A/N: I want to thank everyone who gave kudos, liked, and reviewed the first part. This part is my favorite and I would love to hear what you all think! Again, this is a labor of love for the characters of Emma Swan and Killian Jones.

The ice chills his hand as he presses it against where she says the pain is sharpest. But her body is warm as it curves into his, her head resting on his shoulder and arm slung across his middle.

"Thrown against the clock tower," she answers without the question being presented. Earlier she had tried to reassure him that it just felt like a throbbing muscle soreness, no glass to show for the nonexistent incident. It didn't work, even if her pain was not quite as dire as the night before.

He kisses the crown of her head and pulls her tighter, wishing that it were easier for her to fulfil her promise that she would sleep for weeks. She's given so much of herself, he isn't sure what there is left to give, but the title of Savior continues to demand more, to take and take. Its cost her a childhood surrounded by love and robbed her of sleep for months. And now. . .

"Hey, I'm okay-"

"Swan, you're in pain. You can't sleep, you-"

"You." she thumbs the outline of his jaw. "I have you. The pain is already going away and now it's just you and me, alive. That's all that matters. And in a few hours, I'm gonna go to the station and do my job. I've functioned on a lot less."

"Emma, you need sleep."

"I love you." It isn't the first time she's said it without looking at him, yet his heart flutters just the same. She sounds so tired, but he thinks it adds to the sincerity, her voice cracking with the truth of her words. His lips capture hers in response, turning her body to where it rests atop his as her arms find their way around his neck. Their languid pace is slowed with her smile, so big he has to pull away with a chuckle. "I take it that means you love me, too?"

"Aye, Swan. I love you, too."

-/-/-

She goes to work later, despite his protesting. It's a great distraction from the exhaustion that's taken hold, giving her something to focus on other than what she wants and dreads the most. Her parents are taking this new curse - that's what she's labeled the dilemma that has seemed to rob her of sanity and redden the whites of her eyes - in strides. They beg her to sleep, but it's not a plea she's willing to give into, not without Killian beside her and even then. . .

It's better like this. She's more productive awake than asleep.

She spends her break on the Jolly Roger, listening to the banter of her father and Killian. (Waiting for rain is not the proper way to clean a ship, Dave. There are procedures that must be taken to make sure she is in top shape.

It's not a she -

Did you captain her for centuries? She shall be whatever the bloody hell I wish.

Still doesn't give an inanimate object a gender.)

Usually Emma would interject, but there's a smile on Killian's face the moment he looks to her, bright, happy eyes speaking to the deepest parts of her soul. It's happened several times since returning to Storybrooke- an overwhelming calm rushing in at the sight of one another alive, putting a pause to the conversation and world around them as if they're the only people in it. For now it's enough. It's enough to push her through the rest of the day - these stolen quiet moments in the midst of chaos. And later, after the sun has set behind the clouds, blanketing them in darkness, she crawls under the covers. "I don't want to sleep," she whispers to the man lying next to her. He's massaging the knots from her shoulders in a comfortable silence. But already she can feel her awareness fading, his reply lost to a world of green fields and wind blurred trees.

-/-/-

She buries her cheek in the dark of leather, welcoming the chill of wind that howls in her ear. Sitting astride a horse, she leans her weight into Killian, an infectious laugh escaping when Buttercup progresses past a gallop.

"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice probably a bit too loud as it combats the noise of the wind.

"That's the adventure of it, love."

Everything around her looks of Camelot - gorgeous mountains outlined in streams, a nature untouched by man's inventions. instead preserved with magic that shines with color.

Yet, somehow it's not. For she knows their home is but a mile south of where they are, winding through thick wood. Somehow, they are in Storybrooke. And she doesn't question it as they ride through the forest, letting her eyelids shut as she soaks in the calm.

And really, she should have known better. Before she can act, Buttercup is rearing up, throwing both her and Killian in the air before smashing her once strong frame against a tree.

Throbbing. It's the first thing she recognizes before the panic sets in. Before she turns her head to the bleeding form next to her. There's blood pooling at her shoulder, coarse bark having slowed her descent to the ground. But it doesn't matter, not when he's drapped silently across the mud, unresponsive. She can almost reach him, fingertips lightly scratching at a hook doing nothing to rouse him.

She's vaguely aware of the high pitched cry that escapes, a plea for him to be okay, and dammit wake up, but she can't move, can't reach him with paralysis seizing her muscles.

Ice. It's the next thing she recognizes before reality comes back into focus. (Which reality, she isn't sure. She's been dancing on the line between the realm of dreams and where she finds herself now. An exhausting dance blurred by magic and Webster-defined insanity.) His voice is rough and soothing as he holds her to his chest and she hopes this is the world she can stay in, nightmare or not. Her shoulder still hurts, but he's here and he's safe.

