Author's Notes: Helloooooooo pretty people! I am so super pumped for this chapter because this is where the fun begins! This is where we get character development with a subtle dash of emotional epiphany. It's glorious. I love it.

Strap in, folks. The seas are about to get rough!

Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. If I did, we'd have a bit more wibbly wobbly, timey wimey . . . stuff . . .


Chapter 6

If you asked Emma what in the hell she'd been thinking when she agreed to sail the seas with a pirate in the Enchanted Forest, she would have told you that she didn't have a damn clue. She hadn't been thinking at all. It had been an impulsive decision. The answer had slipped past her lips without a thought, like instinct, like some part of her just knew.

And it wasn't romantic. She wasn't swooning over him. That windblown dark hair and those piercing blue eyes and that troublemaker smirk might be pretty to look at and every womanly bone in her body appreciated him from head to toe . . . but that wasn't at all why she'd chosen to sail away with him.

The looks and the smirks weren't at all what she noticed first about Killian Jones. She noticed his unfailing chivalry (apparently it wasn't entirely dead). I believe in good form, Swan. She noticed the way she got the thicker blanket and the freshest food. I'm always a gentleman. She noticed the way she'd been thrust headfirst into intense swordplay training. I can't worry about you all the time, darling. She noticed the fact that he'd given her his quarters (again). Don't worry about me, love.

He put her first. It was new, she wasn't used to it, half of her actually hated it, but the other part, the quiet part of her, was completely, unequivocally grateful.

Emma sat in the crow's nest this morning. It was her favorite part of the ship. The wind blew stronger in the nest than on deck, and she had discovered that she loved few things more than a fresh, salt breeze early in the morning. It was better than coffee.

It was just before dawn. She'd never been a morning person before coming aboard the Jolly Roger, but there was something about the soothing rock of the ship that sent her into the deepest sleep and then woke her up just as gently. For the past two weeks, she had woken up a half hour before dawn, walked onto the deck, and climbed into the nest to watch the sunrise.

Killian was always behind the wheel when she came on deck, and she found herself watching him just as much as the horizon. He always seemed more like a fairytale character in the quiet of the morning. Standing tall behind the wheel, hair blowing in the breeze, the tail of his coat flapping against his legs. She could even see the reflection of his rings on the spoke of the wheel.

Emma looked away when he suddenly met her eyes from below. She already knew that smirk of his was on display but she refused to look and check. Instead she stared at the horizon. There was nothing more gorgeous than the sunrise on the waves. Oranges and reds and yellows and pinks. Sometimes if she looked hard enough, especially after a storm, she could see glimpses of purple.

"Quite a view, isn't it, love?" Emma let out a startled gasp, and he chuckled. "Forgive me, Swan. It was not my intention to frighten you."

She glared lightly at him as he sat beside her. There was barely enough room for the both of them, and she was suddenly pressed against him from shoulder to ankle. Emma ignored how solid he felt against her as she looked over at him and said, "You didn't scare me. It's just . . . this is my spot."

Killian's eyebrows rose. "Oh, is it, now? I thought this was my ship."

"Shouldn't you be steering your ship?"

"Smee's at the wheel."

Emma glanced behind them. She spotted Smee's red hat before she actually noticed the man wearing it. He was a little, portly man with a too-innocent face that she didn't trust. The feeling, as far as she could tell, was mutual. Smee watched her like a nervous rat guarding its cheese. "You sure he's qualified to drive your baby?" she asked.

Killian scoffed. "I would appreciate it, Swan, if you could avoid comparing my beautiful vessel to one of your cars."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she teased.

It amused her on most days how devoted Killian was to his ship. Sometimes she would catch him stroking the wheel fondly or running a loving hand along the rail as he shouted orders. To her it was nothing but a ship. A lovely ship, of course, but a ship. It took her a week to realize that to Killian, the Jolly Roger was home.

And along with that knowledge came the realization that he had brought her into his home. Throughout her life she'd been put in foster home after foster home as a meal-ticket and nothing more. Killian was different. The Jolly Roger was different. She hadn't been sent here. She'd been invited. She'd been wanted.

"So," she said. "What's on the agenda today?"

