He's not quite sure how it happened.

There are days, when his boots slam into the hard road as they run from one crisis to another, that he thinks he can still feel the imprint of David's fist on his jawbone. Days when harsh words spoken (she's never going to like you, how could she, you're nothing but a pirate) still fester and simmer deep in his consciousness, feeding scraps to the lurking demons of fear and self-loathing.

And yet here they are, running together once again, following the Saviour (daughter, lover, the woman they both treasure) like comrades in arms, trusting each other with their lives and the safety of their loved ones.

There's no way around it, Killian thinks as David claps him hard on the shoulder and slides a tankard of beer in front of him, saying something about it being a reward for yet another day of keeping the town safe.

He has become friends with a prince.

His brother would have been proud.

After he'd stopped laughing, of course.

Perhaps, one day, he'll not think of Liam whenever Emma's father shoots him that oddly paternal smile.

Today, however, is not that day.

"What do you and my dad talk about?"

The question takes him by surprise, and he finds himself stalling for time. It's a pleasant subterfuge, given that his current view is that of Emma stretched out beside him on the couch, her sock-clad feet propped up on the coffee table. They're in her new apartment, just as they are most evenings. It's becoming increasing obvious to both of them (and probably the entire population of Storybrooke) that maintaining his usual lodgings at Granny's is merely for show, if not purely for keeping the old woman in coin. "What do you mean, love?"

Wrapping her hands around the china mug of hot chocolate, she darts him a glance that makes it quite clear she knows he's being deliberately obtuse. "You know, when the two of you go out on patrol." Her mouth quirks in a wistful smile, and his own lips tingle with the urge to kiss her. "He likes spending time with you."

It's ludicrous, the glow that he feels in the middle of his chest at her words. "Is that not a good thing?"

"No, it's good." She shifts beside him, putting her drink onto the small table and threading her arm through his, her cheek resting on his shoulder. "But I see you guys deep in conversation sometimes, like today in the diner, and I just-" She breaks off, and he belatedly recognises the embarrassment in her tone.

"Are you asking me if we speak of you, Swan?"

She shrugs, her shoulder shifting against his. "I know he's already given you the Protective Father speech-"

He can't resist the urge to reinforce this particular point. "Many times."

His reward is a gentle pinch somewhere just below his ribs, and he keeps a straight face with an effort. (She's been on a mission to discover every ticklish spot he possesses since the first night they'd fallen into bed together, and he'll be damned if he'll aide her quest so easily, not when the journey itself is so enjoyable.) "Come on, spill. What do you talk about when it's just the two of you off on a boys' own adventure?"

Turning his head, he presses a gentle kiss to her warm temple, inhaling the comforting scent of her skin and hair, and realises that he has no need to keep secrets, not from her, not anymore. "Has your father ever spoken of his brother?"

He feels her body grow still against him. "Not really." She shifts again, settling back into the depths of the couch so that she can see his face. "I mean, I've read the stories in Henry's book, but we've never really had time to sit down and talk about the whole family tree thing."

Killian hesitates, but only briefly. He has no wish to betray the prince's confidence, but he doubts the man would mind his beloved daughter hearing what he's about to say. "Your father never met his brother, but by all accounts he was a reprobate and a scoundrel of the first water."

"Scoundrel, hey?" Her sea-green eyes glow with amusement. "You'd tell me if my dad started calling you James, right?"

"Aye, but he's not daft enough to see me as a replacement." Threading his hand through the soft cloud of her golden hair, he gently presses his thumb and finger into the spot at the base of her skull that always makes her eyes flutter shut in delight. "I suspect it's merely his way of trying to reassure me that he knows what it's like to have lost a brother."

Again, she grows still and silent beside him, then he feels the soft touch of her hand on his thigh. "You don't talk about your brother much."

She doesn't say the words, 'to me,' but he hears them nevertheless, and a pang of tenderness twists through his heart. "The habits of centuries can be difficult to break, love," he tells her, and her whole face softens. "I don't speak of him much to anyone. I've spent a long time keeping my own counsel, I'm afraid."

