The Wish You Make

by tellmesomethinglove

Emma Swan wanted the fairytale. She wanted overwrought dialogue and kisses in the rain and public declarations of devotion. She wanted Darcy telling Elizabeth, "You have bewitched me, body and soul." She wanted Westley disguising his love in the phrase, "As you wish." But when the fairytale comes for her, all Emma wants is the life she had before she wished upon a star. CaptainSwan

14. Chapter 13

Emma heard the first crack mere milliseconds before her leg gave out from under her, the next when her body tried to compensate for balance, to ruinous result. As she stared up at an arched ceiling decorated with lights from a birthday party that'd taken place earlier that day, she realized she should've seen this coming. She'd managed to stay upright for a full five minutes before devastation struck—a personal best. But instead of taking inspiration from this small victory, she chose to accept her limitations.

"I quit," she said to her instructor, a shadow looming over her, outlined by fairy lights. "I forgive you for laughing, by the way."

Taking pity on what must've been a pathetic sight—Emma's arms and legs outstretched, as though she'd paused in the middle of making a snow angel—Killian lay on the ice beside her. "You're finally starting to make some progress."

"Don't care. This sport sucks. And you suck for being good at it."

"Need I remind you, Swan—this was not my idea."

"I still blame you entirely."

Killian laughed. Again. Emma resented her inability to take part, resented her body for failing to grasp something that looked so simple. Not the most difficult concept—strap on skates, follow partner onto ice, join ranks of Olympic elite. It hadn't occurred to her that she wouldn't take to it, that this, too, would reject her. Killian had an easy enough time of it, and he wasn't even from here. Did they freeze water for fun in other worlds?

He was right about it being her idea. Sort of. She'd mentioned in passing that she'd never been ice skating, and with Killian that was as good as signing up for lessons.

It'd become something of a routine during the six weeks they'd been together for them to set aside one date per week that consisted of an activity one or both of them had never tried. A few weeks back, Emma had taken Killian to a concert—his first ever—that'd left both of them somewhat worse for hearing the rest of the night.

She knew he must've been yelling, but he sounded like he was going through a tunnel, or she was. His mouth moved, but every other word seemed to be swallowed by an invisible chasm. "What?" She said again, and again she was left to read his lips. With no success.

Eventually he gave up, grabbed her hand, and they walked to the car.

It took them longer than they would've liked to navigate traffic in search of sustenance (Killian may have resorted to miming, his fingers curled around an unseen utensil while his other hand supported a plate of air). A full hour after leaving the arena, they ducked into an odd little hotdog venue, and Killian was finally able to say, though his voice was still soft to her desensitized ears, "Your land never ceases to amaze."

Emma smiled at him across the bright red table (complete with bright yellow chairs, short and round and wobbly), knowing she was about to be completely cheesy and relishing every second of it. "Our land."

Killian nodded, returning her smile. "Our land."

Only when a couple waiting in line looked over did Emma realize how loud they actually were. She and Killian took their order to go, only holding back their laughter until they reached the sidewalk outside.

The week before that, they'd lost their reservation at some stuffy restaurant that reminded Emma of the sort of place Brennan would take her, and they'd been forced to improvise, grabbing a late dinner at a pub and, since they were there, drowning the evening in a few spirits to which Killian had lost his tolerance, despite his lofty claims to the contrary.

They'd woken up the next day feeling their respective ages and had spent the daylight hours nursing hangovers and watching Netflix with the blinds closed so tightly Killian's place felt more like a cave than an apartment.

"Never let me do that again."

Killian raised their joined hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to the back of Emma's. Not an agreement to her terms, which they both knew she'd break, but an assurance that he'd be there when she did, her partner in inebriation.

Now that she thought of it, their first date was the only one that'd gone off without a hitch. Nice restaurant—not too pretentious. Pleasant atmosphere. Cab ride home that could've come with its own MPAA rating.

Emma found that she preferred for their dates to go a little wrong. They were more memorable for being imperfect. Case in point: the one month mark, when their plans for a quiet evening in had somehow been swapped for Killian sneaking Emma into the fairgrounds they'd gone to on Thanksgiving, now abandoned, at well past one in the morning.

"It's still here," said Emma, stating the obvious as she peeked between the slats of what was meant, by the looks of it, to be a temporary fence.

She had one leg over the top when it occurred to her that this wasn't the first time she'd trespassed in an amusement park, and she almost told Killian as much. But the thought felt too much like a bad omen, and she really couldn't afford to jinx anything else.

"I thought it would've…I don't know—"

"Disappeared?" Killian filled in for her as he climbed down.

"Well, yeah."

"So did I."

Emma didn't ask about Killian's use of magic and whether it'd somehow altered the park's elemental composition so that its contents couldn't be removed by mortal hands. Or if the Ferris wheel and the bumper cars and the miniature racetrack were now fixtures of the landscape. But these things did cross her mind as they walked hand-in-hand through the carnage, past empty tents and misshapen exhibits, through the midway where they'd exhausted most of their cash, in silent agreement that they weren't leaving until one of those gilled bastards was theirs.

"So it's a permanent attraction now?"

"It would appear so. Though, I'd wager it hasn't done much attracting of late."

"We'll have to pay for those skates, you know," said Killian, still smiling.

"Collateral damage, my friend. Take it up with the universe." Emma turned her head toward him, her neck the only part of her inclined to move. He looked for all the world like he was having the best time. And maybe he was. Maybe Emma was, too, but she wasn't about to say so. "I can't be held accountable for the fallout from a feud I didn't start."

"So now it's a feud?"

"You didn't think I was going to take it lying down, did you?" Killian gave her a onceover, letting his brow answer for him. "Shut up."

"Speaking of the universe…"

Whatever smile had been forming dissolved into a frown as Emma said, "Not tonight, Killian."

"Not tonight, not any night."

"You know how I feel about it."

"And you know I believe it to be the only reasonable option."

"Believing isn't knowing."

Killian sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "Can you think of another way to stop it?"

Emma sat up despite her every muscle's protest. "What if it can't be stopped? What if it isn't a side effect of anything? It could be global warming for all you know, and you want me to risk…everything on a hunch."

Killian didn't say what Emma knew was on his mind, what'd been on his mind for weeks as neither side showed any sign of conceding. Emma didn't think either side ever would.

What she hadn't said had more to do with fear than pride. It wasn't that she was afraid of being wrong, but of what might happen to Killian if she was right.

The first time he'd broached the subject of her as of yet un-granted wish, she'd shrugged it off. They had time—why waste the early days on arguing? But the more Emma's luck turned from bad to worrying, and the longer it took for spring to chase away winter's chill, as the days grew darker and weather systems became increasingly unstable, the more Killian maintained that wishing would set the world to rights again. It was all symptom of an imbalance, as far as he was concerned.

"It doesn't have to be anything extraordinary—you could wish for something small, like an apple. Then we can be done. Don't you want to be done?"

It wasn't as cut-and-dry for Emma. She didn't begrudge Killian his logic—she understood where he was coming from. But if anything could be taken from his early termination, as he'd called it, it was that his knowledge of the rules wasn't as comprehensive as he'd once thought. He wasn't supposed to fall for a client, but he did. He wasn't supposed to be let out of his contract, but he was. As much as these things delighted Emma, they told her that there were variables she couldn't account for.

"You're the one who said wishing is dangerous—so dangerous, they don't let guides warn clients, remember?"

Killian couldn't know that every time he suggested she get it over with, it dredged up the guilt-stained memory of how close she'd come to sentencing herself to a life without him.

Now that she knew what them together was like, she couldn't go back. She didn't want to. It'd only been six weeks, but they were six weeks she wouldn't trade for a thousand wishes. A thousand happy ends.

If she didn't know the rules, how could she know Killian wouldn't disappear, like he was supposed to before? That they wouldn't be separated somehow? Did his no longer being her guide protect them from the conditions that'd applied when he was?

With Emma's luck, she'd take one bite of said apple and drop dead.

"Isn't this what killed our last date?"

Killian mirrored Emma's seated position and took one of her gloved hands in his. "You're right. I'm sorry. We can talk about this another time."

Not exactly dropping the subject, but Emma would take what she could get.

It was a comfortably quiet minute before he spoke again, and by that point, Emma was feeling parts of her body she hadn't known existed. Parts that apparently hated her.

"What would you wish for?"

"Killian—"

"If…" he held up one hand, "…there were no side effects or impending doom. If you could have anything in this moment, what would it be?"

"I'm probably gonna need a chiropractor after tonight."

Killian's smile worked wonders on her mood—damn him. "I'm serious."

Sensing that he was trying to steer the conversation toward the vicinity of romantic, Emma chose, for once, not to be difficult. And seeing as they were on a date, the least she could do was play along.

She closed her eyes and thought of what she wanted most. Romantically speaking, there was really only one thing that came to mind—

Before the thought was fully formed, she felt Killian's lips against hers, gentle yet persuasive, and it wasn't long until her anxiety was all but forgotten. She didn't have to ask how he knew. The man was entirely too perceptive for his own good—or Emma's. She pulled him closer by the collar of his coat, lest he get any ideas about leaving her wanting. When he inevitably broke contact, he regarded Emma with the same affectionate gaze she didn't think she'd ever get used to.

No matter how much of herself she revealed to him, that look never changed. She was waiting for the one that said, "Our time has run its course." For years she'd tried to pinpoint the moment Neal decided he'd had enough, and for years the truth had been staring her in the face. The reason she'd never noticed it was because it hadn't just appeared one day, out of the blue. It'd been there from the beginning. It wasn't there now, with Killian. Emma was starting to think, starting to hope—possibly to her own detriment—that maybe she was on the lookout for something that would never come.

"Killian…"

Her mouth hung open with her attempt to tell him what'd been on the tip of her tongue for the six weeks they'd been together, pushed to the back of her mind in the months before that, what'd started as a silent stirring in the hollows of her broken heart far too soon after she'd met him. There was almost a sound that was almost a word that was the closest she'd come to actual speech in all the times she'd tried…

…

Six Weeks Ago

"This one."

