Once again, he dreams, but not of Liam or Milah.
Only Emma.
This time, the dream is different. This time, he saves her from the portal, hauling her upwards and into his arms, falling with her onto the ground in a slow embrace, her tears damp against his cheek, her name a shout of relief on his lips.
This time, he doesn't awaken with a violent start but a slow sense of coming up to the surface through a thick layer of slumber. It's the howling wind that has woken him, then he realises something else, something much more interesting.
Emma Swan is in his bed.
He has no idea of the time. The room is completely dark, the shrieking gale outside still rattling the windows. All he knows is that Emma is sprawled beside him, lying on her side with her back to him (a butterfly light touch of his fingertips down her spine helps him find his bearings), one bare foot hooked over his calf as though anchoring her body to his as they sleep. The warmth between them smells of sex and warm female skin, the lingering traces of her perfume teasing his nose.
This is definitely something to which he could become accustomed.
His body still aches (both from their recent sojourn into the past and other, far more enjoyable exertions) but he is suddenly very much awake. Emma Swan is sleeping in his bed after making love to him with a fierce hunger that made even his most daring of imaginations seem staid and mundane. How can he possibly go back to sleep now?
He rolls onto his side, allowing himself the liberty of brushing her tumble of hair aside to give him better access to all that bare skin he knows is only inches away from his mouth and his touch. He kisses the nape of her neck softly, and she murmurs in her sleep. She shifts backwards, her arse fitting perfectly into the cradle of his hips, and his cock instantly stirs into life at the brush of her bare flesh against his.
Stars above, but she is beautiful. Inside and out, and now he knows both sides of her far more intimately than he ever hoped to dream. Closing his eyes, he thinks of her teasing words of brides and warnings of finding herself with child. If she'd been trying to frighten him with either notion, she failed utterly and, for the first time in a very long time, the future stretches out ahead of him, not as a barren, empty path to a pointless end, but a journey of discovery and hope. She has taught him more in the short time he's known her than he would have thought possible, and that she appears to have chosen to let him into her heart still fills him with a sense of joy so potent, it is almost overwhelming.
He exhales roughly, knowing he should let her sleep (she had been as exhausted as he, if not more so, by their journey into the past) but he is unable to resist temptation. He nevercould when it came to her.
By the time he's kissed his way halfway down the delicate line of her spine, she's awake, stretching her whole body with a delicious groan that has him hard and aching in a heartbeat. "What time is it?" she asks in a voice thick with sleep, and he smiles at the simple sound of it.
Definitely something to which he could become accustomed.
"No idea, darling." He skims his right hand down her side, then over the curve of her hip, then the swell of her arse, momentarily cursing the darkness. He's followed her into many an adventure, and he knows all too well the breathtaking shape of the naked backside beneath his palm. That it's hidden from his eyes at this moment seems like a travesty, but there are other ways to learn the secrets of the flesh. "The storm is still raging, it seems."
She rolls over until she's facing him, almost trapping his exploring hand between them. In the darkness, he hears her breathe out a long sigh, then feels the softness of her bare breasts against his chest as she wraps one arm around his waist. "I guess I made the right decision not to drive home."
"Well," he murmurs, sliding his hand over the curve of her arse to pull her ever closer, "safety first always has been your motto, I believe."
"Can you blame me?" She kisses him then, slow and lazy, warm lips and tongue tasting and teasing until they're both breathless. He palms the tender weight of her breast, rubbing his thumb over the tight peak of her nipple, and she breaths a shuddering sigh into his mouth. "This still doesn't feel quite real," she whispers, her voice small and quiet, and something tightens deep in his chest.
"I assure you it is, love."
She kisses him again, her fingertips trailing down his stomach with unmistakable intent. "I didn't mean that in a bad way," she tells him, then she's touching him, her hand warm and soft, stroking and teasing, her thumb making tiny circles that almost has him seeing white spots behind his eyelids.
Gods, give him strength.
"Not so fast, Swan." Pushing her gently onto her back, he slips down the bed (his cock may never forgive him for doing away with that lovely hand of hers) until he's lying between her thighs, his chin on her belly. "I'm afraid there's something else I must do first."
"What's that?" Her voice wobbles over the words, and he's fairly sure it's because he's kissing his way down her belly, bestowing gentle nipping kisses until she's shifting restlessly beneath him. He presses one last kiss just above the delicate flesh between her legs - mound of Venus, soft and slippery, sweet and salty, giver of life, stealer of men's souls - before smoothing his hand up her thigh, hooking it over his shoulder. His pulse pounding in his ears, he brushes his lips over her, feeling the tiny tremor that ripples through her, then smiles. She's even more delicious then he'd dared to dream.
"I'll show you, shall I?"
She tastes of the sea, slick and briny, the delicate shape of her filling his mouth with heat even as her soft gasping sighs fill his ears. He feels her hands on his head, her fingers moving dreamily through his hair, tightening and flexing in time with his ministrations, and he wants to devour her whole, make her writhe beneath him. She's saying his name now in a throaty whisper, over and over again, her hips lifting, pushing herself against his mouth in desperate entreaty. He finds the heart of her with his lips and tongue, sucking harder, then finally uses his fingers, slipping two into the tight heat of her quim, curling them inside her until he hears that catch in her breath once more. He performs the ritual again and again, until she is indeed writhing beneath him and he's impossibly hard, his cock rubbing against the rough sheets as he shifts his hips. "Fuck, Killian."
