Prompt: No Curse!AU. Enchanted Forest. Killian works as a guard for the Charming family. Princess Emma makes his life a living hell (and he loves it.)

I approached this one loosely, and I am going really really AU with it. No regrets.

.

.

When Emma is seven, a young boy is brought to the castle.

He shuffles in quietly behind a group of prisoners—pirates, she thinks she hears the guards whisper excitedly—his hands tucked behind his back, a fierce expression etched into his little face.

Emma hides behind an empty suit of armor as she watches her parents give individual sentencing. Most get imprisonment, though a few younger men are merely banished. When they get to the boy, who can't be much older than she is, her mother lets out a small gasp.

His face caked with dirt and sea salt, his black hair is scruffy and sticking out in all possible directions, and his dark eyebrows are knotted deeply into his forehead.

Her parents exchange glances. The boy stands proudly, never breaking eye contact with her father, but his lip quivers, just slightly.

"Hello, boy," her mother says finally, her voice soft.

"Give me my sentence," the boy bellows back. Emma's eyes widen; no one yells at her mother. Not necessarily out of fear of doing so, but because Snow White is so beloved by all. "I can take it!"

Rather than angry, Snow only looks bemused. "What's your name, honey?"

This gives the boy pause. He finally tears his gaze away from her father, looking at Snow with wide eyes. Even from where she hides, Emma is surprised at how bright they are, blue as forget-me-nots, her favorite flower. "K-Killian Jones," he says slowly, his voice guarded.

"That's a lovely name, isn't it, Charming?" Snow turns to her husband, smile growing. Her father returns the smile, a knowing look passing over his face.

"Where are your parents?" He asks.

The boy—Killian—drops his eyes to the floor and presses his lips together. A guard leans into Snow's ear and whispers an answer, which she passes along to Charming. Emma strains her ears to hear, but she can't make out what they're saying.

The armor makes a slight rattle as she presses into it, and Killian's eyes dart over, landing on her instantly. The ghost of a smirk flashes over his face, which he quickly clears as her parents bring their attention back to him.

"Guards," Snow calls suddenly, and Emma's little heart slams against her chest. Killian glances to her with a worried look, or maybe even a silent plea. "Would you kindly take young Killian to the kitchens? See to it that he has his fill. And please tell Johanna that I found the extra set of hands she's been asking for, would you?"

Confusion sweeps over Killian's face, his mouth dropping and eyes narrowing. The guards shuffle up behind him, ready to lead him away, when Snow's hand darts up, signaling pause.

"That is," Snow adds, eying him carefully, "if Killian wants the job. You always have a choice; you're free to go, sweetie, but if you stay, you have a home with us."

Killian runs his tongue along his teeth, inclining his head with thought, exchanging looks with Emma out of the corner of his eye. He flicks his gaze back onto her parents, and without saying a word, turns to face the guards, nodding. One of the men places a hand on his shoulder and leads him off.

As they round the corner, just before they disappear from sight, he glances over his shoulder at Emma, a smirk full on his mouth.

She's relieved to see him look pleased, but has a feeling that she hasn't seen the last of that smug little smile.

When Emma is fourteen, she has to learn how to dance.

Somehow, he always picks the worst times to come barging in, and this instance in particular will have her cringing out of embarrassment later that night. Killian knocks at the door but doesn't get it open more than a crack before she cries out in protest. But he doesn't listen, and barrels on through anyway. When Killian's eyes land on her, he nearly drops the tray of food he carries, doubling over with laughter.

"Shut up," she hisses, her face burning. The books balanced on her head drop to the floor a moment later, to which he only laughs harder. "What if I had been indecent, or something? You can't just waltz in here—"

"Oi," he clucks, finally catching his breath, "my apologies, Princess. But I figured you wouldn't be undressing for lunch. Then again, I know nothing of propriety, so perhaps its fashionable to dine in undergarments."

Emma rolls her eyes, striding to him and plucking a pear from the tray. "You're hilarious," she says dryly, biting into the fruit.

