"Pass the cinnamon."

"Sure, love."

He watched as she lifted the mug to her mouth, took a tentative sip and sighed, her shoulders drooping in satisfaction. Killian's heart leapt at the small gesture. There's my Swan.

Her green eyes caught his, and she smiled timidly, before looking down at her drink.

And she's gone again.

Managing a jaunty grin, in the hopes of keeping her spirits up, he waited for her to notice him, to break free from the battle raging in her own mind, but he was met only with the crown of her blonde head. The space between them was only a matter of inches, but he felt it may well have been a void a thousand leagues across. Emma was worlds away from him and he was at a loss as to how to bridge the gap.

He had known the path she would tread to recovery wouldn't be an easy one. Emma had endured more than any human should ever have to endure. The memory of finding her was like to be burned into his memory for the rest of his days. After that wretched dagger burst into unholy green flames and disappeared in a cloud of smoke, Killian had a nauseating moment of sheer panic, in which he was certain that she was taken with it. He had run into the cloud, disregarding screams of warning and found Emma in a crumpled heap. Leaning over her, she looked up blinking into the light, and in an enfeebled voice had whispered "Killian." And that was the moment his heart began to beat again. He wrapped his jacket around her and lifted her up, to carry her home.

For three weeks since then, they had danced this dance. Starting a few days after she returned, he set his mind to the task of guiding her back to herself. He awoke early every day, pacing below the Charming's loft, gathering the courage to knock on the door and cheerfully greet her, urging her out into the world, out of the cocoon she had built for herself. He gave her the space he knew she needed, but spent the hours they were together in a state of constant vigilance, waiting for any sign that she might want to release the pain she was holding onto. It was exhausting, keeping up his old jocular façade, when it was built on nothing more than empty bravado, and every night he returned home feeling worse than he did when he awoke. Weary, but unable to sleep. The last two nights, he had taken refuge in the comfort of his ship, hoping that the familiar roll of waves beneath his bed would help him to catch some much-needed repose.

She took another sip of cocoa and set her cup down. "Mom wants me to have a look at another apartment today. I don't know. I'm not really in the mood, to be honest. I've got some paperwork to do and, oh, I don't know, some other things."

"Aye. Well, I know how you love the paperwork, Swan. Perhaps I should go enlist Scarlet to join me in causing a little mischief. Just to break the monotony?"

Clearly distracted, she didn't respond for a few moments and then mumbled, "mm-hmm" into her drink.

Then Emma looked up at him, her eyebrows knitted together in apology, and took his hand. He had never seen her like this. In their years together, they had established a cadence to their conversations that was easy and comforting and, well, it was theirs. He with the mischievous grin and playful remark, her with the witty rejoinder and eye-roll. Now. This. Well this, he thought, was unfamiliar territory. But he remained undeterred.

After the bill was settled, he stepped over to her chair and pulled it out for her to a soft Thank you, Killian, and they left Granny's hand-in-hand. He looked over his shoulder to offer a farewell to Granny, but as he caught her gaze from behind the counter, the worry in her eyes hit him like a punch to the gut and the best he could accomplish was a half-hearted nod of the head and grin.

Emma's return had been met with the largest celebration Granny's had ever seen. Granny had outdone herself with beautiful decorations, guests spilling into the street, and a vast array of foods, half of which Mary Margaret had insisted on stabbing with little wooden spikes (toothpicks, she had called them) bearing pineapples and olives. (Clearly culinary arts weren't high on the priority list of Enchanted Forest royal coursework.)

After the festivities, Emma fell into heavy conversation with Snow and Charming, and he took it as his cue to retire. So he had bid her goodnight with a light kiss on the cheek. Damned if he had wanted to go, but it was what was best. He excused himself to the quiet of his room, where he would disappear into a book and a bottle of rum - poor substitutes for companionship, but effective at quieting his unsettled thoughts.

