Summary: A brief interlude in the waters of Neverland. Set between 3x06 and 3x07.

Notes: For acrobat-elle, who sent me the prompt: "Neverland + water". Endless love and to devotion to high-seas-swan and bluestoplights, who read this over for me.

Warnings: Smut

It's long into the hours of night when Emma decides there isn't any sleep to be had. At least not here, with her parents snoring lightly by the fire. With Neal spread eagle, just the way she remembers, taking up an absurd amount of space on the northern end up the camp. Hook had long since stalked off, claiming he had traps and tripwires set just beyond the trees, defenses that would alert them should they be set upon.

"Although I highly doubt it," he'd said.

To which, of course, she'd answered, "How do you know?"

"I just do."

And now he's gone, trekked off at all hours, outside of the safety of the camp. The not knowing, she decides, is responsible for at least half of her restlessness. She's not worried. At least, not excessively. Just concerned. Mildly. Somewhat.

Meanwhile, in the midst of not worrying, she's taken to counting the stars in the sky. She loses count every so often. Can't remember where she started, can't remember where she's going. It would be a fitting metaphor, she thinks, if she were into that sort of thing.

She's nearing two-hundred – and for the fifth time, at that – when she decides she can't take it any longer. She rolls as quietly as she can to her feet. Her father stirs, and she wonders briefly if this is what it would have been like, trying to sneak out of the house…or castle, she supposes…had the curse never been cast.

Emma shakes her head and trips neatly onward towards the forest, where it grows thick, swallowed in shadows. She follows in Hook's general direction. She'd watched as he'd stepped carefully over a thin wire, attached to bones set to rattle at the approach of intruders, and so she does the same. Once behind her, it's easy to see where he'd gone. The land seems to slope downward, and her boots sink into wet silt, smelling of pine and palm, all at once. She steps where he had, straining to match his stride. She's surprised, to say the least, when the darkness of the forest quickly, easily gives way to bright ferns and glittering bushes. Foreboding birds squawk at the camp behind them, but this lowland below is awash in delicate sounds, the sort of chirping that echoes, sonorous in the early morning hours in small towns like Storybrooke. The shadows shrink, and familiar bugs light up at regular intervals. Much larger, they are, but still the same idea, lazily floating along, before landing heavily in the grass to get to it. More and more critters greet her as she goes, and she finds herself feeling lighter. So much so, in fact, that she nearly forgets herself, nearly crashes into him at the edge of a clear, blue pond.

"Oh my God, where's your shirt?"

She'd meant to say what are you doing, but the sentiment is still the same. He stands on the edge of the water, clearly in the middle of shucking his clothes. He's lost his duster, lost his vest and his shirt. She can see them, quite obviously folded up by an old log. Hook quirks a brow when she can't help but look down, where leather suspenders are hanging at his sides.

"Suspenders," is all she says.

"Trees," he answers.

"What?"

"Sorry, love, are we simply pointing out things that are in this valley?" He points out at the pond. "Water, too."

She rolls her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to have a swim," he says. He pauses, though his hand still pulls lazily at the laces of his pants. "Whether you're here or not."

She huffs, stands stubbornly in place. "Why didn't you tell anyone else about this place?"

"The wildlife is a bit skittish. I didn't want to overwhelm them. It takes a delicate touch."

She looks around, can see the underbrush shaking, can see critters of all kinds swimming around in the pond, leaping above in the branches.

"They seem fine to me."

His eyes soften, then, and he reaches out, tweaks at her fingers, repeats, "A delicate touch." She looks up at him, a bit bewildered, and he clears his throat. "Besides, there's a perfectly lovely brook just up the way from the camp, as you recall. It serves its purpose. This on the other hand…"

He pauses, and looks around, like he's looking at it for the first time. When he looks back down at her, it's as though the stars above have taken refuge in the whites of his eyes. They glimmer at her, in colors of all sorts.

"There are few joys to be had in Neverland, love," he says. "This is one of them."

