The ocean is a fickle entity. It takes and it gives at will, and it cannot be controlled.

"It has its own magic, you see, hidden in its depths. It calls to you, and once you answer, there's no going back. You belong to the sea, sure as anything," Killian says, leaning against the side of the ship, face in shadow as he peers down at the water shimmering in the moonlight.

"Did the sea call to you?" Emma asks him, her voice low and murmuring like the sound of waves against the planks of the ship.

"Aye, that she did," he replies, turning his head to look at her, and when his gaze catches her's, she feels her breath leave her for a moment.

There's something in the air of Neverland, she thinks, that has made her dive off the deep end where he's concerned. She's felt it looking across at him in the middle of casual conversations on the ship, and the rise and fall of his chest matches the steady rhythm of her's; she's felt it when she takes in a rush of exhilarated air after successfully fighting off a vicious flock of fairies with him by her side; she's felt it when something hardens in the pit of her stomach and something that feels like despair at ever finding her son hits her with sudden force, knocking all the air out of her; and she's felt it when the touch of his hand and the soft brush of his own breath ghosts over the shell of her ear as he leans in and whispers: "We'll find him, Emma. I promise.", and only then can she breathe again.

It's a strange sort of feeling, the knowledge that he's always right beside her even when she's given him no reason to stay.

"You remind me of the sea, love. Unpredictable and wild," he says, his mouth quirking upwards into a mockery of a smile.

"Yeah, right," she scoffs, and she stares down at the sea below them, hoping that his next move will be to goad her with some ridiculous insult. The idea that she's somehow, impossibly, come to trust him is too much. Knowing that he feels...similarly is too scary to even contemplate.

And he knows her so well. That's scary too, but still, she's grateful when he says, "Perhaps you're right, darling. You aren't like the sea at all. My mistake. You are more like the desert: dry and rough, hmm?"

She punches him on the shoulder, laughing, and she mentally thanks him for letting the moment pass. They've had far too many moments recently. Not that she's keeping track, of course.

And this moment is broken, like so many before, and neither one of them have time to dig this hole they've begun together any deeper.


She remembers this moment as it dances across her memory, taunting her, while he sits across from her at the Sheriff's station. This is her territory, not his, but she can feel him, knows this is another moment just like all the others. She will admit that she's keeping track now even if she refuses to consider the why of it.

There's something about his eyes today that catches her attention for a moment and makes her hold his gaze and ignore the paperwork she's been slaving over all morning, pen poised to write something that she can't remember now, in this moment. He looks lost, and she knows that feeling all too well. Knows that comfort is difficult to find when you are a lost girl or a lost boy, but knowing that someone else is lost too...well, that makes all the difference in the world.

And she wants to spill the secret of the ocean, to let it wash out of her in a rush of waves. Wouldn't that be better?

So she says, "I keep having dreams about the ocean."

She does it hesitantly despite her resolve because it is still strange, this wanting, needing to rely on people, and even stranger still, wanting to rely on him. And she doesn't have the courage to continue looking him in the eye so she moves her gaze back down to her desk, at the scattered paperwork, and the blue glow of the computer screen.

"Aye. She's in your blood now," he says, and she frowns in just the right amount to hint at her mood. Whatever's on her mind isn't the quiet, calm sea of reverie but the deep, dark depths of the water where only the most noxious of sea beasts can see what moves in the dark.

Certain days, many of them in his past, he would have been happy to join her there, to take up residence and live, soaking up the deep and the dark. It's an odd thing what perspective does to a man.

He does nothing to comfort her, knowing that sometimes the simple act of confession is enough of a balm to soothe the soul. So continues to tell him her worries, saying, "Maybe. They're...nightmares."

She fiddles with a pen, twirling it in her hands; the slap of plastic on skin fills the silence that lies between them.

"You're downing, and I can't save you," her voice has gone softer than he's ever heard it, and it hurts as though she's slapped him. Yes, he wants to say, I know. But he doesn't because now is not the time, and she continues, "Some hero, huh?"

Self depreciation is a tool, and she wields it well, using it as a shield to wave away the vulnerability of the moment. Any sane man would have assumed they'd gotten past her facade, her bravado by now, that a shield was no longer necessary and haven't we been through enough? But he's never claimed to be a sane man, and he knows she'll retreat as many times as she needs to before the end, and he'll let her go every time. Maybe it's a form of punishment. He stopped analyzing himself a long, long time ago.