Emma traced the scarred flesh that rose against her fingertips, a jagged line across the back of Killian's arm that looked like the victim of a hurried stitch, the skin sewn together with concern for time over aesthetic.

Killian grinned, his head resting on a pillow too fluffy not to be new, his eyes putting its navy cover to shame. "Jealous husband. Fortunately for me, his aim wasn't as strong as his outrage."

Emma quirked her brow, her hand lying still.

"In my defense, I had no knowledge of her marital status prior to our dalliance."

Narrowing her gaze, Emma decided he was telling the truth—not that she had room to judge another person's romantic history—and moved on to the next mark.

"Though I can't see it being much of a deterrent, if I had."

Killian winced, whispering a curse, when Emma pinched his side. Shooting her a suggestive smirk, he said, "Remind me to put that violent side to good use," but rolled away from her next assault. When she tried for a third, aiming for the general target of his chest—if she happened to hit a particularly sensitive spot, so be it—Killian grasped her arm and pulled her farther forward than she'd intended, using the added momentum to steal a kiss.

Smiling against his lips, Emma said, "That's cheating."

To which Killian replied, "Pirate," and moved in for more.

Emma freed herself with some reluctance and flattened a line in the blankets between them. "Stick to your side, pirate. I have more questions for you."

"What if I said I have a few, myself?"

"I'd say, of the two of us, there's only one who hasn't conducted secret investigations behind the other's back."

Killian ran his tongue between his teeth, not wanting to surrender the point, and Emma considered the benefits of letting herself be diverted—they'd spent months talking, they'd only just started...this. They hadn't put a name to it yet, but it was the farthest from a one-night-stand as she'd come in a long time. If there was one thing her subconscious had gotten right, it was that Killian had a very clever tongue. And Emma was driven to distraction by the promise of a more thorough demonstration.

"What would you like to know?"

She contemplated her next question. There were a few she'd been mulling over for a while that she'd been hesitant to ask. Whenever the subject of his past came up, Killian had the tendency to evade any real discussion—not that Emma had room to judge another person's emotional baggage. She didn't know if it was this new phase they'd entered into, or if learning that her interest hadn't been one-sided all this time, but she wanted to know everything about him, all at once. Where was he born? How old was he when his father left? Did he wonder about his mother as much as Emma wondered about hers? What was it like having a brother?

She contented herself with time. Here, at the start, it was infinite. Now that Killian wasn't her guide, they could get to know each other in a way they'd previously shied away from, when getting too attached was a risk they couldn't afford.

This new level of intimacy should've sent her running. All the affectionate touches and teasing that came after. She was used to the before—to the rush of moments as breaths hitched and pulses raced and skin prickled with the spark of expectancy, as somewhere between the hallway and the bed they fell prey to a want that couldn't undress them fast enough. Emma couldn't say with any certainty that she hadn't been the first to break. Or that she hadn't taken Killian matching her stride for ungraceful stride as a sign of how long it'd been for him, too.

No first time was perfect, and theirs was no exception. But for all its inelegance, there were moments—like her name pulled from his lips, a wrecked and reverent sound, when she angled her hips just right—where perfect couldn't quite compare. Moments where instinct surpassed speech and it felt like they were retracing steps they'd taken in another life.

She'd never given much credence to the idea of alternate realities, not in any practical sense, but she was starting to consider some things less critically. With magic not only being real but a larger factor in the everyday than she could've imagined, it stood to reason that there were any number of supernatural forces at play.

Just how fictional was science fiction? And how many people had she met in her life whose happiness was owed to a wish they didn't remember making? Was the woman at the bus stop really oblivious to the person seated next to her, immersed in the daily paper, or were the two apparent strangers engaged in covert client/guide conversation? Was Emma's last case an example of what happened when magical aid was declined? What would've happened if, instead of signing that contract, Emma had turned Killian away?

The possibilities were overwhelming, if she was being honest. As was this new way of looking at the world. Of knowing her world was one of many. How many forces, helpful and harmful and all shades in between, were at work in a land that was supposed to be devoid of all such entities?

While these things left her uneasy, she was comforted by the idea of alternate versions of people. Of a Killian Jones who'd never suffered loss. An Emma Swan who didn't put up walls. That there could be versions of them who were in the midst of a first meeting, neither having any clue how much they'd come to mean to each other. Maybe there was an Emma somewhere who didn't push the people in her life past the point where they were willing to fight for her. One who'd grown up with parents, grown up loved. Maybe another who'd chosen to raise her son instead of—

Don't be ridiculous, Emma.

If she took this theory to Killian, he'd probably spout some outlandish hypothesis of his own about how parallel universes not only existed but were of an inestimable number that corresponded with the divergent paths forged by every decision a person made.

"The tattoo."

Propped up on one arm, Killian's body acted as a barricade between Emma and a script she'd already seen. Even though it wasn't the sole of its kind, nor the only to pique Emma's curiosity—she could guess what purpose the lines and digits on the inside of his wrist had served, even if she wasn't eager for confirmation—Killian seemed to know her question pertained to the swirled lettering she'd gotten a peek at under the florescent light of the doctor's office. Dark swirls that read: At World's End.

"I took it from an old saying." As he spoke, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand fidgeted with the littlest finger on his left, encircling its base like they were adjusting a ring he no longer wore. "A promise to meet again, even if it's in whatever life waits beyond this one."

"You got it for your brother."

Killian nodded, and Emma was surprised by his expression—or, rather, what his expression lacked. What all previous mentions of Liam had evoked. There was no sadness in his eyes now, but strangely, something that looked a lot like hope. For all his lectures on the subject, Emma didn't think she'd ever seen him put it into practice. On the contrary, for as long as she'd known him, he'd had an air of resignation about him. Like he didn't deem himself deserving of the things he'd spent centuries giving other people.

His pillow cast aside—no doubt added to the pile that now cluttered the floor—Killian claimed a more comfortable position, settling himself on his stomach with his overlapping hands as a headrest.

"Don't tell me I wore you out already."

"Perish the thought, Swan. I've another round in me yet—two, if you do all the work."

Emma laughed. "You really know how to entice a girl."

"One of my many talents."

Fully aware that it might make him fall asleep faster, Emma reached forward to stroke Killian's hair, running her fingers slowly through its strands. Killian emitted a soft, "mm," as his eyes gave up the struggle to stay open.

Staying was another after she wasn't used to. Not so much the staying as the wanting to stay. If it were anyone else, Emma would've been dressed and out the door five minutes after she'd gotten what she came for. The last time she'd felt this strong a connection with someone had been—

But she didn't want to think about him now. Didn't want to think of all the ways this could go wrong. Taint the beginning with her fear of the end.

"Any plans for your newfound freedom?"

"Suppose I might pierce my ear again, commandeer a vessel, pillage and plunder my way across this new land." He smiled lazily as Emma continued her caress, biting her lip for the mental picture he'd painted.

It wasn't the first time she'd tried to envision him in all his swashbuckling glory. She'd heard the stories as a kid, same as anyone, about leather and eyeliner and—

They hadn't gone out last Halloween, given that they weren't exactly friends a week into their acquaintance, but Emma was getting some definite ideas about the next one.

It was difficult to imagine Killian as the scourge of the Seven Seas—or however many his world had. Fearsome, lawless, cutthroat. Especially now, as his breathing grew steadier with every move of her hand, his body relieved of all tension.

"How does it feel?" She said. "Not having magic?"

"Feels…" he paused for so long, Emma thought he'd drifted off, "…lighter."

She couldn't shake the feeling, after Killian had shared more of the specifics surrounding his termination, that it'd been a bit…easy. What about all the lines he'd been afraid to cross, the consequences of falling for a client? What happened to forbidden? Where was the threat if his superiors were just going to give him a clean slate? No hard feelings, have a nice life? That's it?

She hadn't said any of this out loud, of course—and chance planting a seed of doubt in Killian's mind? She was too well acquainted with how they were prone to grow. First they sat idle, then they nettled and stretched and carved nice, deep holes in the soil so they'd always have a place to return to.

"Killian?" Her attention moved to the scar on his cheek, her thumb finding its surface almost smooth. She didn't ask him about this one, having been too distracted by a body that looked like it'd survived a war. This mark was different. Less aggressive than the others. Emma wondered if it was a childhood injury, like the one she'd taken on her knee when forcing her way through a too-small breach in a chain link fence, truancy officers hot on her heels. "Do you think you made the right decision?"

Maybe she was reading too much into things.

If something wasn't keeping her from what she wanted, she didn't know how to trust that it was really hers. The fact that yesterday, for all she knew, Killian had been her guide, and today he wasn't…

Maybe some situations really were as straightforward as they seemed. If Killian wasn't bothered, why was she?

"Killian?" She stopped all movement and waited for any sign that he was the least bit conscious.

Maybe she didn't know how to be happy.

When his answer came in the form of no answer at all, Emma lay her head to her pillow and took a moment to admire how peaceful he was before following his lead. She supposed it was a good thing he wasn't awake to pick apart the layers of this particular question, adept as he was at seeing through her.

Her last thought was a mix of happiness and apprehension—a silent plea that became a mantra and accompanied her into a dreamless sleep.

Don't ruin this one.

—

In Emma's experience, first dates ended one of two ways: with a desire never to see the other person again, or with a desire to see infinitely more of the other person. And then never speak again. Both scenarios had her counting the minutes until it was over. She'd never had a date she didn't want to end.

Until now.

It'd started with a new dress and a single red rose and a cab ride (just in case), and it'd evolved into an enjoyable (if slightly overcooked) meal at a lovely (if wildly overpriced) restaurant and engaging (if shamelessly flirtatious) conversation with an impossibly attractive man who had no idea just how endearing his smile could be—especially when coupled with that nervous ear scratch he was still in denial about.

"I do not have a tic."

"You have at least five."

Emma had been particularly fond of its appearance following a mature, adult discussion they'd fallen into somewhere between, "How's the chicken?", "I've had better," and their second bottle of wine about which of them had developed a crush on the other first. Emma had remained tight-lipped on the subject while Killian had been more forthcoming than he meant to be, sparing few details regarding the ill will he'd harbored toward the dates he'd arranged for her.

