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elizabeethan · 2 years

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Witness

After the worst night of his life, Killian goes into the Witness Protection program and moves to Maine until he can testify against the man who took everything from him. He had resigned himself to living a life of misery, pain, and heartbreak, but that all changed when he met Lily Quinn.

A/N: I finally finished this one!! It's not perfect by any means, but I'm honestly just patting myself on the back for completing it, at this point. It's not beta'ed and I probably haven't proofread it enough, so if you see any typos or notice any continuity errors, no you didn't.

Also, this is the 50th, yes FIFTIETH, Captain Swan fic that I've posted on Ao3. There isn't much I can say about that other than thank you to everyone in this incredible fandom who has encouraged me to explore writing and discover how much I love it. Thank you especially to @the-darkdragonfly and @donteattheappleshook for always being there for me in every capacity and for supporting me through thick and thin.

Rated E

15,630 words (oops)

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~~~~

The pain is unlike anything he’s ever felt before and is likely to ever feel again, lest he lose another appendage. It burns and stings and throbs and stabs all at once, and it drives him mad as he looks down and remembers that there’s nothing there. There’s no hand to be hurting him as he bites into his bottom lip and doubles over, holding his empty wrist in his one remaining hand. There's no reason for him to be feeling this way, and yet he feels as though he’s lost the hand all over again.

He doesn’t remember what it felt like to lose it in the first place, but it must have been something like this. Leaning over his ledgers upon his pathetically small desk, he tries to remind himself that there’s nothing there anymore. He shouldn’t be hurting like this, not now that it’s gone. He tells himself to get over it, snap out of it, he’s being foolish. He lets out a pained gasp as he puts his stubbed arm on the surface of the desk and picks up a pen, staring down at the empty space where his hand should be before taking a breath and sending the pen forcefully through the air, into the grainy wood, missing the hand that he lost months ago.

The burning subsides when he does this, as if him telling his mind that it isn’t there, that it doesn’t matter anymore, isn’t enough; as if he has to see it for himself to believe his own thoughts. It happens frequently– frequently enough for him to consider himself crazy on a several-times-weekly basis. He’s just lucky that he doesn’t share this cramped office with anyone, that he’s usually left alone to do his work in peace, just the way he likes it. He’s lucky that he lives alone, that he has no one to watch him go through the lunacy of feeling pain in a hand that doesn’t exist. He’s lucky that he’s always alone. He’s lucky to have lost everything and everyone, because at least he doesn’t have to force someone he loves to live through this with him.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he pulls the pen from the shallow hole he punched into the wood and returns it to the cup where it belongs.

~~~~

He’s making an effort not to become the town drunk.

His father was the town drunk, and he’s always hated his father.

So when he goes to the Rabbit Hole, he likes to keep it to once a week, maybe less. He likes to keep it to two drinks, maybe three. He likes to keep control over himself so that no one in this tiny place starts to see him as the town drunk. They already see him as the strange, handless recluse, and he doesn’t feel the need to move into town drunk-territory.

But when he walks into the Rabbit Hole that night, just a few months after his arrival, he considers changing his ways if only in response to seeing the stunning, glowing blonde behind the bar for the first time.

She truly is glowing. She emanates beauty and exudes perfection as she stands behind the bar, somehow catching the perfect lighting, her bare arms toned as she pours a beer flawlessly, her hair gleaming under the dim light fixture, her smile shimmering despite the darkness in the bar. She laughs at her patron, Leroy telling her a joke that Killian can almost certainly bet was not funny. She throws her head back and he nearly salivates at the sight of her bare neck. She turns from the grumpy old man and adds the pour to his tab and then she turns again, locking eyes directly with Killian before giving him the most beautiful, sexy, friendly smile he’s ever received.

“Welcome in,” she says, her voice like bells as it rings through the bar, cutting against the loud music and the even louder laughter from the party at the pool table. “What can I get you?”

He’s almost stunned silent, stupidly standing there with his mouth hung open like a trout until he gets his bearings, tugging on the sleeves of his gray knit sweater and shuffling towards the bar. Get it together, you old fool, he tells himself, cursing as he trips over his own feet but praising himself as the sight draws a soft giggle from the angel of a woman.

“Rum,” he says idiotically, and she raises a brow.

“Just rum, neat? On the rocks? Or a shot?”

He clears his throat. What will she think of him ordering just rum, neat? Or a shot? “Might as well throw in some Coke and ice, I suppose,” he chokes out, fighting through the awkwardness that he hasn’t felt since high school.

She laughs. It seems genuine, but she must treat all of her customers like this, right? “A rum and Coke then, coming right up. Do you like lime?”

“Yes,” he says, although he can’t really remember if he does or not. He pulls on his left sleeve as he sits down, far from Leroy. His elbow rests on the bartop, and if he had a hand, it would drop between himself and the surface he leans against. “Sure. Please.”

She works quickly, and he tries and tries not to look at the way her black tank top hugs her waist. He tries not to notice the way that there aren’t any lines along her back and he tries not to wonder whether she’s wearing a bra beneath it. He tries not to notice the way her jeans hug her hips and flare out just slightly, elongating her legs impossibly. Really, he really tries not to stare. Seriously.

“There you go,” she says with a bright smile. “Want to open a tab?”

He says nothing, dropping his bum arm and using the other to fish his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out the credit card David gave him and handing it to her without a second thought. Normally, he wouldn’t open a tab. Opening a tab is something the town drunk would do– or at least running up the tab is. But how can he say no to the siren standing before him?

“Thanks,” she says, looking at the front of the card and smiling. Something about this smile is different; it’s softer, more genuine. “Peter. I like that name.”

“What, um–” he clears his throat, not before kicking himself beneath the bar. “Would you tell me your name?”

“It’s Lily,” she says pleasantly. “And it’s very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The exchange is taking a turn, he notices, the awkwardness growing between them because he should probably say something more. He should try to carry on the conversation, get to know her, let her get to know him. But he’s a fool, not used to interacting with anyone, never mind a beautiful woman, and she has other customers, so she smiles at him once more and walks towards Leroy, taking what’s left of his heart along with her.

