Killian's eyelashes flutter a bit before a soreness in the back of his neck registers with him. Wincing as he lifts his head up, he shifts and watches Emma reading the book, so immersed in it she doesn't seem to notice he's awakened. Sunlight streams in, allowing him to see a few dust particles dance in the air like snowflakes. He doesn't hear the typical morning sounds he would hear at Granny's or at the apartment—no chattering, no pots and pans clanging, no birds singing. Only the sharp sound of Emma flipping the page.

"Do you like it?" he asks, his hand flying up to rub the back of his neck.

"Oh, it's still A Tale of Two Cities when I'm looking at it," she says. A sheepish frown accompanies her words. "But if it's any consolation, I understood your book better."

As her hand meets his and starts taking over the makeshift massage he's started, he narrows his eyebrows at a flash of movement by the door. A young lass, possibly Henry's age, fidgets, torn between addressing them and ignoring them.

"Something we can help you with, lass?" he calls to her. A dark-haired girl with large brown eyes hurries in and stands in front of them, dressed in a riding habit.

"Captain, my Lady, I came to ask if anyone required a horse for the day." She asks it to the floor, actually, he thinks, smiling at her, but she gives him the impression she only starts out shy. Children that age that talk one's ear off once they're comfortable.

"Nothing for right now, thank you," he says, and Swan shakes her head to concur. She waits for the girl to leave and then positions herself so she straddles his leg, the other arm now reaching behind him to rub out his neck. The dual sensations render him dizzy. All he would need to do is lower his head and he could be sucking on her collarbone. And that's a rather dangerous game to play right now, he thinks, clearing his throat, concentrating only on what she's doing to his neck.

"I should go up to Merlin's study and do some research today," she says. "I don't think I should be at the funeral."

"Either we all go or no one goes, Swan, and I hate to say it, but we'll look like we have something to hide if we don't." Sir Percival, the knight who had made an attempt on Regina's life last night, still needed a proper burial and all the pomp that goes along with an honorable funeral. Arthur seemed willing to act as though the travesty of last night's ball hadn't happened, no changes made for accommodating an Evil Queen turned Savior, nor any posthumous demotions for her would-be assassin.

Swan reaches the crux of the kink in his neck more quickly than he would have, and he stretches it once she's moved her hands away, sitting with a proud smile at her handiwork.

"If I didn't know better, I'd have guessed you worked magic on it," he thanks her.

"Every little thing she does is magic/everything she do just turns me on," she sings as she stands up and returns the book to its former place on the shelf. Appropriate song indeed.


"Hook. Hook? Could I get your opinion on something?"

It's Robin, bounding toward him. Killian's wandered back into the library after the rushed funeral service Arthur threw together. If not for the other knights, it would have been quite the emotionless affair, the king and queen delivering traditional, general eulogies with a focus on continuing on toward the Sorcerer's recovery, and Merlin's recovery is a recovery for Camelot, to paraphrase the king, he remembers, almost rolling his eyes at the thought, but he refrains lest it appear he's rolling his eyes at Robin.

"It's going to sound a bit odd, but does your room, er, smell?"

"Smell?" He's barely been in his room, a standard suite with a canopy over the bed and fresh flowers near the basin, according to his cursory glance yesterday.

"The sheets and blankets are clean and the flowers are supposed to give it a nice aroma, I suppose, but the whole thing smells like pine."

"Pine?"

"It smells more like a modest little cabin in the woods than a guest room of a castle like this," he says, averting eye contact. "Roland wanted Henry to join us for breakfast, so I went into his room and it smelled the same way, so it's definitely not something just put there for my comfort."

"I...d-do you want me to go sniff my room?" he wonders, shaking his head.

"If the library's stocked with children's books from another land and the rooms all smell like log cabins..." he trails off, shrugs, and throws his hands up. "I'm not going mad, and I promised Emma I would do whatever I could to help her, so if we're surrounded by some strange magic, I intend to find out. And that funeral—if one of my Merry Men suffered at the hands of strangers, even strangers here to help and just protecting themselves, I would sure as hell be asking more questions than Arthur is."

