She's always the one pushing away, running as far as she can in the opposite direction so no one can touch her, no one can hurt her, no one can leave her. So when the tables are turned, she doesn't know how to react, to cope with the new reality that not even Captain Hook can fake. His presence is more of a ghost that weighs heavy on her chest than a tangible, healing comfort.

He spends his time aboard his ship, cleaning, re-organizing, cleaning again until his knuckles are white and the wood is chipped. She tries to give him space; there is a part of her that needs it too, to find who she is without the cobwebs of lies, deceit and all-consuming magic that buzzed under the surface of too frail skin. But it breaks her to watch him like this, the pain constricting in her chest and washing over her like a tidal wave. She blames herself even when he tells her not to with a soft kiss to her forehead. He echoes her words "Be patient," and now she can fake a smile. The memory feels like lifetimes ago and she yearns those simpler times.

But he's here. He's safe. He's alive.

They share the same living space but it doesn't feel like theirs. His clothes claim the right side of the closet and hers the left, everything divided and not quite belonging to the both of them. They silently dance around the other in the morning, having almost perfected the eerie emotional dissociation within a week. It's better at night when his arms inevitably find their way around her waist and pull her closer. Here, she can pretend they are who they used to be, let the numbness fade and worry lines relax with her hand draped over his and bodies tucked close.

He doesn't shy away from her touch, nor does he relish in it. He doesn't lean in when her palm caresses his cheek, thumb rubbing soothing circles into his temple with a breathy "Come back to me, Killian." and apologies shining in the wet gleam of her eyes. He purses his lips before meeting hers gently. (Too gently, too hesitant, too quick.)

"I'm right here." It's a lie and they both know it, the tension palpable in the stiffness of their muscles. A flare of anger rises at his response but she submerges it under layers of guilt until she hates herself more than the situation.

She feels drained, the life and energy sucked from her lungs at the idea of what they should be. They should be clinging to each other like a lifeline, leeching off the love they have for one another to drown out the rest of the world. To forget the pain and sorrow and heartache. But these wounds do not heal like that. Sometimes it feels like they won't heal at all.

His hand doesn't absentmindedly toy with strands of her hair, instead it stays by his side, calluses forming from working the ropes on the Jolly.

God, she misses him.

She tells him so one night when he finally walks through the door - the only light that of the moon, casting more shadows on his face. "I miss you."

"I'm right here, love." he repeats in a tiresome monotone that has become far too common for her liking. But this time she can't take it, the late night vulnerability and drag in his step giving her more bravado than usual.

"No you're not." She curses at how fragile her voice sounds. Broken and cracked syllables that match the emotions churning inside her.

"Emma." He looks away from her, pivots his body towards the kitchen as he hangs his jacket over a chair.

"Killian." She untangles herself, lifting slowly from the couch and moving with even more caution in his direction. "Where are you?" Emma lets her fingertips graze his jaw, her breath catching when he turns away - jaw tense and eyes clouded. She lets her hand linger for just a second longer, sending a silent prayer that he might melt into it, just this once. He doesn't. "Do you - if you don't want to be here with me, Killian, you don't have to be." She shuts her eyes then, wills the tears to not resurface. Wills her heart not to break when she hears his breath intake. If she thought her world had crumbled around her before, it is nothing compared to the words on the tip of her tongue. It makes the little lost girl she used to be resurface and it hurts like a physical ache, the pounding of fists on her chest and a longing in the pit of her gut. "If what I did changed us, this, into something you no longer want, then I won't hold you to your promise."

"You think that's what I want?"

"I don't know what you want or what you feel or - you won't talk to me. You come home and it's like you wish you were anywhere but here. It's like...You barely touch me, barely kiss me, you can barely look at me for longer than a few seconds. What am I supposed to think?"

"Nothing. You shouldn't think anything." Killian pushes past her, heavy footsteps that carry him towards the staircase and more miles away. It's what makes her snap, the words tumbling from her mouth that she hadn't known were in her conscious to begin with, slicing the air between them.

"Do you not love me anymore? Is that - " her voice cracks for the umpteenth time, the whites of her eyes burning with tears as she watches him slowly turn towards her. "Are you trying to force yourself to fall back in love with me?"

There's a shocking pang in the blue of his eyes that sparks a small thread of hope inside her. It's the first glimmer of his true self she's seen in weeks. "Why on earth would you ever think that!"

"I don't know!" She raises her voice to match his. It's angry and heartbreaking as her walls reform and the twisting in her gut erupts through the shouted words and clenched fists. It reminds her too much of what once was dubbed The Dark Swan and she inhales deeply, tries to calm herself. "I think I should go."

He responds with a heavy sigh, curled fingers running across his face, before she can move forward. "This is your house, Swan. I'll see myself out."

(It was their house, not hers. And your house pierces harder than any sword. All of this was supposed to be for him - their white-picket fence future.)