That was when he'd known that keeping things friendly was going to be a difficult ask.

"So all that talk about not wasting opportunities was…what?"

"Sage advice. It's never wise to put things off." His face gave nothing away, but Emma caught the way his hand twitched at the table's edge, like it'd only now noticed how loose the wine had made his tongue.

"So why didn't you say anything?"

"My job was to guide you toward a happy ending—if one of your prospects turned out to be the proverbial 'one,' who was I to stand in the way of True Love?" The indifference he'd aimed for didn't quite land, his tone compromised by something more serious, much more invested.

The lighthearted mood quickly declined as they stared across the table at each other. Emma wanted to reassure him with the truth that there was never a reason to be jealous, but she figured that, in this instance, actions might speak louder than words. And it wasn't long until they were asking for the check and hailing a cab and groping each other in the backseat. Her dress was half off before they stumbled over the threshold to his apartment, Killian's state of dishevelment equal to her own by the time they toppled in a blur of tangled limbs onto the couch.

"Not bad for an old man."

"You're never going to get over that, are you?"

"Nope."

"I've retained my youthful glow quite well, I think."

Emma laughed, more breath than discernible sound. "Yeah, you're positively radiant."

She found him sitting at the foot of the bed, focused intently on the phone in his hand. He didn't look up until she stood directly in front of him, applying a towel to the dripping ends of her hair.

"I thought it was mine," he said, handing the device to her. "You have an appointment tomorrow. Nine a.m."

"Thanks." Emma sat down next to him, mindful of his personal space.

He'd put aside his disappointment all through dinner, and in the short hours they'd been back at his place, but now that the night was winding down, traces of it were starting to resurface.

"Feel like talking about it?"

For a second, he looked like he was about to brush her off, say there was nothing to talk about, he was fine—he was as bad as Emma sometimes. "Let's just say three hundred years of granting wishes doesn't qualify a person for much else."

She'd woken up that morning feeling like things were finally, amazingly, normal. As much as they'd been since—well, their first kiss, if she had to pinpoint when, exactly, everything had gone to hell. After what'd happened the night before, Emma had been afraid that the day might cast everything in a monstrous light. That it might chase away all the progress they'd made. Rebuild a few of the walls they'd broken down. But the world had been a bit brighter in the aftermath of so much change.

Killian was the first to wake, pulling the covers as he turned over. Emma pretended this didn't disturb her, but she had a feeling her ruse was ineffectual. She wondered, when the mattress stilled and the room grew quiet again, if he was watching her. Could he tell that hers was not the deep, steady breathing of someone well into a REM cycle?

Emma felt his lips against her cheek, the warmth of his breath against her neck when he whispered, "You aren't a very good liar, you know."

It'd come as a surprise when a short while later, after the exchange of pleasantries—hi, good morning, how'd you sleep? During which neither of them seemed capable of remembering how not to smile—he'd told her about his plans for acclimating himself to this world. Starting with the search for a new job.

"Seriously?"

Killian hid his gaze in the sheets, as though searching their sunlit ridges for the good humor he'd had a minute ago. "I wouldn't say I'm destitute just yet, but I would very much like to avoid becoming so."

"The lack of an identity doesn't help matters."

"They didn't give you any kind of background to start over with?"

Killian shook his head. "As far as this world is concerned, Killian Jones doesn't exist."

As if by reflex, Emma ran a mental check of all the forgers she'd come in contact with during her less reputable years, but ultimately thought better of the impulse. She was a law abiding—a law enforcing—citizen now. Engaging in criminal activity wasn't the best way to land her boyfriend a job.

Her stomach did a nervous flip and she wondered if Killian noticed how fast her eyes flitted to his. They hadn't discussed what they were—it hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours since it'd happened—but there weren't many places to go from you're my happy ending, and I gave up eternity to be with you.

Still, giving it a title made it…real.

"What time do you have to leave?"

Killian consulted the clock above the stove and said, "Soon." He set his dishes on the counter and turned Emma toward him with a hand on each hip. "You're not upset..?"

"Are you kidding?" Emma reached around him to the bacon he'd left behind and popped a piece into her mouth. Nothing against his usual jacket and jeans, but she'd grown rather fond of the dress slacks and tie in the last twenty minutes. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back, he looked like he was late for a board meeting. "More food for me."

When Killian didn't smile and instead looked at Emma in a way that made her think the other shoe was about to drop, she swallowed thickly, the bacon going down like molasses.

"I would like to take you out this evening, if you're free."

Trying not to appear too obviously calmed, Emma leaned into his grasp. "You know, the date usually comes before sex."

"Convention is overrated." On bare feet, Emma had to stand nearly on tiptoes to kiss him. Killian made a sound like a low growl as one hand moved to the small of her back, the other skimming the edge of the sweats she'd stolen from his drawer. "Why the blazes did you let me fall asleep last night?"

"I'm not sure I could've stopped you."

If she didn't know how important this interview was for him, that it wasn't just about reconciling himself with a new environment and coming to terms with the permanence of his stay, but a first step toward true independence, Emma might've asked him to cancel. It wasn't that she didn't want good things for him, more that the idea of locking themselves inside and not coming up for air until they'd compensated for the time they'd lost to yearning looks and tortured gazes and adherence to rules that weren't worth the paper they were printed on was immensely tempting.

Something closed in on her then, something she'd been expecting. Maybe it'd never really left, just sat idle, biding its time until the moment it could do the most damage. Something that told her braving so much new territory in so short a time was dangerous. That she and Killian had gone from acquaintances to friends to some weird combination of the two who didn't speak of the thing they both wanted to speak of, both wanted to repeat, to…whatever this turned out to be. That she'd known Killian a handful of months and she was ready to act against everything her past relationships had taught her.

Any argument Emma made about being sure this time was met with a reminder: she'd been sure before.

"Are you okay, Love?"

"Fine." She put on a smile and shoved every negative thought to the back of her mind, every uncertainty, even as they conspired against her, answering questions she hadn't asked about what happened to those who couldn't remember the past. "Pick me up at six."

"If worse comes to worst, you can always be my assistant. I can boss you around, send you on frivolous errands, it'll be fun."

Killian arched his brow. "And if I step out of line? I'm assuming there'll be some sort of disciplinary action…"

"Perv."

Killian smiled as he tapped a curved finger under her chin, his thumb seeming exceptionally fond of the dimple it found there. Drawing forward, he gave her a quick peck and then lingered, as though preparing to move in for another. "I'm not quite desperate enough as to impose upon your selfless nature."

Emma held up one hand, parallel with the ground. "Beggars," she raised it high, "choosers," and then low, "you."

"Is this your idea of a motivational speech?"

"That depends. Do you feel motivated?"

"Not in the way you were intending, I'm sure."

Emma's smile was short-lived when Killian's failed to follow.

"Can I ask you something?"

She said, "You can ask me anything," but felt her confidence waver with every second he took to do so.

Dropping his gaze to the phone in her lap, Killian said, "Where was that photograph taken?"

All Emma could do was gape at him. Why would he ask about what should've looked to him like a random skyline? She knew the answer, even if she was loath to accept it. She could ignore it, pretend it wasn't true, but it remained a constant, unavoidable fact that her feelings for Killian couldn't erase. He'd gotten a view into her past, and she had no idea how much he'd seen.

Before she could form a response, he confirmed her suspicions.

"I saw it," he said, staring into the near distance like he was reliving a memory that didn't belong to him.

How could he have known about those two years but not the eleven months that'd preceded them? He hadn't known about her kid until she told him—did that mean he didn't know about Neal?

"It was no more than a flash, but I assumed it to be of some importance, having been included with the rest."

Emma didn't think she was ready to know what the rest was.

When Killian's eyes moved back to hers, she was tempted by all manner of excuses. It was late and she had an early day. Neither of them had really slept much last night. She needed to go across the hall to dry her hair—the water droplets escaping under her shirt only feeding her flight response.

In some small way, she realized, she'd come to count on Killian having arrived already equipped with certain knowledge. Made it so much easier not needing to rehash everything that'd ever gone wrong. Him knowing meant Emma didn't have to say it. But him asking meant he didn't know.

In some regards, they'd been two of the most discouraging years in recent memory. She'd come out simultaneously stronger and a little worse for wear, until she was some strange hybrid—equal parts broken and resolute. Sometimes she felt like she was made of a substance stronger than steel, like nothing could get through the barriers she'd built. Sometimes she felt like she was so fragile that one more upset would splinter her and she'd be scattered to the wind. Sometimes her heart got so heavy she wished she could set it down and forget it for a few hours, a few days.

Like so many things in her life, that picture had been an end. It became a warning she carried with her wherever she went. A promise never to look back. She'd taken it her last night in Florida with the first phone she'd been able to afford on her own. It accompanied her through every sleepless night that she stared at every upgraded screen, feeling incomplete for the closure she'd never gotten, never wanted until now. And as the image grew more and more outdated, each new pixelated edge felt like a step in the right direction.

Emma looked over at Killian and knew her doubts were wrong this time. Suddenly she was confiding things she'd never told anyone. Things no one really cared to know. The uncomfortable things. The sort of accounts that made people avert their eyes and move around in their seats. No one wanted to hear about an eighteen year old girl giving birth handcuffed to a hospital bed. They didn't want to know about the man who'd left her there, alone. But Killian listened with all the patience she'd come to expect from him, even if a few of the particulars tested its limits, his clenched jaw and measured breaths further indication that she didn't have to worry about history repeating itself.

When she was done, Killian reached for her hand. "I'm in this, Emma. You know that, don't you?"

Emma was rendered speechless by the sincerity in his eyes, and by a thought that she shouldn't have been thinking. It was too soon, wasn't it? They'd only just gotten together—the word boyfriend still gave her pause. But it was there, the thought of it. Still a little unsure of itself, but taking root.

Emma decided to hold onto it for now.

She laced her fingers with his and said, "I know."

—

Two weeks Ago

The last thing Emma wanted to deal with right now was a stalker.

