Pizza, Killian soon learns, is food, which, like the sandwich he had for lunch, is hot, smothered in melted cheese, and utterly delicious. His mouth waters in response to the aroma that hits his nose when he follows Emma and Henry into Marco's, a little establishment housed in an aged red brick building a few blocks from their home. The interior of the restaurant is a mixture of warm lights and cozy shadows, the walls consisting of exposed brick or wood beams, and between the happy chatter and the heady scent that hangs in the air, it's little wonder why Henry enjoys coming here every week.

Just as it was at Granny's, they're warmly greeted by the owner, an wiry older man with a polished head, a short white beard, and a kind smile. "Henry!" he says with a rich accent as he meets them at the door, "You've grown another inch this week!" He glances up curiously at Killian. "Brought a friend?"

"Marco, this is Killian," Henry explains. "He's staying with us, and," he leans closer to the old man conspiratorially, "he's never had New York pizza before."

Marco's gray eyebrows go halfway to the top of his head with mock astonishment. "Oh?" He chuckles genially and shows them to a corner table. "Well, we can certainly fix that. What should I get you today?"

Henry glances between Emma and Killian while they circle into their seats, and Emma simply grins back and shrugs. "Your call, kid."

"Pepperoni."

It's wonderfully strange to sit with Emma and Henry and listen as Emma questions her son about his day, his teachers, and his friends. To be fair, Killian has never really had the opportunity to watch mothering up close like this, to see the fond looks Emma gives her son when the boy is and isn't paying attention or the glint of amusement in her eye as he rambles excitedly about "trick-or-treating" and something called a "sleep-over" at his friend Avery's house tomorrow. Killian finds himself enchanted by the way she smiles at Henry, the soft joy on her face leaving no doubt that for all her grit and sarcasm, Emma Swan also loves being a parent. It makes his heart hurt a little, and he isn't sure if it's because the she's so bloody beautiful or because he wishes he could remember his own mother well enough to know whether she looked at him or his brother the same way.

A long strip of paper strikes his cheek head-on, and Killian turns to see Henry giggling with the tip of what looks like a translucent tube between his lips.

"Henry!" Emma scolds. The effect is somewhat diminished by the upturn of her mouth.

Killian grins and pulls the wrinkled scrap from his lap, inspecting it with a peaked eyebrow. "What's this?"

"Straw wrapper," Emma supplies, pulling another one of the tubes off the table, this one wrapped in an identical white paper sleeve. She tears the end off the paper and puts the exposed end of the tube inside in her mouth, turning toward Henry and giving a little puff. The wrapper shoots off the end of the straw and nails her son square between the eyes.

"Hey!" Henry winces and laughs.

The boy continues to entertain Killian by introducing him to soda, a miraculous beverage that tastes like an over-sweet, effervescent nectar. Henry demonstrates how to use a straw to suck the liquid from the cup and, much to Emma's chagrin, how to blow bubbles in the bottom of the glass.

Dinner arrives, the enormous, shield-sized pizza covered with a golden layer of melted cheese and dotted with uniform cuts of a crisp, red sausage. Marco sets it up on a little metal stand so that the pan hovers a few inches above the table and then distributes plates before acknowledging Emma's thanks with a nod and giving Henry a little pat on the back as he walks away. Henry is adamant about showing Killian the proper way to consume a slice, folding his in half lengthwise and then flopping the tip of the triangular piece into his open mouth, a huge, satisfied smile pulling at his ears when he rips off the bite and chews. The lad appears quite happy with Killian's first attempt to copy him, and Killian is unsure which is more pleasing, the taste that explodes on his tongue or the brilliant smile on Emma's face as she watches them eat.

Between the three of them, they polish off their supper in short order. Stomach sated, Henry hastily wipes his hands and asks to go play a hulking, mechanical game in the back of the restaurant. Emma benevolently hands him a few coins out of her purse before he scampers off.

Killian grins at the boy's back as he disappears. "He's a good lad," he comments.

Emma beams. "Yeah."

Killian suddenly finds himself wondering how Baelfire's life might have been different had he grown up with his mother, and he folds his lips against the pulse of guilt that rises in his chest. "Does… does he ever miss him?" he asks, tapping a finger against the tabletop.

It's obvious by the subtle way Emma tenses that she knows the answer when she clears her throat and asks, "Miss who?"

"His father."

A sardonic smile flashes briefly at the corner of her mouth. She reaches for her straw and begins stirring the ice in her cup in lazy circles. "You can't miss someone you never knew," she answers.

Killian's forehead creases. "He died?"

Her brows lift, even as her gaze remains fixed on the swirling liquid. "Nnnope."

His eyes narrow. "He left."

Emma presses her lips into a grim line. "More or less." She shoots a look at her son, making sure he's still across the room engrossed in his game. "He doesn't know about Henry," she says soberly, her eyes falling back to her glass. "And given the kind of guy he turned out to be, that's probably for the best."

Killian frowns, concern written on his features. "What did he do to you, Swan?"

Emma chuckles bitterly and shakes her head, still avoiding his eye. "You have your own sad story," she says, "You don't need mine."