He cannot see her face when she peaks, but he knows he will never forget the sound of her pleasure.
Afterwards, he wipes his damp face on the nearest piece of coverlet – her scent is a badge of honour he'd happily wear, but he was a gentleman before he was a pirate – and crawls back up the bed, stretching out beside her, his hand cupping her face in the darkness. "Did that feel real, love?"
Her arms curl around his neck, pulling him close. "What do you think?" As she speaks, he feels an eerie brush of something against his skin, making the hairs on his arms stand on end, then the room is once again bathed in candlelight. Her soft laughter chimes like a delighted bell (it reminds him of that evening in the diner when he was so very angry with himself) and he smiles as he looks down at her flushed, happy face. Her hair streams over the pillow like a golden waterfall, her breasts rising and falling in a delicate rhythm as she slowly catches her breath.
"I think we should come to an agreement now as to what might be out of bounds when it comes to making things vanish into thin air, darling." He bends his head, touching his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss that quickly catches fire, sending a jolt of hunger through his blood. Lifting his head, he sees her eyes widen at the feel of him against her thigh, the pink tip of her tongue swiping a slow path over her bottom lip.
"Well, I hear that it's bad form to tamper with a man's hook," she recites, her eyes sparking with mischief, her hips beginning a slow, teasing rocking beneath his. "But I'm sure I can think of some other appendage to practice on." He opens his mouth to offer his customary thoughts on the subject of appendages, but she's one step ahead of him, as usual. "Starting with this one, I think." Picking up right where they'd left off, her hand slides between them to curl around his aching cock, stroking and cupping until he's biting back a groan of raw pleasure that threatens to wake the whole bloody town.
Damn the woman, he thinks dazedly as she pushes him onto his back. She's bewitched his body and his mind and he's never been happier to be under someone's spell.
With the candles once again lit, he watches her as she retrieves yet another tiny package from the nightstand, then tears into it carefully. "It's called a condom." She presses it into his hand as she leans over him, her breasts against his chest, the slick heat between her thighs finding the ridge of his cock as though they are two pieces of a puzzle made to fit together. She takes his hand in hers, draws it down towards where they are almost joined, her whisper throaty in his ear. "And it's made of something called latex." He knows they are mundane words, but she manages to make them sound unbelievably filthy, and he's practically vibrating with need by the time she's guided him through the simple ritual of sheathing himself.
"Emma, love, please-"
She whispers only one word – yes – then she's arching above him, taking him inside the tight clasp of her body with one swift, thick rush of heat and need, the world instantly narrowing to where they have become one flesh. He reaches for her, left wrist resting on her hip, his right hand on her breast, her eyes fluttering shut as he rubs his palm over the tender jut of her nipple.
"You're a magnificent thing, Swan," he mutters, then one hand is flat on his chest, the other gripping his wrist (his left wrist, and her touch on his maimed limb once again makes his heart contract), anchoring herself as she moves above him, her breast filling his other hand perfectly.
They move together as though they have been intimate for an eternity rather than a single evening, and each new thrust upwards into the tight warmth of her has him edging towards oblivion as swiftly as a callow youth in the heady throes of his first encounter. Dusting salt into his ego's wound, Emma appears to be prepared for the long haul, greatly enjoying the pleasure his body is offering but showing no signs of tumbling to her completion.
It's time to be less of a gentleman, he decides.
Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he curls his hand around the nape of her neck and pulls her mouth down to his for a ravaging, devouring kiss that has her quivering against him, the steady movements of her hips becoming haphazard, almost erratic. When he angles his hips, driving them upwards with a roll, she gasps hotly into his mouth, her hands coming down to grip his shoulders, fingernails scoring his skin. "Fuck."
Perhaps it's the pirate in him, but the obscenity falling from such lovely lips has him growing even harder inside her, and he can no longer control the urge to slide a faintly trembling hand between their sweat damped bodies to rub his fingers over the slick, secret heat between her legs. He's told her many a time that he's a fast learner, and he suspects he's learned nothing quite as quickly as the secrets of Emma Swan's body. He brushes his thumb against her, watching as her lips part on a rough sigh, then presses a little harder, timing his strokes to fall in line with the rocking of her hips. She's panting now, making quiet little sounds of entreaty beneath her breath, rocking against him with a desperation that is almost unbearably erotic. Wrapping his left arm around her back, he bows his head to her breasts, kissing and biting at the tenderly puckered flesh, knowing it will now be a matter of mere seconds before she falls.
He's right.
He feels it taking hold of her, the spasm that trembles through the leanly muscled thighs straddling his hips, the tremor in her breath as she says his name. When the pleasure drags her under, she tosses back her head, her hands clawing for purchase on his chest as she grinds herself down onto him, and the exquisite quivering of her flesh around him proves his downfall. Her name is soon a strangled shout tearing from his throat, his heartbeat pounding in his head and his heart and his cock as he loses himself, his body pulsing deep inside the heat of hers, stealing his breath with the sheer force of it.
