A/N: This is the last chapter of the story. You might have inferred from its rating that I am taking some artistic license. If you would like to know my thoughts on that particular subject in regards to what the show is doing, you can PM me, but for fic purposes, I am taking some liberties. (might put this at the end with the rest of the notes)


He needs a drink. He doesn't remember coming up the elevator alone, doesn't remember the long, gray walk to the diner where he knows no one will be waiting for him. He has to shake his head to remind himself no one is going to be turning a corner calling his name or throwing her arms around him. His heart feels even heavier than his feet do right now, plodding from the counter to an empty booth with his rum in hand. This must be what unfinished business feels like. He had it when he arrived—everyone here does—but he's never felt it as acutely as he does now, now that Em—now that he's alone and a plan is very much in order.

A plan. Hades has left the Underworld, and his absence hasn't seemed to change anything about the place. That's how little the god must have cared, Killian thinks, not bothering to leave his mark. But Storybrooke...there won't be any way to save it unless they can find a way to defeat a god. If ambrosia can do the impossible and restore life, then surely there must be something that does the opposite, take away one's immortality.

Ha. If he'd come across something like that in all the time he'd spent researching Dark One lore, he'd have rid the worlds of Rumpelstiltskin ages ago and died a vengeful victor. Instead, he thinks with a set jaw as he takes a swig of rum, he's down here languishing, needing to find a way to help Em—everyone. Stop thinking about what you've lost, he scolds himself. Think about what you need to do.

The bell to the diner jingles, but the footsteps that follow clang. Eyebrows trying to meet, Killian blinks. He's heard that sound before. He snaps and takes in the sight of Arthur, lumbering about in the doorway trying not to look frightened.

Well, he'll never accuse the gods of not having a sense of humor. This sorry pile of shit wanders around in his chain mail, devoid of crown and sword. It was only a matter of time before someone did the pompous king in.

He watches him, fingertip tracing the rim of his glass. It's pathetic, really. You've had at least a handful of worthy opponents and this is the one culpable for your death. Well, Arthur might not have directly sent him here, but he got the ball rolling.

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where I am exactly?" he hears Arthur ask a bundled-up lad on one of the stools.

"He stopped talking centuries ago. Coffee?" the Blind Witch offers.

"No, I don't want coffee! I want to know what this place is!" Arthur screams at her. Killian can't resist being the one to bring him up to speed.

"I think that's quite obvious, Your Majesty," he says, standing up, smirking at how Arthur's eyes change from shock to utter disdain in a split second. Ever the quick-witted one, Arthur reaches over the counter for a knife and charges at him. This should be rich, Killian thinks as he's forced up against the door, Arthur's grip on his shirt nice and solid. Perhaps he should let him slit his throat, just to see what will happen.

"You got lucky last time we met. Now, you tell me where I am or I run you through."

It wouldn't be the first time someone has, a sarcastic part of his mind retorts.

"Well, you can't kill a dead man, I'm afraid." Arthur's eyes search him, trying to read him. But Killian's far more skilled at that, and behind all the confusion, there is fear. Real, paralyzing terror, the kind when one comes home and finds the front door wide open, just knowing something waits for them inside.

"You're having a hard time accepting it," Killian asks. "But you know where you are."

Backing away, never taking his eyes off him, Arthur stares at him, stares at his hand, stares at the other customers like, well, like he's in a room full of dead people.

"N-no...but...I had so much left to do," Arthur murmurs in a small voice. Like going back to Camelot and not betraying the people you threw a ball for, maybe? Like staying alive in Storybrooke and using all that kingly knowledge to try to defend the place?

"That makes two of us. I promised someone that I would move on from this place, but I still bloody can't, so I need to know what the hell is going on up in Storybrooke. Who killed you?"

"No, no, no, no!" Arthur bellows, running toward the back of the diner and halting right in his tracks. There's nowhere to go, not anymore. Really, they ought to have a little introductory song that at least explains the rules of the Underworld, if only so one can try to break them later. Regarding the king's death, his money is on Hades. Let's see...Arthur stupidly tried to escape and had a run-in with the god of the dead. It's far more likely than his family letting the dethroned king out of jail in hopes of forming a truce with him. But he needs to bloody find out so he can actually do something! Arthur can blubber about the unfairness of it all on his own time.

