AN: For those of you following my other CS stories, I am so, so sorry I haven't updated in forever. Until a few weeks ago, I was going through a serious period of writing impotence. I have written at least weekly almost my entire life, and then suddenly, six months ago, I couldn't write a single word. So this is my first piece back from that. It will be a two shot, but I've been so antsy to get publishing again that I decided to split it up instead of waiting a few more weeks for the second half to be finished.

The antique bell chimed softly as Emma closed the shop door behind her after shooting Belle a final, anxious glance. She paused for a moment to tighten her scarf and check the bag clinging to her shoulder, adjusting the weight carefully before setting off down the road, the crisp layer of snow crunching softly beneath her boots. It had been a hell of a shock to return from Neverland's torrid beaches to find Storybrooke on the verge of one of the worst winters New England had seen in years. They had been back almost two months now, and, while Henry had thrown himself gleefully into sledding with Grace and building snowmen with Regina and learning to read animal tracks from Ruby, Emma had still not been able to rid herself of the deep chill that had settled into her bones, no matter how many cocoas she drank or steaming showers she took.

Most of the shopkeepers had decorated for Christmas the moment Thanksgiving had officially past, and, for once, Emma actually appreciated myriad of tiny bulbs strung along rooftops, doorways, windows, and even the masts of ships as they bobbed in the harbor—especially for the extra light they shed. She wouldn't say she missed Neverland's stars, exactly—she would never be able to conjure an ounce of regret for leaving that fearsome land, not when it had been the setting for so much struggle and fear and death—but she did miss the brightness of the nights.

The piers were icy and slick, making Emma clutch at the railing with one hand and her bag with the other as she inched her way to the nearly pitch black Jolly Roger. The gangplank was down and mercifully free of ice, as if Jones had been expecting her, though she knew it was more due to his proclivity towards a general preparedness for any possible situation than to any ability to see the future. The deck was as immaculate as the gangplank, and Emma hurried across it, eager to get below decks and into somewhere at least marginally warm.

The corridors were as dim as the deck had been, and, had she not spent months calling the Roger home, she would never have been able to find her way to the Captain's quarters without some sort of assistance. The thin trickle of light at the foot of the door became a flood of warm amber that raced across the deck and up the opposite wall as Emma eased the door open and leaned a shoulder against the exposed frame. "You're getting soft, Jones. Too preoccupied to even find out who would have the audacity to board your ship at this hour?"

Killian lazily turned the page of his book without sparing her a glance, completely relaxed in the large armchair he had set next to his blazing potbelly stove, feet crossed and propped up on a small stool. "Anyone other than you, lass, and the Roger would have warned me." After a few moments, he snapped the book shut and set it aside so he could stir whatever was simmering in a large pot on top of the stove, inadvertently sending a particularly mouthwatering aroma wafting in her direction when he lifted the lid with his hook. Seemingly satisfied, he replaced the lid and finally looked up at her, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Besides, anyone with nefarious intensions would most certainly not have stomped about the deck as you did. One would have thought that almost a year of learning from the best," he gestured in mock humility towards himself, "would have taught you at least a modicum grace or stealth."

Emma glared at him, her hand reaching into her bag and recovering the bottle of rum she had stashed on top. It was a particularly fine aged spiced rum according to the owner of the tow's spirits shop—the nicest the old man had in stock, and one he was delighted to finally find a buyer for. "Are you going to play nice, or am I going to have to go drink this all by my lonesome?"

A strange expression flashed across Killian's features, but it was gone before Emma could identify it, replaced by what she had dubbed his 'play ball' expression—the one he wore when he was dubious but willing to see where she was going. "Heaven forbid that a lady should be left to drink alone," he murmured as he sprang up from his chair and retrieved two cups. Emma rolled her eyes and poured them both a generous amount, setting the bottle on his desk before they solemnly clinked glasses and watched each other over the rims as they each downed their shots. Emma swallowed a grimace, refilled both tumblers, and retreated to the bank of windows at the very stern of the ship.

"Rumbullion," Killian murmured as he examined the bottle. "I have never in my life encountered a rum that smelled like over-ripe oranges and vanilla and…spice."

"Are you complaining?" Emma smirked. She had wondered what he would think of a truly good rum, something of a much finer grade than the swill pirates apparently put up with.

"Not at all." He set the bottle down and joined her at the window, both staring out into the darkness as if the most beautiful wonder of the world were right outside. "I'm merely astounded that you manage to keep besting me, and this time in an area I had thought to be an expert." He took a leisurely sip. "Aggravating, really."

Emma laughed. "I have home field advantage, so I'd say the odds are not exactly fair." She waited until he took another sip before adding, "although taking you down a few notches has never been particularly difficult."

He sputtered slightly. "Oi! You should play nice, or I'll have to reconsider asking you to join me for dinner."

