Beta/Edited by Peaceheather

*passes out waders and umbrellas* Sorry, loves, you're going to get a bit damp this chapter.

Chapter 12

Emma has no idea how long it takes for them to reach the top.

The handholds as they near the plateau grow fewer and farther between. A few feet from the top, she realizes that there's too much distance between where she is and where she needs to be, and nothing at all to grab on to. Hook, at her side, comes to the same conclusion. He glances down, then with a snarl, he slams his hook into the stone face, embedding it deeply into the surface like a piton. He offers her his hand.

"Here," he says. "I'll give you a leg up."

Clinging like a spider to the cliff-face isn't the easiest thing to do. Her right shoulder is a tempest of agony, her hands feel sliced to shreds, and she's thankful her toes are nearly numb from the cold, otherwise they'd be bitching about being squished into too thin crevices. Under normal circumstances, with absolutely anyone else, the idea of letting go and trusting them not to let her fall would be unthinkable.

Emma chances a single look down. The water surrounds the rock, deep enough now that she cannot see the ground at all, and most of the rubble is below the surface. Emma meets his gaze, nods once, then puts her foot in his hand and lets him boost her the remaining distance. She scrabbles frantically at the smooth surface for a moment before finding a handhold; with effort she hauls herself up over the edge. Once she's sure she's not going to slide off, she swivels around on her stomach and extends her hand to him. He clasps it tightly, and with Emma as his anchor, he climbs up beside her.

The top of the plateau domes slightly, the slope gentle enough that they are able to crawl a few feet away from the lip. When they finally stop to sit, Emma feels tired enough to collapse; instead she props herself against his shoulder. Her hands are a mess, covered in a crust of frozen blood. The cuts aren't too deep, but they sting, so she lays her wrists on her bent knees and lets them dangle uselessly. She leans her head on Hook's shoulder and looks back the way they came.

Something seems odd, and it takes her a moment to realize that it's because the horizon is higher than it ought to be, the land has completely disappeared under the rising water. It's like someone turned on a hose underwater and now everything is filling up. She tries desperately not to think about what will happen if it rises far enough to reach them. There are no other peaks or mountains or hills. They're alone on an island, in the middle of an ocean of despair.

Hook stares out at the horizon, his eyes flat and empty as the sky. Despite the run, he still looks cold and distant, his expression bleak. Emma never thought she'd miss Captain Innuendo, but right now she would pay for him to leer, even just a little. Instead he remains silent.

Emma closes her eyes; nothing has gone right since she got here. Hook has given up on life, and Emma figured out too late that she hasn't given up on love.

"I'm sorry the kiss didn't work," she says, and she means it. But the hole in her heart that she'd thought he could fill aches with the knowledge that whatever was between them can never be enough. Friendship, or even reluctant partnership in the face of giants or curses, isn't the same thing as love.

"False hope is worse than no hope at all," she mutters, half to herself.

"Sorry you came after me?"

Emma opens her eyes, startled that he'd even heard her.

"No," Emma says. "I mean, yeah, I'm not real thrilled with this particular turn of events but ... I sewed you up with my bare hands, and then I watched you turn to gold. I thought you were going to die. And ... and I couldn't lose you like I lost Graham. I couldn't. So, no … I can't be sorry for trying to save you. I'm just sorry I—I'm sorry it wasn't enough."

His eyes are hooded, and he studies her from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. "Ridiculously heroic," he says, eventually. "You'd save even those of us who don't deserve saving."

"How do you know what you deserve?"

He flashes her that smile that isn't really a smile. "Oh, I think I know what I deserve better than most. I fought for it, after all."

"This is what you wanted?" Emma asks, incredulous.

"So it would seem." His hook gently snares her wrist and pulls her hand closer to him. "This is getting to be a habit, darling," he says, peering at the shallow slices across her palm.

"Got anymore scarves?" she deadpans, less because it's funny and more to distract herself from the situation. If she thinks about all of it, she's going to freak out, and freaking out has never gotten anyone anywhere.

His icy fingers gently trace a frost-edged cut, but the shiver it sends through her doesn't seem to be connected to the cold. "You kept it," he says, voice quiet. "Why?"

