It's a surprise when he appears one day, heart beating anew beneath his chest, standing ashore with their son at his side; but it's not unwelcome. How could it be, when she has spent the last ten, twenty, years yearning for his final return? How could her love returning to her, for once and for all, ever be anything but a reward for twenty years of her unwavering care and devotion?

Delving into the reunion and post-credits scenes. DMTNT-set oneshot. Elizabeth POV.

She has envisioned his face thousands of times, allowed herself to imagine his presence at her side when the days grew long or the nights were colder than usual.

But seeing his face through a memory, and seeing him in person, in front of her, are two very different things.

It's been so long since she last gazed upon him, saw dark oily dark curls and pretty features shape his face. It's been so long since she last saw him look at her as he is now, face filled with love and heart.

Her face is a picture, she imagines. Surprise has turned to astonishment and there is nothing she can do to hide the smile that graces her lips at present. There is nothing she can do to hide the glee on her face, and the downright aching inside her heart in this very moment. There is nothing she could ever do to stop loving him.

Crossing over the bluff by the lighthouse has never felt so rewarding, freeing. His heart is free to return to him, and he is free to return to her.

He's stopped before her now, face just as relieved as her own. The moment only lasts a second or so, though, before she is making strides to reach him, and he is too. They touch within a matter of seconds, and her heart has never felt so full, her soul so complete.

Her arms wrap around him with such passion, as though she is clinging on to him for dear life, pleading with him never to leave her again. He smells the same, underneath all the sea salt and sweat. He looks the same, and she is certain the years have been as courteous to him as they have her.

It lasts an eternity, she thinks; this passionate embrace she has sought, dreamt of for so long. It lasts an eternity, but she isn't sure even that is long enough. His grip is tight, unyielding, and she doesn't know which one of them will ever let go first.

He makes the move, pulls out of her embrace with urge. Holding onto her waist, he doesn't move, doesn't budge until her hands slide down his arms to his elbows and she breathes in deeply.

A second later, they're kissing. And it's all she has wanted for the last ten years. It's all she has wanted since the day he first left her, since the second.

It's bold and desperate, perhaps the most emotional kiss she has ever shared with him, with anybody. It's been too long since she has felt lips - his lips - pressed against her own, chapped but pink, dry yet soft. He is still the same, and she doesn't ever want to let go.

It's despair turned to hope, despondent anguish turned to sheer comfort.

It's home.

She has led herself into believing he was truly there, sleeping alongside her sometimes. She rather liked pretending that the warmth the sun radiated through the window of her bedroom - their bedroom - most mornings was the heat his body emitted, the dimly lit glow of his resting heart sharing its warmth with her, sharing his love and devotion.

She has returned such devotion, committed herself to a lifetime of quasi solitude, if only to try matching the love he had shown her through the years. She has remained independent, but never alone. One is never truly alone when they still have their wits about them, or when they have a child born of unwavering love to raise.

Elizabeth was never truly alone, for she possessed the beating heart of a man whose sole desire was to return to her. Caring wholeheartedly for someone's soul had meant that she could sense him, feel him, share her life with him though they remained apart.

Though he wasn't there by her side, he was still always there in spirit. He was wherever the chest lay, wherever she chose to place him, keep him safe.

He has surely felt it, her love for him, when she would run the palm of her hand over the crafted lid of the chest. Because, whenever this happened, her very own heart beat faster at the thought, at the sound of thumping coming from inside the chest, and her pulse would fall into line with what she imagined to be his own, slow and steady after only a moment.

She has allowed herself to wonder how he occupied his time. There are only so many souls to ferry at sea.

Lay atop her sheets at night, sometimes her hands would drift, ghost over her body as though they had a mind of their own. She wondered if he ever did the same, if he ever let himself dream of her, too. Perhaps the wandering of her hands, fingers slipping beneath cotton and lace, was the realisation of what he could not do but so longed for. Perhaps marriage had truly bound them as one, after all. Surely he felt the same.

He must have. He wouldn't have returned otherwise. His heart beat still, which meant that it still beat for her. And this thought, this fact was enough to settle her soul whenever she would grow weary.

"I had a dream about you last night."

She could tell him how she loves him so, how relieved she is that he is back in her arms for once and for all, that he has returned despite all that kept them apart. But those words, those same words, would mean little.

She had told him all of this a decade years ago, when they were parting ways for what was then a second time. She had told him of her love for him, told him of the promises she intended to keep. Work and life would not stop her in her path, and twenty years of longing would do nought but allow her feelings to deepen.

Hands running down his chest to rest at his waist, she allows a couple of fingers to slip through the knot of his scarf. It's tight and safe, secure. And she feels at home, at peace. He feels the same, no doubt, she thinks to herself with a sheepish grin. Her left hand slides across his chest, over a patch of skin where a scar once lay. Faded, or gone. She doesn't care.