He sounds more like the notorious outlaw now than he ever had before, Killian thinks.

"We did carry you off to a room all by ourselves," he admits. "And it seems he's accepted whatever explanation Regina's given him."

"She told him the truth, David and Mary Margaret corroborating everything. The only real lie left is that they all still think she's the Savior. So then, it's not just me who thinks something here is amiss?"

"We won't find that kind of answer here," Killian notes, looking over at the familiar titles on the shelf. "The surest way of finding out what a king is really like is to ask his people."


"I'm asking for a favor, Leroy!" Robin balks at the dwarf. Leaning against the wall nearest the grand staircase, Killian's been listening to this argument for what feels like ages with his arms folded.

"And I'm telling you, we dwarves aren't a babysitting service! Happy, Doc, and me are scouting the woods for trees that match the kind Merlin is."

"What good is that even going to do?" Robin nearly screams.

"How can we expect a Sorcerer to help if he hasn't been pruned in forever?" Leroy counters with the utmost seriousness, verging on anger. Well, the name on his axe is Grumpy, after all.

"But why can't you take Roland with you?" Robin sighs, giving up on finding the logic.

"Doc got saddled with Neal last night and if we're always the ones watching the kids, then we're right back to being on the sidelines. Now, this place may not have magical axes, but the ones it does have sure ain't meant for little kids to be around, so if you'll excuse us, we're going on a hike. With purpose!" They storm out one by one with axes slung over their shoulders, whistling a jaunty little tune on their way.

"We can take the lad with us," Killian offers when Robin gives him a helpless look.

"He is something of a conversation starter," Robin says.


If he ever desired to kidnap another living soul again, Killian thinks while scratching the back of his ear, he would most definitely require the assistance of Robin's little curly-haired boy. In the village, children abandoned their chores to come running up to talk to him, going so far as pointing out which house they lived in should he ever want to come over to play. A few women carrying buckets of milk and bundles of sticks cooed over him and would have gone on and on about their own families if they hadn't courteously thanked them for their compliments and continued about their business. Even a random dog had followed them for a little while, trotting at Roland's side, the latter utterly smitten with the creature.

"I'll take care of him, I promise!"

"I'm sure he has an owner, son," Robin says again, turning and approaching the town well where a middle-aged woman hoists up a bucket of water. "A moment of your time, my lady?"

"Oh! Hello," she says. Her round face still has a girlish element to it, one of those trustworthy faces.

"I was hoping you could tell us a little of the history of your kingdom," Robin says, folding his hands and tilting his chin up. Well, what's the use of having charm if one doesn't use it, Killian muses.

"Oh, anything for our visitors. What do you want to know?"

"Your king," Killian says, pulling the bucket off the hook and setting it on the well's edge, keeping his arm around it. "How long has he sat on the throne?"

"Oh, gods bless him, the king," she says, nodding. "Well, see, long ago, Camelot was nothing but a small village, hardly on any of the maps. It prospered well enough, but it was King Arthur who really made us into what we are now!" Laughing, she directs their attention to the well. "This used to be the square, but as you probably saw from your stroll, the inn and everything are over there in the newer part. Did you know we have a public library? Whenever we want, we can go and borrow tales from other lands and learn new languages. My nephew, he's already reading music! Most of us play by ear, you know, but if he can read it, then he can compose! And so many village projects. King Arthur sets aside time for everyone to beautify the fountain at the new square, you see, and smooth everything out so more people will want to come. We've been thriving ever since."

"When was the castle constructed?" he asks.

"Oh, well..." she trails off, her face freezing. She seems dazed for a moment. "You know, I don't really remember. Isn't that funny? We all know the story of it starting out as a humble tower, but I couldn't tell you when it was finished. I'm sorry, I'm drawing a complete blank."

"When did he marry the queen?" Robin tries.

"Oh, that was a lovely affair. The whole kingdom was invited."

"Before or after the castle was finished?" Killian wonders.

"Oh, before. She doesn't love him for his castle, you know. She loves him for his greatness, that he always knows what's best."

