You chose her, and the consequences of that decision.

He feels her kiss on his lips long after her little yellow car has vanished from his sight.

Afterwards, they're an awkward congregation, milling about on the side of the road outside the town hall. He can see that Emma's mother is distressed to the point of tears, but the Prince has that situation in hand. His gaze meets the other man's, then Killian tilts his head towards Henry in a silent query. David's nod is quick, but grateful nevertheless, and Killian recognises the magnitude of the task with which he has been graced.

He will keep Emma's lad safe from harm until her return from New York.

And after her return, he amends silently as he turns to clap the boy on the shoulder. If she'll have him, he plans to defend her and those she loves until his dying day.

(Hopefully, such a day is many years away, but he's learned not to tempt the fates by speaking of survival out loud.)

"Fancy a bite to eat, lad?"

Henry's smile is but a shadow of its usual self, but he's a growing boy, and Killian is confident of the answer he will receive. "I could eat."

He turns to extend the invitation to Emma's parents, but immediately realises they are in no mood for company. Mary Margaret's countenance is fretful as she and David converse in hushed voices, and he hears the word Neal more than once. "I'll escort Henry home after lunch," he announces, and receives another nod from David.

"Appreciate it, thanks."

As Emma's parents start to make their way towards the loft (Belle is babysitting the babe, it seems) Killian and Henry begin to trudge towards Granny's. "It's weird, both my Moms being gone," the lad observes, and Killian can't help but agree. He's never been in this town without Emma and, not more than five minutes after her departure, he is already quite certain that he's not going to enjoy it.

Unfortunately, for the most part, he's correct. Emma's parents are wracked with guilt and worry, and conversations with them are strained, to say the least. It's a very strange thing, to have these people looking to him for reassurance when it comes to their daughter. It's almost as if they've come to believe he understands Emma better than they do.

Perhaps they're right.

Henry, on the other hand, is excellent company. They take to the water more than once, and he quickly learns that the lad has taken those knot tying lessons to heart. The words between them range from banter to questions as deep and fathomless as the ocean itself. The first instance is easy - he's always had an easy way with younger folk – and he treads carefully with the second. He listens as Henry speaks of Baelfire and Neverland, of Pan and the Lost Boys, answering questions when required, being silent when he knows the lad is merely musing aloud.

As the hours pass without any word from Emma, Killian gives into the temptation of imagining the worst. He knows she's a true warrior in any realm, but he dearly wishes he was by her side now, helping her face the demons of her past. They'd quarrelled (more of a mild tussle than a quarrel, but still) about that very thing on the morning she and Regina departed. As he guides Henry through the process of releasing the windward jib sheet to turn them towards the harbour, he finds himself replaying their conversation in his thoughts yet again.

Her hair is soft beneath his hand as he touches her shoulder, but he resists the urge to curl a golden strand around his finger. "I wish you would allow me to accompany you, Swan."

She's tempted by the offer, he sees it in her eyes, but she shakes her head. "I'd feel better if you were here with Henry."

He frowns at that. "But your parents-"

"They've got their hands full with Neal and the Sheriff's department right now," she mutters, her expression troubled. "I trust you to keep him safe, okay?"

As she speaks, her hand presses gently over his heart, her thumb idly toying with the charms of his necklace. It's the most chaste of touches, yet it still ignites his blood. He covers her hand with his, dipping his head so better to meet her gaze. "It will be an honour."

The sound of Henry's voice - it's teetering between child and man, a crack in every other word – brings him back to the present. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

It's a rhetorical question to be sure, as he's learned that nothing can dampen young Master Mills' determination to seek answers. He's rather like his mother in that respect, and the thought makes Killian smile. "Fire away, lad."

Henry gestures around them at the small but serviceable sailing boat they'd acquired that morning (legal tender had exchanged hands on this occasion) before giving him a faintly accusing look. "You haven't taken your own ship out since you got it back."

Killian grins as he checks the tension on the mooring lines. The lad has performed the task admirably, and he feels a swell of pride. "That's not actually a question, you realise."

Henry makes an exasperated sound. "You know what I mean."

Killian hesitates. He has no wish to embarrass the boy, but he has made a point of being as open and truthful with him as possible. "Before it became clear that a trip to New York was in order, I had planned to invite your good self and your mother onto the Jolly Roger for its first outing since being restored to me."

Henry widens his eyes comically. "Which mother?"

Killian chuckles. "With all due respect to Madam Mayor, I think we both know which mother I had in mind."

"So when they get back, we'll go sailing on the Jolly Roger?"

The optimism shining in the lad's eyes brings a lump to his throat. Not once would he have considered the possibility that something might go wrong in New York. Remembering his own dire imaginings, Killian feels somewhat chastened. "Aye, that we will."

The first night Emma is gone, he dreams of Liam. Not dying in his arms of Nightshade, but of a moment that never happened, a reality that never came to pass.

The Jewel of the Realm is burning, the licking flames a lurid orange against the night sky. Killian's eyes burn as well, with smoke and tears as he searches for his brother, hearing only the frantic shouts of the crew as they beg him to save himself, to abandon ship.