Killian tensed against her for a brief second before he relaxed. "A bit of piracy, Swan," he said lightly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He searched for judgment but found none. Emma's face was unhelpfully, purposefully blank. It looked too much like distrust, and he didn't like that at all.

I can't take a chance that I'm wrong about you.

He didn't want to fail her, to prove that he was unworthy of the faith she had placed in him. Killian was well aware how much it had cost her to come with him. He never wanted her to regret setting sail with him, and so he'd spent the past two weeks showing her islands and the nicer port cities, where there was exotic food and drink and fun.

But the men were growing restless, and a restless crew was dangerous.

"I can't afford to dally any longer," he said. "My crew doesn't sail with me to see the world."

Emma continued to stare at him. "What are you going to do?" she eventually asked.

"There's a ship bound for the King," he said. "If we stay our course, we should cross paths just after nightfall."

"What'll happen?"

"We'll board the ship, take it as our own, and indulge in our spoils."

"What about the crew?"

"They'll have a choice. They surrender or they walk the plank." Killian glanced at her. "Most do," he said, "surrender, that is. You could say I've already earned my reputation," he added, and for the first time he wasn't at all proud of that fact. He frowned and looked at the open sea. "I'd like you to stay below until it's done. I don't want you hurt."

To be very clear: Emma Swan was not an idiot. She'd known exactly what she was choosing when she got on board a pirate ship. Pirates were criminals. They cheated, they stole, and they killed. They weren't supposed to be nice.

They also weren't supposed to believe in good form.

"How'd you become a pirate?" she asked.

Killian blinked. "What?"

"I can't see how," she continued. "I mean, you're a bit of a scoundrel—"

"Actually, I prefer dashing rapscallion," he cut in with a too-bright smile, and Emma glared at him until he looked down, uncomfortable. "It is a long story, love," he said, his voice soft and layered with sadness. "One we do not have time for today." He rose to his feet, and though he looked down toward her, his eyes stayed fixed on the wood beneath him. "Please, stay below tonight," he repeated. "I do not want you hurt on my account."

Night came quickly. Emma had always found that the few times she had ever been anxious over anything, time had passed agonizingly slow. It wasn't so on the Jolly Roger. No, time seemed to speed by as if she'd pressed fast forward. She spent the majority of her time on deck. Even though she knew that Killian had not invited her aboard with expectations of her to earn her keep, Emma felt obliged to help, if for no other reason than if she did not, she'd be bored out of her mind after just a day.

It was maniacal on-the-job training. Working the deck of a ship was fast-paced, grueling work at times, but even after only two weeks she knew the ship from bow to stern. Much to her surprise, the crew had been strangely accommodating to her presence, and the thought of just how painfully Killian must have threatened them all lingered in the back of her mind. The few times she caught one of them leering at her, they just as quickly looked away, and she'd always catch the last vestiges of a hard, warning glare on Killian's face when she looked up at the helm.

But as the days passed, the crew seemed to warm up to her on their own merit. Vincent, a boy only a year or two younger than herself, taught her how to tie all sorts of knots. He was patient with her when she ended up with a giant glob of twisted rope instead of a sturdy knot, and he crowed like a high school cheerleader whenever she succeeded. Bernard—though he insisted that she call him Bee—was a gruff sailor in his forties that looked like a linebacker. He helped her learn to rig the sails and stubbornly insisted on addressing her only as "m'lady."

Then there was the cook, Wallace, who wrote awful poetry yet proudly performed a new verse for her every morning. Ace was the oldest man on the ship at sixty-two and could tell her the name of every star in the sky. Some nights she would sit on deck with him and just listen while he pointed. Occasionally, all the crew would come up at night and tell stories and raunchy jokes and sing the most god-awful songs. She sat with Killian on those nights, and they passed his flask of rum back and forth as they listened and watched, almost like chaperones at a rowdy prom.

As the sun faded in the sky, Emma watched as those very same men steadily became darker, slightly twisted versions of themselves. It reminded her of dogs salivating over a bone. The playful atmosphere on deck morphed into something sharp and biting. Orders were barked instead of shouted. Words exchanged were clipped and brisk. Cold.