At that, he rather unceremoniously sheds the rest of his clothing. She means to turn, she really does, but he's unabashed, casual even, as if nakedness is nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. When he steps in the water, it coalesces neatly around his ankles, grabbing gently at his calves as he goes further and further. And if she's not mistaken, when the brilliant, crystalline sand swirls in his wake, brushing up against his thighs, he giggles –

"Did you just giggle?"

"Perish the thought, darling."

– stirring the blue, billowing grass that grows along the edge, just beneath the surface of the water. The further he goes, the brighter the glen becomes. The water shimmers at his touch. Bright, many-colored creatures seem to awaken. One in particular that reminds her of dolphins. Only, its flesh is like a mirror, reflecting the starlight above, and the sharp turn of the bioluminescence. Its eyes are black, but not empty. Expressive, kind even. They're small, not much bigger than the size of a housecat. They poke up, stirring ripples into the surface of the water. They seem to glance curiously, intelligently at her before they turn to Hook, chattering as he speaks nonsense at them.

"What the hell are those?" she says.

He glances at her, quirks a brow before he turns back to the critters, patting softly at their heads before they swirl around him in a gesture of familiarity.

Captain Hook, she thinks, befriending wild animals like he's…Snow White.

Emma wrinkles her nose.

"Water spirits," he says. She waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn't, simply watches with something like fondness as they go, turning again and again in the ripples of the water, blowing bubbles beneath the surface.

"Since when did water spirits look like tiny dolphins?"

He gives her a look, as if she should know, as if he'd told her all of the island's secrets long ago and she's failing the quiz.

"They are 'tiny dolphins', as you say, Swan. Of a certain kind, at any rate. Water spirits is simply a colloquialism. They're young, they'll remain young. Never jaded, always welcoming. Pure, simple. Like spirits."

"Neverland has colloquialisms?"

He huffs, though he's amused, turning around a few times as the little things swim by his feet, only to pop back up again. They're playing with him, she realizes, and if she weren't so Goddamned charmed, she'd roll her eyes at him.

"There are many things about this island you've yet to discover," he says.

She doesn't like the way he says yet to discover, as if they'll be here long enough to find out. But she doesn't argue, only watches as the pirate before her plays a convoluted game of tag with three ageless, baby dolphins, crystalline in appearance, reflecting the…almost light expression on his face back at him.

"I want to touch them," she says, suddenly. Because she does. She schools her expression before he can look back at her. She expects waggling eyebrows, but again, he simply regards her, as if he knows something she doesn't. He's silent for a moment before he nods. He stands up straight, relaxes in place, and the silly, improvised game swirling around him quiets.

"Come on in then, love."

"I'm not getting naked," she says, shifting from one foot to the other, then back again.

"I never said it was required."

"You're naked."

"And yet you remain."

She sighs, decides she can either spend the rest of the night arguing with him while he stands naked in weird, magical water, or get in and pet the pretty animals, wash the grime off of her body and just…forget for five minutes. Silently, she debates with herself, watching him as he watches her in turn. She chews delicately at her lips, pinches lightly at her hips, shifting again and again until –

"Okay, I'm getting in."

He doesn't respond, merely lifts his brow as she gingerly picks her way down to the shore. There's a bit of gross sludge –

"'S called wrack, darling."

"I don't remember asking for a biology lesson."

– piled up by the edge. She's not sure why she bothers being so careful. Days of her own sweat are, for lack of a less disgusting word, practically crusting around the edges of her boots, along the seams of her shirt, beneath the leather strap that secures her sword behind her back. Even so, she folds her shirt up beside his, makes certain that her boots aren't going to tip over, lays her pants over the log, just beside his coat.

She hesitates when she's in nothing but her underwear, and looks over at him. As often as his eyes lay heavy on her, they now skim lightly over the water. He smiles freely, generously, at the little critters that swim around him. He reaches up, up over his head, grasping at the berries – yellow, swollen, and glistening – that hang low over the water. Though he's at least a couple dozen feet away, she can see the flex in the muscles on his back, the slide of sinew beneath skin as he yanks gently, until a grape-like bunch comes loose in his hand. The animals, three of them now, chirp with excitement, tussling playfully when he tosses it to the other side of the pond.

