A/N: I found a new transcript site called Forever Dreaming and it is so detailed and neatly organized, so I wanted to praise it here. Very helpful. Also helpful, but not a tool, is my beta, OnceSnow, for her editing, suggestions, and listening ear. There is a reference to Treasure Island in this chapter.


Boots hitting the sand, the sun glittering off the cyan water, shovels bracing against their backs—today is the day. He's going to do it. Licking his lips and tasting only a few beads of sweat, Killian pauses and waits for Milah, her face absolutely glowing in enthusiasm. It's a rare adorable sight of her, trying to sprint in sand while carrying a shovel. It might have taken a few extra weeks at sea to bring them to this little island, half of it sinking underwater when the tide rushes in, but he's told the crew to mind the ship for a reason. This is their moment.

"Here! I have the map!" Milah shouts to him, waving it about like a flag before squinting her eyes to read it. Can't be an easy task with how bright it is, he thinks. "It's just. This. Way." Murmuring to herself, she staggers around, and then, without standing on ceremony, drives her shovel into the sand.

Killian joins in, trying to keep his eyes on both her and his shovel so it doesn't hit hers. It's here. He knows it is. Fate wouldn't be so unkind to have some ridiculous rapscallion make off with it, not when he's planned this idea with so much care. They work without stop, barely pausing to wipe their brows. He should have thrown off his coat, but the hard thud of the shovel hitting something solid shoos all feelings of discomfort away.

"Hold on. You take that end and I'll get this one," he directs to her, maneuvering over to the handle on the side of the chest. It's a good-sized one, about as long as the foot of a bed. And deep. It jangles when they heave it up, almost drowning out Milah's strained grunt. It's an odd, discolored wood, like ice and slime and ferns all rolled together. Legend spoke of a bloodthirsty captain who killed the crewmen who helped bury the treasure, leaving one corpse with his arms stretched out in the direction of the treasure. Well, time and ravenous gulls took care of that, leaving only the chest.

"Stand back." Turning his shovel around, Killian rams it into the lock. The lid now ajar, he throws down the shovel. He and Milah creep toward it, as if they don't wish to wake it up. Looming over it, they kneel down and lift the lid.

"There must be a thousand gold coins here," he breathes, running his hands over each one, already warm now that the sun's kissing them.

"Killian, look," she gasps, clasping her hand over her bottom lip. "Look at the detail." She picks up a green comb with a peacock design. He smiles. She always preferred the one-of-a-kind, artistic pieces to pure currency. Reaching out for him, she grabs his hand. "We did it."

There. She's smiling. They succeeded. He can do this. He can make her happy. And he's already on his knees.

"Milah," he says, shifting toward her. Trying to avoid stammering, he grins and scratches behind his ear. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Well, now that we're alone...I wanted to ask you...will you marry me?"

"Oh." Speechless, but not in the good way. Her face falls a little. Oh, gods. He'd been misreading things this past year. Getting along together, bedding each other well, finally being able to mention Liam's name—he'd been a meal ticket. An escape. Just a taste of the world outside her village.

"First of all, I love you," she begins.

"Bloody hell..."

"Killian. Killian, please." Cupping his cheeks, she forces him to look right into those green-gray eyes, eyes meant to be at sea. "Marriage is...well, you've never been married. I have. It would destroy us."

"I'm not him," he says, and rather stupidly, he'll admit. Comparing him to her coward of a husband?

"Of course not. But you need to understand—marriage doesn't satisfy. We've lived together over a year now, and being married honestly won't feel any different. So we'll worry that it doesn't feel different, and we'll come up with things to change. What's going to happen when we start putting some of this treasure aside for a house somewhere? What's going to happen when we spend our summers or our winters there and the crew deserts us when they want more? What's going to happen when we grow careless and I end up pregnant and we are trapped in that house for the rest of our lives?"

"Milah..."

"No. No, it won't be enough for you. It won't be enough for me. We both need to be here, out having adventures and seeing the world. Rumple and I, well, we fell apart once we got stuck in a rut."