She stood on deck as the sun set. There was the vaguest shape on the horizon that she knew had to be the ship Killian planned to seize. The Jolly Roger was flying over the waves. They would reach the ship just minutes after nightfall. She knew that if the naval ship had any schedule similar to the one Killian kept on the Jolly that the crew would be in the middle of switching to the night's watch when he stormed the deck.

The plan was smart, smooth, and practiced.

When the sun fell beneath the waves, Emma went below deck without a word, and as soon as she was alone in Killian's quarters, she wanted out. She paced the length of the room, her eyes roving over the furniture and knickknacks with new perspective. She ran her fingers over the spines of his books. Books about navigation and stars, yes, but she found books filled with stories of knights and princesses and books about philosophy and alchemy.

His maps were beautifully detailed and hand-drawn. Some were yellowed at the ends and curled with age. She wondered who they'd belonged to before Killian claimed them as his own. She opened up the small wardrobe. It was mostly blank space. A handful of clothes and more books, all neatly arranged. Everything was neat, actually.

She had always imagined pirates to be sloppy.

Yet here was Killian Jones, believer in good form and tidiness. Well-read. Articulate. The man said things like dashing rapscallion, for Christ's sake.

Emma believed him to be a pirate. She didn't deny that. He had all the swashbuckling swagger, expert swordsmanship, and cunning that he needed. But she also couldn't deny that there was more to him than just a pirate. He was more.

She didn't understand why he only seemed to show it when he was with her.

When the hatch opened, Emma's head snapped toward the ladder, one hand reaching out toward the dagger lying on the desk. "Relax, love," Killian said. "It's just me."

"Don't you have a ship to pillage and plunder?"

Killian's eyes hardened. "Aye. I came to warn you."

"I know the plan."

"That wasn't what I meant," he said, taking a step closer. "I came to ask that you stay below—"

"I know—"

"—No matter what you hear," he finished. "Even the best laid plans go astray." He took another step toward her, reaching past her to grab the dagger, his arm brushing her waist. "If anyone other than me comes down that hatch, use it," he ordered.

Emma didn't immediately take the weapon. "But, your crew—"

"Pirates know where the wind blows, Swan. Right now, that is to my favor. If that changes my word will no longer be enough to protect you."

"You'd choose me over your own crew?"

"Aye," he said softly but firmly. A quiet, sure fact. Slowly, he reached up to tenderly move one of her curls away from her face. "You're more important."

"Killian . . ."

"I have to go." He looked up at the ceiling, as if he'd heard something she hadn't. "It's nearly time. Remember, stay here. Please."

Emma watched him go. Once the hatch was shut yet again and she was alone, she resumed her pacing with vigor.

He would choose her.

She was more important.

How had that happened?

The shouting started hardly ten minutes later. Then there was the clang of metal meeting metal and a splash as someone was thrown or fell into the water. Emma's pacing abruptly stopped as she strained her ears to listen. It took her a minute to realize she was listening for Killian, as if she could somehow pick out his footsteps or the whistle of his cutlass. The noise went on for five minutes, and then another five.

By the time fifteen minutes passed, the sounds of fighting felt closer. The shouts were clearer, and yet so were the screams. The ceiling above her quaked ever so slightly. She grabbed her dagger and faced the stairs that led onto the deck. The hatch suddenly shuddered, the thin shafts of light through the slats obscured by cloth. There was a horrible squelch as a blade pierced flesh. Blood dripped through the slats onto the stairs.

The body rolled, light came in once again, and the blood looked like black sludge in the night.

Emma tightened her grip on her dagger, hesitating only a second, before she charged up the stairs. She was halfway up when she heard a pained shout, and she knew in her gut that it was Vincent. Barely twenty-years-old Vincent who taught her the proper way to tie a knot and laughed at bad puns.

Without thinking she shoved the hatch open. The wooden slats slid outward to hit a sailor in the shins. She knew by his uniform that he was the enemy, which was strange to think. A uniform was meant to be trusted, meant to be good. Perhaps the man was those things.

But he was trying to hurt Vincent, and suddenly that uniform didn't make a damn bit of difference.

She still wasn't on deck, standing awkwardly at the top of the stairs with only her torso in the open air. She heard Vincent behind her, grunting with effort. "Godsdammit, Emma! What're ya doin' up here?!"

