Summary: Intending to return to Neverland after his quest for revenge comes to an abrupt end, Killian Jones finds himself in Duodenary, a realm whose existence allows Neverland, and the people therein, to live forever. After months of trying and failing to find a way to go home, a princess comes looking to him for help.

Notes: Thanks to all who read/favorited/followed/reviewed! I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy part two. Part three goes up on Wednesday.

"Well this is an interesting turn of events," Killian says, when they step from the skiff and onto the deck not half an hour later. "A princess kidnapping a pirate. And his ship, for that matter."

"For the last time, I am not kidnapping you. I just want to show you something."

"I suppose this is where I am bent to your every whim. Sometimes rather literally."

Emma rolls her eyes, and leans against the railing of his ship like she owns it. He turns to tease her a bit more, to suss out whether she truly means what she says. But he finds himself at a loss for words, particularly when she crosses one leg over the other. Again, he's struck with a sense of familiarity. Not quite that he truly knows her – even realms and lifetimes apart, no time nor force could convince him to forget Emma Swan.

Still, he thinks, regarding her intently.

It reminds him of his travels, after he'd shed his loyalty to the Royal Navy, and convinced the Jewel to allow him to call her Jolly. There were certain realms, certain islands off the coasts, draped in brilliant, silvery stone and powerful waterfalls – all of them jutting out into crystalline waters, underwater grass stretched out in meadows like emeralds – that felt like home. He recalls walking the shorelines, feeling distinctly as though he'd been there before, recognizing a boulder here and there, remembering the way the palms and pines stretched up and out against the horizon, even though he'd never seen them before.

This is much the same. Emma stands on his ship, soft brown leathers on her feet, her legs, and rough, blue and white cotton over her chest and arms. He remembers the way her sword rests at her hip. He remembers the way that she licks at her lips, the way the skin by her eyes wrinkles when she smiles. And, of course, he remembers the dent in her chin, can almost feel it beneath his thumb, hair slipping through his fingers.

But…all the same, he doesn't remember her. Like she's hope. Like she's home.

"What?" she says, fidgeting harder the longer he looks at her.

"Just thinking," he answers. She arches a neat brow, and he grins affectedly. "About whether you'll keep me tied below deck. In the cabin, no doubt, although there's a perfectly suitable brig near the bilge. Smells terrible, of course, but that can't be helped."

"Are you done?"

"As long as you continue not telling me where we're going, I'll just have to guess."

"Listen, Killian…"

He frowns at the sound of his name, and Emma seems to catch it, trailing off, and looking up at him as she steps closer.

"Hook?" she amends.

"Killian will do," he says, quietly.

She hesitates before she continues, "Have you heard of the Rise?"

Killian wracks his brain. As easy to adjust as he usually is – as long as he has his ship in tow – each realm has its own, innumerable quirks. Especially those run on all sorts of curious magic, like Neverland and its apparent counterpart.

"You'll have to remind me, Swan," he says. "I'm afraid I haven't been here very long."

She waves him off. "Are you kidding? Some people, born and raised, don't really know what it is."

Emma walks over to port, leaning over the gunwale. She looks down at the water, and although, with the sudden onset of dreary weather and unpredictable winds, the water is slate gray, showing nothing beneath, Killian wonders what she sees. That is, how she thinks, what makes her tick, for lack of a better metaphor.

"Have you seen the spirits?" she says.

"Ah, yes. Like jellyfish, most of them." He looks down at her, and she at the water. Surely she feels his eyes on her, but she doesn't look at him, and doesn't whinge when he – well, when he stares, really, like a git.

"That's what the magical creatures of Duodenary turn into when they die," she says.

"Aye, that much I've seen."

"And then they travel to Duo Twelve, to a lake, where they rise."

"Rise," he parrots.

"To Neverland."

