This is a bad idea.

She knows it in her head, knows it in her footsteps, quiet as they are.

His door is suddenly in front of her, and she takes a deep breath at the familiarity of her situation.

She's not here for sex, because that ship has sailed and it isn't coming back. But maybe he can still help her. They seem to have reached a peaceful state of their relationship. It seems ridiculous to say, but it's true. After their discussion on the deck things have been better. Fewer eggshells. She's relaxed around him. The air is clear enough, and it feels good to have nothing to beat around the bush about. In the days since their talk not a single warning bell has gone off in her head, which Emma is smart enough to call a win.

Anyways. She's standing here because she's stupid and she won't ever admit it to him, but she misses sleeping next to someone, especially now that Henry is alternating between her and Regina at night these days.

And, as much as she doesn't fully trust him, she certainly likes him more than she likes being alone.

If you think it's a bad idea, it probably is.

Sometimes Emma hates that voice of common sense. Instead of listening to it and wisely returning to her room for a restless night of no sleep, she lifts her fist and knocks.

It's silent for a minute and she's already regretting it when she hears his muffled voice telling her to come in. She swings the door open just enough to slip in, and then shuts it behind her. The dull thump of it closing is enough to push her heart rate up, and when she turns to see him, it goes wild.

He's looking at her, startled to see her, apparently, as though he was expecting anyone else. His hand is frozen on the hem of his shirt, halfway up his stomach. There's nothing different about him; it's not like she hasn't seen him naked dozens of times, and he's not even half-naked right now.

It's just; she hasn't been in his cabin since then, and he's watching her and she can practically feel the material of his shirt against her skin.

It hardly seems real to her. It's dark, lit by a single lantern hanging in the center of the room(like she knows it always is at night).

It had been day then, no shadows except the ones in his eyes.

Oh god. Emma clenches her eyes shut, tries to think of the last time they'd talked, on deck, the wind in her hair, his hand on her cheek, the honesty in his voice. Anything to not think of it. But even in her memories, things are distorted. Her brain throws a hunger in his eyes that she knows hadn't been there, reads the heat radiating off of him as actual contact, adds a possessive grip to the way he had held her hand.

This was such a bad idea. Her stomach is roiling and she still can't open her eyes, everything coming in waves. It feels like it's been hours and minutes and she's gasping, she knows it, but all that she can feel is the lack of air, like it's all been sucked out and she wants to kick herself, revolt against her body's reaction. There are a million hands on her, bright searing points of light, burning, bruising, and she feels like she's about to drown.

"Emma?"

There's a voice trying to break through, familiar but distant. Something brushes against the back of her hand, then slips inside, gripping her fingers.

"Emma!"

She doesn't want to open her eyes, to see what's beyond her eyelids even though what she's seeing, what she's feeling, it's too much and she's gonna explode from it. The onslaught is too familiar, too dangerous.

It's not until she feels her knees buckling that she manages to overcome it enough to open her eyes. He's there, right in front of her, and as clichéd as it sounds, all she can see is his eyes. She focuses on that, his fingers squeezing hers so tightly it hurts. Right. He's here. He's right in front of her. She can see him. Nothing is happening. It's all in her head. Her over-active mind trying to betray her.

"Shit," is the first thing that comes out of her mouth, and it breaks the tension. He lets out a breath she hadn't noticed him holding and a small smile crosses his face. She furrows her brows, trying to figure out what he's smiling about. Then he looks down at her other hand, fisted in his shirt.

Oh. Right.

She lets go, quickly, dropping her hand, but he's still smiling, softly, reassuringly. Oh, god. She had a freaking panic attack. It makes her want to crawl into a hole and die. Groaning, she lifts her hands to scrub at her face. He lets her hand go, and she's proud to say she only stumbles a little bit.

"This was a bad idea," she mutters through her fingers, and she knows her face is red, can feel the heat of embarrassment rising. Ugh. She just wants to be over this all ready. She is over it, she honestly is. Obviously she trusts him enough to come to his cabin in the middle of the night, alone. Which actually, now that she thinks about it, might not have been her most well-thought-out plan of late.

God, she hates herself sometimes.

When she finally lowers her hands, she sees he's still watching her, head tilted curiously to the side. It's a look she's seen on him many times before, and it never ceases to make her feel like a bug under a microscope.

She wants to turn away, put some distance between them, but her feet won't move, won't let her put her back to him. Which makes sense, from a self-preservation standpoint, but it makes her feel even more like a deer caught in headlights. She swears if she ever regains the ability to move, she's getting out of here.