"You fell apart when you discovered you had married a man you couldn't respect," he argues.

"But I would have tried had he been willing to meet me halfway," Milah sighs. Pulling away from him, she sits cross-legged in the sand with the peacock comb in her lap. "Had we taken Bae and gone somewhere different and started over... Well, we might still have fallen apart, but it would have been after some effort then. He had his little house and his child and never wanted anything to change ever again. You forget I know you, Killian. You're not meant for a 'normal' life. You need someone you'll never get bored with."

"That's an insulting bit of logic there, isn't it?" he snaps suddenly. "Being a husband would bore me? Being a father would bore me?"

"No, no, my love, you aren't understanding." Tears well in her eyes. "Rumple and I were once happy, or at least we thought we were. We had our little life all carved out and we couldn't wait to add a child to it. And then look what happened. I don't want that to be us. I don't want to lose you, and I..." She hangs her head. "I don't want you to lose me because I'd be in the same position I was before."

The notion that he would trap her boggles his mind, but he knows her as well as she knows him, and he knows there is no way this fiery, original, bold woman would have chosen the life he'd found her in. If marriage equaled a cage to her, he couldn't push the issue. There was something so enigmatic about her. He'd had his doubts someone so flashy with such a preoccupation with style would acclimate to life on a ship, but then she'd shown how practical she could be, how she just jumped in and ran the day-to-day tasks without complaint or waxing philosophical. The crew respected her from the start for it, but they loved her when she learned all their names and homelands within the week, always stopping to talk with them and treat them like they were the most interesting people in the world. This wonderful woman didn't want to lose him, and if marriage really wouldn't feel all that different from what they had now, then he could do what they had now well into old age. He supposes he doesn't need children. Keeping track of them on a ship would be the height of inpracticality anyway. And maybe a pirate wasn't meant to be a father anyway.

"I love you," she whispers to him. Then, with a shy smile, she adds, "Shall we divvy this up amongst the crew and let them have a good time at port? We've had a trying day. We could, you know, stay onboard?"

Kissing her, he helps her to her feet and the two of them haul the chest out to the longboat.


I can spend at least that long trying to save the woman I love.

He's promised Emma. He's promised himself. He's promised Belle and everyone else around him that he will do whatever he needs to do to bring Emma back, and—he hesitates just outside the diner, the details of this abstract quest beginning to mold themselves into assurances—he won't be alone this time. He knows this family far too well. Henry and her parents will cross realms and battle any foes, and maybe Regina, too.

Too bad he's not here to see any of them.

Saving Emma means not only finding out what happened in Camelot, but what she's keeping underneath her house. The more he thinks of it, the sharper he can hear the strange sounds seeming to beckon him to it. Just thankful he doesn't need to pass the house on his way to Granny's, he opens the door to the diner.

Killian didn't bother enlisting David and Snow's help with this one, since the sheriff's station teemed with dwarves and confused Camelot subjects. Besides, what he's been toying with doing is a little too piratical and not heroic enough for them. A prince and princess might not be willing to lower themselves to that level, even to help their daughter. But a thief would.

There. Robin sits at one of the stools at the counter. His text—full of misspellings and spacing issues—had said he wouldn't be able to talk until lunchtime. The man must still be acclimating to phone-reliant Storybrooke, given his perplexed expression at the device.

"Ah, I know that look," Killian says, approaching him. "Button on the top turns it on." He won't make the mistake of talking into it without it being on again. How was he to know the "battery" had died and needed charged? Henry, though...Henry had been in near tears with laughter.

"I know how to use a phone." Robin sounds too glum to be offended, eyes still fixated on the phone.

"What's that, then?" Robin opens his stance and angles the phone.

"It's a picture from up inside Zelena."

"Whoa. Mate." He can go. They can do this another time.

"No, n-no. It's of the baby!" he explains, waving his hand all over the screen at the top of the phone. "They-they call it a sonogram."