He eyes the books, now splayed on the floor. "They have bags for carrying books, you know. Or better yet," he adds, eyes widening, "hands for it too, if it the situation is truly dire."

"I have to learn how to walk proper, or something, before I can master this dance style," Emma glowers, deflating into a nearby armchair. "My first ball is coming up, and Mother is nearly pissing herself with excitement."

Killian smirks down at her. He is now a full head taller than she is (and loves to remind her of that), and, at age sixteen, he is probably due for a promotion soon. The way he's growing, the title of "kitchen boy" will soon no longer fit.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, darling, but proper princesses don't say 'piss' either."

"Yeah well, I ain't proper," Emma snaps back, sighing as she eyes the books on the floor. She takes another bite of her pear, not bothering to swallow before she speaks. "And I'll never get the hang of the footwork anyway. I'm too clumsy."

She expects him to make a crack at her, unprepared for the soft smile that lingers on his lips. "You're too hard on yourself, love," he says, leaning against a table with his arms folded.

"I'm not, I'm just…self-aware."

He eyes her dubiously. "I doubt that very much, Emma." Before she can ask what he means, however, he swiftly crosses the room, plucking one of the swords from the walls. Juggling it from hand to hand for a moment, he drops into a fighting stance, the blade tipped in her direction.

"You know milady, sword-fighting is much like dancing," Killian says, shuffling his feet as he spars an invisible opponent. "It's all in the feet, knowing where your partner will step, what move they plan to make. You're more than a fair fighter, Emma."

"I'm a decent archer, sure, I've got good aim—but I've never really gotten a handle on swords," Emma replies, pressing her chin into her palm. She ignores the way his eyes spark at that, knowing he has an inappropriate joke he'd like to share. But he holds his tongue. "Or dancing. Guess now I know why."

"Well, why don't I teach you?"

Her heart skips at that, and they lock eyes. "Teach me to dance?"

Killian's eyes widen. "I meant sword fight, Princess," he says, his voice tight.

"Oh, right. Of course." Stupid. Her parents may have some protest, because it's hardly formal, but then again, so is she. They'll probably prefer she get a master for a teacher, but Emma trusts Killian more than she does some fancy stranger. "Okay," she agrees, wondering why she feels so breathless at the thought of dancing with him. It's just Killian, after all, the boy she's known half her life.

"Tomorrow, then, in the gardens?" He asks, blue eyes scanning her face.

"Tomorrow."

It's just Killian, she repeats to her hammering heart. Just Killian.

When Emma is fifteen, she realizes something about just Killian.

Princess Alexandra, the daughter of her mother's good friend Queen Ella, is over for a visit. And even if sometimes Alexandra and Emma disagree on a few key points—such as what makes a good story, how to dress, or what's fun to do on a visit to town, to name a few—Emma still considers Alexandra to be close, if not because she's her only female friend.

"What do you think?" Emma asks, splaying her arms out and giving a spin.

Alexandra wrinkles her nose. "Trousers, Emma? You can't wear those to the ball."

"They're dress pants," Emma argues, in a defeated voice. She should've known what Alexandra would say; she should've just asked Killian. "My mother even approved. I thought it would be…I dunno, bold."

"Suppose," Alexandra sighs.

A knock sounds at the door, quickly followed by Killian, carrying in a tray of tea. He sets it down, and when he sees Alexandra beaming at him, he gives her a flourishingly dramatic bow. "Majesties," he says, his voice suddenly very deep.

Emma raises an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes. "Thank you Killian," she says sharply. He glances to her, a smirk dancing across his lips. Her gaze tells him very firmly she wants him to leave, which he does eventually, but not before flicking his gaze between the two princesses with a growing grin.

"Well," Alexandra says once Killian has shut the door behind him, relaxing into her lounging chair. "I can't believe that's Killian."

Bent over the teacup and pouring herself a glass, Emma looks over at Alexandra with a confused grimace. "What do you mean?"

