When Killian Jones is six, he's sharing a bed with the increasingly wide berth of his mother and all too happy to share it. He's gathered they're poor (vicious kids on the street, kicks from discerning shop owners, the way Liam sometimes knicks bread for them to eat) but his mother always smells of lavender and hums him to sleep. Her hands are still soft and everything about her touch speaks of love: the way she cards her fingers through his hair when he's had a nightmare, the way she lets him clutch at his fingers when they're at the market, even the way he used to snuggle into her neck before her body became unwieldy with the carriage of his sister.

Liam has a cot in another room and he know's he's supposed to want it, the big-boy room but he loves his mother and having him close and warm seems to help her pain, so he's happy to lay beside her.

"I love you Killian," She whispers one night, her skin damp with sweat and eyes blurred but fingers still gentle. Always gentle.

He wishes he could do more. But he knows she gets cold in the night so he folds his tiny legs under her growing belly and curls around her.

"Love you too mum."

When he wakes in the morning, she doesn't.


He's eight and his bed is a cot on a ship below his brother. It's stiff and smells funny but it's alright because he has Liam above him and his father always around him to light a lantern when he wakes, terrified in his cot.

His father was away much more before: before his mother passed, before they lost their sister to the world. Liam has called him unkind things. 'Drunk' being the most frequent, but he pat Killian's back and the touch was kind so Killian loved him. Loved him like he had loved his mother, with every fiber of his being.

Besides, Liam could be mean sometimes. He called Killian an idiot sometimes.

It's one of those nights, the memory of his mother's cold form pressed against his eyelids when he sleeps until he's thrashing, crying out and jumping awake in the boat's small cabin. He takes in his surroundings, playing the old game his brother had taught him. Look. He's in the boat. He's in his cot. There's a blanket on him. What colour is the blanket? Gray, good. What's the name of the ship? The Lady Majesty. Good. What day is it? Sunday. Good. You're safe Killian, you're safe.

It grounds him, lets him gulp in air until the lantern flickers out and suddenly he can't see. He can't see the number of threads in Liam's blanket or the swirl on the floorboard he's focused on so many times. Can't count the number of horns on the mantle. Panic erupts in his tiny frame and he cries out.

"Father! Father!"

Less than a second passes and his father is there, real and alive and flicking the lantern back on. Not cold and gone like his mother. The light is appreciated, but his father's presence is more soothing even than that as he approaches his bed, leaning down.

"See, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Close your eyes, my little love. There's nothing to be afraid of."

His father is warm and smells of rum and sea. It's comforting and familiar, making Killian's eyes quiver with weariness as he breaths him in. He's safe here, his father within arm's reach.

But he can't reach out. If Liam saw, he'd tease him. So instead, he settles back into bed and listens.

"...If you just look inside, we're all braver than we think if we just look deep enough...before you know it, you're going to be a man, son."

Son. The very word grounded Killian. He was nothing to the world, beaten in the streets for being dirty or smelly or poor. But he was his father's son. His brother's sibling. It gave him purpose, made his heart steady.

"I'm just trying to prepare you," His father clasped his shoulder, the warmth of his large palm soothing against his shoulder. "Because you're going to be a man soon and then you're going to have to answer life's big question...What kind of man are you going to be?"

He licks his lips, his tired mind trying to answer the question. He certainly doesn't want to be like the bullies who broke Liam's lip before they left. Doesn't want to be like Mr. Amirsh, who used to sneer at them and call them filthy. He doesn't want to be like Captain Averish of this ship, who eyes him like a butcher and carries a heavy switch to deliver punishment with haste and regard. No, Killian hasn't known many good men in his life. But he knows his father.

His father with his warm touch and constant patience. His father, who taught him how to make knots a fortnight ago and who doesn't laugh at his dreams. His father is a good man. The only good man Killian knows. So he answers.

"I want to be just like you."

And there's something wide and sad in his father's smile but there's a gentle touch on his forehead and he's whispering for him to fall asleep and so he does.

His father is gone in the morning and suddenly, Killian doesn't know any good men.


He shares a bed with his brother on the floor of the galley aboard Captain Silver's ship when he's sixteen. It's made of straw and often smells rancid if he and Liam don't wash it out over the deck before dawn every day. It's uncomfortable and itchy, but embarrassingly enough Killian is thankful to be sharing Liam's space, even at his age. He still has nightmares, his mother's corpse, his father's abandonment, but his brother's presence beside him makes it bearable. Knowing that even if he jerks awake, there's a person who loves him a breath away eases the ache inside. And on the nights it doesn't, Liam is still there, holding his head into a pot when too much rum makes him sick. Mopping the sweat from his brow from the dreams. Holding his trembling form and pouring the liquor on his back after Captain Silver's deep lashes.

He should be over it at his age, already accustomed to the vile taste of rum and lost his virginity to an unfortunate whore at the Captain's gamble, but Liam is the only thing anchoring him to the world and he's bloody thankful for how close they sleep, even if it's forced.

Forced. That's what he imagines a good deal of his brother's life is. Shackled to a cruel master by his father's weakness. Shackled to a weak brother who drinks too much and has none of his dedication, his dreams.

Killian loves Liam with his whole heart but it's such a battered, torn-apart thing and he thinks it's a poor exchange for him.

But Liam doesn't and Liam plans, even as they scrub fish guts from the deck.

"Ten silvers," He says, eyes bright as he pulls out the forms, filling him in with plans of the navy.

It would suit him, Killian recognizes. His outstanding, always-in-good-form older brother. He'd make a fine captain one day. But Killian? Killian has to tie his hair back and his nose fills with hatred every time he swabs the decks. Drink is his weakness and it would take a poor sod indeed to let Killian Jones join the navy.

But he loves Liam and doesn't want to hold him back. And then Silver, Silver appears and he wants to rip his damned beating heart out and when Liam leaves, well, that's when reasoning leaves the ship as well and they both know it.

Silver smiles at him, his fingers playing with the crop at his thigh, taunting. "How about a little wager then, Captain Jones?"

When he goes to sleep that night, Liam curled beside him after tearing the papers of their emancipation that he earned and Killian threw away, the cot feels too small for the first time. He doesn't deserve Liam's presence, Liam who tossed away his freedom to stay with him. Liam who took beatings for him and stole water for him and deserved-

Tears gathered hot in his eyes and he swallowed harshly against them. He wouldn't cry. He couldn't. That would bring even more shame to the Jones. To his brother's name.

"It's alright Killian," He doesn't know how Liam sensed his mood even when he was turned away from him but his voice is a soft lilt. "I'm not angry. I promised you didn't I? Come hell or highwater, I'm not leaving you."

The tears make it down his cheeks then, wetting the soggy mattress and making Killian burn deeper with shame because he did this. He kept his brother here and even then, Liam doesn't hate him. Instead, he quietly grabs for Killian's hand and keeps murmuring, promising him that he won't be alone.

Killian cries himself to sleep that night, on the dingy shared fabric next to a man who is far better than he. The only thing he can do is choke back a sob and whisper harshly in into the straw,

"No more rum, I promise."