He must notice the panic starting to set back into her eyes, though, because he blinks suddenly and turns away himself, pacing further into the room. The added distance does wonders for her breathing, and she gulps in air. It hadn't occurred to her before that her breathing had been so shallow.

"Why are you here, Emma?" he asks, breaking her focused breathing. She blinks owlishly, knows she must look like a fool standing here trying to process his words.

The worst part is, she doesn't have a good answer for him. She knows, of course, why she's here. But she can't tell him that. She can't tell him that she hasn't had a full night's sleep since they stopped sleeping together, that her brain is eternally fried and as much as her body shies away from him, she sort of misses him and gentle touches, waking up to the smell of his sheets.

She doesn't want to stir that nest.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly expecting a response.

She doesn't know what to say, what he wants to hear. Instead, she walks over to his bed, careful to not turn her back on him, and sits down, reaching down to ease off her shoes, focusing entirely on that, the slide as they come off, wriggling her toes in the air.

"Emma," his voice has taken on a new tone, guarded, careful. "What are you doing, lass?"

Her task finished, bare-footed now, she tucks her feet up under her. She finds the feel of the deck under her toes too much these days. Finally deciding that she's maybe together enough, she looks up at him.

He's on the other side of the room, practically, watching her carefully. His body is tense, wound tight, she can see it from here. He's worried about her, and a little scared of what she's doing, thinking, planning. It sends a pang of sadness through her. That here they are, him scared of her, him worrying about her, him standing on the other side of the room when once upon a time Emma Swan in his bed would have made him spout off at how he had rules, no women in his bed without him. She would have laughed at that, dared him to prove it, and he would have. She would never give to his flirtations in the light of day, but when she had been with him, it had been okay. A little pocket of pretending that everything would turn out fine, that he was charming and decent and she was just a girl looking for a good time and a comfortable bed.

She heaves out a breath, wincing at the sound it makes in the silence of the room. The lantern overhead creaks and swings with the rocking of the ship, and she can hear the sea, the ship, everything moving, always moving, but she has learned to tune it all out, to listen to the sounds of breathing and footsteps.

"I'm getting ready for bed," she says, finally.

"Emma-," he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Look, I don't want to talk. I just want to sleep." It's not a question, and she knows he would never tell her no anyways. Looking at him now, she knows he would pull the sun out of the sky if it was within his power, if it would make her okay. It sends a warm rush of something through her, even if it's entirely stupid, because he caused this in the first place. He should be trying to make things okay.

He doesn't unwind, but his shoulders lower a little. He's still watching her, though, wary. She doesn't want that, but at the same time, she won't give him any more. She can't.

She's in his cabin, in his bed, and if they talk...she knows exactly what she'd do, and she can't think about it. Won't, because it will feel like kind words and soft touches and she will do things that will only make them worse. She's already played that card, and sleeping with him led her here. It doesn't fix anything. She's too fragile right now, goddamn her, to play with fire.

Sighing, she lifts her hand, runs her fingers through her hair. He's still standing there, and she thinks maybe he's slowly relaxing. A little.

"Get your ass over here, Jones," she says, trying to soften it as much as she can. Which isn't much, because she's still learning softness, but she thinks maybe he appreciates the command because the corner of his mouth quirks up. He loosens, his shoulders relaxing.

"Of course, m'lady," he says with a quick mock-bow. He smirks, and she knows he's trying because there's not a hint of innuendo in it. Just a good old-fashioned smarmy-ass smirk.

She rolls her eyes and he chuckles and it makes her feel good, makes her forget that she just had a panic attack at his door and swore she was walking away.

He pulls her out of her thoughts when he sits next to her, shoulder to shoulder, touching, but barely. He kicks his boots off quickly, and then scoots back before laying flat on the far side of the bed, offering her the side closer to the door.

He's a perceptive little shit, and though he uses it to force her hand more often than not, she appreciates it now. Rolling her shoulders, she takes a deep breath.

"Emma, are you sure?" his soft voice comes from behind her, and it takes her a minute to register that he's behind her, she gave him her back. And he did nothing. She knew it would be fine, but still. A small part of her relaxes.

Instead of speaking, she turns and lays down herself, flat on her back, giving the only answer she has planned. She closes her eyes, knows he's watching her, can feel his gaze. Can feel the way he's holding himself tight, keeping his arms and legs to himself. There's a valley between them, physical and beyond

That isn't why she's here.

She sighs and rolls to face him, catching his eyes with her own. For a minute, just a minute, she lets herself get lost. One small concession. He's not gonna waggle his eyebrows and say something suggestive. He's going to give her this moment because she wants it and he's trying. After a long moment, she blinks a few times.

