She had thought it would be jarring at first, transitioning from weeks of traveling on foot to the unpredictable waters of the sea, but Mary finds the gentle rocking of the Jolly Roger almost comforting. Killian had wasted no time helping her get acquainted with the vessel, assuring her that they would be able to sail her just fine with just the two of them. Even now, sitting on a small bed belowdecks clad in a new dress she found in a trunk—a crimson bodice with brown skirts that was slightly shabby but still felt delightful after the now-ragged dress Rumpelstiltskin had first given her—Mary can still feel Killian standing behind her, his hands braced above hers on the rope as they worked together to hoist the magical sails. The full impact of where she is right now, sitting calmly on board Captain Hook's pirate ship, hasn't quite sunk in yet. If only Mary's younger self could see her now.

"Just like that, love," he'd said as her trembling arms helped him heave the rope, craning her neck to watch their handiwork as the sailed soared above them. "Easy now, be gentle with her…There we go." He had tied off the rope securely and taken a step back, hand and hook lightly grazing Mary's arms and sending tingles through her that she instantly cursed, because didn't her body understand that she couldn't feel these things anymore? She was endangering them both by this, it wasn't worth it, none of this was worth it…

"Come on, Mary," he'd said, his voice low, and Mary couldn't help but feel as if he, too, might be thinking something he shouldn't. "I'll show you to your quarters…and hopefully find something for you to wear…"

The room he's given her is not far from his own, from what she's gathered, and she's taken care of the problem of new clothes with her own snooping. She runs her hands over the fabric of her skirts, remembering the fine dresses she used to wear back home as if they were no more than a dream. Some days it feels like they are.

There is a light rap at the door, and she stands, smoothing her skirts and placing her hands behind her back as the door swings open. "Love, I…"

Suddenly Killian stops short. He's staring at her, his face ashen as if he's seen a ghost. Mary can recognize this look now, the look that means that Killian's walls that he's spent years—centuries, even, God, there's so much about him that she cannot even begin to understand—building up returning once again to push her away. She knows this look well, because she knows that her face is capable of making the same expression. She is the cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley, an expert at pushing people away when things begin to get too serious, too emotional, too real for her. Isn't that what she's been doing these past few weeks to him? Pushing him away not just because she doesn't want him to be a target for Rumpelstiltskin's violence, but to make it less painful for the both of them when she has to leave him?

Will it really be less painful, though? These days every time she looks at him it feels as if a piece of her heart is being chipped away, cursed to stay behind forever in the Enchanted Forest, to remain with him. She is already miles away from the girl she was when she first arrived here, can feel the person she once was drifting away more and more each day—and she finds she doesn't miss the old Mary as much as she thought she would. But if this keeps up…what kind of person will she be when she returns home?

If she returns home.

"Killian?" she asks, her voice a low murmur. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, love."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Only in your presence, it seems." His voice is defensive, and for some reason that startles her. "I couldn't have made it this far as a pirate if I was a terrible liar."

"Perhaps you just had luck on your side, then." She almost smiles, the gesture biting at the corners of her lips. She's missed this, the endless back-and-forth between them, but there's a somber air of something unspoken lingering between them. He is matching her banter wit for wit, as he always does, but that hollow look is still in his ocean blue eyes, and she can tell that his heart is not in it the way it once was. She pushes past it, still trying to get him to open up, even though her heart tells her that it is futile. "Regardless, we've established that you can't lie to me, Killian Jones. Might as well tell me whatever is on your mind now."

His gaze drops from her face, and he moves as if to turn away. "Nothing to trouble you with, love. In any case, I didn't come here to talk about my troubles."

"Oh? Then to what do I owe the pleasure?" She hates how flippant her voice sounds, as if she doesn't care, as if everything she's done since that night at the lake hasn't been about keeping him safe…as if he hasn't spent the last month making her feel things she never thought were possible for her, not again…

"I came to invite you to dinner."

It's not the answer that she was expecting, not by far. "Dinner?"

"Aye. We dine in the captain's quarters this evening. You've foraged in the wilderness long enough, I believe. The Jolly's food stores might not be quite what you're used to in your own realm, but they far surpass anything that can be found in the forest, I assure you. I… I look forward to you joining me."

It wasn't the truth, but Mary has never been one to turn down a dinner invitation before. Perhaps she can coax the real truth out of him later…

"I look forward to that as well," she says as he turns to go. "I…I would be happy to join you for dinner, Captain." Mary isn't quite sure where this new formality has come from—she hasn't had much need of it in the Enchanted Forest so far—but she goes along with it anyway. It's what she knows, after all, and ever since she tumbled through that godforsaken portal she has been in uncharted territory.

"But…" she says before he leaves her, trying one last time. She's in uncharted waters anyway, so what harm can there be in submerging herself entirely? "I still wish you'd tell me what's troubling you."

She watches as he lingers in the doorway, the curve of his hook resting gently on the wooden doorframe.

"That dress," he says finally, his tone unreadable. "It belonged to Milah."

And then he is gone, and she is alone once again, standing numb in a dead woman's dress. She should have known, she supposes now. She always should have known.

Damn it all, Mary.