He has to blink, to the first time she says it and wonder how hard he hit his head and if he convinced this gorgeous, perfect creature beside him too-

There are stormclouds in her eyes, looming and frightful and her dimpled chin trembles as she opens her mouth-"'m sorry. I didn't mean to lie. I just needed to see you and there was this bitch at the front and I know wives get into rooms and-"

And. And. And.

He debates telling her he loves her. He wants to her he loves her. Has wanted it since she stole shrimp right off of his chopsticks with a ridiculous little jab, smirking in victory with her hair in a messy bun, wearing his ridiculously large sweater on his old ratty couch while, glowing every inch with the joy of pilferage as she kept arguing with him against Deadliest Catch as though-

He's been in love with her for a long time, is all.

But even in his wildest dreams, he never imagined a ring.

Killian Jones is a simple lad and the moment Emma Swan ran, head-over-feet away from his bedroom he understood that she had to set the pace, to not scare her fragile heart. In his most desperate, embarrassing daydreams ("You've got the Swan smile on your face again, loser." "Shut the fuck up, Dave.") he imagined them moving into an apartment with a decent view of the bay, or even the Magothy, he's not picky. He imagined making dinner when she had late night stakeouts and leaving it with silly little notes for her to have. He imagines waking up in the middle of the night to her cold toes pressed to his shins, and the rare days they both have the day off spent making breakfast and curled up under couches and-

He has never ever imagined marrying Emma Swan. It makes his heart do something unhealthy. He wonders if he should propose. Did she just propose? Should he buy a ring. He could buy a ring. He could-)

But he's high on painkillers and she's looking anxious in his hospital bed so no, no, Killian Jones will not propose to Emma Swan this afternoon.

What he does, instead, is sush her with a lift of his fingers, gently placing them on her lips until the babbling stops and the terrified, beautiful, gray-green eyes he loves go wide with fear.

"It's fine Swan," He thinks he whispers. (His head is still fuzzy, increasingly so.) "We'll talk in the morning."

She nods against his collarbone, careful of his broken half and as he falls back to sleep he could almost swear he hears an-

"I love you."

But is must be his dreams, drugs and all.

She's been here everyday.

Not that she wasn't a frequent houseguest of Killian's but since his release, she's made sure to be by his side every day.

He looked so broken in the hospital room, the dark bruise on his face and the pale, sweaty shine to his skin and the long, ugly bandages over his shoulder and chest. His blue eyes were unfocused for days. So she broke visitor laws and screamed at nurses and once got face-to-face with an actual Medical Administrator, a fancy lady with dark hair and red lipstick and a highly displeased scowl threatening to have her removed.

But in the end, she got to bring her laptop and cyberstalk perks while he slept or babbled or flirted half-consciously and recovered, leaving only to bag a perp.

(David stared at her as she dragged the scrawny, pale barely adult idiot in who had embezzled his parent's start up. And okay, maybe he didn't get violent but he had run and the fucker was fast and it took Emma twice as long to catch him as she wanted and that meant Killian had been alone for twice as long and-

David was still staring, looking between her and the big black eye on the kid, the way he had his right wrist tucked against his chest and was simply whimpering at the officer like being booked in a jail cell sounded perfect for him right then.

"What?!" She bristled. He was Killian's partner after all, it wasn't like he would be surprised she was in a rush.

He just shook his head muttering about 'idiots who need to get their heads out of their asses' before leveling her an actual look. "If you actually broke the kid's wrist, his family might actually press charges you know?"

She shrugged, waving her hand out for the slip of return. "Fractured at most. Done now."

David gave a very put upon sigh and went to book the runner, throwing over his shoulder. "Tell him hi for me.")

And when they released him, she was right there as they wheeled her out, fretting about whether her car was too small to fit him comfortably and relieved to see him in his own clothes for the first time in nearly two weeks. He simply smiled at her, that stupid, boyish grin and lifted himself up from the wheelchair and shooing away the nurse (who looked way, way too relieved to see him leave) politely before striding over to her with his arm in some sort of sling-cast thing.