Killian tries to imagine it, creatures not unlike jellyfish, arriving in Neverland from some unknown location. Perhaps he'd seen it before. Perhaps he'd forgotten. Neverland is funny that way, playing with his memories, driving him nearly to madness, sometimes, when he tries to recall little things about his family, his Milah, seeing nothing but shadows. Then sometimes, he's hit with a deluge of the very same memories, bitter and heavy and smelling like all the blood that he'd shed. It seems random at times. Although, more often than not, he seems to forget all that drives him to anger, to ruin. The flora and fauna, the paths through the trees, the layout of the islands themselves – these he can't seem to forget, living maps in his head. But still, nothing of the spirits he's seen in these waters.

"I've not seen it, truth be told," he says. "Although, I'm only one man, with only the one ship. I could have missed it."

Emma agrees.

"It doesn't happen that often, and there usually aren't that many at a time. But…" She falls silent when she looks up at him, and the expression on her face tugs sharply at his chest. "…you wouldn't miss it now."

"And why is that?"

"Because it started three weeks ago, and it hasn't stopped."

He quirks a brow. "I take it that's much longer than usual?"

"This is a one day even we're talking about, Killian, maybe once a week or so. Three straight weeks. How many creatures have died, while I've just been…"

Her shoulders slump, and Killian clenches his jaw, drags his teeth back and forth while he watches her weigh herself down.

"While you've just been demanding pirates help you with your cause? Just been kidnapping them when they hesitate?"

She smiles, wanly. "I did not kidnap you."

He smiles back, lets the tension in her neck settle before he speaks. And when he does, it's as gentle as he can manage, recalling a part of himself that he hasn't known in centuries.

"What could I possibly do, love?" he says. "I wrangle creatures – "

"Wrangle being used loosely, here."

" – wrangle the creatures of the sea, but what could I know that you don't? You were born here. I'm merely a visitor. Although, curiously enough, the people here don't seem to mind. Haven't had a foreigner in years, yet I arrive from Neverland, and they simply shrug it off."

"They probably think you're lying," she says, absently.

"Can't fake this accent, love."

She huffs. "I bet they could."

"Can't fake two and half centuries of life, either. Although…" He pats at his chest. "…can't prove it."

Emma doesn't seem surprised by his admission, only folding her arms over her chest, and repeating, "They could totally fake it."

Could not, he wants to answer, but he's not a child. So he simply watches her, while Emma watches him, watches and waits, and the longer she does, the more exposed he feels. She may be something of an open book, but it's like his pages aren't even bound, not where she can see. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to resist the urge to scratch at his ear.

"They say you're tenacious," she says, at length. "That you're out on the water, day and night. That there's nothing you can't catch?"

Killian looks down at his feet, and she steps closer.

"Or nothing you can't convince, anyways," she says, and when he looks back up, she's smiling. Freely, this time.

"Are you going to ransom my secrets, Swan?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"So tell me, then, why do these spirits travel to Neverland? To arrest time, perhaps? They're already dead, so I'm not sure I see the point."

"You're the one who lived in Neverland for like a million years. Why do I have to tell you how it works?"

"Duodenary isn't exactly common knowledge, love, strangely enough. Although, Neverland is a realm with no time, so I think perhaps we're using strange incorrectly."

"It's not that it has no time. It used to. When Duodenary split ties with Neverland, it was on the condition that we took their time, and that they leave us be."

Killian frowns, scratches at the scruff on his jaw. "How, exactly, does one take time? From what I understand, it just…is. Flowing like water, faster in some realms than others. Stagnant in Neverland. Fairly normal here, although you lot appear to have a lurid fascination with the whole concept."

Emma wrinkles her nose. "I'm not sure how to explain it. It's like a…kind of a magic? It's not the water, it's the power that makes the water flow. Take that power, shunt it over here. In return, Neverland will live forever, and we have a steady flow of something that we can use to build, to heal – "

"To fight?"

Emma pauses, and he has the distinct feeling she's calling on memory.

"Do you want to see it or not?" she says.