She collapses onto his chest in a boneless heap of smooth flesh and silky hair, her breath coming in shuddering waves as his body slips from the sleek grip of hers. "Jesus." He feels the brush of her lips on his chest, her words muttered against his damp skin. "That was something else."
He grins. He may be a newcomer to this realm and all its idioms, but he knows a compliment when he hears one. "My thoughts exactly, Swan." Her hair is a soft tumble beneath his hand, and she stretches languidly against him when his fingertips reach her scalp. "What was it you said earlier?" He presses his thumb and forefinger at the base of her skull (a healer in a distant realm once told him that such a touch calmed uneasy thoughts. It had never worked for him, sadly.) and she makes a contented humming sound. "You weren't so bad yourself?"
Her laughter is quiet and sated and wraps itself around him like warm silk. "You're such a sponge."
He closes his eyes, savouring the feel of her fingers lazily tangling themselves in the hair on his chest. She seems quite taken with this particular aspect of his physique, and he is certainly not complaining. "What can I say, love?" He kisses the top of her head, his nose filling with the delicate scent of her hair. "I'm a motivated man."
She dozes as he disposes of the thin sheath (he hasn't had the heart to tell her that he'sheard talk of such things in many realms, although from memory they were constructed of animal intestines rather than her realm's far less distasteful latex, whatever that might be) and fetches her a glass of water. Finally, after he's returned to bed and she's made a few amusingly high-pitched noises at the temperature of his bare feet, they talk.
Well, to be more precise, she asks him a question that's obviously been in the back of her mind for a long time, simply waiting until the opportune moment. She studies his tattoo, and he braces himself, but her question is not about Milah. "Tell me how you met Neal?"
The flickering candlelight throws ghostly shadows on the wall as he contemplates the enormity of her simple question, and he has to admire the irony. "I plucked him from the ocean when he was just a lad, after Pan's shadow had made a rare error and dropped him mid-flight."
Her eyes widen. "You're kidding me."
"Fate has many odd ways of unfolding, Swan." He curls his hand around her bare shoulder, letting his fingertips dance down her arm. "Though until I met you, love, I had no idea just how many."
"Did he know who you were?"
He feels a tight smile touch his lips. "You mean did he know I was the man whom he believed had stolen his mother from her family and driven his father to insanity? Not at first, no." His voice sounds flat, even to his own ears, and Emma is quick to prop herself up on one elbow, touching his face with a gentle hand.
"Don't do that," she whispers, her eyes searching his. "Just tell me the story, okay?" Her voice is as soft as the hand on his cheek, the heat of her naked body huddled against his beneath the covers generating a reassuring warmth that goes far beyond the ritual of sex, and the tension tightening his bones eases.
"When I fished him from the sea, I had no idea he was Milah's boy." The sound of her name no longer tastes sour on his tongue, and he's glad. "She had drawn many pictures of him during our time together, but she would never allow me to look upon them." He closes his eyes, his memory filling with visions of Milah tearing parchment into tiny shreds before letting the wind take them from her fingertips, her eyes glittering with angry tears. "She always destroyed them afterwards, as if by ridding herself of them, she could put the thought of him out of her head."
She lays her cheek against his chest, one arm draped around his waist. "How long was he with you?"
He frowns as he considers the question, because it was all so long ago, and Neverland has a way of messing with a man's head. "It's hard to recall now, love." He touches his lips to her warm temple, letting the scent of her fill his senses. "I do know it was long enough for me to come to think that I might actually be able to honour Milah's wishes to make a home together with her lad."
She says nothing for a long moment, and he wonders if she's thinking of all the times they've discussed his Baelfire and her Neal, and whether it's only now sinking in that they were indeed one and the same. "How did he find out who you were?"
"As always seems to be the case in these tales, it was quite by accident." He gives her a smile that feels more than a little crooked. "He found a self-portrait that his mother had drawn that I'd stowed away in my cabin. It was something I'd usually keep close to my heart, but ironically hadn't felt the need to carry since her lad's arrival on the Jolly."
She sighs, her breath warm against his skin. "Let me guess. It all went downhill from there?"
"If downhill means that young Baelfire immediately denounced me as a villain and demanded I return him to the Darling family post haste, then you would be correct." He doesn't tell her how he'd begged the lad to stay, that he could change for him, that they could create the home that Milah had always wanted for them. There are some secrets that are not fit to be shared.
A frown tugs between her eyebrows. "But you didn't, otherwise he wouldn't have ended up in Neverland."
"The Lost Boys discovered us first, I'm afraid." Such bland words to describe a moment that haunts him to this day. "I'd manage to conceal him aboard the Jolly from them once before, but not this time." He hesitates, drawing back so he can see her face properly. She's told him more than once that nothing will change how she feels about him, but perhaps she didn't reckon on hearing this particular tale. "They gave me a choice," he finally says, because this secret he can no longer bear to keep from her. "Let them take the lad or lose my crew to the depths."