Emma did the only thing she could do. She stabbed the nearest foot that wasn't Vincent's. There was a howl of pain and surprise and then nothing. A body fell next to her, and she stared at his sightless eyes. She couldn't tell their color in the dark and she felt horrible about it, as if knowing would somehow absolve her for the role she'd played in his death.

But she only had a second to think such things, because then a lanky hand wrapped around her arm and pulled her up with surprising strength. "Get behind me, lass," Vincent ordered. "Try not to get ya'self killed, yeah? Captain would have me head."

"He'll get over it," she snapped as she slid her dagger into her belt and snatched up a discarded cutlass instead.

The deck of the Jolly was in chaos, although it was nothing compared the complete disaster on board the navy ship. Something had obviously gone wrong. Emma didn't have time to decide what. A man came at her with his sword raised, although he hesitated when he saw her, unable to decide whether she needed to be saved. Emma decided for him. She attacked his flank, making a cut deep enough to hinder but not to kill. In his surprise she was able to take a step forward and punch him right between the eyes. He went down.

The rest of the fight was a blur to her. Once she made it obvious whose side she was on, the officers did not hesitate to treat her as the enemy. She called on every single lesson Killian had ever given her, suddenly immensely grateful for the arduous, often hours-long sessions. Two weeks had given her little in the way of finesse, but it assured her that she wouldn't die too quickly.

She parried left and right, focused on her footwork. The jostling of the ship combined with the mayhem on deck caused her slip occasionally. One such occasion gave her the horrifying yet entrancing view of a blade missing her neck by mere inches. Emma reacted on instinct. She parried and then thrusted. The tip of her blade sank into his gut, and for a second she was too shocked by the blood bubbling on his lips and the firm hold of his stomach around her sword to yank out the blade.

Then she heard a shout behind her, and the man was eerily forgotten in the face of a new threat. Adrenaline gave her a goldfish's memory. She spun with her sword raised only to find a pair of blazing blue eyes glaring at her. "What the bloody hell are you doing here, Swan!" Killian shouted. "I told you—"

"I know!" she snapped. "Yell at me later!"

Killian fought next to her until the battle ended, taking on two to three officers at any one time, leaving her with little to do other than stand awkwardly behind him and begrudgingly admire his skill with a blade. When the fighting ceased, the ship was eerily quiet until someone let out a victorious whoop and then the whole scene turned into a parade of the spoils of war. Men started fishing through dead men's pockets. Others used the rigging to swing onto the other ship, whooping and hollering like children at Christmas.

Emma stared at the bloodied cutlass in her hand, frozen by the sight of it. She stared until Killian's warm, calloused hand covered her own, gently wrenching it from her grasp. It clattered onto the deck. "Go below," he ordered. His tone brooked absolutely no argument, and she, for once, wasn't inclined to give him one. "I'll be there shortly."

She did, forcing herself not to acknowledge the fact that she had to step over a body to reach the hatch and ignoring the dark stains on the stairs as she descended into Killian's quarters.

She sat on the bed and waited.

She'd done what needed to be done. That's what she told herself as she waited. It was kill or be killed, and she didn't want to die. That didn't make her a murderer, did it? A killer, though . . . yes. She was a killer now.

How . . . odd.

Yes. It was odd. What an odd, silly little thought. A killer. She was a killer. She'd killed someone.

And she hadn't even thought about it. It was instinct, it was natural, and although she hated the fact that someone was dead at her hands . . . she was relieved. Because if he was dead, it meant that she was alive. That wasn't wrong, was it? To be happy to be alive? No, it couldn't be.

Yet it was. It felt wrong. She felt wrong.

She shouldn't have come. She should've stayed on land. She should've begun her search for the pen. She should've trusted the facts. Killian Jones was a pirate. Pirates meant trouble.

She'd had enough of trouble, and she should've known better.

She'd let feelings cloud her judgment. Killian Jones played her strings like no one ever had. He seemed to be able to pluck whatever emotion out of her that he wanted. He made her want. To trust him, to give him a chance, to run with him, to sail-a-fucking-way.

And she'd been weak. Her walls had fallen just enough that he'd been able to slither in through the cracks. He said pretty things that no one said and put her first and treated her like he truly gave a damn, and she'd let it cloud her judgement. She wasn't sixteen anymore. She wasn't going to be swept up by a man who simply gave her attention.