Tapping fingertips over the pale skin, she bites into her bottom lip, sucks in her cheeks for only a moment. While the scarring has vanished, what once lay beneath has returned to her, to them. It's no longer to be found hidden inside an old wooden box, and his presence is no longer bound to an old Dutchman's ship. She doesn't understand it, and truthfully she doesn't mind.

His heart beats beneath his chest, real and true, and she closes her eyes as he breathes her in, arms around her waist as he tucks her head in beneath his chin, hands on her sides. He still had that piece of cloth wrapped around his hand, she notes.

"About me?"

"Yes." She whispers, bats long lashes against the naked skin of his chest, feels a long-held sigh pass her lips as she mumbles, "It looked a lot like this." He chuckles, amused at the notion, and she looks up, hands moving to cup the sides of his face.

It's been so long since she last held him, last felt his caress or was allowed to touch him in return.

"Shall we go home?"

Will's gaze shifts then, away from her face, from her eyes, and she knows he is admiring the lighthouse in the distance. He smiles, and she holds back the urge to poke at his dimples. Still pretty.

He doesn't say anything, but he's pulling away from her before she can grasp at his shirt once more. Taking her hand in his own, he seems to pause for a second, and she wonders if he's admiring the way it just fits so naturally into his own.

He only nods, goes to tug at her hand. But Elizabeth drops her hands from his face and pulls at him instead.

She has cared for their family, made this lighthouse into a home for them all.

Slipping into step beside her as she walks, Will lets his arm glide around her waist once more, and she copies his action, gripping his far side with her fingertips. She won't let him go again, and she doubts he ever intends to let her drift too far from his side either.

Henry is behind them, she notices with the shortest of glances over her shoulder. Her son is beside a young woman, with brown hair and a coral dress. She's lovely, youthful. And Elizabeth plans on getting to know her once she's clipped her son around the head a time or two.

"You look beautiful."

There's a soft voice beside her, low but husky, gentle yet grumbling in her ear. And she turns to face her husband, all long hair and years older than she remembers him. But she's reminded of their wedding day, or rather what was once ought to be their wedding day.

With only a smile, she tightens her grip on his hand, letting her knuckles turn white from the sheer force of her grasp.

He's home.

"If it weren't for Henry, I'd of had you already."

Brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, she allows her fingertips to linger, toying with the jewel of her earring. She tugs it loose after a moment, and follows suit with the other one. Placing the old jewellery down on her dresser, she feels Will come up behind her.

He's warm, warmer than she expects, but colder than she remembers.

"Henry and Carina." She corrects him, an amused tone to her voice.

Of course her son would come back from his adventures at sea with a beautiful girl in tow. Of course. He is his father's son, after all. He is her son, after all. She's never been sure which of them both he takes after the most.

Elizabeth rests her hands down on the edge of the dresser then, peering over her shoulder at her husband. "Would you care to unbutton me, Mr. Turner?"

"Eagerly, Miss Swann." There's something in the way he says it that lets her know he's teasing her, and she smacks the back of his hand when it rides from her waist to her shoulder. "Elizabeth?"

He tries again, and she only raises a brow sharply in mock ennui, "Right." Will clears his throat, lowers his voice. "Mrs. Turner, then."

Elizabeth nods once, twice, bounces on the balls of her feet shortly before turning once again to face her mirror. She takes in the sight of them both; older and yet so impassioned by one another.

"Are you going to undress me then?" Growing impatient, she strops mockingly, shrugging one shoulder until she feels his fingers rest at the top of her dress.

Gathering the long brown hair at the nape of her neck into one hand, she keeps her arm steady as he unfastens the top of her dress. It isn't too complex, only buttons running down her spine.

Her room, their room, has grown hot suddenly, she finds. Or perhaps it's just the way his eyes keep catching hers in the mirror's reflection that bathes her with such warmness .

Will lets the tips of his fingers rest at the waist of her dress once he finishes undoing each button, his flesh warm against the softness of her dress' derrière. Moving her shoulders backwards, his wife makes a move to let the dress fall from the tops of her arms, revealing smooth tanned skin.

She holds a hand around her throat at that, uses her other hand to unclasp the jewellery from her neck. Placing it down on the dresser, she gasps in surprise when Will patterns her movement, shifting his right hand from the low of her back to her collarbone, pads of his fingers edging slowly towards her throat. He barely holds her there before he's letting his touch fall lower, gliding the palm of his hand down towards her simple corset.

She stops him by taking a moment to step out of her dress, gathering the remaining material in her hands before shifting it down her legs completely. She kicks the cloth aside before regaining her stance and letting him continue.

Stilling her body, she waits patiently as he unties the laces of her corset, tugging on the stiff strings until they give way. Starting softly, Will quickly changes his mind, and she lets out a gasp when he roughly pulls at the garment, yanking it away from her body. It may have torn, she isn't sure. It doesn't matter.

Feeling herself grow impatient, Elizabeth finally turns around and rests her left hand against his chest. She traces the area where his scar once lay, once again, before dipping her right hand below his hips. She tugs the crimson shirt from its constraints, watching as the old flowing material flies free from his pants.