"And you choose to save your crew."
He smiles at her sadly, and wonders if she feels the same sense of déjà vu that's suddenly gripped him, and if she'll be as understanding this time. The mermaid and her missing prince were one thing, but this is something much more personal. "A pirate always does, Swan."
"Not always." Their eyes lock, and he sees the knowledge of the time he did chose something else (someone else) over his crew and his ship gleaming in her eyes. You traded your ship for me? The thick knot of anxiety lodged in his throat loosens, and he swallows hard.
"No. Not always."
Smiling, she rests her chin on his chest once more, her gaze still holding his. "Did Milah always plan to go back for him?"
There's no judgment in her tone, and it makes it easier to let the words come. "She spoke of it often," he tells her. "I would have travelled across the realms to retrieve him if she'd asked." His hand is buried in Emma's soft hair, but he's suddenly in a very different room, a very different time. "I would have raised him as my own." He blinks, and the Captain's quarters of the Jolly suddenly vanishes, and he is once again wrapped up in the comforting warmth of Emma Swan. "But she would say that it wasn't yet time." He shrugs, his shoulders rubbing against the roughly hewn linen. "That we needed to wait until he was older, until his father would be more inclined to let him go."
He stares up at the ceiling, sifting through the years and years of grief and mourning, trying to pick out the kernels of truth woven in between. "Now I wonder if she truly would have returned for him in time. We never spoke of it, but I think she had begun to believe he would no longer welcome her with open arms but only despise her for leaving him." The words are spilling out now, and he feels a cold rush of betrayal. Forgive me, my love, he implores silently. He has carried the weight of this alone for too long, and he can longer bear to keep it locked inside his heart. "When a wound is left to fester long enough, it can never be healed. In the end, too much time passed, and her fear had won."
Emma moves restlessly against him, sorrow tinging her features. "That sounds kind of familiar, actually."
"What do you mean?"
"That's what happened with Neal." She's very carefully not looking at him now, her gaze trained on the flickering shadows on the wall. "He told me he'd been afraid that I'd hate him for what he'd done, and that's why he never came looking for me."
He hesitates. Bae will always be in his heart, but there is much he wants to say on the subject of Emma being incarcerated for a crime that was not her own, even more on the subject of her being with child when she had been abandoned. He bites back the words, however. They would serve no purpose, not tonight. "And did you?"
"I did." There is a lifetime of heartache in those two words. "For a very long time."
"We all take after both our parents to some degree, love." Thinking of his own father, he can only hope this may not true in his own case, but he knows he cannot pick and choose his filial inheritance. "Perhaps there was more of his mother in him than he realised."
She arches a well-defined eyebrow at him. "According to Gold, I have my mother's chin and my father's tact."
"You have a lot more than that, love." He chuckles softly, bringing her hand up to his mouth for a kiss. "No mention of a tendency to punch first and ask questions later?"
She very gently bumps her knuckles against his jaw. "Hey, give me a break. It was only that one time."
They lay in silence for a moment, the only sound the low moaning of the wind outside, then she raises herself up on one elbow to stare down at him. "Hang on, how did you run into Gold if you hadn't come back to get Neal? Bae, I mean. I thought that's how Gold found you."
A sense of disloyalty once again presses at the edges of his thoughts, but he promised to tell her the truth, and so he shall. "We weren't in port that day because of Bae." She frowns at that, but says nothing, waiting for him to continue. "We'd come to trade and replenish our supplies, and it was merely a coincidence that I encountered the Dark One."
She lets out a long sigh, as if she'd been holding her breath. "I think you'd better tell me the whole story." Her hand finds his and squeezes it gently. "Just so I can understand, okay?"
He does. He speaks of his encounter with the Dark One in the alleyway behind the tavern, and how at first he hadn't recognised the man to whom Milah had been wed. He tells her of the challenge issued and accepted, and how he'd returned to the Jolly knowing it could very well be the last time he'd step onto her deck. His crew had been rattled by the incident, but there had also been a dark ripple of anticipation running through them. "It never occurred to them that I might lose," he says flatly, and she gives him a sad smile. "I didn't tell Milah," he adds, and her frown returns.
"But your crew-?"
"Sworn to secrecy." He looks at her, willing her to understand. "She hadn't seen what had become of the crippled coward she'd left behind. She wouldn't have been afraid of him."
"You wanted to keep her safe."
"Aye." The sadness in her eyes makes him want to look away. "She managed to wheedle it out of the crew after I'd gone, however." He tries to smile, but suspects it's merely a grimace. "She was a very strong-willed woman."
Her expression smooths, becoming almost unreadable. Almost. "Seems you have a type, then."
He tightens his grip on her hand where it rests on his stomach. "Apples and oranges, Swan."
That earns him a tiny smile, and he takes a deep breath. "She found us duelling in the alleyway. Saved me from the Dark One's sword by offering him a trade. A magic bean for our lives."
"Again with the magic bean," Emma mutters, almost as if to herself, then looks at him with glittering eyes. "You don't have to tell me what happens next." Her hand skims down his body to curl around his left wrist, her touch soothing. "I think I can guess."