She lifts her hand to his face, her fingertips dancing across his jaw, her thumb brushing his lips. "You've got me now."

The glow in his chest threatens to become a firestorm. No matter how many nights he spends in her bed, no matter how many times she's whispered words of love to him, he will never grow accustomed to the knowledge that he has her heart. "And I cannot tell you how much that means to me, Swan, but the ghosts of the dead already walk with me in my dreams." He turns his head to press a kiss to her palm, closing his eyes at the taste of her skin against his tongue. "I'd rather not summon them to mind any more than need be."

She doesn't press him, and he loves her all the more for it. Instead, she lets him take her to bed (if the truth be told, he's not sure who is doing the taking) and loves him until they're both shaking, caught in a storm of pleasure, clinging breathless and sweat-slicked, both of them knowing he'll be carrying the brand of her nails and her teeth on his skin for days.

They fall into slumber swiftly, her breath soft and warm on the back of his neck, her arm curled around his waist, her hand pressed over his heart. He knows the memory of his life ebbing away at the Crocodile's hands haunts her still, and he can't deny he feels all the more at peace at her gentle touch on his chest.

Tonight, he doesn't dream of the dead.

Tonight, there is only Emma.

"She never says his name."

Again, a member of the Enchanted Forest's ruling family has taken him by surprise, and once again, he finds himself stalling for time. "You'll have to be more specific, mate."

David frowns as he checks the barrel of his pistol, then tucks it into his shoulder holster. They've once again drawn dusk patrol duties, scouting the perimeter to check on townsfolk and anomalies alike, and Killian has the sinking feeling he knows exactly to what the prince is referring.

"Neal."

And there it is, Killian thinks with an internal sigh. "I've not noticed."

David gives him a roll of the eyes that looks unnervingly familiar. "Now that's a lie."

Killian checks the battery on his phone (his ears are still singed from the lecture he received from the Sheriff after the last fleeting crisis, something about his phone being dead when he was late coming back from patrol and how she was going to kill him herself if he ever did that again), then shrugs. "Never?"

The prince shakes his head, his expression sombre. "Nope. Not once that I've heard, just baby bro or kiddo." He clips his badge onto his belt, then looks at Killian expectantly. "It's too weird for her, isn't it?"

Killian hesitates, wondering just when he'd become so enmeshed in this family's emotional battles. Quite possibly, he thinks wryly, the moment he first laid eyes on Emma Swan. "You'll have to ask her that, mate. If she has a problem with it, she'll tell you. She doesn't need me to speak for her."

David gives him an exasperated look as they make their way out of the station. "That's always your answer when it comes to my daughter."

Killian grins. "What can I say? I'm a smart man."

Evil comes to Storybrooke once more, this time it wears a very familiar face.

The shock of seeing the Crocodile once again strutting down the main street, however, is surpassed by discovering the identity of his three female companions. The woman with the penchant for puppies is foreign to him, and Maleficent has a quarrel to pick with many of the inhabitants (including his good self) for many varied reasons, but it's the third of Gold's trio that has Killian's blood shuddering to an icy halt.

Ursula.

Well, Killian muses darkly as he remembers his last encounter with the sea witch in question, this is going to be awkward.

He barely has time to share that particular tale from his past with Emma before the evil trio fire their first salvo at the townspeople, orchestrated by a still-magically neutered Gold, no doubt. He and Emma swiftly find themselves separated by distance and necessity, her magic needed to aid Regina's efforts against the sea witch, and his place at her father's side as they search for Cruella's lair is apparently no longer a matter for debate.

And then Snow is taken, and there is no time to quibble about anything.

The word comes via Emma, who breaks the news first to her frantic father over the telephone, then asks to speak to him, her voice cracking as her words come out in a rush. "Please don't do anything stupidly heroic and get yourself killed, okay?"

