it's a trivial complaint, given the gravity of the circumstances in which we constantly find ourselves, but -"

He breaks off, but she reads the rest of his words in his eyes. But it matters to him. And if it matters to him, it matters to her, whether she's ready to deal with that or not. She covers his hand with hers, not caring that the diner is half-full of weekend breakfast dawdlers. "I have an idea." She slides out of the booth, then jerks her head to where her car is parked outside the diner, her words coming out in a rush before she does something sensible like changing her mind. "Come on. We're going on a road trip."

His answering smile of delight makes her think that the time for being sensible is long gone.

She has a cherished memory – false, of course, but still in her head and her heart nevertheless – of taking Henry to FAO Schwarz for the first time when he was five years old. Unlike the other children around him, he'd walked calmly and carefully, his manner almost reverential, his eyes huge in his head as he trailed his fingers gently along the displays, up and down each aisle, almost as though he was touring a museum, not speaking, just drinking it all in. (She has to hand it to Regina for knowing her son so well. Even in his fake childhood, he'd behaved exactly as he would have done in reality, and that small fact comforts Emma.)

She thinks of that memory again now as she watches Hook trail his right hand along the display of sealing wax and ornately carved seals. He'd been full of chatter and his usual droll observations on the five mile drive from Storybrooke, but he hasn't said a word since she led him into this speciality stationery store. His expression now is almost an exact much for five year-old Henry's, and again Emma feels that disconcerted swell of tenderness welling up in her chest, clogging her throat. He stops at the shelves of luxurious fountain pens and individually hand-pressed sheets of paper, touching them with gentle fingertips. The scent of paper and ink fills the air around them, and as she watches he inhales deeply, closing his eyes, his mouth curving in a smile.

"I take it you approve."

"Aye." He opens his eyes with a start, looking faintly embarrassed to have been caught so deep in reflection. Reaching for the small leather pouch on his belt, his smile fades as his gaze meets hers. "Would I be correct in assuming this fine establishment will also be of the opinion that gold coin isn't suitable legal tender?"

She waves her hand. "I'll take care of it."

He frowns, clearly torn between the lure of finally acquiring something so comfortingly familiar and letting her pay for said items. He shakes his head, good form winning out, it seems. "No, that's not proper."

"Says the pirate." Something dark flashes in his eyes, and she instantly regrets her teasing words. "We can work something out later," she promises hurriedly. "We're here now and my credit card hardly ever sees daylight in Storybrooke, so just go to town, okay?"

He quirks a quizzical eyebrow at her, and she grins again. "I mean get whatever you want, and we'll sort out how you can pay me back later."

And just like that, the darkness in his eyes is gone, replaced by a flirtatious gleam that makes her toes curl in her boots. "I can think of many a way in which to repay such a generous gesture, Swan."

Emma clears her throat, trying not to think of curling her hand around his silver pendants and dragging him between the dimly lit shelves and letting him thank her right this very second. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Are you still keeping a Captain's log?"

They're back in Storybrooke once more, and right now she's making nervous small talk because she's just finished helping him carry his new possessions down to the Captain's quarters of his ship, and now that task is done, there is an air of anticipation simmering between them that makes her think maybe she should have just dropped him off and let him cope with the bags of stationery alone. His new treasures are now neatly stacked at one end of the table at which she's sitting, and he's given her a handful of gold coins that will definitely be far too much money once she's managed to change them into real world currency, and she supposes she should leave him to get on with his plans for the day-

"Aye, but there are other things I wished to record." There's a glass tumbler sliding across the small wooden table in her direction, and she knows that a swift and graceful departure has just been delayed. She watches as he pours them both a measure of rum (thank God he's starting buying it from The Rabbit Hole, because at least she's familiar with that brand and can steel herself for that first sip) then raises his glass to her in a toast. "Thank you for my new supplies."

"Don't mention it, and you've definitely repaid me for them, so let's call it even, okay?" She takes a small sip of rum, because seriously, it's only just gone midday, but what the hell, right? It's Saturday and David's on-call this weekend and Henry is with Regina until tomorrow afternoon, so it's not as though she has anywhere else to be right now. "Uh, what other things do you need to record?" She's tells herself she's not vain enough to think his writing has something to do with her, but still -

He hesitates, then shrugs out of his coat, tossing it onto his narrow bunk bed before dropping into the chair opposite her. "Last week, your son shared a movie for my entertainment." To his credit, he doesn't stumble over the word movie in the slightest, and she can't help but be impressed, if a little confused by how watching a movie with Henry could lead to a sudden need for new ink and paper. "It was a tale in which a young woman was sent to an asylum by her family, who had been publicly shamed by her being a drunkard."

She grins. Either Captain Hook was subjected to two hours of Sandra Bullock or Meg Ryan, but either way, it had obviously made an impression on him. "Okay, but what does that have to do with your sudden shopping expedition?"

"The twelve steps mentioned in this tale, they are well known, are they not?"

She stares at him, because whatever she'd expected him to say, it definitely hadn't been that. "They are."

He nods, visibly relieved that he doesn't have to explain the concept further. "There are people in this realm whom I have wronged, Swan." He breaks off, his tanned throat working as he swallows hard. "I would have a care to make amends."

Her head is spinning, but it's got nothing to do with the rum. Firstly, she can't believe they're having this discussion, and secondly, trust him to skip the first seven steps and head straight for the one that means the most awkward conversations around town. "You want to make a list of the people you've wronged."

