Emma can't stop her smirk when the tracking spell leads her to a tavern. Of course.

She wasn't sure if it would work at all, whether he'd even be in this version of the Enchanted Forest. The Jolly was nowhere to be found at the docks and none of the local sailors knew anyone by the name of Killian Jones or Captain Hook. He could have been long dead, or still in Neverland, or an actual blacksmith for all she knew, but the simple spell using Liam's ring led her straight here. She pulls the hood of her cloak more tightly over her head - escaping the palace guards was easy enough, and she damn well wasn't going to do this with an audience - and approaches, her boots barely kicking up dust on the well-worn path.

It's a bit out-of-the-way, this little place, and her smirk falls when she realizes just how far it is from the docks… or, come to think of it, any water at all. She pauses just outside the door. Killian - her Killian - would know where to find a magic bean, but whatever version of him she's about to meet might not. He's likely not even a sailor, much less a pirate. But -

But. She has to try. She's not deluded enough to convince herself it's the only reason she wants to find him. In real-world terms it's only been a day since she's seen him, but now with yet another lifetime's worth of memories in her head, she's left with the near-physical ache of three decades without his presence. More than anything she just - she needs to see him.

And, if she's honest with herself, part of her wants to watch him fall in love with her again.

It's that final thought that allows her to enter the tavern and look around.

There's a decent number of patrons, but nothing like the rowdy crowd of pirates and barmaids she'd seen when she met his past self. The place is quiet, every bit as subdued as the soft lantern light casting shadows in every corner. It's not an establishment for wayward miscreants, more like a local pub where working men come for a few pints at the end of a long day. She tugs at her hood again, trying to keep her face out of view, but it's unnecessary - no one so much as looks up at her entrance.

That's when she spots him.

She shouldn't be surprised at his appearance, given the way her parents had looked (they're fine, they're back home and alive, they're fine, they're fine the constant mantra in her head), but the breath flies out of her as she strains to get a good look at him. He's hardly elderly but definitely older by a few decades, his hair still thick but generously shot through with streaks of silver. The laugh lines she loves so much have deepened, the start of a few wrinkles on his forehead, and there's a new scar along the side of his jaw. He's beautiful. Older and more distinguished but still breathtakingly handsome, his profile unchanged by the additional years on his face.

The wash of sweet relief she feels at seeing him recedes when she takes in the set of his shoulders, slumped and still in a way he never looks. Hiis only company at the tiny table tucked in the corner is a bottle of rum and a half-empty glass. The years may not have changed his look much but they've drastically altered his posture. He keeps his gaze fixed on his drink, not his surroundings, the only part of him that moves his fingers, slowly turning the glass where it sits on the table.

His weariness is palpable. It, just like everything else - his older face, the solitude rather than a lively game of dice, the lack of the leather coat, hell, the lack of a bar wench on his arm or in his lap - is all slightly off, somehow. Emma knows she's staring but if he realizes he's being watched, he doesn't look up.

She can't sit near him and flirtily catch his eye, not when her face is known to everyone in the realm. Even if she had the blessing of anonymity she suspects he wouldn't take much heed, and that bothers her most of all.

A direct approach will have to do.

He still doesn't lift his head even when she takes the seat directly across from him. "Mind if I join you?"

"I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company, lass." Even his voice is tired, lower and with more gravel than she remembers.

"And what makes you say that, Captain?"

That gets his attention. He raises his eyes but her face is still mostly in shadow from her hood. "Because I'm not in the habit of consorting with people who call me that."

"Call you what, 'Captain'? It's true, isn't it?"

His eyes narrow, and her heart sinks at his expression. "Not for a long time. How do you know that?"

God, what has he been doing the last 25 years? "I know a lot of things, Killian," she replies, her voice soft and placating.

It has the opposite effect. At the sound of his name he grabs the bottle and moves to leave, but her hand shoots out, grabbing at his wrist. "Wait! Please."

"Why should I?" he asks, a trace of bitterness in his voice.

She releases him and pulls back her hood, holding her breath as he takes in her face. Whatever she was hoping to see - the lovestruck deckhand, a lecherous pirate, a light in his eyes, anything - she gets none of it. His eyes widen a touch when he realizes he's speaking to a princess, but he otherwise doesn't give anything away.

"Please. Sit," she asks again.

He recovers quickly. "Is that a request or a royal fiat?"

She smiles, but the expression feels awkward on her face. "To be honest, I'll do pretty much anything to keep you here. But it's a request."