So when Killian finally descended the stairs, his boots thudding heavily on each step, she said, "I want to go back."

And he had the gall to nod tiredly, resigned and disappointed, as if he'd expected her to leave him. "Aye," he said, pain laced in his voice. He even winced. "I thought that you would."

Killian walked with a hand holding his ribs beneath his coat. He sat heavily in his desk chair, clinching his eyes shut briefly, before he reached into the top drawer and withdrew a flask. He pulled the cork out with his teeth, tossing it away carelessly on the floor, and then took an egregiously long pull from the flask. He sighed softly, hissing between his teeth. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, his eyes filled with regret. "I never wanted you put in that situation. I would've never asked you to make that choice." His eyes dropped to her hands, clenched in her lap. "To take a life."

He looked away and took another long pull from his flask. Emma's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, so much for this magnificent adventure," she said. "It's all just a big load of trouble."

Killian surprised her. He chuckled once, wincing yet again. "Trouble's just the bits in between, darling," he said.

Emma took a step toward him, hating the concern that bubbled uncomfortably in her chest. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine, love," he said, despite the slur in his voice. He huffed, blinked heavily as slipped a little further into his chair. "I'm jus—" His eyes closed.

"Killian!"

Emma rushed forward, falling to her knees just in time to catch him around the waist before he fell. "Killian?" She huffed as she supported his weight. There was something wet and warm on her hand beneath his coat, and now that she was so close to him, she was overwhelmed by the smell of sweat and rust. "Killian?"

She pushed him back into the chair, and when she moved her hands to grasp his shoulders in order to shake him awake, she noticed her right hand was coated in blood from wrist to fingertips. "Oh, god," she breathed. "Killian?" She shook him sharply. "Killian, wake up! You stupid pirate, wake up!"

His eyes fluttered open, and he immediately groaned. "Swan," he mumbled sleepily.

Emma shook him again. "What do you think you're doing?!"

"Bleeding," he said, infusing a truly impressive amount of sarcasm into just one word. "Profusely," he added.

His eyes began to close again, and Emma panicked. She grabbed the flask in his limp hand and splashed it sloppily onto his side. Killian's body jerked violently. "Bloody fucking hell!" he cursed, clenching his jaw tightly to keep himself from saying more. "Warn a man, Swan," he chastised.

"You were falling asleep," she snapped. "I didn't think that was a good thing."

Killian considered that. "You're probably right."

"Probably," she scoffed before looking him over from head to toe. "Okay, let's get this off."

She pushed his coat off of his shoulders with little ceremony, but when she went to do the same to his shirt and vest, he suddenly wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her closer. "If you wanted to undress me, love, you only had to ask," he flirted.

Emma rolled her eyes. "I'm not the type of woman to take advantage."

"And just what kind of woman are you, Swan?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Perhaps I would."

She met his eyes sharply and immediately looked away. His gaze was entirely too honest. She swallowed and forced her eyes to stare at his shoulders. "C'mon," she said. "Let's get this over with."

She hated the way he moaned when the blood saturated fabric clung stubbornly to his wound before finally giving way. Emma threw the ruined shirt away with a force that surprised her. She found the bloody fabric strangely offensive.

The sight of Killian's wound made her gasp. "Oh, Killian."

"That bad? It feels that bad."

"Bad?" she repeated angrily. "How the hell have you been walking around for hours with this?"

Emma stared at clean slice in Killian's ribs. The gash was deep, gapping wide, and steadily oozing blood in a slow trickle down his side. The smell of rust was nearly overwhelming and made her stomach churn. She gently ran her fingers just under the wound. It stretched nearly six inches, curling toward his back.

"It's going to need stitches," she said. "A lot of stitches."

Killian sighed, leaning his head back to droop over the back of the chair. "I trust you, love."

Emma's eyes widened. "What? You can't be serious. I can't—let me just go get someone better."

She started to get to her feet, but Killian's hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist like a vice. "Don't," he said, his eyes momentarily sharp and clear. "The crew can't see me like this."

