A/N: Settle in someplace comfortable with a good beverage. This is another long chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy it.

A shrill ring cut through the fog of Emma's incomprehensible dreams. Groaning, she shifted in the bed. The taste of stale tequila lingered on her tongue, taunting her; even another shot would be welcome compared to the sandpapery dryness that greeted her now. Scrubbing the grit from her eyes, she searched the bed blindly with one hand for her ringing phone. A buzzing sensation startled her further awake as she shifted, and she swore. Reaching under hip, she retrieved the buzzing pest, intent on silencing it so she could retreat into oblivion again.

Staring through bleary eyes at her mother's picture on the screen, she sighed and pressed 'talk'. "Yeah?" she croaked, clutching her forehead with the palm of one hand while her other searched for the switch that would turn on a lamp. "Dammit!" she swore as something rolled off the nightstand.

"Emma?" her mother's worried voice said through the phone, "Where are you? David says you never woke him up coming in last night. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she answered, climbing out of the bed. She stumbled forward, feet tangling in the coarse blanket. Damn, Granny, she thought hazily as she caught herself on the nightstand, buy some better bedding. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said, disentangling herself. " Her fingers scrabbled along the nightstand, searching for the lamp, but met an empty surface. What the hell? she wondered vaguely. Had she knocked over the whole damned lamp?

"Are you sure?" Mary-Margaret replied in a worried tone while Emma put her mother on speaker and pressed the flashlight app on her phone to illumine the room. "We've been worried sick about you."

"I'm okay," she repeated, shining her light around the room. "I-" She broke off a her flashlight illumined an old fashioned table covered in maps, star charts, and tools she recognized from the Neverland trip, but could not possibly name. She wasn't in a motel room at Granny's at all. She was in Killian's cabin on the Jolly Roger. "Oh fuck," she moaned in humiliation as her argument with Eric at The Rabbit Hole last night flooded back. "What did I do?"

"Emma? Emma!" her mother shouted through the phone. "What's the matter?"

Her knuckles ached as she clutched the phone tighter. "I can't talk," she snapped. "I have to go."

"Emma," Mary-Margaret protested, "what-?"

"If David asks, tell him Granny rented me a room after I had too much to drink last night. You got that?" she hissed.

"But why? What's going on? You went out drinking? Emma, you should have at least texted-"

She inhaled with a shudder. "I'm on the Jolly Roger," she whispered fiercely. "In Killian's cabin. And I don't remember a damn thing."

"Oh," came the shocked reply. "Well-maybe that's a good thing?"

"I don't know," she sighed. "Look, I'll talk to you later."

"All right, Emma. Good luck."

"Thanks." Emma pressed the button to end her call and stared at the glowing screen of her phone for several seconds. Well, she thought, standing up with grim resolution, time to figure out what the hell happened. Though if her solitary presence and the clothes she still wore were any indication, not the sort of thing she wanted to happen between her and Killian if he ever recovered his damned memories.

Emma wasn't sure whether she felt relieved or disappointed.

Using her flashlight, she found her jacket folded neatly on a chair and slipped into it with a shrug of her shoulders. She pulled her hair free and crossed the room, pausing by the door to turn off the flashlight app and stow her phone in her jacket pocket. Her fingertips brushed against a pair of sunglasses and Emma almost cried in relief. Opening the door to the cabin, she slipped them on to protect her eyes from the bright sun and stepped onto the deck. Killian wasn't at the helm, nor anywhere else on the stern of the ship, but that wasn't too surprising since the Jolly Roger was docked at the harbor in Storybrooke, she decided after a minute.

A breeze blew across the deck, whipping Emma's hair into a tangle, carrying with it the strong tang of salt and a lilting masculine voice singing a lively sea shanty.

"What the-?" Rubbing the pounding ache in her head, she followed the sound to the bow of the ship and stopped short at the sight before her. Killian stood near the foremast with a bucket at his feet, swirling a mop in lazy circles across the slick deck, his voice rising and falling like ocean waves as he sang the animated tune. Seeming to sense her presence, he looked up, pausing in his work. "Ahoy," she said with a sarcastic salute of her hand.

He eyed her for a moment. "Really, love?" he said with an arch of his brow.

She sighed. "Give me a break, I have a killer hangover." She watched him return to his work, noting the way he lifted his head ever so slightly, inhaling with closed eyes, as the wind whipped across the deck again and mussed his dark hair; his facial muscles relaxed, and he began to hum, as if he had quite forgotten her presence.

"I didn't know you sang," she said as he chanted the words to another tune under his breath.