He sits, regarding her warily. "What are you doing here, Princess? Shouldn't you be in mourning?"

Word travels fast in the Enchanted Forest, it seems. "My parents aren't dead."

"I've heard differently."

"You've heard wrong." She sighs. "It's a long story."

"Then did you bring your guards with you? Come to arrest me, finally?" he asks tiredly. "I can't imagine why anyone would care enough to bother detaining an old pirate like me. Or why they'd send you to find me in the first place."

"If I had, would you try to escape?"

He simply shrugs, pouring himself another glass.

His entire demeanor throws her for a loop - he is everything and nothing like the man she knows. The same sadness that always haunts him is there, but the utter lack of fight in him disarms her. "Why would I want to arrest you?" she tries.

The ghost of a familiar smirk crosses his face. "I thought you knew many things."

"Humor me."

He leans back in his chair. "I was banished from your kingdom a few decades ago. I assumed you knew, but you were just a child when it happened, I suppose."

"Why?"

His eyebrow shoots up, another familiar gesture and she latches onto it. "Is this to be an interrogation, Highness?"

"Emma," she says, unthinking.

"What?"

"Call me Emma."

He blinks, taken aback for the first time. "Is this to be an interrogation, Emma?"

Her heart clenches at the sound of her name from his lips. It sounds exactly as she remembered. "No. We can just… talk."

He eyes her curiously. "You grow more confusing by the minute, Princess."

She bites her cheek when he reverts back to her title. "How's that?"

"You still haven't told me why you're here."

I missed you. "I, uh, was hoping to find someone who would be able to locate a magic bean. I thought you would fit the bill, but it seems like my information is a little out-of-date."

His laugh is caustic, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Quite."

"What happened to you?"

He grows quiet and drains his drink, pouring himself another. "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer if you went on your way and found someone else for your mission. Leave me in peace."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"At peace."

Killian's face doesn't quite fall at her question. No, it's far more subtle than that. But she can see how his eyes darken ever so slightly, not just at the query but the fact that she so swiftly called him out. Being read so easily isn't pleasant - she knows well enough, him having it done it to her so many times - but she holds his gaze while he looks at her and doesn't budge as he stares, long past the point of polite or comfortable.

She waits for a scathing remark, but he finally sighs and slouches back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face. "And why do you even care, Highness?" Everything about him radiates exhaustion.

And that cuts deeper than anything, how tired and hopeless he seems. It's silly, she knows. This Killian isn't real, not really. None of this is real. She should have turned away the moment he said he couldn't help her, but she can't quell the urge to reach out and take his hand, to touch his face, God, anything, just something for him to hang onto. Her hands itch to reach out to him; she clenches them tightly in her lap instead.

She's loved every version of Killian Jones she's ever met. The one sitting before her is no exception.

"Does that surprise you?" she asks, careful to keep the waver out of her voice. "That I care? Or that anyone would?"

"Is there a difference?" He's so quiet, apparently astonished that he's even having this conversation. Emma reminds herself that this must be even more baffling for him than it is for her, a royal talking to a former pirate like he's a long-lost friend.

She allows a small smile. "Maybe."

Before he can respond, one of the barmaids approaches. "Can I get you anything, miss - oh! I, um… Your Highness?" The poor girl is stunned when she realizes she's speaking to royalty, her face flushing and her mouth dropping open.

"It's okay," Emma assures her, pulling out a pouch of gold coins (access to the Royal Treasury does have its perks) and handing it to her. The girl takes it, flummoxed, weighing it in her hands. It's probably more than she earns in a year. "For your silence." The girl nods, still dumbfounded. "Do you serve food here?"

"I, uh - yes, Your Highness. Lamb stew and bread. I can - "

Emma looks to Killian. "Have you eaten?" She already knows the answer.

"No. And I'm not hungry."

"You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach, Killian."

He raises an eyebrow, whether at her cheek or her use of his name, but it's the first time he's truly challenged her since she sat down. She takes it as a win, and pushes back.

She looks again to the barmaid. "Dinner for both of us. And a glass for me." She motions to the bottle of rum between them.

"My rum's already bought and paid for."

The message is clear - this is mine and I won't be sharing - but Emma won't back down. "A glass, and a bottle for me, then. Thank you."

It takes a moment for the girl to realize she's been dismissed before she's off in a tizzy, and Emma smiles after her for a moment before adjusting the tilt of her chair just enough that her face won't be visible to the other patrons in the tavern. Her amusement dies when she looks back at Killian. His disgust is palpable.

