A/N- Okay, so the last thing I needed to do right now was to start a new story, but this is a two-shot that I just couldn't shake. Also, can't stop writing AU's for CS for some reason. Maybe because I've been listening to way too much 10cc's "I'm Mandy (Fly Me)". Who knows? Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones had a lifelong obsession with the sea, but his fear of drowning had always prevented him from sailing. After too many losses, he decides it's time to face his fears. However, fate has a cruel sense of humor. Or maybe not. Especially when a mysterious beauty saves him from a watery grave. Who is she? Was she a hallucination? Or is there such a thing as soulmates and miracles after all?

PAIRINGS: Captain Swan

RATING: T (for language)

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Sadly.

Part 1: Holding On

All his life, Killian Jones was fascinated by the sea. It had always seemed so big and mysterious, he was sure it must be magical. When he was only a wee lad, his mother would take him to the beach and they would watch the waves crash upon the shore, while the icy water swirled around their toes. She would tell him tales of shipwrecked sailors saved by mermaids, and that feeling of wonderment kept growing. When his mother died, he stopped going to the beach to dig his feet into the sand, but the love of the ocean never left. It reminded him of what he loved.

As he grew, so did his passion. He delved into maritime history like it was a sumptuous feast. He researched marine life, and became intricately knowledgeable on the workings of a many a ship. His brother, Liam, used to stop by his room and laugh at the posters of sea life on every wall, the ancient maps and charts that adorned his ceiling. Killian would only scowl and throw his pillows at him, shouting at him to mind his own business, because deep down, Killian knew why his brother mocked his passion. It wasn't jealousy or brotherly teasing, it was because he was worried. After all, how could he be so obsessed about the one thing he was completely terrified of.

For it was a well-known fact that Killian Jones was deathly afraid of drowning. For all his interest and research, he had never once been out on the water. He had never gone sailing and never swam in lakes or oceans. And it was odd because he never knew exactly when the fear had started, or what had caused it, but he was unable to break it. All his life, the one thing he wanted he was too frightened of to ever do.

As a young man, Killian took the sensible approach. After his father had left him in Liam's care, he decided to study business in order to preserve the family honor, and he quickly became successful. Even so, when he was transferred to New York from London, he took an airplane, practically knocking himself out with booze so that he wouldn't keep worrying about what would happen if the plane went down over the ocean. And still, he couldn't stop from dreaming about the sea.

Then tragedy struck, and struck again. In quick succession, he lost his brother to a military blunder and his fiancé, Milah, to brain aneurism. After her death, Killian spiraled down into a deep depression. He was utterly alone now, and there was no one to ease the pain. Only the ocean. Everyday, he would walk along the shoreline, and focus his thoughts on how its great expanse never faltered, never wavered in its purpose. He let the slate grey waters swallow up his agony and the concussion wash of waves drown out his cries. Until one day, something deep within him stirred.

It wasn't courage to face his fears, it wasn't a brave attempt at conquering the unknown, it was far more primal than that. He knew he had to go to sea, he had to finally get out on the water and feel the rock of the waves beneath him, to be encompassed by the infinite beauty of the ocean. It would be the only thing powerful enough to fill the chasm in his soul. Otherwise, he might as well curl up and die, for there was no reason for him to go on.

So, one year after the loss of Milah, five years after Liam, and twenty-six years after his mother, Killian Jones decided he would face his fears.

….

The yacht's name was Rum Runner. He thought it was a terrible name for a boat, but it was the only one Killian could get on short notice and with his limited funds. It was large enough for six guests, but for this trip, Killian would be the only one traveling. Its crew consisted of a bearded captain named Duke (an older fellow with a white beard like Santa and the belly to match), a first-mate/engineer/repairman named Big George (a tall, slim man with deep brown eyes that were well-etched by many days in the sun), and a steward named Mike (who was about as plain and average as his name implied). Killian instantly felt at ease with their sea-hardened personalities. They were no-nonsense blokes who lived and breathed the salty air and, even though all three were gruff and fairly unfriendly, he felt quite safe in their hands.

Rum Runner was to set out from New York on a planned cruise along the Atlantic shoreline of just under three weeks. The destination was the tip of the Florida Keys, a short stay at Islamorada, and then back. Killian really couldn't care less about the destination. He just wanted the trip, he wanted to be out on the water, to finally experience the secrets of the ocean for himself.