It's not enough but it's all Killian has and it seems to be enough for Liam.

"Okay brother, okay."


Killian Jones is eighteen the first time he sleeps alone.

The hammock is small, his gangly legs nearly drape over it but it's off the floor and world's comfier than his previous conditions on that shared mat with his brother. His blanket is warm and dry, and there's the loud sound of the crew snoring comforting him.

He can't sleep a wink.

It's pathetic, he knows, to be unable to sleep by his lonesome at his age but the loss of contact, of another person's weight near him is so new that it's troublesome. That and the ill-churning of his gut whenever he thinks of their mission.

Liam is bright-eyed and proud to be such an important quest for their king but something about the whole thing nags at Killian. The secrecy. The Pegasus feathers.

He's been a boat most of his life but the reminder that they are in the bloody air and not the sea prickles under her skin, makes his breath catch unsteadily.

He rolls over again, playing the old game. The floorboard on the left is slightly warped. Sam's cot has a tear to the right. Gray's blanket is homemade from a wife and pink and used and loved.

It doesn't work.

He sighs, gives up, and get out of bed. He means to simply go on deck, clear his head and look at the stars as he did when he was younger. His feet however, find themselves shuffling outside the captain's cabin.

Liam opens before he even decides to knock, a knowing smirk on his brother's face.

"Can't sleep little brother?"

"Younger," He correct automatically, straightening up so Liam's only got an inch on him. A highly disputed inch.

Liam makes a noise in the back of his throat but waves him in all the same and clicks the door shut behind him. "Missing my handsome self in your cot?"

Killian snorts. "As if. I just wanted to check on our coordinates. You do know where we're going, don't you brother? Or shall we just descend into some unspoken part of the ocean?"

It's meant in jest but there's a somberness to his tone he didn't mean and he sees Liam's face fall.

"Killian, you know I can't tell you. I was sworn to-"

"Secrecy until landing, I know." He finishes, a weary sigh coming out of him as the pinpricks of warning erupt under his skin again.

He shivers slightly, shaking his head. "You're so though, Liam. That this is right?"

He doesn't doubt his brother, his captain for a second. But Killian's never known another good man in his life and he doesn't know this secretive king. The whole thing makes him wary.

Liam just yawns, taking off his hat and downing his sleeping clothes with an eyeroll. "Yes Killian. I'm sure. Come dawn, you'll see. We'll be back home in no time and in the king's good graces soon enough. Then you'll apologize for all this reluctance when we're rich as thieves and married in our own homes."

His brother, the dreamer. It makes a smile quirk on his lips and Killian forces the feeling of wrongness down, standing and nodding. "Aye Captain, whatever you say. I should let you get your beauty rest for the journey, gods know you're a poor enough sod to look at with it."

Liam snorts as he climbs into his actual bed, patting the small mattress with a cock of his brow. "Sure you can manage without me wee one? There's room to share."

The mattress seems soft but small, and Killian still has some dignity left. So he snorts and heads for the door. "Bleeding git, get some rest."

"You as well little brother," Follows him to the door.

When he's cradling Liam's cold body in the same room in the morning, he can't help but wish he'd simply swallowed his dignity and spent one last night sleeping next to someone who loved him.


Despite what he tells the bumbling coward of a man on his ship, he hadn't touched Milah the day he took her aboard his ship. He's spent hours talking to her, wooing her with stories of far-off lands and great raids, but as much as he's a pirate, he's never once taken an unwilling woman and Milah hasn't seemed to want him in that way.

But his seventh time at port with her, she showed up with a burn on her arm and wet, pleading eyes.

"I can't do it anymore, please, please take me away. I'll do anything." She's desperate and the moment he catches sight of the violent red splotch on her forearm, he assumed the worst.

She must have known because she shook her head, still fighting back tears. "It wasn't him. He..he's too weak to do that. It was one of the other villagers. She's a widower and she hates me just because of him and I...Killian, I just can't do it anymore."

Milah falls into his arms sobbing and he catches her, soothing her with his touch and a whispered reassurance that of course she could go. Of course she was welcome.

He leads her back to the Jolly that night and frightens away her bug of a husband without much fight the next day. He gives her his quarters and takes to the hammocks because she's still a lady to him and Liam taught him manners once upon a time.

But it isn't until she's been on his ship a fortnight that he actually touches her and it isn't even a grand story to tell of seducing this beautiful, wild woman.

He has a nightmare.

He's had them since he was a child but they've gotten worse with age. His father's abandonment on top of his mother's death. And now? Now he dreams of Liam. The black tar in his blood that reached to his face, the slowly chilling weight of him in his arms until crew members managed to pry Liam from his grasp. The frightened, wide-eyed stare before the poison took him.

It's the worst of them all.

He wakes on a gasp to gentle hands. "Sssh, ssh, Killian it's okay. It's okay."

He sits bolt upright in his cot, panting loudly in the dark as sweat clings to his hands, making his skin clammy and tight. He can still see his brother's corpse in his mind's eye and he wheels around, nearly feral. The crew no better than to touch him when he's like this. They pretend to snore on, despite the volume of his cries in the galley. Furious, he turns to lash into his waker until to find gentle, worn hands smoothing his forehead. The faint smell of orchid wafting over him, warmth of another person he hadn't felt since he was a child. A woman's touch.

"I'm sorry," Milah steps back at his expression. Her hand drops from his head and he wants to keen at the loss of it. "It looked like you were having a nightmare. My-my boy used to get them. It helped if I...I'm sorry."

He can make her out, shuffling awkwardly in the dark and Killian shakes his head, trying to see past the dream. He's made this woman feel unwanted and this shared moment in the dark, that needs to be his priority now. Taking a shaky inhale, Killian swallows. "It's alright lass. It's not your fault. It's just...it's been awhile since I've been touched in such a manner. It...it was nice. Thank you."

Nice is perhaps the largest disservice he could do her, but he's well aware that most of his crew is merely pretending to be asleep and he need not seem weaker than he is.

Or as weak, rather.

The light of the moon through the portholes paints everything silver but he can still make out Milah biting her lip, her hands wringing in her new britches before she speaks. "You can...would it help if I...the cabin's quite large. I'm sure we could share the mattress."

It's a lie and they both know it. It's soft and warm, but hardly fitting for two people. It's on his tongue to tell her no. To roll back over and resign himself to another sleepless night. But Killian is tired and cold. He misses the feel of another body pressed next to him and by Milah's shifting of weight, she does too.

He swallows again. "You sure lass? I meant what I said when I promised there was no fee for the ship."

Because he can't fall asleep beside her like she's another common whore. You don't sleep with whores, that's how men end up dead and robbed. But Milah? This recently freed bird, this mother and fighter, she could be something else. But it's up to her. Killian may be a pirate but there are some things even he won't steal.

There's a pause and Killian's about to roll back over but he catches her steeling her spine before nodding and extending her hand. "I am. I'm sure. Yes."

They share a long, lingering look before Killian grasps her hand in his. She doesn't have delicate hands like his mother. They're warped from nicks cutting wood, tending to the fire, protecting her son, paying for her husband. But there's a realness and solidness to her touch that is all the more for the flaws. That he craves.

