Inspired by the finale promo that Emma travels back in time and that young-and-corruptible!Killian is fun to write. This was supposed to be slightly angsty and dramatic, but apparently the plot bunnies are sick of writing dramatic and this came out instead.
If I owned once Upon A Time, I would be writing episodes, not fanfiction. Since I am writing the latter, not the former, I think it's safe to deduce I don't own anything worth suing over.
I
His brother was due into port any minute now, trying to beat the storm looming rapidly closer on the horizon. There were flashes of light at the horizon, too far away to hear the thunder, but the chill wind driving it was already sweeping the town. Killian was headed towards the docks to meet Liam, when someone dashed out from an alley, seized him by his coat, and yanked him back between the buildings. His back hit the rough bricks of the baker's with an audible thud, and his attacker didn't let him go far enough to see who it was.
"Sorry for this," the someone said breathlessly, and without any more forewarning than that, Killian found himself being kissed.
She kissed him like she knew him, warm and familiar, without any of the awkwardness that came with a first kiss, one hand rose to tangle in his hair. The other twisted in his coat, tugging her closer to him even as she pinned him to the brick.
She was very good, he'd give her that, and Killian found himself kissing her back. There were worse ways to be attacked in an alley, after all, and if this was a prank by one of his mates, at least he'd gotten a kiss out of the deal.
She pulled back, leaving him panting against the wall, and he could finally get a look at her. She wasn't dressed like any woman he'd ever seen, in men's trousers and a long dark coat that buttoned rather than tied, made necessary by the chill of the storm promising to move in. Hair like spun gold fell freely around a determined face and set jaw.
One hand came up, and fire flickered into being in her palm, lighting her features from underneath. She smiled, wide and satisfied, the effect not of this realm.
"Thanks," she said, and released him completely, stepping back out of his space. The motion came with an odd sense of loss as the mysterious woman started the wrong way down the alley at a brisk pace. Killian opened his mouth to call after her, but the words refused to come, getting stuck over each other as they all tried to fit out of his mouth at once.
It was only after she had rounded the corner and disappeared from view that he managed to get some of them out.
"Who are you?"
.
VII
It'll be simple, the witch-queen had told him, trick a couple of maidens into telling what they knew, ditch them in the night, and get to Storybrooke.
Cora had neglected to mention the fact that her plan entailed hiding under a stack of dead bodies to lend credence to his story. He'd been in stickier situations, at least having your heart ripped out didn't leave puddles of blood everywhere, but this was beginning to feel pointless.
Finally, the bodies atop him began to shift, and he was pulled free in a rush of worried exclamations and manhandled into rolling over. There was a delicate brunette with her hands on his shoulders, a woman with short dark hair and regal bearing, and a warrior standing with her hand on the hilt of her sword, but Killian didn't see any of them.
There, silhouetted against the flawless blue sky, sun lighting her hair and mistrust shading her eyes, was his Emma.
.
II
Killian spotted her at the edge of the party, wearing a red gown that drew the eye to everything but her face. An ideal way to remain unseen, he mused, even as he made his way through the ball toward her.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, he snatched her by an elbow and swung her out onto the dance floor, turning the motion into a twirl that went with the waltz just starting up. She came back to him, her other hand settling comfortably on his shoulder. She let him lead, but he could tell the strength under his fingertips. She didn't have the soft hands of a lady, but neither were they the rough hands of someone who worked in the fields or on a ship. For a moment, he just looked at her, to reassure himself she was real, not something a heat-fogged brain had dreamt up.
"Who are you?" he asked finally.
She tilted her head and smiled, mysterious as the ocean depths. Her eyes were more green than grey when she teased him, he noticed. "Isn't it bad form, Killian, to whisk a lady off her feet without even knowing her name first?"
He was aware his eyes were wide as saucers, but it couldn't be helped. Only long practice stopped his steps from faltering. "How do you know my name?" he hissed, as they turned in step with the music.
