Author's Note: I kept wondering 'what if' as I watched the most recent episode, and wanted to write my story of where things would have gone had Hook said he loved her, and how he could have gotten to that place to begin with.

This is Part I. The second half will examine what is going through the Dark One's mind. Warnings for slightly dark themes/Dark!Hook. Reviews and Critiques are always, always welcome. Enjoy! – Fara


Killian holds his breath as he descends into the familiar space of his quarters aboard the Jolly Roger, uncertain of whether or not she will be waiting for him. He finds he is disappointed when memories of past deeds are the only thing that greets him. The scent of the cabin is comforting, notes of leather and wood layered upon years of parchment and books and ink. The atmosphere soothes him, his mind recalling memories he hadn't had much need to linger over lately—the raging sea as he clung to the helm, watching as the Dark Curse faded into nothingness only moments before it reached the stern of his ship, his haggard footsteps as he stumbled to his berth, dreams entangled with thoughts of how to get back to her.

To his Swan. To his North.

When she startles him, he knows there are still lingering traces of joy in his gaze, his thoughts not having yet released their hold on the past—that moment when she drank the potion and remembered, when he knew all was not lost—Hook—and he'd never been more happy to hear her say his name.

"It's not funny appearing like that."

There is a stirring of guilt in his gut. He should be wary, mistrustful, even, but Gods help him he is nothing but glad to see her, no matter the manner in which she arrived.

"Sorry."

The word sounds foreign falling from her tongue, and he realizes that she has yet to have formed regrets, or missteps. It must be freeing. He can remember a time where he was beyond those ordinary inconveniences, as well. Bloody hell, being this close to her, he could see it again.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I know this has all been really confusing, and I haven't made it any easier. I wanted to apologize for overreacting last time. I know you're just trying to help. So I thought…we could just talk and have lunch, like old times."

He bites the inside of his lip, her words striking all of the wrong chords. She sounds too much like Emma, but then again, not at all.

"I'd like nothing more, but this is hardly like old times."

It never will be, he realizes as he looks as her, the truth that had been lingering with him for days finally staking claim to his heart. He will never have his Emma back—the Emma who thought of others before herself, who taught him to love again. His heart clenched painfully, and he knew if he didn't let her go, it would shatter right there across the floor of his cabin. Instead, he would cling to the one piece of herself that she had left with him, the ability to love. He would love this new Emma, and perhaps together they could have an ending that he could live with, even if it wasn't happy, because as weak as he was, he couldn't live without some version of her. The decision is quick, and frighteningly easy to make, and he knows it's because he's been considering it for days, ever since that moment in the Dark One's house where she asked for his companionship.

He turns away from her then, dropping the bag of food on the table, and before he can turn back, everything changes. He feels the magic press against his skin, and when he looks down, he sees the familiar sight of a red checked tablecloth, the food arranged on delicate place settings. He waits for his heart to break, but it is curiously void of pain. He hears nothing behind him, but he is keenly aware that if he turns around he will see her dressed as his old Emma—dressed as someone who is never coming back.

It was his last chance. He could look at her, drinking in the illusion as a marooned man fresh water. It would reignite his hope, but with hope came misery and suffering, the long wait for a happy ending he would never get—because he was a villain, and villains don't get happy endings. They got the endings they deserved, and perhaps after hundreds of years bent on vengeance, the ending he deserved was by the Dark One's side. The irony of it all was fitting.

So he didn't turn around, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the corner of the red checked tablecloth.

"Don't." His voice was resolved, but lighter than it had been of late. "Let's leave memories of the past out of this."

The air in the cabin stirred, and he watched as the red checked cloth disappeared, leaving instead the knotted wood of his table, the food once again bagged.

He turned to her then, taking in the pale blonde hair smoothed tightly into an elegant bun, the curious tilt to her lips as she watched him. The dress he knew she was cloaked in only a moment before was thankfully gone, replaced with the severe black leather tunic she seemed to favor.

He didn't go looking for the pain in his heart, knowing that the burden had vanished with his new path laid out before him—standing before him. He took the few steps toward her that would close the distance between them, his hand reaching to take hers, studying his rings against the pale white of her skin.

"I have questions."

She didn't remove her hand from his, but her eyes shifted upward, meeting his, a moment of indecision reflected in their green depths.

