a/n: Written in view of recent spoilers/speculation.

It's a cold afternoon and he is sitting in Emma and Henry's apartment waiting for Emma to return from dropping her son off at Regina's. With Elsa's magic still unpredictable she has been driving him around town more and more.

The door opens and he sits up on the couch, watching as she pulls off her hat and coat and comes to join him. She kisses him in greeting and leans back into the cushions, fingers toying with the edge of his sleeve where it hangs off his stump.

"Henry found something today in Gold's shop and he wants to ask you about it but he's not sure how. It's a little..." she hesitates for a moment before meeting his eyes. "Sensitive."

Killian frowns. "The lad shouldn't fear talking to me about something. He knows that the Crocodile and I have set aside our quarrel."

"He found your hand, Killian." That brings him up short and his gaze flicks down to her fingers on his sleeve. "Gold confirmed it was yours. He said you could have it back."

His brow furrows at the thought of his left hand sitting on Rumplestiltskin's mantle for centuries but the memory of that day is still uncomfortable. "While I dislike the thought of it sitting on a shelf like a bloody trophy, it'd be a tad out of place amongst your decor. Don't you think, Swan?"

She doesn't buy the deflection. "That's not what I asked, Killian."

Oh. He opens his mouth to speak but she beats him to it.

"You don't have to decide right now. Gold draws the line at re-attaching it, apparently, but he's willing to teach me how."

He has never taunted himself by imagining what it would be like to have two hands again. He tells himself that he remembers what it was like, but like so many of his memories they are facts that he has repeated to himself over the years. He can't recall the actual feeling of using his left hand.

When he doesn't reply, Emma kisses him chastely then heads over to the kitchen and sets to work on the dishes. He twists around on the couch to watch as she holds and turns each plate in her hands, not having to fill the sink and wash each dish as it rests at the bottom.

He allows himself to imagine it.

He makes love to her that night. They lie together on her bed afterwards and he props himself up on his right elbow to lean over her. He trails the side of his hook along the length of her body — from shoulder to thigh and back again.

"It doesn't matter to me, you know," she says softly, shifting to catch his eyes. "I don't think any less of you. Nobody does."

He says nothing, just leans down to kiss her. He knows she's telling the truth, but he has committed violence and murder in the name of his "accessory" and he does not want to be remembered for those deeds alone. He knows they will not be forgotten, nor fully forgiven, but he is more now. Or at least, he tries to be. Tries to be worthy of her.

And it would be nice to no longer worry about damaging her furniture.

"Okay," he says a few days later. They haven't spoken of it since that first night but she knows what he's referring to without having to ask.

She doesn't question whether he is certain, just presses a kiss to his lips and pulls a box out from the hall closet. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs. "I didn't like the thought of it on display in the pawn shop — regardless of what you decided."

She sits across from him and places the box at their feet. He pulls off his shirt and removes his brace as she pulls it out. It is strange to see and know that it was once his. Stranger still to think of it being his again.

Emma holds his left hand in hers, his stump in the other and smiles at him. He smiles back and looks down as there is a glow of white between them, so thick that for a second he can't see through it. When it dissipates Emma is still holding his hand and his wrist.

He curls his fingers around hers.