"Oh." Curious, Killian leans forward and squints, making out what looks like a tiny bulbous head attached to a little body with a stub. He should have guessed with all this world's alternatives to magic, pregnancy would be no different, but still—seeing one's baby before it's even born. He cocks his head and inhales, stunned that he's more than a bit envious. Robin flinches at his own smile. Say something, Killian scolds himself. Don't just lean here gawking at the man's baby.

"Mixed emotions, I bet."

"I mean, I know it's painful for Regina, her evil sister carrying my child," he sighs. "It's painful for me. And yet, there's some part of me that can't help but feel...happy. It's my child. And I sure don't want Regina to know that. I don't want her to misconstrue my happiness for, well..."

And here he'd been envying the man. Gods, he needs sleep.

"You've got yourself a complex situation there, that's for sure."

"Hmm, unlike your simple love life," he retorts, setting down the phone in a rather victorious sort of way. All right. He'll concede to that.

"Ha, about that. She's not the same." Robin raises his eyebrow. "Her new house. There's a door in there that she doesn't want me anywhere near. What do you suppose she's hiding?" He waits a beat, but only a beat. "I was thinking that may-"

"Order up!" Granny shouts, planting an enormous bag of food right down between them with a crinkly thud.

"I didn't order anything," he calls back to her, but she's already gone, she and the rest of the staff bustling around like mad.

"Well, what does it say?" Robin asks, pointing at the bag, the corner of a little slip of paper poking out for him to see. Killian holds the note in his hand.

"'Meet me on your ship. Emma.'" Bloody hell. He'd wanted to have some leverage when he met with her again, some knowledge of...something. Excellent, he thinks, rolling his eyes.

"You're right. Things are complicated all over," Robin sighs.

"Thanks for sounding so bleak."

"You'd better go."

"Should I?" He hates thinking this way—how he hates thinking this way—but what if it's a trick? Or worse, what if it's just another ploy to try to sweet-talk her way into his bed? It wasn't as though he found the covert, vindictive Emma more irresistible than the last one, but the loneliness of his situation had sunk in, and he'd been so disgusted with said situation he'd almost given in to her to show her he hadn't been so disgusted as to leave; he wouldn't be just another person to abandon her when a challenge came along.

Grabbing the bag, he nods at Robin and charges out the door. He does indeed love a challenge.


He steps aboard his ship trying to look over his shoulder and steel his gaze in front of him at the same time. As well as he knows the Jolly Roger, he can't keep an eye on every nook at once. The deck creaks under him in the still waters, and it suddenly hits him that she won't be meeting him out here, in broad daylight. She'll choose somewhere more secluded.

The cabin at this time of day looks like a literal battle between good and evil, the windows practically gleaming as light pours in and casts rays across the room, ending in white squares on the floor. The rest of the space lies encased in shadow, dark enough for a captain to steal a few minutes' sleep if need be. Low light doesn't equate to the pitch darkness the hold, but he knows all too well darkness is never more dangerous than when it adds a touch of light to its disguise.

She's behind him.

Spinning around with a snap, his body jolts in spite of the fact his instincts had been exactly right. In the silence, he'd sensed her, without a single creak in the floorboards or a whiff of her magic.

"It's not funny appearing like that."

"Sorry," is all she says in this new, tight way of hers, hesitating, like she's waiting for him to speak.

"What's going on?" he tries.

"I know this has all been really confusing, and I have not made it any easier." No, no, you haven't, he thinks, and he sets his jaw as he decides to hell with it and says it with his eyes. She blinks at him, her own silent response. So then they'll always be able to do this, he notes, talk without words. She casts hers down in a submissive manner, acknowledging.

"I wanted to apologize for overreacting last time," she continues. "I know you were just trying to help. So, I thought...we could just talk and have lunch, like old times."

Bristling, he fights off a shudder. There is still something off. It bloody frightens him he can't figure out precisely what. He's a tad too busy trying to vanquish the Darkness, so taking it on a date is out of the question. He'll have to tell her no, but get her to talk, but not to force it...but let her know he's not going to be enabling this...he's too tired to outfox the Dark One at the moment. Maybe later, when he knows what's behind her locked door.