Thanking her for her time, they explore the rest of the village and find numerous shops, all successful, all with keepers who can't heap enough praise upon their ruler. They hear more variations as they talk to more people, but the summary remains the same—that at some unknown point of time, it seemed like Camelot grew from a modest little village into a sprawling kingdom overnight, Arthur singularly credited for that achievement.

"We should have brought someone with magic with us," Robin notes, lifting Roland onto his shoulders. "Then we would know if they're telling the truth."

Blast it all, every time he wishes he could have brought Swan along on one of these side quests, he finds out too late how crucial she would have been. It wasn't even magic that enabled her to differentiate between truth and lies so deftly, so it would have posed no risk to her. Although the skill has rubbed off on him some.

"I don't have the impression they're lying, but that doesn't mean something's not wrong," he says, frowning at the stack of porcelain dishes a young lass carries over to her next-door neighbor. Blinking, he could have sworn for a split second they were made of clay instead.


The first week passes, the novelty of the land wearing off and everything slowing to a crawl. Swan spends most of her time in Merlin's study with Snow and Regina, usually poring over the endless tomes, some of which Belle had needed to translate. They all report in and research, but he admits only to himself that he spends the bulk of his time exploring Camelot, making mental maps. The layout of the castle, the layout of the village, the layout of the surrounding woods...

"Bringing Gringolet back this late? You'd better have a carrot ready, Captain."

The lass, Violet, volunteers her time at the royal stables, often cleaning the stalls and brushing the horses with such unpretentious grace he's decided she enjoys the hard work, enjoys being busy. As he had predicted, she'd warmed up a little to him after he'd shown up the last few days. Shuffling from foot to foot, she opens her mouth.

"I had thought at first you were...never mind. What do you think of Camelot so far?"

"Fine, lass. I've seen about all of it." And not one inch of it seeming free of Arthur's stench, he keeps from muttering out loud. He's grown tired of the jovial way the man seems to have an answer for everything but how to free his Sorcerer from a bloody tree, and always in that patronizing tone, like it pains him to correct a person. He takes it back; there is one place where he feels he can breathe and be apart from the world. He's ridden that way only once, a long distance away—a lush meadow full of rose-like flowers, the most delicate shade of pink. Their fragrance soothes him, the contrast against the green grass, the sun bathing it all in a brilliant white light. He'd held his breath and just sat there on the horse for he didn't know how long. Ordinarily, he prefers seascapes, so he had not expected to love such a sight.

Unexpected is always the best way to fall in love, however.


Swan's created another dreamcatcher. A more intricate pattern this time, long white feathers hanging from it. The wooden frame is closer to a perfect circle than the last one, easy to tell since they hang next to each other in her room. Some decoration on the twin arch window should brighten the place up, but the air in her room still seems a little colder than the rest. The walls appear to have more gray in them. Even the forest design on the velvet canopy fails to add any warmth to the room, but Killian refuses to believe she has anything to do with it, that it is in no way a reflection of her predicament.

Dreams of Liam dying, his black dreamshade-infested veins clawing their way up his face, plague him at night. His eyes snap open, the tips of his hair slick with sweat, his body so pressed into the mattress it's a bloody wonder it didn't swallow him up.

So he takes to prowling the corridor like some resident ghost. As if the memory of his brother's death didn't unsettle him enough, he couldn't help worrying about the timing of the recurring nightmares. A glimmer of hope exists with the anxiety, that maybe this time he will not be forced to watch helplessly as someone deteriorates right before his eyes, but it's a slim one. So he pauses when he reaches her room and watches her with her back to the opened door, twisting and knotting her dreamcatchers with such meticulous concentration he knows she doesn't sense anyone's watching her.

Passing her room, he considers knocking on David's door next. What would they talk about? What would he really hear apart from reassurances they will find a way to triumph? He can always imagine the optimistic words, but even David could wear himself out always hoping for the best. Besides, if worrying about their daughter didn't keep him and Snow up at night, certainly their little son did.