Emma smirked a little. "What? You don't have to play the tough guy—"

Killian didn't release her. "Yes, I do," he said. "Pirates always know where the wind blows, Swan," he repeated heavily. "They're already unhappy with me. We lost men. If they smell blood in the water, they'll circle like sharks." His grip on her wrist eased, although he did pull her closer as the clarity in his eyes began to fade. "And I'm hardly in the position to protect you."

Emma stared at him for a long moment. He stared tiredly but resolutely back. She was the first to look away, her eyes drawn to his wound. "Okay," she said, exhaling loudly. "Let's do this."

Killian told her where he kept a needle and thread, and she almost teased him about being able to sew until she acknowledged the fact that he only had five shirts. This was the Enchanted Forest. It wasn't as though he could go to the mall and buy a new one.

Emma managed to stay relatively calm until she had the needle threaded and hovering over the gash. "I've never done this," she told him.

"I believe in you, Swan," he said, even as he took a large gulp of rum. "Best just go for it."

Emma nodded, took a deep breath, and then started to stitch.

The entire process was awful. She hated the way she had to push and pull the needle through his skin. She hated the way a strangled groan or curse would escape Killian when she was too rough due to her nerves. She apologized profusely each time, and she hated the way he assured her that it was alright, that she was doing fine.

She was halfway through on stitch number eight when Killian began to talk. He was already on his second flask of rum, for which Emma was grateful. He flinched less, which made her hand steadier. "I was in the Royal Navy," he said suddenly, his words not slurred but soft and slow. "Lieutenant Killian Jones."

Emma's hand paused, the needle hovering over his skin. "How respectable of you, Mr. Jones," she said.

"Aye. You wouldn't believe the man I was then. Young and a bloody idiot."

"I don't think that's changed."

Killian chuckled. "Cheeky woman." His laughter faded and his smile dropped, falling into a sad, contemplative frown. "I was very by-the-rules, then. Didn't even drink rum."

"Now, that I find hard to believe."

She said nothing when he put his hand on her shoulder and began to play with her hair, even if she was suddenly hyperaware of every strand that slipped through his fingers. "I sailed under a great Captain," he said. "A better man than I'll ever be."

"Who?"

"My brother, Liam." Killian drank from his flask as soon as the last syllable left his lips. He took one drink, letting the flask hover at his lips before taking a decidedly larger sip. "He was eight years my senior, my brother. Practically raised me. Even when I had nothing, I had Liam."

Emma focused on another stitch. "What happened?"

"He died in my arms."

"And you became a pirate."

Killian took another drink. "The King sent us to Neverland," he said, not noticing the way Emma paused abruptly in her stitching to stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He stared blankly at something over her shoulder while his fingers still played with her hair. "He said there was a plant to cure all ills. We were to retrieve it. Yet when we reached the island we were approached by a boy who warned us that the Dreamshade was in fact an incurable poison. Liam didn't believe him."

"But you did."

"Aye. I didn't understand why the boy would lie about such a thing, but Liam's trust in our king was unfailing. He poisoned himself to prove my hesitations were ill-founded." Killian's eyes turned glassy. Emma didn't know if it was due to tears or alcohol. "He just collapsed right there, Swan. Black veins crawling along his skin. When the boy appeared and told me of a cure, I didn't hesitate. He warned me that there would be a price, but I didn't care."

Emma made another stitch, if only for an excuse to look away from him. "Did it work?" she asked eventually.

"Aye. It worked. Until it didn't." He went to take another drink from his flask only to find it empty. He threw it across the room. Emma hissed as his wound began to bleed again. Luckily, her stitches were intact. She waited until she was sure he wasn't going to move again before starting another stitch. Three stitches later, his voice broke the terrible silence of the cabin. "The waters of Neverland lost their potency as soon as we returned to our realm," he said. "One second he was fine. The next he was dead. And it was my fault."

Emma felt tears in her eyes when his voice cracked at the end. She stubbornly blinked them away and focused on her work. "It wasn't your fault, Killian," she said.

Killian didn't answer, and Emma didn't push.

As she worked on her final stitches, she suddenly said, "I'm an orphan." Killian's fingers stilled in her hair. She kept her gaze fixed on his side as she continued, detached, "My parents abandoned me on the side of a road the day I was born. I was in a good home until I was three when my foster family had a kid of their own and so they sent me back. I bounced from home to home until I ran away when I was sixteen. I never lasted anywhere for more than a year."