"Please."

The word causes her to look up with an expression of quiet surprise, her questioning gaze darting across his face. At last, she sighs heavily and sits back. "I… I was an orphan," she starts. "A baby left by the side of a road. I grew up a ward of the state, moving in and out of foster homes, never in the same place for more than six months." She wets her lips. "The last place… it was bad. I was seventeen, and the dad… he tried to get me to…"

Killian's jaw tightens, his hand clenching into a fist beneath the table, and Emma looks up, slightly taken aback at the silent fury she reads in him. Her features soften. "Nothing happened," she reassures him, sitting up and leaning forward on her crossed arms. "I reported him. And then I ran. Caught a bus to someplace far away and never looked back." Her eyes grow distant. "I lived off the street and met a few kids there who taught me how to survive, how to steal, how to not get caught. And that's how I met Henry's dad."

For the first time, there's a hint of nervousness in her voice when she looks up at him and asks, "You know my car?"

Killian nods.

"We stole it," she admits guiltily. "And by 'we,' I mean that he stole it first and then I stole it a couple hours later, not knowing he was asleep in the backseat."

Killian's mouth curls involuntarily, and he suppresses the urge to laugh, though Emma's chuff and the way she ducks her head indicate that she, too, appreciates the ludicrousness of the situation.

"We decided to pair up. Pulled some basic two-person cons and got enough to scrape by." She shakes her head again. "We were young and stupid, and we had almost nothing, but every time we got away with something, it felt like we were on top of the world." There's a trace of nostalgia in her tone.

"You loved him," Killian says softly.

A pained look skirts over Emma's face, and she clears her throat again. "Like I said, young and stupid."

"He didn't love you back?"

Her brow twitches sadly. "He said he did. And I believed him," she replies, "right up until he let me take the fall for a job he pulled." She pulls the straw from the cup and begins to trace designs on her empty plate with the tip. "The cops were looking for him, so I went to go get some stolen watches he'd stashed so we could fence them and get out of town. But he tipped them off – told them where to find me. I got caught, and he…" she pauses, her eyes growing wet, "he was dust in the wind." She blinks furiously, sniffling once before she succeeds in plastering on a look of cool indifference. "Anyway, I went to prison for eleven months. That's where I had Henry."

Killian absorbs her words, revulsion coursing through his veins at the idea of Emma suffering such devastation at the hands of anyone, much less a man she loved. How she could have come through it and been strong for her son… "How did you do it?" he asks. "How did you go from that to this?" He gestures between her and Henry.

He's pleased when her face lights, the moroseness giving way to a humble little smile and the hint of a blush. She looks up at Henry. "I had him." She bites her lip. "I almost didn't. I was going to give him up for adoption. I wanted him to have his best chance at a good life, and I didn't think that was with me."

"What changed your mind?"

She chuckles. "Ironically, the foster system. One of the prison guards who was always really nice to me convinced me to delay the decision to give him up until after I got out. I had two more months left on my sentence, so Henry was temporarily put into foster care until then. I spent that time imagining him growing up like me, bouncing from home to home, wondering who his real parents were and why they didn't want him, and I… I just couldn't do it." Her mouth sweeps into a watery smile. "Plus, as hard as it was to be a new mom while trying to put my life back together, it was really nice not to be alone." She darts Killian a meaningful look. "It was nice to have somebody worth fighting for."

Killian acknowledges her words with a modest smile, hoping it covers up the heaviness growing in his heart. He's lived a lifetime without someone worth fighting for, known the dull, unrelenting emptiness of remembering a joy that is no longer his. But now, sitting here next to Emma, resentful of this man who treated her badly and ridiculously proud of her for having risen above her circumstances, he realizes there may be something worse – finding someone he knows he'd fight for in a heartbeat, if only the chance were his.

Henry comes bouncing back to the table. "Mom! Killian! I got a new high score! Come see!"

That last of Emma's solemn mood evaporates, and she laughs as he grabs her hand and impatiently hauls her out of her seat. She throws Killian a haphazard grin over her shoulder as Henry drags her away. "Coming?"

Killian blinks at her invitation and glances around with some uncertainty before he rises and trails after mother and son, feeling as if this is both the closest to and the farthest from happiness he's been in over an age.

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They celebrate Henry's victory with a stop at their favorite ice cream place on the way home, grabbing cones and a couple of pints of cherry vanilla and rocky road for good measure. Henry goads Killian into telling them about one of his adventures, and Killian, to his credit, interprets the look Emma gives him correctly and keeps the tale relatively kid-friendly. Her son's eyes shine with delight, his face covered in an ice cream-smeared grin as he listens to Killian animatedly describe how the Jolly Roger once simultaneously out-maneuvered and disabled three warships belonging to the corrupt tyrant, King George, stripping them of all their canon, weapons, and other valuables before sending them limping home to their master with regards from Captain Hook.

When they arrive home, Emma shoos Henry upstairs to get a head-start on his weekend homework before tomorrow's Halloween festivities begin.

"Thanks for the story, Killian!" Henry calls as he thunders up the stairs.

