He knows there's someone aboard the Jolly before he even hears the footsteps.
It's something he's developed over time—a sixth sense, so to speak.
So when the deck creaks beneath the weight of another person, and a body drops down on the bench next to him, he isn't surprised.
What does surprise him is who the person is.
"Been a long time since I've been on this ship," Bae—Neal, whoever he is now—comments with an air of wistfulness.
Killian glances over at him, studying. The younger man looks odd, he thinks, in a tunic and pants; Baelfire wouldn't have, but he's not quite sure that he really sees him as Bae anymore.
Neal squints into the setting sun, and he has lines around his eyes just like Milah did.
"Aye," Killian agrees after a long moment. "That it has."
Silence stretches between them, not quite companionable, but not quite uncomfortable, either.
After a beat, Neal speaks, finally turning to Killian for the first time. "Regina finished the potion. Everything's ready to go."
Killian feels something close to resentment burning in the pit of his stomach—he tells himself that it's the lamb stew from dinner—and he takes a deep swig from the flask in his hand. "Well, then, I expect you'll be off at first light."
He can't really help it if the words come out more bitter than he'd intended, can he?
There's another beat of silence. Neal scuffs the toe of his boot along the deck.
"I'm not going. You are."
Killian pauses, flask halfway to his lips, but he doesn't have a chance to question before Neal is turning, his whole body moving to face Killian's.
"Did Emma ever tell you what her secret was? In the Echo Cave?" His words are intense, demanding, startling in the gentle lull of twilight. His eyes are just as severe, the same muddy brown as the crocodile's—Mr. Gold, he corrects himself.
"No."
"And you never asked about it?"
Killian shrugs, trying to hide his growing irritation; the boy doesn't need to gloat, for grief's sake. "It seemed that if she wanted me to know, she would've told me."
Neal nods, shifting back around on the bench so that he's facing forward again. He stares out into the horizon, and even though his brow is furrowed and his jaw is set, Killian can see the hollowness in his eyes.
"Her secret was that she'd hoped it was a trick—she'd hoped I was really dead. Because it would've been easier to put me behind her, to mourn me, than to try to build another relationship with me. She's ready to move on, Hook. She doesn't want me anymore, not in the way she wants you."
He blinks. Pauses to force his heart back into action and drag in another breath of air.
She doesn't want me anymore.
Not in the way she wants you.
"If you'll recall, mate, she never quite wanted me in the first place." His voice is hoarse, trembling, and he knows that Neal isn't buying into his false bravado bullshit anymore.
"Yes she did. And you know it. That kiss, it wasn't just a one-time thing, not for either of you."
His words bring to mind a steaming jungle and the stench of sweat and the feeling of rough, chapped lips on his own, and it's a wonderful memory—one of the best he has.
No. No.
He can't get his hopes up. He can't let himself think about the possibilities—can't even let them enter his mind—because this is what Killian Jones does. Killian Jones daydreams and falls in love and aches with every fiber of his goddamn bloody soul. And then when Killian Jones falls—when he crumples under the weight of his crushed hopes and his smoldering dreams—then Captain Hook has to come along behind him and clean up the mess, and well, Captain Hook's only got one hand.
"You're Henry's father." He forces the words out around his tongue, the same tongue that still remembers the way Emma's teeth had felt. "You should be the one to go."
But Neal is shaking his head even before Killian's done speaking. "I'm Henry's father. I'm not Emma's love. And it's gonna take love to get her back here, so if you think you've got it, then by all means." He gestures out in front of his body, a symbolic sweeping. "Go for it. I officially step back."
Killian snorts, taking another draw of the rum. "I've already stepped back, mate. You're a bit slow on the draw."
"Well, then, you need to step forward again before somebody else does."
Neal's words are sharp and unforgiving, and they give Killian pause. An image flashes through his head of Emma in someone else's arms, her body pressed up against another's, calling out someone else's name—
Bloody hell.
He's always been the jealous type. And even though Emma isn't technically his, he sure as hell wants her to be.
He looks over at Neal—really looks this time—and sees a determination that he knows there's no use fighting against. Neal's eyes tighten—he must see the resignation in Killian's face—and he nods once more, shoulders relaxing a touch.