"You can touch me," she says on an exhale, closing her eyes again. It's supposed to sound light, not breathy, but it does. She's past the point of caring, though, because she's sinking into the mattress and his has always been better than hers, there's something soothing about it. His hand tentatively brushes the back of hers, and he leaves it there, the rough skin on the tips of his fingers splayed across her knuckles.

"Just," she pauses, takes a deep breath, knowing she has to say this, to exert one bit of control, as much as she doesn't want to say it, as much as she knows he doesn't want to hear it. "Just don't touch me."

She can feel him stiffen, even through the air between them.

"Emma." She slides her eyes open to find his, much closer than she had realized. A million things are swimming behind them, and she know he's hurt, and it doesn't make her feel good, but she had to say it. This is one thing she has to say. No, now that she can. It hangs in the air between them, and he lifts his hand, brushes it across her cheek.

"I wouldn't, you have to know that, I wouldn't, I-I," he stutters, and she recognizes the feeling too well. Knowing what to say without knowing how to. But she gets it, sees it.

"Yeah," she murmurs. He breathes out, frustrated, and she rolls over, putting her back to him, trying to show him that it's okay. She trusts him. Tentatively, she feels him move. His shoulders brush against her back and his arm goes across her waist and she has to breathe deep for a minute. This is okay. She wanted this.

He relaxes fully, and she realizes just how he'd been holding himself in, rigid. But now he's soft, his breath warm and tickling at the side of her neck. It's comforting, comfortable. His breathing evens out surprisingly fast once that happens, she notices, and he's out. Like maybe he'd missed her too.

The final holdout in her crumbles at the knowledge that he just fell asleep first. She couldn't, knew in the back of her mind that if he tried to wait for her to go to sleep, it was never going to happen. She trusts him, but she doubts she'll ever let herself fall asleep first again.

Either way, her thoughts are slowing down, draining away in her exhaustion. His chest is rhythmically pressing against her back with every breath, and before she realizes it, she's syncing up with him, breathing in and out in tandem. It's the last thing she notices before sleep finally takes her.

She's awoken the next morning by the fact that, for all his charm and smoothness, Killian Jones can be surprisingly ungainly sometimes. Or, that's what she assumes when he attempts to crawl over her to get out of bed. It's the missing warmth, the physical touch, that she notices first as she comes to.

Her eyes are still closed, reluctant to give way to the brightness of the daylight, but she can feel him in the room, shuffling around. She doesn't want to open her eyes, honestly. Wants to keep pretending that she's okay, fine.

It occurs to her the second she opens her eyes that maybe his waking her up hadn't been entirely unintentional, because he's standing with his back to her, shirtless, practically preening in front of his wardrobe. He catches sight of her in the mirror, notices her staring and grins.

"See something you like, darling?" He's back. He raises an eyebrow at her and she knows he's not serious, that he's teasing her with very little intent behind it. And it's working, because she's too busy thinking about what a ridiculous peacock he is to allow anything else into her head.

Rolling her eyes, she stretches in the bed. "You wish, maybe." This, this is safe ground, banter and teasing that she doesn't mind so much now.

He chuckles and pulls out a shirt and vest, laying them out, taking his time, she knows, showing off. Giving her a show. The worst part is that she's actually taking advantage of it. Of course he's attractive; she doubts anyone would be able to deny that. And she knows from experience that he's warm and firm in all the right places. He's not beefy, but a life at sea has toned him nicely, underneath it all.

Shit. He's turned around, now, and he's watching her watch him, bemusement faint on his features. She groans and snaps her eyes shut. This shouldn't be happening. She's not doing the right thing, she's not feeling the right things.

Why does he still send sparks through her veins? Why does she still allow herself to get lost in his eyes, his face, his fucking body? She feels like a traitor to herself, to all the promises she's made and all the anger she's felt. She doesn't accept betrayal, refuses broken trust. But here she is.

Trying to ignore the conflict raging in her head, she flips herself over onto her stomach and curls further into the bed. It's comfortable and warm and one night's sleep isn't enough to beat away the exhaustion that follows her everywhere.

She hears him chuckle, his boots click on the flooring.

"Emma, love," he says, his hand coming down on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She opens her eyes, and instantly regrets it. He's crouched next to the bed, still not wearing a fucking shirt, jesus christ, his face startlingly close to hers.

Her heart rate picks up at his proximity, though it's a less than justifiable response, because she knows it's not fear that's stirring in her.

"You should get up. I expect your family will be looking for you," he continues, and Emma blinks. Right. Henry.