"Denial, grief, anger—can we just get to acceptance? Who killed you?"

"He said his name was Hades."

Suddenly, Killian wishes more than anything his family had let the dethroned king out of jail in hopes of forming a truce with him.

"Did you see Emma and the others?" he asks, knowing he's paling. "Have they any idea how to stop him?" If Hades is going around killing people, then his family may not even know where to find him. Hades could be hiding somewhere, plotting some scheme while his family loses precious time just trying to track him down...

"Haven't you learned anything?" the Blind Witch interrupts his rather terrifying stream of consciousness. "Hades never reveals his weakness."

"You know what?" he starts, pointing an accusing finger at the Blind Witch, her filmy, unfocused eyes looking right past him. He's a little tired of being the only one taking this seriously, a little tired of playing a cat-and-mouse game with Hades, who is in Storybrooke right now...which means he isn't here...

"You're right. Hades protected his secrets well. But now...now he's not here, so, Your Majesty, how would you like to go on another quest?" He could still find the storybook. Liam couldn't have torn out all its secrets. Somewhere in there must be a clue. He just won't be able to search the entire Underworld alone. If only Arthur would stop thinking about himself, being a stupid git, frozen there staring at his dead hand. The man offers only broken laughter and throws down the knife in disgust.

"With you? Not a chance."

Punching the man won't help. Arthur is clearly in need of some answers, and—in the true spirit of desperate times calling for desperate measures—his impatient pirate victim will have to provide them. Inhaling and closing his eyes, Killian collects himself.

"Have you got any idea why you're down here, mate, and not up in some blissful afterlife or fiery hell? It's because you are a terrible king with loads of unfinished business. When you leave here, you're either going to the better place, or a far, far worse place."

"I think I prefer the first option."

"Oh, then you're going to need a seriously good deed, you know, to make up for the bad ones," Killian says. He has him. Fiery infernos had never seemed that dreadful when the occasional cleric would mention them when he was a child, how if he didn't do as his "benevolent" masters said, he would displease the gods and end up never receiving the eternal reward. But now? Here? The threat could make even the most stoic soil themselves.

"If I say yes, what exactly are we questing for?" Arthur asks.

"An answer to defeating Hades. You can call it my Holy Grail."


"Where exactly are we going?" Arthur asks, at Killian's heels as he marches down the street.

"My house."

"What?"

All it takes is one arresting look, and Arthur clamps his mouth shut. According to how his family came to rescue him in the first place, they'd needed Mi—a dead person to see them through the entrance that, conveniently, started at his basement door. A smile creeps up on Killian's face at the memory of loving the house at first sight when its black and white likeness caught his eye in the newspaper. Even if its description had stated it had a door that led to the Underworld, he still might have circled it. It fit.

At last, he sees the white picket fence and the terrace, its bluish gray hue lost and unappreciated under this place's wretched red sky. He doesn't stumble on the steps this time, hustling up them and bursting through the unlocked door.

"Don't mind the mess," he quips to Arthur from over his shoulder, heading straight ahead for the cellar door. He knows Arthur has paused, taking a quick look at the kitchen and the blasted crib. The sheer number of scattered toys would be bound to make anyone ask for some clarification.

"So everyone here has lost out on a future," Arthur whispers to himself as Killian opens the door. He won't dignify that with an answer, but he does wait, surprised at the expectant silence now hovering in the air between them. "How's David?"

"He's been better, I can promise you that." Gesturing at the door, he steps aside. "Come now, Your Majesty, I didn't gawk at your house when I was there. We have business to attend to."


Following yet another dark tunnel, they come out to where all the rivers meet, the mixture of torture chamber and gentlemen's club, replete with expensive brandies and mahogany shelves. Everything echoes, and yet the most prominent sound is the dripping of water. In spite of Hades' sophistication, it's still a cave, through and through.