Killian chuckles. "Anytime, lad," he returns, watching Henry's sneakers disappear from view. He turns and joins Emma in the kitchen just as she's crouching in front of the open freezer drawer and starting to shift some items around to make room for the ice cream.

She looks up as he approaches and holds up an ice pack. "Need another one of these tonight?" she asks. "All that excitement in the park today couldn't have been kind to those bruises."

He nods, looking touched. "Aye, Swan. That'd be nice. Allow me to wash and change clothes, and I'll return for it shortly." He flashes her a grateful smile over his shoulder and heads down to the apartment.

Emma watches him descend with an uneven brow and a plaintive sigh. She silently curses. She likes him. As much as she's tried to resist it, she likes Killian Jones – likes his charm, likes his wit, likes his sad, lonely heart and the goodness she sees in him despite his self-professed occupation and his quest for vengeance. And, as disturbed as she was by it initially, there's something about his ability to see her for what she is – his penchant for understanding both her strengths and her vulnerabilities – that she thinks she might like too. It makes his enthusiastic embrace of who she is feel more… real. Odd to think that a man whose reality she questions seems to understand hers better than anyone.

There's also the small matter of how a smile or intense look from him can take her breath away.

Emma packs the ice cream pints into the drawer. She can't do anything about it – can't talk about it, can't clarify it, and certainly can't pursue it – without risking her relationship with Walsh, her hope for some normalcy in Henry's life, and her heart on a man whose origin she still doesn't understand. She grimaces. And (she can't believe she's considering this) if what he says is true – if he isreally from some magical realm, then there's no telling how long he might be with them. What the hell is she supposed to do?

The freezer drawer begins to beep angrily after being ajar for too long, and Emma wearily slides it shut and climbs to her feet. She plods upstairs to put on her pajamas, resigning herself to the fact that she's probably going to spend more time tonight with that rocky road than with her pillow.

She takes a few extra minutes to check on Henry before returning downstairs to find Killian back in the Mets T-shirt and seated in the kitchen engrossed in The New York Times, his wet hair matted to his forehead and discouragement in the downward pinch of his eyebrows as he tries to make sense of the headlines. She can't help but grin when she notes that he's already strapped the ice pack to his middle.

"Anything good happening in the world?" she asks.

He glances at her with a sheepish smile. "Honestly, I'm not sure I can tell," he admits, gesturing feebly at the newsprint. "Your world seems infinitely complicated."

"Don't I know it," she deadpans. She hums and skims the front page as she passes by. "Trust me. You're not missing much." She moves around to the corner cabinet and reaches for her wound care supplies. "Need a new bandage?"

Killian's face lights up, and he slips off the barstool. "If you'd be so kind."

Emma steels her resolve as he comes near, willing her heart not to beat so fast when she takes his hand in hers and unravels the old dressing. "I, um, have some errands to run tomorrow afternoon before the ball," she says nervously. "Would you stay with Henry while I'm gone?"

Part of her wants to laugh hysterically. She's just asked Captain Hook to babysit her kid. What the hell is her life? In truth, Henry is fine staying at home by himself, but as willing as she is to let Killian come along while she runs down suspects and breaks into Walsh's car, she really doesn't want to have a curious pirate in tow when her to-do list includes picking up what Henry calls "girl stuff" at the drug store and going to the salon to have her hair put up for the ball. And, bewildering as it might be, she's grateful that she already trusts said pirate enough to leave him alone with her son for a few hours.

Surprised delight appears on his face. "I would be happy to, Swan."

"Thanks." Her forehead creases. "Um, no pillaging or plundering while I'm away, okay?"

He rumbles cheerfully. "Very well. I suppose we can keep the misconduct to a minimum."

Emma gives a little laugh, her posture easing a bit as she winds the clean bandage around his hand. "Good." She tips her chin toward his wound. "This is looking better."

Killian hums in agreement, wiggling his fingers when she finishes. "Indeed," he agrees, "Thanks to your excellent care. I owe you and Henry a debt for all your kindness."

The sincerity in his voice causes heat to rush to her face, and she responds with a shy smile and shrug. "Well, I owe you for running Rathburn down today for me," she points out, slipping around him to toss away the used bandage. She clears her throat. "I'd say that's worth something."

"It's been a while since I played the hero," he muses, scratching behind his ear, a grin curving his lips.

Emma gives him a quick look of approval over her shoulder as she cleans her hands. "Maybe you should try it more often," she suggests. "It's a good look on you."

Killian straightens, his smile intensifying, and she can see him shift into flirt mode. "Is that so?"

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up. You know what I mean." She shakes her head, grasping for a change of subject. "So where does a pirate learn to dance? Don't tell me you like to crash parties when you're not capturing warships." She leans back against the counter with her arms crossed and one eyebrow arched inquisitively.

He chuckles. "I may or may not be guilty of such a thing," he answers coyly. "But it was actually my brother who taught me."

Emma's brow wrinkles with interest. "You have a brother." She winces inwardly when a shadow passes over his eyes and she realizes that as lonely as he seems and as old as he claims to be, there's little chance his brother is still alive. "Sorry. You had a brother?" she corrects gently.

