Hook + ballpoint pen

Thanks to trueloveswanjones for the suggestion!

Content warning: Brief mentions of somewhat explicit sexual content.

Swan's phone was buzzing, which was quite irritating given that it was her day off. Killian had been awake for some time already; he was used to rising early, and that was one habit that hadn't changed even as the rest of his life had. But he was quite content to lie in bed, naked, with a very naked Emma Swan doing unspeakable things to his body.

"Please—please don't answer that," he pleaded. She respected his wishes, and the phone stopped vibrating. He sighed in relief before groaning as Swan swirled her tongue around the head of his cock.

And then the phone buzzed again. This time, she sighed and released him from her mouth. "Sorry."

"Bloody hell, love, your father promised not to call today."

"I know, but it might be an emergency." She wriggled her way back up to the head of the bed and grabbed her phone. "Hello?" She braced the phone between her shoulder and ear and reached down for his cock again. Oh, she was naughty. He grinned and shifted to give her better access as she continued her conversation.

"No, I wasn't asleep," she said. "But you promised that I'd finally have today off." So it was David; he felt a little guilty that Emma was pleasuring him while carrying on a conversation with her father, but said father had indeed promised her the day off. Served Dave right if he figured out what his daughter was doing.

Swan increased the pace of her hand as she spoke to her father; Killian stopped listening and instead focused on the sensations she was providing. It had been a week since she'd declared her commitment to him, and he had absolutely been enjoying what Snow White had referred to as their honeymoon period. He didn't care that such a period would eventually end; what mattered was that he and Swan were bringing each other to mind-blowing heights of pleasure every moment they had the privacy to do so (and one time when they honestly really hadn't), and not even a phone call from David was going to interrupt that.

He was close to his climax when Swan finally ended the call. "Sorry about that," she said, tossing her phone back onto the nightstand and leaning forward to wrap her lips around his cock again. He was going to make a quip about how her actions more than made up for the interruption, but her mouth felt too good for him to think of anything clever. And in no time at all, he was coming, jerking his hips uncontrollably.

Once he'd recovered his senses, he sat up, keen on returning the favor. But as he reached for Swan to pull her into the best position, she shook her head and swung her legs off the bed instead. "Sorry, but I actually have to go."

"Swan," he groaned, "your father promised you the day off. What reason could he possibly have to go back on that guarantee?"

"He's busy dealing with a break-in down by the docks, and he just got a call asking me to check on someone. Welfare check—no one's seen them in a while and I need to make sure they're okay."

"That's the sheriff's duty?" She nodded. "Perhaps I'll join you, then."

She chuckled. "Why? So you can go down on me in public, and we can almost get caught again?" She began pulling on her clothing.

"We almost got caught. Almost. And to be fair, darling, that was part of the thrill."

"Well, maybe some other time; I think we've made everyone suspicious enough that they're expecting it."

"Then I promise to be on my best behavior," he said solemnly, before climbing out of bed and pulling on his underwear.

"Uh, yeah, but even so, maybe I should handle this alone."

"It's no trouble, love. It's not as though I'd go back to sleep at this late hour, and besides, I've yet to find an occupation here; I don't exactly have anything else to do."

She shrugged and pulled on her jacket. "You could help my mom with the baby," she suggested, "Or, hell, you could even help Dad with whatever's going on at the docks. We can meet up for lunch, and then I promise, you've got me the rest of the day."

He finished fastening his jeans and was about to comment that her second idea had merit. But he stopped himself as he considered her tone. "Swan, is there some particular reason you'd prefer to work alone this morning?"

"No!" she protested, not very convincingly. "It's just that these checks can be boring, and well …"

"Swan."

"Okay, fine, you can come with me." He grinned as she came over to help him with his brace. She rolled her eyes. "You wore me down. Hope you're proud of yourself."

"A little, but you are just so easy for me to wear down."

It wasn't until they'd been in her car for about ten minutes that he realized just why she was so reluctant to permit him to come along. They were driving to part of Storybrooke that he hadn't visited since he'd first arrived, when he was still planning his revenge on Rumplestiltskin.

