She stares up at the mast of the Jolly, shielding her eyes against the sun, watching as the sails billow in the light breeze coming in off the water. The sun is setting in a shining array of reds and golds and she slides her hand fondly over the railing, remembering late nights when the stars were too bright and his smile had been easy behind the wheel of his ship.
It's been so long, she almost forgot.
(She tells herself she's thinking only of the ship, but each day the lines around his eyes grow dimmer and she can't exactly remember the way his laugh sounded pressed against her shoulder.)
"You're the lass from the castle, aye?" And she knows as soon as she hears his voice that she's made a mistake - that she shouldn't have come here. She isn't ready for this - for him. "You're staying with the royals?"
She inhales sharp through her nose and tries to anchor herself in the salt that lingers in the air, the gulls that are screeching on their way home to their nests, squaring her shoulders and carefully putting the broken pieces of her back in place before she turns to where his voice is coming from. It's all pretty much for nothing when she meets the blue of his eyes because god - she almost forgot.
"Y-Yes." She stutters with a forced and tremulous smile, her fingers itching to scratch through his wind-wild hair, trace the scar on his cheek and just fall into him. He steps down from the upper deck, hand wiping on the front of his leathers, a rope coiled loose over his shoulder. He looks at ease in a way she hasn't seen too often - typically reserved for early morning secrets, pressed together beneath the thick warmth of their comforter. But remembering hurts too much, so she folds her hands behind her back in an effort to stop them from trembling and averts her gaze back towards the high beams. "It's a beautiful ship you have here."
The coil of rope hits the deck with a dull thud and she can practically feel his proud grin, smell the spice and sea that clings to his skin as he sways into her space. "She's a marvel." He rocks back on his heels and she can feel him considering her, that brain of his no doubt trying to work out why a guest of the royal family is on his ship instead of at dinner like she was invited to be. But she could see his ship from her guest quarters and she just -
She had to see him. See if he was okay.
(See if he remembered her.)
(It had been foolish to hope.)
She meets his gaze and tries not to wince at the sharp pain that pulses through her chest, grimacing through a smile and taking a step back. "I should go." She whispers but when she steps back, he takes one step forward, his hook loose around her wrist, keeping her where she stands.
"Do I - " his hand rises in the space between them and she shouldn't have come herebecause he's cupping her face like he used to do - his palm warm and calloused against her cheekbone - and she can't hold herself together much longer - the fragile cracks splintering into chasms and ravines, the pain spilling out like a swelling tide. He swallows hard and his fingers press tighter against her skin. "Do I know you?"
His eyes are sweeping her face in that way he used to do when he was trying to work out one of her secrets or read her mood or decide if she wanted grilled cheese or lasagna for dinner without her telling him and it hurts - god it hurts more than she even thought to not be known by him. She steps out of his hold and breathes in deep, forcing another stupid, shaking grin -
But he shakes his head and steps right back into her space, his hook pressing into the small of her back and his eyes narrowed in concentration as his thumb traces the dent in her chin. "Why did I want to do that?" He whispers. "I wanted to do that. It was like an itch in my skin. Why?"
"I don't - "
"I know you." She can feel the mast at her back now, the sway and dip of the wood beneath her feet. "How do I know you?"
"I - " She fumbles for words she doesn't have, an explanation that doesn't make sense. "I just have one of those faces?"
The end of her sentence pitches off into a question and she hates how borderline hysterical she sounds. His lips twitch at the corners, his hand sliding back further around until he's cupping her head, heavy rings tangled in her hair (just like they used to and she could cry it feels so good) until he tilts her head just right.
"No," his gaze dips from holding her own to her lips and back again, his tongue lingering at the corner of his mouth. She feels heat curl languidly in her stomach, a lazy sort of desire in the familiar way he feels against her. "No, that isn't it. Maybe if I - "
She doesn't have time to try and stop him or fortify the walls around her heart because his lips are pressing against hers, soft and warm with gentle insistence as he brushes once, twice, three times before she sighs and pulls him closer, her hands fisted in the worn material of his vest. He isn't wearing his jacket and she wants to slide her hands underneath, trace the familiar smattering of scars against his skin and make him pant her name.
(But he doesn't remember her name.)
She closes her eyes and kisses him harder.
His nose presses into her cheekbone when he guides her head to the left, a gentle tilt that's at odds with the methodical way his mouth is devouring hers - lips sucking, teeth nipping, his tongue meeting hers in a tentative stroke when she sighs out in the space between them. But then she groans and he groans too and his tongue curls around hers and fuck - it's been two years without him and she isn't supposed to be doing this.
She presses her palms against his chest until he stumbles back, the patches of pink high on his cheeks almost bringing her to her knees. She tucks the back of her hand against her mouth and looks anywhere but at him, trying to ease the fierce ache between her thighs and get control of herself before she does something stupid like tell him she loves him.
(Come back to me.)
"I should go." Her voice sounds like it's breaking over the rocks even to her own ears and she pushes off the mast, stumbling forward on clumsy feet. But he stops her, stepping in her way and holding on to her shoulders with hand and hook, an almost manic glint in his eyes.
"That sound you made," Before she can even breathe, he's pressing against her, stepping them backwards until they're plastered together knee to neck against the mast. His teeth scrape a rough line against her bottom lip and she groans, back arching, nails digging into sea-soaked wood. He pulls back with a shudder, nose brushing hers. "That - that low hum in the back of your throat. I know that noise."
His brows furrow in furious concentration and she bites her lip, eyes burning (heart breaking).
"I know these eyes." His pinky traces over her eyebrow, swipes at the moisture that clings to her bottom eyelashes. "I know this sadness."
His forehead drops against hers. "Where do I know you from?"
