Over the next few days, Emma saw a side of Hook that she had only glimpsed fleetingly before. In the rare occasions that they were alone together, his walls would come down and his brash demeanour would fade, replaced by an oddly uncharacteristic sincerity. The more she saw this hidden side of him, the more Emma began to notice a distinct difference between his two personas: Hook was slick, smooth-talking, all polished veneer and roguish charm; Killian was measured, thoughtful, more genuine. He talked about his adventures as a young deckhand aboard an older pirate's ship; told her what he remembered of his father, the man who had abandoned him long ago; he told her what had happened to Milah. In those moments Emma could hardly bear to see the shadows in his expression, the ghosts from his past coming back to haunt him. It made her want to reach out, to hold him close and whisper promises she knew she couldn't keep; promises of family, of love and hope – a happy ending. But they both knew better than to believe in happy endings.

Instead, she told him about the long string of foster homes that had occupied her childhood, about her experiences in jail and in the years before Henry had shown up on her doorstep and her whole world had been thrown off-kilter. It became a kind of game between them: 'I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours'. They revealed the darkest parts of themselves; the raw wounds and the age-old scars. Nothing he told her was too much to handle, and the same applied to him. Of course, he had more than two-hundred years of life experience on her, but her mere twenty-eight years had been anything but bland. It was on these occasions, leaning against the side of the ship and swapping stories, that Emma saw the man she had glimpsed at the top of the beanstalk, the one who had returned to Storybrooke and offered his services to help find her son. She saw Killian Jones when the others only saw Captain Hook.

And now they were fighting.

"God, Hook, if you'd just give it a chance–"

"It's a bloody stupid idea and that's the end of it." He stalked away from her, to the helm of the ship. It was well after midnight, the barest sliver of a moon already beginning to descend in the sky. The others had gone to sleep some time ago, but Emma had stayed above deck, lingering until he finished securing the ship. She had a plan to find Henry, but she couldn't do it alone.

"So that's it? Your word is final now? I don't think so," she followed him, her boots clicking against the polished wood. It had taken her awhile to get her sea legs, but now being aboard the rocking deck felt as natural to her as breathing.

He whirled to face her, blue eyes electric, "I am the Captain of this ship, or have you forgotten that?"

Emma crossed her arms firmly over her chest, refusing to back down, "he's my son."

"You're out of your mind, Swan. You don't even know what it is you're suggesting."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "don't patronise me. You said yourself that making a deal with the sirens is the best way to get information around here."

"I also said it was one of the stupidest things a person could do," he gritted his teeth, "you have no idea what they're capable of."

"And you do?" she shot back.

His face darkened, and she saw something flicker momentarily in his eyes before it was gone; some memory from his past that he had yet to reveal to her. Of course he knows, she thought bitterly. This was, after all, a man who was willing to go to the ends of the Earth and back to exact his revenge.

She sighed, "look, it's simple. I trade them an object of mine for information on Henry's location. Problem solved."

"There's nothing simple about it," he snapped, "once a deal is made, Swan, they own you. They won't tell you a single thing unless what you give them is valuable; something close to your heart – and if they have that they have a piece of you. They can access your most treasured memories, your darkest fears. And they use them against you. "

"You seem to have gotten away just fine," she pointed out.

Again she saw a shadow flit across his features. His eyes flashed dangerously. "Aye," he agreed, "but it came at a price, and what I experienced in the few weeks that the sirens owned me…" he trailed off, glancing out at the vast expanse of flat, deceptively calm ocean. When he looked back at her his eyes had returned to their usual piercing blue, "…well, lass, that is not a fate I would wish upon anyone."

Not even Mr. Gold? Emma bit back the urge to respond. Instead she squared her shoulders, "whatever the cost, it can't be as bad as this," she gestured at the water all around them, suddenly feeling very small, "it can't be as bad as knowing that he's out there somewhere, scared and alone, but having no way of reaching him." She looked up at him, her voice pleading, "you know I can't manage this on my own. Maybe with you backing me up, the others will agree to help," it was a struggle for her to get the words out, but she forced down her pride and said it anyway.