"Emma?" He asks as her breathing slows, voice cracking with a fear she had caused.

"Are you okay?"

He flinches at her question, brows furrowing. "What do you mean am I okay? You're the one who wakes up in agony every night!"

"Killian, I'm going insane. I can't fix a wound that isn't there and I can't differentiate what is real and what is a part of this curse. It just hurts, everything just . . .You were hurt too and I can't, I can't…"

"What do you need?" It's simple, less words than he would normally offer but better than any refute he could give.

"Can you just hold me?"

"Aye love." She's warm in his arms, head buried in the hair littering his chest and legs tangled together. Though she allows her body to relax, molding herself into him as his hand caresses her back and his lips plant kisses to the top of her head, her erratic heartbeat remains. A lingering anxiety that holds her captive. He tells stories and it helps. His voice a calming symphony of colorful vocabulary that she loses herself in. He tells of Liam, Milah, and Pan. Painting Neverland more eloquently than JM Barrie himself. She shares tales of her life as well, of school and foster homes, of a meaningless first boyfriend and the first time she wrecked a car. It's not as well worded as his, but then again she never is.

-/-/-

He's worried for her, his Swan, watching from the sidelines as she throws herself into work - combating crisis after crisis on nothing but coffee and Granny's grilled cheese sandwiches. She needs to rest, to lay in their bed and think of nothing but herself. But she's stubborn, as stubborn as he is himself, and they're once again caught at a crossroads. They're not fighting, but they aren't agreeing either.

"Come on, love. I'm sure your father can handle it for one day. Just one day, the two of us on the water." He knows what's coming before she says it, her retort well practiced now. It's a repeat of their previous conversation.

"But Hyde-"

"He can wait." He sighs, exasperated, before grabbing her hand and interlocking their fingers. "You have to take care of yourself, too."

"I will. I am. But people are counting on me."

"Emma-"

"Soon, I promise."

"Let me take care of you," Killian whispers, dropping her hand from his and skimming his knuckles across the bruises under her eyes. She relents for a moment, leaning into his touch before righting herself with a shake of her head.

"I have to pick up Henry. Do you want to come?"

"Of course."

He drops his head in defeat, letting her guide him out of the sheriff's station and onto the bustling streets, his focus more on her sluggish steps and heavy shoulders than the direction they're going. He'll get her to rest, one way or another, her health more important to him than any villain claiming ownership of their quaint little town.

-/-/-

Coffee has become her preferred stimulant. More so than cinnamon coated cocoa, Killian's flask that never seems to empty of rum, or the acidic monster drinks that taste like someone melted a battery and decided to drink it. No, coffee is much better to keep her pushing through Granny's lunch crowd to meet her parents.

She finds them scanning the menu as if they've not memorized it over the last 30 years, and she slides in the booth behind Killian.

"Honey, you look exhausted. You both do." Mary Margaret remarks.

"It's nothing." She pauses, distractedly glaring down a black speck of dust dirtying the corner of the table. The anxiety that she carries around like a second skin heightens at her mother's inquiry and she dodges the impending conversation best she can. "Henry just asked us today if he could walk with Violet to school. . .without us."

"I'm sure he just wanted to kiss his lady love without prying eyes. I know the feeling quite well meself." Killian quips and Emma' eyes grow wide, smacking him lightly on the chest.

"Watch it, pirate. I don't want to hear about your urges to kiss my daughter." David warns.

"Those aren't the only ones I have, mate." His words are punctuated with a mischievous grin directed at Emma and her reddened cheeks.

"Killian!" She elbows him this time, smiling in victory when he grunts between closed teeth. "That's what you get."

Her yawn is what breaks the banter, a concern glossing over the faces of her family. Jumping foster home to foster home has made her all too familiar with the expressions. (Back then it had been pity and confusion for the friendless orphan girl who's angry outburst was followed by tears that never seemed to stop. A temporary worry for the well-being of Emma Swan that no one acted on.) Now, the worry was genuine, but she could see the pity in the furrow of her mother's and father's brows. In hindsight, maybe the exhaustion was distorting her view. Feelings of never truly understanding one another buried at the expense of pretending to have the relationship she wants. "Please don't do this, guys."

"Do what?"

"Look at me like I'm some sort of wounded animal."

"We weren't! We aren't...we're worried about you." Snow replies. The gentleness of her voice causes a twinge of guilt deep in Emma's gut. It's stupid to feel this way when she knows her mother is just. . .being a mother. So she pushes back the irrational feelings, deflects and hopes it'll be enough to move the conversation elsewhere.