"The last time I saw him, he was a skinny thing with absurdly knocked knees and ridiculously pointed ears," Alexandra clarifies, glancing to the door as if expecting him to walk back through it.

"His ears are still pointed," Emma mumbles, unsure why her stomach has just tightened.

"But now…" Alexandra trails off, smiling to herself. She glances back to Emma. "He's all grown up. He's very handsome, you know."

"I hadn't noticed." That was a lie. She had.

Alexandra pauses, twirling a strand of dirty blonde hair around her finger. "Shame, though. Those kind of looks are wasted on servants."

"Alexandra!"

"I'm sure he'll make some young kitchen maid very happy, Emma," Alexandra says curtly, "but he's not husband material, or anything."

"Aren't you kind of young to be thinking about that?" Emma huffs, which is all she can do not to punch her friend clean on the jaw.

"Hardly, my mother was only three years older than me when she was married," Alexandra replies, pretending not to notice the way Emma's fists are clenched.

"Your mother, the servant," Emma points out, rolling her eyes.

Alexandra considers this, glancing back to the door once more. "That's true…" She stands suddenly, smoothing over her blue skirt. "You know, I think I'm suddenly quite famished. I'm going to fetch something from the kitchens. Do you want anything?"

Besides your head? "No, I'm fine."

Emma watches her friend prance off and feels her stomach clench even more. She even feels a little dizzy at the thought of Alexandra flirting with Killian. She's seen both of them in action before, and that thought pains her. Killian and Alexandra are the two most charming people she knows—together, they'd be unstoppable.

She has the urge to run after her friend or at least take the shortcut to the kitchens and beat her to Killian, but she stops herself, feeling silly. Killian has never pretended to much like Alexandra, and besides, why does she feel so worried, anyway? It's not like she has any claim over him.

It's not like she spends hours awake at night, going over the footwork they practice every other morning, or like she ever wants to reach out and smooth out the creases that appear in his forehead whenever he glances out at the bay below the castle. It isn't like she feels the blood rush to her heart every time he wiggles one of those ridiculously dark eyebrows her way.

No. It isn't. Because he is just Killian.

But he is her just Killian, she realizes a moment later.

And she does spend more time than she feels comfortable admitting thinking about his eyes and the way he frowns when he thinks she's not looking. She does lie awake at night, wishing he'd one day teach her how to dance, too.

"Oh no," Emma exhales shakily, dropping onto a chair and burying her face in her hands. "Oh no, no."

After Alexandra leaves, Emma retires early, claiming she's not feeling well. Mostly, she doesn't want to face Killian, but she omits that information when she explains to her mother that she wants to miss dinner.

However, not long after Emma speaks to Snow, a knock sounds at the door. Expecting it to be one of her parents, Emma rests her book against her chest. "Come in," she calls from her bed, her legs propped up against the wall.

Her stomach drops when she sees its Killian, carrying a bowl of hot soup. "Your mother sent me up with some broth," he explains, gently placing it down on her bedside table.

"Okay," Emma says coolly, refusing to maintain eye contact. She picks up her book and proceeds to ignore him.

"Okay," Killian echoes slowly, wrinkling his nose. "You're not feeling well, eh?" He adds a moment later, sounding disbelieving.

"That's right."

"You look peachy, darling. What's really going on?"

Emma sits up at that, the truth poised on her lips. Instead, she says, "Nothing. I have a stomach ache."

Killian pulls up a nearby chair, draping himself over it casually. She notes how at home he always makes himself; she's never even thought of him as a servant until Alexandra pointed out he actually was one. Her parents have always been especially kind to and comfortable with Killian; sometimes, he even teasingly baits her father or he tries to flirt with her mother. Like Johanna, he's practically part of the family. Not like he's her brother, or anything, she adds to herself.

"I think I know you a little better than that, love," he chuckles. "Try again."

"It was just something Alexandra said," Emma replies finally, collapsing back down onto the bed. Well, it's not a lie.