Twice, she'd told herself to stop being paranoid—she wasn't the only one who took that route to work. Three times, she'd written it off as happenstance—with the number of times she stopped for coffee in the average week, she was bound to run into the occasional fellow regular. When he showed up at the corner market at midnight on a Wednesday, passing her in the aisles with the same empty basket on his arm, she knew things weren't as coincidental as he'd have her believe.

And she was in no mood.

In honor of her and Killian's first official month together, and with it falling on a night they would've gone out anyway, Emma had planned what she hoped would be the perfect evening. And when the first obstacle came in the form of a text from Killian letting her know he'd be later than he'd anticipated, she quickly adapted, setting to work organizing a quiet date in. Never having had the chance to celebrate the small achievements other couples gushed over, Emma didn't want to let her excitement get the best of her. It's only a month, she told herself. Hardly a blip in the grand scheme of things. But it was a big deal to her. She was proud of them for making it this far—after all, it was one thing to make sweeping declarations, quite another to brave the day-to-day hazards of a committed relationship. They'd top the evening off with a bottle of wine Emma had saved for a special occasion—never mind that when she'd bought it, the sort of special occasion she'd had in mind was of the career advancement persuasion—and she'd casually drop it into conversation that oh, hey, was it the thirteenth already? If it happened to end the way most anniversaries did, then so be it.

Her shadow, who now stood behind her in the checkout line, pulled one item from his basket to place on the conveyor belt. Emma watched the battered box of gummy snacks trail after the plastic divider that separated it from her purchases. She tried not to take its crushed corners and dented middle as confirmation that a sinister plot was stirring, but it looked so much like a clumsily snatched excuse to follow her to the register. When Emma looked to the man, himself, he gave her a stiff grin and chased it with a wink. Something about the encounter, aside from seriously creeping her out, left a fleeting impression of déjà vu. The unpleasant sort of intuition that told her she'd had this nightmare before.

She paid, grabbed her bag, and headed for the exit as fast as she could short of running. Once outside, she glanced back as subtly as possible and saw the man pat his every pocket in the vaguely irritated manner of someone who was a frequent forgetter of his wallet. Emma took this as her cue to get the hell out of Dodge.

For a split-second, she flirted with the idea of confronting him, but between the eerie calm that'd descended upon that part of the city and the lightning flashing rapid fire, subjecting the streets to its strobe-like effect, that course of action felt too much like something that belonged in a made-for-TV movie. Accosting strange men in dark places was exactly the kind of thing that got people killed off before the opening credits.

Heavy footfalls advanced, nearing the corner where Emma awaited deliverance from a stick figure she was beginning to think had it in for her. She held her breath as she listened, running through evasive strategies in her head—there was a glass jar in her bag that might do some damage if she aimed for the right body part. Dinner would be ruined, but considering the alternative, it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

When the sound stopped suddenly, Emma felt her heart almost do the same. She tightened her grip on the bag, braced to strike. But when she looked behind her, no one was there. She turned a complete one-eighty, checked every angle, and nothing.

It may not have been a person of flesh and blood, but something followed her into her building. It waited with her in the elevator, accompanied her down the hall to her apartment, and had yet to leave as she locked the door, set her groceries in the kitchen, double-checked the deadbolt, and made sure she had a firearm in plain sight while she prepped ingredients for a meal she no longer had an appetite for.

—

As of Killian's last text, he was trying to find a delicate way to wrap things up with his friend. That was twenty minutes ago. With every minute that ticked by and turned into ten, Emma had to remind herself that she wasn't dating Carter or Brennan or Neal or some other asshole who was just going to drop her the instant something shiny caught his eye. But learning who said friend was had rekindled a curiosity that'd never been quenched.

"Perhaps friend is a strong word. She was more of a protégé."

"She? Should I be worried?"

"Yes. About a great many things." Killian gave Emma that reproachful look but spared them both another warning about how her bad luck was a problem she needed to start thinking seriously about solving. "But Charlotte isn't one of them." He kissed her forehead. "I won't be long."

"Reservation's at eight."

The closer it got to one in the morning, the more Emma came to understand the paranoia that cropped up whenever she left their building by herself. Most days she acted like she didn't notice Killian watching her get ready for work out of the corner of his eye, or the frown he wore as the clock counted down their morning. The way he'd hold her hand a little tighter when they went out together as he kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, steeling himself against whatever shape misfortune would take.

Emma figured she'd reached her quota of disasters for the night, until she tried to turn on the stove. She heard the click, click, click as she turned the knob that told her the jarful of sauce would have to wait in its cold pan a little longer. When she tried again to no avail, she moved to the adjacent burner. The same series of clicks was followed by a modest flame, which Emma would've taken as a larger victory had she not received a jolt that made her jump, her hand recoiling from the spark that'd shot out from the knob. Such was the arc of her reflex that she hit the pan's handle and sent it crashing to the floor with the force of a projectile. One that splattered marinara across every surface in Emma's kitchen—including her.

"Son of a bitch."

She threw out a few more choice words as she stomped to the bathroom, pulling off her shirt as she went. This being one of countless food-related accidents that'd occurred that week, Emma was well-equipped to treat the garment before the sauce could set, having kept a bottle of stain remover under the sink. Next to go were her boots, which only required the attention of a damp wash cloth.

She unfastened her jeans, but before she could wriggle free, she heard the front door open and close, and Killian's voice calling, "Swan?"

"In here." Emma didn't stop to consider that there might be anything startling about her appearance until Killian arrived at the doorway, his eyes wide, mouth agape. "Hey, I—"

He didn't wait for an explanation. He conquered the separating space in a single stride and reached for her arms, inspecting them in turn, running his hands over the spotted skin without a care for his own. Emma's face was next—Killian's eyes roved every inch in search of the source.

"I spilled spaghetti sauce," Emma said, feeling with every second under his scrutiny like a child who'd been caught sneaking food after lights out. When he finally looked at her, really and truly at her, it was with an expression that was at once relieved and uneasy. "Killian, are you okay?"

He cleared his throat and took a measured step back. "Fine—I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Just…tired, is all." The integrity of his smile was severely compromised by an air of disquiet that had yet to clear. He looked the way Emma had felt when returning from the store. "Did you say you spilled something?"

Emma nodded, not taking her eyes off of him as he turned to the cabinet where she kept the towels that were frayed with age, grabbed one as though he were in a trance, and walked away.

—

Killian looked over when Emma's arm bumped his, grinning like he'd discovered a long-buried secret.

"What?"

"Nothing." He went back to stirring the sauce he'd made using a combination of ingredients from both their kitchens while Emma manned the pasta and sides. "I'm impressed."

"Just because I don't cook doesn't mean I can't." His smirk told her he'd keep this information in mind the next time one of them was hungry. "And spaghetti isn't exactly rocket science."

He hadn't fully relaxed, even once the mess was cleaned, for a solid half hour after he found Emma in what she now understood to be a worrying state—Killian no doubt seeing red and registering injury. Once he'd had something to occupy his hands, his mood had softened exponentially, lightening in increments over a steady course of chopped vegetables and ground spices.

Killian switched off his burner and Emma, hers, and they followed the easy rhythm of people accustomed to sharing meals. Killian grabbed the plates and Emma loaded them with liberal helpings. Emma supplied the frosted mugs, Killian the six-pack he'd picked up from his place on the way over—she'd decided to save the wine for a night that wasn't a complete train wreck. And the two of them toasted the end of a long day.

"So, how bad was it?"

"Not bad. More…discouraging." Killian set his beer on the counter by his plate, neither he nor Emma in a hurry to sit down, both being used to consuming food standing up, as one of them was usually running late. Of course, it could've been that they didn't entirely trust the stability of Emma's new dining table. Which they'd spent the better part of two days assembling. They'd adhered to every instructional diagram with the utmost care and had still come away with far too many spare parts for comfort. "I'm walking in to these meetings with nothing but my good looks to recommend me."

"I've been there—no experience, no degree, no chance in hell I'm getting past the lobby."

"So you're saying I should sleep with the boss."

Emma shrugged. "At this point, it could only help."

"I didn't think you were one to share, Swan."

"Desperate times, my friend—if you think I'm going to support you for the next three hundred years, you've got another thing coming."

Killian laughed—an immensely calming sound given his previous attitude.

If that was how he reacted to a little spill, Emma didn't want to know how he'd take it if she told him she thought some guy had been following her for the past few weeks. She'd clue him in eventually, but not tonight. Not after the look in his eyes when he'd assumed the universe had finally gotten its claws into her. She'd wait for things to settle down. For all she knew, paranoia was catching and she'd let Killian's overactive imagination rub off on her. Chances were she was seeing stalkers where there were only slightly off-putting men who kept the same hours she did.

"So, how'd things go with Charlotte?"

"They went well."

"Everything okay?"

"Aye. I've been replaced as her immediate superior. She's having some difficulty making the adjustment."

"Oh." Emma twisted her fork until it was hugged by a hill of noodles. "Is she in town on…business?" She looked at Killian when he didn't answer. Apparently she'd revealed another secret because he had that same amused smile.

"What is it you're trying to ask me, Swan? If I've got designs on another woman?"

Emma rolled her eyes, even if she did take the tiniest twinge of pleasure from his tone. "You've met all my zero friends, can't I at least ask about your one?"

He stayed staring a moment longer, clearly enjoying the idea of her being jealous.

So she may have, at one time, entertained the errant hostile thought directed at a name on his phone. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing.

"Fair enough."

Charlotte was a young recruit—the youngest Killian had ever trained. He described her as bright, eager to learn, and quick-witted, with one fatal flaw.

"You should try reading a few of those stories you tell," said Emma. "You'd know that all heroes have them."

"How do you know she's a hero? You haven't met her."

"I'm just saying flaws aren't always a bad thing." Killian paused, like he had a bit of commentary to add, but then he went back to eating, leaving Emma to ask, "So what's Charlotte's?"

"I've never seen so clever a person be more easily distracted—she's got one of the worst track records I've come across. At first I blamed her inexperience, then I thought her age might be a hindrance, but now…"

Emma straightened up, her interest piqued by his furrowed brow. "What?"

