Emma gasps as the man accompanying Henry walks boldly toward her, stepping into the beams of headlights as he crosses into the right lane of W. 40th Street. She turns her head to see the black sedan barreling toward him, the screech of brakes cutting through the air as it swerves and skids. The man freezes as he realizes the danger, leaping just before the car reaches him, crashing sideways onto the hood, and tumbling over the passenger side. He lands face-down on the concrete just as the vehicle finally manages to come to a halt.

"Oh my god." She checks for more oncoming traffic before running to his side and crouching. "Are you okay?"

He groans, the mesmerizing grin he was giving her moments before now replaced with a look of contorted agony. His shoulders shift as he gingerly pulls in his splayed arms and tries to push himself up with his right hand. The motion causes him to wince, and only then does she realize that he's wearing a hook over the end of his left arm. An honest-to-god hook. Like a pirate.

What the…

The man coughs and pushes up again with a grunt, and she helps haul him up to a sit in the parking lane as Henry runs across the street to join them, his eyes huge.

"Are you okay, Killian?"

The man, Killian, grimaces but manages a rueful smile for Henry's benefit while he runs his hand down the left side of his chest. "Aye, lad. Everything's intact. I think I'll live." His accent catches Emma off-guard, the smooth, British-sounding lilt as dangerously pleasant as his handsome features and his easy smile.

She doesn't get much time to contemplate it, as the driver, a young, gangly twenty-something with dirty brown hair who wears the T-shirt of a private delivery company hurries up, looking incredibly anxious. "I'm so sorry, man," he says, his speech heavily Long Islander. "I didn't see you until you were right in front of me." He runs a nervous hand through his hair, distraught. "God, my bosses are gonna kill me."

Emma eyes him sympathetically before craning her head to look at the sedan. "Is there any damage to your car?"

The young man shakes his head. "Uh, I don't think so. Couple of scratches maybe."

Emma turns back to Killian. "Do you want to report this?"

Killian squints up at her. "Report this… to whom?"

That's good enough for her. Emma gives the young man a kind smile. "I think you're off the hook. We won't tell anyone if you won't."

The youth gapes at her, relief written all over his face. "Really?"

She grins. "Really." She nods in the direction of his car, which sitting on the side of the road with the hazard lights on. "Better get going before more people see. Just be more careful, okay?"

The young man nods eagerly. "Omigod, thank you, Ma'am. Sir." He gives Killian one last apologetic look. "Again, I'm really, really sorry."

Killian nods and waves the driver off as he hurries back to his car.

Henry leans down with his hand out. "First thing you gotta learn about New York," he says as he tugs on Killian's elbow and helps pull him to his feet, "You gotta be careful crossing the street. Drivers here can be a little crazy."

Killian grunts again, rising to his feet. "I see that."

Emma taps her son on the shoulder. "Um, Henry?" she says. "Who's this guy?"

Henry gestures enthusiastically. "Mom, this is Killian. Killian, my mom."

"Pleasure, Milady." Killian dusts his hand off on his coat in order to offer it to her, but the contact causes him to wince, and he glares at his injured palm. "Uh…" He motions with the hand awkwardly, somehow transforming from suave and weirdly formal to adorable in the blink of an eye, and gives her a regretful smile. "Apologies."

Her features soften, and she nods with understanding. "Uh, Emma." She mentally kicks herself for the way her voice croaks a little. Holy crap, Swan. Get a grip. Emma hurriedly clears her throat and steps forward to peer at the deep abrasion marring the base of his hand, the skin grated and covered in pavement debris. She makes a face. "Nasty gravel tattoo."

He looks up at her. "Sorry?"

"Your hand," she clarifies. "The scrape." She pulls out the small flashlight attached to her key ring and clicks it on, inspecting his wound under the bright beam. "You need to get this cleaned out."

Killian hums. "Agreed." He hunches forward a little and reaches beneath his long leather coat to pull out a flask in a weather-beaten leather cover. "Would you be so kind as to do the honors?"

Emma eyes the flask quizzically. "What? What are you doing?"

