Disclaimer: I do not own the show or the characters of Once Upon A Time. There's no profit except writing practice being made here.

"Ah, Prince Charles, there you are."

Swan's chest rumbled against his as she stifled a laugh, plump pink lips pressed together tightly from stopping herself from bursting out with a laugh.

"Something amusing, Swan?" he leaned forward to ask the question, easily dodging the lad who had approached them, mid-step, by turning them again.

Emma shook her head, her soft hair swaying against the place where his gloves didn't quite reach his sleeve. Thankfully, the Crocodile had actually changed their clothes, rather than merely casting a glamour over his attire, casting his spell over their faces and his hook, but legitimately changing everything else they wore.

Her hand squeezed his shoulder, Killian was sure of it. "I'll explain later."

The pageboy approached with his hands clasped behind him, a purposeful stance that wasn't quite as stiff as it should have been, Killian noted. The lad was probably new to the role. Killian ducked his chin over his shoulder to look at the person who had interrupted them.

Emma's arm skidded down his shoulder as they turned and settled against his waist. Too many layers separated them, and his gloves were another, where his hand rested against the flare of her skirts. Nevertheless, Killian could feel Emma's warmth at his side and revelled in it. This was their last adventure together, he could feel that in the air, and he'd promised to make the most of it before he returned her home and she left for New York.

Something selfish spiked in him.

Perhaps he could remain here once he'd ensured Emma was home safe. His ship was here, he was disguised, and he wouldn't be surrounded by others who grieved the loss of Emma. He couldn't live his life hanging onto the hope she'd return to Storybrooke, because she would, he knew that for a fact. She couldn't just take Henry from his mother, Emma wasn't cruel, but she'd always leave again. She was still so far from embracing her family.

But hadn't he made the mistake of leaving the people of Storybrooke and deeply regretted it once before?

He'd have to be careful to find a spot of ocean no one had ever claimed, to ensure he never ruined the timeline for Emma's future. He'd have to chain himself to the top of a beanstalk to stop himself from charging at Regina when she started to cast her curse, from telling David to put a labourous Snow into the portal and hope they'd both survive the birth, from taking David's place in the fight against the Black Knights so that he could join Emma in the portal, from going with her himself. It would kill him not to alter that timeline. Emma going alone was predestined. For what other reason would she find Storybrooke than if someone from the town came for her? How else could someone come for her, unless they weren't part of the curse initially?

Just as her life was a series of chess moves, so was Henry's, it seemed. Unless it was he who joined Emma in the portal, raised her, found Storybrooke from memory and brought her to her family. But then she would never chain him to the beanstalk and thus never return to Storybrooke as Cora never created the necessary portal. He would never turn around from his revenge for Henry and fall for her in the process. He'd never see the light in her, and because of her, himself, and never adore her so much that he made the decision to stay here in the past to avoid her rejection and ensure she avoided her trauma.

It all had to happen as it always had.

Emma had to grow up alone in order to become the Saviour. And Henry's birth was orchestrated by Pan to mix the dark and light to make the Truest Believer out of a heart of his descendent, but so important to Emma and Regina and Emma finding her family, all of it feeling so predestined as a means to the end of Emma breaking the curse so that the Dark One could find Bae and she could find her family.

Killian couldn't stop it. Shouldn't.

He wouldn't.

No matter how much it broke his heart when she and Henry left. He'd take a job at the docks like the rest of his crew, or join in on Havers' business to run Gold out of business with his wares. Or at the school teaching the history of the Enchanted Forest. Or with Regina in the mayor's office, keeping the Crocodile in line.

Perhaps the sheriff's office was a better place to do that, but that was Emma's domain. He'd see her ghost in everything he did. He'd probably see her in everything he did anyway and it might even be healthy to remain with David, who'd inevitably be feeling her loss too. He'd make better amends with Belle and make use of that library card she'd bestowed him with. He'd learn to stop rolling his eyes at Smee whenever the man insisted they get frozen treats together and one day he might stop seeing Henry at the table beside them when they ate it.

Besides, how could he be sure she returned to her time safely, that it was the future she recognised, if he did not go with her? What if they changed something, how would they fix it together if he stayed behind?

"The king wishes to speak to you, sir." The boy bowed.

Beside him, Emma flinched. It was instinctively that Killian moved before he remembered that perhaps he shouldn't've squeezed her hip to comfort her, promising silently that they would be fine.

Killian nodded, sparing a look to Emma who copied the movement. David and the princess that was not Emma's mother were still greeting gatherers.

He and Emma had agreed when they'd been spying on the festivities from afar that Snow White would not infiltrate the party during the introductions. It would be easy to sneak in, yes, slipping in with a larger group, but guards would be at their highest at all accessed points in those moments; their most aware, and their most saturated. As two experienced thieves, they'd agreed that would be Snow's best plan. Plus, because Killian had advised Snow the same fact (he'd said specifically that high concentration of guards in the ballroom and main entrance after the meal would be her best time to scale a wall and enter directly into the royal chambers would be a plan he'd wager on) they knew they wouldn't miss her arrival if they were summoned away before the meal.