"If there's a way to defeat Hades, the answer will have to be in here," he explains to Arthur.

"What is this place?"

"It's his throne room, or dungeon, depending on the mood. Last time I was here, I spent most of my time at the end of a lash." And Hades had known to use a lash, too, not a sword. That would be too appropriate for a captain, someone with some control over his life. He'd known to pick a lash, an indentured servant's bane. But that, along with the torture sessions, are in the past. Rushing to the books, he opens one up and starts rifling through the pages.

"Sounds like this Hades was an even worse king than I was." From the corner of his eye, he watches Arthur pick up the lash off the seat of the throne and inspect it, eyes widening in horror. Putting it down, he scans their surroundings. "What exactly is this 'Holy Grail' we're looking for?"

"It's pages from a storybook." And that sounds like madness to anyone who hasn't lived in Storybrooke very long, he thinks, turning back to reassure Arthur. "I know it doesn't sound like much, but Hades went to great lengths to keep them from us. And I think these pages can tell us his weakness. All we have to do is find them."

Easier said than done, he realizes immediately after speaking the words. They open every box, turn every latch, open every book. It's not even that big a lair.

"There's nothing here!" Arthur calls to him after a solid five seconds of searching. The pages have to be here. They must be here! He doesn't know what to do if they're not here, so...therefore...they must be here.

"Maybe you were wrong about this."

"I can't be wrong! Hades is out there now, threatening Emma, and I bloody well need to find a way to save her!"

Damn it. Unfinished business shouldn't be impossible. If Hades destroys Storybrooke, if Emma's left feeling helpless as the danger closes in on her...

"I get it now. This is all about a woman," Arthur says, his tone softening.

"Aye, a woman who risked everything for me, and the last promise I made her was that I would move on from this place, and I can't do that! Not while she's still in danger." Tears prickle his eyes, every sensation from their test flooding back into him—the flames, the weight of her body tackling him to safety, her hands, her kiss, her gorgeous face crumpling as she tried to control her sobs. He has to save her. "Now, please. Come on, you were a king once. Where did you hide your treasure?"

As if possessed, Arthur springs to Hades' chair and surveys one of the arms. Comparing it to the other, his eyes light up.

"The most important stuff, I hid in a place no one would dare ever touch—my throne." He gropes the side of the chair. Killian hears his fingers tapping against the wood, and then a panel at the foot of the throne opens, revealing folded pages inside it. He holds his breath.

"Well, look at that," Arthur marvels, taking the pages and holding them out for Killian to take. "Your Holy Grail."

He's torn between skimming the small print and sitting down and studying it. Whatever would a god feel the need to hide from humans? He scans the first page, not finding the word "ambrosia" anywhere, but a bold, blocky pair of words standing out among the tiny text: OLYMPIAN CRYSTAL. He reads that it can obliterate the life of anything. Anything.

"I have to get this to Emma," he breathes.

"What have you found?"

"The one answer she's been looking for most of all—the way to destroy a god."

"Well then, that is worth the trouble of hiding," Arthur gasps, shifting his weight and putting his hands on his hips. He squints up at the cavernous expanse above them. "I take it there is a way to contact the world above that doesn't involve all of us standing on each other's shoulders?"

"There was, and it was a little more mundane than that. A phone."

"Sorry, a what?" Arthur blinks. Killian sets his jaw. Not this again.

"It's a device used for talking...look, I speak into it, Emma can hear me. The only problem is that Cruella had it ripped out."

"So we find this Cruella and make her put it back in," Arthur orders, his shrug not lessening his stance on the matter. "If it can contact the living, you and I can't be the only ones who want it back. We could rally an entire army on our side if need be. This Cruella, was she stubborn in life?"

Killian bites back a laugh.


Dismissing the Blind Witch's personal remarks, he glances all around the diner for Cruella. If they wait here long enough, she'll show up; it's where the gin is, but they don't have that kind of time. He spots her in mere fur wrap, a modest choice compared to her normal layers of it, sipping her drink and staring off into space.

"We're here for her."

