Killian stopped taking calls from the Darlings after the first day, even from Michael, who had succumbed to the pressure he was facing from his siblings. He knew what they wanted: they wanted him to order flowers, to schedule the reception, to stay for the damn funeral itself. Never mind that he'd arranged to have the bloody affair in the first place, as requested.

Besides, the earliest he could schedule the funeral had been Sunday, two days after his booked return flight. Maybe if he could have arranged for it to occur sooner, he would consider going. But to stay longer than planned, for a funeral he had no desire to attend? No.

The rest of the week flew by. He found himself a little alarmed at the relief he felt. He wondered if he should feel more saddened by his father's passing—as Wendy would say, the man was his father, after all, and now he was gone from this world. There should be a hole in his heart, shouldn't there?

Instead, there was a weight lifted from him. His father's death was no longer a looming deadline he was dreading; it had happened, and he had weathered the storm, and now it was over. There was just the intense pressure to get the hell out of London and go home.

He did have a new fear, though: Swan's reaction when he finally showed up at her door. Until he'd received Wendy's phone call regarding his father, meeting in person had been a figurative situation. He'd of course assumed it would eventually happen, but without any sort of specific plan, it wasn't ever anything to panic over. And when he'd left for London, although he'd already promised that he would reveal his identity upon arriving home, the errand for which he'd left the States was the first thing on his mind. First, deal with his father, then go to Swan. And now that the first step was complete, it was as though he was finally realizing that he was about to go home and meet the love of his life.

And so he slept terribly. His recurring nightmare of Liam's death was back full force, although now it varied, as though his imagination were trying to torture him. In one version, his father actively drowned Liam, and in another, he himself pushed his brother below the surface of the water.

But a new nightmare plagued him as well. He'd spoken somewhat figuratively when he'd mentioned, in his final letter to Swan, that he'd had nightmares about how poorly their first meeting might go. In truth, he'd kept himself up late more than once, worrying about how angry she'd might be with him for asking her on that date. His dreams themselves had been mercifully devoid of such a stressful scenario.

Until now, that is. When his dreams weren't filled with Liam's death, they were instead filled with a livid Swan screaming obscenities at him, lobbing accusations, and even sometimes throwing things at him (what things, he wasn't clear on, due to the fuzzy nature of the dreamscape, although once he did clearly dream that she threw the little turtle-shaped massage tool that Jefferson had gotten him three years ago as a gag gift). Or Swan coldly shutting the door in his face, after telling him he wasn't what she wanted. Or Swan running across the street into his arms … and then suddenly he was back on that boat, and she was slipping underneath the dark waves.

At six o'clock in the morning on New Year's Eve, he could no longer take it. He checked out of his hotel early, drove to the airport, and put himself on standby for the next flight home to Boston.

Home.

Where his love waited.

He checked his watch; it was nearing noon here in London, which meant she was probably still sleeping back at home. Would she read his letter first thing? Would she read it before or after work? Would she wait until midnight? If he did manage to get home before the ball dropped, should he go to her immediately?

He was a bloody coward; he should have just given her his email in the first place. He'd been so foolish—of course she would have been understanding, or at least waited until he was home and safe to deal with his invitation to drinks that day in the laundry room. Swan cared deeply for him (or maybe she loved him, he thought, before shoving that idea away); she would at least give him the benefit of the doubt, wouldn't she? He had been cruel to both of them by not simply trusting her.

Around two o'clock, he learned that there was space on the next one-way flight, which would return him to Boston around seven o'clock, if there were no significant delays. He quickly phoned Belle, whom he knew would be awake.

"How're you holding up? Will you still be coming home tomorrow?"

"I think I'm getting a standby flight in an hour or so."

"Killian, that's great! So you'll be home tonight?"

"I should be. Barring any more unfortunate events."

"Any more? He couldn't have died twice."

He chuckled. "No, I just mean, if all goes smoothly."

"Well, that's good. I'm actually about to do some early morning grocery shopping. Preparing for tonight and all. I'll drop off some food at your place, and get the rest of your mail."

"Belle!"

"Oh, as if your protestations could stop me. Have they ever before?"

"Just don't go overboard."

"Please."

"Thank you."

"It's no problem. I assume you'll be too tired tonight to celebrate with us?" She was referring to their annual New Year's plans, when all four of them would get together at someone's apartment for an entertaining night in, away from the revelers on the T.

"Sorry, but yes, I'll probably be entirely wiped out. I'll give you a call tomorrow, though."

"Give me one when you land, and when you're safe at home," she said firmly. "And Killian?"

"Yes?"

"Have a safe flight."

He did have a safe flight, though once again, his sleep aid refused to kick in. At least his flight was filled with quietly stressed travelers who clearly were holiday-ed out and ready to get home to rest. By seven o'clock, his flight had touched down on American soil, and in a daze, he deplaned and made his way to customs.