A knowing smile passes over her friend's face. "Ah, Alexandra. Here I thought you two were best friends?"

Emma gives him a pointed look. "You're my best friend," she says flatly, before she can think twice about it.

He pauses, and she thinks she sees the tips of his ears redden. "What did she say? Not speaking ill of me with my back turned, I should hope."

She was of course, and they both know it, but admitting it would be ruining the game. Emma only grins. "You wish."

Killian sighs dramatically, tipping back in his chair and folding his arms behind his neck. "She and I had quite a chat this afternoon," he says slowly, glancing at Emma out of the corner of his eye.

Emma tries not to frown. "And?"

"Well, she told me an interesting story. One of her mother, actually—a servant girl who wished to change her life. She whisked herself off to a ball and fell in love with a prince, with whom she lived happily ever after. Bit unrealistic for most of us, and I think she may have shared the story in an attempt to woo me, but it at least sounded like a lovely tale."

"The truth is a little more gruesome," Emma glowers. "Queen Ella nearly had to sell her baby—Alexandra, to be exact—to keep her crown. She almost lost everything."

Killian's eyes darken suddenly, the air between them changing and charging. "Yes, well," he says lowly, "the things we risk for love."

When Emma is sixteen, she has her first suitor.

The son of Queen Abigail and King Frederick, Prince Gabriel has his mother's golden hair and his father's long, handsome face. He's Emma's age, and she wonders if she's quite possibly the first girl he's ever spoken to. She's seen him at balls before, hovering around a banquet table and never quite looking willing to dance, which she of course related to.

Yet at every ball that her parents throw, Emma finds herself on the dance floor, sweeping around even gracefully, if only to prove to Killian that she's been paying attention to his lessons. And maybe, just maybe, to gauge his reaction of her in the arms of potential suitors.

As he works in the kitchens, he often is a server at the massive parties in her castle, standing just beyond the crowd, looking uncomfortable (but handsome, always handsome) in his lavish uniform. He always finds her eye as she passes from partner to partner, bowing and twirling, an amused smile tight across his features. He then, as if on cue, later teases her about dresses or critiques her form, and she just spits right back a jab about the puffy-sleeved purple tunic he is forced to wear. It's a game they're both intent on winning.

"Oh, I just remembered!" Snow declares as she turns to Abigail and Frederick, bringing Emma's thoughts back to the present. "There's a new rose blooming in the south garden that you two simply must see. Charming, shall we show them?"

A small smile curves up Abigail's lips as she and her husband set down their teacups. "Sounds lovely. Gabriel, why don't you keep Princess Emma entertained while we investigate this mysterious flower?"

Emma opens her mouth in protest, which Snow silences with a tight smile. Her mother ushers the other couple out, and after a moment of prodding, her father also stands, though he doesn't look too happy about it. Traitor, Emma mouths to him, to which he shrugs his shoulders helplessly.

Suddenly, they are alone. Standing off to the side, Gabriel runs his fingers along an elaborately carved table, cursing when his hands stumble over a porcelain vase. It clangs as it falls over, but doesn't break, though Gabriel acts as if it does, stammering an apology and looking as though he wants to curl into the fetal position. Emma snorts, amused and even endeared despite herself.

"Relax," she says finally, plopping herself into a chair. She's still in her riding clothes, and hadn't felt like changing even though her mother had warned her they'd have company that day. She just prefers the way the pants fit rather than one of her stuffy dresses. "I'm not going to attack you."

"I know," Gabriel snaps, flushing. "I'm sorry. Sorry. This is just…"

"It's stupid," Emma finishes for him with a dismissive wave. "The whole matchmaking thing, I mean. They're not even trying to be subtle about it."

A look of relief floods over the prince's face as he crosses the room, taking the seat next to her. He leans in, about to add something when the parlor door swings open. Killian enters backwards, swirling around as he balances two trays of cakes with practiced ease. He stops mid-hum as his eyes fall on the two, leaning in closely together, a furrow developing in his brow.

