I'm out of town for a little while so I won't have time to post anything, but I should have time to write so if you have anything you want me to write so hit me up!

Prompt: No one told them how to share a heart, but they figured it out.

The first time she gave him her heart, it wasn't as literal as going to the Underworld for him. It was an acknowledgement that she would love him always and that she wanted his love for just as long.

The second time is far more literal. They ask Regina to do it, the one with the most experience ripping out hearts and Emma's protection, the one that kept Cora from ripping it out so many years ago, allows her. Emma gasps as Regina plunges a hand into her chest, tightening around her heart, and Emma chokes shakily when Regina rips it out.

Briefly, she relishes in the lack of emotion, the pain and weight of love disappearing.

She looks at Henry, so young to have seen so much, her first true love, who stares at her with wide eyes, attempting to mask his fear. He knows that his grandparents survived from it, but it's one thing to know that something happened a while ago and another to watch it play out in front of him. Especially when it's her.

She doesn't feel anything but an echo of the tenderness and love she usually felt.

She looks at her parents, they watch her with hope and love so intense that she her stare lingers. The idea that she could fail or die isn't an option in their minds, but maybe they just know better than anyone else the power of true love.

Without warning, she feels more than sees her heart being ripped in half. It's like someone plunged a white-hot knife straight into her chest, straight through the bones that protect it. Her mouth opens, probably to scream out, but no sound comes out, just a wordless gasp that makes her family wince. Robin tugs Henry away, deciding that it was enough, and she should feel some shame for not thinking as Henry's mother, but she can't think of anything except wanting to die.

Abruptly, it all ends, she feels a warm weight pressed in her chest and despite being smaller than before, it's heavier than before, flooding with the weight and heaviness and intensity of love. She never wants to let it go again, because though it strangles her at times, too heavy of a cross for her to carry, as she sees Killian gasp, his eyes flashing open, blue eyes reaching out for hers, a feeling of lightness flooding her that makes this all worth it.

"Emma," he breathes, his voice shaky, lifting himself up from the floor, limbs creaking from the sudden shift. The rest hold of their group hold back, she's thankful for that later, but in that moment, she can't think of anything but his face and his voice and his everything that she thought she would never see again, and she crosses the few steps between them in a second. She wraps him in her arms and she feels him hold her just as tight, shaking from all the emotions that they can't put into words.

...

She realizes a few days later that though her heart beats the same, with each thud she feels something different, a flood of emotions that range from self-hatred to staggering love. She has for days, but she confuses this for the reaction to all her mistakes as they arrive back in Storybrooke, as they return home.

As she feels her own happiness, she senses the unease and she knows that it's not her. She feels nothing but hope and happiness and, maybe, a pang of guilt that still haunts her, but not unease.

They walk onto the shore and the feeling grows so she pulls back, allowing the rest to hurry ahead of them, rushing to the rest of their family that they left behind. Her parents to baby Neal, Regina and Robin to Roland and Baby Hood with Henry in tow.

She smiles at Henry when he looks back and he smiles back before he's gone, even his footsteps fading, and she turns to face Killian. He can't hide his expressions from her, not anymore, not after all this, and still she takes a minute to look past his smile to the rest of his emotions underneath it. He stares at her, longing and love and peace drowning out the unease. She frowns and it returns full force, crippling in its intensity.

"Killian...?" She asks though she doesn't know whether she's questioning why he feels this way or questioning how she feels it too, feels as it easily as her own emotions. Actually, easier, far easier because Emma struggles to decipher her own on a daily basis.

He pulls her to him, his arms wrapping around her waist and crushing her body against his, face nestled into her neck where he just leans there and breathes. This isn't unusual, they can't stand to let the other go for too long, but the difference here is the way she can feel why he does it. His apprehension, his fear, his longing, his hatred, his love. She tugs his hair, lifting his head gently, and kisses him because she's so much better at action than she is at words.

...

She doesn't bring up the emotion thing again, not while they both figure out how their future could go from there, to gone, to there, to gone once more. Yet here they are, a future in their grasps, and she drowns in that knowledge, not out of fear, but out of a want so deep that he looks up from his breakfast, blinking, and she shakes her head, forcing it away.

"Don't do that," he scolds.

"Do what?" She asks, but she knows. She plays with the mug of coffee in front of her anyway, looking in its murky depths, feeling the frustration welling in his chest and echoing in hers. Beneath the frustration, she sees the fear, the lingering unworthiness, like he still can't believe entirely that she came back for him, that she gave her heart to him. That forces her to release a breath and reach across the table for his hand. "No regrets," she says because she sees the question in his eyes.