Meanwhile, quite without her permission, her fingers have slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear. He glances over his shoulder, then. She expects lust, has seen it before. And yet, his ears flare red at the tips, the light swirling in the water and dancing fluidly over his face alighting on the blush that crawls down his chest. He turns, and walks deeper, until the water sloshes at the middle of his back. He runs his fingers through his hair, again and again, until it begins to slick back with the moisture. The little perpetual dolphin babies –

God, this place is fucking crazy.

– seem content to follow him. She sheds the rest of her clothes, and without preamble, wades in until she's waist deep.

"I just didn't want wet underwear," she explains.

He nods, still turned. "Aye."

"Wet underwear sucks."

She can hear his smile in his answer, "Indeed."

Emma resists the urge to cover herself as she wades even further, until she can feel the currents stirred up by the little animals, feel one of their fins brush up against her calf. She jumps in place, and steps even further, until she can hear him breathing.

"Turnabout," she says. He tenses, seemingly unaware of how close she'd gotten. She could reach out and touch him if she wanted to, and she bites down on the inside of her cheek when her fingers flex.

"Turnabout?" he echoes.

"I saw all of you. So I guess you get to see all of me. Or least everything north of this…really weird water."

"Enchanted," he says, automatically, and he hesitates before he turns. His eyes flit down her chest, but again, he doesn't seem overly affected. She wonders if it's a culture thing, maybe a sailor thing, but he doesn't seem put off, and he doesn't seem particularly turned on either. She's not sure how she feels about that.

"The water," he continues. "It's enchanted, I've been told."

"To make everyone want to get naked?"

His nostrils flare, and the skin by his eyes crinkles. "To heal, it's been said."

Hook turns, then, and beckons the animals back to the water's surface. They get back to their chattering, turning over on their backs before spinning around. He tickles at their skin, and they seem to laugh, bursts of color erupting over their skin, flooding out the starlight for a just a moment before it returns, seemingly brighter than before.

"This is Swan, lads," he says, and then explains, as if they were wondering. "Not a swan. The Swan, if you will. Give her a good show, eh?"

They talk back at him, in a happy sort of clicking noise that warms her down to the tips of her fingers. They swim around her, nudging at the palms of her hands before stopping before her, turning over on their back, and waiting patiently. She glances over at Hook, and he nods encouragingly. She reaches out to touch them, but hovers uncertainly.

"Don't be afraid," he says, softly.

"I'm not afraid," she says, rather fearfully. Here, in the gentle light, they seem so young, so breakable. She can see her own face reflected in their skin. She thinks of Henry, when he was smaller than this, thinks of how she couldn't even bring herself to hold him –

"Emma," Hook says. She looks up, and he reaches out, taking her fingers in hers before bringing them slowly down to nudge at the skin of their bellies. She jumps, yet again, when they shriek with what seems like laughter and swim in circles around them. She doesn't realize she's laughing too, until he squeezes at her hands, and she stops, abruptly.

The thing about Captain Hook –

About Killian Jones.

– is that he's a brilliant study in contradiction, or so it would seem. There are tattoos dusted over his chest, over his sides. He has scars all over, muscles bunching beneath worn skin, bearing centuries of God only knows what. And yet, when she looks in his eyes, she sees youth. Hope, even. Tenacity that belies the charming, lazy expression he often wears to piss off the people around him. To throw them off balance…to push them away.

Sound familiar? something whispers, in the back of her mind.

Shut the hell up, she whispers back.

"Alright, lads," he says, at length. The little dolphins gather around them. He plucks one last bunch of the fruit above him off the low-hanging branches. "Take this, and be off with you."

They talk once more, softer this time. She imagines it's in farewell, and wonders when she got to be this cloying, if it's been gradual since he looked at her with tender eyes, and spoke to her with a tender voice at the top of the beanstalk. Or if it was more sudden, when he bared himself to her in casual disdain of the order of things. Either way, the animals swim off, and she's suddenly, terribly alone with him. They stand in silence for a good while before he says, rubbing at the back of his neck –

"If you want me to go – "

"No," she says. At the expression on his face, she backpedals. "I mean, it's your island." She pauses, waves her hand around, helplessly. "Do what you want. I guess."