All the while, he could only focus on one thing: getting home to Swan.

He was trembling as he got off the T (it was simply ludicrous how expensive it would be to call a cab or use a car service on New Year's Eve) and walked towards the complex. He felt decades older, as though it had been years since he'd been home. The mental reminder that in a few days, he'd need to return to work, nagged at him from the corner of his mind, and he shoved it to the side. Work didn't matter. Only Swan mattered right now.

He greeted Billy as he stepped into the lobby, but didn't stay for small talk as he normally would. Even if Swan hadn't been on his mind, jetlag left him feeling like one of the undead; he was certainly not fit for conversation.

As he stepped off the elevator and began the final leg of his trip to his flat, his eyes automatically found Swan's doormat. It was habit now, checking her doormat, although even if it hadn't been, it would have been difficult to miss the comically large stack of notes squeezed underneath it, and the small box that had fallen to the side. What had she done?

He approached slowly, and as he did, he heard uncontrollable laughter coming from inside the flat. When he was at the door, he could hear Swan's voice, shaking with laughter as she recited obscenities, which were then drowned out by her friends' guffaws and giggles.

That's right, he remembered. She'd mentioned that she liked to host a get-together with her friends for New Year's Eve. This would be a terrible time for him to show up unannounced. Even if she wanted to see him, he wasn't sure he wanted their first meeting to be his first meeting with her friends as well.

But he did know that the yellow notes and the little box were for him; who else would they be for? He scooped them all up and shoved them in the front pocket of his suitcase so he could fumble for his keys and finally get into his flat.

He was finally home. London was officially a sour memory. The ordeal had ended.

It took him ten minutes to unpack: Swan's letters and gift went on the coffee table, phone and charger went into the bedroom, dirty clothes went in the hamper, his suit went in the corner of his closet designated for dry cleaning, and his dopp kit went in the storage closet in the bathroom. He grabbed all of the paperwork from London, as well as his laptop and cord and went to the den.

He groaned when he saw the pile of gifts on his desk; of course Belle couldn't have been trusted to simply deliver his mail (she had; it was neatly stacked beside the gifts).

Presents would have to wait for a moment, though; he wanted to enjoy himself as he opened them, and that wouldn't be possible in his current state. He quickly shucked off his clothes and showered thoroughly, as though he could wash away the plane ride. Once he was dressed in pajamas, he went back to his desk, carried the mail and gifts out to the coffee table, and began to sort through his loot.

The mail was mostly junk, but Belle, bless her heart, saved it anyway. Into the recycling went the fliers, and into the shredder went the credit card offers. The holiday cards from clients and coworkers went into a stack, pushed to the corner of the desk, in case they asked him what he thought; he'd toss them by the end of the winter. What little mail was left consisted of a few notices from work and the marina; everything else was electronic and had already popped into his inbox while he was in London.

And now, he could enjoy gifts.

First, from Jefferson, a fine cashmere hat and matching scarf of extremely high quality. The man really did run an excellent hat shop. And from Grace, a baseball cap that read Captain on the front. He put them in his closet with his other hats; thanks to Jefferson, he himself was starting to amass quite the collection.

Graham had gotten him an extremely nice bottle of Glenmorangie. Killian managed to lift his jaw off the floor once he located the card and found that it was a gift from both Graham and Merida, whom he still hadn't met. Well, the lass had already made quite a good impression. He'd have to run out and find her something appropriate in return. Into the bar it went; he wished he could sample some tonight, but it would be bad form to drink it before he thanked the gift-givers.

And from Belle, of course, he'd received books. But Belle never got him just any books. True to form, she'd gotten him three different tomes: first, non-fiction she thought he'd find engaging; next, literary fiction that was critically acclaimed in some fashion (which, of course, she'd vetted already); and finally an older copy of a classic. He quickly put Mary Roach, Patricia Park, and Jane Austen on his shelves.

Finally, there was the little box from Swan. It looked like the sort of small, cardboard box jewelry might come in, and was tied shut with a bit of twine. He tugged it open and lifted up the lid.

Inside sat a necklace, with a set of pirate charms strung on it. He let out a chuckle, which, in his overly tired state, almost sounded like a sob. How well she knew him! He'd been complaining to her about wishing it were more acceptable for men to wear jewelry, and she'd remembered his fondness for swashbuckling pirates. It was an unbelievably thoughtful gift.

He knew his philosophy … to not use a gift until the giver had been thanked. But this was different, surely, especially since she was hopefully already wearing his gift to her. After fumbling with the tiny clasp for a few minutes, he finally gave up and lifted it over his head instead. Fortunately, the chain was long enough, and within moments, he had his pirate necklace properly around his neck.