He will not leave his brother behind.

The Jewel cracks in two, shuddering beneath his feet, taking on water as quickly as Poseidon can summon the lurching waves. He only searches more frantically, shouting Liam's name until his voice tears at his throat. Finally, he sees him, clinging to the wheel, his shoulders straight and true despite the maelstrom around them. He cries out for his brother, just in time to see The Dark One slip from the fiery shadows and plunge his hand into Liam's chest. The cackling giggle of madness rises above the roar of the flames and the sea, and the last thing Killian sees is the dust that was once his brother's heart shimmering darkly to the broken deck below, then washed away clean in an instant.

He comes to his senses, gasping and sweating, his heart pounding an angry tattoo against his ribs. He tells himself that he is in his own bed, underneath the Widow Lucas' roof, but he can almost feel the sway of the heaving deck beneath him, feel the heat of the flames on his skin.

(He doesn't have to dream see the pain in Liam's eyes as his life was stolen from him. It's something that never leaves him.)

He sits up in bed, scrubbing his face with a shaking hand. He hasn't dreamed of his brother in months, and he suspects the resurgence of such dark images has been brought on by his fears for another loved one's heart.

He fumbles for the flask on his bedside table, replacing the dryness in his mouth with the comforting burn of rum. He knows Emma's heart cannot be taken by force, he's seen that with his own eyes. But the darkness is a very different matter. The darkness doesn't need to steal her heart away, it only needs to infect and seduce and manipulate until it pushes aside reason and love and forgiveness.

He puts the flask aside, his own heart hardening at the thought of Gold's insidious machinations. He will not lose another cherished soul to the Dark One. He will not let Emma succumb to the darkness, not while there is breath in his body.

Though perhaps, once again, it's best if he refrains from making such vows out loud.

Emma's call comes late on the second night, and he almost knocks the telephone device to the floor in his haste to answer. They've exchanged short messages that Henry calls texts sporadically since her departure, but the need to hear her voice is suddenly overwhelming.

"Hey, it's me."

He closes his eyes. "Aye, so the telephone forewarned me."

There's a soft snort of derision (lovingly so, he likes to think) at the other end. "You guys okay?"

Perhaps it's just wishful thinking, but he can't help feeling that she's enquiring after himself. She's been in steady contact with her boy since she left, after all. "I'm fine." His lips feel dry, and he finds himself licking them nervously before he goes on, not wishing to sound as bereft without her as he feels. "Though, life has been somewhat dull since your departure, I must admit."

She's always been adept at reading him, and it seems this evening is no exception. "I miss you, too."

The simple words send a ripple of warmth through him. "How goes your retrieval mission?"

"We found Lily."

He frowns. "You don't sound very happy about it."

There's a heavy sigh. "It's not that. Well, not really. It's just that we found Robin too, and let's say that things didn't go exactly the way we'd planned."

He grimaces, not envying the other man's position. "Did Loxley not believe the truth of his wife's identity?"

"He did, but it's a bit more complicated than that."

"I'm all ears, love."

For the next few minutes, he sits on the edge of his bed and listens with growing disbelief to a tale of lies, trickery and impending motherhood. When she's finished, he truly doesn't know what to say.

"Bloody hell."

His reaction not only seems to suffice, but Emma is more than happy to respond in kind. "I know, right?"

"Do you think she's being truthful about being with child?"

"Well, she's lied about almost everything else, so you have to wonder."

A brief silence falls between them, and his throat aches with all the words he won't allow himself to say until she's safely back in his arms. "What happens now?"

"We're heading home tonight."

He blinks. "All of you?"

"Yep."

He finds himself half-smiling, both at her self-satisfied tone and at the prospect of such a mismatched traveling ensemble. "That should enliven things around here."

"You did say it had been quiet lately."

He can hear the grudging smile in her voice, and he laughs quietly, feeling the invisible strings of communication between them hum with longing. "Drive safely, Swan."

He hears a scoffing sound. "You're starting to sound like my dad." Before he can protest – it's hardly a compliment in this instance – she goes on. "How are they? My parents?"

Her voice is small, almost child-like, and it brings a lump to his throat. "As well as can be expected."

"Can you tell them everything that I've told you? I'm not ready to, uh, you know."

Thinking of the awkward leave-taking he'd witnessed two days earlier, he does indeed know. "Leave it to me, Swan."

"I have to go. I'm on Zelena watch while Regina and Robin go somewhere to talk in private, and I've already kept them waiting five minutes." She hesitates, and he clears his throat.

"So I'll see you tomorrow then."

"You will."

Then she's gone, and he closes his eyes, pressing the silent telephone hard against his forehead. He's barely become accustomed to using the strange electronic devices of this realm, but he's already learned just how awkward such communications can be.

It matters not.

He takes a deep breath, then presses the buttons that will call the Prince's telephone. Emma is coming home. Despite the notion of that magical nonsense is once again about to darken their collection doorstep, that's all that matters.