Killian nods somberly. "I did. My older brother, Liam."

"And he taught you to dance."

A quiet smile crosses his face, the memory keeping him from becoming too maudlin. "He did. We were young naval officers then. There was a ball to celebrate the retirement of our ship's captain after a very distinguished career, and Liam made sure we both knew how to dance so we wouldn't embarrass ourselves." His eyes gleam, and he ducks his head, his cheeks turning slightly pink. "We practiced late at night so no one would see us. I'm sure we looked ridiculous, but he also taught me to use a sword, and learning to dance was far less difficult," he laughs.

"It's difficult enough," she huffs.

Amusement plays on his features. "On the contrary, love. It's rather simple. There's only one rule." He steps forward and executes a formal bow, extending his left arm to her. "Pick a partner who knows what he's doing."

Emma feels her heart rate jump as her eyes dart between his face and the proffered hook. "Okay. What are you doing?"

"Offering to teach you how to dance," Killian says simply. "Come. It's the least I can do." When she continues to hesitate, he gives a little sigh and glances at his prosthetic with a slightly hurt expression. "I don't bite, Swan."

"No! I…" Emma forces an apologetic smile. "It's not that. I'm…" She steps forward and tentatively wraps her fingers around the cold steel, trying to suppress her tremulousness as he draws near and pulls her other hand onto his shoulder before draping his arm around her side. He holds her at a polite distance, but she swears if he comes any closer he's going to be able to feel the way her heart threatens to beat right out of her ribs. Her eyes fall to the cleft between his collar bones. "I'm… I'm not good at this," she stammers softly.

Killian dips his head and forces her to look at him, encouragement written on his face. "You will be."

The patient conviction in his words surprises her, and she looks up again with anxious eyes. "You think so?"

He grins, though she catches some inexplicable sadness in his expression, and he walks them back a few paces toward the living room before she realizes she's moving with him. "I've yet to see you fail."

She snorts. "You mean like how I almost lost my guy in the park today?"

Killian shrugs, his shoulder rising and falling beneath her hand. "Well, you had the good sense to bring me along to help," he says blithely.

"Right. I'm a genius."

"I can teach you how to ride a horse for next time, if you like," he submits with a little smirk.

Emma rolls her eyes again. "One thing at a time, okay?"

"As you wish." He hums low in his chest. "Now, just follow me."

Emma looks down while Killian leads her through the basic waltz box step. Even in the intimate lighting provided by the solitary end table lamp, there's something innocent about the sight of their bare feet stepping back and forth, their toes sinking into the thick pile of the living room rug, and she's glad to have something to focus on other than the feel of his hand pressed solidly to her back or the proximity of his head to hers.

He counts out the beats, his voice on the edge of a murmur as they practice, at last making a satisfied sound. "Very good, love. You appear to be a natural."

"What're you guys doing?"

Emma nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of Henry's voice, and she springs back from Killian and whirls around to see her son paused halfway down the staircase behind them.

"I'm teaching your mother to dance for the ball," Killian explains. "Care to try?"

The prospect of dancing with her son strikes Emma as much safer and less confusing than continuing to dance with the man in front of her, and she holds out her hand eagerly. "Come on, kid. You can do it."

Henry rolls his eyes like he's eleven going on fifteen but obediently drags himself down to the living room. "Don't we need music?" he asks, eyebrows quirked with skepticism.

"Oh. Um…" Emma breaks away to fetch her laptop from the dining room. "Maybe we can find something." She sits on the couch a moment while she locates a playlist of modern waltzes on YouTube, and a slow, acoustic version of Kelly Clarkson's "Breakaway" begins to play, the guitar twanging in a smoothly marching melody.

Grew up in a small town
And when the rain would fall down
I'd just stare out my window
Dreamin' of what could be
And if I'd end up happy
I would pray

"How's that?"

She and Henry assume position, and, after a nod from Killian, Emma begins to count and lead her son through the steps. She relaxes and even giggles at his first awkward stumbles, but, as reluctant as Henry was to start, he picks it up quickly and grins once he, too, has mastered the rhythm.

Henry cranes his neck toward Killian. "What now?"

"Try leading her around the room," Killian calls back amiably, arms crossed as he watches them from the corner.

Emma follows clumsily as Henry tries to pull her with him across the floor, and more laughter ensues with every stop-start, stop-start they make. Their struggle lasts a minute longer before Killian saunters forward and taps Henry on the shoulder.

"May I, lad?"

"Yeah." Henry chuckles and lets go of Emma's hand, taking a step back.

"It's all about leading with your body." Killian moves in front of Emma expectantly, and she obligingly sets her hands back in the curve of his hook and on his shoulder, trying to ignore the shower of tingles that sweeps across her skin when he wraps his arm around her and pulls her back into the box step again.

"Your partner also needs to let you lead," he adds, arcing a eyebrow at her. "A dance is often about being willing to surrender."

Emma cocks her head back, her eyes narrowing. "Are you asking me to surrender, Pirate?"