After a brief pause, he marches forward, slamming the first tray down so hard it rattles. He lets it noisily shake for a moment, glaring at Emma, before reaching out and steadying it as he places the second tray down more gingerly. "Tiny sandwiches for the lady," he says gruffly. "And her guest."

Gabriel's eyes widen at Killian's tone, terse and borderline threatening. Clearly, he's not used to being spoken to that way. Killian's eyes burn into Gabriel's, only breaking contact when Emma calls his name. "Killian," she says acidly. Why the hell is he acting so rudely? "That'll be all. Leave us, please."

"Certainly, highness," he replies just as coldly, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him.

"Well," Gabriel says finally, still looking windswept. "Forgive me if I overstep, but I daresay you may need a new kitchen boy."

Emma's irritation quickly fades into confusion as she stares after the door. She doesn't say anything; she's seen him frustrated, she's seen him annoyed, but she's never seen him quite…angry. For the life of her, she doesn't know why. But it worries her.

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?" Emma asks later, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen. An older cook glances up from her work, and with a curt smile from the princess, quickly takes her leave so that Emma and Killian are alone.

He doesn't look up, continuing to knead into the dough before him, harder than before.

Emma's frown deepens. "Are you mad at me?"

At that, Killian glances up, a flicker of surprise on his features. "Not at all. Why would you think that, milady?"

Emma takes a hesitant step forward, spreading her palms onto the countertop. She raises an eyebrow. "Well, I meant, earlier…with Gabriel—"

Killian snorts dismissively. "That had nothing to do with the pretty prince, love," he says as he aggressively beats the dough.

He's lying, despite the fact that he knows Emma can always tell. Her stomach flips. It's not like she's been hoping he is jealous, or anything (well, only a little bit). But Emma has always been able to read Killian—much in the way he can with her—so she knows something else is eating at him, something much more than petty envy.

"So what is it?"

He stays silent, eyes on his hands at work. Emma watches him for a moment before placing her own hand over his, forcing him to look at her. "Let's go take a walk." After a moment of hesitation, Killian nods, removes his dirtied apron, and lets her lead him out of the kitchen.

When they are in the gardens, Emma finally drops his hand. She tries not to think about the way she misses holding it. "Shoot," she says quietly, tucking her arms behind her.

"You haven't given me a bow."

"Killian."

He sighs, the grin dropping from his face. He should've known better than to try diversion tactics. "I've just been thinking about things," he says finally, inclining his head to her.

"Well that clears it up," Emma snorts.

"Seeing you with…the prince made me realize something, Emma," he says, causing Emma nearly to stumble. She whips her head around, eyes wide. "About my future, I mean. I don't want to be a kitchen boy forever."

Oh. Wait, what? "Well, you're about to be a kitchen man. Don't you have a birthday coming up soon?"

Killian smiles to himself, but it's not a happy one. "Me eighteenth."

The weight of the number settles over them like a thick blanket on a hot day. Emma's stomach drops, and the urge to seize his hand again is almost irresistible. Almost. "You're thinking about leaving," she says, struggling to keep her heart and voice impassive.

Killian abruptly stops walking, plopping onto a nearby fountain's edge. "Aye," he agrees quietly. He squints up at her. "My place is not in the bloody kitchen, love."

"You miss the sea," Emma says slowly, sighing knowingly.

She understands, because she knows what it feels like to be caged. She has liberty to traipse the kingdom, but never alone, always guarded, and there's a limit to her freedom. Sometimes, when she's walking in a crowd, at a party, or even passing through a market, she has the ridiculous urge to just start running, if only to see how far she can go.

"You're not going to find your father if you go," Emma adds before she can help herself, shocked at herself for saying such a thing. She of course wants him to find his father, a man he occasionally spoke of, usually fondly, wistfully—but she doesn't want him to leave her to do it. It's selfish, but it's the truth.

"You don't know that," Killian growls, standing with his fists clenched.