All at once, Killian feels as though he's looking at two branches in the strait. He's told this woman what he knows, and that could easily be the end of it. Perhaps he could tell her more by watching this Rise, but he doubts he could be of much help. He's never been much help to anyone. Then again – and he looks down at her at the thought – there's something in her eyes…hope he's neither seen nor borne since the Royal Navy agreed to take he and his brother. This woman has her family, most likely, and she has her land, and there's clearly nothing he could say that could stop her. He wonders, if he goes, will she find it within herself to hope for him too? Hope for something better than mere survival, for him to stay. He tilts his head, and gazes intently into her eyes. Her lashes flutter, but she doesn't look away, and rather suddenly, he thinks, unbidden –

I was born half in love with you.

Killian's nostrils flare, and he looks down at her feet.

"Aye," he answers her, quietly. He clears his throat, and forces a cavalier smile on his face. "But a Duo over, is it not? I don't see the harm."

As he goes to the helm, he sheds his dripping coat, and he can feel her scrutiny at his back. Along the way, he taps at the chain holding the anchor, and it coils at his command. He tugs on the rigging, and the Jolly listens, sails unfurling as he walks. He's no doubt that, as he prepares to leave, she can sense the lie on his face, the sudden and cloying desperation for purpose, brought on by a passion he's only ever worn for the sake of revenge.

"Alright, love," he says, catching his hook on the handles of the wheel. "Lead the way."

Emma, now leaning by the lanterns on the bow, attention caught by a shoal of fish, spares him hardly a glance.

"I get the feeling you don't say that very often," she says.

"Give me a few moments more, and I may change my mind."

She sighs, long suffering, though she smiles – if not warily. But he's a man who knows how to count his good fortune – so he smiles back, when she comes to stand by the helm. He adjusts his posture, half in the hope that he can watch her, subtly, out of the corner of his eye, and half because, embarrassingly enough, her close proximity makes him feel as though he's forgotten how to stand. She opens her mouth, no doubt to guide him, when stares at his arm. It stings under her gaze, or at least it seems to, until she reaches out to touch him, and it stings even brighter beneath her fingers.

"Ow," he says.

"I think something cut you."

"Just leave it, love, it's hardly a – "

Hardly a scratch, he means to say, but then she lays the palm of her hand over the wound. He looks down, and the blood, somehow without him realizing, dries down between his fingers, coating the back of his hand. Whatever it was – a narwhal, perhaps, a sharp shell, a cutting eel – left a much deeper gash than he realized, and he gasps when the flesh ties itself neatly back together, and the blood seems to retreat.

They stand together, silent for a moment, before she steps back, clears her throat, and says –

"Duo Twelve. It's three harbors in the counterclock direction."

He hesitates, for reasons he's not yet sure he comprehends. But then he nods, and pulls sharply on the wheel with his hook, the click of the spokes and the flutter of the sails ringing out across the waters.

"As you wish," he says, grinning down at her.

And to his delight, she smiles back.

It's dark, of course, by the time they reach the harbors of Duo Twelve. Light in Duodenary is in fairly short supply, the sun rushing around the edges of the atoll, giving each county hardly more than an hour of full sunlight. The silver lining, of course, is that, given the severe angle of the star, each night and each morning gives a spectacular sunrise and sunset, lasting hours on each end. The sky is more often set aflame than not.

"We'll have to row in from here," she says, when the Jolly Roger has reached the limit of her depth. Killian drops anchor, then leaning over the starboard side to watch and to listen.

This particular harbor, he's never seen before. Granted, it's terribly shallow, and there are no docks to speak of, no villages, no signs of life whatsoever. That is, aside from the grass that sways down beneath the water, trembling with what he's sure are creatures of all sorts, burrowing in the sands and slithering down deep in the shadows. Trees wave along the coast, with leaves a vibrant shade of blue, weeping their leaves down into the water, growing ones anew even as the old float on the water's surface. Fireflies blink in rough tandem in their canopy, off rhythm to the sound of the crickets chirping loudly from the underbrush.

"I'll admit, Swan," he says, pulling idly on the ropes securing the skiff. "It's a beautiful place."

He pulls a little harder, though he nearly trips on air – standing still, even – when Emma lays her hand on his arm. Her fingers are warm, even through the layers of leather and fabric, and he's sure he does a shite job of schooling his expression when he looks down at her.