He laughs softly. "I'm not asking you to give up your free will, Swan." He steps a little closer, searching her face, his smile fading into an expression that borders on imploring. "I'm just asking you to trust me."

She swallows thickly, her lashes fluttering as her gaze falls to his chest and she finds it in herself to nod.

I'll spread my wings and I'll learn how to fly
I'll do what it takes till I touch the sky
And I'll make a wish, take a chance, make a change
And breakaway

Killian turns them a little and then travels backward, guiding her gently around the small space. She focuses on the movement of his torso, on tracking him and mirroring him, and it does indeed go better. It's amazing how graceful he is on his feet, she thinks, how easily he navigates them back and forth across the carpet, and despite her reservations about dancing (and about dancing with him), she finds she's actually enjoying herself. A little. Maybe.

He grins his approval. "Very nice, Swan. Care to try a turn?"

Henry's cell phone ringer interrupts them, and Emma glances over in time to see her son check his screen and flush a deep crimson. "I'm gonna go upstairs," he blurts, and they watch him beat a hasty retreat, his feet pounding the path back up to his bedroom like the devil is on his heels.

"Say hi to Violet for me," she calls with a knowing smirk.

"Violet?" Killian asks curiously.

Emma hums, staring after her son. "A friend from school. Henry's had a crush on her for months."

"Ah." Killian's eyes spark with recognition, and he grins. "Young love."

"Yeah, it's cute. You should see the way he looks at her," she says fondly. She turns her attention back to Killian, and her smile falls away as they lock eyes.

"How does he look at her?" His voice is quiet.

The song ends, and they stand there in temporary silence while she takes in the awe in his stare, the hopeful bent of his brow, and the slight color in his cheeks. Like this. She licks her lips. "Like she hung the moon."

The next song begins with a simple folksy melody on piano before Adele's throaty voice begins to croon an R&B-style tune.

You've been on my mind
I grow fonder every day
Lose myself in time
Just thinking of your face
God only knows
Why it's taken me so long
To let my doubts go
You're the only one that I want

Killian wordlessly begins to lead her around the room again, their tandem sway feeling more and more natural to her despite the incessant pounding of her pulse in her ears.

"Try a turn," he tells her again, his voice a little coarse this time. He raises his hook above her head and nudges her into a turn with a gentle press of his hand to her shoulder blade. Emma spins accordingly, her right hand releasing his hook and catching it again, and when she returns to him, they somehow both deign to draw closer together, her fingertips grazing his neck as her hand settles higher on his shoulder and his arm tight enough around her that she's nearly flush against his chest.

They freeze, their feet forgetting how to move, and now she knowshe can feel the drumming of her heart and the shudder in her breath as she gapes up at him, falling into the depth of his questioning gaze.

I dare you to let me be your
Your one and only
I'm promise I'm worthy
To hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove I'm the one who can
Walk that mile
Until the end starts

"Love?" he asks softly. "Do you want to stop dancing?" His eyes become tinted with longing and sadness, and she reaches up and ghosts her thumb shakily across his cheek. He turns his head into her touch, as if drawn to the contact, and they inch closer until his nose nearly brushes hers.

"I don't know," she whispers.

I know it ain't easy giving up your heart
I know it ain't easy giving up your heart
Nobody's perfect
(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)
Trust me, I've learned it

And, God, he's right there, his breath on her lips, skin and scruff beneath the pads of her fingers, and every nerve in her body is screaming to press forward, her eyelids growing heavy with the intoxicating nearness of him.

And then he's gone.

The air seizes in her lungs when he suddenly pulls away. He takes a step back to re-establish the space between them, flexing his jaw and putting on a mask of stony regret before he offers her a half-hearted smile. "Apologies, Swan," he murmurs. Cold surrounds her when he releases her completely, his arms dropping to his side like lead. "Perhaps that's enough for one night."

Emma manages a nod, trying to look appreciative despite the hurricane of emotions rising up to fill the emptiness left in her chest.

Killian angles toward the kitchen. "I'd best get some rest," he says. He takes a single step and then pauses, glancing back at her with a forlorn smile. "You're going to be lovely tomorrow."

She blinks away the burning sensation behind her eyes and forces a small grin. "Thanks for your help."

He bobs his head pensively and walks away.

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What the hell is he doing? Killian settles himself on the edge of the bed with his flask in hand and hangs his head, the electricity of Emma's touch still burning on his skin and the scent of her shampoo lingering in nose. It isn't a matter of not knowing what he wants when it comes to her. He supposes, if he's being honest, it's never been a matter of not knowing. But what to do about it? He has no bloody idea.

He unstoppers the flask and tips back a mouthful of rum, exhaling audibly at the familiar sensation of alcohol searing down his throat. It brings him no answers – it never does – and he doesn't have enough rum (or the desire, really) to get well and truly drunk, but he prays for whatever numbness he can garner from this small draught to come quickly as he sets the flask on the nightstand.

Destroy the stone and go home, he repeats to himself mechanically. He turns out the light and lays himself down with a low moan, the only glittering thing on his mind a certain pair of green eyes. The memory of the smile that accompanies them forms a lump in his throat as his eyelids fall shut to the darkness.