Crunching the wrinkled shirt up in her hands, she urges him to raise his arms, lifting both brows suggestively. Will catches on, a hint of a grin dancing along his lips as he obeys, letting her remove the darkened red cloth from his upper body.

At this, she regains her hands' positioning on his waist, one hand on his belt, the other on his left hip. Unbuckling his belt, she manages to loosen the entirety of the item without much of a struggle, though she finds herself reminded of the labours of wearing mens' clothing. Womens' dresses aren't much better though, she thinks.

Finally with her grip on his trousers, she doesn't waste another moment before tugging them down his legs, not even bothering to undo any fastening or keep his underclothes on him. They soon join his earlier discarded scarves and their socks and shoes on the wooden floor, carelessly shoved aside at the foot of the bed.

Elizabeth allows a moment's pause then, placing her hands on her husband's bare torso, taking in a deep breath. It's been so long, too long, since they were last this close, this intimate. It's hard to believe it's real. It's hard to believe it's truly happening.

Ten years is a long time. Twenty, even more.

"It's almost sunrise, you know."

"Then I guess it's lucky you no longer have to leave."

"You know I never wanted to." Will lowers his head, allows his forehead to rest against hers, one hand moving to gently cup the side of her face.

Elizabeth nods, can't help that little smirk that graces her lips. She swallows a breath, shuffles her feet closer until she is stood so near, so close to him that they're almost one being. "Yes."

Licking her lips, she closes her eyes as her head moves to nuzzle in the crook of his neck. He's taller than her, and she's missed their shapes coming together to form each other's missing half.

"But that never made it easier." They've parted ways twice; once when they were still only young, and once when they were grown parents to a child. But that child is independent now, and they needn't worry about him as much. "Do you remember last time?"

Will chuckles, slides his palm from her jaw to hold the back of her neck in his hand comfortably. His fingers press, and she lets out the softest of moans against his collarbone. "He wouldn't stop asking about that bloody kraken, would he? Even when he was falling asleep."

"I remember him not wanting to fall asleep because he thought you'd already be gone by the time he woke up." She lowers her arms, lets her eyes drift up to meet his own, brown peering into brown. "I remember not wanting to fall asleep myself in case you had already gone when I woke up."

"I wouldn't have left, not like that." He kisses the top of her head then, scraping brown hair behind her shoulder with his other hand. "I wouldn't ever leave like that. I don't plan on leaving your side at all, actually."

There's a hint of the boy she remembers in his face, in his look, and she feels her cheeks blush at the memory of a younger him. His brows knitted, his face thoughtful. "I don't plan on letting you leave my side, either. Never again. Not now, not tomorrow. Not in ten years."

She rests both hands on the sides of his face at that, leans up to kiss him the way she hasn't in what feels like an eternity. It's only been hours, though. Perhaps even less. Had they kissed again after eating, after swapping mad stories with Henry and Carina? She doesn't remember, doesn't really want to.

It doesn't matter anyhow. She can kiss him when she wants to now. Her husband, her home.

Her shift doesn't do much to hide her modesty, and without a second thought she's pulling the garment up and over her head, tossing it aside to join the rest of their clothes. Brown hair tumbling down her back, she slips out of her underclothes and shifts her focus onto his face once she is completely bare.

"Have you no modesty, Mrs. Turner?" He teases, grins down at the shameless look on her face.

"Not right now, no." Grabbing his hands, she places them of her hips before closing her eyes at the touch, all skin and worn flesh and a feeling she hasn't felt in so long.

He kisses her then, removing one hand from under her grasp, raising it to slip beneath her chin and tilt her head up until her lips met his own.

"Would you rather I put my dress back on?" She quips, left corner of her mouth curling, daring. "Would you rather have me like that?"

"I would have you anyway I were allowed."

Elizabeth bites at her bottom lip then, only briefly, and her brown eyes flicker down to stare at his mouth. "Properly?" She rocks back on her heels, feels a breeze shoot through their window and blow against her hair.

They've been here before, done this before, beat this horse until it no longer remained, "Eagerly. That is you'll still have me too."

"Always." She kisses him then, framing his face with her hands, applying pressure, offering him everything she has left to give, tracing every each of his flesh with the pads of her fingertips. He copies, she feels, runs cool hands over her back. "Always, you."

If only she possessed a magic compass, it would point directly at him. Always, no matter where he went. For she was his true north, the lighthouse guiding him home on a dark horizon.

"Welcome home, pirate."

A smile on his face, Will leans in to his wife, nose brushing against her own, just as eager to return her kisses and share his life, his heart, his world. Completely, this time. Unconditionally. Eternally.

Before finally letting his lips drift against her own, before allowing them both to fall into bed with the sinful intention of never leaving, he whispers into her ear, breathes her name the way he once had when they were only young lovers, watches proudly a blush coats her cheeks,

"Elizabeth."