He brings her hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to her palm, never letting her gaze go as he does. "Aye then lass, that would be welcome."

He follows Milah back to his quarters. He's not sure if she intended only for them to sleep but by the time his back is to the bunk, they're both bare and she's above him, taking him in with every swivel up her hips. She's older than he by years, her breasts and hips lined by the stress of childbirth. Her hair wild and unruly thanks to the winds on the ship.

She's the most beautiful thing he has seen in years and Killian groans when he comes, barely remembering to pull out and waste himself on her belly as she pants through her own orgasm. After, he wipes her down with a wet cloth and she cradles his face in her hands, pressed against him in the small mattress. They're aligned knee-to-shoulder but she's warm and willing and for the first time since Liam died, Killian Jones goes to sleep with a sense of peace. Another person beside him.

He doesn't return to the hammock the next night.


It's been over two hundred years since he's spent the night in the crew's quarters, and he's as wide awake as he was the last time he was here.

Except this time, he's leaving Neverland rather than returning.

The irony isn't lost on him.

He resists the urge to turn over as he listens to the too-erratic breaths of the woman whose consumed his waking hours.

He had heard her parents succumb to sleep hours ago, the irritating snoring of the prince filling the cabin. Baelfire had the helm until dawn, when he would take over. The damn crocodile had chosen to remain on deck in attempts to speak to his wayward child, and the Queen had retired to the lad's side in his chambers.

Swan had been in there before, but she emerged with a hasty, "He was asking for Regina," before throwing herself into the hammock beside him and pretending to sleep, dodging even her parents questions.

He imagines he can almost feel her heat seeping into the cabin beside him. The softness of her skin under his hand, the wet, delicious taste of her lips-

Gods, he was fucked for this woman.

He hears her roll again in her hammock, hears the loud hiss of breath she lets go.

He wants to get up and hold her. Wants to wrap her in his arms and soothe her worries until she sleeps, her heartbeat loud in his ear. He wants her parents bloody gone and to take her against the wall until she's trembling against him and-

But Emma doesn't want any of those things. Or rather, Emma won't let herself want any of those things because that kiss was all want. All liquid desire and racing heat and-

Hook swears, stopping himself from continuing the memory before he has an erection he can do nothing about. His ears catch her restless movements in the quiet and he means to leave her by, he really does but, "Swan-you alright love?"

There's a tense moment where he thinks she won't respond before a loud sigh and he can just make out her rolling onto her back, arms flying above her head in the hammock. "Yeah. I'm fine Hook."

He's embraced his moniker for the past two centuries but he suddenly yearns to hear his name on her lips. "Can't sleep?"

She laughs and it's a hollow, grating thing. "Just been awhile since I was in a shitty bed is all."

He's not nearly as affronted as he knows he should be, too excited about the slightest glimpse past those impenetrable walls of hers. "My ship not to the princess's liking then?"

He can hear her scowl in the dark and it makes him grin. She's a beautiful creature, all riled up. "Trust me, I've been in worst sleeping arrangements than this."

There's a darkness to her tone he recognizes, a loneliness too that makes his heart ache. Makes him want to stretch his arm out and take her hand in his. "Ah, so tell me what sort of accommodations the young Swan had. No goose-bed mattresses, I presume?"

He means to be teasing and light, to take her mind off whatever is keeping her up but she just snorts at him, green eyes nearly glowing in the dark like seastone. "Try prison for one."

That gives him pause. Because what bloody fool sends someone like Swan to the brig? She' both too lovely to be safe and too fiery not to cause trouble. And what the devil sort of mischief did she get into? The sheriff, the hero of her town. She's got a tongue as sharp as a knife but a heart solid and gold, he's seen it. What crime could possibly-

But apparently he's stayed in his thoughts too long because she misinterprets his silence, turning so her back is to him. "It wasn't even my crime, just so you know. I mean I didn't-oh, what the fuck do I care what you think anyway?"

She last part comes out with a whispered huff and he came make out the turn of her blonde head, the shift of her hair silver under the moonlight but his mind is whirling. "What the hell do you mean it wasn't your crime? Who in bloody hell left you to rot for their crimes?"

He's not half as quiet as he should be and Emma hisses at him, waving frantically at her parents. Silence descends as they both hold their breath, waiting to see if they've woken the Charmings. When his snore fills the air again, they exhale in turn.

"Is it someone in Storybrooke? Someone I've met?" He means to keep the menacing lilt out of his voice but he knows he's failed. His blood is boiling, because all he can think about is the lost, frightened eyes of a child on her face, the guarded woman who had every sign of abandonment and loss he had ever seen and he hates whoever made her that way. Hates with a passion he hasn't felt in a long time.

He's good at that, hating.

She's silent long enough that Killian thinks he's pushed too far before a mumbled, "No. Let it go, Hook" emerges.

For someone with her superpower, Swan's a bloody dreadful liar. "The Queen? Did she manage it? The Crocodile? Who did they use to..." He knows the rules. No one could really leave the town before she arrived, but they're both devious enough to have schemed a way to land the Saviour in the brig without being there.

"Hook I said drop it-"

"Come on Swan, it had to be one of them. The only other person connected to you lot who managed to get out was Baelfire and he-"

Her entire body tenses. He can see it, the wings of her shoulderblades through the thin tank top she's wearing. The stiffening of her neck, curl of her calves, even the faint clench of her delectable backside, the moment he says the name.

Horror wells into his throat like bile. "But he-he's the lad's father…Did he, Emma did he send you to the brig when you were with child?"

Killian doesn't even bother to try and keep the disgust from his tone because he would've hung his own damn crew for daring and how could Bae…

He's out of him hammock, hook bringing his boots closer to him before she responds and he jerks the laces on. His movement makes her turn to him.

"Hook what are you doing?"

"Going to have a word with the gentleman upstairs, as it were." Crocodile or no, he's going to bloody that boy for leaving her. What kind of monster…

"Jesus fuck, Hook no!" Her arm reaches out, slender hand snatching at his bicep and clinging there as she whispers angrily, eyes feral and sharp. "Look no one...no one else knows, so just stop it, alright!"

Her free hand is flailing but the fear in her eyes and the desperation in her tone lets him know that she's talking about her parents, and he feels the dragon in him recoil some. He's still furious, aye, but he's not willing to risk injury to Swan when she looks ready to throw herself off his bloody ship. Again.

Killian nods slowly, unlacing his boots and grabbing his flask instead, laying flat on his back in the hammock and taking a long pull of the rum. He waits, feeling her angry stare still burning him, her fist still clenched on his arm. Slowly, he removes the flask from his lips and nudges it onto the fingers latched onto him in clear invitation.

There's a pause, but finally her grip on him loosens and she snatches his flask to her, quick as a stray, her touch gone and leaving him bereft. Even if he was going to have a bruise in the morning.

Bloody strong woman.