She imagines the expression on his face must be ten different shades of amusement, at this point. But when she chances a look at him, he's only curious, a bit pleading perhaps. His eyes land heavy on hers, and he drags them over her face before he takes a step forward, slowly, carefully.

"I'll go," he says, quietly, into the silent night. "If that's what you want, I'll go."

Emma breathes. For a moment, she simply breathes. She watches his face, watches his eyes, waits for the lie to reveal itself. She can't decide whether it's more disturbing that she can't find one. That the interest, the longing, the intense concentration as he reads her, is all so very real. More real than the magic that swirls around them. More real than the so-called real world she's been grappling with since only moments after she was born.

"Swan," he says, in response to her silence, in response to the gamut of emotions that she's sure is running across her face, for anyone to see. Or at least…for him to see, since no one else seems to have any clue what she wants, or who she is. No one, at least, except for him. Her thoughts reign raucous in her mind as she stands still before him. She knows she doesn't want him to go, but forcing the words out of her mouth proves unbearably difficult.

Then –

"Emma."

It's her name, really, that does it. She thinks he may have said it before, but here in the darkness, surrounded by nothing but sleepy wildlife, awash in the scent of salt and sugar, of exotic fruit and the musk of sweat and toil, it's as though she'd suddenly forgotten what it was. And he's reminded her, honeyed and nervous, all at once.

So she reaches out. Her fingers graze lightly over his collarbones, dipping into the hollow, where the water gathers. Even here, thin over his skin, it glitters. Only, where it was green, it's now a gentle shade of blue. Fathomless, yet sweet. Unnerving, yet comforting.

I'm gonna kiss you, she thinks. And perhaps it's the warm, healing magic of the place, the way her limbs loosen, the feeling of uncompromising good settling deep in her belly, but she can't help but to say, aloud –

"I'm gonna kiss you."

"You'll be the death of me," he says. And she thinks he means to stop her, but when she looks up from his chest, he's nearly shaking, mouth open, tongue dragging lightly over his teeth.

"Emma," he says, again, and then her mouth is on his.

It's not often that she breaks her promises, especially ones that she makes to herself. She thinks on the phrase one-time thing, and thinks that here in this place, here where the weight of the world – or the weight of her family, of all their hopes, all their desires and dreams – pulls at her shoulders, digs into the skin of her back, she can afford to take something that she wants. If only for a moment.

Or two, or three, or more. As many as she can steal, because his lips taste like something halfway between a lemon and an orange. She breathes in, and smells the sharp tinge of earth, turned over fresh beneath their feet. She lingers, and he lingers too, but it's not deep. Her tongue touches only lightly to his teeth before she retreats. He reciprocates, but presses no further. He reaches up, grasps gently at her elbow, entreats her into the circle of his arms with a gentle tug. She thinks to resist, but the longer she breathes into his mouth, and the longer he breathes back, asking for nothing more than that she come closer, the more she takes.

"What do you want, Swan?" he says. She feels the words against her lips, his mouth still brushing against hers.

"I…" She pauses. Her mind goes blank. What does she want? She can't remember the last time someone asked her, the last time someone waited for her, for her sake. Something insidious, something in the back of her mind, tells her she doesn't deserve what she wants. That they have a mission, that she is a means to an end.

But here in the dark, her parents sleeping up the way…Neal sleeping up the way…she begins to wonder what's stopping her.

"Anything," he says. His hand slides down to her shoulder, and his jaw twitches, his head tilts, as if he means to kiss her. But he remains still otherwise, almost unnaturally still. Waiting.

Waiting.

"Anything you want," he says.

She thinks. Not in words, but in sounds, in images. She thinks with the shift of her hips beneath the water, with the wriggle of her toes down into the sand. She thinks with her hand around his wrist, with the way she pulls his hand down, down over her breast and to her belly.