"He left you, Killian. On a damn pirate ship that was nearly sunk not two days later! This is your home. Here. With us." With me.

His eyes soften as they search her face, hearing the things she leaves unsaid. He opens his mouth with a reply, but closes it as they hear someone calling Emma's name. Killian's face tightens, and he gives her a curt bow, turning on his heel. She watches him go.

Ten days later, after Prince Gabriel and his parents visit one more time, Killian asks for an audience with her mother and father. The next day, on his eighteenth birthday, he boards a ship in the royal navy.

He almost leaves without saying goodbye, because he doesn't want to make it more painful for her, but he is selfish, so he wakes her an hour before he departs. She's groggy, but she knew this was coming, and insists on walking him to the docks.

Feeling bold, she takes his arm and wraps herself around it as they cross the castle bridge. He stiffens at first, wondering if she's trying to make his leave harder. They walk quietly, afraid of what they both want to say.

The sun is slowly inching up the horizon by the time they get to the docks. Other families have gathered to see sailors off, but it's early, so the crowd is sparse. He turns his back to the sun, squinting down at her. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure of the words.

"It's okay. I know why you're doing this," Emma sighs, staring at his hands. She wants to take them in her own.

"I don't think you do, Emma," Killian replies finally, in an unreadable voice.

"You're looking for your father," Emma says, but he only shakes his head.

"I don't remember much of him, but he did leave me with one parting piece of wisdom, love—he told me a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets." Killian's gaze has turned intense, hot on her skin.

Her nose wrinkles. "I don't get it. What does that have to do with you leaving?"

"I hope to explain it to you one day," he says, taking her hand.

"That's bull. Tell me now." He chuckles at that, already sounding wistful.

He sobers suddenly, as the other sailors walk past them, the rest of the families starting to dissipate. Killian doesn't know what to say, so he opts to lean in, and Emma catches the kiss that was intended for her cheek instead on her lips, throwing her arms around his neck. He freezes, hesitating only for a moment before returning the kiss, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

"What was that?" He breathes finally, resting his forehead to hers.

"Something to remember me by, I suppose," Emma smirks, glad he looks just as bowled over as she does.

He grins, eying her lips. "You suppose."

"Well, here," Emma adds, trying to calm her heart as she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a small blue box. "Your birthday present."

Smirking, he gingerly accepts it. The grin, however, drops from his face, replaced by shock, as he opens the box. "It's a compass," he says, his voice just above a whisper.

She smiles wryly. "Good to see you've still got your vision, old man. You'll need that on the seas," she quips. He glares at her briefly, but can't keep his eyes off the compass for long. It's a small piece of dark walnut wood with a delicate swan carved into the roof of it; its golden arrow rests just atop a small but brilliant green stone, one he can't help but feel he's seen before. "Is that—"

"From my mother's ring, yeah," Emma finishes for him, flushing wildly. "She gave it to me last year. Said something sappy about it following love wherever it went. I thought that was fitting for a compass, you know?"

A strange look takes over his face, perhaps like he's simultaneously the happiest and the most pained he's ever been.

"Use it to find your way back home," Emma says quietly. To me.

"Haven't you heard?" He smirks, digging his tongue into his cheeks, "I'll always find you."

Despite her wicked grin, she rolls her eyes; they both grew up hearing that story ten times over. "Original." But she knows he will.

When Emma is twenty-two, a young man returns to the castle.

His eyes are gleaming and bright against his sea-tanned skin, his hair combed, a thick coat of scruff dancing along his jaw, looking inexplicably right in his black leather sailor's uniform.

She catches him coming out of the war room, his coat draped over his arm. For a moment, she almost doesn't recognize him, her kitchen boy who returned a man. "Killian?" She breathes, half-expecting him to be a hallucination. God knows she's imagined him returning before, or yanked on the shoulders of dark-haired strangers, whipping them around, expecting them to be her just Killian, near tears when they never are.

But here he is.

