"She would search for him.
In the land east of the sun and west of the moon.
But there was no way there."
-Edith Pattou
She smells the sea.
Even before she opens her eyes, she knows where she is, and she smiles.
Her eyes flutter open, and she takes in the scene around her, as familiar now as her own home: the sweeping deck and soaring masts, railings and planks gleaming mahogany in the soft light of the moon.
She comes here every night, and though she knows it holds some sort of significance, she can't seem to place it. But it doesn't matter, because he is always there.
As if on cue, a set of footsteps sounds on the deck behind her, and she turns, a grin stretching wide across her face.
"Back so soon, love?"
He cocks an eyebrow, a gentle smirk pulling up one corner of his lips as he leans easily against the wheel.
"Of course," she answers promptly, falling into their usual repartee. Something crosses his face, though, at her words, and she takes a step closer, brow furrowing. "What?"
He shakes his head, grin back in place in the next second, and he reaches out for her. "Come."
Excitement fills her, and for a moment, she forgets about the way his eyes had darkened. She hops the three short steps to the helm and takes her place beside him.
"Remember what I told you," he murmurs, breath brushing the side of her neck. Despite the muggy warmth in the air, she shivers. "Hands here, and here. Square your body, get a sure footing." The fingers of his good hand ghost over her own, securing her grip, and his other hooks low around her hips, holding her steady. His body is pressed snugly against hers, simultaneously holding her up and making her melt. She leans back into him—for the sake of keeping her balance, of course—and he sighs contentedly into her hair.
"Where're we off to tonight, hm?"
"Well," she drawls, pretending to think, but really just enjoying the way his nose is skimming against the shell of her ear. Suddenly, a thought pops into her head, and the words follow soon out of her mouth. "The second star on the right."
He tenses behind her, and for a moment, she worries that she's said something wrong; but then he relaxes, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest. "We've already been there, lass. Had a right adventure, we did."
She frowns; she doesn't remember any adventures they've had—in fact, everything they do seems to blend together into a frustratingly indistinguishable blur—but she trusts him, and if he says they've already been, then it must be true.
She turns her head slightly, and he's so close that their lips are a mere breath apart.
Even in the darkness, his eyes blaze a brighter blue than she's ever seen.
"I want to see the stars, Killian," she whispers. "I want you to take me to the stars. I want to touch one."
He is quiet for a moment, his gaze burning into her terrifyingly, deliciously. His left arm comes up, and she feels the cool stroke of metal against her neck as he pushes the hair back off her shoulder.
"As you wish, milady."
He leans forward, bringing them, if possible, even closer. She's confused for a moment, but then she hears the slip of a rope coming undone, the heavy beating of a sail dropping into place. His lips press into the hollow just under her ear, and linger there. She closes her eyes and feels, and in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure, there's something else: that familiar stirring that means—
She grasps the lapels of his coat, suddenly, and holds on tight.
"Please." Her voice is a whisper, raw and broken, and his hand comes up to cradle her head to his chest. "Please don't leave me yet."
She feels him smile against her hair, feels the puff of air that comes from his dry chuckle. He pulls back far enough to look at her face, and there's something in his own, a little tightening around his mouth and eyes that tells her just how much he doesn't want to go.
"I'll let you in on a little secret, darling," he says softly, brushing a piece of hair out of her eyes. His fingers trail down the side of her face to cup her cheek. He bends closer, eyes twinkling conspiratorially—even though there's still that twinge of something that hurts. "I'm not the one who leaves."
She's left blinking, taken aback, unsure of what his words imply. They carry a weight that she doesn't understand, but she feels a small pinch of guilt anyway.
He smiles softly and strokes her face, pressing his lips to her temple, her cheekbone, the bridge of her nose.
"Don't trouble yourself, my love," he murmurs against her skin. "You'll find your way back to me. You always do."
The stirring is becoming more insistent, pulling her away—not so much physically, but mentally—and the edge of her vision starts to go hazy.