A soft knock on the door startled him from his solitude, but he wasn't entirely surprised to find that Emma had followed him from the diner. He was, however, heartily taken aback at her tentative suggestion - perhaps she could stay at his place for the night?

Of course he had encouraged her to make amends with her family; to stay with them for a while; that he wasn't going anywhere. Although every part of him desired more than anything to have her in his sphere - where he could hold her safe and close - he made a case for the opposite. But she wouldn't give; once the mind of the Savior was made up, no one could say a word to sway it. He wasn't going to be sorry for the flutter of joy his heart tripped out when she had swung past him into the room and pressed the door shut behind her.

Nature got the better of him for a brief moment and he began to believe the fantasies he had built in his mind could actually come to pass. Stroking her hair, feeling her flesh against his, making her moan and quiver. But the moment quickly passed and he buried the thought as best left for another day. With a hand to the small of her back, he guided her to his room, gave her a shirt to sleep in (once again driving him to distraction), and sat at the side of his bed, softly recounting the story of his journey to find her. He conveyed the depth of his pride in her strength and courage, as an almost absolution, to grant her the peace she desperately needed to carry her through her dreams. Then he softly bade her goodnight and closed the door.

When he had awoken - or more accurately - was roused from his thoughts by the soft padding of feet nearby and turned around to find her breathing heavily, he knew that she was in a bad way.

Hold me, Killian, she had said and he crossed his living room in two strides to throw his arm around her shoulders and pull her into an embrace.

There, there, love. You're safe. You're home.

I dreamt I-, I was tearing out the heart of a man. I don't know who he was. Someone was screaming. Me? Another woman? Oh God, Killian what have I done? Her voice had hitched in her throat and her shoulders began to shake with the force of the unshed tears. He had guided her to the couch and laid her down, kneeling by her side to stroke her hair, thumbing away the tears as they fell in a quiet stream. In the end it was the trembling that tore his heart in two.

Cursing Rumpelstiltskin to the ends of the Earth and time, he tended to her, until she drifted off into a fitful sleep, and then collected the pillow and comforter from his bed to hold a silent vigil from the reclining chair across the room.

Now, this day, he accompanied the Savior through the streets of Storybrooke, dented and scarred - figuratively and literally; the walls he had worked so long to bring down were erected anew.

Without discussion, they had found their way to the docks. His feet had carried them to the place he had intuitively known they needed to be.

"Emma. Love. Come with me." He held out his hand to her to help her up the stairs.

"Killian, I don't know. I haven't been on here since we got back from…"

"That's why we need to talk here."

She acquiesced and followed him to the aft deck of the Jolly Roger, where he pulled up a couple of crates for them to sit on. Gods, look at her. Despite all she had been through, seeing her here in the orange-violet of the evening sun was like seeing a vision. Her pale curls were aglow in the light and her cheeks were flushed from the cool spring air.

Uncertainly, he took her hand in his. She grasped his hook with her other hand, wearing a soft smile that nearly killed him. He hadn't seen that since…since before.

Watching her thumb rub softly against the metal seemed to bring everything into focus. He knew what he needed to say - what she needed to hear.

"Swan. When we met, this," he nodded to his hook "is what defined me. It is a symbol of the path that I chose. Vengeance and anger. Years upon years of acts that I am ashamed to say I ever had a hand in committing."

"You don't have to tell me," she said shaking her head. "I still- Killian, I love you."

The words had come before he had a chance to process them and his thoughts were tripping over each other in a rush of surprise and delight. Of course he had known for long months that she loved him - she'd nearly said so many times before - but this declaration meant that Emma wasn't as broken as he had thought. Perhaps just dented. Because here he was, attempting to heal her shattered soul, and her need to save him - her need to bring others happiness - had surfaced for the first time since her return.

He exhaled the words, "Emma. I know, my love. As surely as you must know that I've loved you since the moment you grabbed hold of my collar in Neverland and upended the world as I knew it."