Killian shook his head. "I'm sure it's nothing." He stabbed at his plate, still distracted. "She's actually the one who discovered…" He let his words trail off, appearing to think better of what he'd been about to say.

"Are you gonna talk in half sentences all night?"

Killian smirked, his fork still searching for purpose among the peaks and valleys of perfectly cooked pasta—if Emma did say so herself. "Perhaps."

She had a feeling she knew what he'd held back. What Charlotte had discovered. But did the lack of something really count as a discovery? Were non-existent towns really found?

It was one of the things they didn't talk about. Killian still very much believed there was a dark curse holding people hostage and Emma still very much knew there wasn't.

"So what did she want?"

"She's left family behind in her other life. A sister with whom she was especially close."

"What does that have to do with you?"

"She wanted to know how I beat the system, as it were."

Another thing they didn't talk about: the ease with which Killian had been let off the hook. Even though Emma couldn't quite voice what, exactly, didn't sit right, she got the impression Killian could sense that something was off. The way she could sense that there was something else, something big, he wasn't telling her. The way she knew he would, in his own time.

Sometimes she'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel across the bed for him, always finding him within arm's reach. Sometimes she dreamed of a day when her search returned only cold sheets. A day she woke in a panic to find him gone. Vanished as soundly as the man from the market, not a trace left behind. Sometimes it felt more like a memory than any dream had the right to.

Sometimes she couldn't sleep for thinking about it. Couldn't breathe.

"Something on your mind, Love?"

If she didn't know better, she'd think his eyes could see into her deepest parts, read her every thought plain as day. Emma blinked a few times, just to be safe.

While they were on the topic of avoidance, there was something she'd been meaning to tell him. Something that'd taken root a little too soon and grown a little too fast. Something that chose the most inconvenient times to manifest itself, and took strength from the oddest things. Like the way Killian sometimes stood with his hand on his belt, head cocked to one side as a grin tugged at his lips, or the way his hair still looked (unfairly) perfect when it was a sleep-ravaged wreck, sticking up at every angle with a cowlick across the back. Like the way he still held the door for her when they went out, or how, depending on the light, his eyes changed from blue to green or gray.

The way he looked at her now, like he knew the words that wouldn't come.

Or the fleeting way his face fell when Emma put others in their place. "Today—well, yesterday—is one month that we've been…us."

She didn't know what she expected—for him to laugh, say something about all the strange holidays celebrated in this world and how he'd never keep them straight? She didn't expect him to smile so brightly. Emma smiled back, grateful he hadn't seen through her defenses, after all. At the same time, almost wishing he had.

"Milestone like this," he said, "deserves commemorating."

"What'd you have in mind?"

—

It wasn't a complete wasteland. The grass was overgrown in areas and weeds sprouted up around rides. The booths had seen better days, their walls reduced to tatters by months of wind and rain. Not at all like the pictures Emma had seen of haunted places, as it was still in the earliest stages of abandonment, but she could see a future that further neglect would wreak.

Light from the city reflected off the clouds, making them look like the stuffing inside a blanket, but it was still a dim setting, considering. Nightmarish to the right person, she imagined. But on its own, darkness had never been Emma's greatest fear.

A quiet buzz and a not-so-quite curse sounded from behind a nearby control panel, Killian's attempts at rewiring the box into compliance not yielding any success.

"Need help?"

She took his grumbling as a no. Or, rather, not yet. Once he reached the peak of his frustration, he'd sigh heavily to himself—Emma had been explicitly informed that Killian Jones did hot "huff"—and tell her to have at it. "I know you're dying to show me up." Emma would smile sweetly like ulterior motives were beneath her and then she would demonstrate the skills by which she'd survived so long on her own, while Killian failed at pretending he wasn't impressed.

When that moment came, Killian emerged with a scowl and an aim to avoid Emma's eye at all cost. He ran his hand through his hair and looked as though he wanted to murder an inanimate object. Going in for one final attack, he gripped the box by both sides and shook it.

"Yeah, that trick always works."

"Blasted thing's lucky I don't still have magic. If I did—" He hit one side with the flat of his hand. Once, twice—

The night—still marked by an unnatural calm—was suddenly filled with the longstanding anthem of carnivals everywhere. Slowed and distorted, the melody reminded Emma of something that might come from a waterlogged music box. The carousel, at last come to life, cast spots of light about an otherwise dreary backdrop.

"Who needs magic when you've got brute force?"

Killian stared down at the control panel, with its colorful buttons and levers, like the thing had played a trick on him. For someone who'd spent several lifetimes going against the logical and ordinary and easily explained, he didn't take kindly to things that didn't work the way they were supposed to.

When he looked at Emma, it was with a smile that was slightly…somewhere else. Like his thoughts were moving too fast for his features to keep up. "Vastly overrated, I've always said." The expression turned genuine when he held out his hand to her and asked, "May I have the honor?"

Emma eyed his upturned palm with feigned aversion before accepting his offer. "Is that a joke?"

"I'm being perfectly serious."

"I don't dance."

"I can teach you." His other hand helped itself around Emma's waist, and she leaned into him, already feeling her body start to sway.

"Hope you're a better teacher than the last guy. Scared off by a few sprinkles."

"I seem to recall something of a deluge driving us apart. Nearly caught my death, in fact."

"How could I forget?"

The lights from the carousel streaked across Killian's skin. He closed what little gap there was between them so that their bodies were flush, and this time, when he hummed along with the music, Emma laughed, aware of how odd they must've looked trying to step in time to such a ridiculous tune.

"So why did you bring me here? No radio at your place?"

"I brought you here because, despite how it ended, the night you and I last spent on these grounds was the happiest I'd been since…" Killian paused but his feet never faltered. "Well, in a long time. That was the night I realized how difficult it would've been to say goodbye to you."

The term grinning like an idiot crossed Emma's mind when she smiled. "Guess you kinda liked me, huh?"

"I guess I did."

Killian's lips had barely grazed hers when she pulled back, finally ready to answer the question she'd dodged the night of their first date. "Do you know why I got so mad?"

"You thought I'd performed magic on you."

"That was only part of it. It felt like a date, didn't it? You and me? Like the one I should've been on to begin with?"

Killian gave a noncommittal nod, like he was reluctant to agree to anything until he knew where she was going with this. "I suppose..."

"That was when I knew you were never just going to be my guide." The term grinning like an idiot stole once more across her thoughts, this time with Killian as its unsuspecting victim. "And when you said you'd used magic, I thought…I guess I thought my feelings couldn't be trusted. Or you couldn't…or…"

Emma wasn't sure what she was trying to say. She'd been sure of it at the start, but now she felt like she was stumbling over something that should've been simple. Small, like a pebble in the grass. And now she was tumbling, face first toward the earth.

For the second time in as many hours, words failed her. More accurately, the right words failed her. And maybe that was for the best. In her experience, some things were better left unsaid. She contented herself with a kiss that should've followed their first dance, and with holding Killian close. With all the little things once out of reach.

The carousel stopped spinning, its song at an end, but Killian continued to lead their steps, humming a new melody that sounded a lot like the one Emma listened to when her bad day was one for the record books. Coming from Killian, it was doubly soothing. Or maybe it was learning they had something else in common, something she never would've suspected.

"Mm," Killian spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "Is that a new fragrance you're wearing? You smell good enough to eat."

Emma shoved him back but couldn't help laughing. "If you didn't rush me out of there, I could've showered."

He sauntered toward her in that unhurried fashion, knowing she wouldn't resist his advances, no matter her insistence that she was profoundly offended. "I wasn't complaining—I happen to find the scent of Italian cuisine quite alluring."

"You're an ass."

"One of my best qualities, I'm told."

Emma's gaze landed on an object not far from where they stood, partially obscured by shadow but clearly collapsed. Seeing the shell of a photo booth, identical to the one she and Killian had entered months ago, Emma reached into her back pocket for her phone. She moved into position beside Killian so that the now stationary lights hit her, too.

She told him to smile and he didn't hesitate. But no sooner had she tapped the button on the screen than Killian turned and kissed her cheek.

After following the appropriate prompts, Emma stared down at the newly changed background. Killian watched her but didn't say anything. He couldn't know that, as of that moment, she'd already started thinking about their two month mark. About how she could rent a boat and surprise him with a day on the harbor—it would have to be warmer by then, wouldn't it? They could both do with a break from the city and all its stressors. And she could finally see him in his element.

He couldn't know that making plans for the future was something she hadn't done since she was seventeen, seated in the passenger seat of her car, building a life from a dot on a map.

"Where to now, Love?"

Still looking at the picture of them, still smiling to herself, Emma didn't care where she went, as long as she was with him. She knew instinctively, the way she'd known too many things, too deeply, too soon, that what she'd been searching for all this time wasn't a place.

"Home."

—

One Week Ago

She saw him again the day she picked her car up from the shop. She'd gotten there early—another hour, they'd said—so she went for a sandwich at a café close by. There were a few skills Emma once thought she'd never learn that were now second nature. Tricks to finding people who didn't want to be found. Things that, when she first heard them, sounded like they came from a bad spy novel. But as her eye caught a reflection in the glass case behind the register, she was glad she hadn't written them off.

He maintained a healthy distance as he waited in line behind her, but Emma's skin started to crawl just the same. He brought a scent with him, like burned rubber, that could've come from outside, could've come from his job, or any number of places. But it compounded the claustrophobic feeling that'd seized her. His long, dark trench coat was surely an answer to the non-stop rain currently assaulting the eastern seaboard. But it gave Emma flashbacks to slasher films where the killer was never found.

She didn't stay. Didn't take her order to a table by the window and watch the world go by in a haze of popped collars and wind-torn umbrellas. She tugged the zipper on her puffy coat as high as it would go, tucked her hair into the hood, and joined the disorder.

It wasn't until she turned the corner en route to the garage that rage took the place alarm had occupied in her thoughts, and she was annoyed that it'd taken its sweet time getting there. That she'd spent the weeks being rattled, when the truth was someone only had the upper hand if she let them. She was done with this guy showing up at all her haunts, outside her building. She wasn't some scared kid anymore, unable to defend herself.

She hid herself from any vantage point the cafe could provide and waited for him to pass by.

