Emma found it easier to sleep. Sleep was her one route out, where she could imagine things were different, and for a moment, really believe it all to be true. Sleep brought her dreams, and it brought her peace. Of course she would cling to it.

Back in the day, when everyone was still petrified about Pearl Harbor and Japanese invasions and German POWs, she had her own worries as a child. Her legs had started to give her trouble when she was about ten, and then it took three years for her to be finally diagnosed. Three years and her almost dying from not getting enough air into her lungs.

Constricted to a wheelchair for life, the doctors told her foster parents. Her case of polio isn't like the others ― it's affecting her spine. At best, she'll live, but she'll never walk again. At worst...

Well, she found out all too soon what the worst was.

When she had been confined into the iron lung the first time, she had kicked and screamed throughout the transition, wailing for her long gone parents and demanding to be left alone in her hospital bed, growing hysterical on viewing the metal monster that was about to swallow her whole and not let her out.

They had sedated her before connecting her with the device, and she vaguely remembered switching to another when her "puberty stages" were complete. But even though she had protested the whole procedure, crying weakly as her useless legs couldn't thrash to and fro with the rest of her body, whimpering when she felt that familiar squeeze in her chest and she started to wheeze, what had hurt the most wasn't any of that.

It was hearing the frigid nurses whisper among themselves that she was on government help, that she was a charity case, that she was taking up space meant for soldiers of war, that thank Lord her guardians had high-tailed it out of here now, because there was no waiting for this one to get well. A few of the nurses and doctors were kind, but she never really noticed their names, never recalled enough details before the disease would pull her under and she'd slink into unconsciousness, praying that the paralysis would be gone when she'd wake up.

After 235 days, she gave up that hope. Instead, she decided to submit to the darkness, submit to her fate, submit to the despair of never being wanted or loved or needed or useful ― of being a chain, a burden, a wreck. Of being a worthless nothing, rejected since birth.

If only I hadn't gotten this stupid polio, she scolded herself at the beginning, struggling to just live.

If only I had died when the physician first said I could, she whispered later, imprinting the wish onto her prayers.

And she was still pining for that only release from her pain. There was no point to all this, no purpose in prolonging her suffering. No one was waiting for her to recover, and no one would care if she did. There was no future for her inside the iron lung, and there was none outside of it. Euthanasia sounded so tempting, but she wasn't rich and no medical staff member would break the law just for little poor her ― so she never even dared to make inquiries.

Sometimes, when the lights were out and she had nothing better to do ― she always had nothing better to do ― she'd fantasize how her life would have continued if the polio virus hadn't struck her down. She was just about to enter high school, and four years of learning and growing up meant she could soon be on her own, ruling her own destiny.

Maybe she would have made friends with some girls in her classroom. Maybe she would have been happy, discovering new knowledge about the world. Maybe she would have found out what she loved best to do. Maybe...just maybe...a boy would have liked her, and asked her out on a date, and ― and kissed her. Maybe she would have become beautiful. Maybe she would have excelled in all her classes. Maybe she would have been a top graduate. Maybe she would have landed a scholarship to a great college or university and pursued her career. Maybe her foster parents would have kept her all that time, encouraging her and supporting her and loving her.

No more maybes. It was impossible. No more wishes.

As she lay there, trapped beneath glass and iron bars, unable to do anything but survive, she tried to think about every single person in the world who was in worse circumstances than she. Worse anguish, worse agony. But it wasn't enough. She'd end up crying, upsetting her caregivers, and she'd be pushed back into an endless void where her brain stood still while all else around her became a formless mass of unimportant, senseless, ridiculous waste.

Her will to live had died long before her body was cursed into this shell of inactivity. And she had prepared herself a hundred times over for the finale, for the void to claim her completely and leave her motionless flesh behind. Every day was the same monotony, and she hated it. Why should she have to go on for the sake of morality, as Dr. Whale so elegantly put it, when there wasn't any goddamn purpose?

As an answer, he'd only scribbled "severe depression" and "anxiety" into her medical chart before sending psychologist Dr. Archie Hopper to her room. Needless to say, his "talks" only did more harm than good.