He frowns, still holding it out to her. "Cleaning the wound. I could use some assistance though. If you hadn't noticed," he says patiently, lifting his hook, "I left my other hand at home."

Deep furrows crease Emma's forehead. She cannot even begin to list the number of things about this situation she doesn't understand. "What's in there?" she asks, eyes darting back to the flask.

He shrugs. "It's rum."

"Rum," she repeats flatly. "Really? What is this, the 1700s?" She shakes her head. "Put that thing away. Henry, get the first aid kit and some water."

Henry runs around to pop the hood on the Bug so he can get her emergency pack out of the boot, and Emma ignores Killian's offended expression. "Seriously. Who taught you about wound care?" she chides. She waits for him to stow his flask before beckoning with her fingers, and he complies with her unspoken request, his expression unreadable as he lays his hand, palm up, in hers. Emma makes a show of examining his abrasion with her flashlight again, trying to ignore the inexplicable way the warm touch of his skin sends a shiver down her spine.

Killian harrumphs. "I'll have you know that I've survived far worse than this."

She snorts, not looking up. "Yeah? Well it's a miracle you haven't died of gangrene."

Henry returns with her supplies and opens the bottle of drinking water before handing it to her. "Here, Mom."

She smiles. "Thanks, kid. Grab the antibiotic ointment, gauze, and some of that Coban wrap." She shoots Killian an arch look. "Hold still."

To his credit, Killian doesn't argue further, allowing her to slowly empty the entire bottle over his wound without complaint, his folded lips the only indication of any discomfort. Emma sneaks glances at his face as she pours. She does feel sorry for the guy. Getting hit by a car seems like a guaranteed way to ruin your night. Thank goodness for the man's quick reflexes; his injuries could have been severe if he'd failed to jump when he did.

She clears her throat again as she continues to rinse out his wound. "Henry, you wanna tell me what you guys were up to before Killian got himself hit by a car?"

"Hey!"

"Um, Killian kinda needs our help, Mom," Henry answers cautiously, preemptively cringing in a way that she knows doesn't bode well. "And… he needs a place to stay for a little while."

What? Emma's eyes narrow, and she angles her head skeptically. She knows her son has a heart of gold, but when she saw him leading Killian over to her car, she thought Henry might be wheedling a donation to a historical society out of her or trying to set her up with a replacement for Walsh, with whom he's has always been kind of lukewarm. She was not expecting her son to be bringing some weirdo (albeit an insanely attractive weirdo) in a pirate costume home with him from the library like a stray puppy. She starts to shake her head. "Oh Henry, I don't think—"

"Please Mom? It's really important. It's a long story, but I promise we'll tell you on the way home." Henry swaps her the other first aid items for the now empty bottle and gives her a pleading expression that she knows for a fact is well-practiced.

Emma looks away from her son's big, hopeful, hazel eyes and focuses on squeezing ointment over Killian's scrape and then covering the wound with clean gauze. "How about you tell me right now, before we let the stranger get into our car?" She glances at Killian as she anchors one end of the self-adhesive wrap to his hand and begins to loop a couple layers of it snugly around the abrasion, passing the roll alternately on either side of his thumb in order to cover the gauze completely. "No offense." She tears the end of the wrap off the roll and smoothes it down.

Killian grins, his dancing eyes fixed on her in a way that's giving her unwanted palpitations. "None taken, lass." He admires her work, rotating his hand back and forth and wiggling his fingers. "Remarkable. Thank you."

Emma cracks a wan smile and tucks the unused portion of the wrap back in the first aid kit. "Start talking, kid." She goes to store the kit back in the boot of her car, Killian and Henry trailing after her.

Henry launches into a fantastical story about another realm where storybook characters live, about pirates and an evil queen and a giant opal and a magic portal, and Emma feels her heart sink lower and lower the longer he rambles. She's usually proud of what good instincts Henry has, but he's always been a dreamer, in love with stories and fantasy, and he's clearly been taken in by the charm of this man who is certainly either delusional or a con. She arches a brow at Killian when Henry identifies him as the legendary Captain Hook. Her critical eye flits this way and that as she takes in the details of his costume with a frown, surveying his hook again before noting the sword on his belt and the way his half-unbuttoned shirt shows off his chest hair like some trashy romance novel lothario. Which is ridiculous and doesn't do a thing for her. At all.