"Swan," He greeted, his gaze clear and focused and his voice coherent and warm. "Ready to sail away love?"

So she took him home that first day and pushed him to his couch as she pinned instructions about Physical Therapy and work restrictions and drug regimens to the fridge with frantic energy because if she didn't she was going to do something stupid like blurt out that she loved him and wanted him.

She tuned Killian out as he tries to coerce her to join him on the couch, that he wasn't in too much pain, that the company of a beautiful woman was the best company-Swan, please love abandon your efforts in my kitchen.

The last part was a little panicked. Drama queen. She only burnt, like, two pans, before she gave up and ordered pizza.

And then she forced drugs down his throat and they argued about sleeping arrangements.

("Swan, my mother will roll over in her grave if I make a lady sleep on my couch."

"Good thing I'm hardly a lady then. You got shot Killian, go to bed."

"Well love, only if I can entice you to join me." Eyebrow swagger.

"So my flailing ass can make more of a less of your arm? No thanks."

"Emma, really love it isn't a-"

"You've lost weight in the hospital and I think I can carry you. I'll try. I swear to god, Killian. I will carry you to bed and then I'll tell the entire precinct I did it.")

So she brought him home and ordered him to bed and tracked painkillers and called homecare companies to ask intrusive questions about their PT staff.

And well, it's been six weeks and she simply hasn't left.

She's just worried, is all. She just wants him to get better. She wants to annoy him into never scaring her that badly again. She's pretty sure he's going to try to take his trash down four flights of stairs if she isn't there to watch him.

("Killian, you're banned from trash duty for the next few weeks, just so you know."

"...Alright Swan."

"Banned, I say."

"I'm not fighting you love."

"I swear to god if I see you with a single bag in your hands-"

"Swan-Emma, put down the knife. You're scaring the neighbors. I heard you loud and clear love, no taking my own garbage out."

"...Or anyone else's."

"...Drat."

"KILLIAN!")

Emma Swan is a big, fat liar.

Officer Killian Jones is a lucky, lucky bastard.

(Alright, the whole: getting shot and cracked ribs and torn up shoulder and Physical Therapy to restore as much feeling to his hand as possibly isn't great. The hand thing especially sucks. But it's his non dominant so he can still hold a gun and even though his fingers still ache if he clenches too hard, it's infinitely better than those days in the hospital when a surgeon was telling him that there were options and recovery and Emma had walked out of the room to get cocoa so he wouldn't see her cry. )

But he was fortunate. Despite or because of Swan's constant haranguing of every therapist that walked in the door. (He's pretty sure Leroy, the short, grumpy male PT is the only one coming back for a reason) he can bend his fingers and his thumb has full mobility and the tingles that come from (bullet piercing interior nerves in the shoulder and arm that help neurons travel to the fingers and-)

So all in all, he should be counting his blessings.

Including the golden-haired goddess who hasn't left his side in months. That might be the best part.

Killian has been noticing her in his apartment as the days increased.

She's always had a toothbrush and a change of clothes for practicalities sake at his apartment, but it's other signs of another life that swell his heart with delight.

About two weeks in, he opened his bathroom cabinet to find an array of strange new products occupying what once was the empty space between his shaving materials and floss. Curious, he picked up each strange bottle, reading the content.

A golden little bottle of hairspray. A white, curved jar of facial cream. A tall, cream-filled bottle with a flower on it that when he opened it, smelled like Emma did when would crawl into his bed at night.

He investigated further, heat and hope flickering under his skin.

Her ridiculous cinnamon toothpaste was beside his on the sink. A squick swish of the shower revealed that yes-

The yellow, honey-smelling bottles he recognized from Emma's apartment as her shampoo and conditioner were leaning against his.

Killian leaned further in, needing to spy her soap somewhere to complete this image of his and her things and a domain shared and-

Emma was staring at the open doorway, her cheeks adorably pink and nose scrunched with embarrassment.

He froze, feeling his own face turn red as they simply stared at each other. Killian desperately sought a way to defuse the tension because he couldn't bare it if she ran now, not with all these signs of intimacy and domesticity but telling her that seeing her cinnamon toothpaste made him want to weep was bound to do that exact thing.