~~~~

He returns to the bar the next night.

No one here knew his father, so he reasons that no one would assume his identity as a second generation alcoholic. He isn’t an alcoholic, not really. He would know if he was. He’s seen the signs, watched the way it murdered his father and his uncle and his brother. And he reasons, as he leaves his office the next night, that going to a bar two nights in a row does not an alcohol addiction make.

She’s here again; Lily. The fallen angel gracing this earth for reasons unclear to him. Her occupation at the Rabbit Hole is enigmatic because he’s certain that she could do anything she sets her mind to. He watches in awe as she mixes drinks and flawlessly pours beer and somehow operates the whole establishment, Ruby lilting through the restaurant and fancifully taking orders when the mood strikes.

He watches with as much normalcy as he can muster, not entirely used to the interactions that he’s been avoiding for the past seven months or so.

(Well, he says or so, but in reality, he knows exactly how long it’s been since he shut himself out from the rest of the world.)

(Seven months, two weeks, and three days since he fled Boston.)

Lily floats through the bar, smiling at her customers and, he thinks, smirking at him. She walks to her colleague, tucking her head against the other woman’s ear and whispering something he could never make out until the two of them erupt into a symphony of giggles. She glances over at him, her bottom lip caught between her pearly teeth, and Ruby whispers something back. He watches as her cheeks flush, the intoxicating pink spreading down her neck and across her chest. He watches for as long as he can before he recognizes how unsettling it is for him to be staring like this, wondering how much further down the warmth trails along her porcelain skin. She watches him staring, how could she not, and his heart begins to race as she slowly makes her way towards him. Honestly, she probably isn’t even moving that slowly, but the way that his blood is racing through his veins more quickly than ever makes the rest of the world feel like it’s moving in slow motion.

“Peter,” she greets with a wry smile, one perfect brow lifted towards her hairline as the other rests beautifully above her glowing emerald eyes. “Did I make your rum and Coke wrong?”