She could tell him. She could tell him that two years ago a curse fell on the town and he was ripped away from her, along with everyone else she ever bothered to love. She could tell him that as purple smoke wrapped around their ankles he had whispered feverish promises in her ear about not forgetting - never forgetting - his lilting voice repeating her favorite things over and over again. The little things that he noticed when they were laying in bed together. The color of her hair and the toothpaste she used in the mornings.
("I won't forget, Swan. I swear it.")
She could tell him that for two years she had searched every corner of the world for a way back to them - back to him - and only after a bean and a swelling burst of hope and magic in her own fingertips had she fallen through a portal - landed in Misthaven and was taken in by her parents as an honored guest to the realm. She could tell him.
But he wouldn't believe her.
A nifty side effect of the curse that stole her heart and broke it clean in two.
So she drops her head back against the wood, angles her chin up instead, and doesn't fight it when his lips slant over hers again with an unrestrained hunger. After all, if she can't have anything else, she might as well have this.
His sloppy kisses work their way from the corner of her lips to the spot beneath her ear that he always was so fond of, a hitch in her breath when his hook finds her thigh and yanks, the heel of her boot digging in to the small of his back. "I know this spot," he mutters in agonized confusion, fingers tracing over the hem of her bodice. His teeth nip and she pulls him closer. "I know the taste of your skin and the curve of your breasts." His fingers dip into the front of her corset and pull until there's nothing but the chemise hiding bare skin from view, his thumb shaking as he traces it over one stiff peak. He curses when she whines, hand quickly moving to her unattended breast.
"I know the way you feel." He grinds out, hips circling and pressing into the place where she is slick and wanting between her thighs, the need almost unbearable. She widens her stance and shoves her hand between them because subtlety was abandoned as soon as his teeth grazed her skin and she never did have any sort of willpower when it came to him. He groans when her palm rubs against him, hips bucking into her touch. "Gods, I know your hand, how - "
He pulls her fingers away with a rough jerk, swinging her hand over their heads with a practiced move, holding her there with a quick thrust of his hook. It anchors there with a dull thud, the metal cold against her skin, and she arches her back - making an indecent picture she's sure - his knee pressed between her own, her breasts spilling from the absolutely ridiculous corset some poor maiden is missing off her laundry line on the far side of town.
"I feel - " He swallows, his hand bunching in the fabrics of her skirts, sliding the material up her thigh until his fingertips meet bare skin. They shudder in unison and he swallows hard, eyes navy in the rising moon, hair ruffling in the wind that blows stronger. " - everything when I look at you."
His thumb brushes at the apex of her thighs, her eyes falling shut at the electricity that hums in her blood and shoots along her limbs, her hips rocking as his hand sets a tempo. But then he bites out a curse and pulls his hand back, like he can't quite decide how he wants her or how he wants to touch her, her labored breathing and the fumbling of his belt and the rolling of the water the only things she can comprehend.
And then his hook is dislodging from the wood and sliding beneath her ass, urging her up higher. And then his hand is pulling at her skirts, again, and she's opening hooded eyes to meet his frantic gaze. And then he's pressing into her with a growl and a groan and a whimper, and she's biting the inside of her cheek in an effort not to fall apart.
(Come back to me.)
"Fuck, I - " He doesn't stop until he's settled full in her, rutting lightly in tiny little jerks of his hips that have her legs scrambling for purchase against his sides. "I know this, I know you, love - "
He pulls back and pushes back in, hook settling at the place between her breasts as he thrusts mercilessly against her, a rough dance that is too much and not enough and flows with the waves lapping at the side of his ship, with the stars that are just startling to twinkle in the sky. She twists her fingers through his hair and he catches her tears on his fingertips and he feels so good - he feels so good and it's been so long and she's missed him so much and just -
"God, right there, please, Killian, fuck."
He stills when she sobs his name, a shudder that starts at the base of his spine and rolls up his shoulders and then his teeth are on her neck, sinking and brushing and his hips are snapping back against hers - skin slapping against skin and echoing against the water. There's a furious desperation that she mirrors and then his hand cups her chin, angles her face until she's looking down at him and it's like everything falls apart and rearranges and puts itself back together because -
"Emma?" He grinds against her in a dirty slide that has the heat circling tighter, the wiry hair on his abdomen brushing her clit with every jerky thrust. He breathes in sharp and so does she because -
"Come back to me." She urges, her thighs pressed tighter against his hips. "Please, please."
"Bloody fucking hell, Emma. Gods, how long has it - " He cuts off with another growl of her name and sinks his hand back into her hair, buries his face in her neck as he fucks her into the mast, chases her into oblivion and he remembers - he remembers.
She feels the pleasure start to crest, a pulling in her belly that rises sharp and quick when he bites another bruise into her collarbone, his hand fumbling for hers and lacing their fingers together. He whispers her name and she shatters apart, clenching around him with a gasp of his name and staring up at the stars as white light burns hot behind her eyelids. He presses into her with a couple more sloppy jerks and then he breathes out a rough groan, his body heavy against hers as he slows to a stop.
They are silent and she closes her eyes, hopes this isn't a dream where she will wake up a one with salt on her tongue and tears in her eyes.
"Emma." He breathes, and there are tears anyway, because he remembers.
This isn't a dream.
She's found her way home.
-/-
Later, when they are curled together in his bunk, bare skin pressed together and his fingertips gentle against her skin, she can feel his smile in the curve of her shoulder.
"My darling," He presses a kiss to her neck, the tip of her ear. "Did we have True Love's Fuck?"
She pushes him out of the bed and his laughter wedges in the place next to her heart as she follows him down, her body landing on top of his and her knees pressed into wood.
"I'm not sure," She smiles, and delights in the way his jaw clenches when she turns her hips. "Let's try again."