As if his words have summoned it, the door to his cabin is thrown open, David standing there, slightly out of breath, his eyes wild.

"Hook, we can't find Emma-" he stops, startled when his panicked eyes fall on them. Suddenly Emma is very, very aware of what this looks like, his proximity, his lack of clothing, his hand still resting on her shoulder, her in his bed, snuggled in quite comfortably, and she feels a blush beginning to creep up her neck. Hook, for his part, just grins and winks at her before rising to face her father.

"I do believe I've found her," he says, and even though Emma can't see his face, she knows he's smirking at her father.

David's eyes narrow, and he glances from Emma to Hook, his gaze boring into the pirate. Emma has to roll her eyes. He's been worse; she knows David's not stupid, has picked up on the tension between the two of them. If he was a protective cock-block before, it's been magnified a million times since.

Sighing, Emma sits up and throws her legs over the edge of the bed, catching David's eyes. His gaze softens when he looks at her, full of love and hope and gentle affection and it still sends a rush through her; love and warmth and even this far into things, a little bit of fear.

She smiles and he smiles back, time freezing for just a second. It's a second Emma wishes she could keep forever, because it hits her like a punch to the stomach that this is what her life is now; a family that cares about her, that comes looking when she disappears.

The moment is broken when Henry comes careening into the room, shouting. "Mom!?" He's on her in a flash, barreling into her arms and it throws her back, pushes the air out of her lungs.

"Hey, kid," she says, hugging him back just as tightly.

"We thought something happened to you!" he says tilting his head up at her, his face questioning. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that Hook has finally thrown a shirt on and is buttoning his vest, very carefully not looking at her, giving her a moment with her son.

"Sorry, I just had to come see Hook about something," it's a lame excuse even to her ears, and she knows from the sparkle in Henry's eye that he sees right through it. Damn kid's always been too smart for his own good. She releases him and nudges him with her shoulder. "Here, let me get my shoes on and then we can go reassure Mary-Margaret."

Of course, when she glances up from pulling her boots on, his attention is already elsewhere, looking around the room in wonder, at the bookcase full of what Emma is sure are ancient books, the desk covered in maps and paper and all kinds of sailing tools, some of which he must recognize because his eyes light up and he takes a step towards it.

Hook is leaning next to the door, a grin spreading across his features as he notices the boy's fascination. Shaking her head, Emma returns to focusing on pulling on her last boot, rising as she slides her foot in. She rolls her neck, and rubs her hands on her pants before calling out to Henry.

"C'mon, kid," she says, holding her hand out to him, and he hesitates just a second before taking her hand and pulling her out the door. As she passes Hook, she dips her head just a little bit, a thank you, as much as she can communicate in that one small glance. His eyes soften and he smiles at her, just for a second, and then she's in the passageway and Henry is pulling her out onto the deck.

It's not until she sees Mary-Margaret deep in discussion with Regina, Gold off at the prow, that she realizes David never followed her and Henry out of Hook's cabin.

The next time she sees her father, after all the reassurances and eye-rolls from Regina and hugs from her mother (seriously, where exactly could she have gone? she spends one unexpected night with Hook and suddenly everyone is freaking out about her safety). The instant she has a second, she pulls him aside.

"What did you do?" He looks at her, trying to feign innocence, but Emma knows better.

"Nothing!" She narrows her eyes at him.

"Don't make me ask him, David," she says, and he sighs, reaching for her shoulder.

"Emma, I'm your father. I'm not stupid. I know something's been different between you two," his eyes shift, looking anywhere but hers. "We just...had a talk. That's all."

"Was it anything like the talk where you threatened to throw him off of his own ship?"

His shifty look is all the answer she needs. She takes a deep calming breath, trying to expel her frustration into the air.

"Look, I know you care about me, but it's fine. I promise."

She catches his eyes, forces him to look at her. He watches her for a moment, and she wonders if this is what it feels like when she scrutinizes people, tries to figure out if they're lying to her. Finally, he sighs.

"You know I love you and just want what's best, right?" She lets herself smile at him.

"Yeah, I know," she says, and he smiles softly at her before pulling her in, hugging her tight against his chest. It feels good, and she squeezes him back, enjoys the moment. It's something she never thought she'd have; father-daughter bonding, and as much as it freaks her out still, the idea that she has a father, she can at least enjoy this much.

After a moment, he lets her go, steps back, still smiling at her.

It's stupidly simple, but right here, stuck in a far-away realm with no way to get home, she feels okay. She's got her family, everyone who cares, right here on this ship.

The fact that one particular Captain seems to be edging his way into that group(completely against her own common sense) doesn't escape her notice.