He didn't take the bait.

Emma peeked around the building. The coast was clear. Either he'd gotten spooked, or…

He hadn't been following her.

If the former, this was going to make it harder to justify not telling Killian. One more item on a rapidly growing list of things she had yet to disclose. Among them, the real reason her car was being repaired.

It was the textbook definition of a minor accident. But Emma was beginning to think that word wasn't in Killian's vocabulary. Or if it was, it didn't apply to them. Nothing was insignificant. Everything was a sign. All signs were further proof that Emma was being self-destructively obstinate. The sky was literally falling. And he'd appreciate it if she heeded his educated advice while there was still a chance they'd make it out with their lives.

And he thought she was dramatic.

She was just outside the garage when her phone rang. Speak of the devil.

"Hey."

"Where are you?"

Emma stared up at the black and white typeface and a stern set of blue eyes seemed to stare back. "I was just about to head home. Is the interview over already?"

"In a manner of speaking. I need to ask you a favor."

—

She hadn't said a word since they left the train station. Hadn't actually said much at the train station after, "Are you Emma Swan?" She'd plopped down in the passenger seat and clutched her backpack to her chest, not bothering to buckle herself until Emma asked her to.

Her short hair was a muted shade of blue, several tattoos snaked their way up her neck, stopping just shy of her jawline, one peeked from under the sleeve on her right hand, and her left ear had twice as many piercings as its opposite.

"So. Charlotte." Emma looked over at her, receiving no response. Charlotte continued to stare out the rain-spotted window. "Killian's told me a lot about you."

Except for a few brief mentions on the night of their first month milestone, Killian had told Emma exactly zero things about Charlotte. But it was something people said, wasn't it? To put the other person at ease?

Seeing how young she was, Emma almost felt embarrassed for ever thinking her a threat. She was just a kid. A troubled one, if the look in her eyes was any indication. Of course, having been a "troubled teen," herself, Emma had no love for the term, as it seemed to exist for the sole purpose of pigeonholing people. She was more than the street urchin others assumed her to be. She wasn't about to form an opinion about Charlotte based on one bad mood.

Once it'd been safe, Killian had been more open about his previous occupation, and at first Emma had been grateful that he was able to get out when he did. But looking at Charlotte and knowing the place she'd return to after this visit, Emma felt a sharp pang of guilt at not being able to help her.

"I doubt that."

"He told me you're his friend."

"He lied." Charlotte hugged her backpack more tightly as she sank lower in her seat. "I doubt he even likes me. Just feels sorry for me."

"You should give the guy some credit." Emma tried for a kind smile, knowing how easily sympathy could be misconstrued as pity. "Killian's never been shy about letting someone know he doesn't like them. If he's worked this hard to stay in touch with you, there's a reason."

Charlotte's eyes moved slowly in Emma's direction but didn't make it the full way before turning back to the window.

—

Charlotte was out of the car before it came to a complete stop. By the time Emma parked, she'd already disappeared inside the place Killian had designated to meet.

"The Liar's Den." Emma could barely tell Killian's from the clamor of voices coming over the line. "I believe the lads called it a 'dive bar.'"

Scoff didn't quite encapsulate the sound that'd come out of her. The Liar's Den? Really? Did the universe have no subtlety left?

The building had a rundown and grimy exterior and the sign with its name swung loose on its hinges, half its letters worn away until it read: Th Lr's en.

Just as she reached the door, it flew open and Charlotte took off down the sidewalk, her bag held in front of her like a shield. Killian followed soon after, narrowly avoiding a collision with Emma. He collected himself and looked at her with a deliberately carefree smile.

"Charlotte was just here," said Emma. "I brought her, but—"

"It's all right, Swan. She's needed elsewhere. There was a limited window in which she could speak with me, hence the need for your assistance—thank you, by the way." He kissed Emma lightly on the cheek, as though nothing about this situation was amiss.

"Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." He glanced in the direction of Charlotte's retreating form. "Just a personal matter—tad sensitive." Emma's lie detector begged to differ—something about his demeanor was trying too hard for nonchalance. He was hiding something. But, her conscience reminded her, so was she. "I don't know about you, but I'm bloody famished. Shall we grab a bite?"

—

Four Days Ago

It was so quiet in Killian's apartment that every page turn was like punctuation. A clock counting down the minutes with acute precision. For once, neither of them was rushing toward their next appointment or slogging through the evening hours, their only incentive: the promise of a comfy bed and a warm body to curl up next to as the phrase fall asleep took on new meaning. For once, neither of them was exhausted.

Emma checked the time on her phone. Delivery guy had approximately twenty minutes left on his thirty-minute guarantee, which meant that they'd been sitting there for five. And Emma had read exactly two sentences. Or had she? Maybe she'd revisited the book so many times, they'd been etched into her memory. She couldn't tell if Killian was making more headway than she was, or if he was merely enjoying the silence. For all she knew, he was riveted.

She should've gone to her place while it was still an option. If she left now, it would translate as an offensive action. She just wanted to go where the quiet wasn't so loud. So laced with frustration. Where it wasn't wasted on internal grumbling about who was right and who needed to accept the fact that there were some arguments he wasn't going to win.

They'd had their share of petty quarrels in the past, and their not-so-petty ones. Misunderstandings that could've been resolved sooner if they both weren't so stubborn. But their first real fight as a couple had come the day after they'd celebrated one month together, like their happy bubble had an expiration date. Emma didn't know why she was surprised anymore—if wishes expired, maybe everything did.

The same disagreement had repeated itself with maddening frequency in the days since, and even when it seemed they were about to have a break, they'd find themselves at each other's throats over something as inconsequential as who left the light on in the living room or who forgot to lock the front door.

That afternoon, they'd gotten lost on their way to lunch—what was meant to be part of a relaxing daytrip—because Killian had copied the directions wrong.

"This wasn't my idea," he said when neither of their phones seemed willing to remedy the situation.

Wasn't it bad enough that things like this happened every time they went out, without Killian rubbing it in that he'd seen it coming? If she wanted vague predictions about the future, she'd date a Magic 8 Ball.

"So you sabotaged us?"

"Yes, that's precisely what I've done." Emma didn't look over, but his eye roll was practically audible. "Because I'm that passive aggressive."

"Can you just answer the question?"

Killian bit his tongue—with some difficulty given his clenched jaw and the speed at which his fingers drummed against his thigh.

"Why'd you come if you were just gonna sulk the whole time?"

"I'm beginning to wonder."

A deep sound disrupted the quiet and Emma looked over to see Killian flip another page. When her staring went unnoticed, she closed her book with unnecessary force.

"Was I doing it again?"

"Little bit."

"Apologies. Won't happen again."

"I'll believe that when I hear it."

Killian placed his thumb and forefinger at one corner of his mouth and mimed a straight line to the other, like he was zipping it closed, then went back to reading.

Emma told herself it was normal—the effects of spending so much time with one person. All the little quirks were bound to start grating on their nerves. Like Emma's habit of falling asleep with the TV on, or forgetting to put her used dishes in the sink. Not next to the sink. Or the way she kicked her shoes off by the door. Like Killian's inability to refrain from humming the same song all the time. Not even the whole thing, just the same snippet over and over again, like it was the only part he knew. Which was probably true, given that he couldn't even remember where he'd heard it. Or the way he lined her shoes up next to his.

Like the un-ignorable feeling that the things they didn't share with each other would one day overshadow the things they did. Emma's stalker, for instance, who'd shown up outside her office the previous day, and disappeared by the time she'd hung up the receiver to her desk phone. Or Killian's secret with Charlotte, which was more serious than either of them were about to let on.

Like the way Killian's warnings were starting to feel like reprimands.

"You need to be more careful, Emma."

"These aren't trifling forces, Emma."

"You aren't in this alone, Emma."

That last one always stopped her fuming dead in its tracks. Made it impossible for her to be furious with him. He was just worried—but so was she.

Whenever she left for work or to run an errand, she saw every worst case scenario run like a banner across Killian's eyes. He wanted her to wish so she wouldn't be in danger anymore. He wanted to be rid of this last shred of magic, and to close the door on that part of his life. For good. He knew there could be consequences, but they couldn't be worse than what they were suffering now. And whenever Killian argued his side, Emma saw every possible way her life could be reset, reshaped to exclude him. It could all be a trap. There were too many things they didn't know. Killian swore he did, but he'd also sworn they couldn't be together and he'd sworn his employers would unleash their fury and he'd sworn he was keeping Emma safe by pushing her away.

"And look how well that worked out."

He'd taken to asking her on a daily basis if her new guide had made contact yet, convinced she was keeping him out of the loop. She'd been hesitant to voice her theory, for fear of adding fuel to the fire, that her choosing to be with him had nullified her contract. Killian had assured her it didn't work like that, but he'd also assured her that if he ever fell for a client, he'd be relieved of his head.

"What will you tell them?"

"If they ever show up, I'll let you know."

Sensing his stare on the side of her face, Emma looked over. "What?"

"You've been glaring into space for the past five minutes."

"I was?"

"Something wrong with your book?" He tilted his head to the side, eyeing the spine. "Harry Potter—that's the boy wizard, isn't it?"

Closing the hardcover, gently this time, Emma set it in her lap with both hands over its dust jacket, as though shielding it from Killian's gaze.

He could've seen any number of days from her past—she still dreaded knowing which ones, specifically, afraid that this glimpse was the reason he sometimes seemed able to read her mind.

Had he seen the teenager huddled under the covers at night, reading by the dying beam of a flashlight she'd stolen from the tool chest in her foster father's garage? Taking comfort from a boy who'd been neglected by the ones who were meant to care for him, locked away in a cupboard under the stairs. And in the fact that he was destined for more than what life had given him, that it wasn't some prophecy that'd made him special. It was his goodness. His heart. From the beginning, and all through the darkness, it'd been love.

Everyone told Harry he looked like his dad—except for his eyes. He had his mother's eyes. Emma remembered a time when she gladly would've endured any number of years with Dursleys of her own if it would lead to her meeting just one person who could tell her about her parents, tell her if she looked like them. Did she have her mother's eyes? Her dad's chin or ears, his bullheadedness? She remembered a time when she'd resented a fictional character for the family he'd found in his friends. Even though they could never replace what he'd lost, at least he'd had someone. Several someones, in fact.