"Oh, back up!" she snarls, shooting him a sneer, and then a slightly tipsy expression of approval. "Seriously. Back up! Let me take a gander at this handsome new addition to the Underworld."

Fortunately, Arthur rolls his eyes at her.

"We have to get a message to our friends in the world above, and you ripped out the phone booth that can do that. Now where is it?" Killian demands.

"Oh, as appealing as this stubble sandwich is, I'm pretty certain lying to you won't get me what I want. You'll eventually work out the truth, so here it is and on your way: I destroyed the phone booth. Sorry."

"Why would you do that?" Arthur's question is cold and interrogating, the voice of one used to dealing with all manner of instigators. Cruella bristles for a moment before flashing a glare at him.

"Because, darling, I can't have anyone resolving their unfinished business. That would be no fun. And if I'm going to be trapped in here, so is everyone else."

If an Author were down here, they could write the pages back into the book, Killian thinks, his fingers twitching in thought. Or...if there is a book down here only because the storybook exists in the world of the living, would the reverse be true? Would changing the book change Henry's book, the proper book?

"The book. Where is it?" he asks.

"In sight, but out of reach. I put it in the River of Souls."

Blasted witch. The worst part of him loves Emma all the more for being the one responsible for her demise. Turning back to Arthur, he nudges him back toward the door and lowers his voice.

"If we can get our hands on that book, I may have a way to get those pages to Emma."

Nodding, Arthur follows him out.


It doesn't take long to find an abandoned rowboat in the harbor, tied off with the oars just waiting for some desperate passers-by to take advantage.

"Don't touch the water," is the only order he gives Arthur before stepping down into it. A decent enough vessel. At least it's not likely to spring a leak while they're using it. Arthur descends into it without help, gulping at the greenish tint in the water. They'll have to keep their eyes peeled on both sides of the river to see where the book washed up. He doubts a citizen of the Underworld braved rescuing it.

"Take us all the way to the mouth of the river," Arthur commands, raising his arm. "I'm sure Cruella wanted it to be at the farthest away point. The less time we spend in these waters, the better."

"I fully agree, Your Majesty," Killian grunts, starting them off. After a moment of watching him, Arthur gestures for Killian to give him one of the oars, and they paddle in rhythm until the river's current takes them far from the docks, past the point of no return. Slowly—but also quickly—time itself seems to pull itself back for them, as if some unseen deity approved of their quest. They seem to rush past the silhouettes of houses along the coast and then meander in one of the murky underground tunnels. Finally, they drift into one of the entrances to Hades' lair, the dripping water in the distance and the moans of the Lost Souls the only sounds. The latter, a sound far too close for comfort. Killian attempts to ignore it. The moment he dwells on the possibility of one of them being Milah will be the moment he'll be sucked into the abyss.

"We're almost there. The book should be just up ahead," he reassures Arthur, who stares wide-eyed at the green light emitting from one of them.

"What are these things?" He reaches out.

"They're Lost Souls. Careful. Touch the water, you become one of them."

Arthur reels his hand back, and Killian can feel the king's eyes staring at the back of his head for the duration of the voyage. The boat rocks and Arthur gasps, but Killian knows from experience it means they're encroaching shallower waters. The gargoyle statue comes into clear view, its sign to abandon all hope not quite as frightening as the Lost Souls peppered throughout the river. Well, if Killian's learned anything from being around all these heroes, it's that there is always hope. No stone beast claiming otherwise will stop him now.

Upon closer inspection, Killian catches sight of the book in the gargoyle's massive paws. Fitting for Cruella to employ a beast to carry out her dirty work.

"There's the book. That two-toned witch was telling the truth," Arthur breathes. Aye, but it can't be that easy.

"I'll go," he offers, handing Arthur the rope for the boat. "You just make sure the boat's here when I return."

As he walks up the cold staircase, Killian feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, a wind from out of nowhere sifting through his hair, like fingers running through it. He steals his breath, so he takes it as a good sign, that it's not a fake book or anything of that sort. Emma must be close to the storybook. It's not a voice in his head hammering that into him, but rather a feeling, like the certainty of knowing the sun will come up the next day. Smiling, he looks up at the book. So close.