This morning, he stops at Henry's door, flung wide open. The lad sits on the foot of his bed tying his boot laces. An eclectic mix of Storybrooke and Camelot memorabilia surround him, everything from his small music-playing device to a saddlebag.

"Killian? Is that you?"

"Aye, lad. I couldn't sleep and saw your door open." Sighing when he beckons him to come in, Killian sees a folded issue of Storybrooke's newspaper on his lap. An admirable construct, he's seen people around town reading through it to get caught up on all the news...when they weren't running for their lives.

"She's not sleeping, is she?" Henry asks.

"No. No, she's not."

"I can hear her talking to herself sometimes, so I went in there and wanted her to go with me to get some milk. She got wise to that, though—said there was no reason both of us should lose sleep." His head sinks down, followed by a hard swallow. "I...I don't w-want her to give up."

Killian's shoulders slump. The very idea of the Darkness preying on Emma freezes his blood, but for Henry, the Truest Believer, to harbor fears of it? A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets, but in his experience, one needs to have a reason to fight. Even an unhealthy reason, he remembers, recalling how only the flapping of sails and the wind gusting on his face could allow him to pretend he was happy.

"Perhaps we should provide her an incentive," he suggests.

"Yeah, something to look forward to!" Nodding, Henry opens the newspaper and flips through the pages, stopping at a page filled with row after row of pictures of dogs. "What do you think about a pet? I was really down once and Mom got me a dog. Didn't last, though."

"The dog or the experience of having a dog?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh! Having the dog." Clasping a hand over his mouth, Henry chuckles at his poor word choice. "The owner turned up. But do you think that would help?"

"No, lad. At least not right now. As sure as I am she wouldn't say no to one, I don't think something so time-consuming would be a good idea." Poor Swan, as soon as she would come home from work and grab a leash to go spend time with the creature, some new villain would be cursing the town and all but pounding on her door. He smiles at the clear disappointment written across Henry's face, but the lad shrugs it off and skims a page riddled with upcoming events in Storybrooke.

"It has to be something she's always really wanted," Henry mutters to himself, collecting a few corners together to skip pages. "And then we'll ask her about it when the time is right. We'll call it Operation Light Swan."

An operation. One of Henry's operations. And he's part of it. Shaking his head at this overpowering feeling of being thrilled, he beams down at the boy, his brow knitted and mouth tightly closed just as Bae used to do.

"I'm honored, lad." He watches him turn the page again onto one with scattered pictures of houses. "What are these?"

"Those are houses for sale. You call the owner or the real estate agent and go to a showing and...that's all I know," he says, shooting a nervous grin up at him.

I really need to get my own place.

Oh, he firmly agreed with Swan whenever she said it, the loft an ever-growing impracticality since the birth of her brother, then of course they'd opened their home to Elsa, and then, in six weeks of undisturbed peace, her parents and even Henry himself had nearly always been present whenever the two of them... Glancing at Henry, he swallows. The time for a discussion had come.

"Henry, do you remember what you told me in the storybook? About...about me and your mother?" he asks, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. With nothing but a somber nod as an answer, it falls again to Killian to address the subject. "Well, you were right. I do love your mother, and I...that is..."

"You want to marry her."

Gods, how can say it so casually, like he's known it forever? He does, the happiest ending with Emma Swan he can conceive, far more than anything he deserves, but spelling it out with every ounce of his mother's lack of tact makes him grateful he's already sitting.

"Well, what if we started out with something that could be considered a step towards that?" he asks once he's composed himself.

"Like an engagement ring," Henry says, nodding.

"Or a place of our own, one she can do with whatever she wants." His fingers press against the page. "Let's face facts, lad, I do enjoy having the Jolly Roger back, but I don't always want to have to go to Granny's for running water."

Henry begins scrutinizing each listing, his chin lowering into his hand. "So you need Old World charm with modern conveniences. Got it."

Whatever that means. Yes. Yes, a place he can inspect first when they're back home in Storybrooke. He still has enough gold to impress any of these owners, and then...he holds his breath...then he can show it to Swan and ask her...ask her...he feels a bit dizzy, so he'll postpone the particulars for now. For now, he tells himself, just find a few to look at.