Looking at Killian now and knowing him to be her person, she couldn't remember a time she'd been more terrified. Everything she'd known in her life warned her not to get comfortable. Because knowing she was meant for someone didn't mean the fates would let her keep him.

Seeing past the veil of irritation that'd clouded their conversations all day had her feeling like the world's largest hypocrite. Holding everyone to such a high standard of honesty while lying to the man she—

She averted her eyes—there was no telling what Killian had read in them—her gaze landing on the leather bound volume in his hands. "What's with the fairytales?"

"I'm comparing this realm's version of events against what really happened." Emma didn't say anything, but she was sure her face conveyed the right amount of you have got to be kidding. "Don't believe me?"

"That there's a bunch of fairytale characters running around in some other dimension? I'm gonna go with no."

And then there was that.

Emma had come a long way since the day they'd met. She now fully accepted that there were things beyond her comprehension that were no less real for her inability to explain them. But there were still instances where she had to call bullshit.

"Suit yourself." Killian flipped to the next page.

Emma waited for him to turn back, her lack of questions having eaten away at him. But he remained unmoved save for his eyes following each new line. "Oh, just tell me."

"What's that, Love?"

"Whatever you're itching to say—let me guess, you've met one of them."

"As a matter of fact…"

"Who?" Killian waved his hand over the open book, inviting Emma to see for herself. She leaned across the middle cushion and scoffed at the chapter title. "You met Snow White."

"Her tale is a bit more gruesome than the one outlined here—the casualties that came of her rivalry with the queen are still being counted."

"And the seven dwarves?"

"Eight, originally."

"Because that makes much more sense." Killian didn't elaborate, only smirked, as unfazed as ever by Emma's skepticism. "Okay, I'll bite. What happened?"

He closed the book, set it on the coffee table, and then began to spin a story about a young girl who told a secret that wasn't her own. About a feud between a warrior princess who had not always been brave, and an evil queen who had once been kind.

Orphaned and exiled and living inside a hollowed-out tree trunk while on the run from her step-mother's vengeance, a grownup Snow White met a prince, and what started as a begrudging alliance turned, when neither was paying attention, into the sort of love that inspired authors and poets alike.

"Then she bit an apple and went to sleep and he woke her with True Love's Kiss," Emma interjected. "The end."

"The apple came later, actually," said Killian with a voice that was still in Narrator Mode. "You see, our prince was promised to another. And our heroine hadn't the time or inclination to suffer distraction, no matter how charming. So they parted ways, both of them certain they'd never see the other again, and both hoping to be proved wrong." Killian looked at Emma with a very Killian-like gleam, and grinned. "Shall I go on?"

Emma made a vague gesture that was part nod, part one-shoulder shrug. She would not admit she was in any way intrigued. But he saw through her, just as he always did. If Emma's superpower was spotting lies, Killian's was knowing when Emma was full of shit.

He went on to reveal a unique take on the fairytale that was so commonplace in her world that anyone would be hard-pressed to hear such descriptors as lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony and not think Snow White. Included in the narrative was a strange combination of characters, such as Little Red Riding Hood and Rumplestiltskin—operating under the moniker of The Dark One.

"Seriously? If I ever become a villain, remind me to pick a better name."

"I'm afraid that's one promise I can't keep," said Killian, "as I'll be too busy trying to save you from yourself."

"Then I'll just have to bring you over to my side—make you my sidekick, dress you up in head-to-toe black leather…"

"And what will you be wearing?"

"You'll just have to use your imagination."

Killian gave her a onceover, no doubt envisioning all manner of illicit attire. "You make quite the compelling case, Swan."

As suddenly as their bantering had begun, it dissolved into the shared recollection that, aside from this brief interlude, they were still very much in a fight. It was the reason they'd chosen reading as their entertainment, and pizza as their evening meal. As date nights went, this was the first one Emma really just wanted to get over with. Put the whole day behind her. Start fresh tomorrow.

"So," she said, if only to end the awkward silence, "Snow White meets The Dark One." She rolled her eyes. "Then what?"

Then, apparently, she traded strands of her hair for a potion.

"The memory of the man she could never be with was too painful, so she found a way to forget."

Emma swallowed thickly, her throat gone dry. If Killian noticed, he didn't react.

Did he know something? Was that why he'd chosen this story over all the others in his book? Was he trying to tell her that whatever secret she thought she'd so ably concealed might as well have been branded across her forehead?

Her thoughts were cut short by new turns in Killian's tale. Not only was the prince really a shepherd, but he had a twin who'd been adopted by a king. And when the true prince fell, leaving his father without an heir, a bargain was struck with the second son. Take his brother's place, slay a dragon, and return to the idyllic life he'd known. Simple. Straightforward.

"But no deal is without its constraints," said Killian. "In order to secure an alliance with Midas—" Emma bit back a mocking remark, forbade her eyes from leaving a fixed point on Killian's face, "—the king agreed to a union between the pretend prince and Midas' daughter, hence—"

"The fiancée."

"Indeed. But the prince had not forgotten Snow, nor could he. He thought of her every day, and every day regretted his ties to the crown. So he sent a letter professing his love. Snow had only to go to him and he would know she felt the same. But when she arrived, it was to decline his offer. She could not run away with him because she did not love him. What the prince didn't know was that the king had gotten to Snow first, had threatened and manipulated her into deception."

"Is this where you come in?"

Killian nodded. "You see, Swan, the thing about wishes is they're not always made of a conscious decision. It isn't always a matter of closing one's eyes and asking. Sometimes it's an ache. Sometimes it's a wanting so strong there are no words can express it. Sometimes it's senseless, soundless, less than thought but more than longing. As Snow left her prince, after swearing she never loved him, that she never would, such was her anguish that she made a wish without knowing." Killian let down his cool facade and looked away. He related the rest of their encounter as he had some of the more painful portions of his history. Almost as though they'd happened to someone else. "I met her in the forest outside the king's castle. She'd taken a moment from her companions to collect herself—"

"The dwarves, you mean."

The corner of his mouth turned up. "Aye, the dwarves. Now one man short, thanks to the king."

"He died?"

Killian looked at her as if to say, "How else would their number have decreased?"

"I thought they'd, I don't know, quit or something. Had a falling out with the others…"

"I'm afraid not."

His expression called her sweet, too innocent for retellings such as these, and Emma fought the impulse to insist that, if she wanted to, she could be just as unprincipled as any pirate. But she had a feeling he'd laugh. She hoped Snow White punched him in the face for appearing out of thin air, like Emma should've done.

"She had a similar reaction to yours, actually."—Ha.—"A bow being her weapon of choice."

"She shot you?" Despite her moments old desire for him to have received some form of retribution in the past for her present offense, Emma couldn't help her concern. She ran a mental inventory of all his scars, wondering if any could've been carved from an arrowhead.

"Nearly. She'd mistaken me for one of the queen's men and demanded I state my business while I still retained the ability to do so." Killian smiled like he approved of this tactic. "Once she was convinced I was who I claimed to be and not a spy sent to ensnare her, she expressed sincere disinterest in taking further time to think over her wish. She knew what she wanted. She didn't need a year."

"You didn't…"

Killian shook his head. "I did everything in my power to try and persuade her. I told her I understood the pain of not being able to move on from a loved one. I could only speak for myself, but I wouldn't trade the memory for anything. In time, she might feel the same. She said, 'I guess we'll never know.'"

"So what did you do?"

"I advised her to sleep on it. If she still felt the same way in the morning, I'd return to grant her wish."

"Did she call you back?"

"She did."

"And?"

"And, I lied. I told her I'd spent the previous evening poring over the guidelines, if you will, and that memory tampering was strictly prohibited." Killian paused, watching the middle distance for a minute while his right hand curled into a fist atop his knee. "The truth was I'd seen its effects once before. It involved complicated magic—even guides more advanced than I had minimal success. Not only did one client forget the person he'd wished to, but everyone he'd come in contact with throughout his life. Family, friends. He had two young sons whose formative years were spent in visitation to that realm's equivalent of an asylum, strangers to their own father."

They sat for a while, neither speaking. Both latching onto this as evidence that they were right—of course, Emma could only speak for herself. How could Killian be so adamant she make her wish when he'd witnessed this kind of result firsthand?

"Don't you see?" She imagined him saying."The longer we wait, the greater the potential for tragedy."

"I don't care what happens to me," she'd told him a dozen times in her mind, "I'm not wishing you away."

And each time, she thought of how she'd almost done just that. When she'd been certain her affections weren't reciprocated, starting over had seemed like the best option. She'd never been so glad about not doing something, but the almost still plagued her.

How could she confide this unthinkable thing in Killian without changing the way he saw her? Without reaching the end of his seeming unlimited understanding?

"So what happened with Snow?"

"She drank The Dark One's potion."

"She…"

What kind of crap story was this?

"Don't look so forlorn, Swan. True Love prevailed in the end, as it always does."

"How?"

"This is where your world's version overlaps—the apple, eternal sleep, curse broken by a kiss. Snow White's wish expired and I never saw her again. I can only assume she and her prince are off somewhere living their Happily Ever After." When Emma didn't give a critique, but instead sat absorbing the finer points of a story that was far too relatable (later, after the shock wore off, she would ask what, if not memory tampering, was performed on clients when wishes were granted, and he would answer, ominously, that no magic was behind the council), Killian said, "Don't tell me you've started to believe in fairytales."

"No." Emma forced a smile. "But I like the way you tell them."

She took a deep breath and envisioned ripping of a Band-Aid. Quick, easy. Painless—whoever coined that saying didn't have the same familiarity with scrapes as Emma did—but when she opened her mouth, nothing came.

In the end, it didn't matter, as they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Killian got up to answer. Emma didn't check her phone.