"What?" Emma frowns at him, but his eyes are on her palm.

"After you left me in the hospital, you took my hook. I found it in a desk drawer in your office, hidden beneath my scarf of all things."

"Oh. Right. That."

"Why did you keep my scarf?" His voice is low, barely a rumble in his throat. It sends a shiver up Emma's spine. Or maybe that's from his cold fingers tracing the lines in her palm.

Oh, who the hell is she kidding? It's him.

It's just him.

Exhausted, Emma bends her head and stares at the rock between her feet. "I'm not really ... used to someone … anyone taking care of me," she admits. "I didn't … I didn't want to lose that."

His jaw tightens, and then he sighs. "I wanted to see your face," he says.

"Huh?"

"You asked why I came to you," he says, his fingers still doing that slow, icy dance over her hand. "I wanted to see your face. It was selfish, really. Greedy." He laughs, softly, and Emma turns to look at him incredulously. "I wanted you to frown at me. To give me that look you have, like I'd just done something wicked and you were attempting to be disappointed in me. Then I wanted to make you smile. When you look at me ... I don't want you to stop."

Emma's hand trembles in his. His thumb kneads the base of her palm absently. "You make me feel. You make me want to forget. You give me hope. I think I hated you for that, a little," he says. "I am sorry your kiss didn't work. You shouldn't have to pay for my faults. This is my fate, it should never have been yours."

"It was my choice," Emma says.

"It was the wrong choice."

Emma nods. "Maybe. But it was mine to make."

His eyes meet hers, and Emma feels for the first time like there's something stirring in those black depths. "I would send you back, if I could. Your lad will be missing you. And ... Neal."

Emma shoots him an incredulous look and jerks her hand out of his. "Oh, not you, too. Why does everyone think I want to get back together with Neal?"

"Forgive me the assumption, but he is the great love of your life, is he not?"

"God, I hope not," Emma says, exasperated. This is the last conversation she wants to be having, what with certain death creeping steadily toward her; yet she can't help venting the frustration that's been building in her ever since she found Neal again. "It's hard to love someone when they do to you what he did to me."

Now Hook does look at her, faint curiosity creasing his brow. "What did he do?"

She hasn't told anyone this story, mostly because she doesn't want them to feel sorry for her. And she doesn't want to poison them against Neal when Henry so obviously adores his father. Maybe it's because she knows Hook won't pity her, and he clearly knows Neal well enough that she doubts what she says will come as much of a surprise.

In any case, her mouth opens and she finds herself saying, "Oh, the usual. Set me up. Let me take the fall for a crime he committed. Turned me in to the cops, sent me to jail. Then he up and vanishes for ten years. Meanwhile, I had to give birth in prison and put my kid up for adoption ... I was only seventeen. Talk about having to grow up fast, right? Ugh."

Emma wraps her arms around her knees, though whether she's trying to keep herself warm or prevent herself from hitting something, she's not sure. "When I found him again, I asked him why. I mean, you'd think he'd have a good reason for that kind of thing, right? But no, he did it because fucking Pinocchio told him to." Emma sighs, exhausted with the entire topic. "I thought he loved me. Maybe he did. He just … feared his father more."

"He is his father's son," Hook says. There's that low current of anger in him again.

"Milah's, too, though. Right?"

"Aye, which is why I won't kill him," he says. "Although, I confess, the urge to beat him makes my fist ache."

"With you there, buddy," Emma says.

"A fitting name he's chosen for himself, I must say. Implies cowering on one's knees." His tone is lighter than she's heard it since she got here, and when she looks at him the corner of his mouth is turned up fractionally, as if it wants to smile.

Emma chuckles. "Yeah, well. Henry adores him. And I can't tell Henry because … I want him to have a chance with his father. I can tell he wants us back together, but he won't listen when I tell him it's not gonna happen."

"Isn't it?" he asks, quietly.

"No. I mean—sure, I loved him. Once. But that was a long time ago. When you find out your parents are sort of the gold medalists in the True Love Olympics, it kinda changes your standards, you know? I think mine are set a lot higher, now, than Neal can ever reach."