He abandoned the song and smiled over at her. "Nearly all sailors do, lass. Helps pass the time on watch, and makes the work more enjoyable." He shrugged. "And after a time, when you're adrift in the ocean without a bit of land in sight, when it's just you and the sea...and you realize what a grand, beautiful, fiery-tempered lass she is...you can't help but worship her a little with your voice."

His words resonated with her, and Emma realized that she knew something of what he talked about. She'd felt it in some small measure while they had sailed to Neverland, despite her worries for Henry or the attacks from the Mermaids. There had been a split second, when she'd jumped into the water to wake everyone the hell up and stop fighting, that Emma had almost felt as if she'd returned home. Almost, she thought, watching Killian with a soft smile, because she was never completely home without Henry or Killian.

"That's really beautiful," she whispered. "Thank you." He looked away, dipping the mop in the bucket of seawater again, and didn't reply.

"If you're looking to soothe that aching head of yours," he said after a time, "there's some tea down in the galley. Brewed it this morning," he said, tossing her a wry look. "Thought you might need it."

"Thanks," she said, turning to go below deck. His hand clamped over her arm, and she turned back to him, startled. Her heart hammered as Killian leaned close to her. The tip of his hook slid between her temple and the arm of her sunglasses, removing them from her face with neat precision. She blinked at him as he caught the falling glasses in his hand, passing them to her with a smirk.

"Don't thank me yet."

Puzzled by the odd exchange, she tucked the sunglasses back in her jacket pocket, squinting in the bright sunlight. She watched him for a moment, but Killian had fixed his attention on his work again, and didn't seem inclined toward further interaction at the moment. Emma left with a frown and went in search of the tea. She found it in the galley, just as he'd said, warming in a cauldron that hung over a small fire in the middle of a raised sandpit made with bricks.

"Okay," she said with a shake of her head and a small smile. No wonder Killian and Eric ate at the diner so much. The antique set up of the galley didn't look as if it lent itself to much variety in the types of food that could be prepared. "That's gotta be a pain the ass to cook with," she muttered, searching the cupboards for something in which to put her tea. A mix of antique and modern mugs filled the lower shelf of one cupboard, and Emma selected a plain white porcelain one. Returning to the cauldron, she removed a wooden ladle from a hook on the wall and filled the mug with the dark, steaming liquid.

Cupping the mug in both hands, she blew on the tea to cool it faster, and wandered back up to the main deck. She stopped short when she returned to Killian. The pirate's mood had shifted in her absence. Instead of amused and cheerful, his expression had shifted to moody and sullen, a look that had became all too familiar to her over the past few weeks.

Three weeks earlier

Emma peered up the gangplank at the Jolly Roger, wondering sort of mood she would find Killian in today. There had been little noticeable improvement to his memory since he had returned home from the hospital. She knew it frustrated him enormously that he couldn't remember large portions of his life, that there were strange holes in his memories he had to navigate around, but it frustrated her that she couldn't do anything to help. She had long since given up any attempts to subtly jog his memory by bringing him gifts with her visits. Each of them had failed utterly, and brought only more pain for both of them in return.

And now, she thought, trudging up the gangplank, even her visits had become something of a trial for him. She could see it in the way he withdrew, shutting himself away, while she was present. His smiles appeared less frequently, replaced by an angry bitterness that she hadn't seen since his attempts to avenge Milah's death, and his eyes rarely met her own, rejecting any acknowledgement of the connection that she knew they could both feel. Even the merest brush of her touch evoked a wince so slight that it might have been imperceptible, if she didn't know him so well. But the worst part, the part that filled her soul with an ever-growing despair, was that his occasional flirting banter had evaporated.

Her pirate had vanished, replaced by a total stranger.

"Hello?" she called out wearily, her boots echoing across the worn deck as she walked. "Killian?" she said raising her voice to give him ample warning of her presence. The last time she had surprised him, catching him unaware in his cabin while he brooded, he had had a small breakdown; before she knew it, a gust of wind whipped through the cabin, glass shattered, and she found herself pressed up against the wall of the cabin, with Killian half-yelling and half-sobbing things at her she couldn't even comprehend. It had taken Eric, drawn by the commotion, to pry him away from her and restore things to order again.

Later, after a long, loud argument with Killian, Eric had sought her out and inquired about her well being. Emma couldn't find the words to explain to the sailor that she hadn't been frightened by Killian at all, just frozen with grief. She was the Sheriff, after all. She carried a gun and handcuffs, for God's sake. A physical threat wasn't anything she hadn't handled countless times before in her careers.

But Killian hadn't attacked her physically. He'd done something much more damaging; he had put the first cracks in her faith that her love for him was enough to someday return him to her.

"Killian?" she tried again, closer to his cabin. She knocked on the door."Hello?"

The door opened, and he peered out at her, his eyes bright and untroubled for the first time in days. "Love," he greeted her, standing aside so she could enter, "come in. I'd like to talk."