He stops abruptly when he sees her, the coat dropping from his arm, looking as though all the air has just left his lungs. He rushes towards her, picking her up and spinning her around in a tight embrace. After a moment of hesitation, she relaxes into the hug, breathing in deeply.

"You're back," she whispers as he gently lowers her. Her feet are touching the ground, but she wouldn't think it from the way she feels. Suddenly, he grips her left hand, bringing it up to his face for inspection. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'd heard you'd gotten engaged," he hisses, relief flooding onto his features.

Her eyes narrow, finding herself angry despite the fact that she's overjoyed to have him back. No, not anger—fear. "Is that why you're here? To stop a wedding?"

"Are you?" Killian demands.

She lets him squirm for a moment, her face neutral, before sighing. "No, I'm not. Gabriel did propose, though. He told me you were never coming back." But she knew he would. Alexandra, who had a similar lack of faith in Killian, had encouraged her to accept the offer, advising that a match to Gabriel was smart and safe. Emma had only smiled, having long known she wanted nothing that resembled a smart or safe match.

Emma knew one couldn't appreciate the beauty of the sea without first experiencing the storm, after all.

"But you turned him down." He needs to hear her say it.

Emma nods, smiling at the way he exhales shakily, running a hand through his dark hair. She wants to kiss him, so badly, perhaps just to make sure he's still standing next to her. But she needs to know something, too. "You didn't answer my question."

He kicks at his heels, knowing he can't keep the lie from her. "It may have changed the tides a bit, yes," he replies sheepishly.

"So you're not back for me," Emma breathes, her chest tightening. Killian's neck snaps up at that, and he steps forward towards her, taking her arms in his hands.

"Did you not just hear me, love?"

"You came back to see if I was to be married, not to be with me," Emma says, wincing when he looks back to the floor. "You always said your heart was on the sea."

"Actually, no," Killian replies softly, an intense look turning over his features, "I've long realized my heart is kept ashore." Emma's expression softens, her heart melting. Stupid kitchen boy. He clucks his tongue, and shakes his head as if having a silent argument with himself. A moment later, he takes her hand in his and lacing their fingers together, leading her out of the hallway and towards the gardens. "Long ago, I told you what my father told me—"

"A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets, I know, blah blah," Emma interrupts, smirking. "Is this the part why you finally tell me why you left?"

He shoots her an annoyed, but warm, look. "It's hard to explain."

"Yeah well, I'm listening."

Killian stops suddenly, squinting, the sun in his eyes. "I've always loved you, but I didn't think I deserved you, Emma." She opens her mouth in protest, which he quickly silences with a wave of his hand. "I wanted to fight for you, to prove to you, your parents, your kingdom, that I was. That I was more than a kitchen boy."

"You didn't need to prove that to me," Emma says quietly, having gone very still. "I always knew that."

"But I didn't, Emma," Killian whispers back, catching her eye.

They are silent for a long while, eyes burning into one another. "You're still planning on going back to sea," she says finally.

"I have my eye on a captainship, milady."

She doesn't hesitate. "I'm coming with you."

"Emma—" He starts, but suddenly smirks, raking his eyes over her figure, from head to toe. There's no point in arguing with her, and he doesn't want to, anyway. He doesn't need a compass to tell him she is his heart, and his home.

When Emma is twenty-five, she marries the kitchen boy.

When Emma is twenty-eight, they have their first child—a son—nearly born on a lifeboat.

When Emma is thirty, they have their second—a girl, this time—who gives Killian more hell than she does.

When Emma is forty, she gives her son his father's compass, and tells him love will follow it wherever it goes. It does.

But that's a tale for another time.

.

.

.

Kind of an odd way to end, I know, but I didn't want to close it listing all the things that happened in Emma's life, because I didn't want to end with her death aha. But it was a happy life!

Anyway, I REALLY got carried away with this one-but I had fun. I hope it wasn't too OOC, but our two favorite orphans didn't really totally grow up orphans in this story, so. I'd love a review on this one, since it took damn near forever aha.