Armor clangs to the floor, an unearthly, ear-splitting shriek following. Killian whirls around to see one of the Lost Souls clutching Arthur by the ankle, the king all but digging his fingernails into the stone to keep from being dragged under.

"Release me, demon!" he screams, kicking at it.

"Arthur!" It's a fate worse than death, no one deserving of such a punishment.

"No! Go for the book! Go!"

He can't, not when he can choose someone else. Sprinting down the stair case, he grabs a torch and waves it in front of the skeletal face screeching like a banshee. It covers its face with emaciated arms and half-dives, half-melts into the water.

Dead silence.

Arthur's ragged breaths come as a blessed relief, Killian thinks, exhaling. Just when he'd thought another one would be on its way. Extending his hook to him, he rolls his tongue around in his mouth as Arthur hoists himself up with it. For a selfish king, he'd been pretty adamant about putting the book first. Indeed this quest is setting the king on the path of self-improvement.

"Thank you. Now get the book."

With pleasure. Torch in hand, he races up the stairs again.

"Hook!"

Gods, another one. It heads straight for the book.

"The torch!" Arthur yells, stretching out his arm for it. Killian tosses it to him just as the Lost Soul cleaves the book from its place in the gargoyle's paws and turns back for the river. Arthur flings himself in its path, waving the torch in a wild, yet calculating rage, slamming it right into the creature's torso, sending orange and pink smoke into the air like he just extinguished a candle.

The book. Where is the book? Killian doesn't see it for all the shadows at first, but then he does. The book. Sliding right for the river!

Darting down the stairs, he throws himself toward it, his arm trying to will itself out of the socket to reach it before it sinks into the river. There isn't even time to dig his hook into the stone to brace himself. But then he feels the leather binding and presses his fingers into it. His hand is suddenly heavy with its weight. The gold "Once Upon a Time" lettering flashes at him, and he imagines it being an expression of gratitude. Laughing, he grins up at Arthur.

"You didn't tell me those things could attack us!" Arthur isn't even angry, more...annoyed that he didn't get a chance to prepare for such an obstacle. Ever the schemer.

"I didn't know they could," Killian grunts, staggering to his feet. "Perhaps things are changing down here now that Hades is gone."

"You sure this book can still work?" Arthur asks.

"I'm not certain of anything down here, but this book is special. These pages have crossed realms when people needed hope the most." He can't take his eyes off the cover. It reminds him of his boy, how lonely and yet hopeful Henry must have been when he'd pieced it all together and went to find Emma. And how hopeful she must have been that she was going with him to a place where he was loved, where he was all right. That night was the night she had decided to stay in Storybrooke, what restarted time, what made him wake up. With great respect, he turns the pages, searching for the space for the torn-out story.

"Out of professional curiosity," Arthur speaks up. "How does one kill the god of death?"

"With something called an Olympian Crystal," he answers, finding the space and fumbling around in his pockets for the pages. He smooths them down and places them in the book, reading the most important part of the text. "'Once activated, the raw power inside can obliterate anything, even a god.'"

"You really think Emma can find this crystal and use it? You have a healthy dose of faith." Arthur shoots him a warm smile.

"It's more like hope," he sighs, closing the book and holding it out in front of him. "All right, Swan. Now it's your turn."

He knows it won't glow or shoot light at them or instantly poof them somewhere else. That's not how hope works. Instead, he closes his eyes and visualizes Emma opening the book, pausing at the discovery of a new story. Her lower lip will fall open a fraction, maybe tears in her eyes if he's game for flattering himself. She'll know exactly where it came from, too. The gnawing feeling that everything is wrong starts to evaporate. He feels lighter, like how he usually feels when he's in her presence. He can see her now, stopping Hades with her family all around her, and even if he can't be there in person to witness it, it's a lovely last image of her.

"I owe you thanks for your help," he finally says, looking at Arthur.

"I have embarked on many a wrong-headed quest in my time. I'm just glad to finish one that was righteous. I only wish I knew what happened to Emma."