Feeling safe in that knowledge, and pushing aside the way his stomach growled at the thought of missing a proper hot meal because it was not an unfamiliar sensation, he and Emma followed the lad to the edge of the ballroom.

The boy led the pair to the edge of the ballroom and then through a wide archway, insisting they follow him down the corridor until it spilled out into an obscenely decadent, vacant room. Then he disappeared.

"What-?" Emma turned around, twisting his elbow painfully as she looked over his shoulder to follow the working boy who couldn't have been older than her son, but Killian refused to wince or whine or draw attention to the fact they were touching in anyway. Just in case it alerted Emma to it and she pulled away.

Killian didn't smell the makings of a trap, but he couldn't discount that that's exactly what it was. The finest net he'd ever been caught in, to be sure, if that was what it was.

By his side, Emma was on high alert as well, her green eyes wide with alarm.

Just then, the king breezed through the room, never sparing the pair a glance, but it was clear his curiosity demanded an answer. "You didn't mention your respective kingdoms," his voice boomed around the gilded room.

Emma, her hand laying against his forearm again, her fingers right above where the wood of his brace began, her palm resting against the leather straps that secured it crossed before his elbow, probably didn't know the land well enough to provide a convincing small kingdom that she was heir to. He, for his part, couldn't be certain how she would receive whatever he said.

He'd ruined his chances at not being reprimanded by her when he'd introduced himself as 'prince,' faltering on a first name when he realised he could only be a prince and her escort if they were married or betrothed.

Had he said nothing, he might convincingly be her most trusted guard, or a lieutenant escort as he had been all those centuries ago. But he was so far from the lieutenant he had once been. He should have said captain, and he knew it the moment he'd promoted himself. Killian had been hoping to prove to Emma that he was worthy, knowing she was uncomfortable with the title and matching her discomfort with his own, forgetting the magic that surrounded them and that he could just say captain and nobody would feel threatened, nor would they assume their betrothal.

Emma's eyes widened in Killian's direction and he settled on two neighbouring kingdoms. From memory, no one had yet met Prince Thomas or his brothers yet, and the Southern Isles were up-and-coming, but Frederick, the eldest boy, had gone missing - perhaps fled and changed his name, He could very easily claim that to be true. That he'd gone on the run and met a beautiful princess who took pity on him. Thankfully, word travelled slowly on land and Midas may not even know the names of all twelve of those princes from the Isles, but Killian couldn't guarantee that, given that the man was, and knew those with, magic.

Thankfully, there were a lot of little kingdoms about and he could select any of them from the maps he'd memorised.

Even more fortunately, the King motored past the pair and seemingly did not require an answer in favour of his own voice.

"Although, I think I can probably guess," he claimed, his voice echoing around the hall as he led Emma and Killian to a wide archway on their left, through a high wooden door and into a large office or war room lined with book cases with maps laid out across what might have once been an oak desk in the centre of the room.

Killian glanced at Emma, the pair of them pursing their lips to hide their fear of being called out.

"You're here as James' guests." Well, that was true. "Not a brother, maybe not even a relation. But you are from George's side of the realm. That much is clear."

"Okay," Emma muttered, not even giving Killian enough time to wince at the use of the term from her world, not this one. "What gave us away?"

The king laughed. Not pleasantly.

"You don't seem the sort to be in line for anything," Midas continued, not quite an explanation. "I can compensate you for being my new jester. The court could do with some more entertainment."

Emma flinched at Killian's side. He sent her a confused look. Yes, the king's comment was odd. Surely he did not expect a princess to demote herself to jester because of one accidentally humorous comment. But that didn't constitute Emma's bodily reaction to a - oh.

He bumped her shoulder softly, hoping to placate any fear that spiked through her. That wasn't what the king meant, Killian was sure of it.

"You look exactly like your bloodline."

Emma's eyes widened further and Killian felt himself pale. He'd noticed the same thing when he was fresh from stealing Cora's cuff and running from her when she killed all those people unnecessarily, and had feared someone in the tavern might have captured Emma for her similar structure as the bandit there was a high reward for. A simple spell, or even bathing in the right mixture would have changed her hair colour and the drunkards and the impoverished could have easily mistaken Emma for her mother and given her up to Regina for a few coins.

The only thing they did have going for them, at least, was Emma did not look like her father and the king would not question David on it. If anything, she'd be tossed in a cell and he could break her out easily enough.

And they had the cloaking spell the Crocodile had placed on them.

Could the King see past it? He did have magic in his own right.

Killian reached for the hilt of his sword, taking a step away from Emma so that he could draw it without injuring her.

Midas chuckled. "Your prince here is near identical to his ancestors."

For a moment, Killian swore wrath against the Crocodile for making him appear as some assassin or even like himself, a wanted man in the realm. Unsurprised, but vengeful for it.

Then the king continued, directing all of his attention to Emma. Killian would have been proud of a mostly benevolent monarch finally listening to the opinions of women (why was it only the evil ones who seemed to be progressive in that regard?) except for the King's leer and the fact that he appeared to have eyes solely for Emma's bosom.

