"Swan!"
Killian's voice is sharp and sudden, jolting Emma from her quiet carrot-slicing daze. He'd kissed her and wandered to the bedroom ages ago, having just arrived home, muttering something about changing his clothes and checking on the little ones.
She dropped the knife with a clang to the cutting board, carrots scattering behind her as she runs after his cry, heart racing. She is conditioned only to think the worst and the worst she does think—thoughts of boy imps and evil witches and threats to her family racing frantically through her mind.
He is in the bathroom, alone, staring horrified in the mirror.
"Killian, what's wrong? Are the kids alright?" She is breathless and dizzily searching around him for any sign of a disruption, and when nothing jumps out at her she turns warily to the mirror, meeting his wide-eyed gaze with a pounding heart.
"I'm dying, Swan." He growls, motioning vaguely at his head.
She sees no visible wounds but steps to his side, running her fingers up into his softly mussed hair and still finding nothing wrong.
She bites her lip and furrows her eyebrows and stares concerned at her pirate, who has worked himself into a nervous wreck.
"See, Emma," he groans, "Dying."
The misery in his eyes is palpable, and she sighs.
"There's no blood, drama queen. Whatever you did, I'm pretty sure you're gonna live. Survivor and all."
She gives the side of his head a gentle pat before dropping her hand back to her side, raising an eyebrow when he looks at her, clearly affronted.
"It's grey, Emma. I've a bloody grey hair."
She blinks once, staring at him, then again.
And then she is laughing.
"Don't mock me, Swan," he whines, actually whines, and she only laughs harder, clutching her stomach that is beginning to ache beneath the sounds. He is glaring and ridiculous, completely ridiculous.
"God, Killian, you scared me to death," she chides through her slowing giggles, moving closer to him and focusing harder on the spot of hair he's motioned to. She squints and sure enough, a single very small, very hidden line of grey mixes amongst the midnight hues.
She smiles a bit to herself as he watches her expectantly, wondering just how long he'd been watching for that single piece of grey to appear.
Idiot.
"I thought you were 300, pirate," she smirks lightly at him, "Did that ageless mind of yours not see greys coming?"
He glares at her, brow furrowing stubbornly and she chuckles.
"You're really not ready to hear about losing your hair yet, are you?" She adds in a conspiratorial whisper, and his eyes widen almost comically.
She rolls her eyes and takes the small step separating them, tangling her fingers into his and running them up his stumped arm to grasp at his shoulder. His eyes soften and a light smile plays at his lips. Her own gaze falls to the corners of his ocean eyes, settling on the soft lines that are beginning to form around them. A slight sideways glance in the mirror confirms that time has most certainly passed, bringing age to her skin as well—all evidence of the adventures they've been through at each other's sides. She sighs contentedly, a smile tugging at her own lips as she bows her head to his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart and reveling in the gentleness of his fingers playing through her hair.
"Growing old with you has been my greatest adventure, darling," he breaths, and now she does smile, burrowing deeper against him and the warmth he exudes.
"I know."
He buries his lips into her hair, running them down to her ear before letting out a soft chuckle.
"What?"
She pulls off of him to glare, and the way his eyes twinkle playfully only narrows her eyes further.
"You've got one as well." He motions in the general area of his spot of grey, and she feels her own eyes widen.
"God, no, I don't."
He smirks gleefully.
"You most certainly do."
"Pull it out." She orders, despite her own earlier assurances to her pirate. He is quite clearly swallowing laughter, and she lets go of his shoulder to give him a soft shove.
"I'll do no such thing!" He defends, wrapping both arms around her waist and tugging her nearer, until she's flush against him and still glaring. "I rather like it."
His voice is gentler on his last words and he bows to press a tender kiss to her forehead.
"I lived dead my whole bloody life, love," he tells her quietly, pressing his forehead to hers and brushing her nose affectionately with his, beautiful eyes twinkling, "I far prefer dying alive."
"Drama queen." She breathes, smiling as his lips fall to hers.