"Emma did exactly what she needed to," he says. He doesn't know what that was, but whatever was happening up there, it's over. She's safe.

"How do you know?" Arthur asks with a boyish grin, maybe not a stranger to knowing something with your whole heart.

"I don't know. I just...I do." He doesn't even care if he sounds like an idiot. Something shimmers, piercing the shadowy stone around them. It's brighter than a portal, and purer than any light he's ever seen, no hint of blues or yellows or red. White. But it's not harsh or blinding. It's...comforting.

"What is that?" Arthur asks, peering into it.

"It's the way to move on."

"So the defeat of Hades was your unfinished business."

"Perhaps it was yours, too," Killian says, stopping, realizing he'd been walking right into it. "Come with me." Paradise might not be so boring a place after all, what with former kings who kill pirates bonding with him. And...if he's to be truly honest with himself, he's afraid of going into it alone. He's never really liked being alone.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be all right. I was once prophesied to repair a broken kingdom. My mistake was thinking that kingdom was Camelot. But now I think I understand the kingdom I have to repair...is here. The Underworld."

For the first time since he's met him, Killian knows everything will be all right with Arthur in charge. He'd have punched the living daylights out of anyone who would have attested to that back in Camelot, but now? Now King Arthur has a mark in the hero column, to quote Swan.

"Well, I wish you the best. Goodbye, Your Majesty." They clasp hands.

"Goodbye, Captain."

The light shimmers more, beckoning him, but Killian wishes with all his heart that it wasn't Arthur's face that would be the last he'd see, no matter how far along the path of redemption the king was. It won't hurt him, stepping into the light. He knows that. That goes against its very nature. But it requires even more bravery than dying. To be confident that you gave yourself and the people you loved your very best, to be able to look back and view his life in its entirety and know, finally—he's a good man. A hero might still be a stretch, but...he's a good man. Killian Jones is a good man.

Was.

It reminds him of a temple, white pillars on either side of him, lined up in never-ending parallel lines.

"Hello, Killian."

In white and gold robes, a rather young man smiles at him, not moving. He's not quite young enough to be a youth, but he has a gentle sort of virility about him, and he doesn't care that his hair is messy. This is a god, but treacherous seas and magic have taught Killian to be cautious.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"I want to thank you," the god says, bowing his head ever so slightly, as if apologizing for having to inconvenience Killian. "Because of you, something very important has been done. Those above have finally destroyed the misguided god of death, my brother Hades."

"Zeus," Killian breathes.

"Indeed." Continuing to smile, Zeus strolls up to him and places his hand on his shoulder, like how death should be, a welcome. "And I'm here to escort you onward. Are you ready?"

This is really happening. No, part of him screams. He doesn't want peace. He doesn't want rest. The things he wants...the people he wants to be with just don't lend themselves to that kind of life. But his time with them is over. Emma inspired him to be a better man, loved him for it, and will come through. And maybe, years and years from now, he can be here waiting for her, ready to give her a familiar face as she moves on.

"I am."

"Then it's time to take you where you belong." Zeus guides him along the white corridor, giving him a brotherly push, but Killian doesn't feel the god's hand anymore. It won't really be Paradise without Emma, and watching over her might just prove to be a torture he'll become addicted to, but he has to have hope. He has to have hope this is the way things are supposed to be, that he'll see her again, that one day they'll be together again.

He walks, not feeling any kind of surface beneath his feet. He hopes Belle will be strong enough to handle the Crocodile, that she will have friends who will help her. He hopes David and Snow will have enough quiet moments to revel in each other and their children. He hopes Regina will continue to do good. He hopes Henry will grow into a kind, brave, amazing Author. He hopes Emma...

Closing his eyes, he picks up the scent of earth, freshly dug, soon overwhelmed by the smell of pine. It's not exactly how he imagined Paradise to smell. If anything, he'd hoped he would catch a light sea breeze.