"He looks like a sailor. An officer of George's realm before he went mad. A descendant, perhaps. I think I have a portrait in here."

Killian almost paused, remembering King George for the tyrant he was. Not unlike his forefathers who fought wars with ogres and sent navies to Neverland for incurable poison. He'd waged war with the kingdom because of it, but Killian couldn't recall any instances of the line going mad. Abdicating the throne to his son in shame after losing all the kingdom's riches? Yes. Paranoid? Yes. But madness? No.

"Obviously, you're of royal blood," Midas kept on, not noticing his audience's baffled expressions. Then he gestured at Emma invitingly, almost and oddly, excited for her. Up until Midas turned to Emma like he was gossiping with her - the same way David did when he was sharing secrets about his wife over a drink - Killian had been sure the king was talking about Emma being a princess. "But surely you've heard the legend of the immortal pirate king. Hogwash, I'm sure. But an interesting tale nonetheless. Unless, of course, his family burned all the portraits in shame, or the prince here hasn't shared the story."

Killian found himself shaking his head. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to see. None of it was true. But his curiosity was winning over him. He wanted to know what on earth the Golden King was talking about and why he wasn't flinching at the thought of a pirate in his castle, especially if he did indeed believe he had a pirate in his midst.

"It's one of those legends you hear rumour about every ten or so years," Midas continued, "They say it's because that's when he makes port. Perhaps you, sir, can shed some light on it. I'd love to be the first in the kingdom to unravel the secret."

Emma swayed forward, waving her hand about flamboyantly and overly-friendly. "You rustle up that portrait," she didn't even sound like herself, her voice entirely different to how Killian was used to hearing Emma. Actually, that was a lie. He'd heard her use that voice on her date with the flying monkey. "And I'll butter him up to tell us a tale."

Killian considered himself an intelligent man - that's what his naval tutors had said. It was how Liam had plied him to become a better man, swearing that he had more potential if he put his head down. It was how he had survived for so many centuries and bested nearly every foe he'd faced - but it took him a moment to realise that Midas was talking to him about him without knowing that he was the pirate in question and was instead trying to tease information about how to overthrow their kingdom beneath the guise of intrigue.

Killian steadied himself beside Emma, wishing his knees didn't buckle at her touch as his forehead ached with a frown at her behaviour just as deeply as he relished her hands on him. Emma curled both hands around his bicep, shrugging her shoulders as though in excitement. She was putting up a front, that much was starkly obvious; saccharine to the point of giddiness; unnaturally so.

She was beautiful in that moment - in all moments, in all honesty - illuminated by gold, draped in fine red silk, beaming openly and leaning into him flirtatiously. But she was not Emma Swan. She was a lie.

For a brief moment, Killian wanted to wage war that he was on the receiving end of that lie, even if he did understand the tactic behind it - had been a producer of such a stunt himself in his three hundred years. It was a flash of white hot self-pity and the barest desire to yank his arm away from how Emma was using her wiles to distract and deceive with no consultation. No thought to him as her victim. He'd been trying so hard to have this for real.

And then he caught sight of her eyes, glittering with mirth. Her smile was real. Moreover, that light in her eyes was real. As was the concern.

She didn't think he'd play along because he'd forget himself, finally, after days of walking on eggshells in her presence. She didn't think he'd fall for her lie. In fact, it was clear that Emma expected him to catch on, not to play along. He was meant to be the reluctant, tight-lipped prince who didn't let a woman distract, or discourse with, him. All so that Midas would spill his guts about what on earth he was talking about.

As soon as the king turned his back on them, hiking towards the far corner of the room, Emma's eyes ignited with alarm, her voice a rasping whisper.

"Can he see you?"

Killian frowned. "In all honesty, I would not be surprised if the extent of the Crocodile's mag-"

Emma cut him off with an insistent pat to his sleeve and a nod of her head to the gilded wall to their left.

Killian growled, though he was unsurprised. "It appears the Dark One's offer of disguise is waning."

"On you," Emma gestured to the polished walls, what once might have been mirrors or paintings now seemless gold. Her reflection was undistorted and clearly not her, their saving grace in the kingdom where Snow White was wanted and Emma was constantly reminded of how alike they appeared. Killian, on the other hand, appeared somewhat familiar. His forehead was shorter than normal, his jaw less sharp and his face unshaven. But he was clearly Killian. Emma didn't want to face the consequences of someone recognising his wooden hand and recognising him as Hook. "I swear, if he made us Cinderella or Rapunzel or ..."

Killian shook his head. "I believe it's a little less complicated than that, Swan," he placated her hopefully. The Crocodile was conniving and surreptitious, but not overly derivative when it came to whims (although the stories Killian had ascertained from the rumours proved the Dark One could be quite the dramatist if it pleased him, Killian was quite sure their request had been too sudden to give him a chance to plot). "Our rivalry runs deep and there are no consequences to killing a future version of me. This way, he wouldn't even get his hands dirty. Coward."

