"Promise me something?"
His arms tighten around her. Just like hers, his clothing and skin are like ice, but there is still comfort in being close. She knows he's being careful to keep his frozen hook from touching her skin, trying to be a gentleman even now. "Anything, love. You know that."
Her teeth are chattering so hard she can barely hear herself think, let alone speak. She's never been so cold, and yet her blood is on fire, burning with fury at Gold's lies. She puts her hand on Killian's chest, pressing her palm hard against his sternum, knowing his heart is still filled with love for her, even though it's in a monster's hands. "When this is all over, let's go somewhere hot." The words are little more than a stuttering mumble, but she needs to say them. "Just you and me. Henry too, if he wants to come." The tears she'd cried earlier have stiffened her eyelashes, making her vision blur. "White sand and blue water and hot sun, okay?"
She knows his lips are pressed against her temple, but she can hardly feel them. Her whole body is numb now, and she wonders if this is how he's felt since Gold tore out his heart. "Your wish is my command, my lady." He draws her closer, his cold mouth finding hers. There's no heat there, her pulse sluggish, and his kiss fills her with hope and despair in the same breath. "A deserted tropical island sounds just the ticket after this nonsense is over."
She knows she's smiling, even though she can't feel her lips anymore. "I'll bring the sunscreen." Confusion flutters across his face, and she wants to laugh, because this cannot be how it ends, not like this, not today, not when she has the promise of white sand and blue water and a man who loves her so much he's willing to die for her.
She'd die for him, too.
She wants to tell him that. Wants to tell him that she loves him more than she ever thought possible, but her lips don't seem to want to work. She'll tell him later, when they're lying in the hot sun on a deserted beach, because no one is dying today.
It's just like her mother said, she realises as her icy palms finally begin to tingle with the familiar (and so very welcome) prickle of her magic, even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing.
The feel of cold droplets of water hitting the hot skin of her back has her muffling a shriek. She starts to sit up, then remembers the unfastened ties of her swimsuit. She satisfies herself with an arch glance upwards at the man standing above her, his bare feet planted deep in the sand, his wet hair as dark and sleek as a seal's coat. "Really? You've got the whole beach to drip on."
Even with her dark sunglasses shielding her eyes, she can see the damned twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps I simply wanted to see if your nubile form would actually sizzle at the application of sea water, Swan." Leaning down, he strokes his fingers down her back from the nape of her neck to the back of her spine, making her suck in her breath. His skin is still cool from his swim, and she drops her gaze to stare resolutely at the well-shaped calves in her line of sight, tamping down the impulse to pull him down and feel all that cool, bare skin against her. "You've gone quite pink."
She flops back onto her beach towel, resting her head on her linked hands. "And whose fault is that?" She hears the sound of scuffing sand, then he drops onto the empty towel beside her. "I seem to remember that putting the sunscreen on my back was your job."
He chuckles, a darkly wicked sound, and her already flushed face grows warmer. There's a good reason why it took them so long to make an appearance on this tiny private beach this morning, and it has everything to do with a pirate who took it upon himself to apply coconut-scented sunscreen to every inch of her body. "I assure you, darling, I left not a single morsel of your lovely skin unprotected."
Despite the heat, she shivers. "You make me sound like food."
She feels the brush of his necklace charms against her shoulder blade (as always, he refused to take them off, and she has to admit, she likes the look) as he leans over her, then the cool touch of his fingertips once again, this time trailing from the back of her knee to the curve of her ass. "If the shoe fits, love-" He bites gently at her shoulder, all cool lips and warm tongue, and desire clenches like a fist between her legs.
(The first time they'd made love, it had been in his room at Granny's. Clumsy and urgent, barely making it to the bed before he was buried inside her and they were fucking away the fear and guilt and grief in a blaze of heat fierce enough to ruin them both for anyone else.
She still has the tiny bruises on her hip, an exact match for his fingertips, hidden beneath her tan.
He still bears the marks of her fingernails on his back.)
"I think I've had enough sun for now." She flips onto her back, knowing full well that her bikini top will be doing very little to cover anything, and wishes she had her phone handy to take a picture of his expression.
"Bugger me sideways, Swan." His right hand hovers in mid-air between them, as if he's torn between touching her and trying to show a little restraint in public, even if there isn't another living soul for miles. "There are limits to how much temptation a man with a newly restored heart should have to bear."
"Feeling our age today, are we?" She smirks up at him, fighting the urge to pinch herself, because surely this has to be just a really good dream. Her family is safe and there's sand between her toes. Her skin smells like coconut and Captain Freaking Hook is looking at her as though she's the most precious treasure he's ever discovered.
As far as spontaneous vacations go, this one is right up there.
(They'd asked Henry to come with them, but he'd refused with a smile and a barely restrained roll of his eyes, joking that there were some things that a kid didn't need to know about his mom.)
She can't deny that, at this moment, she's very glad Henry is safe with her parents in Storybrooke, because Killian's gaze is sliding over her from head to toe (as always, he smiles at her painted toenails), his bright blue eyes dark with the same tender hunger that's burning her from the inside out. "As you're well aware, darling, I'm more than capable of partaking in any strenuous activities you may wish to suggest."
(On their first night here, he'd coaxed her into the darkened ocean, overriding her protests about night-feeding sharks and all the other terrible things she'd ever seen or read about swimming after dark. The water had been cold, but the heat of his mouth and his clever fingers had made her forget everything except the way he was making her feel. She'd wrapped her arms and legs around him, using him as her anchor, and the heady rush of pleasure as he'd slid inside her had made her feel as though her feet would never touch the ground again. He'd confessed that he'd long dreamed of having her this way, with the sea lapping at their bare skin and the salt on their tongues, and that alone had almost been enough to push her over the edge.)
