The Underworld is bloody uncomfortable.
Not that Killian had expected it to be anything else- he hadn't flung himself into the depths of Hell for the pleasure of it- but he's willing to admit that he'd imagined more fire-and-brimstone. The reality of his cell, which is little more than a wide ledge of rock high above the Styx, is somewhat anticlimactic. No fire or brimstone as far as the eye can see; the cell even lacks bars and a door, instead featuring a shimmering veil of magic that prevents him from moving beyond it. His breath freezes in the air, and his body aches from sleeping on the hard ground, but he's lived through worse. The ability to survive has seemingly transcended the fact that he's died (or nearly died) more than three separate times, and at this point (though it goes against centuries of instinct), he wants nothing more than for death to actually stick.
So long as his heart keeps beating, he can't quell the traitorous hope that somehow, he'll get to see Emma again. It's selfish, he thinks, to long for the softness of her skin, the curve of her lips against his, the bright ring of her laughter, the love in her eyes. But long for her he does- hope for her he does- think of her (not a day will go by that I won't think of you) he absolutely does.
And yet, as much as he would give for to see her again, he would give twice as much for her to never set foot in this place.
He'd known, from the moment Emma had handed him Excalibur in the field of middlemist, that it would come to this, that he couldn't dispatch the Darkness once and for all without losing what he held closest to his heart. And he'd given Emma up willingly- had paid the price for victory with his eyes wide open, fully aware that to do this was to sacrifice everything he'd hoped for them. More than that, he'd done what he could to ease Emma's guilt, had forced her hand with painful truths and threats that he'd known would spur her into action.
(It eases the ache in his chest, somewhat, the knowledge that- in spite of what she may think of herself- he still has yet to see her fail. And if it hurts, that he'll never see her again, at least he knows that he will never experience that devastation. Although, truthfully, he feels fairly confident that he'd never see his Swan fail, not even if they'd lived through three lifetimes of adventures and mishaps together.)
The shades come for him from the moment he first opens his eyes in the Underworld, stealing the faces and voices of those he's wronged, tormenting him with the misdeeds of his lengthy life. Some, he begs for forgiveness; some, he finds he can easily ignore, humming the old shanties of his days at sea until they vanish into the mist. Most recently, the shades have worn the faces of his family. The father he'd killed, the mother he'd lost, the brother he couldn't save, each whisper to him of his failures and their disappointment, until there's room for nothing in his mind but their voices, and he finds himself curled up on the ground with his arms wrapped around his head, throat raw as he pleads with every deity he's ever heard of to please, let him rest.
He dreams of her, and wakes to them; it's far worse than anything he could imagine.
"Killian. Killian, wake up."
A pair of small hands shake his shoulders, gentle but insistent. He groans, curling in on himself, and squeezes his eyes shut. He can't wake up, not yet, not when he's only just seen her again. Not when he's in that blasted field of middlemist, offering one of the pink blooms to an Emma dressed all in white, not when he can almost feel her skin beneath his palm-
The hands leave his shoulders, and for a moment he feels bereft, the warmth of their touch vanishing in the freezing air.
"Killian, please."
He knows that voice.
No.
Slowly, he opens his eyes, wincing at the unexpected brightness of his cell. For weeks (he thinks, though it's difficult to keep track of time in a realm where it doesn't truly exist), the only source of light has been the veil of magic, glowing dimly in an endless rotation of dull blues and violets. Now there's something else- a torch, he realizes as he squints at it- bringing the world into sharp focus. He sits up, blinking blearily.
"There you are," the voice says. He has the impression of red and gold before the torch moves out of the way, and a face swims into view, plastered with a smile so wide and white that it's almost blinding.
"Emma," he breathes, and she's so beautiful, so much better than what his dreams have provided him with so far. She's so beautiful that it burns, her smile and her hair and her inner light (and he'd missed that the most, the way her sheer goodness radiates from every pore; looking at the Dark One had been like staring at an afterimage of his Emma) searing his eyes. She's the most wonderful thing in any realm, and she's here.
"Hey," she says softly, reaching out to brush his hair away from his face. "Long time, no see, Captain."
And he can't resist it, the urge to tug her close, to cup his palm around her cheek, to smooth his hand across her skin. She leans away slightly, driving the base of her torch into the ground, before tilting forward until their foreheads press together.
"Finally," she whispers. He brings his hook to her back, gently running it along her spine, and heaves a sigh.
"This is hardly fair," he says, tangling his fingers in her hair. "This kind of dream. It makes a man not want to wake up. How do I wake up from this?"
"You're not dreaming." Her voice, soft as it is, makes his heart ache; she sounds like she did back in that field, as he lay dying, begging him not to leave.
"It's excellent, I grant you," he says, and it's true- she looks better, more real, than his waking memories; he can feel the soft huff of her breath against his skin, can almost taste the faint lavender scent of her perfume and detergent.
"Killian, you're awake," she insists, reaching down to pinch his arm.
He winces.
No.
"I'm awake," he says slowly, scanning her face, and she nods.
No.
"This is unsporting, Hades," he croaks, forcing himself to pull away from her. "Very poor form indeed, tormenting a man like this, when I've plenty of other misdeeds to atone for."
"What?" She stares at him, sitting back on her heels. "Killian, what are you-"
"It's an excellent impression," Killian interrupts, getting to his feet. "Truly, a command performance. Bravo." He claps slowly, moving his hand and hook in a parody of applause. "Whichever shade this is, I'm certain they deserve a reward of some kind."
"Hades didn't send me," the false Emma says, straightening to her full height. "Killian, I swear to you, I'm not a dream, and I'm not part of the Underworld."
He eyes her suspiciously, circling her as he studies every inch of her. "Pardon me if I don't believe you, love."
"I'm not a shade," she hisses, reaching out and grasping the lapels of his jacket. "I'm Emma." Yanking him forward, she presses her lips to his, and everything shifts. A bright burst of power pulses through him, through them, and he's burning, heart pounding, because-
"It's you," he says finally, breaking the kiss and opening his eyes, his arms tight around her. "It's you, Emma, you're here."
"Of course I'm here," she says, smiling up at him. "You didn't think I was going to let you off the hook that easily, did you? Not after you promised me-" Her mouth thins in a tight line for a moment, tears shining in her eyes. "-you promised me you were a survivor, and then you went and had me murder you."
"I had no choice, I had to save you, but-"
"Shut up," she snaps, "oh my god, did you really think I was going to leave you down here? That was never going to happen."
"But how did you even get here?" he asks, staring as she picks up the torch from the floor of the cell.
"Long story. Long, complicated story," she says. "One I'm sure Henry will love to tell you, once we get back. But right now, Hades is tied up- literally- and so are the Reapers, so we need to get going."
"Swan, you are bloody brilliant, have I ever told you that?"
She grins up at him, sliding her hand into his and entwining their fingers. "Come on, Captain. Let's go home."