His eyes stop at a tall house with something like a turret on one side. Old World charm meets modern conveniences indeed, he thinks, awed that this angular half with the large windows blends so well with a half that has a turret and what appears to be a terrace. He tries to splay the newspaper out with his hand to see the picture as clearly as he can, but the lack of color and its small size work against him. It's stunning, functional and practical, but with some sincerity, too. He knows instantly it's a tough house, able to withstand almost anything thrown at it without losing its warmth. Below the picture, he finds a brief description:

One of Storybrooke's finest heritage homes awaits you. Completely renovated throughout, this home features an open floor plan with 10' ceilings on the main floor, custom cabinetry in the kitchen, stainless steel appliances, bamboo hardwood floors throughout, limestone, marble, and granite in all bathrooms and kitchen, custom fp & huge 400 square feet secluded south-facing terrace off kitchen/dining room. Professionally landscaped with sprinkler systems, rock work, and night lighting. 2 bedrooms on the 2nd floor (Master bedroom can easily accommodate a king bed and lots of closet space). 3rd floor addition allows for full height and is fully finished for use as a den, bedroom, office, or combo. There is a detached single garage with plenty of room for storage. Exterior shed may be used for extra storage.

"This one."

"What?" Henry asks, looking up.

"This one," Killian says again. The more he says it, the more he wants it. Blast, why didn't they post any more pictures? He longs for a magic mirror to see the interior—how narrow the stairways might be, how much light shines in the place, just how big a bed they are talking about. He allows Henry to take hold of the page, however, and read it for himself, confident the boy won't find fault in it.

"It's pretty close to the harbor," he notes. "She'd have to drive to work, but she does anyway so the car's there, and it's actually a little closer to school than the apartment."

"What do you think?"

Henry studies it a little more and Killian has to fight off a surging feeling of anxiety that the lad doesn't like it, that it might remind him too much of Regina's house minus the familiarity of his own room, that it can't compete with the cozy, welcoming feeling the apartment elicits out of its guests. In his mind, he rehearses the arguments he'll make for it—they can sit outside on the terrace and have some garden space. Versus the apartment which only has a fire escape. Close to the harbor might mean it would be dark enough at night to actually see the stars.

"Can I have the third floor bedroom?"

"You like it?" He grins.

"Yeah. What's not to like? Mom'll like this little white fence around it," he says, pointing to the picket fence surrounding the house, too short for privacy. Again, charm. Taking one of Henry's pens from his backpack, Killian circles it and writes 'this one' next to it.

"I mean, you'll want to go inside it first," Henry says. "Mom's not going to want a big hole in the roof after just getting rid of the Darkness, but it sounds really nice."

Nice. It sounds bloody perfect.

"It's more than nice, lad. It's a promise. A promise for the future." Swan teaching him how to make her tacos and chili in their kitchen, big enough to not have to be right on top of each other, but they still will be. Putting a swing of some kind on their terrace when they want to sit in the fresh air and maybe smell the salt of the sea. Retiring up to their bed after a hard day, positioning himself on top of her, watching her hands grip the headboard, her hair all over their pillows. Hard-earned after all this. So beautiful and free with the privacy his room at Granny's couldn't offer and the luxurious space that just couldn't be found on the ship. And the third as-of-yet-unclaimed bedroom, next to the master... Not right away, but soon, they could put a child of their own to bed in it, a custom-made nursery for their child. This house, this one, is it.


A/N: The chapter title is from a song lyric in Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Gringolet is the name of a horse from Arthurian legend. The description of the house is actually from a screencap. Someone on Tumblr enlarged it and was kind enough to post it for our benefit. I don't know who it originated with since it's been circulating, and I think we all assumed such a house would have more rooms than what's listed, but whatever. Thanks again to my beta as well as Ereshkigalgirl for letting me know that Middlemists are not roses, just rose-like. Coming up? Hook becomes a Purple Prose shipper and things get a little steamy.