He doesn't pry further, can't when she's still coiled even tighter than before and his chest aches as he watches her blatantly, her fingers nearly shaking as she takes deep gulps of the liquor. Killian lets her have her silence, simply holds his arm out of the hammock as he waits. When she finally passes the flask back, he presses his fingers to hers before he takes it. "As you wish Swan."

A shudder goes down her spine at the words but she turns toward him, her body curling in on itself and making her seem impossibly young in the dark. Killian frowns, taking a drag and then leaning to drop the flask. "Love, are you cold? I could fetch you another-"

"No," Swan cuts him off, hand outstretched for the flask even as she keeps her gaze on the floor. He obliges, handing it back to her.

Time stretches between them like that, her father's snores softening as he and Emma take deep drags of the flask, passing it between them. The heat of her hand sears him every time it touches and he faintly wonders if there'll be some sort of physical mark on him in the morning. But the rum is doing its job. She's still curled up under her blanket but her grip on her knees is a little less severe, her thighs untucked slightly.

"He asked for her-Regina. Called out for her in his sleep." Her tones not slurred but it is softer, a delicate thing that hovers between them as she hands back the flask.

He keeps his palm on hers as he tries to piece together her meaning, his face softening the minute he understands. "Your lad?"

"Yeah...it's fine. I mean, he was pretty much asleep and had no idea what he was saying. And like, I get it. She's raised him. It's just…"

She won't look at him, her face turned into the hammock so he can just make out a sliver of her cheek in the tangled mane of her hair. But her voice peeters off and Hook swallows. Words which were always so easy, seemed too clumsy and ill-fitted now. Instead, he gently pries the flask from her limp grasp, setting it down gently before reaching back slowly. He keeps watching her, his movements slow and obvious in case she feels the need to pull back again.

Swan doesn't.

His fingers wrap around hers, her touch cold despite the metal on his own hand. He slots their fingers together, pressing gently down at her knuckles and glancing back at her face for approval.

She keeps her eyes turned away, but her fingers press back, so softly he's not sure it wasn't wishful thinking.

"Your boy loves you Swan. You saved him. You'll bring him home in the morning." He murmurs.

He doesn't expect a response and doesn't get one, but he keeps her hand in his all night, even when he hears her breathing finally even out and sees her shoulders fall as she slips into sleep.

Killian knows he'll have to let go before she wakes or face even higher walls and more vacant stares but he can't help but indulge in this simple touch as he stares at the ceiling.

It's been two hundred years and he still can't sleep in the bloody hammock but this time, he stares at the wall with a smile on his face

And hope within his grasp.


He dreams of that touch, almost every night he's alone in a different bar, in a different tavern: away from ship and sea. He dreams of the kiss as well, the way her body has chased his, her hips falling against his. The taste of her mouth, hot and damp with Neverland air. The softness of her hair in his fingers, of her neck as he skimmed down it. Sometimes, he's imagination runs rampant and he paints the rest of her body in his mind, all white lines and swan's grace while he tastes her core with his tongue, feels her clench around his knuckles. He fucks her standing up and she rides him into submission, rosy tip of her breasts bouncing. Some of the dreams are like that, the ones that leave his cock hard and aching when he wakes.

But the others are softer. Just the memory of holding her hand that last night in Neverland. The way her nails, once perfect little ovals he marveled over, had become chipped and cracked with endless days of fighting. How her fingers were cooler even then the better around his own digits and he worried for her health but she refused a blanket. How despite the dents and nicks he could feel in her palm, her hands were still so soft, a slender weight in his grasp. He dreams of holding her hand as they lay side-by-side on a beach, watching the sunset with nothing between them but peace. He thinks of walking to the awful dinner run by the bloody wolves, her hand tucked neatly into his.

And those dreams? He wakes from them and his soul aches.

Until even the Jolly cannot banish the restlessness, the hollowness that he feels.

But then one day a bird flies down, bearing a message…


He'd had to chase a number of miscreants away from his spot in the park, confusing considering the bench he is on is unforgiven and too small for his frame. The air is biting enough for him to be thankful for his long coat and crows have clearly made a home in this place. So truly, Hook's not terribly sure why it seemed so popular with the smelly, disorderly men he'd had to threaten away.

Of course, one of them had been eyeing his rings, so perhaps it's that.

It's hardly the worst accommodations he's had in his lifetime. The open air dilutes much of the smell (and this city smells rank. Polluted and fool or garbage and foodstuffs and harlots. Enough that it made him queasy for the first hour.) and he's always appreciated the sight of the night sky above his head, even if the stars here are unfamiliar and hard to spot with the never ceasing light of this city. He found a place with some foliage to provide some cover, paltry as it may be.

Really, what bollocks kind of name is New York anyways? What happened to the old one?

The plank he's laying on is stiff but doesn't is dry and that's enough for him. He could fall asleep here without complaint.

But his blood is humming, his knuckles tight with anticipation and very soul nearly singing. It keeps his thoughts buzzing even when she shuts his eyes and turns his head against the wood.

An address. After nearly a week of searching in this godforsaken place, he had found Swan's location.

The paper is crumbled against his breast pocket, warming against his heart and already well-worn by his greedy fingers. It's been the longest year in Killian Jones's never ending life and finally, finally it's coming to an end.

Swan. Swan. Swan. His heart thumps, excitement building in his core and making him grin against the cold, pulling the collar of his jacket up higher. In just a few scant hours, he'll be able to see the blonde hair and stormy eyes that haunted his dreams. She'll be so close he could reach out and touch her-the softness of her hair, the smoothness of her skin-

Hook turns fitfully for the next few hours, adrenaline too high to sleep before he gives up, simply watching the sun rise as dawn creeps over and lets the smirk stay on his face.

At last.

Swan. Swan. Swan.


Cursed.

He touches his lips again, as if rubbing hard enough would remove the magic.

Cursed.

He's a bloody fucking fool.

Fool for getting himself tricked by the witch. Fool for thinking one apology could make up for a lifetime of misdeeds. Fool for hoping he could be redeemed. Fool for calling out Swan's name with his unworthy, disgraced mouth.

Cursed.

He turns on his side in his rented room. Granny's was like many of inns he had stayed at in port (minus the brothel, unless one counted Ruby). It was clean and serviceable, the floral print on the walls pale, the sheets dry and slightly scratchy, the mattress used but supportive. There was a weathered little nightstand in the corner, an open rack for clothes he didn't have. All this space. All this emptiness reminding him of how much he didn't have. How lacking he was in this town.

A man without employment, without possessions, and seemingly without pride.

A pirate without his ship.

Really, he must have been daft, thinking Swan would want him. What had he to offer? A mangled body and a pocket full of useless coin?

Cursed.

Granny's is undoubtedly one of the most objectively comfortable places he has had rest in a long time, but the room simply makes him seem out of place and otherworldly, highlights how totally wrong he is here.

With her.

Cursed.

Hook scowls, ripping his hand from his face and turning to watch the moon from the window.

Sleep never comes.


He's catalogued every nuance of Emma Swan in his brain sense he's met her. (Even when he wished he hadn't.) It's a tick of his, her little traits filling up space in his head.

The way she led with her left leg when she swung on the beanstalk, slightly favouring the limb.

