"Swan," her eyes shoot open at his whisper as if he'd shouted it. "Swan."
"Hook?" the cobwebs of sleep are still thick in her mind and, yep. Yep, there he is, in full leather jacket, leaning over her bed and it's – she looks at the glowing face of her clock – four o'clock.
She's sure it is too early for anyone in their right mind to be awake. One hundred percent positive this is the hour for only insane people. And pirates, apparently.
"Rise and shine, Swan," he throws open the curtains, but the effect is lost because, well, it's four in the goddamn morning and there is no sun to be spoken of.
"How the hell did you get in here?" she buries her face further into her duvet.
He rolls his eyes, and makes a gesture that says, duh.
"Right. Pirate," her voice is deep and scratchy, and it's the weekend. "Why are you here?"
"No time to talk," he throws her covers back, and she protests loudly. "The lad is pulling together victuals, and the Jolly's waiting. Now, get dressed."
Goddamn it, she was warm. "Uurrrgh," she groans.
"Come on!" He pulls open the closet and she can hear him shuffling through her clothing. Leather in the form of a jacket lands on her face, and what the hell is happening right now?
"Yogantexlenthstme?"
His hurried movements around her room halt, "What was that, love?"
She flings the coat from her head in a melodramatic gesture, "You going to explain this to me?"
He merely smirks, all charm and playfulness, and gleefully informs her, "Nope!"
Grumbling, she throws her legs over the edge of the bed. "You don't have to be so damn chipper about it," she runs her hands through her hair and doesn't miss the way his eyes follow her movements with something like reverence.
She sighs, but fights a stubborn smile at his obvious excitement. "Fine, fine. Give me ten minutes to get changed."
He bows deeply, "Of course, m'lady."
She throws a pillow at his head on his way out.
When she climbs down the stairs to the loft, she's greeted by the sight of her son, messy hair cowlicked from slumber, placing brown paper bags in his backpack under the guidance of Hook.
"Should I be worried?"
They both look up with matching expressions of guilt and she knows immediately the answer is a resounding 'you better believe it.'
"Mom!" Henry yells excitedly, zipping his bag, throwing it over his shoulders. "Come on, we have to get going!"
She tosses a glance at Hook, who gives her a reassuring nod. "Okay," she tugs on the red leather jacket that was so kindly supplied to her upon awakening, and grabs a knit cap from the chair beside the door. "Lead the way, gentlemen."
The sun isn't even a ghost on the horizon when they board the Jolly Roger in the harbor. She's been prepared for a voyage, and Emma wonders idly if Hook got any sleep the night before.
"Quartermaster!" Hook bellows from his place behind the helm, "Are we prepared to set course?"
Emma frowns in surprise as Henry – who has thrown off his peacoat and striped scarf despite the chill of the dewy summer morning – runs from bow to stern. "Aye, Captain!"
He doesn't look up from his compass, but nods, "Fine work, sailor."
Emma's eyes dart between the two. "Okay," she finally asks, "What is this?"
Hook spares her a glance, and tilts his head in the direction of Henry – now securing ropes along the deck like he's been doing it his whole life. "What does it look like we're doing, Swan? We're taking a journey."
"Oh," she's dumbstruck. "Okay."
Henry comes to a halt next to her, and she notices with a small pang the scabbard that once belonged to Neal secured across his back. "Rigging all set, sir," he informs with the utmost seriousness. "Anchors weighed, Captain."
"Well done," Hook pats Henry heartily on the shoulder. "Thank you, Quartermaster."
Emma blinks. "Wait, why does he get to be Quartermaster?"
They both look at her like she's an idiot. Well, then.
Hook snorts. He actually snorts. "Can you tie a clove hitch?" he asks, elbowing Henry companionably.
She shakes her head.
"Can you furl a sail without damaging it?"
She shakes her head again. Henry is practically spilling over with pride.
"Then I think we have our answer, lass," his eyebrows are dangerously high, and Henry is grinning blindingly.
She fights the urge to ruffle Henry's hair – he had recently informed her he was too old for that. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she exaggeratedly sighs. "Where are we headed, Quartermaster?"
An hour later, as they head south along the coast toward Martha's Vineyard, the sky wakes in hues of oranges and yellows.
Henry and Hook are bent over a map, and the halo around them cradles and preserves them, and the cutouts of their silhouettes arch together. She wraps her arms around herself and her hair whips against her cheeks; she feels an overwhelming fullness that has her rubbing her hand over her heart in an effort to calm it.
It's nine o'clock when they tuck into the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made by Henry.
"It's going to be awesome, Mom!" raspberry jam is smeared at the corners of Henry's mouth.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," she scolds, wiping her hand on the wool blanket serving as the setting for their unconventional breakfast. "You may be a pirate now, but I do expect some manners."
He gulps, "Once we port, we're gonna see the houses at Oaks Bluff – do you remember those?"
She looks down at her half-eaten sandwich – white bread, crusts cut off. "Yeah," she clears her throat. "I remember, kid."