"Come look," she says, pulling on his elbow. He's helpless to follow, of course, to look where she points, and –

"Seven hells," he says, when he sees them. Spending as much time in the water as he does, he's seen the spirits coalesce from the bodies of some of the greater, magical creatures. But never before has he seen quite so many, floating sluggishly through the calm waters, up towards a dark, winding river that empties into the bay.

"See what I'm talking about?"

"I do."

They watch the procession for a while longer, she in sorrow and he in awe, before he returns to the skiff, pulls harder and faster on the fastenings, until the pulleys above squeak to life.

"Give me a hand, will you, Swan?"

"Is that a hand joke?"

He gives her a look. "Hardly. I've had quite enough of those to last all the lifetimes I could have lived in Neverland."

"Fine, fine," she grumbles, almost as if she wishes it were a hand joke. He files that away for future reference, and directs her in helping him lower the boat to the water. The ladder – made of the same, dubiously sturdy twining rope that holds the boat in place on the ship – is next to follow, unfurling against the hull with an unflattering thwap.

"Well that sounds super safe," she says, peering over the railing.

"I've been climbing it up and down for decades, Swan, it'll do."

"Maybe it's time to get something new."

He looks at her, sharply, before swinging his legs over and down on the steps. He's nearly halfway down when she follows, grumbling all the way.

"Is it just me, or does this rope look like it could just burst into flames," she says.

"If you set my ladder on fire, love, you'll be swimming home."

She huffs as she climbs down the last few rungs. At the end, she merely hangs on tight, the boat just barely out of reach of her legs. Her knuckles are white, and she peers warily over her shoulder, down at the last several hands between her and the water.

"I'm gonna fall and die," she says.

He laughs, and lays his hand at the small of her back. Whatever else she was about to say seems to catch in her throat. Killian grits his teeth, somehow both irritated and pleased that neither of them can touch the other without a fair bit of tense silence. The hours since they met, feeling like years.

"Careful," he says, just before she leaps into the boat, nearly capsizing the both of them.

He frowns when they settle. "As graceful as your namesake, eh, Swan?"

"Shut up," she says.

From there they paddle upriver, following the intrusion of the swelling tide. The waters of the river are deep, and so in the darkness – the moon always beneath the horizon, or so he'd been told – the spirits disappear under the surface.

"How far?" he says.

"Just a few leagues."

Just a few leagues, he thinks, mocking the cavalier tone of her voice. In the keel of the small skiff, he watches her shoulders bunch beneath her shirt, paddling calmly along the waters. The current is slow, at least, and so it's none too difficult to make steady progress.

What is difficult is watching the siren before him, and trying to catch his bearings. When he'd landed in this realm, out on the billowing salts of the Pelagy, it had been a nuisance, to say the least. When time began to tick by – being no closer to returning to Neverland, or even to the Enchanted Forest – and he'd felt himself settling into the role of wrangler, all thoughts of revenge too muddied by the magic of Neverland to sustain him any longer, it had been…less of a nuisance. The Dark One vanquished, his centuries for naught, trapped in an unfamiliar realm, he'd satisfied himself with mere survival. It's the only thing he's good at, it seems.

Then comes Emma Swan. Looking at her feels like living. He's not sure how he feels about that.

"We're getting close," she says, just when he thinks he can no longer bare the sight of the starlight in her hair.

The river opens wide into a salt lake, black marsh grasses growing tall along the edges of the salt lake. And though it – like all the bodies of water in Duodenary – is beautiful, it's the magic that catches his attention, shimmering across the surface, trembling in the wake left behind their skiff.

"I don't see anything, love," he says. "You said – "

"I know, I know," she says. "It stops and starts sometimes. Just give it a minute and twenty seconds, give or take."

"Give or take," he grumbles. Of all the colloquialisms, he could do without the eerily precise measures of time given by the locals. He wonders, idly, how much time they spend keeping track of time.