He walks, noticing the corridor darkening. But he's not afraid. It's suddenly a trick and he'll wind up in hell. But it still confuses him, as does the pangs in his neck and in his chest, the places where Excalibur pierced him. They tingle, and the darkness around him melts into a stormy blue, a stray raindrop hitting his eyelashes. He feels heavier, like he's wearing more layers of clothing, his skin warmer.

He walks and wonders if it's his imagination that he hears the pitter-pitter-pitter of rain. He walks, knowing he should still be walking, but no longer sure what's happening or where he is.

He stops walking because he smells cinnamon.

He opens his eyes.

"Swan?"

He blurts it out, his heart not stopping until she whirls around, her face awash in tears.

"Killian?"

Is this real? He holds his breath as she runs to him and crashes her lips to his, throwing her arms around him. Instinct takes over, his hooked arm holding her waist, hand holding the back of her head. This is real. He knows how kissing Emma feels and there is no trick in existence that can recreate it. Her hands run down his arms, fly up to his face, and back again, her hair and coat damp from rain. She takes a breath and pulls away just enough for him to see her tear-stained face.

"Oh—wh-how are you here?" she whimpers, grabbing his coat in a vice-like grip, one that he cherishes. She should know he can't think straight when she does things like that.

"Zeus. He must have sent me back..." he laughs, letting her kiss every inch of his cheek, his ear, his temple. "As a reward for...for helping defeat Hades!"

"I mean, what?" she gasps, giggling. It's infectious.

"Zeus, you know, the ruler of the Olympians, the most powerful-"

She kisses him, and he'll be damned if he doesn't kiss back harder this time, holding her shoulder blade. She cradles the back of his neck, swaying with him until they both need to catch their balance. Back where he belongs, Zeus had said. He presses his forehead into Emma's and silently thanks the god, promising to pray a little more often. This is real. He's really back.

"I don't care. I don't care how you're here. I'm just glad you're here," she says in one breath, holding him. He can barely take it all in, doesn't know what to say first as he wraps his arms around her tighter.

"I'm so happy you're all right," he sighs into the top of her head. She tenses at this, however, pulling back just a little, allowing him to see where they are. She's in the cemetery, surrounded by graves, one of them behind her fresher than the others.

"Not all of us are." He follows her gaze to the fresh flowers and arrows laid across the grave. Robin. She holds him close and lets the tears fall. If only...if only he'd been able to be here. Maybe he could have helped more. Maybe none of them would have to taste this bittersweet feeling. He'd promised the gallant archer they would sail together, that they would all be a family.

He breaks away from Emma but still holds her hand, making his way to the grave and taking a knee in front of it. He has no arrow to give their partner, but he'll find one. The back of his hook brushes the stone. That Hades did this goes without saying, that he took a father from a small lad and lass, but the rest he can find out later. His family was here, mourning, grieving for all they had lost. Rest in peace, mate. You'll find your way to the light.

Feeling Emma's arms slip around him, he savors the sensation of her chest pressed into his back, her face burrowed in the dip where his shoulder meets his neck. Leaning his head back so he can feel more of her, he wants to ask what they will do now, how they move on from this spot and explain to everyone that he has had another chance to be among the living while Robin is gone.

"Close your eyes," she whispers, tightening her grip. He does so, knowing what she's doing.

When he opens them, he finds the two of them on the Jolly Roger, in the main cabin. A sight for sore eyes. He never thought he'd be in here again. But he's alive, and Emma Swan is in here with him—her idea—and they don't have to speak or even read the other one's face to know what they need right now.

Pulling her in for another kiss, Killian jerks his lips off of hers and plants them directly on the spot that always earns him a moan as he wipes her tears with the backs of his fingers. She kicks off her boots without letting go of him, dropping a couple of inches and then ascending back up to him, kissing him on her tiptoes.

He helps her shrug out of her coat and lets it drop onto the floor in a heap, holding his breath as she leans down and unbuttons his vest. They're alive, and they're together, he tells her with a smile. The one he gets back is the happiest one he's ever seen, the nose-crinkling, eyes shining kind.