His reflection's face contorted in a deep-lined frown that matched the face and the pirate persona, but not the princely suit.

"It's one of these scrolls," the king boomed, approaching but still distant.

"Will he know you?" Emma's eyes didn't dart frantically about the room, she was too practised at thievery to give herself away in such a manner, but her voice revealed her caution. "Did you know him?"

"Not personally," Killian replied, confident Emma would understand the three things he needed her to: the ocean was vast and he had more interest, centuries ago, in travel than picking fights with kings; there was only one kingdom he threatened consistently, not including Pan's domain; pirates, especially good ones, operated in shadows and bloated rumours and were rarely observed but declared enemies just the same. Especially by kings.

"Princess Abigail and I had a trade agreement," Kilian offered when Emma didn't seem to believe his last unsaid comment. "All the gold she could muster if I helped her."

"With what?"

There was a glittering tide in Emma's eyes as she asked. Not quite jealousy, but neither was it pride. She was curious but moreso playful and eager to know the information than anything else. He liked the way it looked on her.

He liked the way she looked at him. Interested.

Killian almost announced his seeking magical artefacts for the Princess, supplying rations and supplies for her trusted guards on her quest across the realms, offering passage once or twice (twice, but out into the bay so as to lose her trail and then back to shore hardly counted), but he noted the king striding toward them in the corner of his vision.

"Here he is," Midas stood before them, laying a closed scroll on the table and unfurling a second one, placing golden apples on the corners to keep the parchment flat against what might have been a wooden desk.

"The bane of a neighbouring kingdom," Midas lamented, clasping his hands in front of him. "Has been for centuries, according to legend."

It was a wanted poster that the king unfurled, probably the original that all the ones plastered in taverns where the patrons were secretly more loyal to the pirate who sometimes supplied them gold and grain and ink and fabrics and spices than they were to the king who turned everything to gold and thus saw no value in it, refusing to even barter with the masses and instead paying for service with time off from servitude.

The likeness wasn't all that distant from the truth, to Killian's surprise. Of course, it wasn't as detailed as one of the portraits Milah had made him stand for (compromising that he'd only pose for her when he was steering the ship, or sketching a map himself. Although she had also sketched another while he slept, catching his scars in the candlelight).

"He's young," Emma said, slightly breathless. Killian blinked at her tender tone, surprised to see her tracing a finger across the parchment around his charcoal jawline. Her alluring gaze flicked up to meet his. "A striking resemblance."

Killian swallowed drily. There was almost something lustful about that expression on Emma's face.

Something believable, he thought wistfully, before he remembered himself and their roles in their ruse.

"Must have been captured at some stage," Killian mused, "to garner such a detailed likeness."

Such as it was, that was Killian's main concern, given how accurate the portrait was. Of course, he'd been in brigs and cells and cahoots with authorities, but he'd never sat for a still. Perhaps such a portrait could be derived from one of Milah's, sold, or at least lent to be copied, for a high bid by a crew member. Or sketched from across the tavern while the artist had paid his company to keep him occupied by a game of dice or a tight corset.

"Actually, this is about a century old," the King explained. "Of course, no one has seen him in a generation. So we're just assuming he's still out there."

"Why?" Killian asked, enjoying his role as devil's advocate.

"Every so often," the king started, "There are sightings. And King George often sends out another decree against him. Though I am certain some of his missteps are his own and the pirate king is an easy myth to blame instead of owning, and owing, the decline of his kingdom."

"Naturally. But there's that old wife's tale about him docking every ten years," Emma said, repeating back what Midas had already divulged as though it was new information she was gifting him. "Although the stories about what his motives were always disagree." She was a brilliant actor, but then she said, "Rum. Women."

But Emma and the King chuckled, both improper, might he add, at the implication.

Killian couldn't stop himself from growling. "Ink and grain. A new goat and, yes, rum keeps better on the high seas than water. Any sailor worth his salt knows that.

"Ah, but that's what the goat is for, is it not?" the King countered. Yes. Killian remembered goat's milk all too vividly.

"Then, of course, there's that delicious little tale about the boy who showed up in an infirmary one night, delivered by the hooked man himself," Killian blanched, remembering Rufio and his hatred of Pan and fear for the younger boys in Pan's band. Emma, for her part, did not miss a beat, nodding along as though she too had heard the story. Had she? Had it been accurate?

"That boy lived to a ripe old age on that story," Midas divulged, to Killian's pride. He'd stopped in twice but never found out what happened to the boy who had made such a dangerous deal with him in the wake of Pan raging about Killian's deal and Bae's escape. He wasn't sure Pan had ever figured out what had happened to his lieutenant, and he'd been too enraged for a long time afterwards at his throne nearly being usurped and the boy he was looking for not being Bae and the boy escaping, probably too cocky over his victory that he'd never questioned it. Nevertheless, the last Killian had seen of Rufio, he had three daughters and two nieces by one of the other boys they'd taken in their escape from Pan's island. "Even after sixty years, people came from all over, paying him with eggs and labour and least of all, gold, just to hear the fantastical tale: Captain Hook: A Hero."

