"It must run in the family."

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he feels her turn to regard him. She's so close, closer even than when they'd danced the night before (he will never forget the vision of rich red silk and golden hair and her glorious smile, a smile for him) and he keeps his gaze trained on the retreating figure of the prince. She's so close, but he cannot bring himself to meet her eyes, unwilling to trust his own human frailty, because she's still not close enough.

It will never be close enough.

She says nothing, just a soft huff of breath as she turns and begins to rummage through the satchel slung over his shoulder, her head bowed. The cloth of her peasant dress brushes against his thigh as she draws out her son's book, then she's practically leaning against him as she opens it to the pertinent pages.

Before their eyes, the tale of Snow White and Prince Charming is restored, the blank pages blank no more but filled with colour and hope and the promise of a happy ending.

"We did it," she breathes, pure joy threaded through those three simple words, and there's suddenly a lump in his throat that threatens to choke his own words.

"You did most of it, love."

She looks at him, the book still cradled in her arms, her eyes searching his as though she's afraid he's mocking her, just as she'd assumed last night. You get my first dance at my first Royal ball, and all you can say is I told you so? Her gaze dips down to his mouth, and his breath seems to seize in his lungs. Her lips part, as if to speak, then a nearby rustling in the undergrowth disturbs the silence, making them both spin in unison.

There's no threat to be seen, only the still form of the unconscious maiden who has unwillingly joined their party, and he can only assume it was nothing more than a small woodland creature scuttling through the dry leaves. The heady spell between them is broken, though, and perhaps it's for the best. There is much left to achieve, after all. Emma doesn't look at him as she returns the book to his satchel, and he can't help pondering unhappily if her suddenly distant expression heralds the beginning of a return to their old ways.

"How are we going to get her all the way to Gold's place?" She's brisk now, all business, and he bites back a sigh.

"Leave it to me." He swings the satchel around to lay flat against his back, then makes his way towards the woman. "I've carried rum barrels heavier than her."

After he carefully checks the beat of her blood beneath her jaw (it's very slow, but it's there), it only takes a moment to heft her over his shoulder. When he carefully straightens, Emma is looking at him curiously, as though she very much wants to say something but cannot find the right words. "Ready, Swan?"

"I am." The small smile she gives him makes his burden suddenly feel lighter than goose down. "Let's go."

They stop to rest halfway to the Dark One's castle. His shoulders have been aching for the last few miles, but he had refused to admit defeat, not when they were so close. He didn't reckon on Emma Swan's powers of observation, though, and those sharp eyes of hers apparently didn't miss the slowing of his stride. He puts up a token show of resistance (it's expected of him, surely?), then he carefully lowers the woman to the soft forest floor with Emma's help. She's still dead to the world, and he can see by Emma's frown that she's begun to worry about the force of the blow that rendered the woman in this state. "Will she be okay?"

By unspoken agreement, they speak in hushed tones, all the better not to awaken their mysterious passenger. "She'll have a sore head tomorrow, love, but she'll be fine."

"I hope so." She steps to his side, her hands once again reaching for his satchel. "Sorry, do you mind?" To his surprise, she lifts the strap over his head, taking the bag from him with a faintly sheepish smile, her easy familiarity making his mouth go dry. Once she's wrestled the book out of the bag, she sinks down onto the fallen log behind them, balancing the book on her knees, his satchel at her side. He sees no reason not to join her in her repose, and drops down onto the fallen tree trunk beside her, allowing himself the simple pleasure of sitting close enough for their shoulders to brush. His mouth is still dry, and he retrieves the small waterskin from his belt, suspecting he's not the only one in need of refreshment. Uncorking the seal, he offers it to Emma, and she takes it with a grateful smile. "Thanks."

After she's handed it back to him (again with a smile that's impossible not to return) and he's slaked his own thirst, he also takes the opportunity to stretch his neck, rolling his shoulders in that slow, languid motion the body always craves when a heavy burden has been laid down. Emma darts a quick glance at him, her dark eyelashes fluttering, then hastily returns her attention to the book. Flicking reverently through the pages, her smile grows wistful as she looks upon the tale of her parents' quest for true love. "I still can't believe we did it."

She seems to shift closer as she speaks, the edge of her cloak brushing against his arm, her elbow gently jostling his. He studies her delicate profile as he loops the waterskin back onto his belt, a pang of longing tightening his chest.

His brave lass. So fierce and bold, so determined to do the honourable thing. He'd told her only days ago that he'd never thought he'd see her smile, and now he has lost track of the number of times he's seen her beautiful face aglow with joy. He wants very much to believe that he has been the cause of at least some of those smiles, but there have been no words spoken between them, no new reason for him to hope that her feelings for him may have come to the fore during this new adventure.

And yet, he cannot help but hope.

He will hope until his last breath if it comes to that, but he will not press her. Not here, not once they are safely returned to Storybrooke, not even if she insists on her nonsensical plan to return to New York. Whatever her future holds, it must be her decision, and her decision alone.

They sit in silence for another moment or two, and seeing her touch the sketches of her parents' faces pains him greatly. It's as though she cannot bear to let them out of her sight, and he finds he cannot hold his tongue. "You'll see them again, love."

She looks up at him, and the hope glittering in her eyes hits him like a velvet fist. "I know." Her gaze lingers on his face, then she closes the book with a quiet thud. He holds out his hand, and she passes both book and satchel to him, that same soft smile touching her lips. As he secures the book and slings the strap across his shoulder once more, she gestures towards the woman lying prone at their feet. "Want me to take a turn?"

He chuckles softly, already rising to his feet. "Only a pirate would let a princess carry such a burden, milady." He gives her a teasing bow, and is rewarding with sparkling green eyes and a flash of white teeth as she grins.

"I guess you are still Prince Charles in that getup," she murmurs, gesturing towards his formal clothing. "It's a good look on you," she adds almost shyly, and he feels his heart quicken, heat blossoming absurdly in his face.

"I prefer black, I must say," he manages to jibe as he gently gathers Regina's erstwhile prisoner in his arms, bracing his legs as he hefts her over his shoulder once more. They may have only rested a few moments, but he feels oddly invigorated. Emma's face is aglow with anticipation, as though she also feels the sense that their journey is almost at an end. "After you, your Highness," he says softly, and she smiles.

Slowly but surely, they make their way towards the Dark One's castle, each step hopefully taking them closer to Storybrooke, and if the warmth in her eyes means anything at all, perhaps he can be forgiven the hope that stirs in his heart.