Without warning, she slides her hands under his shirt and presses one palm over the other over his heart, an audible gasp of relief when she feels his heartbeat. How can she not hear it? It's slamming against his ribs, ready to burst out of his chest as he does the same, wiggles his finger under her shirt and then under the wiring and fabric of her undergarment to a bare—finally—breast, warm and soft and fitting perfectly in his hand. The sound she makes goes right between his legs, rendering him only able to manage a short growl at how perfect she feels. He kisses her again, tracing her jawbone with his lips as he turns around and guides them over to the bed.

She undoes his belt. His trousers drop right when the backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed. Positioning his arms just underneath her rump, he lifts her up and sets her onto his bed and watches her wiggle out of her trousers and what's left of her clothes.

A vision. Paradise. His eyes rake over her, and his hand follows suit, thumb pressing into her hip bone, bottom of his palm curving into her stomach. Straddling her, he lowers himself onto all fours on top of her, kissing her hairline and then her eyebrow and then the corner of her cheekbone.

Emma cups the back of his head when he enters her, and, gods. Sinking into her...he's home. So warm. So bloody wonderful. He's going to spill right now if he's not careful, but, gods, he's trembling on top of her and he hasn't even moved yet.

With just the amount of force he likes, she shifts so she can run her fingers through his hair, her legs wrapping around his waist. Somewhere between the cemetery and here, in their mad rush, her hair had come loose, spread all over his pillow just like how he'd dreamed it would...only this is better. This is real. It is at once exactly like and nothing like his dreams of taking her.

He closes his eyes at the sound of her breathing right into his ear, hot, shallow breaths that are in time with every thrust he makes. She has her legs around him, her fingertips into his collarbone, and her other hand grabbing his hook as tightly as it can. They kiss when they can, but each one is almost like an interruption of simply breathing the other one in...and then that feels like an interruption of tasting her, giving his mouth to her, tongues competing for dominance knowing both will actually win.

They both move more erratically now. He's lost in her, not quite in his own body, but one hundred percent in the moment, gasping for air and wishing he could speak, that he would be able to summon up enough control to say how much he loves her.

For a split second, neither of them move, pausing to just gaze at the other. Smiling, smiling, smiling.

There is no space between them. It's a small bed and her skin is so deliciously slick that it's a wonder they haven't fallen off. He risks it, though, and shifts so he can snake his hand to where they are joined at the same she brings her head up to cup his cheeks. He flicks, rubs, and Emma starts thrashing underneath him, gasping until he closes his mouth over hers. He's close, himself. Very, very...

"My True Love," she chokes out, snapping her eyes wide open, and he collapses onto her, convulsing. He feels her limp arms fall onto his back in an attempt to hold him. He finds his way into the crook of her neck and just lies, catching his breath, feeling the rise and fall of her chest.

"I love you, Emma," he murmurs.

Rolling off of her, he gathers her to him and they lie on each other's sides, her back against his chest, both facing the cabin door. Legs entwining, he winds her hair in his fingers and lets loose a tired grin at the fact they sigh at the same time. The door is angled so one can see just a pinch of the light on the other side, an angle's version of the pregnant pause, he muses. Gods only know what they will have to contend with once they get up—and it's unfortunate they will have eventually get up. Scores of monsters await, no doubt, as does their family who will require a long, easy-to-follow explanation for his return, but he's back. Back where he belongs, home. He had thought he didn't want a peaceful life, but Emma's given him all the peace he needs, all the home he needs. She leans her head down and twists so they can share one more kiss before languidly coming off the bed. Then they'll have to collect their clothes and help each other dress without taking their eyes off each other. Then they'll have to leave the ship and discuss the best way to break the news to everyone. Then...well, monsters, villains, worlds, hearts, more monsters...but it's all worth it. True Love is always worth it.


A/N: I want to thank everyone for reading and leaving reviews. A special thanks to OnceSnow, my outstanding beta who really outdid herself, and to my friends Florencia7 and Ereshkigalgirl, two brilliant, wonderful friends whose insights and conversations allowed me to gather my thoughts. And thanks to the show, for writing imaginative story after story with such great characters. It has been my pleasure to write "Hearts and Monsters," and I hope it was your pleasure to read it.