"I know you want your boy back, but this isn't the way. We will find him, Emma. I promise." There was no trace of Hook's sardonic smile in his expression. He was Killian Jones again.

She tilted her chin stubbornly, and her next words were edged with ice, "I thought you of all people would understand." She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist, spinning her back around to face him.

"I do understand," he looked at her, "believe me. But this is too dangerous, lass. What good will it do to rescue him at the cost of your own soul?"

His fingers still encircled her wrist, and she was suddenly very aware of the warmth of his skin on hers. She forced her walls back into place, willing herself to be indifferent to the expression on his face. "Why do you even care?"

The effect of her words was instantaneous. Colour rushed to his cheeks, and his mouth half-opened in astonishment, then closed again, setting into a hard line. "I've offered you my ship," he said roughly, "I've put up with that blasted crocodile for the past four days. I've returned to bloody Neverland, with not a single complaint. And yet you continue to doubt my intentions."

She glared at him, shaking her arm free, "so what if I do? For the past three centuries all you've cared about is yourself and your revenge. And I'm supposed to believe that suddenly you've changed?! Of course there's something in it for you. There always is."

She didn't know if he moved first or she did, but suddenly he was right in her face, positively seething with fury, "you still don't get it, do you? I thought I made it perfectly clear why I was here."

"Not to me," Emma retorted, "why are you even–"

And then he kissed her.

It was hot and hard and hungry, his mouth claiming hers, channelling the tension and desire and pent up frustration that had been crackling between them ever since they had climbed that beanstalk together. She gasped against his mouth, her hands flattening out on his chest, but he only held her tighter, pulling her closer. His hand was in her hair, his left arm thrown around her waist, clutching her to him in a possessive, vice-like grip. And in that moment she felt all of it, felt him wanting her, needing her to understand, to trust him. She closed her eyes and kissed him back. Heat radiated from his body, making her feel deliciously warm. He tasted like salt and spice and faintly of rum. He smelled like home. She wanted nothing more than to reach up and twine her fingers through his hair and–

"Stop," she broke away from him abruptly, her breathing ragged.

The night rushed over her, the chilly air slapping her back into reality. They were standing on the deck of the Jolly Roger, every surface coated in a cold silvery light. She had the feeling of resurfacing from frigid water.

"Emma…"

And he was staring at her as if she were the most amazing thing on Earth. His voice was just as unsteady as hers had been, his breath forming white clouds in the air between them. His face was so open, so trusting. It hurt to look at him. He raised his hand as if to reach for her, and she stepped back almost automatically, keeping herself at arm's length.

"Don't," her voice was harsh in the still silence, and he dropped his hand immediately, flinching as if she'd scalded him.

"Emma," he said again, more quietly this time.

She shut her eyes, and her memories seemed to collide behind her closed lids, the fragmented images all blurring into one. Graham saying her name; Neal saying her name; and now Hook. It always ended the same way. She saw the pain in Graham's face as he slumped into her arms. She felt her hand grasping nothing but air as Neal let go and disappeared into the void.

"Please." Her voice was raw, betraying the emotion she usually kept locked away so securely. She opened her eyes, and he was still looking at her, his eyes never wavering from hers. She couldn't bear the expression in their blue depths.

So she turned and walked away, for once in her life leaving before she had the chance to be left.

Author Note: So...yeah :) I thought it was only appropriate to post this given the recent - ahem - spoilers about our favourite Pirate and Saviour **coughGoodFormcough** I honestly don't know how I'm going to make it to next week's episode (nine days! It might as well be a millenia away). I'll try to get the next chapter edited before 'Nasty Habits' airs. And hey, while you're anticipating that much-hyped Captain Swan moment, why not send a review my way? I've never really written a scene like this before so I have no idea if it's good or horrible or what, but let me know!