So after a while, she stopped reasoning with herself and just succumbed to not trying, to sleeping her daily routine away. When her nurse came to check on her vitals, no doubt chirping away about something, Emma was picturing herself in a castle, wandering the halls for more adventures. When the doctor made his appearance, she was in Neverland, teasing the fairy Tinker Bell. During her weekly wash, she'd fly far away into the sky, tumbling down into puffy clouds, and they always caught her when she fell. She was fed through IV constantly, so she hadn't tasted real food or real drink in over half a decade ― and this way, she couldn't starve herself, couldn't refuse this respite.

It was awful.

When the holidays came and she was really left alone, with some new staff member who didn't know her case at all to take over that shift in her ward, she told herself the story of Andersen's little match girl, feeling acute empathy for the orphan who stared through windows with longing at the things she didn't have. At least his fairy tales were consistent, despite being bitter and brutally honest at times. You had to die to get to heaven, and happiness wasn't manufactured on earth but in the heart. If someone broke yours, you'd spend the rest of your life trying to put together the remaining pieces.

Perhaps her parents were dead. Perhaps they were happy in heaven. Perhaps they would come for her, she promised herself, and take her with them.

She always cried so hard when Christmas morning found her and that vow never came true.

Of course she felt herself changing over the years ― aching pains and stretching in odd places, the development of her sensitive parts, the age-old transformation of young girl to young woman. She hated it passionately, despising her body more and more with each passing day. When she turned seventeen and the nurses informed her "the worst was over" ― there was no point in wishing her a happy birthday anyway ― her mind leaped to another conclusion.

She'd heard about hypnosis when she was younger, was fascinated with street magicians and the like. If she focused very hard on convincing herself that she wasn't really living ― that she was just a ghost, wandering the world in search of peace ― it could happen.

That year, in one minute, she had a new goal.

It was easier to let go and have waves of nothingness crash over her.

It was easier to surrender to what was coming, because then there would be no suspense, no fear, no anguish.

Just anticipation for ultimate freedom. The freedom she'd never had.

Because she hoped ― oh, how she hoped ― that like the little match girl, someone who truly loved her would be waiting for her on the other side, bringing her to home.

That voice belonged to a boy ― she was sure of it.

Well, not a boy ― he sounded mature enough. Deep and rich, like sweetest chocolate. Crisp and mellow like tart apples. Pungent and fresh like all the scents of the sea. Spicy like the tropical winds.

She was beyond curious as to who was speaking, because her brain was whirling with ideas, more feverish and active than it had been for so, so long.

She was about to open her eyes when the voice became clearer, and she could distinctly hear some of the words the man said. On second thought, why should she see him? He could be a figment of her delirious imagination, so hungry for company that it screamed for it at times...and then again, if real, he could be another disappointment, like all the rest.

No, better to keep her eyelids shut tight. Better to let him abandon her like all the rest, tire of her while she was unaware of the reality of him.

He could be just a breath of wind, another character to add to the bedtime stories she whispered to herself at night.

So, at first, Emma Swan did what she did best: she ignored the strange, incognito visitor, and pretended he wasn't there.

Go away and leave me alone.

Leave me alone to die.

Just like everyone else has.

You won't be different.

You can't be.

"Hi." Oh, it was him again. What the hell did he think ― that she would wake up and open her mouth and talk to him? "It's...uh...me. Killian Jones." There seemed to be some background noise, like the odd shuffle and scrape. "Since you're asleep...I thought...I'd let you know...that today...I, um, brought you flowers." Oh, he was shy, was he?

If she was willing to pull herself from her dreams, she would snort aloud at that. Idiot. Blearily, she squinted at what was a flash of pink and scarlet red before the colors vanished.

"They're...they're carnations," came Jones' unmistakable lilt, stammering more than before. "My mum loved them ― said they were classy and you could really sink your nose into them, unlike with roses, which are always full of bugs. 'Pity they don't smell better,' she used to say." An awkward chuckle later, she heard a thump. "Just putting these in a cup for you ― tomorrow, I'll bring you a vase. A real one." God, now he sounded so pleased with himself. Smug bastard.