His suspicions grew, and his stomach twisted itself into knots, as they drew closer and closer to their destination. He continued to hope that he was wrong, until Swan brought the car to a halt in front of the Dark One's house. Bloody hell.

"You can stay in the car," she told him, and he just nodded. She gave him a sad smile before exiting the vehicle and making her way up the path to the main door.

He focused all of his attention on a smudge on the interior of the car, and tried very hard not to feel guilty. It was not his fault that Rumplestiltskin was a failure as a husband. It was not his fault that Belle had to decide between her love for the monster, or her dignity. It was not his fault that any of this had happened—Rumplestiltskin may have used him to avoid arousing suspicion, but the Dark One would have eventually come after his heart anyway. He'd just been a pawn.

That had been one of the great injustices of the situation. It was bad enough that his own nemesis, the man he'd sworn to destroy, had practically owned him. But being owned again—that had been the worst part. The loss of freedom and control over his own destiny had been the greatest insult.

He had been a victim of Belle's husband. That was the long and short of it. There was no reason for him to feel guilty.

Swan had been taking an awfully long time, though. He chanced a glance towards the front door. She was still standing there, and he could see that the door was open, but if Belle were standing in the doorway, Swan was blocking her from view. And then, suddenly, the door shut—almost as though slammed; Swan stood there for a moment before shaking her head and turning back.

"Sorry that took so long," was all she said when she reentered the car. "I've got to file a report—it's a paperwork thing. Do you want me to drop you off at Granny's and I'll meet you for lunch? Or do you want to hang out at the station with me?"

"Granny's should be fine. Thanks, love. Perhaps I should have stayed behind."

"It's okay. I don't think she saw you."

They didn't talk much after that, and soon enough, she'd dropped him off in front of Granny's. He waved to her as she drove off to the station, but instead of heading inside, he turned back around.

It took him about an hour to get back to the Dark One's house, and only because he'd walked briskly; even in the cool weather, he was sweating a bit from the exertion. He stopped at the end of the pathway that would lead him to the same front door Swan had just knocked at. Was he making a mistake coming here? Would his appearance make matters worse?

He fervently hoped not. He made his way to the door and knocked.

The door opened after a few moments. "Look, Emma, I know—Oh. It's you."

"Aye." He was taken aback by Belle's appearance. In the short time he'd known her here in Storybrooke, she'd always been dressed in what Swan had told him were very stylish clothes, and her hair and cosmetics had always been impeccable. She'd also rarely been without her heeled shoes; now, he was surprised by just how much shorter than he she really was. She looked almost ill, with her face bare, and she was dressed in what Swan referred to as sweats.

Additionally, and more importantly, she wore an expression that made him desperately want to flee the vicinity.

"Do you want something?" she asked bitterly.

He swallowed hard; he was no coward, though. He would stay and do what he came to do. "I was hoping to speak with you," he said, his mouth suddenly very dry. "You don't have to invite me in; I'm fine talking here."

"So talk," she replied, crossing her arms and staring resolutely at him.

"Right, very well." He cleared his throat and tried to recall exactly what he'd rehearsed mentally as he'd walked over. "First, I wanted to thank you. You saved my life. I've—I've done nothing to earn that—that consideration from you." He couldn't help but stare at his shoes. "In fact, I suppose with the way I've treated you in the past …"

He tried to meet her gaze, but this time, she looked away. "There's a second of all?" she mumbled.

He licked his lips. "Perhaps—never mind."

"No, you came all this way," she said sarcastically. "It would be a shame if you disturbed my solitude for only a 'first of all.'"

He tried his best not to scowl at her tone. She had every right to be angry, to not want to see anyone, especially him. He might have been a victim as well, but he had been complicit towards the start.

"The hat," he said. "Yo—" He stopped himself, grimacing. "I used it to trap an old man, and all of the fairies. I was hoping that you might help me find a way to free them."

She slammed the door in his face; it was almost a relief.