"Just once," she says. And she sounds desperate, even to her own ears. She wonders idly what he hears, what he sees. She realizes she could look into his eyes. He has possibly the worst poker face she's ever seen. But she can't seem make herself look above his lips. And so she leans her forehead against the arch of his jaw, and says, "Just this once."

"Aye," he says. She can feel the hesitation leave him, can feel it in the press of his chest against hers, in the way his lips slide from her forehead down to her mouth, in the way his tongue dips long and deep against hers.

Where his lips tasted like fruit – the roof of his mouth, the back of his tongue, they taste like spice. Not dark, not smoky, like she'd expected, but light, like cinnamon, like molasses, like ginger. She draws her fingers up and into his hair, and this too isn't how she remembered. It seemed thick at first crush, tangling around her fingers as she'd bit at his lips hardly a day before. Now, wetted with the water that bites at the flush in her skin, it reminds her of feathers. Light, like silk, but still strong, sure beneath her grip, tickling at her knuckles when she tugs. He groans into her mouth, steps into her, and the hair on his chest, she discovers, is coarse against her nipples. She kisses him, and he kisses her in return, strokes long and deep, breathing in when he breathes out. It's easy, too easy, and heady, too heady.

But the longer she learns the ridges of his mouth, the curl of his fingers against her hip, the way that his hair spikes up and out the longer she pulls at it – the longer she's lost. Or, perhaps, the longer she's found.

So she leans back when his fingers slip tentatively towards her inner thigh, and she pushes her hips up, ever so subtly, when they press gently at her clit.

"May I?" he says.

Emma wants to laugh. She's mapped every dip, every mildly crooked bent to his teeth with her tongue. Her hand is currently on his ass, the other dragging over his chest. She can feel his erection, pressing insistently against her stomach. His fingers are dancing desire at the underside of her breasts. Her eyelids are heavy, she's practically rutting against him, and here he is, asking permission.

Asking permission. The sardonic smile dies on her face.

"May you?"

He frowns. He always seems to have enough words to fill volumes and volumes of storybooks. But he's silent, considering the look on her face. He pulls his hand back. She wonders if he knows, that he's among the few, among the first even, who have let her lead. He's always behind her. She's not used to looking over her shoulder, always running ahead, trying to catch up to the people who have left her behind.

He knows. He has to. He doesn't have to say a word, for her to hear what he means.

So –

"Yeah. Yeah, you may."

She eyes him askance, still unable to look him head on. There's a smile on his face, but it's soft, a little wrecked. He looks away when she flushes, and turns her around. He walks behind her, urging her towards the face of a grotto wrapped in shadows. They curl and billow in the mouth of the cavern, sparkling like the water that yet laps around them, turning darker and darker as the moons dip below the quivering canopy of the trees around them. The shoreline here is tilted, and so she's standing level with him by the time he urges her to stop, takes her hands and places them against the stone. Bathed in leather, drawn with kohl, and built from steel, he's always seemed unreal to her, a touch of the fantastical in the way that he walks, the way that he talks. But here, with his clothing shed, the lines around his eyes washed away, hair curling delicately as it dries in the errant winds, he's nothing but flesh, nothing but stories and stories, written somewhere she's just beginning to see.

"Alright?" he asks, as he slips his fingers down between her legs. He circles oh so slowly, just barely feeding the flame. He brackets around her, settling more steadily on his feet in the shifting sands. She means to protest, to turn him around, to gain the advantage. But when he moves even closer, and she can hear the faint whimper hanging at the end of his breaths, she wonders if, perhaps, she's always had it.

"Yes," she answers.

Because it is, because she is, encouraging him to move faster with a sharp prod at his wrist. He complies, and she flushes as he does. His breathing quickens beside hers, and he follows the bow of her body, shifting as she commands. She can feel his cock against her lower back, and his fingers are slow and steady over her clit. He dips into her entrance before dragging back up to pull her apart, to bring her release here on an island with no age, with no time, where she's no doubt she could come beneath his fingers again and again.

But it's not enough. Her orgasm builds, but it's quiet, it's frustrated. Her legs quiver, and she feels empty. So, she reaches around, takes him in hand, and his hand falters.