The following morning he finds Henry in the kitchen yet again, this time pouring orange juice into a glass from a fat rectangular carton.

"Good morning, lad."

"Hey," Henry greets him brightly.

"Have a nice chat with your friend last night?" Killian asks as he settles on a stool. A wide smile splits his face as Henry's cheeks goes ruddy.

"Uh, yeah." The boy glances around, proving as proficient as his mother at changing the subject. "Want some juice?"

Killian chuckles. "Please." He reaches out with a finger and rotates the carton a bit in order to read the labeling while Henry retrieves a clean glass for him. "Where's your mum?"

Henry pours and slides the juice over to him. "Running."

Killian frowns, the glass halfway to his lips. "Sorry?"

"She went for a run," Henry says again, putting the carton back in the refrigerator. "She'll be back soon though."

Killian gestures for him to wait, looking confused. "What is she running from?"

"Huh?" Emma's son scrunches his nose, the little gears in his head visibly turning before comprehension dawns on his face. "Oh! No. She's fine. She's running around the neighborhood. For exercise," he adds.

His explanation leaves Killian only slightly less perplexed. "She runs. For exercise."

Henry leans his elbows on the counter. "Well, yeah. Lots of people do. A lot of people think it's fun."

"Henry, no one runs for fun," Killian counters. "You run because you need to get somewhere quickly or because something is chasing you."

Henry snickers. "Well, here, people also run to stay healthy or have fun. Mom's getting ready to run the New York City Marathon next month."

"Marathon?"

"It's a big race. Twenty-six miles."

Killian's brow furrows. "How far is that?"

"Super far," Henry says dramatically, draining his glass and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It takes her, like, four hours."

Four – Killian grimaces. "All due respect to your mother, lad, but that's madness."

Henry shrugs, putting his glass in the sink. "She kind of loves it and hates it at the same time. Says it gives her time to think and keeps her fit."

As ridiculous as running for exercise sounds, Killian realizes he can't argue with the results. "I suppose," he manages, rising to deposit his glass in the sink beside Henry's. He clears his throat before he starts to ruminate too much on the various aspects of Emma's svelte form. "What are your plans for today?"

"Mom'll make pancakes when she gets back," Henry says with an eager grin. "She's always hungry after she runs, so Saturday morning is pancake time. Then I was gonna play video games until it's time to pack for my sleep-over and get dressed for trick-or-treating." His eyes widen with sudden excitement. "Wanna see my costume?"

He's running for the stairs before Killian has a chance to say yes, and it's less than a minute before he hustles back brandishing an outfit that resembles a knight's hauberk and tunic in one hand and a toy sword and shield in the other. Henry sets the clothes down and strikes a pose with the shield, slicing at the air a few times with his sword. "What do you think?"

Killian laughs. "Prepared for a quest, I see," he says.

"Uh, yeah? A quest for candy."

Killian points at the sword, which Henry is now wielding like a club. "Do you know how to use that thing?" he asks with a smirk.

Henry glances at it and swishes it through the air a few more times. "Sure. Slash and stab."

Killian's eyes roll toward the ceiling as he shakes his head. He slides off his stool and catches the sword mid-slash with his hook. "There's a lot more to it than that, lad."

Henry straightens, unperturbed. "Well, fine. Can you teach me?"

Killian surveys the boy with a thoughtful jut of his lower lip, feigning indecision before nodding magnanimously. "Very well."

They're in the living room working on Henry's grip and stance when Emma arrives a short while later, damp with perspiration and looking a little tired, but with a healthy glow in her cheeks. Killian nearly drops the detached broom handle he's using as a demonstration sword when he gets an eyeful of her running attire – a gray and black close-cut jacket and what could charitably be called pants if they didn't resemble a second skin more than an actual garment. Bloody hell. He knows Emma to be a compassionate soul, but he decides, while she toes her funny-looking white shoes off at the door and gives him a clear view of her tempting curves in profile, that she must now be determined to torture him.

His breathing borders on ragged when she turns toward them. Emma blinks as she takes in the scene – Killian modeling a defensive posture with his broom handle held aloft and Henry trying to copy him with his toy sword. "Um, hi," she says slowly, looking simultaneously amused and concerned. "What're we doing?"

"Killian's teaching me how to use a sword!" Henry reports proudly.

"Well, right now I'm just teaching him how to hold it," Killian clarifies. "Actually crossing swords comes much later."

"Aww!"

The hint of a grin tugs at the corner of Emma's mouth at her son's very vocal disappointment. She narrows one eye at Killian, though he's gratified to see that she's clearly not angry. "I thought I said no pillaging," she says archly.

He abandons his stance, giving her a little bow. "And I gave you my word, Swan – we'll do nothing that would land us in the brig." He allows himself a boyish smile and hefts his broom handle, loosening up his wrist by swinging it in a series of alternating rotations before he launches into a complicated set of cuts and blocks that make up a movement drill he's known so long, he could do it in his sleep. "Swordplay is a noble art that takes practice and discipline," he says as the wooden rod swipes purposefully through the air. He shoots a dry look at the large screen where Henry had been staging his imaginary battle the day before. "And it seemed like a better use of the lad's time than any game."