After her minute – and twenty seconds – has passed, Emma looks out over the gunwale. As if in response, the faint shimmer out on the water grows brighter, and the current begins to tremble, turning over and over under her stare. She reaches out, and lays her palm flat against the surface. The waters calm for a moment, before the thick shade of pitch begins to fade, and a faint, blue, ethereal glow lights up the lake entire. Killian holds his breath, watching, waiting, until the spirits begin their Rise. Much like jellies, their membranous bodies flutter in the soft, noontime winds. The purple-bright starlight seems caught in their flesh, rippling outward, until even the vegetation at the water's edge shines. More and more meander up and into the air around them, and the magic intensifies, until the very air seems to quake, until it's like –

"Like looking through a glass of water," Killian says. He reaches out to prod gently at one of the large spirits, its long, flowing tendrils brushing over his wrist. Another wraps its tentacles around his hook. They linger, as if in greeting, before floating towards the sky. They watch in silence until they can't see the shoreline, for the masses. He feels something on the back of his neck, and turns, watching some, hardly the size of marbles, rising much more quickly than the rest.

"We call those gooseberries," Emma says, in explanation. She smiles when he echoes the unfamiliar word. They're like bubbles, he thinks. Unlike their animal counterparts, they are without sting, without malice, as they rise higher and higher into the sky. When he looks back down into the water below, there seems no end to them. He reaches down, stirs them with his hook. The gentle wake around the polished metal begins to glitter, imbued with colors of all sorts, some he can't describe, living in the corners of diamonds.

"I'm not sure what you're hoping I can do, Swan," he says, at length.

When she doesn't answer, he glances at her, and spots sadness, mourning, written all over her face. Here where the world seems to turn upside down, he recognizes that the spectacle around him is indicative of death, a great deal of it. Even so, he can't help but to marvel.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" she says.

"Aye."

Emma falls silent, at least until he looks at her.

"You know," she says, "I never did care about this, when I was a kid. These things are weird and squishy and they're dead and that just grossed me out, honestly."

Killian watches her. "What changed?"

She shrugs. "I grew up. I lived and I lost, and then one day I came here, after…" She lets the word after hang in the air for a while, before she clears her throat, "And you know what I saw?"

He shakes his head, only ever so slightly, afraid to break the spell that's come over and between them.

Breathing deeply, she answers herself, "Just creatures. And magic. Living and dying, the way we're supposed to." Emma pauses, and leans forward. He can't help but to mirror, until their knees brush, and her hand comes down over his hook. He holds his breath, then lets it out in a puff. She looks up at him, and once again, he's struck with a distinct feeling of familiarity, alongside the more distinct desire to tuck her hair just so, just behind her ear.

"What are you asking me to do, love?" he says.

"Like I said, I didn't care much for these things when I was younger, and here's the thing, I don't really have much time to come down here. I don't really know…what they're supposed to look like. You're a wrangler. Just look at them, and tell me what you see."

He looks at her instead, until she frowns.

"There are other wranglers, darling," he says.

"Yeah, well…they proved to be a dead end."

"Ah, so, I wasn't your first choice."

Emma sighs, holds tighter to his hook, and tugs. "None of you were."

Killian waits for her to elaborate. She doesn't, only waits, increasingly impatient. He'd find it amusing, if not for the underlying fear, the deep seated concern. And sorrow. Sorrow above all else, empathy for creatures she's never seen, for the hundreds and hundreds of spirits around them. She has a good heart, he thinks, and for all the time that he's lived, he knows that this is the rarest of all.

And so, with careful attention, he turns to watch the spirits rise. He thinks hard on all the ones he'd seen before. He chews on his lips, taps his hook against his thigh.

"There is…" He trails off, reaches out to let the tendrils curl around his fingers. Again, they linger. He tugs, gently, and the spirit nearly falls into the water. "…something off."

"What is it?"

"They're – " He casts about for the proper word. "They're weak. Longer tendrils. Sluggish. When I touch them…"

He reaches out, takes hold of her hand in his. She arches a brow at him, though she allows it. Reaching out, a few of the spirits seem to gravitate towards them – towards her in particular – brushing gently at her hands, at her shoulders. They linger on her, longer than on him, and she closes her eyes.