Henry pulls on her sleeve, and she rips her attention away from Killian to look back into her son's eager face.

"So can we help him, Mom? Please?"

Emma sighs heavily and places a hand on her son's shoulder. "Henry…"

"I know it sounds crazy," Henry admits, "But I think he's telling the truth."

Her eyebrows pinch together, her expression pained. She stares hard at Henry for a moment, at the absolute belief and urgency etched in his features. She's always prided herself on taking her son's concerns seriously, on listening to him the way no one ever listened to her as a child. Emma wets her lips grimly. "Why?"

Henry's face brightens, and he turns to Killian. "Show her the Sea Star."

Killian obliges and produces an enormous oval stone filled with a spectrum of multicolored shards nestled in a creamy white background. He passes it to her readily, and Emma gapes at the way it dwarfs her hand. She runs her thumb back and forth over the flawless surface, having never seen, much less held, anything like it. She swallows. It's truly stunning, but so is the man standing in front of her, and she's been deceived by pretty faces before. "Stones can be faked," she points out numbly, giving it back to Killian.

Henry throws his head back with frustration. "Oh, come on!" He huffs. "Mom. You know there's something to this," he says, squinting at her shrewdly. "I can see it in your face. You gotta listen to your gut."

"What do you say, love?" Killian chimes in quietly. "Take a leap of faith."

Emma's eyes flash, and she looks up to fix him with a baleful stare. "I'm not your love," she replies harshly. "And I don't do faith."

Killian sighs, putting the stone away and reaching into a different pouch on his belt. "Then perhaps something more practical," he suggests. He holds out a small drawstring bag, tipping his head and encouraging her to take it. "Collateral." He smiles knowingly as she cautiously accepts it, a tiny gasp escaping her lips at the unexpected weight and the distinct clink of coins.

"What's this?" she demands.

Killian chuckles. "Gold." He digs a dollar bill out of another pocket. "I've gathered that in this world you use this paper stuff for currency, but where I come from, we use coins, and that, my dear, is a small fortune in doubloons." He smirks as Emma opens the bag and fishes out a fat coin stamped on both sides with what looks like some sort of royal seal. She holds it up between her fingers to try to see it better, her lips parted in awe. "You may hang on to it," he tells her. "If you can prove that I'm being less than truthful, the gold is yours to keep. Otherwise you agree to return it to me."

Emma looks anxiously between Killian's quietly confident face and Henry's excited grin. What the hell is happening? Henry isn't wrong – something deep within her wants to believe, a little seed of uncertainty niggling in the back of her mind, annoying her the way a gnat would in her ear. She nods at the dollar still in Killian's hand. "How did you get a hold of money?" she asks suspiciously.

He shrugs again, and somehow she knows that he recognizes her stalling tactic. "People in your Times Square seemed more than happy to give me these if I let them gather around me for a picture, whatever that means."

She snorts. For once, she doesn't doubt that could be true. She turns the doubloon over in one hand and hefts the bag in her other, weighing the gold and her options. Whoever Killian is, she doesn't think he's a physical threat to her or Henry, despite the weapons he carries. That's something she has always had good instincts about. If he's crazy, then she can help to identify him and find the people who know him. And if he's a con, well, she's not sure what he's after, since what he's just offered in gold might easily be worth more than the balance of her bank account. She looks back at Henry. For her son's sake, she supposes she can devote a few days to trying to figure out what Killian's real story is.

Her jaw twitches and she exhales audibly, dropping the coin back into the bag and yanking on the drawstring. "Fine."

Henry whoops with unrestrained excitement.

Emma ignores her son's jubilation. "Does Captain Hook have a last name?" she asks cooly.

Killian gives her a little bow. "Killian Jones. At your service." He winks. "And yours?"