"No chance of me drowning, love. I can swim, remember?" He knows the steps of this dance by heart, knows how to sidestep the emotional trips and traps of their conversations, and how to keep on dancing as though she has never faltered.

So he is surprised when she decides to stop mid-step and prolong the discussion. "Yeah, but what if something was pulling you down?"

She looks at him now, briefly. Just a flicker of a glance before her gaze is back on the trivial things that cover her desk. But it is enough for him to know that this...whatever it is that she's decided has changed the dance entirely, and he has to start learning new steps if he wants to keep up.

So he doesn't joke with her, not this time. "Then you'd save me, Emma."

Her name rolls off his tongue the way only one other name ever has. He savors it.

"But if I couldn't?" she protests, "If I didn't?"

He wants to say that she's so close to everything he's been avoiding for days and weeks now, but he doesn't because she looks at him again, holds him captive and immobile with only her stare.

So he only says, "You'd save me."

His voice cracks over the words, and he wants so desperately to reach out to her, to touch her cheek, but he knows it would be futile to try. Then her eyes flutter closed, and he knows that the moment is gone. If only we weren't so afraid, he thinks, and then her pen is moving again, everything slotting itself back into the normal rhythm around them.


The town has been full of tension all day. Emma could feel it in her bones when she woke up, in her mouth when she had her morning coffee, and in the way she's been keeping her gun close all day.

She isn't surprised when the phone rings, and David's voice tells her that she's needed at the Mayor's office because things have escalated out of control.

Belle's deal with the sea witch is over, Emma knows, but not everyone got their voice back. The little boy whose father promised trouble is one of the unfortunate ones who will forever be silent, and Emma is sure his father is going to be behind whatever mischief has brought her out of her office and into the bright light of day. As she pulls her little yellow bug up to the curb and steps out of her car, she pats the gun on her hip, just to be sure.

She can hear the trouble before she even sees it, and it is Belle's voice, rising over the crowd plaintively, that sets her feet moving just a little bit faster.

Sure enough, the big bear of a man that had forced Emma to tangle with the sea witch to begin with is the loudest voice at the front of the crowd, towering over Belle and snarling out threats. He's stirred up quite the crowd too, and they rumble unhappily behind him, pushing forward like a stormy sea.

Emma walks over, her shoulders back and her badge glittering in the sunlight. She hopes that it's enough.

"I'm going to have to ask you all to cease and desist," she yells over the crowd, and she gets irate yells in reply.

Belle looks at Emma and nods, retreating behind the sheriff. Emma steps forward so that she's face to face with the bear man, and she says, "You need to take your friends and leave."

"We'll leave," he snarls back at her, "when she's paid for what's she's done to the people of this town. When she's paid for what she did to my son!"

Emma moves her jacket aside so that her gun joins the fray, but she doesn't get the chance to make her own threats because the air is suddenly sizzling with magic. The hairs on her arm rise up, and she feels a wave of dizziness overtake her. It's not her magic, she knows, and she almost wishes it was.

"Gold, I've got this under control," she says, as the man appears before her, his cane long gone, with a mad grin on his face. Emma's not scared of him exactly, but she's seen what he's capable of—what he's really capable of—and that scares the hell out of her because she isn't stupid.

"Do you, dearie? My mistake," he hisses and then looks at the crowd that has finally gone silent thanks to his impromptu appearance.

She wants to yell 'Yes! Because it is my job to get situations like this under control, and I'm fully capable of doing it!', but the mob's leader pushes her roughly out of the way so she's too busy trying to save herself from falling over to say much of anything.

"I know you," the man says to Gold. "You're the bitch's pet demon."

Gold sneers at the man, and Emma shakes her head. The guy must be stupid to insult Belle in front of Gold like that. Belle knows it too, and she walks over, her hair bouncing, to her lover's side.

"You need not interfere, Rumple. This man has every right to be angry with me," Belle says, her voice clear, and it carries over the crowd who nod in approval.

Gold ignores her, and says to the man, "I'll make you a deal. You son's voice for—"

"For anything! I'll give you anything to fix my son!" the man interrupts, his large, meaty fists clenching at Gold's coat and his eyes large in his head.

Gold smiles, all teeth and charm, and he shrugs. "As you wish. I'll collect later. For now," And he waves his hand through the air with a flourish before pulling Belle away.

"Dad?" A little boy runs up to the man, and the crowd cheers joyfully around them.

The tension Emma's had stored up in her body all day starts seeping away, but she holds onto it tightly because she's angry. This is not how things are supposed to work. So she stomps her way over to where Gold is speaking softly, urgently to Belle, and she puts her hands on her hips.