"I'd like nothing more, but this is hardly like old times," he murmurs. The moment he sets the bag down on the table, two plates, bread, wine, and silverware set upon a tablecloth await them instead. Gods, she didn't even move her hands. The fact her magic didn't carry its signature cinnamon scent anymore, he could understand, but...the dress. Oh, she knows just how to strike, clad in the pale pink dress she'd worn for him on their very first date. Instead of wrapped up at the back of her head, her hair falls into a thick, slightly bushy tail. But her skin still looks wan, her gaze still riddled with sadness.

"Better?" Extending her long arm, she waits for him to hold her hand. Gods help him, he does. He wants answers. He wants her. "Come on. You know you can trust me."

The whisper pierces him. She leads him to his chair the way a partner would on the dance floor. Waiting for him to sit first, she nods over in the direction of the bow of the ship, and they've cast off.

She smooths down the skirt of her dress before sitting down, the implication being she hopes this can count as another fun excursion. Picking up her grilled cheese sandwich, she takes a tiny, bird-like bite and eyes him, expecting him to mimic her. Not going to happen.

"I have questions."

"You want to know if I'm still the same Emma," she says, unfolding the napkin and placing it down on her lap. The Dark One's done its homework on her, he thinks. Swan wouldn't be able to wait. She'd always sneak in that one bite before remembering to put the napkin on her lap. From what she'd said about all her foster homes, it was a disciplinary thing—reminding herself she had time to put the napkin on. If she squandered such time as a child, what little food she had on her plate might have been snatched up by some other ravenous, greedy brat.

Same mannerisms, but not the same Emma.

"I imagine that's not a simple answer, so let's start easy. Your new house—what's behind that locked door?" That stunned look trying so hard not to look stunned allows him to relax a fraction. Now that stopped you from popping those onion rings into your mouth, didn't it? Still, he can't afford to anger her right now, so he smiles. Marvelous, he thinks. Two people who can read each other fluently trying to be unreadable. This can only end well. His only chance is to be truthful. "You know I want to trust you, Emma. Why don't you help me?"

"So trust me." Leaning forward, she brushes his hand with hers, stroking his fingers. "With my powers, I could hide anything from your prying eyes, anyway."

If she thinks the smirk and the little snicker at the end of that sentence softened it, she's dead wrong. He pulls his hand back, leaving her to rest her head on her fist.

"Well, you answered my first question, too—you're not the same Emma. She didn't play games."

Clearing her throat, she looks away from him. "Yes. I'm different. I'm better."

"As the Dark One?"

"I used to be scarred and judgmental and closed off...took me forever to see the magic in this place." Lying, lying, lying... "And now I-I see things clearly."

Not lying.

"I'm not scared anymore." It's not a lie, but it's not quite her voice. The image of her holding Merida's heart comes to mind, her panic and worry twisting itself into something selfish, something villainous. "Honestly, I'm an open book if you're just willing to take that trust step."

"Are you really suggesting that we move forward in a real relationship?" What's he supposed to do? Marry the Dark One? Fuck the Dark One, since he's sure it can't actually make love to anyone? Father children with the Dark One?

"Gold and Belle loved each other," she argues, pouring him more wine and giving him an icier stare than before.

"I don't think you should use the Crocodile as your example," he growls. Had the beast been content to just love Belle, Killian wouldn't have had his heart pulled out. Emma Swan would have remembered that day, frozen in place and helpless to do anything but watch the Crocodile attempt to crush his heart only because he craved more power. No, Emma had called him a "douche" and then later vented that she would have liked to have stabbed him through the heart herself.

"But think about it," Emma goes on. "He was born a coward. He didn't find True Love until he was the Dark One."

And kept losing it and losing it, or do you not recall the six weeks of peace that coincidentally were the same six weeks when he wasn't around?

"You told me how the man he was groveled and cried on the deck of this ship! He changed for the better, too."