Emma growled inwardly. She didn't want him here. She wanted him to get out and stop this nonsense. She wanted to never imagine his face around here again―

"Swan... Can I call you Swan?" he interrupted, as if guessing her reaction without knowing it. "I know you won't respond. I know you can't. But Nurse Belle said that...you were lonely, I was lonely...that maybe we could be lonely together." He tried to laugh, but it was sad and strained. "I...I don't really know what I'm doing here, actually. Just felt this pull...this need to sit down. Here. Next to you. Do you mind, lass?"

The chair that was always in her room for no purpose suddenly had one. He was dragging it across the floor, making a terrible screeching sound.

"Sorry," he muttered afterwards. "If you can hear me."

Then, when she expected him to jabber on and on about more drivel, he was silent. And she got worried ― about what, she had no clue.

"It will be ten years this month since my mum died. Pa enlisted right when the war broke out, deserted...got caught by the Jerries while on the run. Died somewhere in action in Europe. Never found his body." He audibly gulped. "And Ma...well, she never quite gave up on him. When the army came to pay their respects, she didn't believe them. But when Liam ― my brother ― signed up for the Navy one week later...she broke."

Emma bit back a rise of bile and saltwater up her throat.

"Nur–Belle said you're an orphan too. Can't see your eyes ― though I'm sure they're lovely, like the rest of you ― but you probably have that look in them as well. The look that says you've been left alone." Then he sighed, the rough exhale echoing against the wall. "Damn it, I'm rambling. Can't even bloody keep my wits about me..."

Killian Jones didn't say much more after that. In fact, she imagined he'd taken off for good. This wasn't his goddamn confessional, after all ― and she wasn't some priest he could pour his heart out to. If he needed counsel, Dr. Hopper was probably unoccupied during his lunch break in Room 115.

When she woke up the next morning, it was to an interim of silence and solitude, one that lasted the whole day and night. There was just the usual check-ups, the usual hustle and bustle, the tick-tock of the clock on the wall.

But the morning after that, she felt like unprepared prey, ensnared in a net of circumstances. The moment she recognized the sound of a voice talking, it was very obvious she wasn't the only person present. Please be the nurse, please be the nur―

"Found the thing in the back of the cupboard, believe it or not...was Ma's favorite, so it's one of the few things of my folks that I kept..." trilled his lilt.

God no. If she had a pillow, she would smother herself in it.

"And I got some daffodils I saw growing by the side of the road to keep the carnations on their toes."

What was wrong with him that he persisted in annoying the hell out of her? Well, hypothetically, since he obviously thought she was unconscious.

"I remembered that I haven't introduced myself properly. I mean...I know some about you, but you don't know a thing about me. I, uh, work in a factory at night...making car parts and the like. Would like to be an auto mechanic someday, but I can't afford the training right now." He cleared his throat pointedly. "I, um, couldn't come here yesterday because I was...busy... Throwing my girlfriend out of my apartment. Ex-girlfriend, actually."

She thought she heard him curse, quite colorfully, under his breath, but then he was again pulling up her chair next to the iron lung and sitting beside her, the tell-tale signs stealing her attention.

"I found her cheating on me when I came home in the morning...that same day I first met you." Dry chuckles resounded. "Rolling with another man under my sheets ― bloody pathetic, it was, the way she begged me to understand." Heavy, hard breaths now. Emma involuntarily bristled. "Seems I'm never enough...that I'll never be enough. For anyone."

What could be minutes or hours passed by before he said, "And I even got that bloody tattoo on my wrist with her name on it ― and broke it in two, to boot. My arm will be bloody useless for a month." A series of groans erupted. "Sometimes, Swan...I'll admit...I can be a daft moron. Just don't tell Dr. Whale that, or he'll laugh his bloody head off."

Your secret's certainly safe with me. She tried to roll her eyes, but it hurt too much.

Jones was distracting himself by pacing about and peeking at her chambers' accessories. "No bloody television, lass? What a shame." Something crashed onto the floor. "Oh, bloody hell!"

She stifled an errant giggle in her throat and then was shocked at herself. No, he did not just made her want to laugh. Nobody could do that. Nobody had in years.

"Hullo, what do you know ― an extra stethoscope. Oh, and a doctor's coat ― well, that's just swell." In her mind's eye, he was putting on both, giving the instrument a twirl and the coattails a definite flourish. Then, in mock seriousness, he arched a brow and murmured in a very gravelly tone, "Why, Miss Swan...meet your new on-call physician."