Taking another sip, Emma shrugged her shoulder, attempting not to show her eagerness to try whatever had smelled so appetizing. "I've probably had better."

Killian dipped his chin and glared at her. "Not from any establishment in this port, I can assure you." But the challenge had been issued, and he whipped out two bowls and spoons, eager to prove her wrong.

Emma grabbed the chair from his desk, brought it closer to the warmth of the stove, and accepted the proffered bowl with a calculated arch of her brow. Chicken, chickpeas, lentils, and even some cauliflower and a few carrots swam in a thick, yellow broth. Emma's lips closed around the spoon, the complexity of the homey flavors making her close her eyes in appreciation. The snap of curry, the tang of lemongrass, a hint of lime, and a sweetness that she normally would have attributed to coconut milk had they been in Boston and had a slew of specialty groceries readily available. "Where did you get the spices to make a proper curry?" she asked, the breathy appreciation in her voice belying her previous attempts to goad him.

His eyes shone with the glee of his victory, and Killian gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders as he quietly sipped broth from his spoon. "What, this gruel? Passable, I suppose, but surely, you've had better." He winked and she flung a chickpea at him, but he merely laughed as he caught it with his mouth, not wanting to waste an ounce of the feast he had made. "What you failed to realize, lass, is that sailors develop a strong need to feast like kings when in port. Fresh food goes a long way towards making up for the awful gruel we put up with on long voyages." He chewed slowly, his eyes trained on picking his next bite with care. "Been a long while since I had a proper crew and thus a cook. Had to figure out how to assemble something more interesting than porridge, didn't I? Much better than starving."

"And you didn't share the fact that you had this particular skill at any point while we were in Neverland because?"

Killian's face turned serious. "Because I had plenty to do keeping you lot from being killed or the ship from running aground or any number of other things." He chewed thoughtfully, his fierce gaze never wavering from Emma's face. "Besides, taking charge of the galley seemed to help your mother remain more in control of herself."

Emma nodded. He was right, of course, but she still was resenting having put up with far less interesting fare for nine months when she could have been having this. She glanced at Killian's book, which he had placed on a small table on the other side of the stove.

"The Mauritius Command, Patrick O'Brien. Any good?"

"There are plenty of references I don't quite understand, but the friendship between Captain Aubrey and Doctor Maturin is fascinating. Plus, the author talks in depth about the naval engagements with the dastardly French, whoever they are." He shrugged. "It's a good way to pass the time."

Emma laughed, warm and gentle and teasing. "Trust a pirate to find probably the only book in Storybrooke about ships."

"There's actually an entire section in the library." Killian grinned. "This is the fourth in a series of twenty, and there were several other shelves. Seriously, Swan. There has never been a port town that didn't have a stash of books about the adventures of sailing or a tavern full of men too old to be of any real use on a ship swapping stories."

"An expert, are you?"

Killian examined his nails and carefully removed a small amount of dirt with the tip of his hook. "300 years will make even a simpleton an expert in just about anything he takes a liking to."

"What's your favorite then, o keeper of the history of the seas?"

His fingers scratched the stubble that shadowed his chin as he thought. "Have you ever heard of the Lady Lovibond?"

Emma snorted. "Sounds like a Bond girl." Killian arched an eyebrow in confusion. "Sorry," she explained, "there's a set of stories about a spy, and the women he has affairs with always have the most ridiculous names like Pussy Galore or Holly Goodhead or Honey Ryder"

"No lass. The Lady Lovibond was of the class of the most reliable ladies: she was a ship." Killian downed the last of his rum. "Though there is a love affair at the center of her tragic story."

Emma poured him another glass of rum before leaning back, eyes closing as Killian wove the tale, his words as carefully chosen as any poet's and as melodic as any musician:

A captain by the name of Simon Reel and his bride, the fair Annetta, convinced that nothing untoward could happen in the face of a love as strong as theirs, wed on February thirteenth. (No Emma, it was, in fact, a Tuesday, not a Friday. And don't interrupt.) There was a merry celebration, filled with song and dance, mutton and Yorkshire pudding and apple pies and as much fine wine they could find. But too soon the wine ran dry, and the lady begged her beloved for a bottle of the sweet Solera Port they had drank beneath the stars on their first meeting. Reel could not find a drop, no matter how many shoppes he searched, but he was determined not to disappoint his woman. So the couple and their guests made their way to the Captain's ship: the fleet Lady Lovibond, a legendary three masted schooner that had outrun every other vessel that had ever dared pursue her. Soon, the sails were unfurled, free once more to dance with the wind, and the ship swiftly made her way south, destined for Portugal and the great storehouses filled with their sweet wine.