"I-" She opened her mouth, shut it again, curling into herself and looking at the ground. "I didn't mean to invade your space or whatever. It just got old, running home so I could rub lotion on my goddamn elbows, but I mean I can take it all out and-"

No. No. That's not what he wants at all. He wants to clutch her shampoo to his chest and fight to keep it in his bathroom. (Gods, she's right. He is a drama queen.)

Instead he smirks, trying to hide the tenderness in his gaze with a ridiculous sway to his hips. "No worries love. I was just wondering if I could get a sponge bath from a hot nurse, shower restrictions and all."

He holds up his still bandaged arm and gives her a ridiculous smoulder and waits for her to roll her eyes and walk away. What he doesn't expect is the sudden gleam of interest in her eye, or the way she is suddenly staking into his bathroom.

"Swan?" His voice does not tremble. It does not.

Not, at least, she's got his pants to his ankles and she tickles under his left knee in a way she knows makes his cock twitch in her mouth. And then he's simply doing his damndest to brace himself against the wall and not fall into the shower his brain is filled with pink lips and heat and wetness and

"Emma-stop that. Love, darling you must-oh fuck, Emma your mouth." His hips twitch in her grasp, one holding his hip bone down while the other cups his balls as she takes him deeper into her throat.

He's velvety smooth under her fingers and large, hot, and throbbing in her mouth and he can feel her smirk of power, squeezing against his base. He fights it but then his hips are rocking gently into her as her tongue traces the big vein along his backside. He wants to wind his fingers in her hair, to feel the silkiness to ground him against the tide of pleasure but he's only got one good arm and he's using that one to keep upright and-

She takes him deeper.

"Fuck-" He cries, "Emma-Emma-Emma, please, I can't-"

He grows harder and he's trying to warn her, trying to stop her, trying to beg her not to stop, and then she takes him down her throat and swallows as her free hand cups his testicles.

He comes with a shout.

(She throws the soapy rag into his good hand when it's over but she does oblige to wash his hair for him.)

And it's three weeks in when he finally convinces her to share his bed with him.

Killian jolts away at the sound of swearing and old-trained instincts have been reaching for the gun on his nightstand even as he foggy brain registers the familiar cadence of the voice stomping through his living room. A glance to his low-blue letters next to his head tells him it's a little after 3:17a.m. and he frowns because he's no stranger to Emma's erratic schedule but she had mentioned as she left earlier that evening that she expected to be back by midnight at the latest and she tends to text him if things change after one too many grumbles about his overprotective nature.

("How did the false date go, Swan? Catch your man?"

…."A runner, eh? I know you're faster than him."

"...Booking give you any trouble? I can call them for you."

"Swan, you give a man nothing. Let me know how it went."

"...Emma, I'm serious. I am now half-convinced you are in the ER. Send a bloke a text letting them know you are alright, would you?"

"I'm about to violate privacy laws and start fighting hospital administrators to find you. Please let me know you are alright."

"FUCKING HELL, KILLIAN, I WAS ASLEEP. YES, I'M FINE. YES, I GOT HIS DUMB ASS."

"...Good to hear Swan."

"...Sorry, just...sleep. I need sleep."

"Of course darling."

"Thanks for worrying.")

He listens in bed, frowning to himself for another moment until he hears another half-bitten off swear and a faint crash, and then he's up from his bed as fast as his broken side allows for.

He stumbles his way into his living room, calling out even as his eyes try to adjust to the light. "Swan, everything alright?"

She's turned on the bathroom light in what was probably an effort not to wake him and he can see her silhouetted in the ugly halogen, back turned to him and leather jacket thrown to the ground by the door. "Yeah. Sorry to wake you. You can go back to bed."

Her tone is clipped and she still hasn't turned to him, focusing on the mirror and looking pale and colourless in the tight, bright cardinal dress in the dark.

"Love?" Killian shuffles closer, ignoring the warning in her tone and touching her shoulder lightly, trying to get her to turn.