As she watched Killian pay the kid dressed in an oversized shirt sporting a logo to match the box in his hands, and as he glanced back at her with the warmest smile he'd worn all day, Emma realized she wasn't worried that Killian would never forgive her. She knew he would. She'd known it the night they danced by the light of an abandoned carousel, and the night of their first date. Just as she'd known that night, parked in the middle of nowhere under a starless sky, losing a staring contest to a cupcake, that her almost-wish was not the confession she was most afraid to make.

—

She waited for Killian to say goodnight, but she waited in vain. He took off his shirt and got into bed without a word. Without so much as glancing her way. Flat on his back, gaze fixed on the ceiling, his message couldn't have been clearer. Emma freed her hair of its holder, let it fall loose around her shoulders, and left her phone on the nightstand, alarm set for an early morning, before she turned out the light and climbed in beside him, careful to keep her distance.

She pulled the covers up just under her ribs and settled in to admire the view, sensing that though the only light came from a partial moon creeping through the blinds, Killian hadn't closed his eyes.

Their meal had passed in much the same manner, the ceasefire provided by Killian's story ending as soon as the first slices were selected. Emma had thought about commenting on the excessive grease or the pitiful lack of pepperoni, but she had little confidence these topics would elicit the desired response. Killian probably would've nodded along or grunted in agreement and then silence would've descended, more devastating than before.

She went back and forth in favor of risking another heated debate and leaving the matter until morning when she felt something close around her hand. She looked over as Killian laced their fingers, and she gave his hand a light squeeze that was part acknowledgement, part gratitude for the sign that she wasn't alone in wanting to make peace.

The gesture emboldened her. She turned toward him, seeking a closer position, and he responded by pulling her to his side. Encouraged by his unguarded expression, what'd suddenly carved away the aggravated mask, Emma chanced a kiss, if it could be called that—a barely-there brush of lips, an unspoken I'm sorry.

She drew back to see if this was okay. Killian answered with a kiss that merited the name, sighing for the familiar taste, too long kept away, and steadied her as she straddled his lap. It was the most physical contact they'd had all day, but it wasn't enough. They'd been together, but they hadn't been them. Gone were the casual touches, the intimate moments, all the differences that, though small, marked the distinction between lover and friend. Tension lifted from her, anticipation taking its place, with every graze of exposed skin, every roll of their hips as they chased greedily after reconciliation.

Killian pulled away, echoing Emma's words back to her, even as his fingers remained rooted in her curls, ready to draw her forward again. "I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

If ever there was a time to tell him, it would've been now. Not because she wanted a bargaining chip, an easy out. Not because it would propel them faster toward the release they both needed. But because it wasn't a question anymore. Because she didn't care that it was too soon. It was real and it was right. It was the truest thing in her world and he deserved to know.

Because even when the fighting got to be too much, when they couldn't agree on a single thing—what to watch or what to eat or if they should just scrap their plans altogether because they needed room to breathe—when the disagreeing turned to vitriol on both sides—Killian damning Emma's refusal to trust that perhaps someone else's strategy might be the right one, and Killian's refusal to look beyond the surface and remember that he knew Emma better than anyone, that she wasn't just being stubborn for the sake of it—when tempers reached their boiling points and Emma threatened to sleep at her place, when she stormed out and stomped away and slammed every door that crossed her, it was never an end.

Because she'd never had a relationship survive so much conflict, the first fight usually being the last.

Even when she thought she wouldn't be able to stomach the sight of him for another second, she'd inevitably find her bed too cold, too empty, her body too restless without his arms to anchor her, and she'd cross the hall to crawl under the covers with him. And he'd pull her close, press a kiss to the back of her neck.

"I'm still mad at you," she'd say.

And he'd reply, "I know," as his hand found hers, "I'm still mad at you, too."

Because she knew there'd be no moving on from this one.

If ever there was a time to tell him, it would've been now.

The setting was right, but her fears weren't ready. So she settled for another sentiment, equally true. "I don't want to fight anymore."

It could've been her tone, betrayed by a sorrow she hadn't meant to show him, it could've been that her expression displayed every facet of her internal struggle toward courage, but a week's worth of anger faded from Killian's eyes. His kiss was forgiving, apologetic, heartbreaking in its assurance that they hadn't yet faced a dispute they couldn't come back from.

"I'm in this, Emma. You know that, don't you?"

The truly frightening thing was, she did know. In the deepest recesses of her soul, she knew that Killian Jones was in this for the long haul. But if the past had taught her anything, it was only a matter of time before Forever became a contract he wished he'd never signed.

Later, when her thoughts were a little quieter, a little less restless, as she lay sprawled on Killian's chest, listening to his heartbeat slowing down and feeling herself rise and fall each time he breathed, as his fingertips traced lazy patterns on her back, Emma wondered in the dark, where such musings were safe, if what she and Killian had would ever be strong enough to break a curse.

…

…Emma closed her mouth as her heart sank. As her mind called her a coward and every battered fiber of her being agreed.

"What is it, Love?"

"Nothing." She shook her head in as casual a manner as she could manage. When Killian gave her a look that was eerily similar to her own when on the hunt for lies, she said, "I just…wanted to say thanks. For tonight."

"I'm sure you'll have better success next time."

"No next time. I quit, remember?"

"Ah, but if at first you don't succeed…"

"Find a new hobby." Killian smiled, and Emma trained her gaze on his mouth in the hopes that the flirtation in her voice would disguise any disappointment. "Take me home?"

"What will we do once we get there?"

She pulled him in for another kiss, though it did little to diminish defeat's bitter aftertaste. "Something we're both good at."

Which apparently meant collapsing into bed like they'd never seen one more beautiful, more attuned to the needs of their sore limbs, and falling asleep at an hour that no self-respecting adult would admit to.

—

Emma woke to the sound of dishes and the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen, and she smiled against the pillow she'd officially claimed as her own despite its permanent home in Killian's bed. Not too soft, not too firm, just the right amount of fluff for her liking. Killian's expression when she'd admitted this had been the smug sort of amused, and she'd known, without him saying it out loud, that he was remembering one of them calling the other Goldilocks in the not-so-distant past.

There was a particular pair of sweats that Emma had taken possession of, as well. She snatched them from the bureau, slipped them on—all soft fibers and unfitted waist—and pulled the drawstring so that it hugged her hips before she headed to the bathroom.

They weren't at the stage where Emma was keeping her toothbrush at Killian's place—mainly because she kept forgetting to bring it over. And maybe there was a part of her that still cringed at the thought of invading Killian's space, even though they'd each taken turns spelling it out for the other that this relationship was different, that this one was lasting. Whatever the predominant factor, she made do with mouthwash for now. Settled for running her fingers through the tangles in her hair. The raccoon eyes were a separate, more time-consuming issue, but she got most of the dark smudges rinsed off.

A vague memory worked its way to the forefront of her semi-conscious mind as she padded on bare feet toward the kitchen—did Killian say he had another interview that morning, or had Emma dreamed it? She smiled to herself, not the least bit surprised that he'd set aside time to make her breakfast—

She came to a sudden halt at the sight that greeted her from the head of the table. Helping himself to a plate loaded to the brim with a meal that wasn't meant for him.

Emma thought of everything in the apartment that could be used as a weapon. She kept a spare handgun in the drawer of Killian's nightstand, but she doubted she'd make it there and back again before this guy spotted her.

And she was right.

"I was starting to wonder when you'd wake up—past the age where beauty sleep'll do any good, don't you think?" He spoke around large mouthfuls of food, but the accent was unmistakable—what she guessed to be an English dialect.

"Where's Killian?"

The man stabbed at several clumps of scrambled egg. "I haven't done him off, thank you, and I don't much appreciate the insinuation."

Emma stared at him while she strategized her next move. There were a few reasonably sharp knives on the counter nearest the table, their handles protruding from a wooden block. She might be able to get her hand on one before this guy was the wiser, but she had no way of knowing whether he was armed. And she wasn't about to find out the hard way.

"You know," the stranger pointed his fork in her direction, bits of food dangling from its end, "you almost had me—I almost fell for it again. I can see Jones has chosen a worthy partner."

Almost had him? When did she—

When Emma looked to the man, himself, he gave her a stiff grin and chased it with a wink. Something about the encounter, aside from seriously creeping her out, left a fleeting impression of déjà vu. The unpleasant sort of intuition that told her she'd had this nightmare before.

Emma's posture went rigid—of all the worst case scenarios Killian had fretted over, this probably hadn't even registered, and it was all her fault. Why hadn't she told him? She braced herself for the very real possibility that she might have to run, and that she might not be fast enough. She'd have to make it count. She could go for her apartment, lock herself inside. Or she could go for her gun.

"How do you know Killian?"

"Taught the man everything he knows—don't tell me he hasn't mentioned his old friend, Alistair." When Emma didn't respond, he said, "Well that's gratitude for you. Grant a man his freedom and he forgets all about you."

Emma stared straight ahead, slack jawed, all thoughts of escape momentarily deferred. This guy was Killian's friend? His former…boss? He was one who helped him?

On the one hand, if he knew Killian, there was every likelihood Killian had been the one to let him in. While Emma was sleeping…

On the other, the only person from Killian's past that Emma knew by name was Liam.

The man—Alistair—looked like someone who may have once been handsome. But where Killian didn't look a day over the physical age he was when he'd made his wish, when the clock had, essentially, stopped, the years had taken their toll on this one.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Didn't I say?" He took Emma's scowl for an answer. "Jones did tell you to expect his replacement…"

"You're my new guide?"

Setting aside his utensils and pushing the plate away—if he expected Emma to clear it for him, he had another thing coming. She'd sooner smash it over his head—he waited for his last bite to be fully processed before speaking again. "I should apologize. I do sometimes forget how easily startled mortals can be. Yes, my name is Alistair," he placed his right hand flat against his chest, "and I am here to guide you toward the happy ending of your choosing. Killian and I have been acquainted for the past three hundred years, but best not to tell him about this, as he is no longer affiliated with magical society. Does any of this confuse you? Shall I make up a chart, code it by color?"

"What am I, five?"

Alistair grinned—an unpleasant sight to behold. All cunning and no warmth. And it turned Emma's stomach to hear one of the first things Killian ever said to her come out of this stranger's mouth. "I can see we're going to have some fun."