As the yacht made ready to leave port, Killian found himself growing more and more nervous. He had loaded himself on deck with relative ease, unloaded his baggage in his berth with no upwelling of panic and had re-emerged on deck fairly content. Maybe all his fears would be gone. After all, he was technically on the water, he had come to terms with the swaying motion of the ship quickly, and so far had not even raised his pulse rate. But all that quickly changed. As the ropes were unfastened and the boat pulled away, as the last sure tether to dry land retreated farther and farther from his grasp, Killian felt the rising surge of panic in his breastbone. Maybe this wouldn't be as easy as he thought. Still, he knew he had to keep going, to fight away the fear. He closed his eyes, focused his grip and his mind on the gentle bobbing motion and tried not to think about water filling up his lungs, how the burning need for oxygen would burn your chest, or what the last fleeting thoughts a person might have as the world faded to black and the water surrounded them might be. No, he definitely did not think those things at all.

"Y'alright there?" Came a low chuckle. "Ya look a bit green." Killian turned to see the sandy-haired steward smirking at him from a seat on the deck.

"I'm fine," Killian managed, turning away from the sight of the shore receding away and back to the horizon where it seemed as if the world just ended in a straight black line. He tried and failed to keep his voice from rising in pitch.

"First time t'sea?"

"Aye," Killian stated, clenching his jaw and his hand as the yacht coursed over a particularly large wave left by the passage of some sort of freighter. It took several deep breaths and an even tighter grip on the steel railing before his heart rate slowed to non-heart attack levels.

Mike chuckled and made his way smoothly to where Killian was standing. "You should let go of that rail."

"What?" Killian cried, hating how obvious the panic in his voice was to his ears.

The man's eyes crinkled as he smiled, another victim of a life lived at sea. "Let go of the rail and let yourself move naturally with the waves. Don't fight it so much. Otherwise your body will never adapt."

Killian glared at the man, wanting to tell him to bugger off, but he was forced to acknowledge Mike was probably right. It didn't matter though, he couldn't let go if he tried. His hands were practically melded to the metal.

The steward shrugged indifferently and began to walk away. "Suit yourself, man. But this trip's gonna be hard to enjoy if you can't even walk about the ship."

I'll let go when I'm bloody well ready, mate, and not a moment before, Killian thought angrily. If only he knew when that would be.

Soon enough, the harbor was only a faint blur and the little boat was nothing more than a spec in a wide wet world. The sun above beat down in a friendly manner, encouraging the crew to shed their jackets and don their hats. Killian had a hat and sunglasses. They were packed up in his things below deck. He couldn't help but think how lovely it would be if he could see anything besides the glare of the sun on the water, or be able to wipe the sweat from his brow. But for that, he would have to walk over the deck, down the stairs, and into his cabin. And to do that, he would need to let go.

Let go. Easy enough in theory, but in practice…

It was then that Killian realized something vital. What was holding him back wasn't the motion of the ship, it was everything else. It was his own bloody insecurities and fears. This was what he had come out here to fight, to find a way to get on with his life. If he couldn't do a simple thing like release his tenuous hold on his perceived safety net, then nothing would ever change for him. He would still just be a lonely, broken soul, and he might as well just jump right into the water and save himself years of unnecessary pain.

So Killian let his grip loosen. At first, nothing happened. The boat didn't shudder, storm clouds didn't gather overhead, an iceberg didn't appear out of thin air. Nothing. The world kept on spinning. He took a deep breath, relaxed his aching knuckles, and lifted his left hand. See, Jones, everything's fine. You're not about to go toppling overboard just because you aren't holding on. Now, let's say we see about that other hand, eh mate? Quickly, before he could talk himself out of it, he loosened the fingers of his right hand and pulled it away. And there he stood, detached, finally relying solely on his own balance, almost unable to believe he had actually done it. A great, shuddering breath came from his lungs, and he looked up and smiled at the sun, running his hands through his black, sweat-soaked hair. It was a victory, a small victory, yes, but a victory.

Killian took a step back, acquainting his steps with the sway of the boat. He forced himself not to reach out when he felt his balance slipping, and soon enough, his body relaxed into it, exactly as Mike had promised. If the rest of the crew noticed the proud smirk on his face, they said nothing. He nodded to them anyway as he made his way to the stairwell.

Below the ship, it was cooler and dark. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust, the black pupils diminishing into the cornflower blue of his iris. The hall in front of him was narrow and poorly lit, but it somehow brought him comfort. The enclosed space felt secure, felt almost like he could ignore the fact that he was hovering above a million feet of water. His berth felt even safer. A small bed with crisp white sheets, a narrow closet, and an even smaller bathroom surrounded him completely, comforting him much like an embrace. He flopped back on the bed, placing his arms behind his head and allowing himself to relish in all that he accomplished today. He had really done it. He was sailing. On the ocean. Finally. He chuckled softly to himself, and stroked his dark, scruffy cheeks, a familiar gesture he had adopted when Liam had first left to join the army.