When his antics became even more dramatic and he started to really play dress-up, envisioning all kinds of crazy scenarios in which he either saved the day or kissed the heroine (he always said that was her ― naturally), she wondered if he was a teenager or an adult, a child or a grown-up.

"If you're pouting over there, love, thinking I'm being ridiculous," he called, sliding on the meticulously waxed floor in nothing but his socks, no doubt, "don't be. We're all young at heart, after all!"

Then she really wondered ― but not about his true age. Instead, she tried her best to picture his grin, the one she heard in his tone when he wanted to "turn her frown upside down."

That small romantic piece of her that still existed sighed. Killian Jones' smile was probably perfect. And just maybe it was cute.

But the man in question was here because he felt sorry for her, not because he liked her. He didn't know her. He was probably just hurt over losing his girlfriend and breaking his arm, so he had decided to spend his free time in a hospital instead of at home, like normal people did.

This was a pity party, and she was the star of it. It would do her a world of good to keep that in mind every time he came to visit her.

He might as well be talking to the wall, because he wasn't really talking to her.

For him, she was a marble statue encased in glass, unable to speak or think or feel for herself. She was his doll, and when he got tired of playing with her, this...one-sided camaraderie would be over.

There just wasn't any dollhouse or family or happy endings in the cards for Emma Swan. And love was as distant from her as the night stars.

It took a month of almost daily, impromptu calls to convince her that Killian wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He was as determined as she was hopeless, and though she hated how he had interrupted her plans to die in peace, she couldn't help but like how he always managed to surprise her.

Even though he knew she wouldn't and couldn't respond to any of it. Even though she'd never even seen him, his face or his person or any of him. Naturally, it wasn't for a lack of trying on his part; it was because she refused to spoil her daydreams by being confronted with the truth.

He would read her aloud to her from books of old on rainy days ― but only novels that both of them could enjoy. She could just see him making faces during romantic scenes, and she loved how his voice changed to humor the comic relief character that granted them more than a few laughs. His narration was as spell-binding as the words of the stories themselves, so much so that she wished she could reach out and capture those moments and hold them intact in her memory forever.

When he let it slip once how his brother Liam had met a similar fate like one of the book's main characters ― he was a war hero and devoted son and a stubborn arse but a bloody good man ― she had felt, for the first time, the desire to hug him in comfort. And she never liked hugging anyone. Ever.

Next was a record player and his hoard of music that made her feel like dancing and crying and swooning, all at once. And Emma Swan never felt the urge to swoon. Never.

Then he made the nurses bring in a used television set into her room after insisting that "the princess and her knight need entertainment." Judging by the titters of the women, he was not the kind of guy who gave that kind of impression on sight. That made her even more intrigued about him, especially when he quoted lines from "Casablanca," a film she had seen only once in the cinema theater when enemy aircraft was whizzing about the Allies in Europe and everyone needed a lift from the air of gloom that had settled down onto the entire world. A film he made sure she "saw" again, turning on the volume of the box until the actors' dialogue filled the empty room.

This could indeed be the start of a beautiful friendship, Swan, Killian teased her once. You and me, invalids and allies in our shared misery. However, I confess I'm much better looking than that Bogart chap ― and I'm always a gentleman.

She'd really rolled her eyes at that.

Then he had whispered, so softly, And even better...I have a much more lovely lass than Ingrid Bergman by my side.

Deep within, somewhere she knew not, a jolt rushed through her, fierce and unstoppable. It wasn't his flowery phrases or how his accent trembled on certain vowels and letters, lengthening them into notes of a song. It wasn't that at all.

It was the stark horror of acknowledging that she had not only grown to like him...but she had also grown terribly attached to him.

Wanting him here with her. Needing his monologue, which had proven to be unselfish on his part. Liking him, as a person. Because he had, to coin a phrase, wormed his way into her heart ― like the pirates he so admired, plundering their way across the seas.

Realizing that he was her friend, and that fantasy or not, loneliness or not...he wanted to be here too. If this had been some role-playing farce he had conjured up, he would have been gone from her life right after his cast came off.

But he hadn't. He had stayed. He'd done everything short of daredevil stunts to try and entertain her, keeping her company and whole and wanted like no one else had.