"Maybe I should wait here." Snow is cradling her coat to her chest, instead of donning it like the others. "You know that anything can happen when it comes to Maleficent, and someone needs to look after Neal-"

David takes the coat from her hands and holds it out for her as if he's helping her slip into a royal stole rather than a sensible pea coat. "Belle will be here in a few minutes."

At the door, Henry has stopped trying to conceal his impatience and has resorted to wheedling. "Come on, you guys."

Killian has to admit, he feels somewhat impatient himself.

Belle arrives, and they linger further amidst a fluffy of instructions and last-minute hesitation, until David practically strong arms his wife out the door. "Make every new day the best we can, remember?"

Mary Margaret lifts her chin, and in her eyes Killian sees her daughter's fire. "I remember."

It's but a two minute walk to Granny's, and Killian thinks he counts every single step. Beside him, Henry talks of nothing but Zelena and her most recent trick, and it's soon clear that the lad is concerned for his adoptive mother's reaction to her true love's current predicament. "I just hope she doesn't, you know-"

He makes a cupping motion with his hand, and Killian can almost see the imaginary fireball atop his palm. "She's come too far to slide backwards now, Henry."

He dearly hopes he's right.

When the first flash of yellow crests the slight rise in the road, his pulse quickens. The murmuring amongst the loitering townsfolk grows, and he sends up a silent prayer to the Gods that the next few moments run as smoothly as one might possibly hope.

The two-car convoy moves down Main Street, and Killian sees a flash of blonde hair as Emma's vehicle approaches. There's a dark-haired woman in the passenger seat, and he can only assume it's her childhood friend.

The dragon's missing child.

This cannot bode well, he thinks, then squelches the thought ruthlessly. Now is not the time for naysaying, not when there are so many delicate alliances at stake.

The yellow Bug comes to a shuddering halt, and his pulse spikes again. Behind him, he can feel the rising tension practically emitting from Emma's parents. Beside him, however, Henry is bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I guess that's Lily."

Killian manages to tear his gaze away from Emma to study the sullen expression of the woman sitting beside her. "I suppose it is."

Then Emma emerges from the car and everything and everyone else disappears. Killian plants his feet firmly on the ground as Henry darts forward and is quickly swallowed up in his mother's embrace. Emma smiles as she closes her eyes and pulls her lad close, and Killian's heart lurches.

It's been a long time since he's seen her smile like that.

He does his best not to eavesdrop on her conversation with Henry, then her gaze meets his over her son's shoulder. His gut tightens at the impact of those emerald green eyes, and whatever she says to Henry has the lad stepping back with a smile and going to greet Regina.

Killian can no more stop his feet from carrying him to Emma's side than he could have stopped himself from falling in love with the bloody woman in the first place.

He opens his arms and she comes to him without hesitation, the force of her almost rocking him back on his heels. The supple heat of her body seems to melt into his, and he pulls her closer, uncaring of their curious audience. She buries her face against his throat, and her words are warm against his skin. "I missed you."

He closes his eyes. Definitely more potent when they're not said over the telephone, he decides. "And I you." The scent of her, the familiar fragrance of her hair layered over an unfamiliar soap, teases his nose. Feeling the tension thrumming through her, he rubs his palm in a gentle circle over her back, the leather of her jacket smooth against his skin. "More than I can say."

Her arm tightens around his waist, then she leans back, pinning him on the spot with an intent green gaze. "I don't know about you, but a quiet walk along the docks sounds pretty good to me right about now."

The words are commonplace, almost ordinary, but he'd have to be a dead man not to hear the unspoken invitation in them. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and has to bite the inside of his cheek as his hips brush against hers for a fleeting but exquisite moment. "I couldn't agree more."

She smiles into his eyes, her face aglow, but their intimate moment is painfully brief. Regina has obviously grown impatient of waiting for Emma to make her hellos and enlisted David's help to drag Zelena blinking into the sunlight from the back seat of Emma's car. In his arms, Emma sighs heavily. "Maybe later?"

"Definitely." He can hold back no longer, and presses his lips to her temple. Her skin is warm against his mouth, and memories of the taste of her - salty sweet on his tongue as he kissed her throat in a stolen moment three days earlier - hum through his blood. Patience, he rebukes himself. Feeling the weight of anticipation of the two people waiting behind him, he carefully eases Emma away from him, but not before he puts his mouth close to her ear. "Your parents have missed you too, love."

He feels her nod, her cheek brushing against his jaw, then she turns towards her parents. She doesn't move from his side, though, and he realises she wants him to stay close as she tackles this next hurdle.

He can categorically say that he has no problem with that.

By the end of the day, as they scramble to gather their wits after Maleficent's daughter's winged debut, there are three words pounding in his head.

Bloody buggering magic.

They might be singed and sooty, but there are no physical casualties, unless one counts the side awning of Granny's and Walter's vehicle. When he sees the pain in Emma's face, though, and knows there are some injuries that can't be seen with the naked eye.

"This isn't your fault, love."

Her jaw clenches, her voice becoming clipped and brittle. "You sure about that?"