Henry's mouth is agape with delight as he watches the demonstration, and Emma, to Killian's smug satisfaction, also appears suitably impressed. She stares at him, looking dazed for a moment before turning to go upstairs. "Right. Well, maybe you swashbucklers could take the lesson downstairs or outside where there's less you can break," she says hurriedly. "I'm gonna go grab a shower."

"Pancakes?" Henry reminds her hopefully, a well-timed gurgle from his stomach causing her to chuckle.

She grins and amends her statement. "Shower, then pancakes."

Killian tries to avoid ogling the sway of her hips as she and her indecent clothing make their way up the stairs. Admittedly, it's a poor effort, but his imagination has blessedly little time to take the image and run with it before Henry pokes his arm with the fake sword.

"It's cold outside. Can we go downstairs?"

They resume their lesson in the front part of the basement apartment, and Killian abandons his broom handle in favor of continuing with his cutlass.

"Whoa…" Henry's awed smile stretches ear to ear as the blade hisses out of the scabbard and glints in the morning sun that streams through the window. "Can I see it?"

Killian grins. "I don't think your mother would take kindly to you losing a limb," he says. "This is no toy." He gestures toward Henry with the weapon. "That said, when you have completed today's exercises, you may try the grip just to a get a sense for the weight of it, yeah? But you are not to touch it without my permission."

Henry nods solemnly. "Okay."

"Good lad."

He sets Henry practicing a beginner's cut over and over again in order to get him accustomed to the forearm movement.

"What are you going to do while Mom's at her fancy party tonight?" Henry asks, his sword wagging up and down as he works.

Killian gently uses the side of his hook to steady Henry's upper arm so that his strikes come from the wrist rather than the elbow or shoulder. "I've also been invited to the party," he replies. "One of Walsh's friends was in need of a dance partner."

"Oh! Cool." A crease appears between Henry's eyes. "Wait. What are you going to wear? It's a costume ball, isn't it?"

Killian shrugs. "People seem to think my regular clothes will be adequate," he replies.

Henry's frown deepens. "But that's not a costume," he points out. "You're an actual pirate. You can't go as yourself. Halloween is about dressing up as something you're not." He pauses and shakes out his tired arm.

"Well, what would you suggest?" Killian lifts an eyebrow.

Henry thinks quickly. "What are you doing this afternoon?"

"Your mother asked me to stay with you while she attends to some things," Killian replies, initiating another movement drill.

Henry squints. "Did she say we had to stay here?"

Killian cocks his head at the boy's calculating expression. "I don't believe so," he says cautiously.

Henry's face erupts in a grin. "Great!"

"Henry," Killian's voice grows wary, "where are we going?"

Henry's mystery destination that afternoon turns out to be a costume shop called Andalasia Fashions which is located about a twenty-minute walk away.

"My friend Avery's aunt and uncle own it," Henry explains excitedly as he reaches for the door handle. "She named it after some old Disney movie, I think. They have lots of good stuff."

A merry bell rings as they enter, though it can barely be heard above the busy hubbub being generated by a dozen or so other customers searching for last-minute get-ups for Halloween. Killian doesn't have any idea where to begin looking as he trails after Henry, overwhelmed by the racks upon racks of colorful costumes that surround them like jungle undergrowth.

Fortunately, the boy appears to know exactly what he's doing, heading straight for a man with silver hair and black glasses who has just finished helping a pair of middle-aged ladies. "Hi, Mr. Castro!" he calls.

The man turns and looks down with a broad smile. "Henry!"

Henry grabs the sleeve of Killian's duster and pulls him forward. "Mr. Castro, this is Killian. He needs a costume that's not so… pirate-y," he explains.

Castro studies Killian's clothes with fascination. "Why? He makes a great pirate! That costume is amazing." He adjusts his glasses eagerly. "Where did you get that?"

"Er, I've had it a very long time," Killian replies.

"It's not from around here," Henry says impatiently, "Look, it's kind of a long story, but he can't be a pirate for Halloween. He and my mom are going to that big fancy ball at the Woolworth. Do you have something else?"

The man brightens. "Oh, you're going with Emma?" He looks Killian up and down one more time before snapping his fingers and beckoning. "I've got just the thing. This way."

They fall into step behind him as Killian mutters in Henry's ear, "Lad, I'm not your mother's– "

"It doesn't matter," Henry says airily, waving it off. "Let's just see what he's got."

Avery's uncle guides them to a corner in the rear of the shop and sifts through a rack of men's costumes before pulling out a long doe brown coat with a high black collar, dramatic black cuffs, and a long line of small, gold buttons; the coat overlies a black waistcoat and a white collared shirt accented with a lacy cravat. "We got this costume for the Hamilton craze," Castro says, pulling away the cravat and unbuttoning the top buttons on the shirt so the collar hangs open wider, "But the coat collar is a little tall, and I've always thought it'd do better," he holds it up to Killian's shoulders and takes half a step back to appreciate the effect, "On a prince."