Henry doesn't seem fazed by her sudden shift in mood, and turns to Hook, who is suspiciously sniffing a clump of chunky peanut butter stuck to the curve of his hook.
"They are so cool," he informs the pirate. "They're painted tons of different colors, and it looks like a real life fairy tale! Or, well, it looks like it would be part of a fairy tale. And they have a baseball stadium, too! We can tour it, and I can show you what a dugout looks like."
Hook nods eagerly at him, but it's clear from the way his eyes periodically dart to her own in amusement that he has no idea what is being said to him.
"It sounds like a wondrous island, lad," he deems the peanut butter edible and licks it off the metal of his appendage. Emma looks down for an entirely different reason this time, and judging by the way his pupils expand and darken, Hook knows precisely where her mind has ventured. "There is much about your land that I am eager to explore."
Emma blushes while Henry hums happily.
Five hours into the trip, and Henry is staring gallantly at the sea from his place behind the ship's wheel.
She and Hook are leaning shoulder to shoulder against the starboard rail of the Jolly.
"He's a natural, love," his words warm her from within.
"Yeah?" she can feel the past year welling up behind her eyes and gathering at the back of her throat.
His lips turn up gently. "I've never seen someone take to the sea quicker," he pauses, then bumps affectionately into her, "Well, except for me, of course."
A laugh bubbles up from within, "Of course."
The shoreline is just a green dash in the distance, and the July sun is kissing her bare shoulders – her jacket forsaken in the summer morning.
"This," she tries, looking down at the churning waves dashing the ship's hull. "The reason you're doing this…it's because my memory of this isn't real, isn't it?"
His silence confirms her suspicions.
She laces her fingers together and sighs. "I know that Henry treats all of those memories from- from when he was little like they were real," she licks her lips, "but they aren't. And even though I can remember all of them, to me, they're dreams. And I keep wishing…"
"Love–" he starts to reach for her, but stops himself.
She pushes off the railing, looks back to Henry – still fastidiously keeping course – and for once doesn't fight the impulse to wrap her arms around Hook's neck.
Emma feels him still against her, so she grips him tighter, begging him not to let go. "Thank you," she brushes the words against his ear, then burrows her nose in the juncture of his neck and shoulder and breathes deep.
The weight of his forearms finally presses into her lower back, and he lets out an unsteady exhale. When his hand tangles in her hair, she wonders briefly how it would feel to have his fingers brush the nape of her neck every morning, what it would be like for his thumb to trace her brow and skim the tip of her nose.
"Thank you for giving this to me."
"Anything," he says.
She clings to him, "I know."
"No, no, no," Henry shoves her hands out of the way, and takes the rope into his own. "You have to go over first, then under."
"Okay, okay," she rolls her eyes, but laughs as she grips the fibers again, and makes another valiant effort.
They are only an hour out from shore, and Hook and Henry have been attempting to teach her to be a proper pirate all morning, but she seems to be failing in her son's eyes.
When she holds up the – admittedly sad – knot, Henry just shakes his head and sets about his own work again with a pitiable sigh.
Emma rubs her hand against his head – hey, stop! – and skips the steps up to the quarterdeck. Leaning against the wheel, she makes an appreciative note of Hook's shirt, which is billowing in the wind having been freed from the confines of his heavy coat.
"So, Captain, does the First Mate get a hand at steering this thing?"
He gives her a look she can only describe as sassy. "Oh, First Mate, now, are we?"
She steps further into his space. "Yeah, you got a problem with that?"
"Well, darling," he dips down, lips hovering above hers, "You just have to grab this knob here, and give it a firm hand."
She can't even play along anymore, shoving him weakly in the chest. "Drop anchor, pirate," she laughs, and her whole being feels light, giddy. "The Quartermaster's within earshot."
Their day is nothing like her memory.
It's vibrant and alive and pulsing in a way that is intoxicating.
At Oak's Bluff they see the houses – rainbowed shutters and porches – and Henry grabs each of their hands in both of his own and rushes them up the hill to East Chop Lighthouse.
Where her memory of this place is like a photograph – flat, glossy and curled at the edges – this moment, created by her son and her…Hook, is tangible. She can taste the salt of the sea on the air and feel the spring of the ground at her feet.
She can smell every last molecule of this journey, and it is spice and peanut butter and jelly and leather and fresh cut grass, and she saves it in her memory to cherish, to take the place of the shadow.
"I can see the beach from here!" Henry shouts across the green. "There are people down there – can we head down there, Mom?"
He makes his way toward her, Hook trailing behind, and she thinks that maybe what makes this memory more perfect is the additional presence of the pirate. Maybe.
"Sure," she jerks her head at the winding path down to the water. "Go on – we're right behind you."
"Okay!"
Emma feels Hook's presence beside her and she blindly reaches out to twine their fingers. He reacts with the same stunned silence as he did with the hug.
She breathes in the ocean air.
"So love," his voice is soft, deep. "Henry mentioned you took a rather spectacular trip to a canyon of unparalleled grandeur. Perhaps you could take me to see it one day soon."
Emma looks down at their joined hands, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."