They're in her parents' kitchen, but they're far from alone. Three of the dwarves are here (Walter is cradling a large glass of whiskey), while Granny and Marco are in the process of taking their leave from David and Mary Margaret, the latter cradling the young Prince in her arms.

"I am." Reaching out, he brushes his knuckles against the curve of her jaw, his heartbeat quickening when she leans into his touch. "It was the honourable thing to do, reuniting mother and child."

She looks far from convinced. "And, as usual, doing the honourable thing has come back to bite me in the ass." She swipes the back of her hand across her temple, making a face when it comes away with a dark grey smudge. "What if me bringing Lily back to Storybrooke was just another piece in Gold's puzzle?"

His heart sinks at the defeat in her voice. "Then we'll find a way to thwart him, like we always do."

"Emma?"

They turn in unison to see Mary Margaret, no longer cradling her child, her expression anxious. "Can I talk to you about maybe reinforcing the protection spell for the loft?"

Emma clears her throat, a soft, awkward sound. "Sure."

The tension between the two women has become muted over the course of the day, but it's still there, like a living, breathing thing. As Mary Margaret moves away towards the main bedroom, Killian touches Emma gently on the arm. "I might go check on the Jolly Roger. Make sure she hasn't been singed in any serious way."

"I should stay here, I guess." She shoots him a quick glance that seems both wary and hopeful. It's a confusing blend of emotions, but he's come to expect nothing less. "Will you be at Granny's later?"

"I thought I'd spend the night on my ship." He doesn't tell her he'd been hoping she might be there with him. She has enough with which to contend without him adding a layer of romantic expectations. "I'll be well placed to keep an eye on the harbour that way."

Tilting her head, she gives him a long, searching look. "Look at you, being a team player."

The admiration in her eyes is unmistakable, and he feels heat touch the back of his neck. "I've been a sailor and pirate both, love, and I learned long ago that there are times when a man cannot work alone." Leaning forward, he brushes her cheek with a kiss. She tastes of salt and soap and banked embers, and a shudder of desire goes through him. "I also seem to recall the time a beautiful woman exhorted me to become a part of something." Throwing decorum to the wind, he presses a brief but firm kiss to her mouth, savouring the feel of lips partly softly in surprise. "She was very convincing, I must say."

She smiles for what feels like the first time in hours, then glances over her shoulder to where her mother is hovering over baby Neal's crib. "I should go help my mom."

The word mom seems to hum in the air between them, and he gives her a reassuring smile. "She'll like that."

He steps away, and her hand is suddenly curled around his wrist, her gaze searching his face intently. "I'll see you later, okay?"

His breath snags in his chest. He's always been an optimistic man when it came to this woman, but there's a promise in her words that seems to go beyond the prospect of a simple conversation. "I'll be counting the hours."

Much to his relief, the Jolly is unharmed by dragon's breath.

(He never thought he'd have to worry about such a thing in Storybrooke.)

As he walks the deck, his nightmare of the previous evening tugs at his thoughts. Liam had been long dead by the time Killian had met Milah, dead even longer when he'd lost her to the Dark One's twisted pride. Why would he dream of Liam dying in such a way? Had it merely been the product of his concerns for the safely of Emma's heart, or had it been a warning ?

He'd never been a big believer in portents or signs, but that was before his life had become entwined with that of Emma Swan. Now, he finds he's not so hasty to dismiss such things.

There's a book beside his rented bed at Granny's, one of the many tomes Belle has seen fit to bestow on him over the past few weeks. She particularly enjoys the writing of a chap called Shakespeare, and Killian has found himself trawling through more than one of the man's dramatic pieces. As he trails his hand over the familiar curve of his ship's wheel, a particularly poignant phrase comes to mind. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Killian doesn't give a damn about Horatio, but he can't deny that the stars have aligned more than once when it comes to his history with Emma and her people.

Perhaps he should thank Cora, he muses dryly as he gazes out over the harbour. It was she who'd placed him directly in the Saviour's path, after all. Although, to be fair, in reality she'd been merely a useful ally in his quest for the Crocodile.

The name lingers sourly in his thoughts. The Crocodile. The bloody Dark One. Somehow, it always seems to come back to him.

What if Emma was right, and her retrieving the Dragon Queen's daughter had been precisely what the Crocodile had wished? The old bastard is far too wily to loosen his iron-grip on proceedings at this late stage of the game, and Killian has come to believe that nothing happens by chance in this little town.

The moon has begun to rise by the time he finally makes his way below deck. There is nothing to be gained from letting such thoughts consume him this evening. Emma has returned safely from New York and has all but told him she desires his place in this world to be by her side.

The only think that could make this evening better would be if the fair lady herself was with him, but he's a patient man. He's already waited several lifetimes for Emma Swan, and he'd happily wait another.

It's almost midnight when he hears the urgent tapping of booted heels above his head, and he hastily puts aside his book. Bloody Shakespeare, always killing off the most amusing villains. He has time to straighten his rumpled shirt before he hears Emma calling his name from above.

"Down here, love." He runs a hasty hand through his hair, then makes his way to the bottom of the ladder that leads to his quarters. "I'm sure you remember the way."