"You're something of an open book," her voice took on a strange lilt, like she was repeating something she'd been told, rather than her own words.
Killian swept her through the dancers until they were by the door out, then guided her smoothly outside so they could talk without being overheard.
It was pleasantly warm outside, the recent rain having chased the sticky humidity out of the air and coated the streets in . "How do you know me?" he demanded when the door shut behind them.
She disregarded the question, went to the railing and stood looking out at the castle being built on the hill, tracing imaginary patterns against the metal. "I came back because I need to hide something in the castle," she told him, though she remained facing the city, "but any time before construction was finished would have done."
"You came back for me," he reasoned aloud.
She nodded slightly, the motion nearly timid, looking at him sideways. Killian moved forward and leaned a hand on the railing on either side of her, caging her in, but she didn't seem bothered by the closeness. She had no problems, it seemed, invading people's personal space.
No, he realized, remembering the careful distance she'd been keeping between herself and the people she was talking to, only with him.
"How do you know me?" he asked again, "you know my name, you kissed me, but we've never been introduced."
"We will be."
"When?" he asked, "how do you know that?"
She shook her head. "I can't tell you," her voice was hardly audible, forced out between lips that wanted to keep their secrets, "There's too much at stake. I've said too much already, I have to go." She slipped out under his arm and took a step, not toward the party and the exit, but towards the bit of the balcony that extended out of view of the main room.
"At least tell me your name," he said.
She stopped. Half-turned back, so he caught just a glimpse of grey-green eyes over the turn of bemused lips.
"Emma. Emma Swan."
Then she stepped forward, and something opened in the air to receive her, and clapped shut again with the sharp scent of molten metal.
.
VIII
"Who are you?" she demanded, leveling his own dagger at him. Killian stared at it disdainfully, tugging at the ropes that bound him to the tree. The lass could tie an excellent knot, these weren't going to give anytime soon.
"Killian Jones," he said, wondering at how times had changed. Centuries ago, he had been demanding her name, and she was the one with all the answers. Now he was tied to a tree while she tried to force information out of him. Despite his captive status, it gave him confidence, "but most people have taken to calling me by my more colorful moniker: Hook."
"Like Captain Hook?"
"So, you've heard of me." Perhaps if she had, this next bit would be slightly easier.
Then again, it was Emma, so probably not.
.
IV
"Marry me?" he whispered in the quiet still hour just before dawn, when the sky was just light enough he could make out Emma's features beside him. She wasn't asleep either, something from the other time keeping her up while she tried to work out a way around it.
Slowly, her head turned sideways and she narrowed suspicious eyes at him.
"Why?" she said slowly. He hadn't been able to get her to tell him, but he had figured out someone in that other time had hurt her, made her distrusting and closed off, even more than her secrets made her by necessity.
"Because I love you," he answered simply.
Emma rolled out of bed and started collecting her clothing, tugging one of his shirts over her head when she found her own had been ripped, and sitting on the bed to tug on her boots. Killian laid a hand on her arm, not holding her down, just stalling her. "Promise you'll keep coming back," he prompted.
She softened, a tenseness in her shoulders relaxing. Relief, he thought, she was relived he was letting her run. She needed to, it was a fundamental part of who she was. If she didn't understand, if she was scared, she ran. He could only hope she kept coming back.
"As long as I'm still breathing," she swore, and sealed it with a kiss.
The sharp metal tang filled his bedroom as the other time swallowed her up again, and Killian slumped back against his pillow. A grin spread across his face as he stared at the ceiling.
He always had said that he loved a challenge.
III
She tumbled back through a portal in the middle of his study, the red dress she'd been wearing at the ball a darker hue at one hip, and very nearly collapsed into his arms. Killian managed to catch her, lowering her carefully to the floor. She was probably getting blood on the carpets, but he was more worried about her surviving than someone possibly being angry about furnishings.