Killian laughs and shoots the boy a side-eye glance. "I'm no prince, Henry."

"Which is why it's perfect," he declares with gusto. "We'll take it."

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The air smells increasingly of fish and brine as the forbidding black and white carriage tears along the wide dirt path that bisects Longbourn on its way toward the docks. Distressed cries ring out at the sight of the telltale ebony steeds and the knights who drive them, the air around the sleepy port town suddenly swelling with palpable tension at the unexpected arrival of the Evil Queen.

From the carriage's plush, inky black interior, she sneers at the humble thatched-roof buildings and the plain, dismayed faces of the resident commoners that fly past her oval windows. The Queen curses the insolent pirate yet again for forcing her to come to a place like this in order to pursue him and reclaim what he stole. It's taken a day and a half of traveling at a punishing speed for them to come all this way, and she doesn't relish the idea of having to make the trip back. She sighs heavily. At least she can spend the return journey admiring the Sea Star and planning the last details of when and how she will execute her curse. Not to mention dwelling on the satisfaction of having made the Captain pay most dearly for his betrayal.

She feels the carriage slow as it pulls up to the harbor and hears the muffled "Ho!" of one of her knights. Her eyes land upon the twin masts of the Jolly Roger moments later as she climbs down from the carriage. The ship's sails are gathered, and fewer than half a dozen men move about her decks. The Queen narrows her eyes with anticipation. Sitting ducks.

Her sudden appearance in their midst in a swirl of purple smoke is met with panicked yells and the drawing of swords, but it's a simple matter to disable every man in sight, steel thudding to the planks and bodies flying backward with a wave of her hand. Her magic flows freely, fueled by the power of her fury, and the look of terror on the faces of the pirates surrounding her, the eyes of otherwise fearsome men now shining with capitulation – well, she does rather enjoy this part.

"You are the men that sail under that wretch, Hook?" Her voice echoes on the afternoon breeze, and even the gulls fall silent in the presence of such obvious danger. "Pathetic." She spins lazily, her eyes scanning the men in search of her quarry. "Your first mate. Where is he?"

She follows the darting glances upward and spies the red knit cap peeking over the edge of the crow's nest above her head. With an annoyed flick of her wrist, the man poofs into place in front of her, his blue eyes enormous with shock and dread as he recognizes his change in surroundings and the threat of the woman that stares him down.

The Queen studies him with distaste. "What is your name?" she demands haughtily.

"S-Smee, your Majesty." He folds his lips and stands at attention in spite of his clear intimidation, and she begrudgingly notes that Hook has properly trained his man to behave well in the face of authority.

"Smee," she repeats, frowning scornfully at the bland little name. "I have a job for you."

He blinks at her in disbelief, his mouth falling open like a fish. "A-a job?"

She nods curtly. "I had a deal with your idiot captain, but rather than deliver the Sea Star as he promised, he's instead decided to steal it from me and flee to another realm." She watches as Smee tries to process this information. "You," she continues, "are going to get it and him back for me."

His chin quivers. "Me? Go after the Captain? In another realm?" He shakes his head nervously. "All due respect, you Majesty, I—I don't know if I can manage that."

The Queen narrows her eyes, and she catches the familiar scent of abject horror rolling off him in the split second it takes her to reach back and plunge her hand deep into his chest. Her fingers close around the solid, magical surface of his heart, and she yanks it free with a grunt of vicious pleasure. Smee's eyes nearly bug out of his head as he stares at it, red and glowing, in the palm of her hand.

"You will," she informs him, giving the heart a demonstrative squeeze and smiling with cold satisfaction at his strangled gasp, "or you will die trying."

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ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ

One and Only (Adele)

You've been on my mind
I grow fonder every day
Lose myself in time
Just thinking of your face
God only knows why it's taken me
So long to let my doubts go
You're the only one that I want

I don't know why I'm scared
I've been here before
Every feeling, every word
I've imagined it all
You'll never know if you never try
To forget your past and simply be mine

I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
I promise I'm worthy
To hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove I am the one who can walk that mile
Until the end starts

If I've been on your mind
You hang on every word I say
Lose yourself in time
At the mention of my name
Will I ever know how it feels to hold you close
And have you tell me
Whichever road I choose, you'll go?

I don't know why I'm scared
'Cause I've been here before
Every feeling, every word
I've imagined it all
You'll never know if you never try
To forget your past and simply be mine

I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
I promise I'm worthy, mm
To hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove I am the one who can walk that mile
Until the end starts

I know it ain't easy giving up your heart
I know it ain't easy giving up your heart
Nobody's perfect
(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)
Trust me I've learned it
Nobody's perfect
(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)
Trust me I've learned it
Nobody's perfect
(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)
Trust me I've learned it
Nobody's perfect
(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)
Trust me I've learned it

So I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
I promise I'm worthy
To hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove that I am the, one who can walk that mile
Until the end starts

Come on and give me the chance
To prove that I am the one who can, walk that mile
Until the end starts