"Milah still wasn't afraid of him." He needs to tell her, if only this once. "We agreed on a deal, then they began to argue." He closes his eyes, but he knows nothing will ever cleanse his thoughts of the memory. "She told him that she'd never loved him." He hears Emma's small intake of breath, and her hand tightens around his wrist. "He put his hand into her chest. I had never seen such a thing." He hears his voice crack but he keeps going, because once these words are spoken, he will never have to speak them again. "He bound me to the mast of my own ship, releasing me in time for her to die in my arms." Behind his eyes, he sees it still. The shock on her face. The pain in her voice. The dust that had once been her heart dancing through the air like black sand.
The chaste press of Emma's lips on his forehead sends a faint rush of warmth through him. "And your hand?"
"Sliced clean off to obtain the bean I'd refused to give up." He opens his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. "Wrong hand, I'm afraid. The Dark One had become too accustomed to magic. He didn't realise that any mere mortal could perform a simple sleight of hand trick."
"But once he'd realised he'd been wrong, why didn't he-?" She breaks off, a look of horror coming into her bright eyes. "Oh, God, he literally took your hand away. That's what you said to me, when we first met in the Enchanted Forest. You wanted revenge on the man who took your hand."
"Aye." Curling his arm around her, he tugs her closer, hating that he has distressed her. "He took my hand and he took his leave, telling me I'd die before I found a way to kill him."
Her hand finds his beneath the covers, her fingers weaving themselves through his, as if to reassure them both that he is still in possession of least one of his hands. "Leaving you with the magic bean."
"Which I promptly used to open a portal in order to avail myself of the most deadly poison in all the realms."
"So he basically gave you both the motivation to kill him and the means to find the only thing that would kill him." She tilts her head to one side, a resigned smile curving her lips. "I'm not sure Gold would appreciate the irony, even now."
He shares her smile, knowing she's finding little humour in the situation, but rather appreciated the utter madness of it all. "I'd rather not give him the opportunity to redress the situation."
"What happened when you reached Neverland?"
Flashes of memory - abject darkness and the sound of weeping children, the feel of a knife at his throat, the blood of a manchild called Rufio on his conscience - roil uneasily through his head, and he squeezes her hand gently. "If I might beg your indulgence, Swan, that is a tale for another time." He does not wish to speak further of Neverland tonight, unless it's to discuss the glorious kiss she'd bestowed upon him after the trek to Dead Man's Peak. He plans to bare his very soul to her, but perhaps not all in one evening.
He also suspects she's merely continuing her polite interrogation as a method of avoiding whatever it is she truly came here to discuss. "Before the candles burn down and weariness takes us away into slumber, Swan, perhaps you should ask the questions you really wish to ask."
She hesitates, suddenly looking bashful. It's not an expression he's accustomed to seeing her wear, he has to admit, and he cannot resist the urge to prompt her with a smile. "Come now, love. You came here tonight with your son's book in your arms and questions burning in your eyes." He taps a teasing finger on her arm. "Don't you think it's time you asked them?"
"Before I chicken out, you mean?"
"Chicken out?"
"Never mind." Grinning, she startles him by throwing back the bedclothes, then quickly darts across to the desk, coming back to bed with the storybook hugged to her breasts. "Damn, that floor is cold." She dives back beneath the covers and tugs them up over herself before leaning back against the pillows, the book on her lap. "Okay. I'm not the only new addition to the book." She snakes one bare arm from underneath the covers to turn the pages, and his heart abruptly flips over in his chest, because there they are, rendered in brilliant colour as they dance in King Midas' ballroom.
He's familiar with the notion of photographs now, thanks to her lad, but this is something quite different. This is an intimate moment, forever frozen in time, and as he studies the smiles they'd gifted each other while dancing, his pulse quickens almost painfully. He remembers holding her, guiding her through the waltz, and the way her eyes had never strayed from his face, her hand gripping his shoulder as though she never planned to release him. "You're in there, too," she adds unnecessarily, given that she's tapping her fingernail on his face.
He studies his profile. "It's a lovely likeness, even if I do say so myself."
"Really?" She punches him lightly in the arm, and he grins. It appears that, despite their new intimacy, there are some things that will be remaining unchanged. "The thing is, we're not in there as Princess Leia and Prince Charles." She points to the opposite page. "This book knew who we really were." She indicates a particular line. "Look at this. Emma Swan, daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. Killian Jones, former lieutenant of the King's Navy."
He pulls himself up into a sitting position, his shoulder pressed against hers as he stares at the words, his pulse racing anew. It has been an unspeakably long time since anyone referred to him as such, and seeing it etched in stark black ink is startling. When he doesn't speak, she gently leans into him. "There's no mention of a Captain Hook anywhere in here, in case you were wondering."
He actually had been wondering just that, but it doesn't do to let her know just how well she can read him too often. "Well, it is just a moniker, love."
"Oh, I've been meaning to tell you," she murmurs absentmindedly as she runs her fingers down the page. "It's called a nickname here."