"What happened?" he demanded, when his hands came away red and sticky, confirming that was blood, not water or some other liquid decorating her side.
Emma forced a laugh. "A rather wicked witch took exception to me trying to ensure my continued existence," she said.
There was no way he was going to be able to help her with her dress in the way, he would have to take it off her, so he told her so.
"Use the hook," she said, as though this was obvious, when the knots holding the back of her dress together wouldn't give way under his hands.
Killian grasped her chin and forced her to look at him, checking her pupils to see if they matched, the way he'd seen Liam do when one of his men got hit in the head. She wasn't making sense.
"What hook?" he asked.
Emma waved a hand indiscriminately, crashing it into his arm. She worked the hand down to his and then her brow furrowed, like she'd just discovered something that didn't add up.
Killian didn't see what was so special about his left hand, but Emma seemed fascinated by it, and it was the closest she'd yet come in all her visits to telling him what she was doing, what the future held if she did or didn't succeed. Unfortunately, she had picked the one time where he wasn't in a position to listen.
"Come on lass," he urged her to her feet, scooping her into his arms when she wobbled, "let's get you to bed."
She laughed softly, the sound more tired than actually humorous. "You're more direct now," she told him, "straight to the point."
Killian just about dropped her when he realized what she was insinuating, and he was certain his ears were flushing pink. If Liam had been there, he would have been teased unmercifully for ages, but thankfully, his brother was out on a mission for the king and he got her resting and patched up without any further inappropriate comments.
.
V
"Killian?" her voice was soft, hardly there next to the pounding rain and the intermittent crashes of thunder, but he was out of the half-doze he'd been in instantly.
"If I don't make it," she began, and he shushed her.
"You're going to, love," he squeezed the hand he hadn't relinquished since she staggered out of the portal in the middle of the night with something wrong with her. No one could tell what it was, but the doctor had said if she made it through the night, she should live, "you have to."
"If I don't," she insisted in a hoarse whisper, "tell my parents I love them, and look after Henry."
"Tell them yourself when you get better," Killian replied.
"And Killian," she continued faintly, "if you ask me again then, you'll get a different answer."
What he was feeling couldn't be contained in words, but he didn't dare kiss her properly, not when every breath was a small victory for her continued existence. Instead he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss hard to her knuckles, hoping she could feel everything he couldn't find the words for.
She smiled, nothing but a quirk of the lips, and then she was unconscious again, leaving him to carry out his vigil in silence.
.
IX
She was hanging on, both hands clasped around his wrist, sliding ever closer to the portal with every second that passed. His hook was gouging a deep scratch along the floorboards as their weight was dragged toward the portal's suction and he could hear her parents behind him trying to find an anchor point to pull them back up.
But Killian's world had narrowed down to the grasp of Emma's hand in his and her eyes, wide and terrified as she was dragged inescapably closer. His hook caught and they jerked to a stop for a moment, the pull incredible. It felt like his shoulder was going to dislocate, and the tug on her was only getting stronger, not weaker.
With a start, they moved another inch closer to the portal. It was beginning to lick at the tips of her boots now.
"Take care of them," she said, calm despite the roar of wind around them. Another inch and the magic sized her around the ankles and ripped brutally. She was torn from his grasp, fingers sliding away, and he yelled after her even as she was swallowed up by the portal.
It closed on itself in an instant, twisting up like a smug serpent until it lay flat, simple wood once more.
"We'll get her back," Prince Charming was saying.
"No you won't," Killian said hollowly, unable to look up from the boards that had been swirling gold a moment ago, where the portal that had snatched her had been. All these years he had been planning, trying to change what happened to her, and he couldn't fight back a harsh bark at the irony. She was here because of him.
He heard Snow's gasp, then the queen knelt down beside him, still moving a little stiffly from the delivery. "Hook- Killian?" she corrected herself.
"You won't get her back," he repeated, and now he found the strength to look up, meet Snow's gaze. Emma had her mother's eyes, they even widened the same way when she was shocked and worried.