She brushed past him, issuing him a wary look. "Yeah?" she snorted, unable to help herself. "Since when? You've avoided talking to me about anything important for weeks. If you even talk to me at all." She started to sit down on the bed, then thought better of it and remained standing. She couldn't bear to rest there, not the spot where he had lain so lifeless and cold; not the place where she had brought him back to life, only to have lost him again.

Blinking back the tears that threatened, she crossed her arms, thereby building the only wall she had left to defend herself with, the only way she could block him out and push the pain away. Damn Gold. Damn magic that had burned itself up and left her far too vulnerable in every single way imaginable.

"Lass," he said, taking a step toward her.

She backed away, knowing instinctively that a single touch from him at this moment would break her, and fell into the very bed she had tried to avoid. Tears spilled down her cheeks. It was too much. Everything was too much now. She uncrossed her arms, wiping away hot tears with fury. Stupid, useless wall. It didn't keep anyone or anything out. Not ever. And though she strained to appear normal to others, to behave as if Gold was wrong and her loss of magic hadn't really affected her at all, Emma knew it was only a matter of time before everyone in Storybrooke found out, no matter how hard her parents tried to keep her secret.

And the minute people found out their Sheriff couldn't keep order anymore, couldn't keep the criminals and villains in check, all hell would break loose. And she would be their first target. She was a dead woman walking. It was only a matter of time.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, interrupting her muddle of tense, worried thoughts. "That day." His forehead creased, and his blue eyes watched her with sadness. "I didn't mean to frighten you. It wasn't my intent to-to hurt you. I've-I've never hurt a woman before in my life." Pain was etched into his features, a plea for her trust in his eyes.

"You didn't hurt me," she sighed, "you just...had a bad moment. It happens to all of us. And you weren't responsible for the rest of it. I left the door hanging open." She rubbed her eyes, exhausted. "Look, let's just put it behind us. I don't want to think about it anymore."

But the look he issued her told her that he wasn't likely to stop thinking of the incident any sooner than she was. It had damaged their already tenuous and complicated relationship.

"Maybe we should stop this, lass," he said with a blink of his tortured gaze. "Leave each other be, for a time."

But they both knew he was talking about forever.

"You don't mean that," she said after a moment, with far more conviction than she felt. She laced her fingers together, wishing she still had the ability to detect lies. Maybe then she could get a vague sense of what he really felt, where things really stood. Maybe then things wouldn't be so fucking painful. Fuck Gold and his fucking prophetic words. Fuck Pan and Neverland, and fuck Neal most of all for letting Killian die in his place.

"No."

"All right." She stood up. "Then we carry on. We try to figure this out together." She offered him a weak smile. "Take me sailing?" Because she needed to smell the sea again, feel the cool wind as it whipped across her face and rippled through her hair. She needed to feel free and unburdened, if only for a little while. Needed to feel a connection to Killian, no matter how temporary.

And only the sea could bring them together like that these days.

"All right, love," he smiled with mournful blue eyes, "let's go sailing."

Emma exhaled as the memory faded. It hurt to think of such resolution to weather the storminess of the relationship now, after she'd given in to despair and stopped seeing him. That it had only been a week mattered little. It might as well have been a lifetime, so far as both of them were concerned. She'd meant it as one.

Emma snuck another look at Killian and settled on a barrel with her tea, uncertain whether he would welcome interruptions in his work. Whatever he was contemplating, it wasn't a happy topic. She took a sip of her tea, hoping it was cooled enough that she wouldn't burn her tongue.

The most vile substance to ever fill her mouth slid across her tongue, and she choked. "What the hell?" she coughed. "What did you put in this?"

He grinned over at her. "Sure you want to know, love?"

"Actually," she said, eyeing the so-called tea with trepidation, "I don't."

"Drink up, Swan. It will help."

"Actually," she said, "is Eric around? I need to talk him." And apologize her ass off, she thought.

Killian's expression clouded over, and he eyed her for one long moment. "Lagerkron!" he bellowed suddenly, tilting his head upward, "Get your bloody arse down here!"

Emma followed his gaze upward, shielding her eyes, and spotted a figure making its way down the mast of the ship with careful precision. She watched in stunned silence for a moment, mesmerized by the quick grace with which he moved. Did all sailors move like that?

"What the hell?!" she exclaimed after a moment, sweeping a furious look at Killian. "Do you have any idea how much he drank last night? He'll break his neck!"

Killian's expression softened at her words. "He knows how to move about a ship better than he does on land, love." He looked upward again, watching Eric's progress. "Besides, he knows the consequences when he drinks too much."

"You drink rum all the time!" she accused.