"Do you feel it?" he says.

"Uh," she answers. "I don't think so."

He hums, and lets her hand go.

"I've spent months on your waters, Swan. When these spirits pass, they don't sting, but they do leave a bit of magic behind. A sort of – "

"A zap? Yeah…yeah, I've felt that before. I just thought it was only certain ones?"

He shakes his head. "Not in my experience."

Emma leans back where she sits, seems to consider what he's told her. She shifts restlessly in place, again and again, and reaches up to sift her hand through her hair, to pull at the tangles, curled with the salt and the water in the air.

"Emma," he says, softly. She looks at him, surprised to hear her name, perhaps, or surprised at the way he says it. "Tell me what you're thinking."

She hesitates. Then, "It's time, I think."

"Time?"

"Longer tendrils," she parrots him. "Sluggish. Like they're getting too much of it. Like it's moving faster."

He hums. Truth be told, though he's come to know the beasts of this realm, with great care and even greater familiarity, he's still not entirely certain how it all works. It's magic, to be sure. But he's always been distrustful of magic. At least – and he scratches at his arm at the thought – until he felt it knit his flesh back to his bones, and set a fire in his belly.

"It's time," she repeats, sounding sure, or as sure as she'll likely be. Though, when she looks up at him, all the sorrow in her eyes, all the tender confusion, is shuttered.

"You can go," she says.

Killian quirks a brow. "Unless you're wanting me to push you into the waters, love, I think we'll both be going."

She rolls her eyes. "I mean after. When we get back. You can go."

He considers her, then. He leans forward, and she seems to sense the challenge, remaining steadfastly in place, the specks of gold in her eyes flashing up at him.

"Aye, I can," he says.

In fact, he almost wants to. This woman is an angel, or a siren, come to dig him up from his grave. The danger with living, is that he can die, much like he did before. When his father, when Milah, when Liam, when, when, when. Killian imagines going back to the life he's just beginning to cobble together. He can keep a happy crew, drink himself into a stupor every other night, and wake up the next morning, taking meager solace in the sea, the way it stirs beneath the Jolly Roger, and the beasts he finds underneath. And then, in the interest of fairness, he imagines Emma too. There he finds that, beyond taking her back to his ship, he doesn't see much of anything, the future wrapped in darkness and silence, waiting to be written. Not unlike his first days as a pirate. Adventure ahead, the past behind.

Surviving. Or Emma.

The known. Or the unknown.

As if you haven't already chosen, he hears, in his brother's voice.

It's with a deliberate smile, then, that Killian reaches out to touch his hand to hers, his fingers running the dips and curves of her knuckles. She looks up at him, and his breath catches for a moment. His heart thuds, and he presses harder, emboldened by the expression on her face.

"I'll help you."

She leans back, lashes fluttering. "You will?"

"I promise."

I promise, the words echo. All the way back through the Rise, as it grows thicker with the first light of day, the first of several hours of sunrise, as the central star rolls back towards Duo Twelve. When they're back in the river, Killian throws one last, long look over his shoulder, watching as the spirits travel en masse, a great and terrible display of magic.

I promise, he thinks, wondering – with a heavy, labored, sigh – just what sort of foolishness he's gotten himself into.

"So," he says, once they've managed their way back to the Jolly Roger. "Where shall we start?"

She looks up at him, part sarcasm, part gratitude. "That's where you come in, genius."

Killian smiles, and makes his idle way to the stern, looks over the gunwale and down into the waters beneath. He rubs at his chin, scratches at his scruff, shifts from foot to foot. Emma comes to stand beside him, and now he's certain what he's feeling is real. The familiarity, the stutter in his heartbeat. Though he's not looking at her, he can feel her breathing, feel her shifting, and his body commands that he mirror, until they both stand like duplicate sentries, watches the waves as they lap gently at the hull of the ship.

"You've said this has to do with time," he says.

She nods.