Now, what else had she left for him? He looked at the folded pieces of paper spread out in front of him. In the faint light of his flat—he'd only turned on a few lights since walking in the door—he could see some writing on some of them. He grabbed the nearest one: 12/28. The next: 12/23. Then 12/29 and 12/30 together.

She'd written him back. He carefully ordered them—one for each day, like the ones he'd left for her.

But there wasn't a letter for today. Certainly she hadn't forgotten, not if she'd replied to every single one of his letters. Perhaps she was saving his last one until tomorrow? What had he written in that last one again?

Oh. Only that he loved her. His stomach felt as though it had fallen into his feet.

Well, he might as well get started. If he was going to try to actually talk to her tomorrow, he needed to at least know what she'd written to him. He settled into the couch as comfortably as he could and opened the letter labeled 12/23, the day he'd left.

My dear Captain,

I am so sorry about your father. Even if he is/was a selfish bastard, that doesn't mean that this isn't a hard time for you. I hope that your trip home is as painless as it can be, and that you're still able to enjoy the holidays. Maybe it's better that our Christmas plans are cancelled, since I might have to work anyway. But it's really not better because it'll probably make me miss you more.

And I already miss you one hell of a lot. I know it's just for a week and a half, but this is already so much worse than Thanksgiving was. And if I'm this disappointed, I can't imagine what you're going through right now.

Look, I know this is really stupid because you're going to get these letters all at once, but screw it. I'm going to reply to every single one of these letters and give them all to you when you get back. I can't think of anything else I can do.

I know I should just be looking forward to seeing you—really, really seeing you—when you get back, and I really am, but this just isn't fair. I want you here now. Nine days is clearly too long.

I'll forgive you for leaving if you'll forgive me for being incredibly sullen and moody like a teenager.

Missing you very much already,
Your Princess

He found himself actually tearing up in relief, just reading her note. He was a fool, a damned fool, for not just giving her his email address, and depriving them of each other's company and comfort. Here was everything he had missed: her genuine concern, her sincerity, and her humor. Knowing that he wasn't alone in missing her, that she had been just as devastated, meant so much. Bleary-eyed, he reached for the next letter.

My Captain,

I did get my work done, although that doesn't mean I'm not going to get a phone call tomorrow. I'd rather stay home and miss you than go to work and miss you, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

I hope I never get dumped on Christmas.

He laughed. If she would have him, he could guarantee it would never happen.

I hope I never get dumped on Christmas. That sounds awful. I was about to ask you what happened, but you won't get this letter for several more days. So I guess I'll have to wait to ask. Or maybe you'll answer my question in one of the other letters. I haven't opened any letters early. I know you'd never know if I did, but I want to do this the right way, you know?

You certainly haven't ruined Christmas for me. I actually grew up in the foster system, so a lot of the time, I was in group homes for Christmas, and I rarely got any gifts. Or gave any gifts. Meeting my sister—adoptive sister, obviously—was life-changing in that way; now gift-giving is a huge thing with me. That's why I was so eager to exchange gifts with you. For me, giving gifts is a way of showing someone that you know them, and that you care about them.

But I don't decorate or anything like that. No Christmas tree. I don't send Christmas cards. I don't go caroling or whatever. I don't do ugly sweater parties, or use green and red wrapping paper. I hate eggnog. You think you're the Scrooge?

Please tell me that I'm not absolutely nuts for thinking that it's wonderful that neither of us is that big on Christmas. Please tell me that I'm not ridiculous for taking it as a sign of compatibility. Well, please just come home so you can tell me anything at all.

Your Scrooge-in-crime (partner in Scrooging?),
Your Princess

Foster care? Bloody hell. No wonder she was so aloof. That sort of exterior would be extraordinarily necessary if she'd been in the system. But it made her relationship with her family even more meaningful, that she could be so close to them having grown up on her own.

Would she tell him more in the other letters? Even so: foster care. That was so much to entrust him with. Perhaps … he wasn't alone in his feelings? He rubbed at his face—what time was it?—before opening the next note.

My dear Captain,

I spent last night watching Home Alone and drinking wine; I fully intend to watch It's a Wonderful Life while drinking an Old Fashioned tonight. When we're together, we can watch and drink something else.

I also very, very much enjoyed both of your gifts. Thank you so much for the necklace. It's really beautiful. And, of course, I'm always thankful for a very satisfying fuck. How you could possibly know what will feel so good when you've never touched me is something I'll never understand. But I definitely appreciate it.

I hope that you like your gift (go open it or I'm about to spoil it for you!). I know how you hate that it's not socially acceptable for guys to wear jewelry, so I made sure to find a necklace that's long enough that you could tuck it into your shirt. And if people see the chain, you can just lie and says it's a cross or something. Skull and crossbones … cross … close enough. A captain who's such a fan of pirates must be a pirate captain, after all.