He saw the way she pulled her small leather jacket tighter around her shoulders, like a shield, when she headed out the door as he watched in the shadows of Storybrooke for a moment to kill the crocodile.

The way her lip trembled on the 'e' when she said Baelfire's name in this realm, those green eyes dark and confounding as the caps of a wave in a storm.

Her hair was golden in the heat of Neverland, a banner for him to follow through the leafy depths of the jungle. It snarled with the tepid air, curling at the tips. Under the eerily bright moonlight of the enchanted land, it turned flaxen and nearly glowed. He could pick out darker, copper strands when she crouched by the fire. Watched as it was straight, pulled away from her face when she first woke. Saw her hand as she tugged it back, clearly wishing for a tie to keep it up, which would have exposed her elegant neck to him.

The constant worry lines on the corner of her lips are gone the first time he faces her in New York and it makes her seem softer, younger-happier, even. Right up until she knees him and slams the door in his face, of course.

She adds three shakes of cinnamon to her cocoa in the morning, one if she indulges at lunch, and the largest dollop of cream if it's night. She consumes her little cheese-and-bread treats in a matter of seconds, voracious bites and slightly twitchy eyes he recognizes as someone who still expects their meal to be taken. On long watches or under duress, however, she'll forgo eating almost entirely with the exception of large, dark cups of coffee and disgusting little picks of tack she calls 'poptarts'.

The right side of her mouth twitches upward first when she's being playful. Her knees lock when she's furious. She's protective of her pregnant mother but can't stand to be in a room alone with her. She often drives her little yellow contraption when she wants to be alone. She was a specific look just for her son, one that seems to make her illuminate from the inside out. He's the only person she initiates contact with. Her neck aches if she spends too long at the sheriff's station by the magic box. She loves boots and layers and leathers and had a tattoo on the inside of her wrist.

He hoards these little tidbits inside his brain, greedy to uncover every facet in the mystery that is Emma Swan.

All up until now.

He never wanted to know that she didn't make a sound when she cried.

He hadn't even realized it as they fled the castle. He simply held her to his side and raced after the shocked prince and distraught wolf into the woods. Ruby had broken down shortly after, curling up on a log and sobbing as Dave went to sit by her, offering awkward condolences about the woman he had no idea he was supposed to marry after building a fire. It was only when he led her to another log and turned to her that he had seen the wetness of cheeks gleaming in the dim glow. Her fingers were wrapped tightly in her cloak, tears continuing to bead their way down the slope of her face quietly.

"Swan," He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to comfort her, rubbing gentle circles under her eyes and feeling his heart crack for her. "Emma."

It hard briefly stopped beating when she mentioned that she should have vanished out of existence. Never for him to have met her. Never for Henry to have been born. Leaving him in that pit of endless vengeance and-

-and then Snow was alive and her parents were together (and not attempting to stab each other). And the events of the day seemed to catch up with them as they fell asleep, Ruby and Snow curled curled close to each other as Dave found a place he seemed to deem respectfully separate but clearly close enough to keep an eye on his wayward wife. The stranger Emma had rescued was a bit further out, clearly keen to be gone. (A headache in the making) Killian eyed the mossy ground critically. There was a place a few paces left of the dwindling fire that seemed suitable, the grass overgrown and dry there. The fact that it was just within arms reach of where Swan had sprawled out was merely coincidental.

Of course.

He pulled the brown overcoat off, preparing to use it to shield himself from the ground when he stopped, turning to her form, wrapped in darkness and the blue of her cloak, facing away from him.

"Swan," He whispers, slowly lowering himself down beside her.

He doesn't want to wake her, gods knows she needs her rest. But there's something in the unnatural stillness of her curled legs, the tense lines of her cloak pulled tight around her. It's her breathing that finally gives her away, loud enough in the quiet night that he can hear the stilted, forced breaths.

Killian creeps closer, slowly and deliberately stretching his arm out to rest lightly on her shoulder, intent on making out her form as best he could in the dark. "Are you alright?"

She jerks slightly under his hand but doesn't pull away and it sends a slight thrill through him despite the circumstances.

"Yeah," Her voice is low and hoarse. "Just cold."

Without moving his hand he retrieves his coat with his hook, laying it across her without thought. The movement brings a whiff of her up to his nose: mossy earth, dried sweat, dankness from the Queen's dungeon, perfume and richness from Midas's ball, that ephemeral, tempting scent of sunshine and fire he'd learned was Emma Swan, and...salt.

He cursed low on his breath, leaning over to put his arm more fully around her, not caring if he got a fist in his face for the move. "Oh love, your mother is fine. It's alright Swan."

Her body turned, however, instead of away from his half-embrace, she rolled into it, surprising Killian so he stiffened, arm still draped lightly on her shoulder as Emma put her face into his chest, the cold tip of her nose burning him as she hid her crying against him.

For a long exhale, he couldn't breathe. The woman he had lusted for, wanted, chased after (loved) was finally inches away from him. He could feel her breath on his chest, her slender hands wrapped tightly on his jacket, causing her knuckles to brush his abdomen in a way that sent heat singing through his blood.

Of course, none of his fantasies had her literally tearing up during intimate encounters. He scowled to himself.

Fucking wanker.

Here she was, trusting him with this little moment of weakness and he couldn't keep his cock in line.

Forcing his attention away from the way he could feel the soft pressure of her breasts, he gently ran his hand lightly up and down her hair, placing the hooked arm above their heads to ensure no injury would come to her.

"Sush love," He murmured, half-fascinated by the way his words caused movement in loose strands of her hair. "Your mother is alright. You are alright. Everything is going to be okay."

He doesn't stop talking but he does lose track of his words, too focused on how he can feel her heartbeat slowing, how her shin grazes his slightly as she turns, shifting her chin slightly more against him. Time slips away as he simply holds this woman who he was wanted near him for what feels like lifetimes, nearly dizzy with the understanding that she turned to him in comfort, that his battered soul can help ease the ache of hers. It's only when her breathing is slow, nearly even with sleep that he hesitates, wondering if he needs to pull away now.

"Are you...are you going to be well?"

He feels her nod against his sternum and it shoots a bolt through his spine before she takes a long inhale. "Yeah. Sorry I just…"

He can't stop the rhythm of his fingers through her hair, won't stop until she tells him to. He's wanted to feel the lengths of gold since he first spotted her, under all those corpses so long ago. "Nothing to apologize for love, you've had a trying day."

She nods against him again and they lapse into silence for a spell, until he's almost certain that she may have drifted off…

"She didn't know who I was." Her voice is small and it makes his chest tight, his hand twitch with the desire to wrap her fully in his embrace. He knows that voice. It's the one in Neverland when she solved the map. The one on the beanstalk when she spoke about love.

An orphan 's an orphan.

"She looked right at me and had no idea and...Killian, I miss them."

She's shaky again but he can't respond, can't breathe for a moment because she's taken to call him his given name before the lad's memories had returned but this time, this time it was just the two of them and no deceit to fulfill and she had used it. She had called out for Killian, not Hook.