This was the start of something, indeed.

"No ― no, she can't. No, you must do something ― anything ― please."

"Killian... You don't understand. Her muscles don't work. That's why she's in the iron lung ― because she wouldn't be able to breathe without it!"

There was a violent smash, like a wall being smacked...or a certain vase being broken. "Isn't that why you're all here, goddamn it? To help her? To save her?"

"Yes, but I can't do the impossible ― I'm a doctor, not a miracle-worker! And Emma, in her condition, was always destined to―"

"Don't you dare say it," he hissed. "She won't die. She can't. I won't bloody let this happen!"

That was Dr. Whale, alright, sounding as tired and professional as ever. "Killian...calm down. She has no family, so I thought I would trust you with this. I thought...that since you've been here all these months...that you'd want time to say good-bye." He huffed. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing more we can do for her. Her body's weakening every day, and it's only a matter of time before even this machine won't be able to do the trick."

Before, such news would have made her happy. Happy, because finally, she was going home.

But how could she be glad, when the reason for her being happy all these days was sitting in the chair next to her, his barely muffled sobs tearing at her, sending currents of pain and fear and regret in spasms that wracked her body?

No, she was devastated. Death meant leaving behind Killian Jones. And if Death came for her, she'd never have to chance to tell Killian ― to show him―

Black spots filled her vision, and her lungs squeezed and squeezed until she was choking.

The last noises she heard were Killian's hoarse shouts and the heart monitor beeping wildly.

That was a strange dream. Very strange. She wasn't a princess. He wasn't a pirate. And they were no fairy tale characters out of a wondrous, magical book. Once upon a time, they were both broken. Everyone in his family was dead ― his beloved brother, mother, and the father that had left them behind. She never had a family to begin with...

"―He can't understand it―"

Wait, she knew that voice. So she wasn't in heaven, because there was no way everyone in the hospital was dead.

"Emma..."

And God, she knew this voice too. He was wonderful ― and she just had to see him ― just once―

Struggling, she forced her eyelids to open, blinking rapidly before her blurry vision parted and she saw him.

She was wrong ― Killian was like a pirate. He was wearing a daunting leather jacket, the makings of his beard were trimmed in a fashion that he knew was dashing, and he even had a small earring in one ear, rebellious as always. His face was remarkably handsome, and wide blue eyes stared at her in disbelief, and on seeing his shaky faith in her survival, she drew in a breath, hoping for his gaze to soften. In the beginning, he had driven her crazy, but that hadn't stopped her from loving him for his persistence, his gentleness, his understanding.

So she said hello. It was only a hello, a small greeting after so much time spent together.

Oh my God, what if he didn't like the sound of her voice? He'd never heard her―

The way he'd cradled her in his arms after Nurse Belle had opened the iron lung, allowing Emma to sit up for the first time in years, spoke to the contrary.

He carried her to her new room like a prince would, his embrace firm and warm and caring.

He tucked her into her new hospital bed, his hands lingering on her cheeks and her hair.

He looked at her as if she were his queen, as if she were giving him more light than the sun itself.

He assured her the doctors had said the polio was mysteriously in remission and she would never need the iron lung again. That's my lass ― always such a fighter. He didn't bat an eyelash when she revealed that she'd been listening to him since the first day he'd entered her room ― but she poked him hard when his smirk was a bit too smug.

When Nurse Ruby stuck her head through the door and announced that visitor's hours started again tomorrow at nine in the morning, Killian nodded, leaning down to kiss Emma on the forehead. She turned her head so he could find her lips instead.

And that's how she got her first kiss. It was as amazing as she'd always imagined, she running her fingers through his dark hair while he tasted her mouth as carefully and thoroughly as he could.

But the best was when Killian had paused by the door, looked back at her with a huge smile, and said the five words she'd sworn she'd never hear anyone say.

Emma Swan, I love you.

Two weeks later, he took her home with him, and they flew against all directions of wind as his red and black motorcycle (newly repaired, he promised) sped through the highway.

To home.

To a future together.

To a love that she believed with all her might would never, ever die.

And when she murmured in his ear that she loved him back and that she'd battled through surrender and death and despair for him and only him, his answering smile was all the confirmation she needed that their story was going to be a long and happy one.