The hint of a smile vanishes as abruptly as it appeared, and he scowls. She glances at him curiously. Hook's fingers fidget against his knee, then he clenches his hand into a fist. "Shame you wasted a kiss on a lost cause, then."

Emma stares. He seems almost dejected. She thinks back over their arguments and conversations since she'd told him how she'd attempted to wake him and suddenly things start to take on a new perspective.

"Wait a minute, you ... you thought that was a pity kiss?"

"True love's kiss only works if it's true love, darling. Your intentions were noble, and appreciated in the spirit they were meant, but I fear I'm much too far gone to meet your standards, princess."

She blinks. "You know, for a guy who can read me like a book most of the time, I think you might have skipped a few pages."

Hook drags his gaze away from the rising water and meets hers with a puzzled frown. "Pardon?"

"You're an idiot." He blinks at her in shock. "Do you even know why I went to New York with Gold?"

"I assumed you'd bargained with him for some favor and the price was your assistance," he says flatly. His lip is curled in an expression of mild distaste.

"Yeah, well the price was getting Neal to talk to him. But I went to New York because he threatened to kill you. I went to protect you."

Hook stares at her. "Why? I've given you little reason. Why would you—?"

"Because I care about you, okay?" Emma's eyes burn. "And in my family, we fight to protect the people we love."

The words are out of her mouth before she's even aware of what she's saying. By then it's too late to recall them. He stares at her, his black eyes startled and wide; Emma wishes she could slap herself.

"Look, I know I will never compare to Milah. I know you've loved her for three hundred years, and given the chance you'd love her for three hundred more but—"

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Emma, I—"

But whatever Hook was about to say is lost when she yelps, suddenly, and scrambles to her feet. They've been so distracted that Emma hadn't even noticed the water coming up over the edge, not until it touched the tip of her boot. The freeze is instantaneous. Emma hauls him up to stand beside her and then stares with growing dismay as their sanctuary begins to shrink, inch by inch.

"There's got to be a way out of this," she says. "This can't be how it ends." Emma stands and looks out at the black sea and the empty sky. There isn't even the glimmer of light anywhere. They're completely stranded.

Hope, Emma knows, can be a stubborn thing, especially when you've been without it for so long—but even hope can be drowned. She clasps his frozen hand and wishes with all her might for some kind of miracle.

Water washes over her feet, ice cold and merciless. Emma can feel the pain and misery tugging at her, even through her leather boots. It grips her feet tight, as though it wants to yank her right off the rock.

Hook pushes her toward the center of the rock, giving her the highest ground possible. It's not much, only a few inches, but it's all he can give her.

A minute more, and the water covers her ankles and oozes steadily up her calves. Her feet begin to slip on the smooth rock, and Emma instinctively wraps her arms around Hook's waist to anchor herself. He pulls her into his arms and for a moment she pretends that they're back in the giant's lair, and that the worst thing they have to worry about is a trip wire and an opiated giant.

His hand cups her face and tilts it toward his.

"Emma, I—I didn't mean for it to come to this. Not for you," Hook says. He stares at her, his expression desperate, and Emma knows that this is it; this is how it's going to end unless something miraculous happens.

The water creeps past her knees, flowing faster now that it has a taste of them. It's cold; so, so cold, and Emma can feel the despair tightening its grip on her. "Don't suppose you have any last-minute escape plans?"

"Not unless you know how to fly," he says sardonically.

Emma slides her hands up his back to clutch at his shoulder blades as she feels the water rise up over her thighs. "Fresh out of fairy dust."

… never going to get home, never going to see Henry again, or my parents, and I failed at this, I'm not enough, what guy could ever love me, I'm too broken, too...

Emma presses her face into his shoulder and tries to block the thoughts from her mind. His arms lock tight around her. A panicked little laugh escapes. "Got any happy thoughts?"

"Not even—"

He goes still. Perfectly still, as if he's been turned to gold once more.

The water rises sluggishly another inch or two, almost as if it's hesitating to see what he'll say. Emma pulls back just enough to look at his face. There's an odd expression on it, like he's just remembered something crucial.

"... One," he says softly. "Just one."

Killian blinks, slowly. His dark lashes lift—and his eyes are blue. Blue like the sea on a sunny day. Blue as the clearest summer sky.