"Swan," he says, voice so low she can barely make out the words that he says, can only hear it in the gruff sounds that rattle through her back and down between her legs. "Please."

"Please what," she says. Because as much as she's apparently an open book to him, he's only like a brochure, barely a dozen highlights or so. She knows he wants her, but doesn't know what he wants.

"One way or the other," he says, and he swells beneath the palm of her hand. The noise he makes when she drags her thumb over the tip is something like a whimper, something like a sob. "Just…please."

He ruts slowly behind her, noise after noise falling through his lips with every breath. This is it, she thinks, the moment that she should turn around, accept the relief that he gave her – a brief swim in a beautiful place – and leave before she knows the dips in his chest, before she can feel his scars pressed against her back. And before she can read the hitch in his breath, know the drag of him inside of her. But she thinks of his face, the expression when he'd essentially offered himself to her, the genuine tilt of his smile, the aversion of his eyes. Wanting more, she thinks, but offering everything, anything, whatever she wants.

So it's with a sigh of relief, thinking briefly – and gratefully to her younger self – on the implant in her arm, that she urges him to slip between her folds. She lets go of him, then, and braces both hands against the stone before her. She expects him to act quickly, to rut them both to completion, to sink inside of her and get on with it. But he lingers, shuffles closer, until his mouth hovers at her ear, until the chill of the water is replaced by the warm flush of his skin against hers. He tilts back and forth, and her toes curl, but he moves no faster, his hand sinking down to rub slowly, entreatingly at her clit.

"There's magic here, Swan," he says. And God, his voice, echoing into the cavern before them, muffled by the trickle of the water as the upland creek flows down into this marsh, this grotto, whatever the hell it is.

"Good magic," he says. She can feel sweat on her shoulders, on his neck, the harder he presses. "Healing magic, as I said. Or so I'd been told. I never did believe it."

He shuffles even closer, thrusting a little harder, sliding lightly over her entrance with each pass. She bites at her lips, swallows down the petulant noise she wants to make, and listens. It occurs to her, briefly, that he's only ever told her the truth, since she caught him in his boldfaced lie in the Enchanted Forest. And God help her, but she wants to hear what he says, to hear his voice, to hear the awestruck undertone he carries whenever he looks at her.

"Dark magic spreads," he says. "It consumes. But light magic, they said, it coalesces. Into this place." He pauses, pulls back his hips and resumes the motions of his fingers, until she's panting under his touch, nails scratching against wet rock, feet digging into sand like silk, body half-enveloped by water all at once more like honey and more like air than any water she's known before all of this.

"Never did believe it," he repeats, sounding a bit desperate, a lot desirous. "Until you."

He shuts his mouth then, closes his lips over her neck as she comes, softly, long and quiet. She shudders again and again, and he reaches around to clutch at her waist, stands steady against her so that she doesn't fall. Her fingers are still twitching when he presses gently at her back, encouraging her to bend forward, only a tad, before he pushes inside with short, slow, measured thrusts.

"You're brilliant," he says. Then, almost as an afterthought, lips against the back of her neck, "Bloody magical princess."

There's something about the way that he says it that makes her want to laugh, that makes her want to cry, all at once. So she presses back against him, reaches around and buries her fingers in his hair.

"Tell me, love," he says, sagging forward until his hand is beside hers on the smooth, chilly rock, fingers flexing and relaxing, again and again as he pulls and pushes, back and forth. "What do you want?"

She opens her mouth to tell him to just shut the fuck up already, but he bends over her, angles his hips until she's gasping, pressing just that bit deeper, just that bit longer.

"Faster," she grunts, through her teeth. "Harder."