He steps back as she descends the ladder (if he were a shallow man, he'd observe that a small distance makes it even easier to appreciate the view), her boots hitting the wooden boards with a thump. "Well, this is a very pleasant surprise."

She's breathless, as if she'd run to the docks rather than driven, static crackling in her hair as she pulls the woollen cap from her head. "I have to talk to you."

"You sound vexed, Swan." Something tells him romance is the last thing on her mind at present, and he is careful to keep any trace of his disappointment from his voice. "Are we going to need a drink for this conversation?"

"Maybe." She tosses her knitted cap onto the small table in his quarters, then pulls her gun from the back of her trousers and carefully lays it down. He feels his eyes widen at the sight of the gun, and she waves a carelessly reassuring hand at the firearm. "Don't worry, the safety's on."

He studies her carefully, frowning. "What's happened?" There's a stiffness to her shoulders, an abrupt cadence to her words, and he suddenly fears that her old friend, or even perhaps the Dark One himself, have stirred the waters of impending disaster anew. "Are you alright?"

She looks around his quarters, and he does his best to see it through her eyes. Over the last week, he's steadily worked at reclaiming his space and belongings from that prick Blackbeard, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't have the possibility of feminine company at the back of his mind when he wiped away the dust of another realm, acquired new candles and burned the old bed linen. Finally, she smiles, a hesitant curving of her lips, and he knows he's passed some mysterious test. "You said something about a drink?"

The only comfortable place to sit is his bunk, and it pains him that the notion can bring a flush to his cheeks. Emma seems far more at ease, shrugging out of her red jacket to reveal a black sweater that clings to the curve of her breasts before making herself at home, her long legs stretched out in front of her. Without the brightness of her jacket, they're now dressed in matching black, and he finds the sight oddly pleasing. She watches him avidly as he retrieves his flask (he's very glad he thought to have the Widow Lucas refill it for him earlier today), her gaze following his every move as he unscrews the cap and offers it to her with a flourish. "Ladies first."

She pulls a smiling face at his deliberately overdone gallantry, then takes a long swig. She hands it to him when she's done, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. As he lifts the flask to his lips, he hears her take a deep breath. "How did you end up under that pile of dead bodies so I'd find you?"

He coughs, almost losing the mouthful of rum he's just swallowed. "Pardon?"

Her hands are curled into fists on her knees, and he has the feeling that her heels are slowly drumming against the floorboards. "In the Enchanted Forest." Her gaze flicks up to meet his, then darts away again. "My mom and I fell through a portal that I'd accidentally opened with Regina's help, something no one could have predicted, and yet somehow I ended up in exactly the right place to meet you."

The faint hint of accusation in her voice has him frowning, wondering what has happened in the hours since he left her side to put her in such an interrogative mood. He rests the flask on his knee, swiping his thumb over its smooth, worn surface. "I was there because Cora instructed me to gain the trust of the Saviour and her company."

"Why were you with Cora?"

Tread carefully, man. "She'd offered me a trade. She'd discovered her daughter was in the same realm as the man I'd been hunting since he murdered my love, but neither of us could get to that realm alone." He offers her a second turn of the flask. "As much as I'm still loath to admit it, we needed each other."

She stares at the flask in her hand, but doesn't take a sip. "When we were about to climb the beanstalk-"

"One of my most treasured memories, I must say." He bumps his booted foot against hers to let her know what he's about to say is meant in jest. "Right up to the moment you shackled me in the giant's lair, of course."

Rolling her eyes, she lifts the flask to her lips, then huffs out a loud breath. "You said that you'd been hoping it would be me who climbed with you." She turns to look at him, her eyes meeting his for the first time in several moments. "Why did you say that?"

Oh, Emma. The lengths to which she went in the past to remain oblivious of his passion for her still astound him, and it seems they still have quite a lot of catching up to do. "Because you were the most beautiful woman I'd seen in hundreds of years, in hundreds of realms." Reaching out, he liberates his flask from her grip, holding her gaze with his. "Hair like spun gold, the kind of a gold of which a pirate can only dream, eyes like the clearest sea depths."

She stares at him, her lips parting softly, the rhythm of her breathing subtly changing.

He lifts the flask to her in a toast, if only to stop himself from closing the distance between them and taking her mouth in a kiss. "Feisty, too."

That earns him a smile. "Feisty?"

"Aye. The most spirited lass I'd met in a very long time." The rum is a pleasant burn on his tongue, and he feels his words becoming more free, almost reckless. "You bested me more than once, and I wanted you all the more because of it."

The smile seems to freeze on her lips, and he curses his loose tongue. Since their once combative relationship became a courtship, he's been careful of her ingrained skittishness when it comes to such things. "You mean, even back then, you, uh-"

"Fancied you? Aye." Corking his flask, he puts it beside him on the bed and reaches out to take her hand, threading his fingers through hers. She squeezes back, and his momentarily seized heartbeat resumes with gusto. "Since the very beginning, I'm afraid."