Killian closed his eyes and thought about his brother. Liam would have been proud of his younger brother today, he had no doubt. How often had he teased Killian about his irrational fear? How often had he tried to show him there was nothing to worry about? "At last, brother," Killian told the air.

And Milah, she too would have been proud. He could just see her, her wide grey eyes meeting his in joy, her graceful lips turned up in a teasing smile. He could still hear her, too. "I can't believe you did it, Killy!" She would say, lovingly running a hand over his cheek.

His smile faltered, his own hand poised on his jaw. And the ache of their loss rushed back on him. He had been so focused on this journey, he had been able to block out the sense of loss that had been his constant companion for so long. But he felt it now. They weren't here with him, but they should be. What did it matter if Liam and Milah were proud of him? It was irrelevant. He would risk their disapproval and reproach every day for the rest of his life if only they would walk through that cabin door.

Turning over onto his side to face the wall, Killian curled up, hoping to alleviate the torment in his chest. Squeezing his eyes tight, he forced away the image of Milah's bright eyes and his brother's soft smile. Instead, he tried to focus on the slight swell of the boat, the way the gentle rocking was lulling him to sleep, and soon, he mind drifted away.

…

It had been an amazing week. A week of endless horizon, a week of strong sea air, and with each passing day, Killian gained more and more confidence aboard the ship. He now walked about on deck just as steadily as any of the rest of the crew. He helped fish and make meals with the steward. He learned to navigate from the first mate, Big George, who told him he was a natural, and he even steered once or twice. He had yet to actually get into the water, but he sensed he could do that, too, in time.

He and the crew were starting to get along better. They still teased him mercilessly about his anxiety when they left port, but he was beginning to give as good as he got, and a slow comradery had formed. He regaled them with his extensive book knowledge of all things mare maris, they plied him with many tales from their long days and nights about the Rum Runner. Killian finally found out that Captain Duke had named his ship that because he was descended from a long line of bootleggers and pirates. Killian was starting to believe the bearded man to be one of the most fascinating people he'd ever met.

Through all this, Killian had managed to keep the darkness at bay, shutting out the memories that had tried to haunt him by remaining focused on everything around him. He knew the second he made it back home, it would probably all come rushing back, but for now, it was enough.

At night, Killian would take his meal on the deck of the ship, staring off into the expansive sky. His favorite time was just after sunset, when the sky was full of the brightest stars he had ever seen, yet still tinged orange and purple by the last rays of daylight. And it was so peaceful out here. So quiet. The more time he spent staring off into the liquid void, the more it felt like that bottomless ache in his heart was beginning to mend, although sometimes, he wondered if the ocean was big enough to wash away all his pain.

On the eighth night, a storm blew up. None of the crew seemed particularly worried, and therefore Killian didn't as well. He had learned to trust their judgment after that very first day. So he watched the approaching clouds with a sense of awe, not fear, even though he could feel the hairs rise along his arms. It was unsettling, though, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something major was going to happen. But he told himself it was nothing more than the electric current of the thunderheads, and tried his best to ignore it.

The waves increased, the boat rolling more and more. The crew merely laughed at him, watching his face go from embarrassed red to pale white in seconds, and he did his best to find his sense of calm. He watched how the crew handled the storm. They all seemed to look at the giant thunderheads as a challenge, a way to prove to themselves they were fierce and brave. Killian tried the same, but still found himself clinging to the rails again and hating himself for it.

A loud crack of thunder startled him, and made his whole body unnerved. He couldn't fight back the growing fear that something was coming, that this storm was not just a normal storm. Yet he knew logically that if the rest of the crew weren't worried, his fears were probably unfounded. After all, what experience did he have with such things? And he was so sick of living with constant anxiety. So he tried to force out the worry. He remembered Mike's advice from that first day. Let go. He looked down at his hands clutching the rails, periodically illuminated by streaks of lightning. He needed to let go, like before. First one hand, then the other. Just open the fingers and pull away.

He took a breath, closed his eyes, and willed his hands to come unclenched.

Right then, there was a crack so loud, he was toppled back by the force of it. The whole ship lurched dramatically and he looked up to see the crew scrambling to the port side of the boat. Killian's stomach dropped out. He didn't need to know what they were shouting, the horrified looks on their faces told him all he needed to know. That and the way the yacht was now listing at an angle steep enough to be noticeable.

No doubt about it, the Rum Runner was going down.

…

Somewhere in the back of his head, Killian knew he should feel afraid. All of his nightmares were coming true. Wasn't this exactly what he had been afraid of all these years? Wasn't this exactly why he had avoided sailing?

It was the bloody trifecta of disaster. There was a tremendous storm raging in the dark, the boat he was on was sinking, and the lightning strike had started a fire somewhere near the engine room. But for some reason, facing the imminent possibility of his own death had flipped something inside him. He simply felt no fear.