My parting gift to you won't be as amazing as your second gift to me, if only because, by the time you're reading this, we'll be together. But I just want you to imagine, for a moment, what it would have felt like if I'd had you inside me instead of my much-too-small vibrator. Because that's definitely what I was imagining. Is it January 1st yet?

Have a wonderful Christmas (hope you had a wonderful Christmas),
Your Princess

He woke suddenly, Swan's letter plastered to his face. He'd been having an odd dream in which he'd been goofing off with his friends in his office, when someone had begun banging on the door. The sound of fist pounding on wood had startled him awake.

But it wasn't stopping. Someone was actually knocking on his door quite forcefully, though it was clearly still in the middle of the night. He quickly and carefully pulled the letter from his skin and left it on the couch before stumbling to the door. How long had he been asleep? And who the bloody hell was disturbing him at this hour?

He pulled open the door to find Swan.

Was he imagining things? Why was she here? There were tears streaming down her face—had she figured out it was him? Was she happy to see him?

Who cared? It was her. "Swan," he croaked in relief.

"I was a dare?"

What?

"All of this was a dare?" She was holding a piece of paper, which she promptly crumpled into a ball and threw at him; it hit him square in the chest and ricocheted back into the hallway.

Not tears of joy—tears of anger. Over a dare?

"No, wait, what are you—"

Oh. Shit—he'd told her about the dare.

"You are horrible," she continued. Her words was heavily slurred, and he could suddenly smell the alcohol on her breath. "I should never have answered your stupid letters! This whole time, I was telling you all these things, and you were just fucking with me!"

"No, that's not true!" How could she even say that? She'd read the letter—she must know that wasn't true!

"Then why did you ask me out?" she asked angrily. "Last month, in the laundry room?" And there it was: the whole reason he'd left her without contact information. And it had all gone to shit anyway. "Was that going to be your ultimate 'I told you so?' So you could 'prove' that I would have said no if you hadn't left the notes? So you could 'prove' that you really had me wrapped around your little finger?"

"I made a mistake," he said, trying to interrupt. He just needed to explain—

"This was a mistake." He could feel the fire that had burned so brightly in his chest begin to flicker out as she reached up to the necklace she wore around her neck. It was the one he'd given her. And she was trying to rid herself of it.

"Swan, please don't," he pleaded, as she gave up on the clasp and pulled it over her head. He quickly shifted out of the way as she flung it at him, and it went soaring into his flat.

"I hate you," she said, her voice cracking. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "Don't ever talk to me again." And she stormed off, back to her apartment, without giving him a second glance.

His body wouldn't move at first; he felt as though everything within him had simply fled, leaving a shell behind. The woman he loved had just rejected him. She knew how he felt, and it hadn't mattered. He'd imagined that if they encountered an obstacle, even one he'd unthinkingly set up, they would be able to discuss it and work around it. But he'd been wrong. He'd made a mistake and paid dearly for it.

He stepped back into his flat and picked up the necklace, which had almost made it to the living room area. Both the jewelry and the floor where it had landed were undamaged, and he lifted up the pendant to observe it. It was even more lovely than it had appeared online when he'd bought it, the swan centered as though it were part of a wax seal. He recalled how he'd felt when he'd found it, how perfect it had been, and how much he hoped she would like it.

What else had she thrown? He ventured back into the hallway to find the paper she'd wadded up. Back inside, he brought it to the first available surface—his kitchen counter—and flattened it.

It was the packing slip from the necklace. Of course: it had been in the packing envelope along with the gift. And right there, for anyone to see, were his name and address. He might was well have given her his contact information from the start: she'd known who he was since Christmas, apparently.

This was a bloody fucking mess, that was for sure.

He was shaking. What should he do? What could he do? Follow her back and demand to talk?

But what good would that do? She was clearly distraught and, unless he was imagining things, at least moderately intoxicated. And he himself was barely able to see straight, at least partially due to exhaustion. How could he even possibly explain himself?

His left hand hurt, as it did whenever he overused it. Why? He'd forgotten that he was still clutching Swan's necklace, to the point where the swan in the pendant had left an indentation in his palm.

He fell asleep sometime after two o'clock, the necklace still in his hand.

I'm hoping the ending of this chapter isn't as painful as the end of the corresponding chapter in WA, mostly because you already know how this ends. Maybe? Let me know what you think!

A lot of folks have asked about what his father was talking about in the last chapter. I'm going to be evasive about answering, but the dialogue was not random.

Credit for Killian dreaming of Emma throwing the turtle-shaped massage tool goes to OptimisticGirl.