She stares at their entwined hands, resting on her thigh, and a flicker of guilt dances across her lovely face. "I really didn't give you much reason to hope I felt the same way."

Perhaps it's the rum, but he can't keep from grinning, nor can he keep from correcting her patently erroneous statement. "That's not entirely true, you know."

She blushes a delicate shade of pink, but doesn't argue with him. "We're getting off track here."

Hiding his smile at her complete lack of believable rebuttal and subsequent side-stepping, he waves his hook with a flourish. "By all means, do continue with your original line of questioning, Sheriff."

That provokes another roll of her eyes, but he senses her heart's not quite in it. "We met in the Enchanted Forest three times. First in the village, then in the dungeons, then at Lake Nostos."

She seems to be listing the places they'd encountered each other, and he frowns. "Aye, what of it?"

She shifts restlessly on the bed beside him. "Doesn't that seem a little weird to you?"

He shrugs. "Cora had a plan, and that plan basically involved stalking you four lovelies until you led her to the means to find her daughter. I was aligned with Cora, so-"

"So you were just along for the ride?"

He does his best not to wince. "Something like that."

She toys with the rings on his hand. It's almost an absent-minded touch, but it makes his breath quicken. "How did you even know her, anyway?"

There are times he forgets that there is still so much they need to learn about each other. "We met when Regina sent me to Wonderland to kill her."

Her eyes widen. "Wonderland? Like Alice in Wonderland?"

"Well, I never met anyone called Alice, but if she's from a ridiculous place filled with nonsense and talking animals, it's the same realm."

She takes a moment to absorb that, then her voice takes on that faintly accusing tone once more. "And you ended up here in Storybrooke."

He's beginning to think he understands what is troubling her. "I came in search of the Crocodile." He tilts his head in the general direction of the town. "He resided in Storybrooke, ergo, to Storybrooke I needed to come."

Her mouth is still set in a tight line, and he squeezes her hand gently. "Emma, love. Things have changed a great deal since then, and not just between you and I." He searches her eyes, trying to see beyond the camouflage of questions to what truly lies beneath. "What's brought this on?"

She shakes her head, as if she's now doubting even her own words. "Everything that's happened lately, it's made me realise something. All those people who came into my life. Lily, Ingrid, Neal." Her eyes are glittering now. "None of it was random. They were all just pawns in this big, stupid game, fairy tale creatures pretending to be someone they weren't in my world, and now I keep thinking that maybe-"

Realisation dawns like a hollow ache, tearing at his chest. "That perhaps I was only in your life due to an otherworldly hand directing the proceedings."

"Yes." She blinks, tears shining on her cheeks, her voice small. "Killian, I know it sounds stupid but I need to know that you're here because you want to be here, not because of a whim of The Author's or because Gold needed you to be with me to suit his plans."

He understands why she has come to doubt all that she once held as unassailable truths, but that doesn't stop her lack of faith in his love for her from stinging. "I cannot speak for the author, Emma, but I promise you that the last person the Crocodile would have wanted to see find happiness with the Savour would be my good self."

She gazes at him, her eyes gleaming with tears, and he suddenly fears there are no words that can adequately fill the void of doubt he sees in her eyes, nothing he can say that can truly express what he's feeling in this moment, caught in time.

Cupping her face in his hand, he kisses her softly, his mouth lingering on hers, letting her feel his heart, his longing, his love. He tastes his own rum and the sweet warmth of her mouth as she kisses him back, a soft sigh rising in her throat. When it's over, he pulls back, his hand still cupping her face. "When we first met, I told you that I was a blacksmith."

She licks at her lips, her nose nudging his as she nods, her hand flexing on his leg. "I remember."

"That was the first and only time I've ever lied to you about who or what I was." He holds her gaze with his, willing her to believe the truth of his words. "I'm here because there is nowhere else I wish to be other than by your side. Because you are a beautiful, fearless woman who helped me remember what it was like to want to do good deeds." He smiles at her, uncaring that his own eyes are now blurring. "And because I can no longer imagine a life without you."

She looks at him with the same disbelief she'd shown in Gold's cabin, when he'd confessed that he'd found his happy ending in her.He sees her pale throat work as she swallows hard, then she closes the distance between them, her mouth finding his in a soft, tender kiss. Her lips are salty with her spent tears, then the heat of their kiss sears them all away, leaving nothing but an aching hunger that has him sliding his hand into her hair, pulling her closer.

Her mouth opens beneath his, a blossoming flower, sweet and dark and addictive, and the kiss instantly changes, growing deep and urgent, her tongue curling around his, her teeth nipping at his bottom lip. His blood is roaring in his ears, in his chest, in his cock, his whole body straining towards this singular, simple contact, and it's like being dashed with cold water when she suddenly jerks away, her eyes wide, her head titled to one side as if she's listening for something.

"What are you doing, love?" Stars above, he sounds as though he's just smoked his way through a pouch of tobacco. "What's wrong?"

She gives him a tremulous smile, her hand sliding slowly from his knee upwards with deliberate intent, making him catch his breath awkwardly. "Just waiting for someone to interrupt us."