He was well and truly fucked for this woman.

He tested the waters and brought his arm infinitesimally closer around her, so he could lean down and rest his chin on her head if he moved. "We'll get back love, I promise you. You'll see your parents and your boy again."

The top of her head brushed his throat with her movement and he had to swallow roughly, his fingers tensing before releasing.

"Do you…" She paused, seeming to gather herself. "...It doesn't change anything, but just for tonight would you…"

Hook catches her drift and wants to laugh because it changes everything, is everything that Emma wants him to hold her, trusts him enough to keep her safe while she sleeps in this foreign land. But he knows prodding will send her running so he simply gives into the urge to lean his chest ever-so-slightly towards her hair and agrees. "Of course love. Get some rest."

It's only when he feels slumber take her that he dares to press a gentle kiss to her hair, to let his palm curl around her shoulder and count her heartbeats into the dreamworld.

In the middle of the Enchanted Forest, on the hard ground and without coat or cushion to protect him from the rock digging into his side or the twig against his boot, Killian falls deeper asleep than he has in two centuries.

(He's just as thankful to wake up before her and have time to deal with his erection before she roused and found another reason to throw her bloody walls up again.)

His knee is aching from the unforgiving wood of the floor and the way she leans in on his side is making his shoulder strain, her weight displaced against him.

Dave himself is going to have to physically pry him away if he wants him to move, though.

Killian had barely let her go since her father placed his shivering, blue-lipped daughter into his hands. He carried her to the back of the prince's vessel, cradling her to his chest with one hand and using the hook to disrobe his coat and wrap her into it before swinging her into his arms and stumbling into the back of the contraption. The whole thing would have been more graceful, perhaps, if he placed his cargo down before going through the doorway but alas, he couldn't have born it.

That, and she was still bloody freezing.

Her skin was unnaturally pale, little bits of snow and ice clinging to her hair when she finally climbed out of that cave. Her hand at his nape had nearly scolded him but he was simply too relieved to have her safe, in his arms.

Or, he supposed, grimly, safer.

Wrapped in his coat, he pressed the cold tip of her nose into the open flesh of his chest, placing one hand there and taking the other in his, warming her fingers gently and kneading the flesh.

Hook had been alive long enough to see hypothermia take a number of limbs from sailors and he knew that fingers and toes were the first to go.

He breathed hot air onto the tips of her nearly gray digits and she had squirmed slightly, whining in discomfort which made the hot press behind his eyes a little more bearable.

If she was uncomfortable, she still had feeling. If she had feeling, she still had a shot.

He's blow his own damned hand off if she lost but a sliver of her pinky toe.

"I know Swan," He murmured, shifting to bring her other hand up, to bring him closer to his heat and his life. "Bear with it, please. It'll help."

She nodded sluggishly against him but was otherwise fairly still.

And that had scared the bloody fuck out of him. No shivering meant parts of her body had already shut down. The glassiness of her eyes, the way she had to blink to answer anything…

No. She would be fine. Emma was strong. Her father was here. The heat was on in the blasted car. She would be home soon. Home with every linen he could damn well find in Storybrooke and gallons of that hot chocolate concoction. She'd be fine..

"Hook you need to," It was the first thing the prince had said since entering the truck, too intent on driving as safely and quickly as possible in the dark.

"Keep her awake, I know," He had cut him off, meeting his eyes in the mirror and nodding.

"'M awake." Emma had slurred, nuzzling closer to his throat. "You're making my fingers 'urt."

Killian had to choke back a hysterical laugh at the faint recrimination in her unfocused glare, choosing instead to tuck her under his chin and look at the window, timing whether he should remove her boots and work on her toes or if they would arrive at her parents abode in time…

His eyes accustomed to long nights, he quickly spotted the street sign meaning that they would arrive any second now, especially with how Dave was driving…

They had pulled up shortly, and David had hopped out of the car and opened the back door, clearly indicating that he was going to take his daughter inside.

His fingers curled deeper around her and his mind flashed furiously. He didn't give a damn. He'd almost lost her. He wasn't letting her-

"Hook-" Dave warned

"No," Emma shook her head, blinking blearily at him and wrapping an alarmingly weak grip into the front of his shirt. "Don' go."

Killian had glared the prince into submission, who bowed to his daughter's request and moved out of the way so he could carry her into the loft.

Her son was waiting at the door, blankets procured and Emma deposited in a chair, covered with every warm thing he could find before Henry made cocoa. He left her side but once, sensing the power meant the odd little heaters used at Granny's would be back up and bringing it to her side.

The gratitude in her eyes at the gesture had made his brief departure worth it.

And now? He'd carefully observed her while running his hand up and down her shoulder in little circles, the way she started shivering again and her teeth clacking. While it was a good sign, his very soul ached to see her in pain. So he leaned her closer to him, letting her dead weight fall into his side as she cuddled into him, body trembling against his.

The prince had departed briefly to deal with his wife and the ice woman, but Killian remained, crouching even closer and ignoring whatever talk was coming from the kitchen.

Her feet were tucked under her, under the pile of blankets, and he gently brought them across his lap, making her grumble at the movement before she sighed in pleasure when he slid off her boots and began working heat and sensation into the sole of her foot, her pinky toe, her arch.

His thigh trembled at the additional weight in his lap but he refused to buckle. Not when she'd almost been gone. Torn away. Like Liam, like his mother, like Milah…

"You're good at that," Emma mumbled into the crook of his neck, letting her head fall there.

Killian chuckled, tempted to pull her the last remaining inches into his lap fully and simply take the chair for himself, but this was her parent's home and he doubted the prince would approve. "Glad to be of service, Swan."

"Thank you for," She shrugged her shoulders, burrowing impossibly deeper into him. "Y'know."

He felt his eyes soften, hysteria building slightly in his nose again, causing them to flare and for him to swallow hard before shifting even closer so he could rest the curve of his jaw on her cheek. "Aye, love. There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Her hand came up to the back of his neck, almost cradling him to her when voice from the kitchen roused him.

"Emma, you're still shivering. I think...maybe a shower would do you some good?" It was her mother, her eyes shining with unshed worry and voice gentle.

He could feel the prince's much less tender scowl behind her but choose to ignore it, simply leaning back enough to catch Emma's much-more-alert, if bloody exhausted, gaze. "Swan, I think your mother is right. You'll have to start the water off warm, but it will certainly help with any lingering chill."

Hey eyes went wide and her fingers tensed against him, an unspoken plea in the sudden tightness of her body. "You…"

Killian smiled softly down at her, cupping her cheek to make sure she met his gaze, his heart melting when she leaned into it. "I will remain by your side as long as you want me Swan."

"Hey-"

"David, shush." Snow's voice cut off her husband's authoritatively and Hook was once again reminded that this woman had been a queen once. "Killian, why don't you help Emma up the stairs and I'll help her shower. You can wait in her bedroom, if you like?"

Both he and Dave seemed flabbergasted at his wife's use of his given name but Emma had nodded vigorously against him and it seemed, that was that. Fighting against his sore muscles, tense from one position for so long, Hook lifted Emma into his arms, blankets and all and carried her up the stairs of the loft, barely catching the quick exchange between Snow and her husband.