There was a significant note of derision at the end there that Killian didn't appreciate, but he was careful to keep his gaze steady and his hand as far away from his sword as possible.

He was a villain - he never hid that from Emma - and he'd done evil, despicable things - he didn't lie about those things either. Apologised when necessary, but hardly regretted everything he had ever done. There was a fine line between what he had done and what he had claimed to have done that didn't exactly coincide and Killian Jones didn't think he had it in him to sit down and outline which crimes he hadn't actually committed but liked to brag about anyway. It had been so long, that sometimes he wasn't sure himself which ones were a lie and which he simply hoped were lies, nor which ones were bloated versions of the truth. (He had his logs, of course, but who would bother listening to his version, really?). Killian had made his peace with that, accepted that he'd spend eternity repenting his sins but there was something within him that twinged at the way the King laughed at the idea of him being a hero.

He cast a glance toward Emma who was pursing her lips, a clear turn at her lips and colour on her cheeks. She was tense beside him, her neck corded and her hands curled into fists and not for the first time, Killian wished he could reach out with his left arm and take her hand with his own.

Then Midas turned his attention on Killian and he froze under his scrutiny, genuinely fearful. How much skin had to touch skin for a person to turn to gold? Or was the King powerful enough that merely touching Killian's coat or hook would be enough?

"I'm certain your lineage have a few secret stories tucked away," the king smirked. "Anytime you wish to share. I'm a bit of a collector, you see."

Emma interjected, "Why is that?" she sounded genuinely interested and not at all like ice was sluicing down the back of her neck, which was how Killian was feeling under the king's gaze.

"A kingdom made of gold and an infamous pirate," he explained, "Yet he never attacked the castle. Every other pirate worth his salt has at least sent a crewman to make an attempt."

Yes, and the general consensus was that while the castle was not a fortress by any means, the king's connections were so strong with other monarchs of equal ill-repute and his fool's gold effectively worthless - was the king aware of that? Killian wondered - that robbing his stores was worthless.

"And, well, you know what they say about him," Midas waved his gauntlet effortlessly, like he was at Granny's sharing idle gossip with the proprietor's daughter, the both of them in on the news.

Emma took up her role easily, whatever had been plaguing her features a moment earlier disappearing and replaced by a serene, teasing smile that she sent him.

"This one tells me nothing," she reached up and took Killian's empty glove, cradling his prosthetic in her hand. It came out as more teasing than truth and Killian almost believed Emma didn't mind not knowing more about Captain Hook's past. "And a collector as yourself, a King no less, surely you know the truth of him."

Flattery seemed to get her everywhere as Killian watched Midas beam wider than the cat in Wonderland. "Well, there are rumours that he's an immortal pirate king. With sightings that date back more than seven generations."

Beside him, Emma snorted, ruining what was a moment that was equal parts preening and baulking at being associated with any monarchy, knowing what he knew about how royals behaved.

"Immortal's a bit of a stretch." But then her eyes met his, almost worriedly, and Killian could not hide the way he grinned at her, swooping one eyebrow up teasingly before he remembered their place and their deception. For a princess, Emma's manners were severely lacking and left much to be desired when conversing with royalty. He wasn't going to reprimand her, and it was too late to give her another few pointers like, don't snort or disagree or tease the man who can turn you into a gold statue with a fingertip.

"I thought only the Dark One was immortal," Emma posited, a leading question if ever Killian had heard one from many of his interrogators. "And even that has caveats."

The king whispered, "They say he sold his soul to the devil."

Killian blinked. Neverland was not quite the hell fire punishment promised by the clergy.

Especially not after he'd taken Emma. There were bright spots in Neverland; dolphins made of glass, butterflies every colour of the rainbow - the flesh-eating and herbivorous varieties. There were three sunsets each night, only two of which they had experienced the last time he was there, but it meant Killian got to see Emma bathed in the Golden Orange of six sunsets and the mauve lavender of five sunrises. It wasn't quite the hell it always been. On the other hand, Pan was indeed a devil, or the closest thing the realms had to demon spawn.

And yes, Killian had made deals with him, and all of them felt like selling part of himself. Except that first one. Killian sold everything in that first deal with Peter Pan without even knowing the price, without even a permanent reward. In a manner of speaking, the king was correct. He had sold his soul to remain immortal, twice over, to the devil boy of Neverland.

"In fact," the king drew Emma's attention back down to that wanted poster and its dark, foreboding shading of his features, "There are competing stories of why he did it, but the bones of the story are the same."

"Why so drastic?" Emma asked, "Instead, of, say, a potion or a curse?"

"Because," the king flourished, pushing the edges of the second scroll to reveal its image. This one was larger, covering up almost the whole tabletop. "Some records remember who he was before."

Killian couldn't hide his gasp, the air whooshed out of his lungs as though he'd been hit in the chest by a mooring line or a loose barrel. He stepped forward, unable to control himself.