He grins, feeling ridiculously giddy and more than a little wicked. "I have the feeling our luck may have changed, at least for this evening."

She's still smiling when he kisses her.

He's wondered many, many times what it would be like to make love to Emma Swan, to feel her bare skin against his, to feel her hands upon his body. Such imaginings have haunted his dreams and waking hours alike for what feels like a lifetime, and he'd come to think of himself as something of an expert, well-prepared for the erotic onslaught on his senses.

He couldn't have been more mistaken.

When she slides her hands underneath his suddenly unbuttoned shirt to touch his chest and stomach, his heart seems to seize in his chest. When he kisses her throat, feeling the hum of her soft sigh against his mouth, his gut clenches. When he finally cups the soft swell of her breast in his palm and feels the tight jut of her nipple through her knitted shirt, he knows he's not prepared at all, not in the slightest.

(When she helps him remove his hook and brace and set it aside, her hands as soft and gentle as her eyes, he thinks his heart might actually crack under the weight of his love for her.)

Candlelight flickers around them as they undress each other, the sound of their breathing the perfect accompaniment to the sound of his ship creaking gently around them, rocking in the embrace of the harbour. He doesn't speak, not wishing to break the gossamer fine enchantment that seems to be weaving itself around them, pulling them tighter and tighter together.

She kisses his shoulder, her hand sliding inside his unbuttoned trousers to where he is hard and aching, her fingertips cool and sure as she touches him, stroking him from base to tip in a caress that has him biting back a groan.

Her smug smile becomes a soft gasp through pursed lips as he returns the favour, cupping his hand between her thighs, the heel of his palm pressing the seam of her trousers against the heat of her. Her eyes become almost fever bright, her teeth white against the pink of her bottom lip, and he wants nothing more than to devour her, every fucking inch of her.

With his assistance, she emerges like a beautiful butterfly from the confines of her clothing, each new morsel of skin she bares to his gaze and hand and mouth making him more and more convinced that he is indeed caught in one of his more pleasant dreams. When her tight trousers have finally joined his own on the floor of his cabin, it's all he can do not to bury his head between her thighs and love her until she's senseless with pleasure. Their discarded boots thud carelessly against the wooden boards, and he's finally as bare as the day he was born, dressed in naught but the charms around his neck.

She makes short work of the tiny piece of lace masquerading as a corset, but not before he's kissed each breast in turn, the rise of her nipple against his tongue through the damp fabric as intoxicating as the finest rum. Her fingers comb through his hair, clutching at him, then he's easing her down onto his narrow bunk, her breasts lush and soft beneath his chest. Her breath brushes warmly against his lips before she kisses him, stealing his voice, whispering her own words into his mouth.

"I need to tell you something."

He sucks in a sharp breath as her thighs come up to cradle his hips, the heavy ache of his cock finally pressing against the soft warmth between her legs. "Anything."

Her eyes are shimmering, jewel bright in the half-darkness as her hand smooths over the ruined end of his left arm. "You're my happy ending, too."

The words sink into the cracks of his heart, healing and binding, as surely as if she's worked her light magic on him. Overwhelmed by the delicate bluntness of her declaration, he presses his forehead against hers, running his right hand along the smooth length of her flank, feeling the muscles shift beneath his touch. "Fate isn't always a bad thing, love."

Her hands touch his face, then his chest, her fingers curling around the charms of his necklace, urging his mouth down to hers. "You know, I'm starting to think you might be right."

Once, in another realm, in another time, they moved together in a slow waltz, their bodies perfectly in time, finding their true rhythm in each other's arms. They're are not in a royal ballroom now, but it is the same as before. Their bare skin glides together in a smooth rush, their mouths meeting in a dance of heat and promise and desire, the tight warmth of her quim shivering around his fingers as he watches the pleasure wash over her face. She peaks quickly, the flush of climax pinkening the slopes of her breasts, the scent of her arousal making him feel like a feral thing, all teeth and claws and cock.

She pushes him onto his back, climbing into his lap, her hair a glorious tumble over her shoulders and breasts. She whispers to him of a temporary charm she's learned as she presses her hand flat over her belly, telling him they don't have to worry about any consequences of this night, then she begins to move, trapping his cock against his belly, her flesh hot and slippery as she rocks against him. She's pleasuring herself with his body, and quite frankly, he couldn't be more delighted to be used in such a manner.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he bends his head to her breasts, taken the stiff peaks into his mouth, sucking and biting until the steady rhythm of her hips becomes erratic, her breath catching in her throat. "Fuck."

The obscenity falls from her lips as easily as breathing, and he buries his grin in the hollow between her breasts. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders, and it's an easy feat to roll them on his bunk until he's pressing her into the mattress, their bodies as perfectly aligned as the bloody stars and fates that kept bringing them together again and again. She arches beneath him as he shifts his weight to his knees, her gaze locking with his. "Yes, now." The words are both a plea and a command, and he feels anticipation shudder through him, clawing at his bones.