Killian closes his eyes, his throat tight. So many those times he's marvelled at this family's dedication to fighting the good fight, no matter what the cost to themselves. Now, he finally understands. When you have nothing and no one to lose, it's easy to walk away. "Only if you'll promise the same."

She chokes back a sound that's half-sob, half-laugh. "I'll see what I can do."

"I'll see you at your apartment tonight, Swan, I promise."

"It's your place too, you know."

He smiles into the telephone. "You truly wish to have this discussion now, love?"

"Chalk it up to my usual shitty timing." He hears her exhale a shaky breath. "Can you put my Dad back on? Regina needs to speak to him."

He hands the phone to Emma's father before he can do something foolish like beg her to let him fight by her side.

"Henry's with you? Good. No, Neal's here with me, I was trying to give Snow the afternoon off. Fine, I'll meet you there." David confers with Regina over the telephone, then makes for his son's perambulator, sitting next to his desk at the station. Scooping up the child, he turns to Killian, determination etched on his face. "Take Neal."

Killian rocks back on his heels as the sleeping baby is shoved into his arms. "Are you sure about this, mate?"

"That sea hag has my wife, and I'll be damned if I'm going to just going to wait here for her to issue a freaking list of demands. Regina and Emma have a plan, but someone has to make sure my son is safe." David's eyes are wild with both fear and determination. "From what Emma's told me, it might be better if you kept out of Ursula's way." He bends, presses a hurried kiss to the top of his son's downy head, then unsheathes his sword. "Get him to Belle at the shop and stay there. Gold's still powerless, and the wards Emma put on the building are still intact."

Killian stares down at the child in his arms. He's held Emma's brother before this night, of course, but this is very different. Uncomfortably aware of the precious burden he's now carrying, he looks at David. "But-"

"Killian." The prince gives him the customary hard clap on the shoulder, his throat flexing as he swallows hard. "I trust you."

There's a lump in his own throat as he nods. "I shall protect him with my life."

David looks at him steadily. "I know. That's why I trust you."

Five minutes later, while David is on his way to meet Emma, Killian is moving as swiftly as he can through the darkness (the street lights have been extinguished, whether by magical means or otherwise, he doesn't know) without disturbing the child. Cradling the babe to his chest with his hooked hand, he keeps his sword in his right, knowing he will happily despatch anyone who dares try to lay a hand on the lad.

The darkened streets are filled with panicked townsfolk, but at least they're not turning on each other this time. At least, he thinks darkly as he spies two of the dwarves squaring up to each other over some nonsensical long-held grudge, not yet.

As David predicted, Belle welcomes both himself and the child with open arms. She looks older than her years tonight, and Killian has no doubt that the return of the Crocodile is the cause of the fear etched on her delicate features. As the door shuts behind them, she throws the locks and recites the incantation taught to her by Emma a few weeks earlier, and Killian feels the press of magic as it ripples through the air. It's like being sealed in a vacuum in which one can still breathe, and he silently thanks David for his quick thinking. He dislikes being away from Emma's side during a fight, but if the prince has seen fit to entrust him with one of the most precious things in his life, he will accept the task in good grace.

A silence falls on them as they make the babe comfortable, but it's not entirely awkward. He's forged something of a friendship of this woman over the last few weeks, a development that strikes him almost as unlikely as his bond with Emma's father. Finally, she clears her throat, her legs swinging restlessly as she perches on a stiff wooden chair. "This must be hard for you." When he looks at her quizzically, she offers him a sympathetic smile. "I mean, I'm used to waiting it out while the others go into battle, but you're usually in the thick of it."

He gives her a quick smile. "Someone needs to play the waiting game, love. It may as well be us." Looking at the sleeping child bundled into the makeshift crib (ancient trunks have many uses, it seems), he thinks of David's parting words. While he's loath to admit to seeing a silver lining in their current situation, well, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been pleased to hear them.

His sense of satisfaction lasts until the roaring howl of fire magic outside the shop lets them know that their hiding place has been detected, and that unfortunately they are very much, as Belle put it, in the thick of it.