Emma leaned forward and wrapped her left hand around the back of his head to pull him to her own forehead. The green of her eyes was brilliant, and the blood under his cheeks coursed to the spot where her hair brushed softly against his skin. He couldn't help reaching forward to touch it, to feel the cool locks beneath his fingertips as he lifted them away, tucked them behind her shoulder. She breathed the next words against his lips, "Don't worry about me, Killian, I'll be fine."

And he wanted so desperately to believe it that he shut his eyes and closed the space between them quickly, blood thrumming in his head, losing himself in the feel of her lips on his. Smee had once cornered him to ask after the Jolly Roger's whereabouts, and in a moment of weakness he had offered his confessional to the man. For a woman, Captain? Why? He hadn't needed to think about the response: Because, Smee, she is my salvation, my sanctuary; my life began and ended in her kiss. A kiss - not unlike the one he was sharing with her now - that seemed to temporarily shut out all the voices in his head; that made him feel like the honorable man he had once been, by his brother's side.

She pulled him even closer, bringing him to a kneeling position in front of her, her legs astride his body. Emma's hands skimmed his hair to frame his face and he looked up to find her staring down at him with longing. He could hear her breathing rapidly, feel the thumping pulse beneath the fingers that he lifted to her neck, before fell into her again. It was marvelous, the feel of her mouth lighting charges beneath his skin, so when she tipped slightly to nip his lip or run her tongue across his, the sensations roiled through his body like bursts of fire, warming him to the tips of his fingers.

And - fuck - he should want to pull back. To continue their talk. To begin to set things to right for her. But, she tasted like home, like cinnamon, and cocoa, and…something else. It was the taste of the sea. Familiar, but different. He cursed himself for not noticing sooner. It was the salt of her tears.

He broke free of the embrace and leaned back to look at her. Her face was shimmering with wetness and she swiped at it with the back of her sleeve.

"Oh God. Killian. I don't even know why I'm crying. It's not you. It's not you."

"Not to worry, love. I understand. I shouldn't have carried on like that. I let myself get swept away. Well, you know what your kiss does to me," he grinned sheepishly, scratching his ear lightly, "but that's not why I brought you here. There's something you have to hear."

She sighed audibly, and he rubbed her shoulder beneath his hand as he rose to sit back on his make-shift seat.

"Once upon a time, Emma, long centuries ago, not long after the crocodile relieved me of my left hand, I made a decision that I regret to this day - to step off the path of what was good and what was right into the darkness. In Neverland, I created a life for myself that was fueled only by hubris and blind rage. And my soul-be-damned, I entered into partnership with the devil himself - Pan - as a means to my own evil ends."

Emma stared at him, unblinking, and he braced himself before continuing.

"Pan gave me a task. If I would retrieve the milk of the Verity Willow tree - two leagues across the sea - he would give me information on the whereabouts of the Dark One."

Killian paused, thinking of the smile on Pan's face when he had agreed, unconcerned with the precise nature of what the item in question was to be used for.

"The voyage to that remote island was easier than expected, and when we arrived there, the crew was in good spirits, as we always were when we left that godforsaken place on our missions for Pan. So, as Smee pulled the rowboat ashore and I stepped out, I nearly missed the movement at the forest's edge. There were inhabitants - or rather, one inhabitant - on the island that Pan had failed to mention to us.

"We responded the only way we knew how. The creatures of Neverland had always proved to be vile and fearsome beasts and I believed this being to be no different. So, I called out, 'We mean no harm, we are simply lost in this distant realm and need to find fresh water to replenish our stores.' And a large figure stepped forth from the brush, lowering a spear, looking about at my men. It was taller than a human, but smaller than a giant and had the look of an ogre about its face; clad only in a scrap of old canvas about its waist."

"What was it?"

"At the time, I didn't know, love. All I knew was it stood between me and my prize and was like to kill me anyway, so I- well, I beat the creature to it."

"You killed him."

"Aye. I killed the beast. And sidestepped his remains to tap that infernal tree for Pan."