While the party settled in below, their merriment drifting down the halls and up through the deck hatches, a jealous rage was slowly consuming John Rivers as he leaned against the deckhouse. Reel's quick-witted first mate, Rivers was younger and generally regarded as more alluring than his superior. He, too, had been caught by Annetta's delicate features and graceful nature, and had vainly fought for her attention. Scorned by the only woman he could not have, Rivers' heart turned black, hatred for the couple slowly consuming him. He slipped an empty belaying pin from the pinrail, subdued the pilot with a single, crushing blow, and gradually steered the ship into the shoals. She split clean in two from port to starboard, sending frigid water spraying into the hold and surprising the entire company. The Lady floundered for mere minutes before she succumbed to the sea, all thirty-seven souls disappearing underneath the frothing waves.

"So, essentially, it's a warning against the two most grievous mistakes a sailor could make: flouting the thirteenth, and bringing a woman on board."

"A story is what the listener gets out of it." Killian took a long drink, his fingers lingering on the rim of his cup, twisting it back and forth even after he had set it back on the table. "Simon was a good man. But he was an idiot to ignore the disposition of even a single sailor under his command."

Emma blinked. "You knew him."

"Aye." Killian took another drink. "Traded with him a few times. Never met Annetta, though." He paused. "Rivers was a fearsome man. Not one they should have crossed."

Emma frowned. "Well yeah, they probably shouldn't have shoved their marriage in Rivers' face, but it wasn't Annetta's or Simon's fault that she loved one and not the other." She took a small sip from her still mostly fully cup. "Anyway, why someone would want to be with a person who didn't love them in that way is just beyond me." An uncomfortable silence followed that statement. The longer it lasted, the more Emma fidgeted, frantically searching for any way to change the subject. "Do you miss them? Your crew, that is."

"Some of them. Blaggards, mostly, but when push came to shove, fiercely loyal." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "But I suppose having a crew doesn't really compare to having friends."

Emma winked, thinking back to the day before the left for Neverland. "Told you so." Another silence, this one considerably more comfortable than the last, followed, and Emma wasn't tempted to break it.

Killian, however, cleared his throat, waiting to have her complete attention before speaking. "Well, lass. Not that his hasn't been an incredibly pleasant evening…but why are you really here?"

Emma choked a little on the sip of rum she had been taking. Had he really seen through her the entire time? She set her tumbler down on the table next to his and leaned in slightly, attempting to peel though the layers of bravado with nothing more than the intensity of her stare.

It was now or never. And she wanted the truth.

"If it were possible, would you want your hand back?"

She watched as honest emotion played across his face—shock, anger, pain, confusion, skepticism. A muscle worked in his jaw, his right hand fisted against this thigh, the tension in him palpable as he fought the desire to look away, to shield his vulnerability, to be the first to break, but that spark in him that had always done well for survival refused to let him back down.

"Why?" he rasped. "Why would you ask me that?"

Emma reached towards his fist, hand hesitating in mid air. Damn it, she wasn't good with being gentle or soothing or tactful, but she placed her hand over his in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "Because it seems relevant. And because I think there hasn't been anyone in a very long time to ask you a serious question, to make you think about what you really want from this life. So. If you could have it, would you want it?"

Killian stared at his hook. "It's been a long time since I've thought about it. Over two centuries since the phantom pains went away completely." He frowned and raised his hook to eye level, considering it. "Not the most convenient of all prosthetics, but I insisted on it. I—it was the hook the Crocodile pinned me to the mast with as he ripped out Milah's heart." He swallowed, and Emma almost wished she hadn't asked. "The same one that failed to kill him when I drove it into his chest after he cut off my hand. It was a constant reminder of the demon that had ruined everything I held dear in under three minutes." Emma glanced at his right forearm, remembering the tattoo that lay hidden on the underside. "Oh aye, the lads got me drunk—well, drunker that I already was, I suppose—and gave me that one. Should have been a swallow instead of a heart, technically. But I supposed they figured since she was more than simply a lost comrade…" He looked up at her, his fist finally relaxing under her hand. "I will say though, I didn't expect the damned thing to be so bloody useful in a scrape. Or so well known that someone two worlds away would recognize it. But to answer your question." He pursed his lips, his focus drifting to something distant only he could see. "I spent so long in Neverland, so long focused on that one brief moment in time, that I think I forgot that everything changes, or is supposed to, anyway. 'Tis the way of the world, and one of the things that made me fall in love with the ocean. Never quite the same." He gave her an indulgent smile, the mischievous twinkle returning to his eye. "So, lass, even though your question is undoubtedly to measure the level of villainy still left in me, I suppose I truly, honestly, would rid myself of this beastly contraption if I could." He took up his cup once more, downing the rest of the contents in one go. "But it does no good to dwell on what one cannot have."