"You can't go around making deals like that in my town, Gold," she says.

"Your town, now is it, Miss Swan?" he replies, turning to face her, his gaze steady and unwavering.

"Yeah, my town. You don't get to make deals in it. Not anymore. You don't get to terrorize them like that," she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the father and his son.

"I should think that you have bigger problems to be worrying about, Sheriff, than one harmless, little deal," he says, and then he's gone before she has time to do more than blink.

Belle looks at her helplessly, and says, "He does that."

"Yeah," Emma says, and then she stalks back to her car and lets the door slam behind her when she gets inside, her hands balled into fists on the steering wheel. Witches stealing voices and devils making deals, she thinks, and then, from somewhere in the recess of her memory, comes a thought: these things always come in threes.


She ends her day at the docks, looking for Killian because her son is with his father, her parents want so much for her to be effortlessly happy like they are, and she just needs someone who gets it: the anger, the frustration, the need to wallow in it for awhile.

He calls to her from the deck of his ship, and then joins her down on the pier as she walks to the end of it. She sits on the edge and watches the water, trying very hard not to be afraid of it.

He watches her for a moment; she can feel his gaze on her back.

"Are you going to stare all evening, or are you going to sit?" she snaps at him, voice like a knife.

He sits beside her and says, "Perfect day for a swim, don't you think, love?"

She can see her breath, foggy in the cold evening air, and she turns her head to look at him. "You aren't serious?" she says.

"Deadly serious, I'm afraid," and he pushes himself up off the pier before jumping off the edge into the water.

"It's freezing!" Emma yelps, scrambling up and waiting for him to rise to the surface again. Stupid pirate, she thinks, and her fingers dig into the skin of her palm as she clenches her hands. He's been down too long, she worries. He's not coming back up, she concludes, and her whole body grows cold from the thought.

When he finally surfaces, he's grinning at her, and she feels such an overwhelming sense of relief that all her anger from earlier in the day evaporates.

"You are ridiculous," she says, her voice high and giddy from relief, and then, "Aren't you cold?"

"The water is the perfect temperature, darling. Are you sure you won't join me?" he says, winking at her.

"If by perfect temperature you mean practically ice then no, thank you," she says, and she wonders why his lips haven't turned blue, why he isn't shivering, why his teeth aren't chattering.

"Suit yourself, Swan," he says, and he swims out and away from her before turning back and swimming over to where she's standing.

He looks up at her with sea blue eyes, and says, "You have hair like sunlight, you know."

"Get out of there before you freeze to death," she replies.

"What a difficult feat that would be," he says, but he does as she says.

When he's standing on the pier again, she says, "That was a stupid thing to do."

"Perhaps, but it made you smile." He looks at her intently, and she just shakes her head when she realizes that she has been smiling, probably ever since he'd returned to the water's surface instead of sinking below it forever.

"There should be easier, less dangerous ways to get me to smile," she says, and she wraps her arms around herself as if to stave off the chill of the coming night.

He shrugs and replies, "I agree."

They watch the sun set below the sea line, and Emma lets herself enjoy the quiet companionship. This is what I came for, she thinks.

After the last bit of light disappears, Killian turns to her and says, "Better run off now, sunshine. Your family will be missing you."

Emma laughs, "And the list of obnoxious pet names just grows longer."

He smiles at her, and then gestures back toward the town with his hook. "Go on then, Emma. I'm sure you have better things to be getting on with, and you've spent enough time here in the dark with me."

Emma tries not to laugh, but she can't suppress the smile that travels across her lips and curves them upwards. The whole tormented villain routine has always amused her, especially on him.

"Yeah, you in the dark is real sinister," she says, wiggling her fingers at him.

"What? You don't think I'm dark and dangerous? Darling, I should be offended," he says, but he laughs and it ruins the whole effect.

"But you aren't because we both know you're a terrible villain," she says.

"Indeed, and you think you are a terrible hero. Quite the pair we make, you and I," he says, and she takes a step back from him, half turns as if to leave.

"Two peas in a pod," she says brusquely, and then she whirls back to face him, her mouth open as if to say more. For a moment, she thinks very seriously about kissing him just for the hell of it, but instead, she snaps her mouth shut and just looks at him.

"Cat got your tongue, darling?" he asks.

"I'm not really a cat person," she says, and then she does turn to go because she has nothing left to say to him; he's stolen all her words away somehow.

He calls to her, softly, as she walks away, "Sweet dreams."

But she knows better than to hope for that.