"I don't need your pity, Highness."

She stiffens in her seat. "This isn't pity."

"Isn't it?" He keeps his voice low but his tone is deadly. "Throwing money at that girl? Acting as though you give a damn about a strange man that your own parents banished from their kingdom, like that will convince me to help you? Rest assured, Princess, I've no resources or assistance for you no matter how kind you pretend to be. I couldn't help you even if I wanted to."

She closes her eyes and forces herself to take a deep breath. "You don't trust royalty. Of course you wouldn't."

"Few pirates do."

"I thought you weren't a pirate anymore."

"Semantics, love."

Emma's lips quirk up at the familiar endearment, sarcastic as it is. The maid returns quickly with a bottle and glass for her, and Emma wastes no time pouring herself a shot and downing it. If Killian's surprised at her ability to chug liquor he doesn't show it, merely tosses back one of his own. It's alarming how much he's already drunk since she sat down, but even more so that the alcohol doesn't seem to be affecting him at all yet. She's certain he plans on finishing the bottle himself.

He sighs as he sets down the glass. "I tire of this. I've told you I can't help you, yet you seem desperate to keep me here. And you keep looking at me like - " he stalls, as though what he wants to say is the most baffling thing of all.

"Like what?"

"Like you know me."

She shrugs. "Like I said, I know more than you think."

He scoffs. "All you've done is talk in circles. Give me one good reason not to walk out that door right now."

"I know why you became a pirate." Emma hadn't wanted to tip her hand so early, but their entire conversation so far has gone so disastrously wrong she can't possibly make things any worse. A renewed wave of sympathy for him runs through her, at how hopeless he must have felt trying to convince her of her true identity back in New York.

He stiffens in his chair. "Oh?"

"You used to be a naval officer. Your king sent you on a mission to Neverland for Dreamshade, and it ended up killing your brother."

His eyes grow wider the longer she speaks. "How do you know that?" he barely gets out.

"You took the Jewel of the Realm and renamed her the Jolly Roger, and used it to avenge Liam's death at the hands of a corrupt king," Emma continues, and now he is well and truly at a loss for words. "I probably would have done the same thing. You spent years pillaging and plundering, and then," her voice grows soft, "You met Milah."

He's frozen where he sits, his hand hovering over his glass, eyes locked on hers. She takes a chance - reaching out, she grasps his wrist, gently turning it to reveal his tattoo. She runs her thumb over the ancient ink, cradling his palm with her free hand. "You loved her. Very much."

He seems almost in a trance as her fingers drift over his skin. "How?" he whispers.

She doesn't stop. "And Rumplestiltskin murdered her. And he took your hand." He finally blinks at the mention of the Dark One, snatching his arm back as though burned. "And you went to Neverland and spent centuries there, trying to find a way to kill him. What I don't know is how you ended up back here, or what you've been doing since then. Where's your ship? What happened to your crew?"

He shakes his head, still stunned. "You're a bloody witch."

"No."

His voice grows dark. "There's not a man or woman alive I've told that story to. What kind of magic did you use to get inside my head?" She's heard this tone from him before but never directed at her, what she always thought of as his "Captain's voice." It's more intimidating than she wants to admit.

"No! I used magic to find you, but I'm not reading your mind. I wouldn't do that to you."

"I don't believe you." Each word is an accusation, pointed and clipped.

Emma laughs in spite of herself. "That's a shame, because this story is about to get even weirder."

"Stop playing games with me."

She pours another shot, downing it in one go. "I'm not," she bites back, and he seems surprised at the force of her words. "Do you want to hear this or not?"

The barmaid chooses that moment to return with their food, and the awkwardness does nothing to alleviate the thick fog of tension hanging over their little table.

"Please," she tries once more, imploring. Killian looks down to his food and back to Emma, considering. He sighs, and then picks up his spoon.

He doesn't interrupt her as she speaks, and she knows she's doing a terrible job of explaining her life story - the whole thing is a mess and there's no succinct way of boiling it all down into a few minutes. But he listens impassively, and despite his initial protests he eats every bit of food on his plate (how many nights has he forgone dinner for a bottle of rum?).

Her only consolation is the fact that Killian grew up in a realm where magic and curses actually exist, one massive hurdle she doesn't have to conquer right now. She carefully leaves his role in her life out of the tale, not wanting to burden him with that particular knowledge just yet. When she finishes, he sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well," he finally says. "That's quite a story."