He was back at Granny's well before Swan finished her paperwork; she gave him a curious glance when she sat down in what had become their booth, but she didn't ask him what he'd been up to. The rest of the day passed peacefully enough, with a stroll through town and dinner at Regina's before he and Swan parted ways.

It was one of her nights with Henry; with Robin gone, the lad spent most nights with Regina to help soothe her. Killian tried not to feel too resentful; he was fond of Henry, and they were even going sailing later that week. And besides, he and Swan were still learning how to share a bed; neither of them slept all that well when she spent the night, due to a combination of intimate activities and the unavoidable discomfort of new sleeping arrangements.

But tonight, he felt acutely aware of her absence, and it took even longer for sleep to claim him than it would have had she been present. His encounter with Belle had taken place over the span of mere minutes, and yet sleep evaded him for hours as he obsessed over every moment. Should he have gone back later, with Swan? Should he have enlisted her help? Should he have apologized? Shown more gratitude?

Had Swan been with him now, she would curl up against him, distracting him from his thoughts. He would think of nothing except her fierceness and goodness and beauty, and fall asleep breathing in the scent of her hair (it wasn't difficult; she had quite a bit of it and more often than not, it ended up in his face). But instead, he was alone, thinking about his failure.

Three days later, on Swan's next day off, her phone buzzed again.

"Oh, god."

Killian lifted his head up long enough to say, "Don't you dare answer, Emma. Don't you dare."

"I wasn't—ah! I wasn't going to!"

He growled as he sucked gently on her clit; he'd make sure she couldn't even think about answering.

"Wait, wait!" she said suddenly, gripping his hair just hard enough to get him to stop moving his head. "Killian, that's your phone."

"Wha—it is?" It was. The only person who ever called him was Swan, and she was very obviously not the one trying to reach him.

"Here." She grabbed his phone and tossed it to him before also handing him the towel that they'd set aside for clean-up. He quickly wrapped the towel around his left wrist before picking up the phone and answering it.

"Hello?" He wiped at his mouth and beard, tilting the phone away as he did so. As it was, he wasn't sure he heard the voice on the other end correctly.

"Hoo—uh, Killian?"

"Ah, yes," he said, before asking hesitantly: "Belle?" Swan's expression instantly went from pleasured to curious.

Belle cleared her throat. "I, uh, asked Granny for your number. I hope that's okay."

"Of course. Is there …" He licked his lips, and then blushed as he tasted Swan's arousal on them. "What can I do for you?"

"There are a few books in the shop," she said after a few moments of silence. "They might be worth a look."

The hat. She was talking about the hat. His heart beat faster. "Aye. That sounds promising."

"I thought I might bring them to the library, if you'd … if you'd like to look at them."

"I would, if that's all right."

"Well, I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise," she said dryly, with the same bite she'd had three days prior. "I'll be there around nine-thirty, in terms of when you could stop by."

He wasn't sure what time it was now, but Granny's was close enough to the library that as long as he had more than five or ten minutes, he'd be punctual. "Thank you. Shall I bring you coffee?"

"No thank you," she said stiffly. "Well, goodbye then." And the call ended.

"You wanna tell me what that was about?" Swan asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Perhaps another time," he said. "I believe we were rudely interrupted while I was in the middle of something very important." He dropped his phone on the bed and knelt back down between Swan's thighs.

She promptly shut them before he was able to resume, nearly kneeing him in the face in the process. "Nice try, buddy. Why did Belle call you?"

"Jealous that the newly single librarian might pose a threat to our relationship?" he teased, hoping to change the subject. "You've nothing to fear, darling, I'm just as committed to us as you are."

"Again, nice try." She crossed her arms and glared. "Killian."

He sighed. "I may have gone back to see her after your initial visit the other day."

"Killian! Why the hell would you do that?"

"I wanted to thank her," he admitted. "Swan, you seem to have forgotten that I tried to kill her more than once. That's to say nothing of the centuries I spent trying to destroy the man she loved—probably still loves, if we're being honest. She didn't have to save me, and she did."

"Of course she did," Swan said, sounding almost irritated. "I've saved people I didn't like."