"Snow he's.."

"You know what David, I don't really care if he was the Dark One himself. He's who our daughter wants and she nearly froze to death today. He clearly cares about her and she's an adult. Eventually, he's going to be in her bed, under our noses or not so grow up."

She made loud steps up the staircase for someone so petite, but smiled when she reached where Hook was holding Emma outside the bathroom door.

Suddenly wary, his gaze darted between Emma and her smaller mother. "Can you…"

"I'm much stronger than I look," The woman said firmly the same time Emma began protesting in his arms.

Meeting her eyes and nodding, he carefully deposited her shaky daughter onto the floor.

"I told you I could walk," Swan grumbled, moments before her mother caught her by the waist before she tipped over.

Raising a single regal eyebrow, her mother simply leveled her gaze on her daughter. "Sure. Now, how about we get you in the shower. Hook, her bedroom is second to the left."

Nodding numbly to Snow before the bathroom door shut on his face, he shuffled down the hallway and paused outside the doorway.

Even with her mother's invitation, Killian hesitated. He had never been in Emma's room before and entering it without her explicit invitation, when she was weak and vulnerable…

He sighed, leaning back and crossing his legs as he sat down and waited outside the door, trying not to think of Swan with water pooling down her naked body, across her sternum and between her breasts, falling down her abdomen…

He entertained himself by tying intricate knots in his head until he heard a muffled shout from the bathroom, nearly jumping out of his bloody skin and ready to rent the door open, flay the enemy with his hook who dared-

"Emma, slow down. We need to start with warm water. There you go…. I know, I know it's not comfortable sweetheart but it'll help, I promise." Snow's voice drifted to him and he resettled, sighing.

Hot water on cold flesh was indeed an egregious thing, but her lady mother was right. It would bring her temperature up.

Hours seemed to pass before the door opened and Snow shuffled out, Emma trussed up in a multitude of towels before him in the hallway.

He couldn't even take note of the wet state of her calves, too bloody excited about the renewed redness of her cheeks, the pink of her lips.

Gods, he could kiss her mother right now. Swan looked...well, she looked a lot more like Swan. If, a touch tired.

"She told you where the room was," Emma murmured, half-leaning against her mother and eying him appraisingly from his spot on the floor. "You didn't have to wait outside."

Killian merely shrugged and averted his eyes, shuffling out the way so mother and daughter could enter the room and presumably dress her. He felt his own pulse calm as her bedroom door snapped shut behind him. He knew Emma wanted him to stay, but what should he do? Wait below in the loft with an angry prince? Try his luck with Henry?

He settled on simply remaining outside her door, prepared to spend a night propped against the wall and leaning in to detect her heartbeat when the door swung back open, her mother alone appearing with an exasperated smile on her face so Swan-like it made his bones clench.

"She's asking for you." She said, half-shutting the door behind her and whispering. "I know David can be a grouch, but I'll take care of that. Just go...go make my daughter happy, Hook."

There was an intonation in her words that made him pause, understanding the connotation. The open stare of her eye entrusting him, promising vengeance if he mucked it up.

It was so terrifying he idly wondered how the Queen had ever dreamed of besting this woman. Swallowing and nodding, he cleared his throat.

"Aye, milady."

With a long sigh and a short grumble, Snow made her way back downstairs, presumably to deal with said husband.

Killian waited a minute. For Snow to change her mind. For David to hang him. For Henry to berate him. For Emma to announce that she was done with him, thank you very much. Nothing came.

He scrambled to his feet so fast they caught, causing him to more fall into her bedroom then knock.

Emma didn't appear to mind, bundled below a mountain of blankets on her bed.

Her bed.

Without conscious thought, he took in her abode. The plain, off-white walls, the closer filled with leather above and leather below, the solitary picture of Henry sitting by the well-loved dresser.

For all that this was her territory, he'd be hard-placed to see her here. It made his throat clench hard.

"Well are you going to stare all day or get in here? I'm still cold you know." At least, that's what he thought she said, her words muffled under the mound of linens and quilts.

Killian shuffled his feet, his hand scratching behind his ear. Surely she couldn't mean…"Aye, Swan. Just throw me a pillow and I'll be right as rain by your bedside."

The floor looked great. He could spy a patch of wood that was sure to be comfy. His knees didn't even hurt that much any more.

Her long sigh made the whole damn army of blankets rise and fall and he couldn't hold back his grin. "Seriously, Hook. Are you going to make me say it?"

He blinked. Because while he had held Emma once (enough to make a man mad for it again) he had also endured the push-pull that came with Emma Swan. That kiss at Granny's revealed her interest, but since then she couldn't seem to make up her mind on how okay she was with their...courtship. One moment, he's kissing her. The next, she was studiously avoiding him and using Leroy of all people as a distraction. She detested Leroy.

So he simply nodded, approaching where he suspected her form to be and placing a gentle hand on the pile. "Swan, I will do anything you ask, you know this. But you're going to have to tell me, love. I don't want to...I don't want to do anything untowards, especially with you in this state."

There was a long pause, long enough for Killian to pull back and prepare himself for a night outside her door when he heard a faint grumbling, followed by the lifting of the hoard of blankets until a blonde head appeared, bleary, irritated green eyes following him as she somehow found an opening for him.

"Look just….just get in the goddamn bed, Killian. Mary Margaret's got David. Henry's half in love with you and I'm...I'm still cold. So just...come on."

Her lower lip juts in what is most definitely a pout and just when he thinks he can't be more endeared to the woman, he is. He walks over, discarded his hook but not his brace on the nightstand before slipping under the covers and pressing against her back, unable to contain his smile as he presses it against her neck.

Gods, he loves her.

"Just...Just so you know I'm like two seconds away from passing out so this is just-"

"Go to sleep Swan," He can't help but laugh, pressing himself a little tighter against her when he feels her faint shiver. "Just go to sleep. Your father will be by in the morning to yell at me."

She slides back against him until they're nearly pressed toe-to-head together, his body rattling for hers and it is a strangely simple thing to pass it down, to enjoy how alive and warmed she feels in his arms.

"Isn't the leather un...uncom'table?" She breaks the silence, words slurred with exhaustion and he can't hold back his chuckles now, breathing them into her skin before simply looping his good arm around her waist loosely and breathing in the smell of her clean hair.

"Darling, you're making up words now. Sleep."

And she does.

He doesn't, to be honest. To engrossed with how her heart beats strong, how her stomach feels warm through her shirt, how he can hear her breathing and just revels in all of these things.

In the life that he once feared was lost.

So when Dave does indeed come knocking at the door he merely slides out from under her and hushes him, taking the glare without a care in the world.

Emma Swan is alive.


He's been fighting sleep ever since he came to Camelot, begging for a few more hours beside Swan' side.

He knows it helps her. She hasn't said, but her eyes are clear of darkness when she's near him or the lad and he's all too happy to help her through this.

(Needs to help her through this, needs to know she is still her, still with him.)