Killian's fingers slipped from her hair, and she stiffened, ready for the sting of rejection, for him to realize what everyone else inevitably did, that she was unwanted and unloveable. She waited, but nothing happened. Instead, she felt his fingertips trace her jaw. He gently tipped her chin up and she made sure her walls were locked down tight. She was ready.

"They're all idiots," he said simply, "and they didn't deserve you."

He wasn't fazed when his Swan stared at him in frozen disbelief before her head snapped back to his wound. He didn't say a word about the glistening sheen in her eyes or the way she was a bit too rough with her last two stitches in her haste to get away from him. When she cleaned the tight row of stitches once again with yet another flask of rum she found in the chest at the foot of his bed, he didn't make a sound.

Then she was standing, out of his reach, arms folded, looking at him with forced detachment. A minute of awkward silence passed before she frowned. "I should get you in bed," she muttered, reaching reluctantly toward him to help.

He accepted her hands on his skin and her weight against his with a smirk. "Under better circumstances, Swan, I'd be flattered," he began but she scoffed.

"Don't start, pirate."

"Is that fondness, I hear?"

"More like extreme irritation."

"I'm growing on you, I can feel it."

Emma rolled her eyes as she helped him lay in the bed. She removed his boots one by one and set them carefully on the floor. Then she took a deep breath, removed her own boots and vest, and then turned to Killian. "Scoot," she ordered.

"Anxious to be in my bed, Swan?"

Even weak from blood loss and stupidly drunk, Killian managed a smoldering smirk that made Emma scowl to hide her blush. "You're an idiot," she said as she awkwardly laid next to him, mindful of the single inch of space between them. "How did you even get cut like that? Being the master swordsman you are."

She didn't expect the silence that followed her question. Just as she was about to lift her head to see if he'd fallen asleep, he said, "I saw you on deck. I was mad as hell, of course, because you didn't bloody listen, but you were brilliant." He paused. "Then one of those bastards nearly took your head off . . . and I think my heart stopped for a moment. I couldn't move."

Emma heard him turn his head on the pillow. She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn't force her eyes to meet his. It was too intimate. They were in bed, he wasn't wearing a shirt, and she didn't know what would happen if she looked up.

So she stared at his neck, pinning her gaze there so it didn't give into the temptation to dip lower, and said sharply, "That was stupid. You're fucking idiot and a pain in my ass."

"I actually quite fancy you from time to time," he said brightly. "When you're not yelling at me."

"Go to sleep, Killian."

It was ironic that Emma actually fell asleep first, and Killian capitalized on the opportunity to just look at her. She was beautiful, his Swan. Her blonde hair tickled his nose and brushed against his arm. He was struck by how young she looked with her walls completely down. She couldn't be too far into her twenties. Bloody hell.

The story of her past made him ache. Literally, physically ache. He felt too many conflicting emotions—anger at the families who had turned her away, who had made her feel unloved and unworthy—sadness at the thought of how lonely a life she must have led—happiness at the thought that all of it had brought her to him—yet most of all, he felt a surge of hope, determination, and what he felt sure was the beginnings of love.

And he knew that she felt something, too. She could deny it, ignore it all she wanted, but he knew. They both knew. It was strange, this feeling they shared. Strange and terrifying and powerful. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt, and he had to believe that one day she would be open to it, to him. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't abandon her.

Emma just had to give him a chance to prove it.

"When I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it," his voice was a gentle promise as he tentatively raised his hand and brushed her hair back from her face, "it won't be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me."

Sleep had never come easier to Killian Jones than on that night.


*dies of feels*

*resuscitated by the Doctor*

Geronimo! Here we go!

So much happened this chapter. We've got Killian being all pirate-y, Emma fighting her attraction, and then Killian coming in once again to steal the show with his sweetness. Seriously, he's so fucking adorable when he wants to be.

Ugh. I love them.

*fangirl moment over* *drops mic*

*picks up mic*

But wait, there's more! We need a line from the next chapter! And the honor goes to . . . Vincent (we will all love him, I promise) . . . - "I know I may be a pirate, but I like to think I know when a friend is upset."

See you Friday!

Lots of love,

AC