"So I shouldn't be grateful?" he countered. "I shouldn't be grateful that as she confronted her traitorous husband, as she exposed his betrayal in front of others, she still saved me?" Swan simply frowned, possibly remembering the moment that she'd had to watch, frozen, as someone else saved him. "I thought that she was owed something, at least. That she should know that I was grateful."

Swan sighed and shook her head. "Well, what's all the stuff about coffee?"

"I asked her for help with the hat."

"Wait, so you basically showed up at her doorstep and said, 'Thanks for saving me even though you hate me, and by the way, mind helping me?'"

The exasperated sound that escaped him defied description. "I would like to believe that you know I'm more well-mannered than that."

She scowled. "I might be exaggerating, but I can't believe you did that! Why not ask Regina?"

"Regina doesn't know any more about the hat than I do. I asked already. I need to research it, and, well … Belle is the expert in that realm."

"Yeah, I guess, but—"

"Emma," he said firmly. "Darling, please trust me. Trust that I'm trying to do right by Belle." He sighed. "And please, trust that I'm doing the right thing for me."

She stared at him for what felt like ages before she nodded. "Belle drinks tea, not coffee."

Killian arrived at the library at precisely nine twenty-eight, anxiously trying not to spill anything hot on himself. He still didn't trust what Swan referred to as take-out or to-go cups (she switched back and forth between the terminology, and when asked which one was correct, simply shrugged). They were made of paper, after all, and he'd plenty of experience with the results of getting liquid on parchment. It didn't matter that he'd spent a few weeks drinking out of these strange cups with their synthetic tops; he still expected them to fall apart at any moment.

Making matters worse, only having one hand meant that carrying two beverages was quite risky. He gripped Belle's tea in his hand as he tried to keep his left arm balanced; his own coffee fit snugly in the curve of his hook, but his arm was getting tired from holding it at just the right angle.

He saw Belle approaching well before she arrived at the front door. From a distance, he saw the heavy tomes she was carrying; as she drew nearer, he could see that she was still forgoing personal appearance as she grieved. Her hair was tied back very simply, she still wore no makeup, and she wore jeans and flat shoes.

Her expression was determined, but he recognized the particular shade of it: it was determination born of guilt and anger, not hope.

She frowned when she reached him. "What is that?" she asked, her tone accusatory.

He coughed and lifted the cup he was holding in his hand. "Tea. Granny said you prefer English breakfast with one teaspoon of sugar."

She blinked. "I asked you not to bring me anything."

"You turned down my offer for coffee," he replied gently. "I didn't want to be rude, since I was bringing myself a beverage." He lifted his own cup to demonstrate.

She didn't reply, and instead shifted the books she carried so that she could unlock the library door. He flushed a bit; he wanted to be a gentleman and assist her, but there was no way that he could, with both hand and hook full. Before he could find a solution—perhaps there was somewhere he could set one of the drinks down—she'd opened the door and entered. He had to move quickly to follow her; she didn't hold the door open for him, and the same problem that prevented him from assisting her also would make it difficult to open the door himself.

He followed her inside to a small table tucked into a little alcove. She looked as though she was about to throw the books down before thinking better of it; they were quite old and potentially fragile. She set them down carefully instead. "I'll be back in a moment."

As she walked away, he set down her tea and his coffee, groaning a little as he shook out his left arm. He'd occasionally had to hold Swan's coffee or hot cocoa in his hook, but never for this long.

He was massaging his forearm a bit when Belle returned, arms filled with supplies. She dropped them on the table unceremoniously. "Right, so, I have some paper here for notes," she said, gesturing at the crisp, almost unnaturally white sheets of it. "And some sticky notes—they, uh, have some mild adhesive so you can safely stick them in books." She demonstrated with a blue note. "I suppose I'll get started with this one, if you want to try this one." She pushed one of the dusty books in his direction before sitting down as far away from him as possible.

"Excellent idea," he said, taking a seat at the other end of the table. It was nice of her to even agree to sit in the same room with him; he would respect her need for space.

The book was a bit promising; it appeared to be a detailed compendium of ancient magical artifacts. There were plenty of items listed in the contents that could be the hat; he eagerly flipped to the first one listed that appeared interesting.

