It is by happenstance, really, that she catches the glimmer of movement out of the corner of her eye as she leaves Granny's, slipping out the door and into the dewy morning air. Her breakfast had been forced shorter than usual by Killian's odd absence—one she had not allowed herself to overthink. He was an adult and she had no doubts in his care for her. She was certain he was not avoiding her. He had probably made last-minute plans with her father and had an earlier meal than usual, or simply slept in later than he intended. It had been a long night of research and she certainly would not blame him for the lapse in his generally pinpoint-precise schedule.
So instead of worrying she texted him a good morning to wake up to (even adding a smile) and gathered up a coffee and a bear claw for the road.
She thinks that had she stalled a moment less, perhaps skipping the smile, she might have missed the algae-green puff of smoke that gathers around the docks, encompassing it and leaving whatever—or whoever—stands within it nearly completely concealed.
She furrows her brow and shakes her head softly, squinting to clear her vision as a chilly breeze brushes past. There are two figures moving minutely within the smoke—neither of which she can make out as she hold her warm coffee nearer to her and moves a bit closer, letting out a foggy spurt of breath.
For a moment she considers she might be doing as she always does, making something out of nothing. She has left the diner far earlier than usual—the fog could very well be another in a long list of eerie daily Storybrooke-shenanigans she has had yet to happen upon.
But there is something remarkably unnatural in it's nature.
She moves to cross the street for a closer view, glancing momentarily away to check for cars before turning her eyes steadily back upon their target.
And that is when she sees the tentacle.
Suddenly Killian's peculiar absence in the diner seems far less fate, and some part of Emma's intuition tugs sharply within her and forces her stomach to skydive.
She moves with more purpose now towards the fog that surrounds them, watching Killian. He moves and looks about oddly, almost as if his body is at the docks—but his mind is elsewhere. Her dropped stomach turns anxiously and when she passes a trashcan she dispatches her entire breakfast into it—reaching for the gun at her side instead.
She is far closer now, and neither Killian nor Ursula have noticed her yet—as if there is not world past the green fog surrounding them.
"Killian?"
Her voice falls uneasily from her tongue.
He does not so much as flinch.
The sea witch, on the other hand…
Emma could swear that she smirks.
Emma does not even manage to blink when suddenly the tentacles are no longer floating easily at Ursula's side.
No.
They are pouncing, slithering snug around Killian's middle and pulling tighter and tighter, until Emma is certain he cannot breath. She draws her gun as quickly as the witch attacks him, but she knows she is too far away to hit her target.
"Ursula, stop!"
She hates that somewhere within her she is certain that Hook deserves whatever the witch is dishing out. But it is Killian paying the price.
She is running now, stomach throbbing and heart racing as he puts up a fight that turns quickly to writhing against the grasping tentacles.
He goes absolutely, chillingly still.
"Have a nice swim, captain."
With one sudden movement she has him raised in the air and Emma's heart thuds—before, with the most elegantly terrifying of flicks, she deposits him roughly into the churning ocean.
For a moment, Emma doesn't think she breathes, only sound the echo of her boots through her pulsing body until she skids to a stumbling stop before the fog, watching the surface he has disappeared beneath with bated breath.
He is not resurfacing.
She can feel her magic coursing dangerous and hot through her veins and looks up to see the witch, only to find that she has gone, fog slowly dissipating into the air.
She can't risk just shooting whatever she can get past her fingers at the water in hopes it'll save him. She can't do it.
She can hear her heart pounding all the way up to her head and he still has not come up.
Time is running out.
She will not let him drown.
"Shit."
She reaches to tug out of her boots as she shrugs her shoulders from her leather jacket, leaving her chilly victim to the cold spring air. She leaves the clothes in a heap and does not allow herself to think past calculating where he fell in her head, taking a lung-filling breath of bitter cold air as she bounds for the edge and throws herself as far forward as she can.
When her body sinks beneath the water she nearly cries out, cold immediately sinking into her bones and making her shudder. But she thinks of him and the many long moments he has already been submerged and forces her unwilling eyes open, trying to see through the murk as she wills the her arms to carry her deeper. Her muscles are stiff and protesting against the cold as she kicks, sending jolts of pain through her body. She forces herself to push again deeper into the silence, dragging her arms through water that is beginning to feel startling thicker—but she runs into something solid that halts her progression. Fear grasps momentarily at her racing heart.
But she catches a glint of silver that gives her pause. It is him.