"Curious term." Again, her studied avoidance of the subject at hand makes him smile. "So this is the revelation that had you scurrying across town in the middle of the night?"
"Of course not." She flashes him a look that is as much sheepish as it is annoyed. "What I want to know is how the hell did this damned book know who we really were?" She points to the picture of them dancing once again. "Apart from Gold, we were the only two people who knew what we really looked like. " She draws back her hand, as if she's suddenly wary of touching the pages. "Who the hell created this thing?"
"I've seriously no clue, love."
She huffs out a sigh, but he knows she's not angry with him, just frustrated. "You weren't in this book before. I checked."
This is a most intriguing piece of information, and he can't resist pouncing on it. "Did you now?"
Even in the flickering candlelight, he sees the blush touch her cheeks. "Shut up," she shoots back, but there's no heat in her words. "The other thing that I don't get is that if you were from a land with magic, why weren't you in here before?"
At last, a question he's confident in answering. "From what your lad has told me about this book, I assumed it only tells the tales of those affected by Regina's curse and sent to Storybrooke."
She raises her eyebrows at him, her brow furrowing. "Remind me again why you didn't get sent to Storybrooke?"
"The delightful Cora cast a protection spell that froze one little corner of the Enchanted Forest for twenty-eight years."
"The delightful Cora, my ass," she mutters, then gives him a sharp glance. "Wait, you were frozen for twenty-eight years?"
"Surprisingly, it passed in the blink of an eye," he tells her with the flourish of his hand, which earns him a smile.
"I guess you had to wait for the curse to be broken."
"Aye." He smiles at her. "Waiting for you, as it turns out." The simple words seem to fluster her, and he quickly goes on, reaching out and touching the book resting in her lap. "Tell me, Swan. What did you really want to talk about?"
"Okay, well, that's not the only new picture." She flicks back one page to show him another colourful depiction from their recent adventure, and his mouth goes dry. It's a rendering of Zelena's portal, glowing with dark magic, and a cold shiver of remembrance dances down his spine. It's like gazing upon a parchment manifestation of his nightmares. "You didn't fall into the portal like I did," she says, her gaze lifting to meet his. "You deliberately let go and let it take you."
He gives her a wary look, suddenly feeling as though he's swimming amongst a field of man-o-war jellyfish. "Does that matter?"
"Of course it does." Her bright gaze narrows. "I thought you'd been sucked in like I had."
"Well, love, technically I was."
"Not according to the book." She taps her finger on the text on the opposite page. "According to the book, Killian Jones was so devoted to Emma Swan that he refused to leave her side, even if it meant following her to the ends of the earth and time itself."
He feels his face grow warm. Perhaps he should have continued with his tale of returning to Neverland, he thinks wryly. It might have made him feel less uncomfortable. "It was the right thing to do."
"And here it says that Killian Jones couldn't bear to lose his true love again, not after such a long and harrowing quest to find her and return her to her true family." She's barely looking at the book now, and he can't help noticing that she appears to have memorised the passages that sent her rushing to him in the middle of the night. "Apparently he had sworn an oath to himself that he would bring her home, no matter what the cost to himself."
Heat creeps up the back of his neck. He knows very well what he's done and why he'd done it, of course, but hearing the plain and simple truth spoken aloud in Emma's soft voice makes it all sound rather absurd. "You sound as though you're angry with me, love."
"I'm not." She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, her fingers still tapping on the picture of Zelena's time portal. "Why didn't you tell me that you'd let go on purpose?" Behind her calm words, he hears the voice of the girl who has been left behind and forgotten far too many times in her short life, and the thought that it didn't occur to her that he might have come after her of his own free, after everything that's happened between them, is both astounding and heartbreaking.
There are so many things he wishes to tell her, how he'd do it all again in a heartbeat, but instead he opts for the simple truth. "It didn't occur to me."
Her answering smile brightens her whole face. "Of course it didn't." Curling her arm through his, she rests her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed. "That damned book is getting to me. I mean, it doesn't just tell the story of what happened in the past, it gets inside people's heads and takes their thoughts and feelings and puts them on its page for all the world to see. Who the hell is making that happen?"
Turning his head, he brushes the curve of her ear with his lips. "Perhaps some mysteries are never meant to be explained, Swan."
She glances at him quickly, then hesitates, and his heart gives an odd little lurch. Whatever is troubling her, it involves himself. When she takes a deep breath, he feels as though she's drawing air into his own lungs. "How can people know what's in their heart is real when this book tells them what and who their happy ending is supposed to be?"
A wave of tenderness sweeps over him, and he smooths his palm over her cheek. "Pretty words and pictures cannot force someone to feel something is not already in their heart." He touches his mouth to hers in a soft kiss, then pulls back, letting her see the truth in his eyes. "What I feel for you, Swan, rest assured it's of my own free will."
Her lovely mouth turns downwards (not exactly the reaction for which he'd been hoping, if he's entirely honest) and her gaze slides away, coming to rest on the shadows on the wall once more. Shifting on the bed, he lifts his hand to touch her face, smoothing back her tousled hair. "What is it that's truly troubling you?"