"I know and I appreciate that, but we have bigger fish to fry right now."

"So the nightmares-"

"We'll deal with that later. We have to catch Hyde first-"

"I know what you're going through and you can't run from this. When your father and I-"

"No, you don't! I'm not you, mom! I don't need to know how you and dad conquered some battle that I am going to get through differently. Stop saying you understand when everything you do says otherwise. If you understood you'd stop bringing it up!" She stops as she realizes the room has cut silent to heed the yells of their exhausted savior and sheriff. Breathing in and exhaling with a sigh, she continues - tone harsh against her whispered frustrations "I'm the savior. Do you have any idea what that means? It makes you all a target. It means that anytime I fail, it puts everyone in danger. It could kill you. I don't need some hope speech to tell me how I need to open up about my feelings. Just because I'm not talking to you about it doesn't mean I'm not talking about it." Her hand wraps around the ring that dangles from her neck, a silent comfort as she recalls the tear laced confessions she's told Killian in the dead of night. It's his hand instinctively wrapping around her shoulder and pulling her into him that keeps her from caving into herself, from a complete shut down at her public outburst.

He's holding himself back, a silence between the four of them made all the more awkward by his absence of opinion. He has his thinking face on, brows furrowed and pursed lips as he sorts through and holds back from speaking his thoughts aloud. But the primary emotion on his face and her parents, is surprise.

"I'm sorry honey, I didn't realize it upset you so much. . .Maybe a change of scenery will help? You can always come back to the loft. Your bed's still there."

"I have a bed and a new home, my first house, with Killian. I. . .feel safe with him." She grants her aforementioned co-inhabitant a small smile, continuing, but her gaze not leaving his. "I don't want to wake up without him there. He helps." She sighs, the words lifting an unknown burden from her chest, as if admitting that somehow made it ring with a greater truth. There was an agitation - distorted from sleep deprivation, maybe - that her parents still couldn't see that. They couldn't see the changed man Killian has become. She hopes he doesn't feel it too. "I know that you're trying to make everything better, but sometimes you can't. Changing where I sleep is not going to keep the Sandman from distorting my dreams. You don't want to be around me when I do fall asleep, trust me. So can we just drop it and order some damn food, please? I'm starved." .

-/-/-

He asks her to do it, so she does. She drives the blade into his middle, feeling his insides scream around silver metal, hearing the slash of flesh tearing as the point emerges bloodstained on the other side. She watches through tears as 300 years of life drain from his eyes. He tells her he loves her, but he can barely breathe. So with one last kiss pressed to his lips, she withdraws her sword and his body plummets to the ground.

It doesn't stop falling. Now, he's wrapped in chains, more bloodied and broken than before. He's suspended upon a murky green river, sinking slowly into its neverending depths and -

"Killian!" She screams, letting the smoke from the fire pits that light the basement turned cavern fill her lungs. Her feet smack against the rock as she runs, but the faster she accelerates, the faster he falls - a tortuous pursuit that causes panic to pool in her stomach as his feet drop out of sight. There's an enchantment blocking her more supernatural attempts at rescue, magic that curls inward at her fingertips and pushes its way back to her core with no release. But it's too late now, her plea embedded into the rock it bounces off of. The chains rise from the river, prisoner absolved and his soul forever lost.

-/-/-

There's a cry she hears somewhere in the distance. It increases in volume or proximity - she's not sure which. But it syncs to the chaos of her mind, the adrenaline and panic coursing through her bloodstream as it calls for, cries for, her deceased lover.

She tries to calm herself, pull the crumbling, shattered pieces of her heart back together when she realizes it's her.

"Emma, it's just a dream. It's okay, you're okay. Wake up, love." But her hysteria only grows with the sound of his voice, sobs racking her body as she seems to come to. His soft voiced reassurances are lost on deaf ears as he pulls her upright, hand smoothing over the ridges of her spine. They're coated in darkness save for the crack of moonlight shining through the curtains, casting haunted shadows of the sleepless road they travel. So he reaches to turn the bedside lamp on, lighting the room to rouse her, to ground her back in this room with him. "Emma, I'm right here." She shakes under his grip, several whispered no's followed by a string of curses. His words do little, if any to comfort her, mind stuck in the terrors of her dream world. "Come back to me, love."

But she doesn't, not yet. Instead, she curls into herself, an inconsolable silhouette of revisted grief, oblivious to the departed's presence and the hand that tries to coax her back.