"Killian." Her breaths come in short gasps—she's beginning to panic now, she can't leave, she doesn't want to, she has stars to touch and skin to kiss—and she grips him tighter. "Killian, please—"
"Shh." He smoothes a hand over her hair, over and over, and his forehead falls to rest against hers. She watches as his eyes close, and something in his jaw clenches, and her heart breaks, just a little bit, because leaving hurts him just as much as it hurts her, and she doesn't want to hurt him. "It's all right, Emma. Don't fight it, love. You'll be back, quick as a flash."
"But I don't want—"
He leans forward, pressing his lips to hers in a searing kiss, cutting off her speech—and her breath, and her brain. His fingers find hers, and by the time she realizes he's untangling them from his coat, it's too late, and he's stepping back.
His eyes are haunted, but his lips curve up in a smile. "'Till next time, then."
A fog rolls over her vision, and she can no longer smell the sea.
In an apartment in Manhattan, an alarm clock went off, ringing out 8:15.
Emma Swan groaned, reaching up automatically to silence the beeping. Her arm dropped back down to the bed, and she squinted her eyes closed even tighter.
There had been a dream—something about stars. She thought hard, trying to remember—because part of her knew, just knew, that it was one of the best dreams she'd ever had—but all she could come up with was the taste of rum on her tongue and the smell of salt in the air and smooth, buttery leather beneath her fingers
In a deserted hallway, just outside a particular apartment in Manhattan, Killian Jones let his head fall back against the wall with a muffled thud. His groin was throbbing, but that didn't hurt near as much as the pain in his chest.
He had been warned—they had told him, numerous times, enough times that it was embarrassing—but it still stung.
Bracing for a sword didn't make the impact any more pleasant.
His eyes fell closed, and he pulled in a breath, trying to calm himself, trying—in vain—to get her image out of his brain. It was as though it had been branded on the backs of his eyelids; all he saw was her skin and her hair and her lips and her eyes and—
Gods.
He shouldn't have kissed her. He should've taken more time to plan his approach, he should've ditched his clothes—at least the coat and the hook—before just barging in on her. And he had fully intended to.
But then he'd fallen through the portal, and she'd been so close, and it'd been over a year, and—
He just hadn't been able to help it. He'd had to see her again, had to touch her and smell her and hear her voice.
And now, here he was, on the dingy floor of a corridor, no closer to getting Emma back than he had been in the Enchanted Forest.
Well…he was a little closer.
With a groan, he lifted his good hand up to his lips, which were still tingling from their brief contact with hers. Damn but she'd tasted good. It'd been everything he'd thought it would be, everything he'd dreamt of—and he had dreamt of kissing Emma, frequently—everything he'd fought tooth and nail over the last year to get back to.
Everything that he would keep fighting for.
Grunting, he stood, stumbling a bit at the sharp pain that shot through his midsection—gods, she had bony knees—and limped towards the end of the hall, intent on finding a place to sleep for the night and, hopefully, collect his thoughts.
When he reached the staircase, he glanced back, just once, and his tongue darted out across his lip.
She'd tasted sweet, like syrup.
Emma sunk back down in her chair, slightly breathless. Her hands were trembling, and she grabbed tightly to her fork and knife in an effort to steady them.
Henry glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised. "You okay, Mom?"
She forced a smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."
He gave her a skeptical look, but then shrugged, and returned to his breakfast. She pushed her eggs around her plate, no longer hungry.
That man, at the door—he'd kissed her. He'd called her by name, and, more than that, he'd been familiar with her. He'd known her.
And she had no clue who he was.
Something faint and nagging hovered around the edges of her mind, just out of reach. A snippet of a conversation, perhaps—Killian, please.
And then, unbidden, another voice, a male voice, a voice she'd just heard: You'll find your way back to me, love. You always do.
A shiver wracked through her body.
His eyes had been so, so blue.