A smile spreads across his face, and it's like the dawn rising. Emma has no idea what the hell he's grinning about; all she can feel right now is the cold misery climbing past her hips. The flow is now swift and certain, almost vindictive.

"You," he says, and laughs, bright and carefree. "You bloody, brilliant, wonderful woman." Even though the water is still rising, color washes over his cheeks, chasing away the frost. He looks at her and grins, cocky and self-assured and vain as a rooster about to crow. "You, Emma. Just you."

"Jones?"

"I preferred it when you called me Killian," he says with a wink. "In fact, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to scream it again. Perhaps with a little less alarm and a little more … you know, enthusiasm."

"Is this really the right time for you rediscover your ego?" she asks, incredulous. The water yanks at her, and she realizes that her feet aren't touching the rock any longer. Bitter despair slides beneath her jacket, stealing what little breath she has left. It climbs quickly up her chest, and Emma can feel it trying to drag her under. She clutches at him to keep herself upright, and feels ice cracking under her palms. For the first time, though, it doesn't reform; all she feels beneath her fingers is worn leather.

"On the contrary, love, the moment could not be more opportune." His hand threads beneath her hair to cup the back of her neck. His fingers are inexplicably warm and Emma wonders if hypothermia is finally starting to set in. He hitches her closer, lifting her up in his arms.

"What are you doing?" she gasps, breathless.

"I know you tried, darling, but just this once, let someone else save you."

Water curls around her throat, the cold stealing whatever response she might have made from her.

His dark head dips and he kisses her, just as the water closes over their heads and they both sink below the surface into icy darkness.

She expects the misery and despair to swallow her whole. Instead her senses are consumed by the feel of his mouth on hers, which is fortunate because it's the only thing she wants to feel. They're warm, so warm that Emma gasps slightly, her mouth opening beneath his as if she could take his warmth into her through his kiss. Killian's body seems to flush with heat. Beneath the water, all along the length of her, she can feel it radiating from him, keeping the cold at bay. His hand tangles in her floating hair, tilting her head slightly to give him a better angle. His other arm wraps tighter around her, until they're twined so closely together she feels like they're sharing the same space.

Her heart, which had been stuttering from the cold, suddenly speeds to life, fluttering wildly in her chest. Killian pulls away, and Emma, who has forgotten that breathing is even a thing, opens her eyes. To her surprise, the water isn't dark: a faint glow encompasses them, washing him in shades of blue. Killian is looking at her as if she's the most incredible thing he's ever seen. Another smile unfurls across his face, and suddenly a tiny speck of something floating beside his ear lights up like a firefly.

Then another, and another, and another.

The stardust, Emma realizes, as a hundred, and then a thousand and then a hundred thousand more tiny pinpricks of light in jewel-bright hues suddenly surround them like stars. Emma stares, wide-eyed in wonder; she can't tell whether she's floating or flying. If she reached out, she could touch them, pick them up like jewels and tuck them in her pockets.

As beautiful as the sight is, however, it can't compete with Killian. Light illuminates his face and dances in his gaze. Wherever they are now, words feel too small to contain what she feels. Instead she just looks at him, hoping he can understand the questions in her eyes. He raises his brows, though, and she can see similar questions in his.

Emma nods; even though her expression is solemn, joy makes her buoyant, bubbling inside her.

Killian smiles again, and now there's a promise hidden in the corner of his mouth, just for her.

When he bends his head to kiss her again, Emma meets him halfway. This is what she'd hoped kissing him would be like: warm and perfect.

Of course, the way he deepens the kiss and she rises to meet it may not be exactly pure, but neither of them has ever pretended to be a saint.

Her heart is brimful, all her love and happiness spilling over the top. Emma slides her right hand down to the open collar of his shirt, slipping under leather and linen until her fingers rest over Killian's heartbeat. It throbs in a rhythm that matches her own.

Magic blooms, wrapping around them in coils and curls, binding them together before bursting like a universe just being born, dissolving what little remains of the black emptiness around them and filling it, at last, with hope.

Notes: Might be a day or two before I can get 13 up. But hey ... at least it's not a literal cliffhanger, right? I love all your reviews. My beta might love them even more. She quotes them at me. ;)