He paused, expecting to see disgust or disapproval in her expression. But she only touched his knee and asked him to continue.

"Later, I discovered that he was the last of his kind, taking refuge on the island after his world had been destroyed in a curse. Oblivious to the powers of the willow tree."

"And adding to my further damnation - that willow milk was a truth serum of sorts. Pan used it on one of the Lost Boys who had betrayed him in some way or another - I remember not how - but at the end of his testimony, Pan scratched his chest with dream-shade and sent him off to die a slow death. In return for what? Knowledge of the whereabouts of the crocodile? Two lives lost for mere information?"

If she had been upset by the tale, her face didn't betray her. She said simply, "It doesn't matter to me. You aren't that man anymore."

"There was no magical force fueling that rage, Emma. No dark curse driving my villainy. It was me. It is me. I live with the pain of my choices every day of my existence."

"But that's just it, isn't it? You know what you have done and you have made your penance over and over again. You're a hero now."

He grasped her forearm with his hand, looking straight into her emerald gaze, "As are you. Aye, you did some things you regret. Perhaps you are uncertain whether they were the work of the dagger or of your own free will? You will never forget, as I well know, but you can't dwell in the memory of the darkness, love.

"I forgive you. Your family and friends - they forgive you. You have sacrificed more than any person should ever have to, and you accepted darkness to spare Regina. No one faults you for what that did to you."

Tears welled in her eyes, and pain wrinkled her brow, "This coming from the man who is so afraid of what I will think of him that only now does he open up to me? It's taken years for you. It's only been three weeks for me, Killian. I need time."

"You're right, love. I am as guilty of this as you. Of shutting out the fear and insecurity because I think you will love me less - and I should not have done so - but I am making a vow to you now. Emma Swan, for all the days of my life, if ever I am lost to the guilt of my past, I will confide in you rather than shut you out. And I ask the same of you."

He searched her face. And, through the dim light he watched as she leaned forward, looking at her feet in thought. After a few moments, she placed her palms down on her thighs and sat up, back straight. And smiled. A genuine, heartfelt smile that he had not seen since he knew not when.

She stood up, nodding her head in affirmation. "Okay. I'm not so sure I'm ready to do this just yet. But, when I am, Killian, I promise to let you in. To let you help. To let you love me."

Emma looked up, taking notice of the darkening skies above for the first time. In the darkness, he saw something in her than he hadn't in weeks. Something had shifted. He could feel it. He could see it in her eyes. In the way she carried herself as she stood before him - back straightened, chin raised. The match had been lit within her - the fire in her soul had been brought back to life - and he felt lighter than he had in a long time. Because he had done this. She had let him do this for her.

"Well then," she said after a minute of charged silence, eyelids fluttering, "you want to head back, uh-" She inclined her head in the general direction of town.

"Maybe we should- Would you like, perhaps, to join me for a spot of rum below-decks," he paused to take a courtly knee and flash a mischievous grin, "milady?"

She bowed her head briefly, and responded with a mock-haughty tone. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't think that's behavior befitting a proper princess, do you Killian Jones?"

"It would appear not." He raised his brow and held out his hand. "But, your highness, a little wickedness is to be expected from the Dark One and Captain Hook, aye?"

Laughing, and rolling her eyes, she said "You couldn't handle the Dark One," and took hold of his hook.

And he knew then that all would be right with her, with them.

When they made love for the first time, it was wanton and wicked, frenzied and frenetic; mouths tasting, teeth dragging, grasping and pulling; driving each other mad until the moment they screamed out their release, returning to their senses amid a fit of laughter at the destruction that lay about them on the floor of the cabin.

And later, as the morning dawned, they came to each other slowly, gently, glorying in each sensation, treating each other as though a rare treasure, eyes locked on each other as they came, unwilling to separate even after they were spent.

When at last they slept - their first real slumber since that fateful parting weeks ago - it was in the light of the new day.