"Not enough to interfere with my duties or my turn on watch. He's first mate of this vessel, Swan, and former captain of his own ship. He knows it can't be tolerated."

Eric jumped the last few feet, landing with an ease that was almost cat-like on the deck. He wore a pair of ragged trousers and not a stitch more, his hair rumpled into a wild tangle. He winced, shielding his eyes from the sun, and stood up, removing a knife from his teeth. "What now?" he glowered at Killian. "I haven't finished the inspection."

"Swan wants to speak with you."

The sailor turned, and Emma stared helplessly at his bare chest, admiring the lean muscles and fine layer of chest hair despite herself. Damn, she thought, damn. Ariel doesn't know what she's missing. Her eyes slid over to Killian, who was glaring at Eric, and she wondered what he would look like without a shirt. She felt her cheeks grow warm. "Yeah, um...if you have a moment," she mumbled, recovering.

Eric sighed, bare feet slapping softly on the deck as he walked over to her. "Make it quick."

She pulled him to the side, peering over his shoulder at Killian, who had returned his attention to cleaning the deck. "So, uh, Lag-Lagerkrum, huh?" she said, fumbling over the surname in her effort to break the ice. Eric's eyes narrowed.

"Lagerkron," the sailor corrected with a frown.

"Rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?" Killian mocked without looking up from his work.

Eric rolled his eyes. "Well, we can't all be as simple as you, Jones," he shot back. He guided Emma farther away, out of Killian's earshot. "What do you want?"

"To apologize. I was an ass last night. I shouldn't have said those things to you. I'm sorry."

The sailor's expression lightened, a shadow of his usual good cheer returning to it. "Neither should I. My apologies." He ran a hand through his hair, darting a glance over his shoulder. "He's not as bad off as he seems, you know."

"What do you mean?"

He gave her a considering look. "Well, he said he didn't know me when he awoke, yet his first reaction to me said otherwise. He may not have recalled my name, or parts of our history in Neverland, but some part of him remembered me, to act by such instinct. Trust his actions, Emma. Not his words. You're in there; he just can't put all the pieces together right now."

"Thank you," she smiled, grateful for the hope he'd sparked in her again.

He nodded, then shook his head with a chuckle.

"What?"

"Don't look now," he said in a low tone, "but I think the green-eyed monster is preparing to pounce."

Emma peered over Eric's shoulder at Killian. The pirate was watching them with a scowl, all pretense of work abandoned. "I'll be damned," she breathed in amazement.

"I told you so," he said with a crooked smile. He clapped her on the shoulder. "It's good to see you again, Emma."

Emma watched him retreat, ascending up the foremast again to complete his inspections, and she snuck a glance at Killian. The pirate was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite interpret.

"Finish that tea yet, Swan?" he inquired when their eyes locked.

"No," she answered, moving toward him.

"Too bad. It would have made things easier for you."

"Easier?"

He arched a brow. "You don't remember?"

"Uh, not really." She hesitated. "On a scale of one to ten, just how big of an ass did I make of myself last night?"

He tilted his head to the side and smirked. "Oh, I'd say eleven or twelve, at least."

"What!"

Killian laughed. "Relax, Swan. You passed out before anything really interesting could take place. But not before you made a mess all over my deck." He looked pointedly at the mop he held his hand. "So. You are being drafted into my crew as recompense."

"I can't be part of your crew!"

He crooked a smile at her. "On the contrary, darling. You have no choice. For the weekend, you are mine."

"I can't stay here all weekend!"

"Have you a previous engagement?"

"No," she faltered, "I'm not working this weekend."

"Then I'll leave the sleeping arrangements up to you," he winked with his familiar, infuriating leer. "You're welcome to go ashore at night, or stay on the ship, but part of my crew you will be for the next two days."

"What? I can't-I don't know anything about ships!"

"Not to worry, love" he assured her, guiding her across the deck toward the port side of the ship. "You'll start small, clean up our lunch." He reached down with his hook and offered her a large bucket full of freshly caught fish. Emma took one whiff of the smell and heaved up the contents of her stomach over the side of the ship.

Killian chuckled. "Welcome aboard, love."

A/N: So who caught the How I Met Your Mother reference in this chapter? Yeah, I couldn't resist slipping that in. I'm such a nerd. :P

Since Eric doesn't have a canonical name on OUaT or in TLM, I decided to give him one of my own making, using the Old Swedish term "lager," meaning "laurel," (not a type of beer, haha, which is the reference we are used to now) and the word "kron," meaning "crown". Apologies if I didn't quite render it correctly, for anyone speaking similar languages to this. I'm cashing in the creative license card on this one. ;)

What do you think about Killian's little fib to Emma about the previous night? His drafting her as a member of his crew?