Feeling the reckless rush that only comes with occupying a deserted beach, she sits up, letting her bikini top fall into her lap. He inhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening, and Emma doesn't bother hiding her grin as she gets to her feet. "Come on, old man." She waits for him to give her his most injured look (he doesn't disappoint her), then holds out her hand. "You can help me wash all this sand off."
Taking her hand in his, he pulls her back down, rolling onto his back as she lands on top of him with a soft ooof. Her sunglasses go flying as her knees sink into the sand on either side of her towel, her thighs straddling his narrow hips. She'd protest, but she's too busy kissing him and tasting his groan of pleasure as she slowly grinds herself against him. His chest is cool and slippery beneath her breasts, and the thin fabric of the swimming trunks she'd bought him (black, of course) do nothing to hide the fact that he wants her as much as she wants him. When he cups one bare breast in his hand, she knows it's time for a little more privacy before she forgets that sand and sex are a terrible combination. "Shower?"
He kisses her one more time, slow and deep, his body hard and wanting beneath hers, and she wonders (not for the first time) how the hell she managed to stay out of his bed as long as she did. "Aye."
(Bed, shower stall, kitchen table. She's not a woman to argue about minor details.)
Ten minutes later, she's trembling in his arms, her back pressed against cool tiles of the modest shower in their rented bungalow, his mouth hot on her throat, his long fingers curling inside her as they tease out a shuddering release. "You smell delicious," he murmurs, licking a line along her collarbone as she struggles to catch her breath. "Like a tropical tide, all salt and coconut."
She smiles as she threads her fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth up to hers for a slow, lazy kiss. "You're a ridiculous person," she tells him in a broken whisper, closing her eyes at the feel of his erection nudging the tender flesh between her legs, making her shudder all over again. He's just made her come with embarrassing ease, but it's still not enough, not until he's inside her. "No one talks like that, not even ancient pirates."
"You know you've always inspired me to florid speech, Swan," he mutters, his hand sliding up the back of her thigh, hooking it over his hip, opening her body up to his. "I would have thought you well used to it by now."
"God, can you just stop talking for one, oh fuck-" She clutches at his shoulders as they move together, the slippery thrust of his erection rubbing against her until they're both breathless. When he finally slides inside her, she's not sure which one of them sighs the loudest.
"I'm not the one doing all the talking, love."
She kisses him then, hard, smothering the words of love that are burning her tongue, letting herself be carried away by the thrust and roll of their bodies and the pleasure that starts to hum through her, the thrum of arousal building once again. He tells her she's beautiful in a dozen different ways, his voice as soft and warm as the water cascading over them, and she arches in his embrace, her hands sliding over his damp skin, taking him deeper into her body and her heart, taking them beyond the edge of pleasure until they both tumble down, down, down.
One day soon (very soon) she'll find the words to tell him what they've both known for a long time. Until then, she'll tell him in every other way she knows how.
She tells him at midnight on their last evening.
The small bungalow is blazing with light behind them, casting a soft glow on their chosen spot on the sand. They're sitting shoulder to shoulder, their legs stretched out in front of them, and she feels both exhausted and energised, which shouldn't make sense, and yet it does.
The sky above them is heavy with stars, and she has the feeling he would be able to tell her each and every constellation of this new realm that has become his home. Her world has become his, just as her family has become dear to him, and there are times when the enormity of it all is almost too much for her to take in.
This isn't one of those times, though.
Tonight, she can easily believe that anything's possible.
The air is warm and thick with the smell of flowers (she doesn't know what they're called, only that she'll never be able to smell them again without getting butterflies in her belly). She wonders idly if she could find them in Storybrooke, maybe fill a planter with them. The soft crash of the surf as it meets the beach seems to keep time with the beat of her heart, and the sense of now or never is suddenly overwhelming.
(Never is a very long time.)
Lifting her head from his shoulder, she slips her hand beneath his unbuttoned cotton shirt to press her palm against his sternum, tears prickling her eyes at the steady thump of his life's blood beneath her touch. She may have cradled his heart in her hands (glowing vivid red with love and sacrifice and honour) for an endless moment before gently restoring it to him, but it seems he's had hers in his keeping almost from the moment they'd met.
Tick-tock, ladies.
She's practiced saying the words so many times in her head, but now that she's finally here, in this moment, her tongue seems to have a mind of its own. "You know I love you, right?"
Crap. She almost claps her hand over her mouth (that was so not what she'd been rehearsing in her head) but his gentle smile is all the reassurance she needs. What they have, this thing between them, it's never been traditional, and her clumsy words have made his eyes glow with something that looks a hell of a lot like joy.
"Aye, that I do." He covers her hand with his, pressing it firmly against his heart, and leans closer, brushing her mouth with a soft kiss before drawing back. "I must admit, though, it's grand to hear it from your lovely lips."
Her own heart hammering against her ribs, she stares at him, vaguely aware that she's holding her breath. As always, he reads her thoughts as easily as if the words are scribbled across her damned forehead. "If you're not sure of my feelings by now, Swan, you truly haven't been paying attention, but I am more than willing to indulge you." Releasing her hand, he cups her face in his palm, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that makes her mouth go dry. "My heart has been yours for longer than I care to admit." His mouth curves in a faintly self-conscious smile. "And it seems that not even being torn from its moorings could change its course."
"There's that florid speech thing again," she breathes, her hand twisting lazily in the soft fabric of his shirt, and he grins.
"You're more than welcome to shut me up, love." His grin becomes something dark and wicked, and her bare toes curl in the cool sand. "I do so enjoy it when you do that."
She does.