Emma straightens. "Swan," she replies.

"Swan." His face splits into a slow smile as he repeats her name reverently. "I like it."

Emma chuffs, feeling slightly unsettled. Get it together. "Alright, Killian Jones," she says sternly, "Ground rules. We have a basement apartment, and we're between tenants. You sleep there. You may enter our home with permission, but the hook and the sword stay in the apartment. You do anything that's not above board or I find out you're lying about anything, we keep the money and you're on your own. Are we clear?" She gives him a hard look – harder, perhaps, than she needs to, but there's no harm in reminding him that she is not some helpless… damsel (or whatever) to be toyed with.

His eyes gleam with amusement, which would be charming if it wasn't also a little infuriating. "Aye." He nods indulgently. "We have an accord."

She glares pointedly. "And don't think I'm taking my eyes off you for a second."

He chuckles, lips pulled into a smirk. "I would despair if you did."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Henry, get in the car," she orders, stalking around to the driver's side.

Henry happily runs to the passenger door and pulls it open, sliding the seat forward and squeezing himself and his backpack into the rear before pulling the seat back into place and motioning for Killian to come. Emma slides in on her side and tosses Henry the coins to hold on to. She watches, one brow raised curiously, as Killian makes a somewhat clumsy first attempt to get in and realizes quickly that he has to remove his sword belt in order to fit into the Bug. It's hard in this light, but she thinks she sees some ruddiness in his cheeks when he finally gets himself settled, sandwiching his scabbard between his knees and locating the handle on the door to draw it closed. Henry instructs him in the use of a seatbelt while Emma fires up the ignition and carefully pulls into the street. She'll give him one thing – if he's a con man, he's a hell of an actor.

Henry examines the doubloons as they drive and begins to pepper Killian with questions about the Enchanted Forest and life aboard the Jolly Roger. Killian seems happy to talk. He describes his ship in extraordinary detail, sounding proud and wistful ("She's a marvel. The finest in all the realms."), and when Henry asks, he confirms that Mr. Smee, Tinkerbell, mermaids, the Lost Boys, and Peter Pan (whom he simply refers to as "Pan" in a derisive tone) are all, indeed, real.

"So the part about you and Peter Pan being enemies is true?" Henry asks. "Because he cut off your hand?"

Killian frowns, his expression turning stormy. "Pan is the most treacherous villain I've ever faced," he says darkly, "But it was a different demon that took my hand."

"Oh." Henry sits back. "I thought Peter Pan was supposed to be a good guy."

Emma can see Killian's jaw clench out of the corner of her eye as the passing street lights and headlights from cars on the opposite side of the interstate cast their glow across his face intermittently. "The Pan I know is murderous and cunning, and he delights in manipulating others to bow to his poisonous will," he replies with disgust. "Heaven help the fool who finds himself beholden to him."

Henry considers this in a moment of silence as they speed south along the interstate through Greenpoint. "So how'd it happen, then?" he asks, piping up again.

Killian cocks his head toward the back seat. "What, lad?"

"Your hand," Henry says. "If Pan didn't take it, who did?"

Killian glances down at his hook and then turns back to face forward, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the road ahead of them. "That's a tale for another day perhaps," he replies quietly.

Something about the way he says it causes a wrinkle to appear between Emma's eyes, and she glances at him, spying the haunted look on his face. There's sorrow there. Regret. Loneliness. Maybe even heartbreak. Killian lapses into silence, and she can almost feel the raw emotion emanating from him. Who is this guy?

She decides to change the subject before Henry tries to press him further. "Henry, did you get your homework done while you were at the library?"

She can see her son shift in his seat in her rearview mirror. "Not completely," he admits.

"Well I guess we know what you're doing as soon as we get home, then."

"Mo-omm…"

Her lips tug into a tiny grin. "Don't 'Mom' me," she admonishes with a wry chuckle. "I agreed to help Killian and bring him home with us. I think you've used up all your brownie points for the day."

His impatient groan reaches her ears. "Fiiine."

"Let me guess. You saved the math for last."