She'd nearly taken his head off with a show of magic before but here in the middle or pink roses with the wind putting pink in her cheeks and tangling her hair, it seems he had succeeded.

There is no shadow in her form when she leans over him, just the sweetness of her voice as she bites his ear, "Here, Killian."

His blood shoots south even as he gauges her face, makes sure it's Emma that wants this and not whatever weighs on her shoulder. But her eyes are clear of everything but lust, the white of her dress standing stark against the cloudless blue sky, against the green of the forest.

Damnation, he loves this woman.

So he rolls on his back, plucking a pink rose to stick behind her ear as she giggles, fingers diligent in unlacing his pants.

"Is that a yes, Captain?"She's still laughing and he has to lean up to kiss her.

"If I ever refuse you Swan, assume my heart has been taken hostage again." He says against her own lips, forcing another giggle from her mouth.

Gods, he loves her like this. Free and happy and completely open to him. If he could keep her like this…

But he can, just by keeping her here, in these silly flowers with roses in her cheeks.

"As you wish, my love."

Emma just smiles, rearing above him and reaching under the lovely white dress to..to…

She throws her undergarments into the grass and all thought leaves his brain.

"To what?" Her smile is predatory now, a sheen of familiarity in the way she rolls above him, her hips against his in a way that encourages his faint motions up to hers.

"Emma…" He begs until she finally rolls over him, taking him straight to the hilt in a movement that makes him gasp and pulls air from his lungs until his arms are tight around her waist. "Emma!"

"Yes, me." She smirks, building her pace without forgiveness. She drops on his cock, fast, wet slides that have him keening in the open valley, desperate for her touch as he tries to tug her down, angle her differently, without much success.

This is Emma's fucking and she's doing it her way.

"Swan!" He manages to warn moments before his impending demise, thrusting into her thrice more times before coming undone and spilling himself in her.

(He's never felt her this bare before. In her realm, they always use sheaths. This is a new, entirely welcome sensation of her wet sex on his cock.)

Welcome, at least, until she probes away from his fingers, intent on making her follow him. "Swan?"

She shakes her head, pulling her dress down even as he dries between her thighs, the shadows back in her eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Emma," He feels himself beg, half pride and half worry for her when she rolls fully off him, a few pink petals still stuck to her hair.

"It's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal." He persists, even as he has to put his cock away, tightening the draws on his pants and hopping after her. "Emma you need-"

"Nothing," She hisses, turning to him in a clearly inhuman stretch of her neck before she spooks their horse, causing it to run away before she wraps her own arms around herself. "Nothing, I'm fine."

He's gentle, slow as he puts his arms over hers, kissing her temple once, twice before the darkness recedes and there's only Emma, nearly weak at the knees in relief as he scoops her up.

"I'm here, my darling. Right here."

"Killian, you can't carry me all the way back." But he can hear the darkness tinging her vowels, creeping on her throat.

So he simply steals his arms and kisses her temple. "Watch me, my love."


He doesn't understand it at first, his inability to sleep. He's faced insomnia in many lifetimes before and simply chalks it up to Emma being possessed as to why he can't sleep.

But then he finds out the truth and his first wish, before Nimue takes him, before the darkness falls, is to dream of her: open as she used to be on his ship.

The darkness obliges him, and he dreams while awake.


The dead don't sleep.

Emma Swan, however, is not dead. No matter how she might protest.

"This is the first time you've slept since you rescued me," He argues on the rooftop, his undead belly filled with false bile.

"I'll sleep for weeks when Hades is defeated, I promise." It's half a lie. Part of her still doesn't believe she can make this happen.

And as much as he loves her, most of him doesn't either.

But he lets her go when the lights shine, lets her use her magic and prays to gods he never believed in that she can sleep without him. That she finds peace if she has to leave him.

(She has to and she cries and that's worse than anything Hades threw at him. Worse than torture, worse than pain. Her tears and knowing he's the cause of them, knowing he can do nothing but kiss her goodbye and beg her to be happy.

(He imagines holding her hand in that cot under his ship again, that they're just leaving Neverland as she slips his grasp. Just one night holding her.)

The dead don't dream, but Zeus smiles and he still has to pinch himself when he spots her again.


"Move in with me."

He's fairly certain she's killed him, the way his pulse races at those words. Never in a million lifetimes would he have thought this story would end in her saying…

"What?" It's bumbling but he needs to be sure. Needs to make sure he knows what she's offering.

She offers some dribble about a bus he doesn't buy before looking away, gathering herself as her fingers continue to play with the hair on his nape. "I mean...I have a closet full of red jackets. I feel like I could make some space for some black leather."

Her closet. It's an old joke between them and his whole body soars to hear it, feels the tugging on his lips before he's even ushered his, "Well when you put it like that then I would love to move in with you."

Her smile turns into a kiss and he is hopeless, bound by her to sleep next to the snoring pregnant woman one last night.


One last night away from her. He's nearly can't sleep the first night in her bed, in their bed, bloody hell. His mind to full of golden shears and her fated death and Emma, Emma, Emma.

He respects her decision, he truly does, but he can't swallow the idea that she's just going to...die. She's one of the most powerful persons he's ever met and she's simply...lying down and waiting? Not on his watch.

Still, there's an empty weight in his pocket that feels like the shears he lied about and no matter how he turns, it persists.

"Killian," Emma murmurs half-asleep and he immediately regrets his movements, silently begging her back to much-needed slumber. "What's a matter?"

He kisses her brow, her forehead, her eyelashes, slowly rocking his form in hopes she'll fall back. "Nothing my love, just go back to dreamland."

She whispers against him but the dark under her eyes tells a different story, and soon she's painting her dreams back along his chest. It's a beautiful portraiture, one he intends to keep well even if she hates him for that.

"Love you," She slurs against his neck."

"Aye," He wipes his face to keep the tears from reaching her. "You as well, Swan."

He'll damn the town to protect her, to protect this: Swan asleep in his arms, in a shared bed with an egregious amount of linens on it, with a small smile on her face as she sleeps curled into his side.

He'll damn a million towns for this


They're engaged.

After being tossed about realms and newly returned, Killian can barely believe it.

They're engaged.

He's marrying Emma Swan.

Emma Swan. She of a thousand walls and not-quite lies.

He's not willing to risk a single thing, not even a little superstition.

When he hears the little girl intonation her tone, he almost recants, but his gentle kiss and excited eyes seem enough to prove to her that he is as excited for this as she is.

He's not sleeping, too filled with adrenaline and fury and joy about the day to come when the lad calls.

His entire body weighs down with dread.

"Lad, out with it."

"It's...it's mom. I think she's having a nightmare."

He curses himself silver in every language he knows because of course. He and Emma haven't spent a night apart by choice in months and of course it concerned her. Of course he left her to the demons in her own head.

Some husband.

He throws his pants back on with haste, nearly running to their apartment, sidelining Henry to get to their bed where Emma is thrashing, whining sadly into her pillow.

Oh darling, I'm here.

Without thinking, he leans down to press a gentle kiss to her lips before rousing her.

Always here.

He wakes in a very strange world.