She does, slowly and he zeroes on the large, damp spot splattered across the material from right breast to her navel, the tight fabric doing nothing to repel liquid.

A thrown drink isn't anything new or worrisome, but there's something in the drawn, weary expression her sees behind the teased out hair that makes hackles rise.

She shakes her head, blinking and forcing some sort of half-smile on her face. "It's fine Killian. I just need a new dress. Asshole perp, nothing new."

He meets Swan's eyes in the mirror, tilting his brow so she knows he's not fooled and gently placing his hand on her hip, trying to reassure her of his presence and-

She hisses, her entire body jerking at the touch.

And now he's not messing around. "Emma." There's steel in his voice, the voice of an officer that he so rarely uses on her but if she's trying to hide any sort of injury while she nurses him back to health-

She sighs, leaning gently back to his good side so she can tuck her head under his chin even as they keep eye contact in the mirror. "It's just a bruise."

"Let me see."

She moves away, hitching her leg on the toilet seat and hiking up the stretchy material until he can see the ugly purple mark blooming low on her hip. Killian hisses through his teeth and it's a testament to his fury at the sight that he barely even registers the sight of her panties the move provides. He moves closer to her, brushing a soothing hand through her hair and nudging the top of her head with his nose as he inspects it. It is just a bruise, but it'll ache in the morning if they do nothing tonight.

"Let me go get you some ice love. We can put a compress on it and-"

"Killian-" She nudges impercitably closer even as she lets the dress slip from her fingers, standing back up and folding her arms around herself, sound lost and tired and everything he loathes to hear. "Can we just...can we just go to bed?"

He should say no. He should make sure she does something so her movement isn't awkward in the morning but there are tiny lines in the corner of her eyes and her lashes are down and-

He can no more stop himself from folding her as close as possible than he could stop breathing, kissing her temple gently. "Of course Swan. Of course."

So as the first month fades into the second, Killian Jones wakes to mouthfuls of honey-smelling hair and frigid fingers tucked low on his waist and sleepy, slow kisses as Emma whines when he wakes her up and life is rather perfect.

His closet is filled with more leather than probably healthy and her boots are always by the door and she ruined three of his uniform shirts by throwing the in with her laundry.

(There's one night in the fifth week when he's sitting on the couch, waiting for him to join him and Black Sails all queued up and suddenly there's a clatter on his coffee table and Killian startles, staring incomprehensibly down at an actual plate, filled with what he thinks is slightly burnt broccoli and some sort of poultry in a sauce and the muticolours of wild rice in front of him before slowing turning towards his companion in comprehension.

Emma won't look at him, stubbornly staring at his television and jabbing her fork into the broccoli with more violence than necessary as the growls out, "What are you waiting for?"

It takes him another beat for it to hit Killian that she's cooked for him. Emma Swan, she of poptarts and grilled cheese, and takeout, has taken the time to cook an actual meal for him. With vegetables.

Which probably means she's been practicing behind his back-

It is the most adorable, compassionate act anyone has ever even attempted for him so he can't help but lean over and kiss her cheek before turning on the episode.

He chokes down every bite, dry rice and all.)

So by week six, Killian is terrified. It's his last week of physical therapy and while he never wants to see Leroy ever again, it also means his check-up and all-clear to go back to work and all of that is great, truly.

It just might also mean that Emma leaves and that, that makes his hands shake and heart ache and every other cliche in the damned book.

Because this is everything he has ever wanted, ever dreamed of he was shopping with Dave yesterday and there was this jewelry store...

He's being fucking weird.

She known this man for years now and she knows he was some quirks: his ability to quote Quinton Tuerentino movies to the 't', his obvious crush on Sam Bellamy, his quiet, embarrassed admiration of flowers of all things.

("They are born to be lovely, exist making our filthy air cleaner, and die trod under our feet Swan. What is nobler than that?")

She did not swoon when she remembers him saying that.

Killian is patient and she lives to make a jibe or a comment that turns his elf-ears red and makes him scratch behind his head, but the man has possessed a quiet kind of confidence and a false amount of bravado the entire time she has known him. It has always been something that has attracted her to him. (That she loves about him.)