He grumbles. "Fractions suck."

Emma hums, guiding the Bug smoothly through the mid-evening traffic . "Sorry, kid. So does searching someone's garbage for clues or having to chase a skip down on foot. But we do what we gotta do."

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In total, it takes them about thirty minutes of navigating the roads of this unimaginably expansive metropolis to reach Emma and Henry's home, which is located on a tree-lined street in an area of the city called Brooklyn. Emma pulls up in front of a narrow little townhouse, parking in a vacant spot on the side of the street. She turns the key, causing the little vehicle to fall silent, and extinguishes the lights. Killian is careful to observe how she releases her car door, and he follows suit, emerging into the cool night air and noting immediately how much quieter it is here than it was in the other part of the city. He surveys the front of the house – three floors of white-trimmed windows and a dark front door forming a uniform grid in the face of a light-colored façade. The overall effect is quaint, orderly, and inviting.

Henry pops out of the back seat and scrambles toward the wrought-iron gate, his pack flopping back and forth on his back. "Come on," he says to Killian. "I'll show you around."

"Uhn-uhn, kiddo." Emma snags the shoulder strap of her son's pack to slow him as he passes by her. "We agreed. Homework. I'll get him settled."

"But I could be quick—"

"Go." The tone of her voice is firm, but affectionate. "I'll be up soon. You guys will have plenty of time to talk tomorrow."

Henry gives a long-suffering sigh. "Okayyy." He pushes through the gate and gives a wave as he climbs the flight of eight steps leading to the front door. "'Night, Killian."

Killian grins back, raising the scabbard he still clutches in his hand in salute. "Goodnight, lad."

As Henry lets himself into the house, Emma wordlessly leads Killian past the gate and around to a door recessed beneath the front stair. She drops down the two steps leading to the basement door stoop, her keys jangling softly in her hand as she locates the proper one and uses it to let them in. Killian obediently follows when she disappears through the doorway and turns on a light inside.

The apartment is clean, and the warm lights that glow overhead shine down upon smooth, off-white walls and a floor that looks like polished wood. Rather than a set of rooms, it consists mostly of one large space, though sparse furniture designates the different areas – a brown, soft, squashy-looking sofa in a front sitting area, a small pedestal table with two chairs in a dining area next what he imagines is perhaps a little kitchen, and a bed larger and nicer than any he's ever found at an inn peeking out from behind a semi-translucent floor-to-ceiling privacy screen in the rear. A staircase which leads up to the main house is tucked along the wall across the way from the kitchen.

Emma awkwardly shoves her hands into her coat pockets as Killian sets his sheathed sword on the sofa. "Um, it's pretty self-explanatory," she says, her heels clicking hollowly on the floor as she wanders further in. "Kitchenette, bedroom, and there's a bathroom through there." She gestures toward a door in the back corner just beyond the bed. Killian finds himself overwhelmed by all the objects that he cannot identify as they pass through the kitchenette, and it must show on his face, because when Emma glances at him, she suddenly pauses.

Green. He can see in this light that her eyes are a lovely shade of grayish green and highlighted with burnt gold flecks, and though they're swirling with conflicting emotions, they soften as she notes his lost expression.

Emma waves her hand at the devices on the counter. "Do you know what any of this stuff is?" Her eyes don't leave his face, waiting to gauge his reaction.

Killian shakes his head, suddenly feeling shy and embarrassed, and scratches behind his ear. "Afraid not, love," he says. "Your world is full of many wonders that I have never seen."

She stares perturbed at him for a moment before turning away, planting her hands on her hips as she looks around. "H'oh boy." She puffs out her cheeks adorably and exhales as she considers where to start, reaching up to ruffle the hair on the back of her head. "Okay. Basics."

She takes him through what she considers to be the rudimentary necessities, namely, light switches and plumbing. She cracks a smile when he tries a switch for himself, staring enthralled at the two recessed lights above the kitchenette as they go on-off-on-off.

"That's bloody brilliant," he mutters.

"Yeah, well, you can play with the lights all you want later," she chuckles. "But let's keep moving."