When he finally slides inside her (hot and tight and glorious) the sound she makes seems to echo through his blood, and he touches his mouth to hers, forcing himself to be still. "You okay there, Swan?"

Her laugh is breathless, her eyes closing as she wraps her legs around his hips, taking him deeper. "Oh, yeah."

She's glorious. Both supine and hungry in turn, her desire pushes him higher, pushes him further, allowing him to be greedy as well as generous. The scent of her fills his senses, the tight heat of her body taking him deeper with every thrust, her breasts sweet on his tongue.

It doesn't take long for either of them, and he knows he wasn't the only one who had been inflamed by the many weeks of stolen touches and kisses.

She's a wild creature when her second release claims her, her head tossing, her cry rough as her fingernails score his back. He kisses her, hard, tasting the furious pleasure that shudders through her. She bucks beneath him, pulled him deeper, and fire starts to lick at his spine and his cock and his balls until he yields, giving himself over to the madness. White heat flashes behind his eyes as he pours himself into her, her name tumbling from his lips again and again. Then Emma is urging him to lay beside her, her hands now as gentle as her murmured words of tenderness.

(The instant his body slips from hers, he already craves her again.)

Her hair tickles his nose as he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her back against him on the narrow bunk, and he fails to suppress a small sneeze. Emma chuckles in his arms, shifting backwards until the curve of her arse fits snugly against his spent cock. "Maybe I should get a haircut."

He buries his face against her shoulder, her hair a soft cloud against his cheek and jaw. "Don't you dare."

She exhales in a soft laugh, her hands coming up to curl around his forearm where it rests against her breasts, and he closes his eyes, feeling deliciously exhausted. They both know that this exquisite feeling of peace cannot last, not while Gold and the Author are still conspiring to change their fates, but tonight, this is their moment, and nothing will ever change that, not even a bloody magic quill.

He wakes her in the quiet hours before dawn, kissing his way down her belly until he feels her fingers tangle in his hair. Candlelight suddenly illuminates his quarters, the whisper of magic rippling through the still air. "What are you doing?"

Her voice is husky with sleep and desire, and his cock grows even stiffer, pressing against the mattress. "I should have thought that abundantly clear, love."

She tastes of the sea, the tang of her arousal sharp on his tongue, and her soft moans are music to his ears. Her hands flex on his skull in time with his ministrations, and when he sucks the tiny swell of slick flesh into his mouth, he feels the press of her fingernails, her thighs trembling against his shoulders. "Fuck, Killian, yes. There,oh fuck."

She lifts her hips, seeking the pressure of his mouth, and he gladly gives it, using tongue and lips and teeth until she's shaking above him, her breath catching on a sob. He serves her as long as she allows, until she jerks away, her breast heaving as she lies back on his bunk. "Holy shit."

He's hard enough to cut a diamond, but he can't help laughing. "I do so enjoy the colourful idioms of this realm."

Her leg slides between his, then her hands are on his shoulders, pushing him to lay down, her tongue teasing the corner of her mouth. "Ever heard of a blow job?"

His heart seems to have decided to break its way out of his ribcage. "I do believe it's called fellatio, darling."

Her smirk puts unspeakably wicked thoughts in his head. "A rose by any other name, mate."

"That's Shakespeare," he has time to say, then she's taking his cock into her mouth and he can't speak, can't breath, can't do anything but tangle his hand in her hair and throw himself on her mercy.

Mercy seems to be in short supply at this early hour of the morning, however. It seems she's more than eager to repay him for the pleasurable torture he'd bestowed on her earlier.

It's a price he's willing to pay.

Afterwards, when they're once again lying entwined, breathless, he pulls her into his arms, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Her heart beats against his, strong and true and untarnished by Gold's scheming, and he wonders again if this is something from a wonderful dream.

Settling back on the mattress, she curls her hand around the charms of his necklace (she seems to have developed a fondness for them, and he briefly entertains the thought of them dangling between her bare breasts) before scratching her nails lightly across his chest, right above his heart.

"I haven't thanked you properly for looking after Henry."

He glances down at their naked bodies, then back up at her with a smirk. "Are you sure about that, love?"

She slides her hand down to his arse to deliver a swift pinch. "You know what I mean."

"He's a natural sailor, your lad." He smiles at the pride in her eyes. "It was an honour to have him as my crew."

"He said you hired a boat from the dockmaster." Her brows pull together in a tiny frown. "Why didn't you take the Jolly Roger? You haven't fired her up since you got her back."

"It didn't seem right."

Her eyes search his, clearly looking for what he's not telling her. "Why not?"

He hesitates, but only for a heartbeat. They're long past the point of being coy about their intentions, after all. "I was waiting for you."

She smiles, a trembling, joyous thing, her next breath coming in a quiet sigh. "I seem to keep you waiting a lot, don't I?"

"I won't argue with you on that point, love." He shifts on the narrow bunk, slipping his left arm beneath her head as he rolls onto his side. "But I'll let you in on a little secret."

"What's that?"

He smiles, seeing his heart mirrored in her eyes, knowing they've finally found each other in the way that was meant to be. "You're always worth it."