"You don't want to know if I'm still the same Emma?"

"I already know that you're not. I don't care. I want to know why you're here, on my ship."

There was a long moment of silence, and he tightened his grip. Her eyes flashed with something he couldn't place, but he didn't ease up. If she wanted Hook, she was going to get all of him, Dark One or no, because Killian couldn't love this woman, but Hook could.

"I have a question for you for once."

Her voice was frustratingly opaque, giving him no hint as to what type of answer she might expect.

"Do you love me?"

The Savior had loved the good in him, the long-forgotten morality of a young Lieutenant. She had stolen his heart and pulled him from the shadows. She had been his North, and therein lay the problem. His North was fluctuating, depending entirely on Emma, and now that she was gone, his North had changed.

The only thing left of it was the Dark One, and the one person she could love was the feral pirate, the man who plundered, schemed and ripped apart anything in his way. She was who he had left to him now, his new North, and so he would return to the shadows with her, and take love where he could.

"Aye."

"I need something that touched Rumplestiltskin when he was still a man. You knew him then. You can help me."

Hook didn't think anything of retrieving the cutlass from the shelf, it was what she needed. He held the blade against her cheek, a cold glimmer in the blue of his eyes as he spoke.

"I took this cutlass and put it to his head and taunted him. I'm assuming this will work, though he wasn't much of a man at that moment either, love."

It was surprising to him how quickly Killian slipped away, the guilt and sorrow lessening with each word that fell from his lips.

She raised an elegant hand, her wrist twisting before his eyes, and the cutlass disappeared in a cloud of grey smoke, his hand empty. He had the sudden urge to fill it, and so he did. His fingers found the pins in her hair easily enough, skillfully plucking them from her braids as she turned into him, her hands pressed into the edge of the table behind her, her eyes, dark and filled with desire, meeting his own.

She raised her hand again, and he was suddenly afraid that she would magic her hair into something he didn't want to see, something gold and beautiful, so he stopped her, his hook catching her wrist in midair and bringing it to his hip.

"Don't," he said firmly, tossing another pin to the ground. "If I'm going to have you—and I will. I want you just the way you are, no trickery."

He watched as her silver hair fell in waves around her shoulders, elegantly framing the smooth, pale expanse of her cheeks, her green eyes watching him like two moss-lined pools in the snow, ice gathering at their edges. She was beautiful when she was undone.

He lingered for only a moment, wanting to feel something more than he wanted to memorize her, his lips finding hers with a brutality he had forgotten he possessed. She met him eagerly, her leg winding around his as she pressed fiercely into him, the leather they both wore an unwanted barrier.

She scratched her fingers roughly down the exposed skin of his chest before entwining them around his necklace, yanking his face to her neck. He nipped the sensitive skin at her throat roughly, the moan he drew from her lips making him throb painfully. He needed to be inside of her.

Something between a growl and a cry left his lips, and he found himself spinning her around forcefully, his left forearm pressing her roughly into the table, his hand moving to jerk her hips upward. He swore he could hear both of their hearts racing together, the air practically humming with unchecked need. Savoring the moment, the Dark One spread before him on the table, he set about solving the problem of that infuriating leather armor she chose to wear, his hook tearing down the back of her leather jacket before moving to her leggings. He didn't care if he damaged her—knowing that this Emma could handle those dangerous parts of him, the parts that took without caring.

Once he had her bared to him, her body shivering on the table, her breath coming in small, muted gasps, he moved his fingers to sweep against her center, the wet warmth of her calling out to him, begging for him to answer her need. He didn't bother with niceties, there would be more than enough time for that later—now, he simply needed to make her his, to claim her with all of the wild ferocity she had turned him back to.

The world around them seemed to still and shudder as he sheathed himself inside of her, their voices coming together in breathless abandon at the pure ecstasy of being joined. Before he had a chance to come back down from the moment, she was already pushing against him, her fingers digging into the tabletop as she strove toward him. He began to move then, long, punishing strokes that drove her body into the edge of the table, Hook falling from her lips over and over as he took her. Groaning wildly, he sought the tight bundle of nerves between her legs that he knew would be her undoing, sweeping his fingers roughly across it until she released, her muscles clenching around him.

In that moment, her nubile body writhing against him, pulling every last bit of his essence into her, he knew he was ruined.