"The story goes, that his kingdom used this portrait as the basis for the original wanted posters, I have a sketch of it here, crumbling though it is." Midas' glove dropped to the third scrap of parchment, rolled with less care and less pomp and circumstance, but nonetheless the two figures were clearly visible. Identical, if monochromatic, to the larger, coloured picture.

He remembered sitting for that portrait - begrudgingly, though it had been, (which in truth had been an act he was putting on to tease his brother). Liam had just been promoted to captain, the youngest in the kingdom's long history. They had saved quite a sizable amount - practice from Liam's miserly control of their finances under Silver's regime. The guard wanted a portrait of their newest brass, and Liam had hated every moment of sitting still, Killian knew, but made no complaints, not even in the quiet of his own room. That image was for the halls of the barracks, and had since been burned, as Killian had later learned, although it seemed the image had not been destroyed, just hidden. He'd been wanting to steal it, to have an image of his brother to remember his face and his judgemental eyes that would keep him, at least, honest to good form, only to discover the portrait had been ruined for shaming the kingdom. Although, Killian had to admit, that was a far cry better than the alternative, the things they said about him.

When Killian had returned from his first outing as a lieutenant, he had clapped his brother on the back in congratulations - sometimes a letter was no where near enough to get the pride across - and when Liam suggested they splurge and have a picture for his new lodgings whenever they decided to give him a ship (and there was rumour going around the men that Captain Jones would have his pick of a few of the old ones, so that the more seasoned captains could take charge of the newly commissioned ships).

Killian had grumbled and groused and secretly loved every minute he got to spend with the brother he didn't get to see enough, and by the time the artist had decided on a pose, he'd been grumbling too, but about how the brothers Jones could not stop from smiling.

Someone - someone talented, at least - had taken that smile and twisted it into something evil on that wanted poster. But this smaller sketch, that portrait, it was bright and boisterous and Killian's heart ached.

There Liam stood, in all his decorated glory, his arm slung across Killian's shoulder, beaming out at him from the parchment. Killian, dressed in navy blues, had his arm around his brother and was beaming up at him, features only visible in profile but obviously both men were laughing happily.

Killian stepped forward, he couldn't help it, to peer closer. Those were Liam's eyes, the gleam in them just as Killian remembered it, but had he had wrinkles around his eyes like that? Were his lashes that long? Had he really been that much taller than him? No wonder he called him little brother.

...

"One of the rallying cries of an old kingdom, so the story goes," - he was telling the story to Emma, giving Killian the perfect opportunity to memorise the lines of blue and gold, the curl of Liam's hair, in that image, so much stronger (and, Killian assumed, far more accurate), than the one Milah had drawn him, - "Is that the old king, the one who went mad after having his kingdom pillaged for decades by the ghost of the man he ruled over, commissioned the brothers, the books have stricken their names from the record -"

Killian closed his eyes. Liam, for all his impoverished beginnings, had worked diligently to earn his rank after bartering them a commission as officers. He'd become the youngest captain in history (the youngest Lieutenant for a time until Killian had surpassed that, something he had signed his letters to his brother with constantly) and proudly wore that title. Now that too had been taken from him.

"The brothers fought over the king's command, the younger disobeying the king ." Midas recited a story that was so close to truth, Killian's eyes stung.

Emma leaned closer to the king, listening intently, possibly believing every word. Killian had never told her one way or the other. Killian, beside her, resigned himself to Midas' words. It was always going to be his story that came between them, whether it was the myths of the Enchanted Forest, or the legend Midas was telling them, or wanted posters or whatever sordid tale she had heard in the world outside of Storybrooke.

"In the heat of argument, the younger brother slew the older, and, to repent for that sin, he was cursed to stew in that guilt for eternity. Likely it was over the killing of the giants, an old species that has since died out, but was under threat during that First Ogre War and quite the bone of contention in the parliaments. Of course, it may have also been over the use of children as footsoldiers. A child himself," Midas pointed at the colour portrait of he and Liam, circling Killian's tilted face, "As you can see, which might explain the heat of the disagreement and why his name was once used by children like Rufio."

Killian rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the knot at the top of his spine and loosen the tension of his muscles. It wouldn't do to have Midas notice how on edge he was, or have Emma turn at study his expression, she was all too good at reading him. Surely, he hoped, Swan knew him better than to believe that he would kill Liam out of malice, not that he'd ever told her the particulars, and that while he wasn't openly hostile to the Lost Boys unless they attacked first, he certainly was no protector of children or any some such.

Midas' brown eyes glittered, appearing as gold as the rest of his belongings, enjoyment apparent on his face. Killian could not see Emma, but if their positions were reversed, and David or her mother, or any of those foster care people she sometimes spoke of, were telling him stories of Emma's beginnings, Killian would drink up that information, skewed or butchered though it may be by memory or the teller, he'd appreciate every morsel.

Perhaps Emma felt the same. Perhaps she didn't care at all and was instead eager to distract the king while her mother did what she had to do in order for Emma to be born.

"The alternative version," Midas continued, "Is that the brothers fought and, tired of doing so, the younger traded the life of his brother for his own immortality. That is how he became immortal. How else do you explain that sweet boy becoming a savage?"