“Of course not,” he answers too quickly, then he clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

“I don’t mind being stared at,” she flirts, at least, he hopes she’s flirting. He thinks she must be if the way she leans against the bar closer to him than he’s seen her get to her other customers is any indication. He tugs on his left sleeve, the knit material stretching easily over his empty wrist. “At least, not by someone who looks like you.”

Flirting, he tells himself. Honestly, as a grown man of somewhere close to 40, he should probably know when a woman is flirting with him, and yet this woman in particular has his mind in knots. He can’t even help the smile that creeps slowly along his lips, and he can’t help but to notice the way that it makes her own grow.

“The drink you made is delicious,” he tells her, as if that matters. “You’re quite talented.”

She hums lightly, shrugging her toned shoulders and hopping onto the barstool beside him. He turns ever so slightly, hiding his blunted arm behind himself but refusing to pull any further from her than he has to. “Yeah, well… Have you been in town long?”

The change in subject, the sudden interest in his life, throws him for a loop, making it difficult for him to focus as if he wasn’t having trouble already. “Longer than you, I'd assume,” he answers ambiguously. It’s something David taught him. Unless someone knows exactly when he arrived, it’s a bad idea to give concrete answers, like I got here six months, one week, and two days ago.

“Well, I only got here about two weeks ago.”

“Much longer than that,” he says confidently, because in the grand scheme of things it hasn’t been long, but in comparison of weeks, it’s been plenty. Clearing his throat, he lies. “About a year.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, her smile still playful, and she nods. “Well, you seem to at least know more than me, right?” She presses closer to him, leans in and rests her elbow against the bar, and if she gets any closer, she might be able to see that he’s missing about a pound’s worth of his left arm. But he doesn’t pull away. With her voice low and sultry, with her fingers dancing almost imperceptibly along the collar of his shirt, she murmurs, “Maybe you can show me around.”

“Don't you, uh– don’t you have a bar to keep?”

“Eh,” she shrugs nonchalantly, seeming to make herself more comfortable at his side as she shifts. “Ruby agreed to close so that I can shoot my shot with the hot customer who keeps staring.”

He blushes. He hasn’t blushed in… he doesn’t know how long it’s been. His eyes widen and she smiles like she expected him to think he was being secretive as he watched her. She takes his hand, his right hand, the only one he has, and it’s like she knows that that’s the right side to choose. She tells him not to worry about his tab, the one rum and Coke on the house. She keeps his hand in hers and guides him behind her until they reach the door, and he realizes that this woman could be leading him to his death and he frankly wouldn’t care.

~~~~

He doesn’t go back to her place. She doesn’t come back to his.

They just… talk.

He hasn’t talked to someone– really talked to someone, someone who isn’t his bloody assigned Marshal– in six months. Six months, three weeks, and six days. He hasn’t had the pleasure of getting to know someone in far too long, longer than he can count, because he never really knew Milah. He hasn’t felt such a connection to another person in all the time he can recall being alive. Perhaps he felt connected to his friend Rob in third grade, but this is different. Perhaps he felt connected to his brother before he died, but this is far different. Lily, Lily Quinn, is unlike anyone he’s ever met. She’s bold and brazen and she isn’t afraid to tell him exactly what’s on her mind at any given second.

I think you’re hot.

The sweater look is seriously a turn on.

I’m not really looking for a relationship right now, but I guess you can never say never.

She’s right. One can never say never, although he was pretty clear with himself after losing Milah that he’d never let himself fall for a woman like that again.

And yet, here he is, standing beside a woman several years younger than he is, buying her ice cream, hoping she doesn’t notice the way his left hand simply no longer exists, certain that he would fall for her if he let himself. It’s almost inevitable, and he realizes it as he watches her skip along the rock wall that lies sturdily between the sidewalk and the ocean waves, ice cream cone in hand, toes pointed out before her as she takes on the stance and confidence of a gymnast or a ballerina and then admits, I’ve never been very coordinated.

He feels it in his heart as she hops down with a grin, her steps light and her smile lighter, as if nothing has ever bothered her in her life. It’s intoxicating. He feels envious of her and yet he doesn’t have the painful feeling in his gut that usually accompanies jealousy. He isn’t jealous of her lightness, of her carefree nature; he’s happy for her.

He’s known this woman merely a day and he’s falling for her.

So when she lets him walk her to the entrance of her apartment building, tells him goodnight and that she doesn’t normally kiss on the first date, he grins. Was this a date? he wonders to himself, and all he can do is hope endlessly that it was.

She doesnt give him her phone number, but she tells him that she’ll see him soon. She says it with confidence, with a certainty that she’ll see him at the bar soon enough, and he can’t help but match her smile. Well, match is a stretch, because her’s is glowing and perfect and his is pained and broken, but it isn’t forced tonight like it usually is, and for that, he’s grateful.