He complies, wordlessly, but just barely, dragging it out like he's making love to her, or like he wants to. He reaches around with his hook, pushing the brace against her stomach, pulling her back against him until her head falls on his shoulder, until she's looking up at stars like flickering candlelight, washing the sky in shades of colors she can't begin to name. Meteors, or what look like it, streak across the sky, flitting back and forth like birds without a wonder, without a care. A stray breeze nudges at the water around them, and as her release builds down in her stomach, down in her toes, the sweet smell of what she knows – just knows – is some kind of benevolent magic, wafting up into her nose. She clutches harder at his neck, presses against his hips, and she hardly takes another breath before she comes, sighing heavy and loud, pulsing several times before he follows, harsh words in a harsher language whispered against the swell of her cheeks. They remain as they are for barely a handful of seconds before she pushes away from him. Her legs are unsteady, the water feels thick, and she's caught somewhere between a low-burning pleasure and the sharp tang of regret as he steadies himself against the mouth of the grotto with his hook, sharp point scraping loudly against the glistening rock.

For several, long moments, they simply stand apart. It's either too early or too late to stand together. That something younger – something more naïve, something less broken and filled with bitter knowledge – hopes it's the former, frightens her into action. She folds her arms over her chest, suddenly self-conscious. She looks down at the reflection of the sky in the water, of the trees that hang overhead. She catches her breath, summons the courage to look at him. He, as per usual, is looking at her already, longing in his eyes and…hope? Something else she can't decipher.

"I'll stay here," he says, before she can say anything. She doesn't recognize the expression on his face. It's…like he's afraid. Of being rejected.

Of being left behind. But he urges her on, like he can expedite the process, rip of the Band Aid, as it were.

"You go on, Swan," he gestures toward the shore, where their clothes are still piled neatly by the old log. She almost wants to defy him, wants to prove him wrong. But she can't, not now, not ever. She took her release, took her pleasure, and he did the same. And that's all.

"That's all," she says, quietly. He quirks a brow, but simply turns around. The creatures of this glen have long since left, she knows. There's a distant chirping noise, the clicking and whirring of what she's sure are fantastically grotesque bugs and spiders in the underbrush. She steps up the shore, hurriedly throwing her clothes back on, strapping her sword back over shoulder. There's grit on her feet, between her toes, but she doesn't stop to shake it off, can't stop, the weight of their purpose here – it's like she picked it back up when she left the water. The ends of her hair are wet, there's a cool sheen on her skin, a dull, wet throbbing between her legs. Besides that, it's as though she was never here. She supposes it's for the best…

But then, of course, she makes the mistake of turning around before she disappears into the tree line. His back is still turned, but the water is now at his waist. It seems brighter from out here, little eddies dancing like diamond tops around his fingers as he swirls them in the water. A small, otter-like creature – looking as though it's been bathed in pitch, teeth carved from marble – darts its head out of the brush. Hook turns his head, not far enough to see her, but just enough to smile. Again, freely. Again, without care. He offers the curve of his hook, and the otter snickers, bumping the polished metal with its little head before it darts back into the shadows. Hook laughs, softly. He's been on this island more years than he cares to count, he's said, yet he's smacking the water like a child, grinning at the wildlife as though it's the first time.

Gentle, she thinks, rather involuntarily. Boyish. Full of wonder.

All as she thinks, at the same time, Pirate. Villain. Consumed by revenge.

Emma grits her teeth, and turns. She chants – one-time thing, one-time thing – as she goes along, listening carefully for danger, though Hook has assured her it's a well-worn path, free of malice, as he'd said. She feels heavier with each step, more tired. She thinks of her parents, thinks of Henry, thinks of the playful shadows in the glen behind her growing heavy and dark, consuming him, consuming all of them.

She's just on the edge of their camp when she stops, hoping desperately that they're all asleep. She runs her fingers through her hair, shakes the languid heft from her feet. She steps out of the underbrush and into the camp, once more picking carefully over the tripwire, finding the fire near to dying and the lot of them asleep. She takes her place near her father. And though she was certain she'd lie awake to the sound of the howling wolves, the chattering birds, the rustle of the wind, and the distant crash of angry waves against a rocky shore, she drifts to sleep, the echo of Hook's voice, tender and pleading in her ear, telling her what she needs to hear. Not because she needs it, but because he believes it.

"Sleep, Swan," she hears, between sleep and wakefulness. She feels warm breath against her neck, smelling sweet and heady all at once. And fall at last she does, with a chink in her armor, and hope living sweetly, lightly in her chest.