"This thing mentions your feelings. Like, a lot." She nods at the book in her lap. "But there's nothingin there about how I feel." She suddenly looks as though she'd rather slay another dragon than continue, but then he sees her gathering up her courage, her chin lifting. "About you, I mean."
"Perhaps it's waiting for you to decide, love."
He means it as a teasing joke, something to put her at ease, but her face seems to crumple at his words. "Oh, but I-" Again she stops, then looks at him with glittering, imploring eyes. "Maybe it knows I'm not good at this kind of thing." Her voice is small and quiet, and it almost breaks his heart. "Maybe it knows the Saviour doesn't get a happy ending."
"If anyone deserves a happy ending, love, it's you." Finally, he understands what she's been trying to tell him. She's afraid. She's afraid that the book has seen inside her heart and found her wanting, as though the thoughts and feelings it saw within her weren't worthy of being recorded for the ages. "You are good at this kind of thing, Swan. Take it from someone who knows."
Taking her hand in his, he presses it over his heart, letting her feel its rapid beat after even the most chaste of kisses. "I know you care for me, love. Whatever you feel in your heart, for me and your family, it doesn't need to be etched in that bloody book for it to be true." He kisses her again, a more lingering kiss this time, and again he's the one to pull back first. "Tell me something. Are you happy to be here with me?"
Her mouth trembles in a hopeful smile that makes his heart clench in the very best way. "Yes."
"Then that's enough for me."
Her eyes light up. "You know, when we first met, I would have never pegged you for an eternal optimist."
"You know me, Swan." He ducks his head, letting her see his answering smile. "I'm a man who can travel a long way on a little hope."
Smiling, she closes the book, hefting it onto the nightstand beside the bed. As she slides underneath the covers beside him, long legs tangling with his, she sighs against his shoulder. "Speaking of hope, I guess it's too much to think that we might get to sleep late tomorrow?"
"We are in Storybrooke, love." He strokes his fingertips down her back, and she burrows closer into his side. "It stands to reason that trouble is already brewing somewhere."
"I know you're right," she tells him with a yawn that distorts her voice, making him smile, "but right now I'm too tired to care."
"Go to sleep, Swan." He closes his eyes, his smiling growing when he feels the now familiar ripple of magic in the air, the room once again returning to darkness. "Tomorrow will be here soon enough." They're the same words he'd said to Robin only hours earlier (Gods, had it only been hours?) and he spares a momentary pang of sympathy for the other man's situation. Now there's a prime example of trouble brewing and no mistake about it.
Emma's breathing soon slows to a soft, deep rhythm, a gentle soothing sound that lulls him to his rest, and the last thing he knows the smell of beeswax and the warmth of her skin pressed against his.
The buzzing of her portable telephone wakes them the next morning. It must still be early, for he hears Emma's whispered, "Sorry," then an apologetic brush of her fingertips on his shoulder as she clambers out of bed. "Don't get up."
A moment later, as he's rubbing a palm over his bleary eyes, she's climbing back under the covers beside him, her telephone clutched in her hand as she reads to him from the small screen. "Text from Henry." Her whole face softens as she speaks her son's name. "It seems that Regina didn't go to bed last night but stayed up cooking. Apparently the whole kitchen is now filled enough food to feed the whole town and she's still going strong and it's a little weird but he's fine."
"I do hope that no apples were involved."
"God." Closing her eyes, she bows her head as if in defeat. "This is going to be messy, isn't it?"
"Quite possibly, love, but you won't have to navigate the stormy seas of Regina's wrath alone."
Lifting her head, she looks at him with wide eyes, and he remembers all the instances where she found it difficult to believe he had no plans to leave her side. This morning is a brand new day, however, and on this occasion she leans towards him, closing the distance between them with a delicious intent.
Unsurprisingly, the sleepy kiss turns into something quite different, an urgent tangle of limbs and hands and mouths (maybe you can wear the hook next time, she whispers into his ear at a crucial moment, and it's all he can do not to peak there and then) that leaves them both breathless and grinning like fools. Afterwards, he lies in bed, watching the undulation of her hips as she strolls across the room to the water closet clad in nothing more than the white undershirt he'd worn the night before. There may be better ways for a man to start his day, he muses, but at this moment he cannot think of a single one.
When she remerges, she's running her hands through her hair and wiping a delicate finger under each eye with a slight grimace. "You know, while we're on the subject of ancient history, exactly how long does the effect of living in Neverland last? I mean, are you going to look like that forever," she gestures towards his face almost accusingly, "while I get grey hair and wrinkles?"
The unspoken ramifications of her playful complaint aren't lost on him, but he does his best to keep his tone light. "I didn't realise you were thinking that far ahead, Swan."
As he watches, a pink tinge creeps over her face, her dark lashes fluttering nervously. "I wasn't," she shoots back. "I was just curious."
He doesn't bother hiding his grin. "Of course."
Her portable telephone buzzes loudly once more and she snatches it up with an amusing air of relief. This time, she swipes her thumb across the small screen and puts it to her ear. "David? What's up?" As he watches, a frown appears between her eyebrows. "Seriously?"