"Yes." His mouth twitches in a smile, but there's no humour in it. "As you can imagine, my need for parchment and ink for such a task has exhausted my supplies."

Emma looks at him. "You've done a lot of good things, too."

He lifts one shoulder in an elegant half-shrug. "Perhaps."

"I'm not saying you haven't done a lot of bad things, because I'm pretty sure you have." There's no point denying what they both know is true. They've come too far to hide behind a smokescreen of bullshit. "But you're not a bad man."

He gives her that look, his patented 'stubborn ass pirate' look that always makes her want to dig in her heels and argue with him until her throat is hoarse. "I beg to differ, love."

The temptation to clock him over the head with the bottle is growing stronger by the moment. "Tell me something. Why did you become a pirate?"

"Because my brother died a pointless death, not an honourable one as he'd always hoped." He pours himself another measure of rum, but doesn't drink it. "Due solely to the treachery and lies of a king we'd both sworn to honour and serve."

She blinks, taken aback. She'd had some inkling, but clearly there is so much more to the story, more than he's willing to tell her now, but God, she wants to know. She wants to know all of him, both before and after and now, and she's tired of pretending that she doesn't. "And why did you set out to kill Rumplestiltskin?"

"He ripped out Milah's heart." His fingers flex on the tumbler in his hand. "She died in my arms and the coward laughed as she breathed her last." He downs his drink, his hand steady as a rock, but she hears the trembling grief in his voice. "And my quest to avenge her death was the only thing that kept me breathing for a very long time."

Tears prickling hotly at the back of her eyes at the pain in his voice, but she determinedly blinks them away. "So basically, you didn't just wake up one morning and say, screw it, I think I'll become a pirate and go around doing a lot of bad deeds just because I can, did you?"

"No."

She looks at him, at this man who has walked through fire more than once to save her and the people she loves. "One more question, and then I'll leave if you want me to go." She takes a deep breath, feeling as though she's about to open the biggest can of worms known to mankind, but she can't do this anymore, this dancing around each other, because it's exhausting. More importantly, she needs him to say it when it's not a life or death situation, and those moments are pretty rare in this town. "If you're not a good man, then why are you still here in Storybrooke, still helping us?"

His gaze locks with hers. "Because I can no longer imagine a life without you in it, Swan." He gestures towards the door to his cabin with his now empty glass. "I have no wish for you to go, but you are free to leave without injuring my pride, lass."

She doesn't leave. It's as though she's welded to the chair, because this man has laid his heart at her feet and his cards on the table, and to leave now would be to turn her back on everything he's offering her - heart, soul, body, loyalty - and she can't. She just can't.

He pushes back his chair with a sudden shove and gets to his feet, putting his empty glass on the table, his eyes glittering with something that looks a lot like anger. "Either bloody well say something or get out, Swan, because the last thing I want is your pity."

She starts to rise, her eyes never leaving his face. "Pity is the last thing I'm feeling, trust me."

To her relief, he hears everything she's not saying, and by the time he reaches her side and hauls her into his arms, she's lifting her arms to wind them around his neck. His mouth closes over hers in a fierce kiss that has her seeing stars behind her eyelids and fireworks sparking low in her belly, and nothing short of another mermaid attack is going to stop her from kissing him for a long, long time. She vaguely registers the sound of things falling to the floor - rustling papers and the smashing of something that might be a new bottle of ink - as they stumble against the wooden table, then she's falling backwards onto his narrow bed and he's in her arms, kissing her as though she is now the only thing keeping him breathing and maybe she is.

The world narrows down to the feel of his skin against hers, the taste of his mouth, the rough groan that shakes him when he's finally inside her, her name a muttered oath against her shoulder. They barely speak, the only sound the pounding of her pulse in her ears and his breathing against her skin, harsh and helpless as they twist together on the rough bedclothes, pushing each other higher and faster and harder.

When they finally fall, they fall together, clinging to each other as though the ship is being tossed by a fierce storm, their skin slick with sweat as though they'd been drenched by pounding rains.

Later, he writes patterns and sonnets on her skin with his fingertips, composing a silent symphony down her spine, skimming poetry down the backs of her legs. When she finally rolls over onto her back, his eyes are glowing brightly in the late afternoon light that filters through the windows above his bed, gleaming with all the unspoken words he's tracing on her body. She kisses him again and again, pulling him down until the weight of him presses her deep into the mattress, finding new answers to her unasked questions each and every time he touches her, the sheer heat of them slowly dissolving the line between good and bad and all that grey that lies between the two.

Even later, she helps him gather up scattered paper and sealing wax from where they'd spilled onto the floor, carefully tucking them away in the drawer of the desk before they can meet the same fate a second time.

Just as the sun is setting, she discovers that ink has seeped over her jeans where they'd lain on the floor, but she can't say she cares. After all, she does have enough gold coins to buy herself a new pair. But, she thinks hazily as he draws her into his arms once more, his mouth exploring a warm, lazy path along her bare shoulder, it's not as though she's going to need a new pair of jeans tonight. Or any clothes at all, for that matter.

The third time's a charm. The fourth time almost breaks the table, and she's vaguely grateful to have saved the stationery supplies. It would be a shame to ruin all that fancy new paper as well as her jeans.

He makes his list. Slowly, he tries to make amends. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Either way, she doesn't interfere or attempt to talk him out of trying. It matters to him, and therefore it matters to her, and that's all that matters.