"Maybe that's the truth. That he was always a villain," Killian shrugged, recalling the drunk boy who gambled away what Liam had helped him to save, risking everything for his bloody pride, desperate to feel something. "As you yourself, said, Your Majesty, perhaps the people were so desperate they fabricated this story."

"I don't believe that for a second." Emma's voice was small and whispered but it made Killian breathe deeply, a calming balm in such a simple sentence.

"The brothers fought over the king's command and their role in the upcoming war, that much does not waiver in any of the legends,' Midas recited a story that was so close to truth, Killian's eyes stung, "The younger disobeying the king and out-casting himself. His actions cost the kingdom their best captain and their fastest ship, costing hundreds of lives and delaying the bloody first war."

"Propaganda." Killian did not realise he had said it aloud until the king's expression twisted gleefully, glad to finally be having a discussion rather than be spouting nonsense to an eager listener.

"That's what I thought," Midas nodded. "For a little while, there was tale of a rebel captain amongst the people, that the ship that never returned did so because the king was plotting genocide and the captain knew it, the attempted betrayal meaning the king killed the whole crew, the guilt what eventually turned him mad. But there aren't many documents, just oral stories, and it's hard to tell if that is the truth, or if it was simply a hopeful idea that the people spread. You, sir, seem to know."

Killian glanced at Emma, hoping she would pull him in line if he said too much, knowing that he could be as careful as he liked but a second pair of eyes and ears was always beneficial. Swan, however, kept her expression carefully neutral and her green eyes wouldn't meet his.

"As far as our knowledge extends," Killian attempted to perpetuate his royal status without claiming or declaring any kingdom or role in particular, "Given the history of the kingdom. We think that the monarchy inflated the mutiny of the captains."

Midas, excited, interrupted, filling in the blank spaces of the story as Killian hesitated on the plural.

"As I suspected," he said, "Which would explain the missing ship, perhaps scuttled by the navy for the betrayal, the men laid to rest at the bottom of the sea with it, and the king's decree of the First Ogre War a month later. It all speaks to a rebellion in the ranks, doesn't it? A desperate people clinging to a story of hope?"

A story of hope? Captain Hook? Not bloody likely. That wasn't a story of hope he'd ever heard.

"So what?" Emma pointed at the wanted poster, "This guy's just a lookalike?"

Of course Swan would not believe a tale such as that.

"No, Highness," Midas corrected, "The man that the old kingdom tried to wipe from history is, supposedly, the very same. Sails on that same ship to taunt the king, resurrected by Poseidon himself, makes no battle with the people but keeps the monarchy in line."

"The people's avenger," there was a slight smirk to Emma's tone. Was she making a reference to something? Killian couldn't tell.

"Some say," Midas shrugged. "Not many, and not any more. With the queens issuing posters like these, and poverty in the streets and all the crime that comes with it, sometimes it's easier to blame the pirate. There's still pockets of land that tell tale of that rebellious officer, but far and wide the easier tale to accept is the one-handed man's savagery."

"Sadly," Killian flattered, "It appears your collection is even more complete than our own record books."

"Shame," Midas shrugged, "I was really hoping you could tell me something definitive."

"Apologies," Killian lied, watching as Emma stooped to help the king roll up the parchments, his neck craning to catch a last glimpse and his heart panging as he watched his brother, once again, disappear. He heard her thank the king offer to help him further, playing the gracious, if naive, princess well.

Midas left them to return his documents to their shelves. It was only when he was out of earshot that Emma turned to face Killian again, the fabric of her dress brushing against his thighs as she swayed close. "Will you tell me about him some time?"

"Liam," he supplied his brother's name, almost wholly certain Emma had actually been referring to the young, carefree lieutenant pictured. "Anytime, Swan."

There was a moment, barely two heartbeats, of utter silence as Emma studied him. She hadn't run in the opposite direction yet, but Killian knew she was very good at playacting, particularly when there were stakes bigger than herself. Swan may have been biding her time.

"Hey," she smiled softly, "Can we-? I mean, I never really got to do it as a kid. I was so focused on getting out, not being interesting. But its always something I've wanted to do. Can we leave a calling card, or something?"

"A what, Swan? he chuckled with her, not daring to glance down where it felt as though Emma was holding his blunt wrist. She'd done it once before, the first person to ever touch him there who wasn't a healer of some sort. She was grinning and he couldn't stop from matching it.

"Like, a signature."

Killian beamed at the idea. It wasn't the smartest, given that anything they changed would change the future if they ever made their way back to the world (although, logically, they must have, because nothing, not even his motivations for being here now, had changed. And the fact that they were still here was an indication that they made it to the future the same way they knew about it, too. Surely). But he'd always know there was a rebellious streak in Emma Swan, more pirate than princess if you were to ask him.

A good pirate wouldn't leave a mark or a trace.

But a dramatic one? One who was making a statement? One who wanted everyone in the kingdom to know that he would take everything the king held dear from him starting with his wealth and ending with the loyalty the people had for him? Well, that was a completely different story.