He reached for one of the little square adhesive notes to mark the page, and then for a—

"Ah, you wouldn't happen to have a pen?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "There are a bunch right there."

Right where? In the center of the table, amidst the paper and notes, were a few sticks. "Those?"

"Yeah." Her tone indicated that it was obviously that these were pens.

He reached for the nearest one. It was pen-shaped, at least, but instead of a nib, there was a hole. There was also a strange piece sticking out of the side of it, and a small, short cylinder at the top.

This was a pen?

He gripped it as though it were and tried to write down the note he wanted. As he'd expected, nothing happened. Maybe it was upside down?

As he pressed the other end to paper, there was a click. To his surprise, a nib popped out of the hole on the other end. Well, that was one mystery solved; now he just needed ink.

He scanned the table again, but there didn't appear to be any ink. There were more pens, although they seemed rather varied in terms of shape and style, and there were some other supplies he didn't recognize. But there was definitely nothing resembling ink.

A thought occurred to him, one that had been occurring more and more frequently as he spent more time in this realm. So much of technology here was geared towards convenience and ease. It was convenient to be able to bathe and relieve oneself inside without having to dispose of one's own waste afterwards. It was convenient to be able to store food for long periods of time. It was convenient to be able to light a room with the flick of a switch, and darken it just as quickly.

It would be very convenient to be able to use a pen without having to constantly dip it in ink. He pressed the nib to the note and wrote, "Mention of a magic hat here." The pen moved smoothly across the paper; there was no scratching, nor did it catch on any invisible divots in the note. And there it was: the text he'd planned to write.

He'd figured it out; he grinned.

He heard a chuckle from the other end of the table and looked up; Belle was smirking. "I was wondering how long it would take you," she admitted.

"I'm a fast learner."

"I can see."

"What is this exactly?"

"A ballpoint pen. There's a little ball at the tip that makes it roll smoothly over the paper."

"Ah, that explains it. I rather like it, actually."

"I do as well. The ink's inside the pen. You actually throw them out when they're empty—well, you can buy nice pens where you have to refill them, but this is actually easier."

Ah, yes, the other thing he'd learned about convenience in the Land Without Magic: people threw a lot of things away. "And when I'm finished, I simply press this again?" he asked, tapping on the cylinder at the top.

"Yeah, for those ones. Click-top pens, or whatever you'd like to call them. Some of them have caps." She demonstrated with another pen; it seemed similar to his eyeliner pencil. "I prefer the click-tops, though. I lose caps all the time."

"I imagine I would, too." He set the pen down and sipped his coffee. When he looked up at her again, she was eyeing him curiously. "What is it?"

She blinked, obviously not expecting him to ask what she was thinking. "Nothing, it's just … I sometimes forget what it was like to not know anything about this realm."

When had she lacked such knowledge? "I thought you came over with the original curse."

"I did, but Regina made it so that I had no cursed memories at all," she said sadly. "It's why, when—" She stopped talking immediately, and he knew why.

It was why she'd lost all her memories when she'd fallen across the town line. When he'd shot her.

"Belle, I'm—"

"Please, let's—let's just forget about it," she said quickly.

"I—all right." The urge to beg her forgiveness welled up inside him, but he would respect her wishes. It was enough that she was here, that she'd brought these books, that she was even speaking to him.

He flipped to the next potentially-relevant page and added another note to it, enjoying the way the pen flowed across, so neatly and beautifully, and resolving to ask Swan where he could purchase some of these for himself. The Jolly Roger might be gone, but he still enjoyed keeping a personal ledger of sorts; he'd planned to ask her where he could get ink, but this pen was far superior to the old fountain pen he'd been carrying around for centuries.

The sound of a paper cup scraping the table caught his attention; he lifted his head in time to see Belle casually lifting up her tea, giving it a sip as she read. She grimaced slightly as she did so, and then she met his gaze. "More sugar next time," she said. "Granny's tea tends to be a little bitter."

He nodded. "Understood."

She smiled.