It wasn't a lie, not a single part of it. Emma let out the breath she had been holding and reached out, her fingers gently curling around his hook as she pulled his arm towards her, one hand fastening around his wrist as she twisted the other until the metal popped out of the brace with a soft click. She set it on the table and slowly pushed his sleeve up to his elbow, exposing the worn leather brace, its straps and buckles evenly spaced from wrist up the entirety of his lower arm. Her fingers pulled on the strap closest to his elbow, pulling the end free from the first half of its buckle before a strangled noise made its way out of Killian's throat. "Emma, what—"

She looked up at him, something in her expression cutting off whatever he had been about to say. "Try something new, Jones," she said softly, her fingers still paused above the buckles as they held each other's gaze. Emma's pulse roared in her ears, her palms sweating with nerves, but Killian finally nodded, wordlessly giving her permission to continue. She went back to the buckles, her fingers working steadily until it slid off his arm with ease and fell to the floor with a dull thud. She hadn't expected there to be a layer of incredibly soft cotton between the leather and his arm, though it shouldn't have surprised her. She had never seen him remove the prosthetic, and certainly it would have rubbed him raw if he didn't have anything protecting his skin. She unwound it until it too fell to the floor, revealing his left arm. For all the years of confinement and what could have been assumed less use, the muscles showed little sign of atrophy, or, at least, less than could have been expected. His skin was pale, making his nautical star and anchor tattoo stand out in brilliant relief. She would have to remember to ask him about that one. Later.

Still cradling the puckered skin of his wrist in one hand, she leaned down and searched through her bag until she found the wooden box she and Belle had unearthed deep in the back storeroom of Gold's old shop. Emma set it in her lap, her fingers flicking open the clasps, the creak of the ancient hinges not loud enough to cover Killian's strangled cry as his left hand came into view.

It hadn't been the first gruesome memento she had unearthed—most of the items, in fact, had ended up being trophies from deals he had struck and gotten the decidedly better end of—but it certainly had been the most shocking. Magic had kept it perfectly preserved for the past three centuries, calluses and tanned skin seemingly unchanged and instantly recognizable as belonging to Killian.

Emma discarded the box after gingerly retrieving his hand and held it against the remains of Killian's wrist, the ripped joint and his palm cradled between her two hands. She swallowed, suddenly nauseated and nervous. What if it didn't work? What if something went wrong and she turned him into a cripple instead of a fully functioning amputee? What if her magic wasn't strong enough?

The strongest magic comes directly from your emotions, dearie. You have to be honest and let your feelings flow into the work. If you're true to yourself? Well, then, your magic will take care of the rest. It is more powerful than anything I have ever seen—and I have seen almost everything there is in nearly all the realms.

Emma closed her eyes, the breath she had been holding slowly releasing, her reservations and any final bits of hesitancy draining out of her. She looked inward until she found the steady glow at the well of her magic and let it free. Heat that tasted like pure summer sun flooded her entire body, growing stronger and pressing against the confines of her skin as she fed it the raw emotions she pulled from her memories of Killian.

Hope, from when he offered her his ship and his services in finding her son. Her power flowed through her, moving faster and faster until it shot through her skin and wound its way into his hand, up his arm, and into his torso. Even with her eyes closed she knew the intimate details of everything her magic touched, could see Killian's heart beating as if she were watching it under ultrasound, could feel the blood rushing through his veins, could sense the old spell that surrounded every fiber of his left hand, could feel the tension in his entire body as he watched her.

Amusement, from the way they had fallen into a companionable rivalry, the battle of wits always keeping her on her toes and helping her forget, if for just a few minutes, her real troubles. Killian's heartbeat raced faster and faster, Emma's magic guiding additional blood down his left arm until both pooled at the border of the breach.

Wonder, from discovering the depth of his passion he unwittingly displayed when teaching her how to navigate by the stars and how to sail. The scar tissue began to unravel, and Emma's magic began to flow more easily through his hand and into his arm, as if a filter had been removed and the magic could once more travel through paths made concrete with all the years lived before Killian's hand had been severed.

Compassion, for the way his eyes had darkened when she had first asked about Milah, and how his loss had resonated with something in her. Blood and new sinew followed the paths of her magic, muscles and tendons and arteries and nerves weaving themselves back together, eagerly leaping towards their long lost partners.

Awe, for the way he had fought so fiercely and with such fluid grace. New skin appeared, pink and raw but healthy and without even a trace of scarring.

Comfort, from the way he had never pushed her to open up to him until she was ready, and how he had never used those rare vulnerable moments against her. His hand warmed under her, gaining the feeling of life.

And there was something else, something she had felt growing steadily through the year they had known each other, something she hadn't wanted to admit to.

Love.

She loved Killian Jones. He expected more of her than she had thought she'd ever be able to give anyone, brought out the best in her, and she was a better, happier person for it. Her magic swelled with it, increasing in intensity, and his fingers twitched against her wrist.

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