"She never came back," he told Snow, voice hoarse, "over three hundred years ago, she said she'd come back and she never did."
.
VI
He woke up and for a moment he was frantic. The other half of the bed was empty, no sign of Emma.
A quiet noise by the window drew his attention, and he relaxed when he found her. She was wearing his shirt, the sleeves hanging down to brush her knuckles, over her trousers. She already had her boots already on, leaning against the windowpane and watching the raindrops fall down it.
She looked at peace, none of the worries of a hundred years or more from now cluttering her brow, no nightmares of evil queens or wicked witches to trouble her sleep, just the early morning rain coming in from the bay. It was a natural rain this time, none of the portal-driven storms that had come down on this town so often in the last several months.
He threw back the covers and padded on bare feet over to join her. Emma didn't move, even when he wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned his forehead against her hair. "Can you tell me?" he asked.
"The witch has a stronghold," she said, "Where's she's holding," she paused, "someone. I have to get her out without her seeing me and get her somewhere in time to meet someone so that everything happens the way it's supposed to."
Emma turned now and buried herself him. "I don't have enough time," she confessed, "I'm wading through it and I don't have enough of it."
"Take me with you," even as he said it, she was shaking her head. It was an old argument, one they'd gone over many times. She said he had things to do here, even though she couldn't tell him what they were, for fear of changing anything, and she didn't dare taken him out of his time.
"If you get hurt there, die there, you can't do everything that you need to later," she told him, once again, "You are the reason my family is all together later, I won't risk that."
"But you're risking yourself instead," he argued back, "if you die now, then, how can you do what you've done?" Time travel made conversations complicated.
"I'll still have done everything," Emma said, "it won't change anything. I'm almost done, just a few more times back and everything will be sorted."
"What will happen then?" he asked, "Will you go back to them?"
"You're there too," she said.
He hadn't realized it was possible to be jealous of himself, but he was. That Killian was the one who'd first won her heart, the original reason she'd sought him out for their first meeting.
"I'll be back within the month," Emma told him. She extracted herself gently from his hold, keeping his hand for a lingering moment as the portal snapped open, filling the room with the scent of burning metal just as it had done dozens of times. She took a deep breath and charged forward through it.
The rain continued intermittently for the next two months. He asked Liam to take him with on his next voyage when she still hadn't returned. He knew the rules better than some of the sailors, and there was really no reason for him to stay here anymore.
The clouds were still raining when they pulled out of the harbor, but it wasn't raging anymore.
It was more like crying.
.
X
A week and a half after Emma had vanished through the portal into time to meet with his younger self, he was sitting in the diner with her boy when the sky burst open and it started to pour out of the blue. Killian was off his seat in an instant, dashing out into the rain.
And sure enough, there she was, a bit battered, one of her sleeves completely torn off and blood oozing sluggishly down her arm, but alive.
In a few steps, he had swept her up into his arms. "Swan," he breathed, forehead pressed to hers.
"Killian," she replied.
"I thought you were dead," he told her, heedless to the audience they were drawing, "you said you'd come back."
"I thought I was too," she admitted, "I could only make one portal when Zelena died, and it was... quite a ride." She pulled back enough to properly look at him, one hand creeping up to frame around his cheek. "I believe you had something you were supposed to ask me," she prompted.
It took him a minute to sort through everything and figure out what she was talking about. While it had been only days for her, it was centuries ago for him, then it clicked.
"Marry me," he said. There was no dropping to one knee or grand sweeping gestures; it wasn't him and it wasn't her, but the words were enough.
"Yes," she said, just as matter-of-fact.
Then he dipped his head and kissed her, in the middle of the town with at least a dozen people staring at them, but she was kissing him back and he couldn't care less. Somewhen they were crashing into each other for the first-second time, somewhen she was slipping away from him, but right now she was whole and in his arms.
And it felt like a beginning.