Killian hadn't been sure how the glamour worked. He could feel his hook, not a flesh and bone hand and not even a wooden facsimile, and he had no desire to pull of his glove, unveil his hook and have the king walk back into the room.

Instead, Killian pulled a dagger out of his boot and asked Emma to stand at attention while he carved a symbol into the wood. Not initials, that meant nothing to anybody. There were many ES's in the world. And he wasn't going to write that incoherent babble he'd seen on walls around the school in Storybrooke and claim that 'Emma and Killian waz 'ere'. For one heart stuttering moment, he had the craziest desire to carve both of their initials into the table (once wood, now solid gold and thus, just as malleable) inside one of those wonky circle drawings his mother used to swirl around his and Liam's name that she said was meant to symbolise partnership and connectedness.

"Is that a swan carved into the wood?" Emma peered over his shoulder as he stood to his full height.

Killian rolled his eyes at Emma, shaking his head. "It's a hook."

Emma squinted her eyes at him, her shoulders squaring, an elegant flush to her collarbones. Then Killian had to close his eyes as she bent low and curled herself around him to catch a closer look at his signature.

"Your squares are a bit circular."

"That is a semi-circle," he couldn't believe he had to explain this to Swan. It was obvious. "It's my brace. The bottom of it, anyway."

"I've never seen the hook drawn on a circle, only ever like flat rectangles." She should really smile like that more. Especially with her hip cocked like that and amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. Emma Swan really was stunning.

Killian blinked at Emma when he regained his train of thought. He really should ask more about the stories she knew of him, as far as he had been able to deduce so far, they were unflattering, and if there was anything to be learned from Midas, it was that, judging by Emma's reaction, extremely far from the truth.

"Why on earth would," he changed tact, "In fact, how on earth would a rope hook be affixed to my arm on a plank of wood?"

Emma shrugged, "Just saying, it looks like a swan more than it looks like a hook."

Killian shook his head, but followed Emma's finger as she traced the carving, indicating what was the body and the bent neck, the tip of his hook forming the beak.

"For the sake of our future, Swan," Killian gave her a pointed look, "Let us hope that the king does not think it's a swan. Although, I will admit, I can see the resemblance."

She snorted again, cheeks blushing. "What?" she laughed, "I come to town in thirty years and everyone gets their memories back and suddenly their all standoffish because they think I might be the pirate that's been running amok for two hundred years leaving cute little drawings of swans at all of my crime scenes."

Killian couldn't help the little thump in his chest at the thought of spending a night by the fire with an Emma that was so giddy and excited. It wasn't her usual state, and he'd gladly spend his moments with a grumbling morning Emma complaining about Mary Margaret talking too loudly before she'd had her morning coffee. But there was something so carefree about this woman in front of him.

Killian took Emma's elbow and urged her toward the exit and back down the gilded hallway. "I have not been drawing swans at all my crime scenes."

Their stress was high from their mission and their thievery and probably his expression, and it bubbled out of Emma in a soft giggle that echoed in the golden room, making her glow.

"Come on, Swan," he smiled down at her, fixing his grip on her arm so that it was proper as they were about to re-enter the ballroom to keep an eye on the proceeding while they waited for Emma's mother to steal the ring. "How about a dance?"

At the end of the naming ceremony - Killian hadn't hidden his flinch, or his concerned glance over at Emma, at the sound of the young prince's name all that well and he was certain David had clocked it - after Regina had raged at Emma. In all honesty, Killian understood the sentiment, leaning in to anger instead of heartbreak, but the anger was misplaced and petty and no one, not even the Evil Queen herself, was allowed to speak to Emma as such.

He'd watched Emma stiffen and attempt to fend for herself and then follow Regina outside, outlining her reasonings and apologising for thinking she did the right thing. Killian followed her outside and watched as the woman he'd travelled through time with, the princess he'd waltzed with and the thief who joyously cackled by his side as they walked down a golden hallway, disappeared in front of his eyes, shrouded by self doubt and drowned by Regina.

She'd wanted to go home after that, even ignoring Marian, who she had planned to orient and settle at Granny's but was now ensconced in a booth with her husband and child. Emma, shy and proud and eager as she had been, was gone, replaced with a side of her he knew well and did not know at all.

Despite how glum Emma appeared, and Killian did despise the slight skip in his chest and thrill that rattled through him, when Swan kissed his cheek, promising to see him in the morning.

He stood still in the green hallway just outside of the party for a good four seconds after that, either at the kiss that was so foreign and sweet, or at the whisper of a smile she sent him over her shoulder afterwards. Killian used that to excuse how long it took him to notice that Emma had used the moment to slip a tightly rolled scroll into the pocket of his coat. He only found it once he took off the item to complete his evening ablutions.

Knowing exactly what the parchment was, and yet in disbelief that such a thing was in his possession and that it was all thanks to Emma Swan, Killian held his breath as he unfurled the portrait of himself and Liam, forever immortalised as the laughing captain and his little brother.