He can see the moment she returns, a relieved shock overtaking her features as her arms wrap around him.

She buries her head in his neck, tears slipping past her cheek and onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Killian I'm so-"

"Shhh, it was just a dream. You're here now."

"No, no it wasn't just a dream." She sniffs, trying to get her breathing under control. It only worsens as he tries to comfort her.

As she tries to articulate the reality of her nightmare. "I killed you. . .I watched you die-"

"Emma-"

"They buried you! You still have a fucking tombstone in the graveyard. I failed and you-"

Calloused lips stop the quiver of her own, if only temporarily, as she takes the comfort he gives. If he was an ocean, then she was drowning - his touch overwhelming in its tenderness. The tears that still fall are caught with his mouth while his thumb caresses the outline of her jaw. But soon her worries fade with the clothes that are shed, his hand and tongue working in tandem to soothe the wounds of her nightmares. Of her reality. Their love coiling with the heat in her stomach as they come together.

She holds to that feeling as she comes down, tangling her limbs with his so that they somehow remain one. If she was a ship, then he was her anchor and compass alike - grounding and guiding through the treacherous sea that's become the wreckage of the Savior's duties .

"Let me take care of you," he whispers. And this time she gives in, following him into the warmth of the shower's downpour. The water washes away the last of morning haze, cleansing and clearing her mind before revisiting the nightmare that awoke her. Her body craves his touch; his hand massaging the shampoo to and from her hair as his stump rests against the curve of her waist making tears fall anew.

"I love you," she breathes, a wonderment in her tone. It's not enough to express how she feels about him, words caught in her throat seem miniscule to the emotions that stir within her.

It's later, over chocolate chip pancakes and her third cup of coffee, that she gives him details. She tells of the heaviness of the blade in her hand, of the crunch of muscles as it drove through flesh. She tells of the blood and how it remained stained wet in her hands as his body fell into the river of lost souls. She tells and holds herself together, a saddened detachment that only allows a single tear to fall. She tells of the terror that seizes her still - that this happiness they share could merely be a hallucination. "When I woke up, at first, the dream it felt. . .more real."

It's the emotional weight, despite the coffee and sex that preceded and receded her confession, that leave her bone tired as she once again prepares to head to Granny's. Makeup aids in masking the exhaustion that hides underneath - the baggy red rimmed eyes temporarily reprieved with coats of concealer and a layer of bottom eyeliner she would usually go without. It's not a lot, but it's noticeable.

It can't conceal the drag in her step, however, nor the mental pause in her replies. She's beyond tired, afraid of the terrors that falling into sleep's arms will bring, but she pushes through..

She pushes through as she finds her son already sitting at a table scanning a copy of one of his storybooks.

"Hey kid!" Emma smiles before taking a seat across from him. "Looks like a full house for Granny. I guess everyone has untold stories that are ready to be played out."

"Yeah, that or they discovered the best place for lunch."

Emma laughs at that - a small chuckle that quickly dies when she glances at the pages opened before her. "So have you found anything new?"

"Other than people not dressed in Storybrooke, attire? Not yet. But I'm betting someone here can tell us."

And he's right. They're still very oddly dressed. Although she guesses that's relative to the realm they are in. But her leather jacket stands out next to the silks and fanciful dresses, strange hats and ancient styles, even Bollywood fashion. A man by the bar dons a cape. She wonders what his story in particular might be - possibly Dracula, but she isn't entirely convinced vampires are real. Dracula, or whoever he actually is, stands tall next to a little girl dressed in colonial attire. They create a stark contrast to the mad looking scientist, old professor in a trench coat, and Chinese looking royalty. An eclectic, confused mix that's dominated by a middle eastern man in a strange hat. He must notice her staring, because before she can successfully avert her gaze from the crowd, he's walking over to her with cane in hand.

"I don't believe we've met. I'm Jafar."

Scepter, she corrects her earlier assessment of his cane. It looks of rusted gold, frail magic worn with age. He sticks out from his companions, collections of other stories she's heard throughout her life, as the more ominous of the bunch. And really, she should have known just by looking at him that he's freaking Jafar. Villain. Evil. Sorcerer. His presence raises the hairs on the back of her neck, but it's the tilt of his head and small smile he grants her, that creeps her out the most. (Not that she'll show it; she makes a mental note to find the fate of Aladdin and Jasmine later, but for now she can make small talk. For now she'll make Henry as comfortable as possible.) "Hi, I'm Emma. This is my son Henry."

"It's nice to make your acquaintance, Emma. I believe I've heard your name passed around a few times here."

"She's the Savior. She brings everyone their happy endings." Henry chimes in.