Four hours later, it's all over, at least for now.

Snow is back in the arms of her family (David has a new scar on his chin to show for it) and Ursula has slithered away, undoubtedly to lick her wounds.

Maleficent has left her mark on Gold's shop, but it's nothing a spot of magic can't fix, apparently. His new clothes, however, are definitely destined for the garbage bin, unless Emma can conjure up a solution to singed fabric. His own fault, of course, but then he hadn't had time to change before he'd spirited Belle and Neal from the shop right underneath Maleficent's nose. Pity about that last fireball he'd caught, but at least his clothing is all that had been damaged.

Reunited at the loft, Snow White gathers her son into her arms with a keening cry of relief, her dark eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you, Killian."

His arms are cramped from holding the child and his clothing is sticking to him like fly paper, but he feels his spine straighten, his shoulders going back without conscious thought. "It was an honour, milady."

He's a second away from clicking his heels together and bowing, Gods help him.

(Liam would be proud.)

Instead, he drops into the nearest empty chair, suddenly feeling the after-effects of his brief encounter with Maleficent rather more than he'd like. David's hand is on his shoulder, shaking him hard enough to rattle his tired bones. "Not bad for a pirate," the other man jests, and Killian knows he's in danger of flushing with embarrassment.

"Well, it appears you've officially entrusted me with both your offspring now, Dave." He gestures towards the milling crowd in the loft, his heart leaping into his throat when he sees the familiar golden gleam of Emma's hair. "Does that mean I have your blessing when it comes to your daughter?"

David's bright blue gaze narrows. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?" A rueful smile curves his mouth as he shakes his head. "If I've learned anything these past few months, it's that my daughter doesn't need any man's permission or blessing, not even her father's."

"Aye, you've got that right, mate." Killian taps a weary finger to his nose. "And I wouldn't want her any other way."

Then Emma is there, striding across the room to his side, her bright green gaze flickering over him as though searching for unconfessed wounds. David fades into the background, but Killian barely notices. All he sees is Emma, the fire in her eyes, the tight set of her jaw as she struggles for the words they both already know. Finally, she drops to her knees beside the chair in which he's slumped, and wraps her arms around his neck, paying no heed to his ruined clothing or the soot smeared on his face.

Her mouth is tender on his as she kisses him, her hands flexing on his shoulders as if trying to reassure herself he's truly there. He desperately tries to remember they're in full view of her parents and several townsfolk, but she seems to be taking great delight in reminding him of everything he could have lost if he'd been a few seconds slower to react to that bloody witch's last fireball.

Finally, she pulls back, her cheek pressed hard against his, her words a warm rush of breath in his ear, and he swears he can feel her heart thumping in time with the rush of his pulse. "What do you say we go home and get you out of those wrecked clothes and into a clean bed?"

Burying his nose in her hair (unlike him, she smells of flowery shampoo and clean sweat), he breathes her in, knowing he'd take on any number of fireballs if it meant she and her loved ones were safe. "I thought you'd never ask, love."

Much later that night, he talks to her of Liam. Not of his death (she already knows what she needs to know) but of his life, and his heart lightens a little more with every word that tumbles from his lips to her willing ears.

When his words have run their course, she kisses the silvery tearstains from his cheeks (he cannot recall weeping, but there is no shame in them) before curling herself around him in the darkness, her hand pressed close to his heart.

Her voice is soft, brushing against his bare skin like velvet. "Thank you for keeping my brother safe."

He runs his hand along her flank beneath the blankets, loving the shift of her lean muscles beneath his touch. "It was an honour, Swan."

She kisses the nape of his neck, as if bestowing a benediction, then sleep comes to claim them both. Before he falls into slumber, however, it occurs to him that once again, she's avoided uttering her brother's name.

He must remember to mention that to the prince on their next outing, he thinks, then all he knows is the soft warmth of Emma's bed cradling his weary bones, lulling him into oblivion.

Once again, he doesn't dream of the dead.

There is only Emma.