"I know."

"And this is why you seek a magic bean? To get back to the 'real world,' as you put it?"

"Yes."

He rubs at his eyes. "You expect me to believe you want to leave your perfect life to get back to a reality where you were ripped apart from your parents as an infant, raised as an orphan, spent time in prison, and were separated from your son for a decade? Forgive my impertinence, Highness, but your story is, quite literally, unbelievable."

She wants to grab his shoulders and shake him, to slap him, to kiss him, anything to make him believe, but with the facts laid out so simply, he's not wrong. "I know it sounds crazy. I just - I don't know what to do to make you believe me."

"What could you possibly want to get back to?"

She almost doesn't answer, isn't sure she wants to tread this ground with him, but if anything will convince him it's this. "Love," she says, a thousand paragraphs packed into one word.

He tilts his head. "That might be the first thing you've said tonight that makes sense."

"I'm glad something got through," she mutters, pouring herself another shot and knowing it's a bad idea. He looks almost amused as she drinks it. She doesn't speak as he studies her, waiting while his eyes drift curiously over her features. It's not much different from his scrutiny on the beanstalk, though she's worlds apart from the woman she was back then.

She wonders what he sees.

It's not a one-sided exchange; they size each other up in an oddly comfortable silence as she examines the lines of his face. It's surreal to see him like this, the first hints of the hazy fog of rum settling into her veins adding to the experience of seeing Killian finally, finally able to grow older. There's a bit gray in his stubble to go along with his unkempt hair and his cheeks are slightly flushed as they always are when he drinks.

Is this what he'll look like after aging in the real world? Emma suddenly, desperately wants to see it, wants to be there every single day as the changes slowly take hold, wants to tease him about his first gray hairs and roll her eyes when he points out she's got a few of her own.

The fierceness with which she wants startles her. They may be True Love and they may be living together, but she's never allowed her thoughts to jump that far ahead, usually too focused on their current crisis to even entertain the notion. Birthdays and holidays and meeting her parents for dinner at Granny's and watching Henry and her little brother grow up and God, maybe even a kid of their own someday and -

She finally looks away, pouring another shot and pretending that the stinging sensation in her eyes is because of the rum.

"You know," he finally says, shaking his head. "You're nothing like I thought you'd be."

"Never seen a princess drink rum?"

"Among other things. I'd always figured princesses to be empty-headed and flighty."

She snorts. "What, did you think I spend all day picking flowers and humming silly love songs to myself?"

His eyebrow shoots up. "Something like that."

"Well," Emma shrugs, "sorry to disappoint you."

His lips twitch upward. "Oh no, I'm not disappointed. You're terribly inarticulate and almost certainly mad, but you are proving to be an entertaining conversationalist, if not a particularly good one." She can't help but grin, and his own tiny smile grows fractionally when he realizes she isn't offended. "For someone of your station, diplomacy is not your strong suit."

"Yeah, no shit."

He actually laughs at that. It's the first show of goodwill she's gotten since sitting at his table, and her heart breaks when she reads between the lines and realizes just how lonely he is.

She has to clear her throat before plunging ahead. "Well, I've told you my life story, even if you think I'm totally insane. What about yours?"

His mood sours instantly. "You seem to know it all already."

"Just some of it. The last thing I know is that you went to Neverland. How did you get back?"

He blessedly doesn't reach for his bottle, looking down at his lap instead. And as much as he claims not to believe her, she's convinced something might have gotten through when he answers - either that, or he's so starved for company that he's willing to share details he's so clearly uncomfortable with.

"I was sent here on an errand for Pan. When I found out your parents had imprisoned the Dark One, I decided to risk Pan's wrath and stay."

Of course. "You thought you could get to Rumplestiltskin."

"Aye. I must credit the guards at your castle; they were difficult to get by."

Emma can't help herself - she grins. "How many times did you break in?"

"Five," he admits, and she laughs. There's the pirate I remember. "After the last your parents banished me. I laid low for awhile, weighing my options."

She's reluctant to prod further, but he leaves his last sentence hanging. Almost like he wants her to ask but doesn't think she will.

"What did you do?" Her voice is barely audible over the din of the tavern.

He chews on the answer for a long moment, and nothing could surprise her more than what he says when he finally speaks. "Nothing," he says, an odd mix of incredulity and shame in his voice.

Emma is too shocked to respond, but he fills the silence for her. "Even if I could get to him, it's unlikely Dreamshade would be deadly to him in that cell. And as much as I would love to get a hand on his dagger, I won't become the Dark One just for the sake of killing him. And I realized - what's the most important thing to him?"