"Particularly the speed of time."

Nods again.

Killian hums, and twirls his rings around his fingers. Truth be told, he's not sure what he can do to help, only sure that he wants to, which is a change of pace.

Change of pace…

"Tell me, love…" He trails off, and scratches at his neck, shifting from one to the other.

Change of pace, change of pace…

"About what?" she says.

"About magic," he answers, and turns to face her. He reaches down to fiddle with his belt buckle. "You said the Rise leads to Neverland. Where does the time come in?"

Emma looks thoughtful for a moment. "Everywhere, really."

"Equally?"

"Yes. Why?"

Killian doesn't answer, at least not right away, leaning over the stern once more before walking briskly to the bow. He leans over there, as well, Emma close behind him. He considers the waters beneath, how they lap as they do at the stern, only the gentle rocking of the ship is just that. Gentle. Even more so than where the hull tapers off into the bowsprit, into the martingale. And with even greater care, he considers the half-formed plan stewing in his mind. There's something about her – about the way that she walks, the way that she talks – that makes him want to succeed. That gives him pause when he imagines providing her with hope, and then seeing it dashed.

Then again, what's a life without risk? Hope abused, or not?

"Listen, Swan," he says, when he turns back to her. "I've told you what I can about the spirits in the Rise. To be frank, I think my usefulness has run its course."

She scowls, and opens her mouth, likely to refute him, or otherwise verbally eviscerate him. But he interrupts –

"That being said, I think I might have a plan, if you're willing to throw caution to the wind? Perhaps a bit of sanity, as well."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm just thinking about how many times over you could have told me this plan if you weren't too busy talking out of your ass."

Killian laughs, and marches back to the bowsprit, Emma close at his heels.

"So you've said the time flows equal throughout," he says, as he goes along. "Magical creatures live and they die, and their spirits Rise to Neverland. If something in particular is speeding this up, then – "

"Then time would be moving faster, there," Emma says. He stops, then, and turns to watch her as she catches up with him. He expects her to look impressed, and though she does, her smile is none too surprised, somewhat indulgent. "I figured that out while you were asking me questions."

Killian quirks a brow. "Let's call it a tie."

"It's not a contest."

The other quickly follows.

"Anyway, if it were," she says, "I would be winning."

Killian huffs, a quiet puff of laughter, and walks back to the bowsprit, just to make sure that he's right.

"So how are we going to look for this place?" Emma says. "It would take months and months to search all of Duodenary. I'm not sure we have that kind of time."

"That's where I come in." He tilts his head, and she tilts hers in turn. "And you as well."

"How much am I going to hate this?"

He waves her off. "Not at all, Emma. You know the current that runs its circuit around the Gear of Clockwork Bay, of course."

"Yeah, but what – "

"Well, that too runs steady. Not unlike time. From there, you can watch all of the sunsets and sunrises in all the Duos. Perhaps from there, as well, we could watch time as it speeds up."

Emma frowns, thoughtfully twisting a lock of her hair around her fingers. "That could take several days, although I guess – "

"Faster still – "

"You have got to stop interrupting me – "

"Sorry, love, but listen – "

"I am listening – "

"We can ride the current," he says, and smiles despite the scowl on her face. "Even if we could keep an eye on the sunset and the sunrise, all day every day, for all twelve Duos, I doubt we could find any minute differences. But if we ride the current – swift and steady of speed, we can – "

" – find where it speeds up."

Said aloud, it's even more ridiculous than he'd imagined. But Emma appears to consider it. She crosses her arms over her chest, and looks up at the sky. She chews on her lips, soothing the marks on her mouth with her tongue. She sighs, and then looks him up and down, appearing to consider him next. He swallows, and wonders what she finds, if she thinks him wanting, inadequate. He wonders when it began to matter, if it was before or after he turned to look at her in the harbor, looking like she belonged there among the grasses and seaweeds, there among the salts in the water.

"It's not the worst idea I've ever heard," she concedes.

And despite the doubt in her voice, he smiles, and says –

"Music to my ears, love."