I read a theory by tumblr user thesorcererslibrary that said they thought everyone has their own book, and the silly pop-up that will finds in the library is Killian's. This is what ensued.

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They have found a remarkable number of books since Henry had made the stunning realization that the one about their family simply could not be the only one. Regina's black-bound novel missing a page exactly where the one stowed in her office ought to belong. A royal-blue number embedded with lovely dark stones that they quickly identify as Belle's. They pile up and they do not try to hang on to them, returning them to the hands they belong in.

Henry has a silly little notion they are handing out hope.

Emma strangely cannot convince herself he in entirely wrong.

Until they find Killian's.

The book is old and heavy and trimmed with silver, and when she opens it a ship rises up from the page—one she recognizes immediately as his.

She is certain he will be thrilled. But when she presents it to him with a bright smile he can only offer her one with tight lips and dull eyes in return.

"I've read Peter Pan. Someone should probably take a leap back in time and tell J.M. Barrie he fucked up." She smirks as she presses the ridiculously heavy book into his arms.

The smile doesn't falter but his eyes do not brighten as he tucks it neatly on a shelf next to the television and she is certain he has not even glanced at it.

So she does. It starts on a rare night he does not spend with her. She is cleaning—not because she makes a habit of it but because Henry dumped mac-n-cheese on the side table—when the thick, dusty binding sat on the shelf catches her attention.

She doesn't want to invade his privacy. But as soon as she runs her fingers down the fine shining squiggles, she cannot help but pull it down into her arms and examine it more closely. Her fingers play gently up the spine and around to the front, and the leather binding smells eerily of him as she cautiously opens to the first page.

It is yellow and the words are worn, but her fingers find their way to a delicately painted grin planted firm beneath a pair of the chubbiest cheeks she has ever seen and eyes bluer than they even are now, all reaching out from the surface of the page, almost with magical precision. She touches the freckles on his nose and studies how his mop of dark hair falls sloppily into his bright eyes and sinks slowly to a seat on the couch, holding the story closer to her as she turns the page.

His mother's eyes are painted deep and green and a smile tugs at her lips at the fierce fire within them. She could have guessed his fight came from his mother. She is all dark waves and sharp cheekbones and the more Emma pages her way through faded words the more she falls for the woman's gentle idiosyncrasies and charming quirks.

When she stops appearing in the pages, she could swear little Killian's eyes are painted a shade darker throughout.

She reads well into the night without even realizing the passage of time or the room growing darker around her. His story is filled with lifetimes and her heart patters thrilled at every twist. A Pegasus sail is raised high on the Jolly's mast. Neal's mother stands out of a crowded bar. His hand is replaced with a shining hook, painted in the same silver that decorates the cover—she holds a dagger to his neck, golden hair flying.

And all of a sudden the lost boy felt his heart start to beat again.

"I see you have been doing some reading."

She is disoriented a moment, tugged from dreams of him to the him in front of her, regarding her with a raised eyebrow and affection soft in his eyes.

"'m sorry," she grumbles, peeling her cheek from the page. It is their first kiss and of course, of course she is more a part of his story than she even is a part of the Charming edition. "I just was gonna look at the first page…" she looks down at the page again, where a forest grows up from the flat surface. "Things got out of hand."

"I do not mind."

She studies his expression, soft and caring but still detached.

"You had the most ridiculous cheeks." She informs him, playful and cautious—and is relieved when he cracks a smile.

"I was a boy once. Perhaps it took a while to grow out of the baby skin."

She smiles wider, closing the book and slipping it onto the table so she can slip her fingers around his wrist and tug him down onto the couch beside her.

"You broke into my house."

"You gave me a key," he counters, quirking a brow and ducking his head to kiss her cheek as he settles in beside her, "And it is past noon. I did not intend to come in on you sleeping."

Their hips and knees are aligned and she loves the steadiness as she rests her head onto his shoulder and peers up into his eyes with a groan.

"Town crisis?"

"Can't a bloke seek out his lass without a hellbeast roaming the streets?"

She rolls her eyes and he watches with a soft intensity in the lifetimes-old lines in his face that makes her heart thud.

"Your eyes are so lovely."

Her smile melts into something softer as he bows again to kiss her—this time capturing her lips as pages and pop-ups swirl through her mind.

"Your mother. She had green eyes, too."

She does not mean to break the comfortable silence, and certainly not with the words she meant to keep in her head. But now they have slipped and she finds his expression beside her suddenly forlorn.

"Did she?"

The musing catches Emma completely off guard, and she feels her brow furrow. He does not miss it, of course, eyes falling away from her.

He does not remember the color of his own mother's eyes.

She bites the inside of her cheek and finds his hand, tangling her fingers tight amongst his and giving a gentle squeeze.

"The book said a lot about her."

His blue eyes fall almost shyly back to her.

"And you."

That nervous muscle in his jaw clenches at the same moment he raises his hook to scratch cautiously behind his ear.

"There is one thing I still am curious about, though."

Lines fill his brow.

"And that is?"

She leans forward, flipping the book open with her free hand. The Jolly Roger raises out on a wave.

"Why is it pop-up?"

She is surprised when his expression softens, melting into a gentle, smug smile.

"Read my entire story, did you?" He challenges, and this time it is his turn to lean forward, using his hook to flip toward the beginning, eyes skimming the pages as he goes until—"Here we are."

The page is unassuming, filled with a little story about the closeness he and Liam shared—a continuation of the page previous. He trails his hook gently down to the corner, where little-him and his brother sit huddled around a tiny book. A small white shape pops out of it, but it is too old and smudged to identify as anything but a blob.

"When I learnt to read, we did not have a library. When the book-keepers came to town, if you had a good month you might afford a tale or two. This was our book." His hook rests near it a moment before he pulls it carefully away. "Liam taught me to read with it. And as it was our only story, I read it an awful bloody lot. Likely could still recite every word."

His eyes shine teasingly down at her almost as if he is laughing and she wonders what part of the story he is keeping from her. She reaches to touch the page herself, fingers landing on the odd blob reaching from his little book.

"What was the story about?"

The smirk grows gentler as he leans near her ear, voice lowered and warm breath tickling her cheek.

"It was something about a little orphan duckling… who grew up into a beautiful swan."

(She is not sure how they end up curled together on her couch flipping through his past. She is careful not to press at healing wounds and he does not complain, no matter how many times she flips gleefully back to the first-page portrait and coos over his remarkable cheeks.

The last page is blank and his brow furrows with ill-hidden confusion.

She gives him a gentle nudge with her elbow.

"Where do we go from here, captain?"

When his eyes meet hers, the lines in his face nearly melt away.

"Wherever you desire, my love."

A light shines up from the page, and slowly, the dock appears in careful strokes that only leave them more confused.)

(He proposes to her on the docks not a year later and the confusion returns to his brow when she announces that it all makes sense now.

"The docks were the epilogue, not the end. They are the part where you tell the reader that everything turns out alright."

His brow quirks further and he is on one knee goddammit.

"I am not entirely certain whether you've just said yes or no?"

"God, yes.")

(They lived happily ever after.)