"Power," she answers, without hesitation and sudden understanding.

"Aye. Power. And he's completely stripped of it, rotting away in that cell with nothing but his foul thoughts to keep him company." Emma swallows heavily but he doesn't notice - word may have gotten around about her parents' "death" but Rumple's release from his prison has not.

"It's the perfect punishment," he continues, nearly ranting, and for the first time that night she's grateful for the amount of alcohol he's consumed, the way it's let him drop his guard enough to tell her this - and she's likely the only person he's ever told, the way he lets it spill out of him.

"And he gets what he deserves and I'm left with nothing. Just an old soul with a body that's finally catching up." He doesn't even bother pouring himself another shot, choosing to drink straight from his bottle instead. "I've wasted this life on a vengeance that was delivered by others. I can't - "

He stops, sinking into his seat. He seems shocked that he even said it at all, and that emboldens her more than anything. She's certain now that her presence is having an effect, this closed-off version of himself suddenly sharing intimate details he'd never reveal to anyone, much less a stranger.

Some part of him, deep down, knows her.

She can't stop herself - she reaches across the table and covers his hand with hers. "I understand."

"Do you?" His words are sharp but he doesn't pull his hand away. "Have you ever watched the one you love die? Watched the life fall from their eyes as they fade in your arms?"

"Yes." It's not rational, she knows, but it's the first time she's felt truly angry with him since she sat down. "I know exactly what it's like." She doesn't remove her hand, merely squeezes his harder, tries to make him understand.

He doesn't question her further, merely accepts her declaration. They sit for a long while, quiet, before she finally risks breaking the silence.

"Your crew didn't stay with you, did they?" she finally asks.

"No," he confirms, his eyes still on her their joined fingers, bewildered at the turn their conversation. "When it was clear I had no plans on sailing in the near future they deserted me. That, and my incarceration after my first attempt to break into the castle helped move things along swiftly enough."

"No loyalty among thieves, huh? And your ship?"

He balks before answering, finally pulling his hand from hers. "Seized by the Royal Navy after I broke into the castle the first time."

"Oh." Emma hadn't thought about that, but it makes sense - an empty pirate ship wouldn't just be left sitting in the bay.

He sighs, looking eager to change the subject. "So I take it that Baelfire is alive in this fantasy of yours?"

"No." She shakes her head. "He's Henry's father, but he's not my True Love."

His brow furrows. "No?"

"No. I found someone else. And I need to get back to him. And to my parents, my real parents." Emma feels herself unraveling slightly, the weight of the implications if she can't get back home finally settling on her shoulders.

"You haven't mentioned me in your little tale. How is it you know so much about me?"

She pauses before answering. "We know each other," she allows.

"Dare I even ask?'

She finds herself laughing. "You probably shouldn't. I doubt you'd believe me."

"You're probably right. But… humor me." He throws her own words back at her. "Who's the lucky man you're so anxious to return to?"

She opens her mouth only to close it under his scrutiny, staring helplessly at him while she tries to find the words. It turns out she doesn't need to. In any reality, she's an open book.

His eyes widen as it dawns on him. "No."

"Yes," she whispers.

"That's why you've come to me. It wasn't about finding a magic bean. You wanted to… no."

"Yes." She reaches to grab his hand once more, squeezing his fingers tightly, silently begging him to believe her. "It's you, Killian."

He stares for a long moment, stunned and broken.

"It's you," she repeats. Waiting. Imploring.

And that's what it takes for him to finally leave, unceremoniously standing and stalking out the door, taking his bottle with him. Emma can't move at first, tears once again smarting before she raises her hood and stands, her skirts swishing as she leaves the tavern.

"Killian!" she calls once she's outside, looking around until she spots him making his way down the road to her left. She jogs to catch up. "Killian! Please, don't go, I just - "

He whirls around, his face stricken as she approaches. "Bloody hell, just leave me be! I don't know what's gotten into that head of yours, but whatever you're looking for, I'm not that man." He gestures wildly, rum sloshing out of the bottle he holds. "Keep your fantasies to yourself, Princess. I want no part of it."

"If you thought I was lying you wouldn't be running," she counters. She grabs at his wrist once more. "I'm not lying, Killian. I know about your past because you told me. You tell me everything. It's… it's kind of what we do," she says, her voice breaking on the words. "It's why I love you."