~~~~

He still struggles to find the perfect word to describe her. Sometimes he thinks it’s effortless, sometimes he thinks it’s perfect, sometimes he thinks it’s formidable, but nothing seems exactly right. He knows there must be one word, one phrase he can use to describe the essence of this woman, but as he stares dreamily at her as she works, he can’t think of it.

She smiles at him like she always does, pours him another drink, tells him he looks handsome in his slate colored sweater, and he blushes again. He couldn’t think of the last time he blushed before he met her, and now, he’s been blushing nonstop for the past three weeks of knowing her.

“You know,” she says one evening when the room is quiet, almost empty, pressing up onto her toes so that she can get closer to him although there’s a bar between them, “I don’t know if I got everything I should have out of our tour.”

“That was weeks ago,” he points out. “I think the period for complaints has expired.”

She laughs, throwing her head back and letting him see the cords of her neck as they stretch. “You’re funny,” she says easily. “I mean, shouldn’t you have brought me to all the local spots? I heard there’s a diner I’m seriously missing out on and you just took me to the ice cream shop.”

“Well, ice cream shops are open much later than most diners.”

“Ruby says it moonlights as a restaurant at night.”

“She would know,” he agrees. “Her granny is Granny.”

She gasps, and he thinks it's sarcastic. “The Granny?”

He smiles. It’s genuine, real, honest. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“Maybe we can try it some time,” she offers after a beat, picking up her rag and wiping at the bar’s surface in front of him. He moves his elbow carefully, desperate to hide his shame from her like he always is, wondering if she’s noticed the strange way he shields his left arm.

“Are you… I mean, are you staying in town long, then?”

She’s quiet for a moment, for the first time since he’s known her appearing unsure of what to say. She looks down at the wooden surface between them and drops her hand towards his, her long fingers playing at the knit fabric that nearly covers his fingers until she tickles the hair on his knuckles. “My plan was to stay as long as I needed to.”

“How long will you need to?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’ll stay until I find what I’m looking for.”

“And what’s that?”

She smiles, still looking down at his hand and becoming more bold as she lifts one of his fingers and tucks her own beneath it. “You couldn't handle it,” she dares, looking at him with a playful smirk, and he can’t help but to return it.

“Perhaps not.”

“What are you looking for?”

He can’t answer, because he doesn’t quite know. He racks his brain, wondering what will happen to him once he gives his testimony and can go on with his real life without the fear of being hunted or the unease of a US Marshal breathing down his back. He wonders what he’ll want when this is all over, wonders if he’ll want something out of his life other than for it to finally end.

“Home,” he tells her after the silence between them has grown cold, and he watches as the look on her face shifts from one of playful indifference and almost discomfort into something that he struggles to read. It’s something like disbelief, her mouth falling open slightly and her hold on his one remaining hand falling weak as she stares into his eyes and into his blackened soul.

She lets go of his hand completely, letting it fall against the countertop and moving towards the entrance of the bar, exiting her post as she often tells him she’ll never, ever do. She sidles up beside him, one hand landing softly on his cheek and the other resting against his thigh just above his knee. “Home?” she asks in a whisper, her’s softer than his, voice almost imperceptible over the sounds of the nearly empty bar.

“Aye,” he chokes out. “I’m not really sure… what that means. But… aye.”

“I want that, too,” she tells him as if it’s a secret, and a part of him realizes that something between them has shifted. This is an admittance, a secret she’s hardly told anyone, and as she moves in close to him and finally, finally captures his lips between her own, he feels nothing but gratitude and a realization that she’s truly letting him in.