He quickly forgets the thrill of the light switch when he glimpses her amused expression, highlighted by rosy cheeks and laughing eyes. Emma meets his gaze and seems to catch herself, clearing her throat and turning her head away. She lays her hand on a curved steel pipe arching over a basin and raises an eyebrow questioningly.

"Water?" he guesses. "Is that an indoor pump?"

She squints and cocks her head. "Uh… kinda. I take it they don't have faucets where you're from." She pulls lightly on a small lever attached to the base of the faucet, and it stays put in its new position even as she lets go, water pouring immediately from the faucet into the basin and straight down the drain. She moves the lever back and forth into different positions to demonstrate. "Hot. Cold. Off." The flow ceases just as quickly as it began.

Killian watches with fascination. "Marvelous."

Color rises in her cheeks prettily. "Well, at least you're easy to please. Uh, try not to use the water unless you actually need it, okay?" She glances at a couple of devices on the counter. "Coffee maker, toaster…" She shoots him a look and hastily shakes her head. "Uh, never mind. Don't bother with those."

Killian follows as she leads him toward the rear of the apartment. She shows him how to use the toilet and the shower, and this time she allows herself to appear more openly entertained by the rapturous look that appears on his face when she explains that he can bathe under hot running water. "Yeah," she tells him slyly. "Game changer."

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Emma sticks her head into Henry's room, one hand leaning on the doorjamb. "You doing okay?" she calls.

Her son, hunched over the dreaded math homework with his back to her, swivels around a little in his chair and pulls one of his earbuds out. "I guess," he says, nose wrinkled. "I might need your help with one or two of these."

She smiles encouragingly. "Do the best you can, and we'll go over it tomorrow morning before the bus comes, okay?" She points to her watch. "Lights out at nine-thirty."

"I know." He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Is Killian downstairs?"

Emma nods. "He's getting settled in the apartment. I left him down there a little while ago."

"Did you make sure he has a toothbrush?" Henry asks.

She grins and folds her arms, bemused. "A toothbrush?"

"I mean, I never thought about whether pirates brush, but he probably wouldn't have such nice teeth if he didn't, right?" Henry points out matter-of-factly, as if this is a perfectly normal conversation to have. "But I doubt he brought a toothbrush with him. I mean," he says, "It's not like he was planning on coming to our world and getting stranded here."

Emma folds her lips, resisting both the urge to laugh at her son's bizarre train of thought and her desire to argue again that Killian is less likely to be a fictional pirate captain than he is a mental health patient. "Right." She sighs, her shoulders slumping a bit with resignation. "Fine. I'll go make sure he has a toothbrush." She points. "Youget back to the books."

Satisfied, Henry nods agreeably and turns back to his homework, and she spins on her heel and pauses, wondering what toiletries a man fancying himself a pirate might need, before heading for the bathroom.

She ends up collecting a couple of extra towels, a spare roll of toilet paper, toothpaste, a new toothbrush, shampoo, and a bar of soap, tossing the items into a small woven rush basket. A thought occurs, and Emma detours to her bedroom and digs a package out from the recesses of her small bedroom closet. She bites her lip, a little conflicted, as she pulls out the pajama set, fingering the fabric. It's the only adult male clothing she has in the house, and she'd intended this to be a gift for Walsh, but she supposes it's worth the sacrifice if it keeps Killian from having an excuse to sleep in his underwear (if he wears underwear)… or less. She squeezes her eyes shut. Stop it, Emma. She should not be contemplating what their disturbed guest looks like without his clothes on. She may have agreed to let him use the apartment and to help investigate his situation further, but he's still a strange man who's probably suffering from weird, if harmless, delusions, and she has a serious boyfriend. Who's asked you to marry him, she reminds herself with an inward groan. She puts the thought aside, not wanting to deal with it right now. Emma huffs and squares her shoulders, hastily tossing the pajamas into the basket on top of the towels and toiletries and heads downstairs, hollering over her shoulder to Henry that she's going down to the apartment.

