His eyes. Always his eyes.
His eyes terrified her. They were beautiful, the color of the sea he loved so well, but as with the sea could swallow her and drown her if she wasn't careful. He only had to look at her to see her, really see her, undress her, strip her bare of all the walls she'd ever put up. They were intense, reading her life like her son's storybook, like she hadn't hidden herself in a web of lies and half-truths and secrets. And worst of all was how expressive, how passionate they were: he loved her. A quick glance was a kiss on the cheek. A held gaze an 'I love you'.
She couldn't remember the last time she could breathe when he looked at her.
His eyes were like ice, the morning after they spent the night together. They wouldn't meet hers when he said he felt ill. They seemed unfocused, uncaring. Unlike him.
They were daggers the next time she saw him. A quick glance was a knife in her heart, looking up and away. Shards of ice pierced her as he kept walking. She turned to watch him go, stalking down the street. The foolish part of her kept waiting for him to turn around, teasing her, calling her Swan, tempting her along and leading her away like the Pied Piper of lost girls in lo—caring too much for black-hearted pirates.
They were pale as ghosts in their next confrontation. He was at her side, marveling at the beauty of her creations, but the words thrown were as good as icicles. The words said, words she knew to be true but hoped that he wouldn't know, that she was selfish and cruel and unable to love, a coward, liar, thief, sneak: all the ugliness of her soul turned against her. She knew these truths about herself, wore them like armor, but from him her armor may well as have been made of paper.
The mirror, silvery sheen, matched his eyes now. She had to break it: unbroken, it would hold him and the others. Shattering the mirror would save them…
She was falling.
His eyes. Full of hate and spite, the wicked grin on his lips as he cut her down with his sword. His words from so long ago cut across time and memory in mockery. 'A bit of advice? When I jab you with my sword, you'll feel it.'
She did. "Let me break it," she pleaded, breathless, the snow under her slowly turning red.
His hook was buried in her stomach, the silver curve matching the silver eyes. She cried out, once, and made herself bleed further by biting on her lip to keep in further screams. There was a flicker of movement at the corner of her eye: Henry. He was on the move. She had to keep him distracted. Henry would do it, Henry could…
The world spun. She heard a distant "Swan!", and swam up towards it. "This isn't you, Killian," she rasped.
He mocked her desires to live, what good they were, her implications that he was more than what had his hook in her belly.
"I'd rather die than let you continue on like this. You've… you've changed so much… This isn't," she choked, blood spilling on her chin. She drew a ragged breath, cursing her lungs and forcing herself to stay awake, stay alive, "this isn't who you are. The man I fell in love with he…"
He screamed curses at her, the laundry list of sins staining her soul ripping from his lips like a prayer memorized from birth. She was too far gone to be hurt, to care.
"I know… that I wasn't… But you, you I," she coughed again, and twisted her head to dye more snow red; she glanced and saw Henry running for the mirror, his grandfather's sword in hand. Henry would do it... "You're the only one I have ever loved so truly and deeply… and I'm sorry it took me so long to figure that out… Killian."
Her vision swam again, but she turned her head again, seeing the movement and the sound of the mirror shattering muffled. She coughed again. Things seemed to be happening far away from her. She the pressure in her stomach, the hook, was gone. She was being turned, lifted out of the snow. She couldn't get warm, despite the heat radiating from what held her. The "Swan!" sounded even fainter, more frantic.
His eyes. They were blue again, the blue of the sea. She smiled. She told him she wanted to drown in his eyes every day for the rest of her life. They no longer terrified her, they comforted. She told him how much she loved his eyes, loved him, but still his eyes were so filled with worry, fear.
It was going to be okay, she told him. She was just tired.
She couldn't hear the words he was saying, shouting above her, his eyes desperate, pleading, frantic. She told him not to worry, not to look at her like that, to hold her gaze and tell her without words that he loved her.
She couldn't remember the last time she could breathe when he looked at her...
But she was breathing now, huge, gulping gasps of air. The world returned in sharp focus, sound assaulting her ears. She hurt everywhere, but the pain was receding. She looked around, confused. "What…?"
"Emma!" He engulfed her, warming her; she breathed his scent-brine and musk and ivory soap—and realized she was not dying, he was free of the curse. Her arms went around him, clinging desperately.
"It's okay… it's okay…" she kept saying over and over, but the more she said it the more he held on. He was saying things she couldn't hear, and she just kept telling him it was okay until she said that she was okay, that they were okay, that he was okay, and then his lips found hers and it was hungry and desperate and pleading, a reassurance of life in the fear of death.
They needed to breathe. She needed to breathe, before he looked at her again and took her breath away. She rested her forehead against his, noses brushing against each other. "True love's kiss, huh?" She asked, off-handedly, for lack of anything else to say.
His laugh was quick, mostly air. She felt his gaze on her; she felt the gazes of others, knowing they had an audience. She wanted to say so many things: 'Don't you dare get yourself cursed again, or I will kill you myself', 'Don't you dare blame yourself for any of this', 'Don't you dare think about leaving my side for the next twenty-four hours, or days, or months, or years, or lifetimes'. But the words were stuck in her throat.
She raised her head slightly, meeting his gaze, his eyes, full of regret and shame. The 'I love you' was there, it always was, always implied and never spoken. An implied agreement that she meant to break now, forever, never letting him forget that she loved him, needed him, would drag him out of hell herself if it came to that. "I love you," she said softly, words for them only.
"You, love," he breathed, "are a bloody amazing woman."
"A bloody amazing woman who loves you, you crooked old pirate, and don't you forget it."
He smiled, capturing her lips softly this time. "You might have to remind me from time to time."
"I intend to," she told him, meeting his eyes again; they spoke volumes for what his mouth did not, could not, voice. 'I love you, too, Swan.'