His heart sinks. It seems that hoping for even a day of peace was indeed too much to ask. "Okay. We'll be there as soon as we can." She listens for another few seconds, then rolls her eyes at him. "Yes, we." Another pause. "I'll tell him. See you soon."
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, smiling at her reaction to his utter lack of clothing. "Well, I guess we won't be keeping our dalliance a secret then."
She makes a familiar gesture he's seen many times before, that of sliding her phone into her back pocket, then looks down at her bare legs with surprise, as if she'd forgotten about her state of undress. "I guess not."
He lets out his breath, because he's been staring at those very same bare legs and he suspects they need to leave this room sooner rather than later, or else they will be very late in joining her parents. "Tell me, love, what bad tidings did the Prince convey?"
Dropping her phone onto the end of the bed, she runs her hands through her hair once more, then looks towards the window, her gaze narrowing. "Apparently there's something seriously weird happening with the weather, and it's not climate change."
He wonders if he'll ever become accustomed to this realm's idioms. "Climate change?"
"I'll explain that one later." Striding to the window, she pulls back the heavy curtains. "What the hell?" She turns back to where he's still sitting on the edge of the bed, her face a picture of both confusion and dread. "I think the pancakes are going to have to wait."
He comes to join her at the window, immediately understanding her sudden change in mood. The world outside is pure, stark white, the landscape barely recognisable. He touches the glass, then swiftly jerks his hand back. The windowpane is icy, almost burning his fingertips. "Why aren't we feeling the temperature change inside the room? Granny's heating system is perfectly adequate, but this is far beyond its capabilities." Even as he speaks, he already knows the answer, and it appears Emma does as well.
"Magic," she says flatly, echoing his own thoughts, and he huffs out a loud breath of resignation.
"I'm afraid you're right, love." He breathes on the cold glass, and it turns to fog before his eyes. "Am I to assume we will be trudging through some frozen woodlands or forest today?"
"Probably." She looks him up and down, a delightful blush tinging her cheeks as her gaze sweeps over his naked form, as though she hasn't spent half the night ravishing him. "Do you even own a scarf?"
He gives her the most innocuous smile he can muster. "Perhaps there's one in the bag your father gave me."
She laughs, and the sound makes his feet feel as though they've parted company with the ground. "Well, you'd better find something, because David said to tell you, and I quote, that it's bloody freezing out there."
He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "Was that all he asked you to tell me?"
"Well-" Pursing her lips, she starts to gather up her scattered clothing, making him wait until she's clutching her jeans and shirt before she puts him out of his misery. "He did say something about having a private chat with you, but it would have to wait until we'd found out more about what's going on with all that ice."
Grinning, he runs his palm along his jawline - sometimes he thinks he can still feel the imprint of the Prince's knuckles there - before he starts to gather his own clothing. "Saved by the inclement weather."
"Trust me, it's my mother you need to charm." Emma shoots back with a snort of laughter. "Prince Charming is already on your side from what I can tell."
"Well, I did say that he and Prince Charles were mates."
She only laughs again, too distracted by her rummaging through the satchel said Prince had given him. Eventually, she tosses a black woollen cap at him, and he barely manages to pull his shirt over his head before it hits him in the chest. "I know it's not exactly pirate chic, but you'll be glad of it, trust me." When he looks at it doubtfully, she shakes her head at him. "Come on. At least it's black?"
Ten minutes later (delayed only by her insisting on helping him put on his brace and hook, something that could have caused a much longer delay if he'd been a weaker man) they're washed and dressed and, he's loathe to admit, ready for battle. Finally, knowing it's time to face the inevitable intrusion of the world outside his bedchamber door, he looks at her.
"Shall we?"
"Hang on." She takes the woollen cap from his hand and reaches up to tug it onto his head, pulling it down until it's a match for hers. Still gripping it by its edges, she meets his gaze steadily, her face barely a breath away from his. "What I said before, when we were trapped in Gold's vault?" His heart does an odd little lurch, but he says nothing, waiting. Hoping. "When I said I wanted this to work, that I wanted to stop running?" Her pale throat works as she swallows, then she smiles, a tremulous curving of her lips that makes his mouth burn with the urge to kiss her. "I wasn't just talking about my family."
Somehow, he manages not to touch his mouth to hers. "I know."
Her whole face softens, then she brushes her knuckles against his cheeks, cocking an eyebrow at the picture he makes in his borrowed cap. "You cut quite a figure in that hat, Captain."
They are once again poised to stride out in search of something or someone that could very well kill them all, but he's happier than he's been in a very long time. "You ready, Swan?"
"Yep." Swaddled in her heavy coat and cap, her last act is to pick up Henry's book and tuck it under her arm. "Let's go see who the bad guy is this time."
"After you, love." He opens the door with a gallant flourish. "And once we've dealt with the bad guy, as you so succinctly put it, perhaps we could have those pancakes?"
She dimples at him as they reach the top of the stairs. "Are you still buying?"
"A gentleman never breaks a promise, love."
The smile she gives him makes him feel as though he could vanquish a dozen villains with a single hook. "Good."
It takes them almost an hour to reach the loft.
She holds his hand every step of the way.