But these past few days he's been...anxious. Anxious is the only word for it. He's distant and inattentive in conversation. He didn't say a single word when she packed three packs of poptarts for her stake-out on Saturday. He didn't even flinch when she switched one of his stupid Discovery Channel documentaries over to Thor. He's been sleeping poorly, alternating between wrapping around her like she's a goddamn teddy bear and kicking fitfully in a dream. She's woken more than once in the middle of the night to the bright blue glow of his eyes simply watching her, his cheeks turning out dimples sadly as he mutters, "It's nothing love. Just admiring a thing of beauty." whenever she asks if he's okay.

He's fidgety. Just this morning he broke a coffee mug when she startled him by stumbling into the kitchen half-asleep. And he's nearly...clingy? Killian has always been physically affectionate in private: a hand resting warm on her hip, fingers playing with her hair, nose nuzzling against her collar. It's nice. He's not overwhelming or possessive, simply there.

But there's something frenetic, panicked about the way his fingers squeeze her hips now when she walks in the door. (One hand noticeably stronger than the other, and so she always wraps her own fingers around his inured one, pressing gently.) There's something on the tip of his tongue whenever she leaves, his mouth gaping before he presses them thin and nods a quick, "Stay safe, Swan."

It's fucking disturbing is what it is.

As the date of his last check-up looms and his visits from Leroy get shorter though, Emma begins to piece it together. It's the first time he's been shot, after all and she knows Killian would never let her see him scared, but there's only so much a person can go through before it starts to affect them. She's seen it in other cops, seen it even, in a few perps she gentles in with soft words and promises of help because there is a damned difference between the deadbeat who owes his kid 20 grand and the veteran who just hit three strikes stealing food from the grocery store.

But Killian is Killian and if there's one thing they have in common, it's an absolute refusal to accept help.

So, Emma makes a plan.

"Hey bud," She must startle him when he walks in the door from going out to the bar with some work friend's celebrating his recovery because he literally jumps, dropping his keys.

"Swan," His voice is a little slurred, his movements a little shaky as he bends to pick up the keys and she doesn't think it's just the ribs. "I thought you had work tonight love. No big bad to pick up?"

She shrugs from his couch, tilting her head in invitation and nudging the bag of Granny's a little closer. "Took a night off. Thought we could hang out, your return to work coming up and all."

His shoulders actually seem to slump, sadly. Like, there's a noise somewhere and everything. "Ah, of course darling. Sorry, had I known of your plans I would've been back earlier."

Yup, he's definitely a little drunk. Emma simply rolls her eyes. "You should hang out with other people, Jones. You'll start to sound like me soon."

He chuckles and makes his way over, nestling into the couch beside her and eying the bag in question. "Granny's?"

"I figured you could use a little grease to help soak up the alcohol, you lightweight."

That earns her a genuine laugh as he peruses the bag with one hand. He's been doing that more lately, simply using his dominant hand for two-handed activities and it makes Emma sure that she knows what is eating him. He raises one brow at her and her heart clenches at the familiar sight. "I'm sure there was no grilled cheese in it for you, either."

She flicks his nose in retaliation but doesn't argue because, yeah there is totally a grilled cheese for her. "The fries are yours. The onion rings are mine."

He makes a hum of contentment in his throat as he pulls out the fries and his stupid barbeque sauce (eww) and they eat in companionable silence on his couch for a while.

Emma tucks away the last corner of her sandwich, trying to think of the words to approach the topic gently. Gently, Emma.

"So, how do you feel about going back to work?" Nice. Smooth.

Despite his formally relaxed state, Killian visibly jerks before settling back into his fries with a false little grin. "Oh, it'll be good to be using my brain again. And to have company beside Leroy, your lovely self aside."

Emma nods. She can't fault him there. Talented or not, Leroy is a bitch. "What will you be doing first? Headed straight back into the field or is there a comfy seat for your ass in the nearest future, Jones?"

"Thinking of my arse again, are you Swan?" He teases and she really can't refute because...uh...yeah.