"Aye." He believes that somewhere in him, buried under the weight of his own guilt, and he knows that she knows this. She also knows that he's got to come to terms with this himself. He turns her hand over in his, thumb tracing along the lines of her palm that he could reach and she can feel him thinking.

She gives him that time because they both need to adjust and they've got all the time in the world. At least until the next villain comes along - or until Rumpelstiltskin makes his next move.

...

People think there is something wrong with them, but the truth of the matter is that there isn't. They don't talk much, but that's because they still aren't good with words and it's so much easier to convey everything in short bursts of love when they connect eyes. Only Mary Margaret and David get it, probably because they know better than anyone what it means to share a heart.

"You get used to it," David says one morning to Killian as their loves stand off to the side, talking quietly as Emma holds Neal.

"Get used to what?" He replies, turning his gaze away from the tenderness in Emma's gaze when she looks down at her little brother. He thinks of her holding a child with a tuft of dark hair and green eyes and he wants it so much that she looks up at him, smiling softly, until her brother grabs her attention once more. He grits his teeth and forces the feeling away; David studies him intently.

"The emotion thing, it was confusing for the longest time, I thought I was going insane when it first happened, didn't know at the time that we were sharing hearts," David admits, grinning faintly at that first morning when he woke up to his wife and to her emotions, thrumming strongly within him.

"How...?"

David grins more, grateful that he has time to think of what to say to his friend - because that's what Hook is now, a strange turn of events - to make this easier. "Well, let's just say that we figured something would happen, can't be only us that goes through it." He doesn't sound too upset that his only daughter is sharing hearts with a pirate that tried to kill them all only a week. "When did you guys notice?"

"When we first got to Storybrooke," he admits, remembering that first day back, the way he waited for the town to turn him into a shish kabob for all the trouble he gave them. Emma's kiss brought him comfort, enough to get back into town, but it lingers in his veins, a guilt that he can't purge with kisses. No matter how glorious they are.

"Haven't talked about it?" He guesses.

Killian avoids the question. "Did you guys?"

"No."

"Same."

Together, they sit in silence for a good long while until David musters up the courage to finally speak. "For what it's worth, I'm happy you're not dead anymore," he says, wincing at the way it comes out.

Killian snorts, but there's no amusement to it.

"When you died, it was... hard. I didn't think she would be okay, I've never seen Emma fall apart like that before, not even when she and Henry crossed that town line and we thought we'd never see her again," he continues, dragging a french fry through ketchup. Killian winces at the reminders of that time, of the sound of her sobs, the ones that he still hears in his dreams. "Anyway, you make my daughter happy and that's all I could ever ask for her. So stop feeling guilty about what you did as the Dark One when everyone forgave you a long time ago."

"What?"

"Everyone forgave you a long time ago. We've all done dark things, we can't hold what happened against with you, especially after what you did. You're a good man, Killian Jones - for a pirate," David tacks on, smiling at the contemplative look on Killian's face.

Maybe a few kind words aren't enough for everything to be better, but it's a start in the right direction. He tells Emma the same later that night as he strokes her hair, finally talking about the hellish time in the Underworld, that time when he thought he would never see her again.

He talks about seeing Milah, about finally getting to say good-bye to his first love. He talks about seeing Liam, his elder brother, and his experience with his father and Liam, his younger brother.

Her whispers back, questions and comments and kisses when it becomes too much, bring him as much comfort as David's words do.

...

Their lives are far from perfect, weighed down by past regrets that they'll never shake and guilt that won't ever fade, but each day becomes bearable then happy.

One morning, a few months after their ordeal, she questions the pleasant apprehension filling him as they stand outside their house, snow drifting down and sticking to their hair, to their skin, and he's holding her hand tightly. At her question, he releases it, stepping back from her.

He grins and scratches behind his ear, a sure sign of something about to come and she has a very good idea of what it is. "Emma Swan," he says, lost in her eyes, the apprehension trickling away as he allows himself to bask in the knowledge that she loves him and he loves her. He sends that to her, his words stuck in his throat, and he sinks to one knee, his carefully prepared speech slipping out the window. "We both know how we were when we first met, there's no need to dredge up memories of the past except to say that you reminded me of the man I could be, the one I wanted to be. For me and to be the man you deserve. You're my anchor and you're my heart - literally. Will you marry me?"

It's less than everything he meant to say, but everything he could possibly put into words without butchering his proposal. Her eyes are watery and her smile is wide and her response is short, but he feels everything she does and he knows what it will be, knows everything that really means to say in that one word.

"Yes."

As he takes the ring from her, laughing as he does so. She gave him her heart those months ago in the Underworld, tying them together, and when he slips that ring on her finger, tying them together once more, he feels it beat in unison with hers