"Hello?" she calls, descending the staircase, the wood cool against her bare feet. "Killian?"

"Back here, love!" His voice comes from the rear, and she follows it.

"I brought you some stuff I thought you might—" Emma halts in her tracks as she walks past the privacy screen into the sleeping area and glances up. The bathroom door is wide open, affording her a full view of Killian standing next to the shower… in nothing but a towel. He's facing away from her and fiddling with the shower handle, and her heart begins to race, a series of expletives firing off in rapid succession in her mind.

The white cotton is slung low around his hips, and the light from the vanity sconce throws subtle shadows that highlight the contours of the muscles in his back. As he rotates toward her, she can see that the chest hair she absolutely did not find attractive earlier dusts his well-defined pecs and narrows into a line that trails downward over his flat stomach, disappearing below the towel's edge. Silvery scars and bruises of various sizes are scattered across his torso, a particularly large and nasty explosion of purplish-blue partly visible over his left side. His arms are muscular, the right a little more so than the left, and she glimpses a flourishing, medium-sized black and red tattoo halfway up his right forearm. Any doubts she had about whether the hook is a real prosthetic disappear when she also notes the stump at his left wrist and the faintly shiny imprint of straps circling his left forearm that she presumes are from the brace he wears.

He notices her, his face spreading into a impish grin, and Emma swears some more under her breath as two thoughts come roaring to the forefront: She's no expert, but Killian Jones' body pretty much screams "fairytale pirate" (amongst other things). And she is in over her head on so many levels.

"No need to stand on ceremony, Swan," he says smugly, as though he can read all of her unwanted thoughts. "You can come in."

Emma rolls her eyes, willing her face not to flush. She's a big girl. She can handle one guy and his massive ego, ridiculous sex appeal be damned. "I, um, thought you might need these," she says, clearing her throat and bringing her haul into the bathroom. She is careful to avoid looking at him as she sets the basket down on the vanity counter and walks him through the contents.

When she gets to the pajamas, she shakes out the gray T-shirt and the blue pants so he can see. "I hope these fit okay. Thought you might like to sleep in something other than black leather."

His flirtatious smile fades as Killian has the decency to look touched. "It's a grand gift. Very thoughtful. Thank you." He points at the logo that graces the shirt. "What are 'mets'?"

She chuckles. "The New York Mets. It's a baseball team." She glances back up and sees him looking at her warmly, his steel blue eyes shining with gratification. "What?"

He smiles almost shyly. "It's nothing, Swan. It's just that you have a lovely smile. I quite prefer it to all the scowling."

She gives a fake scowl on cue. "Careful there, Captain," she warns, narrowing her eyes playfully and risking a look below his neck long enough to wave her index finger at the giant bruise on his flank. "You have all sorts of sore places I can make you hurt."

Killian laughs, a low rumble that reverberates from his chest and makes her stomach flip flop. "I like you, Swan," he says, dimples flashing. "You'd make one hell of a pirate."

Emma rolls her eyes and forces herself to take a step back, but not before a self-satisfied grin curves her lips. She crosses her arms. "You got pretty banged up by that car," she observes.

"I'm fairly certain these aren't all from the car." Killian turns back toward the shower, sticking his fingers beneath the water to re-check the temperature. "I realize you don't have any experience with this sort of thing, but one does not defeat a sea hag, escape a murderous queen, and travel between realms by magic portal without a few marks to show for it."

Emma drops her eyes to her toes and nods awkwardly, still not sure what she thinks about his story. "Right. That." She takes a deep breath and angles herself toward the door. "Well, I should go. I have work to do." She bites the corner of her lip, nodding toward his bandage. "You, um, you should replace that dressing with a dry one after your shower. I've got the supplies upstairs. Just knock on the stair door." Arms still folded over her chest, she absently rubs her bicep with one hand and shoots him a last quick smile before ducking her head and walking away.

"Swan."

She pauses and turns.

Killian gives her a nod, a solemn expression of gratitude on his face without a trace of bravado. "Thank you."

The corner of Emma's mouth lifts as she nods back.