That's what makes him finally drop the bottle, glass shattering beneath their feet.

Her words floor him, plain as day, and it's another punch to the gut knowing he hasn't heard a real declaration of love in centuries, not something so genuine. She gives up any pretense of being obtuse or clever and wills him to hear the truth in her words. "It's why you love me."

"You're telling me that I'm your True Love," he says, disbelieving, but she simply nods.

"It's not possible. Milah…"

"You loved her," she assures him. "You'll always love her. You weren't disrespecting her memory by falling in love again. You were honoring it."

She can see that he hears her but he doesn't quite believe it, can't allow himself to. "And the Dark One?" he asks. "What became of him?"

"You gave up your vengeance." Her grip on him loosens but he doesn't pull back, and she takes the opportunity to lace her fingers with his. "You found something else to live for."

The confusion is clear on his face even in the dim light. He's battling himself, she knows, against the same sort of familiarity she felt when he approached her in New York. The sense that something was wrong, a voice in the back of his mind telling him to listen to her despite his better judgment.

"And what was that?" he asks, deathly quiet, his gaze trained on their hands. His palm is mostly passive against hers, letting her hold him more than anything, but his thumb twitches against her skin.

"Me." She wants to cry on the answer. "Us."

He doesn't react and she plows forward. "We've got a house together. It's got a white picket fence and a beautiful view of the sea. And you love my son. You've never flat-out said it but I know, God, I know. And he loves you, I know he does. He's just a teenager, and I know it's weird for him but he pretty much worships the ground you walk on when he thinks no one's paying attention. You're kind of a hero to him."

"I'm no one's hero," he mutters.

"You are. You're always, always trying to be a better man. And I love you for it." She looks up to his astonished gaze. "And I've found the ring you've been hiding - seriously, in your underwear drawer? But I know you're going to ask me to marry you. And I'm going to say yes."

He closes his eyes and sways slightly on his feet. The air is still and quiet around them, too far from the tavern for the sound to carry. For a few long moments they simply breathe together.

"Killian," she finally whispers.

"Why are you doing this?" His words are soft, no trace of anger left in his voice.

"You know why." She looks down to their joined hands. "You know, this isn't the first time we've met each other in another realm."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. And every single time there's a spark between us, even when one of us doesn't have our memories." She squeezes his hand more tightly. "Look at me, Killian. Look at me and tell me you don't feel anything."

He finally opens his eyes and she can see the struggle behind them. "I - love, I can't - "

"You can," she says, releasing his hand and slowly stepping in close. She reaches up and slides her hands over his face, thumbs tracing his jaw and her fingers just flirting with the ends of his hair. "Is it that hard to believe somebody could love you?"

He doesn't answer and doesn't need to. But his eyes fall to her mouth and back up again, the melancholy in his features shot through with longing. Longing, and perhaps a tiny sliver of hope.

She steps even closer, just enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest to hers. "Please, just let me - "

She tilts her face up and leans in, slowly enough that he can back away if he wants, but he remains frozen where he stands. When her nose brushes his, his eyes drift closed and his shaky sigh floats over her skin. "I love you," she whispers, and presses her lips to his.

His mouth is soft and unmoving beneath hers save for the quick breath he draws in at her touch. She doesn't push it, simply lets him feel her against him and waits, sliding one hand down to rest over his chest.

For several long moments Killian doesn't react, and Emma starts to pull away when his hand slides across the small of her back to hold her in place. His head tilts and he just barely presses in but it's enough for both of them to relax in each other's arms, little by little with each breath between them.

He's slow and careful at first, like relearning a long-forgotten song. But it's still Killian and she lets him fall into her, waits for him to be the first to rumble a soft little noise in the back of his throat, waits for him to part his lips and lean into it, waits for his tongue to slide over hers. In spite of everything it's still the same as it always is with them, easy and perfect as the True Loves they've always been fated to be, no matter the realm or the lives that led them here.

She drowns in it, savoring the the heat and the taste of him as he discovers her all over again, her hand tightening in his hair. She almost doesn't register when he stiffens in her arms but he suddenly breaks the kiss, breathing heavily as he presses his forehead to hers. There's something new in his eyes as he stares at her, something that wasn't there before and -

"Swan?"

They both freeze where they stand, a long, breathless silence stretching out before she dares to ask, her fingers gripping at his lapel.

"Killian…?" Hoping. Begging. Praying.

Another pause, another breath. And then: "Swan."

Emma smiles, and pulls him in again.