Her numb body protests taking hold of him and she is just beginning to feel the depravity of oxygen pounding at her head when she starts kicking weakly for the surface, one arm wrapped awkwardly around his elbow, dragging his weight limply behind her.
She is not going to make it.
One more push, one more push.
She keeps the words a repeating mantra in her mind until her mind no longer trusts her repeated broken promises. She thinks the pressure against her heart might make her explode, and she wonders if she is even swimming the right direction, panic setting firmly in.
Then she can hear the tide, and air even more bitter than the water is assaulting her. She breathes it in greedily despite how it burns, coughing out whatever spare liquid she's swallowed and using her remaining strength to drag his head above the surface. It lolls limply to her shoulder but she refuses to allow herself to consider anything now but the shore.
It is so far from where they bob, just managing to keep their heads afloat above her freezing limbs.
She is not weak. But her muscles are tense and frozen and a heavier panic is blooming in the frantic beating in her chest, sending unnatural warmth racing through her veins.
Her eyes again train wistfully on the sandy shore and she tries kicking her tingling legs, but she can hardly drag them forward.
Her entire body is numb, and her eyes droop momentarily closed as the strange warmth pulsing through the parts of her she can hardly feel warms to a nearly burning heat.
When she forces her eyes back open, she is sprawled beside him on the sand, fingers limp around his wrist.
She does not even take a moment to question it, scrambling weakly to her knees and pressing her fingers to his wrist, willing a pulse to thud back at her that is not her own. Her hair hangs in dripping strands around her face and she swallows hard, watching a drop of icy water fall from her hair to roll lazily down his arm.
She abandons her search for a pulse, turning her attentions to his chest and drawing back what seem like ancient memories of CPR training in her nice, normal, pre-fairytale school.
He is cold as ice where she presses against his chest, and she is still catching her breath and regaining her own energy from the swim and magical journey to shore, and she is almost certain her struggles are next to useless.
She refuses to consider the alternative, heart already pounding so hard she thinks it may come out of her chest.
Emma reaches to thumb at his chin, turning his face towards her. His soaked hair clings to his forehead and his eyelashes appear glued together, darkness a stunning contrast the pale tone of his skin that makes her feel ill.
His lips are parted and blue, and she tries to ignore it as she clutches at the wet material above his chest, lowering herself to press her lips to his and breathe the precious air she is slowly restoring herself with into him instead. His usually warm, soft lips may as well be ice.
She bites back tears as she returns to chest compressions with nearly angry force.
"Survivor my goddamn ass," she growls breathily before again finding his lips.
She is frantic now, wishing for the phone in the pocket of her jacket to call for someone who can help. The scenario is an eerie echo of their run in the Wicked Witch so long ago.
But this time he isn't coming back.
The thought sends an ache through her, and she drops her entire weight against him in her sloppiest compression yet, before collapsing weakly, breathing heavily, against his soaked leather-clad chest, age old words pressing at her lips.
She lets them weakly free.
"Come back to me."
His heart thuds once, softly, against her ear.
And out of nowhere, he is coughing. She sits up abruptly off of him, eyes wide and heart racing—managing to steady herself just enough to help him roll weakly to his side and cough the liquid from his system—eyes bright and blue and struggling to train in on her before fluttering shut against the retching coughs. She feels his hand find hers as his coughing begins to settle, thumb tracing her palm before he grasps at her wrist, holding on tight. The blue still tints his lips but is fading away with his coughing and she finds them hungrily with her own as he tries to lift himself to a sitting position.
"Let a man catch his breath, Swan." He murmurs against her lips after a moment, and she nearly laughs with relief.
"Try not to lose it in the first place then, captain."
He contemplates a moment before he curls his icy hook around her waist, giving a weak tug in a clear attempt to pull her nearer to him that she obliges to on her own, tucking herself against his side and dropping her head to his chest to listen to the steadying tempo of his heartbeat. His hand frees from her wrist, finding instead a lock of her dripping golden hair and curling it around his fingers.
"You came in after me." He mutters after a moment, in such quiet awe that Emma is almost nearly certain he did not mean for the words to escape his lips.
"Of course I did."
And if he keeps kissing her like this, his lips are not going to stay frozen a moment longer.
("Good morning, by the way." She breathes the words as they walk stiffly hand in hand towards her apartment, thoughts of steamy showers and tangled sheets the only thing that keeps her going as she bumps her hip softly sideways against his.
She smiles.)