At the clink of the door, she walks over to the couch, collapsing onto the cushions and burying her head in between quivering knees. She tries not to focus on how he didn't deny her accusations, on how she feels like she hasn't seen him since that fateful day in Camelot, on his obvious avoidance and the boulders of panic that add more pressure with every cracked and broken sob. She can hardly breathe, the oxygen stolen from the air around her, heart caving in on itself because how did it get like this? When the idea that she isn't enough anymore, that he might not come back, swims across her racing thoughts, she snatches the blanket, balling it up and squeezing as tight as she can. Emma brings her hands with the bundled quilt to her mouth to muffle out the hysteria she can feel bouncing deep in her chest. She doesn't register her body rocking back and forth until she hits the arm of the couch, bruising her back. It only makes her cry harder.

Eventually she uncurls herself from the blanket and walks on unsteady legs to her - to their - bedroom.

(He didn't deny it.)

She had kept herself together for him; a few stray tears when she had found him chained up in the Underworld but otherwise the facade of strength in place. He needed it more than she. But now-

She crawls under the duvet, ignoring the headache she's created and dryness of her throat. She's almost asleep when the mattress shifts beneath her and a strong arm wraps around her with a kiss.

"It's 3am." Her voice feels scratchy but she's taken aback by the alertness of it.

"I love you, Emma. I have and will always love you. Don't ever doubt that again."

"Then why-"

"All magic comes with a price and every choice has a consequence. I didn't want to risk you blaming yourself," he pushes her hair behind her ear and kisses her head. "Gods Emma, you are my life. But-" He sighs into her neck and sounds as exhausted as she when his lashes flutter against her skin.

She rolls over to face him now, fresh tears in swollen, bloodshot eyes, "Kilian, you know you can tell me anything." Her finger traces the crinkles around his eye, a sad smile adorning her features that emphasize her plea. She is a swan that never learned to swim, drowning and sinking with the empty pit that's scattered with too many scars, too much love for the man sitting across from her. A swan with a broken wing who just wants to bandage all of the heartbreak and damage that stirs within him. "We're in this together. Please. Just talk to me."

"I saw Liam in the Underworld."

Her breath hitches at his words, stops the anger in it's pursuit; they're as potent as any squid ink in holding her frozen.

"My brother was a far better man than I will ever be. He should be here. He deserves this life, not me. And I could have brought him here if I had just tried harder, found another way, something. There had to be. . ."

She knows the answer before asking and it makes fear creep up her spine. "Was there?"

"I could have traded his life for someone else's. Yours, your parents, Regina, Henry's, anyone who accompanied you, was alive while in the Underworld, and I - I couldn't. I couldn't do it. Liam deserves better. You deserve better." He leans into her touch as he struggles for words, breath catching on more than just his brother's name as his scruff rubs lightly against her skin. His hand skims her wrist, cold metal reminders of his most regrettable deeds reaching to interlock their fingers. She latches onto them with everything in her, squeezing bruisingly tight.

Her reply, a soft spoken, barely audible awestruck whisper of his name, is all she can muster. It's in times like this that actions come more freely, more adequately than words. But when she kisses him, pouring her heart into the slow and tender motion of her lips on his, it's not enough. Not after everything that has transpired between them in the last months and the doubt that's constantly ebbing away at the surface.

He's frozen when she pulls away, terror and insecurity that mirrors the hatred he feels for himself plastered to his face as he tries to hold himself together. She knows it's for her. (It always is.) She wishes he wouldn't, that they could both have this moment of breaking together and finally, finally, not pretend that anything is okay, that they have even begun to heal, build each other up with tiny bricks until they resemble something. Something that's beautiful and cracked, tarnished with time and the hand life has dealt them, but eventually happy.

(It sounds foolish to dream of such in this moment.)

"Look at me," she says with her forehead touching his and palm over his chest. When he opens his eyes, she's taken back to a time when she held his heart. His eyes reflect what it would look like breaking, the glowing red pieces being burned off and mingling with the sand at the bottom of the sea. She can't go there now, let that mental picture infringe on this already too heavy moment; she needs to break the silence as he patiently awaits her response. She needs to stop the downward spiral she knows his mind is going through as well. "You, Killian Jones, are the most selfless man I have ever met."

He scoffs at that, punctuating it with a dramatic eyeroll and raised brow.

"I love you. And I can see it in your eyes that you're not going to believe anything I say right now." She grabs the soft cotton of his shirt, the solemn, desperate azul of his irises piercing her soul, and pulls him into her, sniffling the tears away before speaking again. "But don't grieve alone, Ilove you. So, please let me be there for you. If you need space, then I can leave. Just tell me what to do."

Killian nods and falls into her shoulder with a sob that knocks her flat on the mattress, but she doesn't dare loosen her grip. "Don't leave, Swan. I need you, just - just give me time."

"Okay." Her arms snake around his back as he turns to the side and she holds him til morning. It doesn't feel like healing, but it's progress.