He might as well have never shared that with her if that was how she was going to interpret it. It's not really Emma; she's not herself, he repeats in his mind, but that begs the question of where the real Emma is, and he's too frightened to think about that right now.

"You're wrong. I was the villain in that little drama, Swan." He can't sit with her anymore. He needs distance between them—now—or... Standing up, he walks into one of the streams of light from the windows. Picking up his sword, he turns it in her direction, the tip inches to the side of her face. For one fleeting moment, he wishes he could simply cut the Darkness out of her. "He was a good man trying to keep his family together. I took this cutlass, put it to his head, and taunted him. I'm the only one there who's changed for the better. He became an evil, manipulative killer."

She gives the sword a sultry look, like it's all that's registering with her. Calmly setting her napkin onto the table, she saunters to stand right behind him.

"Do you remember when we were in the storybook and I taught you how to swordplay?" she sings, grasping the grip of the sword, just below the guard.

"More games. Enough, Swan!" he shouts at her, rebuffing her. Standing there with his sword in her hand, she averts her eyes from him again, again looking so full of shame and self-loathing and downright sadness it nearly breaks his heart. But he's the one being used. He's the one being lied to, and he's the one without the other to hold onto until the world starts to look a little brighter. "All I wanted was your honesty! But I am done humoring you. Answer me, and start by why you brought me here. It wasn't because this is what we used to do because that you isn't here! You need something...Dark One. Tell me what it is."

Tears fill his eyes. The only way he can deal with this accursed thing is to call it what it is and yet, he tilts his head. If any part of you is still Emma...show me, he begs with his eyes, hoping she still wants to read his face.

"All I need is your trust, I promise," she says and he has to steady himself to prevent a tear from falling. He can't read her. He doesn't know if this is the truth or not. Emma? Emma, love, where are you? He feels trapped in the dark, like a little lost boy trembling because all the ghosts blew out the candle.

"I liked you the way you were," he whispers. "I liked your walls. I liked being the one to break them down."

"The person you found inside is still me," she whispers back, more raw this time. She swallows. "I have a question for you for once—do you love me? If you tell me you don't love me, I will let you go."

He has to hurt her. Bloody hell, he can't be held captive by this thing any longer. He'll crumble. He'll wrap her in his arms and pretend she's Emma Swan until he's just a shell of the man he'd worked so hard to be now because of her. She can't be there at his side, undermining every attempt he makes to save her. He loves her, will always love her, but she has to let him go.

"I loved you."

The sun shines right on her shocked face, that surprised look he's seen on some sailors right before they die, in total disbelief someone—usually him—had run them through. She stands so still, like she'll break if she moves.

"I guess I'm either steering home or swimming home. Tell me which."

Emma musters a smile through tears. "The ship's yours."

She's gone again.


Robin snaps to at the idea of a potential heist. Turning over the paper rectangle meant to catch spilled food, he pulls a pen out of one of his vest pockets and draws a long line.

"Describe it."

"Describe it," Killian repeats.

"The house. The layout. We need to know exactly where we're going once we're inside and how to avoid as many windows as possible...although now that I think about it, I'm not sure any of her neighbors would call the sheriff on us."

"David and Snow don't need to be involved," he says quickly. "You go in the front door up a set of steps and there is a small foyer with the kitchen off to the left and to the right, there's a rounded sort of room, like a dining area, and that connects to a sitting room. From there, you have the staircase and then the cellar door is straight ahead, impossible to miss." Peering down, he raises an eyebrow at how accurately Robin's drawing of the house is turning out to be. None of the furniture or anything like that, but it's quite the floorplan. "It's like you've been there before."

"Houses in this land aren't too hard to figure out," Robin says, shrugging. "Imagine if we were doing this with a castle. Now, on the outside, are there any decks, terraces?"

"Along this side here." Killian points to the side and Robin follows his finger with the pen, allowing the line to fade out as it reaches the back of the house.

"Well," Robin exhales, holding the paper out in front of him like a newspaper. "My apologies that it's a bit crude, but I think we can work with this.


A/N: Coming up? Someone rocks out to White Snake. Won't say who.