Actually, he felt no emotions at all, but that was something he would have to examine later. Presuming there was a later.

Captain Duke was radioing for help, Mike was scrambling with the life boat and necessary supplies, and somewhere below deck, Big George was trying to douse the fire in the engine room before it could get to the fuel tank. Killian wasn't sure what he should be doing, but when Mike started yelling at him to get in the raft, his mind was made up.

Big George was below deck, standing in two feet of cold water, trying to stem the oil fire by dousing it with an extinguisher and clearly failing. Killian rushed to his side, asking what he could do to help.

George merely frowned at him and pulled him back towards the hatch. "At this point, ship's a goner. Let's just get the hell outta here before the whole thing blows."

And that was the last thing Killian heard before the explosion sent him away into darkness.

….

Coming too, Killian realized several things very quickly. One, he was still alive. Two, he was neck deep in water, but was still aboard the ship. Three, it was completely, utterly, blindingly dark. He shouted out for George, Mike, or Duke, but his words came back muffled as if he was in an enclosed space. He could hear was the creak and groan of wood, and the distant roar of thunder, so he knew he hadn't been knocked out for long. Suddenly, it dawned on him exactly where he was.

Killian was trapped under the hull of the ship. The rapidly sinking ship. Already, he could feel the way the space seemed smaller, the air pressing tighter than when he awoke just minutes before. He needed to find a way out, the door, a hole, anything that would lead him to the surface, but here in the darkness, he had no way of finding his way to safety.

It dawned on him that he was going to die. He was going to be slowly suffocated under the water and drown in the ocean. How bloody fucking ironic.

Again, he wondered why he wasn't more afraid. Did he really just not care about his life anymore? Who was there to miss him if he was gone, anyway? Maybe that was why his emotions had shut down. Maybe he had finally snapped and just accepted that he would be better off dead.

Except, when he really thought about it, he didn't feel like giving up. He felt like fighting, like beating back the darkness with every fiber of his being. He wanted to live, he realized. He wanted to live badly. Too bad fate seemed to have other plans for him at the moment.

Damn. The water was up to his chin now and the air was growing stale. He had minutes left at best. Treading water, he reached out for the edge of the ship, trying to trace its contours with his fingers to find a way out. As he searched, he felt a warmth upon his cheeks. Why was he crying? Was it because reality was sinking in and he knew that this was it?

Well, bugger that! Steeling his jaw, he doubled his resolve and decided no matter what he wasn't going to give up.

With trembling fingers, he outlined the curve of the wall, finding no gaps, only a roof getting closer and the water getting higher. Inches left to his life. Seconds, not minutes.

His head dipped below the surface against his will. He rose up, fighting for the last few gulps of air. Fighting. He just needed to keep fighting. With his last mouthful of air, he yelled out, "HELP!" as loudly as he could.

But it was too late.

And he was swallowed up by the sea, welcomed into the dark.

It burned his lungs.

It froze his skin.

His eyes saw nothing but the ghosts of his past floating next to him.

Endless black.

And then…

Light!

A dazzling burst of light surrounding him, pulling him up.

A golden, shimmering light in the shape of a hand, stretching out and beckoning on to take it.

Finding one more hidden reserve of strength, he outstretched his fingers towards the hand and grabbed on.

…

The ache in his chest subsided as air reached them again. His muscles pumped away in the cold water, keeping him afloat. And above him, a canopy of stars welcomed him back. He blinked, shaking the wet hair out of his eyes and looked up.

Floating, no, standing upon the water was a woman. Her hair glowed like starlight and her eyes met his with sad understanding. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And in her eyes, he saw his own loneliness reflected back.

Finding his voice somehow, he called out, "Are you an angel?"

She shook her head in confusion, but said nothing.

"Who are you?"

She leant down, so close to him that he could see the flecks of green in her eyes, even in the darkness. How she was floating there, or how she had rescued him never occurred to him to ask. He was too captivated by her beauty, her ethereal grace, the way her face was curtained by the glowing gold locks. She was mere inches now, and despite the freezing temperature of the water, his whole body felt flushed with heat from the longing in her eyes. A soft hand came out to stroke his cheek and he shuddered, leaning into the touch. Not a vision, not his mind playing tricks. She was real.

"Please," he whispered, not even sure what he was asking, if it was her name, her purpose for saving him, or if he was just begging her to continue touching him like he meant something to someone.

Against all expectations, she brushed her lips against his, and his eyes shuttered closed against his will. For the barest hint of a second her lips pressed against his, filling him with need like he had never known before. And then... nothing.

But before he could open his eyes, before he could beg for her to stay, he heard a voice, like the whisper of the wind, saying, "Find me."

And just as mysteriously as she arrived, she was gone.

...

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