"Ah, well what a noble pursuit." She's about to dismiss herself, dragging Henry back to the house for whatever bullshit reason she comes up with first, when Jafar continues. "I quite like this quaint town of yours. I've found the beds to be much more accommodating than those in Agrabah."

"If you're talking about Granny's beds, I can't say I agree." She says with a forced smile, magic tingling through her blood as she clenches her fist to keep it at bay. As accustomed as she is to handling villains, there's something simmering beneath the surface that she can't quite place. It makes his every word more threatening and she pushes it down, tries to ignore the voice in her head that has the hairs on her neck still standing.

Jafar laughs - a small forced huff of air that does little to alleviate the tension. "You'd be surprised." He extends his hand for her to shake and she takes it, glad to have this opportunity to exit the situation. "Well I'm sure there are lines of people waiting to meet the savior. So if you'll excuse me, I should get going."

He turns on his heel and she directs her attention back to Henry. "Wanna get Granny's to go? We'll be more productive in the library anyway."

"Yeah, let me text Violet first. She might know something about Jafar that could help us."

"Sounds good."

-/-/-

She's past tired by the time they make it to the library, body sagging with the weight of her steps. Her eyes scan the same page for the sixth time and she can feel herself fading, lids fighting to stay open. It's there that Killian finds her, drunk on sleep deprived delirium as she laughs about calligraphy and the idea of Dracula feeding off cat blood. (He's seen her like this only twice, the first when rum was the culprit and the latter after a 36 hour shift when she refused to return home.) But she feels light now, the giggles that erupt alleviating the heaviness in her chest as she leans on Killian. She knows she's being ridiculous, combing the stray hairs that hang at his forehead back behind his ear as she muses over if the sandman is made of sand, and the logistics of living in that state.

In the end, she decides that magic is the only answer.

The energy high only lasts until she reaches their bathroom, laughter turning into silence as the faucet fills in the lost noise. She cuddles into Killian when they reach the bed, mumbling that she'll only rest for a minute. It's a lie the moment her eyes close, the mattress embracing her exhaustion as it lulls her to sleep with her body wrapped around Killian's.

She dreams of fire, skin burning and engulfed in pain. It's from her mother, the evil version of Isaac's cursed world, that chars her shoulder before spreading down her arm.

The screams don't come this time - instead she's left gasping for air she can't find, the pain, new in its torture but routine in its presence, muting her airways. She can feel sand fall from her eyes when she sits up, the burning sensation not leaving even as the particles land on her bedsheets. Mouth agape, Emma attempts to quiet the quiver of her breath as she gathers the remnants in her hand to dispose of before escaping to the kitchen. Killian slumbers at the edge of the bed, finally sleeping through a nightmare. (It makes her own nightmare a little less harsh. His attempts at staying up with her have left him almost as restless as she.)

She grows numb to the pain even as the red blisters of her hallucination rise. Her magic, powerless to whisk it away, poofs a small tube of burn cream in front of her. She knows it won't help, but she also knows the pain will get worse before it disappears. It has to be better than nothing.

When Killian finds her a few hours later, she's propped up on the couch, eyes scanning the pages of one of the books they had brought home from the library. His hair is stuck up at all sides, a shirtless sleep mused mess in navy pajama pants.

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to sleep through - what's on your arm?"

"Burn cream. I know it can't really do anything but I wanted to do something. I kinda forgot about it. And I'm glad you finally slept. You deserve it."

He gives her this look sometimes, the same he's giving her now, where his face softens and the lines of 300 years crinkle at his eyes the same as a child's. Sometimes there's a glistening in his eyes, his adoration so overwhelming that it doesn't feel real. She watches his steps as he shuffles to the couch and interlaces their fingers together before bringing her hand up to his lips. "I love you, Emma."

"I love you, too."

"We're going to defeat this."

"I know."

She knows, but sometimes she doubts, brief moments of wondering if this is how she will meet her end. Death by Sleep Deprivation. She's heard about it before, through internet or textbook she's not sure. Within three days of waking to the feeling of burning flesh, her body adjusts to the permanent insomnia, afraid of the perils sleep brings. Even when she tries to rest, her subconscious has decided that sleep is equal to pain. It's her body's way of protecting her, creating a lose-lose situation with whatever side wins out at night. There is no burst of energy to revive her, the next few days a reflection of her weakened state in Camelot when she took on the darkness.

Her family remains her hope, Killian her anchor as her frustration grows. And it's Killian who comes to her with the first actual solution. "Emma, love." he whispers when he runs through the door to find her half asleep on the couch. "The sandman is in your nightmares."

-/-/-