She must make a face because he laughs, full-hearted and real this time and her toes curl with pleasure at the sound of it. "I was never suited for desk work, love. Besides, too much rest and all Leroy's hard work will be for nought. No, I'll be on the street in no time."

He doesn't sound particularly upset about it but Emma turns to him, tucking her feet under her so she can face him. Her hand finds his cheek involuntarily but she doesn't regret pulling him that little bit closer. "Killian...you know, if you had any, and I mean any, misgivings about going back into the field so soon, your team would support you."

His brow crinkles in that adorable furrow but she cannot get distracted so she plunges on. "Swan-"

"I mean, I definitely know Dave you. And your Captain too probably, he seemed kinda torn up when he called. And there is nothing, nothing wrong with wanting some more time. If-If anyone gave them beef I could beat them up and I could stay here so you feel safe and…" God, she hates rambling.

"Love, Swan-" Damn. He still looks confused, and it's still cute. Damn. "What are you talking about?"

Fuck it. She's never been gentle. Or smooth. Her hands start waving in the air like exploding helicopters or something. "You've been weird all week Killian. And not like, you weird talking about nautical ropes or gun control laws. Like, actually weird. It's the first time you've been shot and I just want you to know that no one is going to think lesser of you-well, if they do I'll just beat them up-"

She can see the very moment her vague, avoiding use of the word, 'PTSD' clicks and his entire countenance lightens from chin to ears to forehead and then-

The bastard starts laughing at her.

Emma goes to get up, shame and angry welling equally in her because here she was trying to be a good...whatever and he is-

"Swan, no-I'm sorry love." He grabs her hand as she tries to stand from the couch, mirth slowly leaving the crinkle in his mouth as he tugs her, eyes wide and pleading. Tugs at her with his bad hand, the asshole.

She sits back down because she's afraid of hurting his stupid muscles, not because her soul does a weird melty thing when he looks at her like that. Not at all.

He pulls one more time, so she's pressed against him and he puts his head close to her ear, so she knows he's breathing in her hair and she can feel his heartbeat, quick and nervous and-

His breath is warm in her ear. "Emma, I'm not nervous about going back to work. I don't think I can stand staring at my television any longer, to be honest love."

She pulls back lightly to face him. "Then what-"

He sighs, looking both incandescently happy and terribly afraid. His hands are goddamn shaking again. His torso twists away from her and reaches for his back pocket for a-

The metal sits in her hand, warm from his pocket and shining in the light.

"A housekey?" Her voice is impossible to read and Killian cringes to himself, feeling like his efforts are terribly inadequate. He barely resists the urge to scratch his neck. "Or there's a ring, if you prefer…"

She's just staring at him now, her palm flat against the key and the entire line of her body beside his, their knees touching as she blinks. "A ring? Like as in an engagement ring?"

Oh bloody bumbling fuck, he's messing this up. He should be on one knee. Or more casual? Just play it off?

But Killian Jones is tired. He's tired of pretending he's not in love with this woman. Tired of pretending she isn't everything and always what he wants. "I just-Emma, I love you. You have to know that. I've loved you since the day you sat on my couch and commandeered my food and I am never going to stop loving you. So, whatever you want Swan. I got you a house key because I never want you to leave. I have adored these last two months, but if its, too much, return to your abode and know that you are always welcome here. And I got you a ring because you told those nurses we were married and if you've ever wanted that, I want that as well. The white dress and doves and everything. More than any of that though, Emma, I am yours. However you want me: a ring or a key or just me. Whatever you want love."

There's a moment of still, stale air where is is convinced he has botched everything up and she is going to run-her green eyes so wide and her silence so telling and he tries to turn away, tries to hide himself from the blow.

Emma grabs his wrist, his bad wrist, pulling it towards her until it's cradled next to her heart and there are tears in her eyes.

"Can we maybe start with the key?"

He nods, his entire being soaring and laughing and there are tears, his and hers.

"It was about fucking time," Is all David says for the toast at their wedding, two years later, when she finally accepts the ring.

No one argues.