Killian feels a funny pang shoot through his chest at the sight of this man who used to be a boy—a boy who was the closest thing he ever got to a son of his own, the only living, breathing piece of the woman he'd once given everything for.
Everything but the things that counted, that is.
He wouldn't make that mistake twice.
"I will bring her back," he swears quietly. "All of her."
"I know you will," Neal replies, voice tight.
"No." Killian sits up straighter, reaches out to grab Neal's shoulder, to turn him, because it's crucial that he understand. "I will bring her back."
Neal's face lights with understanding, and then crumples again in defeat, and as much as it pains Killian to see, to make that kind of declaration, he knows that, somehow, it'll be a comfort.
There's another beat of silence.
"Look after the lady, will you?" Killian asks, jerking his chin towards the helm when Neal glances up questioningly. "I do need to make sure she's left in capable hands."
A rueful smile crosses Neal's face, and he brings two fingers up in a lose salute.
"Aye, aye, cap'n."
For the second time in less that forty-eight hours, he found himself staring at Emma Swan's door.
He raised a hand to knock, and at the last moment, pulled it away. He turned and paced three steps, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.
What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?
How the hell was he supposed to get her back?
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stood still, working to calm himself. He was full of a strange, fidgety nervous energy, not aided by the fact that he felt utterly ridiculous in David's jacket and Neal's pants. His hook, too, was gone—left in his satchel on the dresser of the hotel room he'd rented—and without it, he felt completely disarmed, entirely out of his element.
He glared down at his limp left sleeve, as if it were to blame for his lack of courage.
Well…
No. He couldn't think like that. He didn't have time to think like that.
He pulled in a breath and squared his shoulders, shoving aside his insecurities. And then, before he had another chance to back out or second guess himself, he rapped three times on the door.
When the boy answered, he couldn't help but stare. And blink.
Bleeding hell.
He swore the last time he'd seen Henry, the lad had been at least six inches shorter.
"Yes?"
He cleared his throat, forcing the words out of his mouth. "Erm—ah—yes, I was wondering if—"
"Henry? Who is it?"
Killian felt his heart stop—and his hand twitch down towards his nether regions—when Emma's head appeared above Henry's. As soon as she saw him, her mouth hardened into a thin line.
"I don't know who the hell you think you are, mister, but if you came back here to—"
"To apologize," he cut in before she could get any farther. "I came to apologize."
She paused, eyes uncertain, and he rushed to continue before she had a chance to make up her mind, knowing this was his last shot.
"I am so terribly sorry for yesterday morning. I was entirely out of line."
She didn't say anything for a long moment, instead laying a hand on Henry's shoulder, and directing him back inside the apartment. The boy went, reluctantly, glancing back every few steps, and if Killian hadn't been so nervous, he would've chuckled.
"Yeah," she finally agreed, arms crossing over her chest as she moved a half step closer. "Yeah, you were. You're lucky I didn't call the cops."
He ducked his head in acquiescence, not entirely sure that she wouldn't still be calling the authorities.
"Who are you?"
It wasn't so much her question that caught him off guard, but her tone of voice: burningly curious, almost pleading. There was something else there, something under the surface that was getting to her. He glanced back up, brow furrowing.
"Killian Jones," he replied automatically. "My name is Killian Jones."
He watched as all of the color drained from her face.
Killian Jones. Killian. Killian.
The name echoed in her head as she stood frozen, eyes wide. He frowned, obviously concerned, and she didn't blame him—she was sure she looked like she'd just seen a ghost.
She felt like she'd just seen a ghost.
Please, Killian. Please don't leave me.
"Emma?" He took a step forward, reaching out for her, just stopping short of actually touching her arm. "Are you all right?"
Emma. Emma. He'd called her Emma, and she hadn't even introduced herself yet.
How the hell did he know her name was Emma?
She hadn't meant to ask. She didn't want to know. But her mouth, apparently, had a mind of its own, and look where it'd gotten her.
She couldn't even speak.
She thought about running, she wanted to run—wanted to turn her back and slam the door and forget he'd ever shown up in the first place.
But his eyes were blue, and he was wearing a leather jacket and he'd called her Emma and his name was Killian.
Somehow, she knew, there wouldn't be any running this time.