The gratitude mixes quickly with a tightness in the pit of his stomach, her tongue lightly tracing the seam of his lips until he opens them slightly, allowing her entrance and a pass to explore as she wishes, and the gratitude grows. He breathes her in, inhaling the scent of her as it mixes with the scent of him and feeling the gratefulness growing along with that tightening in his stomach. He hears a soft whimper escaping the back of her throat, barely breaking past her lips before crashing against his own. The hand on his knee slides upwards to his thigh, squeezing his flesh beneath his jeans as her other hand slides into the hair at the back of his neck.

He struggles to think of a time where he wished for his hand back more than he wishes for it now, wanting nothing but to feel her beneath both of his palms, but one will have to do as he finds her hip and pulls her close, lets her find her spot between his knees and push her hips against his own. He leaves his empty arm by his side, content to ignore the desires in hopes of avoiding her finding out the truth. Well, this truth.

But she’s insatiable, wanton, needy as she tries to get closer, as she climbs up onto the stool precariously to straddle his thighs, as she sends a bolt of fear through him when she almost falls off, and he can’t help but to grab her, or try to and fail. He grabs one hip, has a good hold on her, but it’s not enough to distract her from the way that her other hip is secured by an empty wrist, and he knows by the way she freezes in his arms that she knows.

She whispers the name he gave her against his lips; he notes the way the word feels against his skin. He likes the way it feels when she says it, but he wonders if he’ll ever feel the truth falling from her lips. To his surprise, he feels her smile against his mouth and he pulls away, although he can’t seem to open his eyes.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. She holds his face in both of her hands and he feels envy. “Are you embarrassed?”

He nods without thinking, his forehead fused to hers and the tip of his nose running along the bridge of her own.

“You don’t have to be,” she whispers. “I already knew.”

“What?” he asks, looking up from her and meeting her deep emerald eyes.

Her smile is soft and kind and gentle. “I mean… yeah. It’s been weeks, and I'm good at noticing stuff.”

“You’ve known for weeks?”

“Since the first night.”

“And you didn’t… It wasn’t…?”

“No,” she whispers, her smile bright and understanding and somehow unchanged. “You're still hot as hell.”

He laughs, because what else is he supposed to do? He hasn’t thought of himself as attractive, not even remotely, since that day eight months and two days ago. But here she is, telling him he’s hot as hell even though she’s known since the first time they met that he only has one hand.

“How’d it happen?” she asks, lightly touching his forearm but not getting any closer to the scarred, angry skin just below, either because of his fear or her own.

He startles slightly. David told him he can’t tell anyone anything about that night, the night he lost his hand, so he shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “Boating accident,” he tells her. They were at a marina, afterall; perhaps it’s not entirely a lie.

“Well, I’m sorry that happened. But it doesn't change anything.”

His nose is still pressed to hers and he doesn’t even think before nuzzling it against her own and making her grin, her giggle playful. “Thank you,” he whispers genuinely. “It’s taken a long time to get used to it– I'm still not used to it.”

He thinks of the pain. The way that it always hurts, always. He thinks of earlier when he put another small, shallow hole in his desk with the first pen he could find. He thinks of the way it isn’t there, and yet he’s somehow always reminded. He’ll never be used to it.

~~~~

It’s been two weeks, and he hasn’t gotten used to the way that it feels to kiss her. He can never get used to the way her lips slide against his, the way her fingers slip through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. He’ll never get used to the way her thighs squeeze around his hips once they finally find privacy, the way her hand grabs his and pulls him until they find sanctuary in the women’s restroom. He won’t ever grow tired of the way she moans his name– the fake one– and grinds her hips against his and clings against him as if she can’t get enough. And he won't ever, ever get used to the way she holds tightly against his blunted forearm as she tells him how attractive she finds him.

She giggles when he boldly thrusts, just a bit, letting her get a taste of what she does to him when they’re like this. Ensuring that she knows the effect she has on him when she moans out a name that isn’t his and bites into the soft flesh of his collarbone just below his shirt.

“You know,” she starts, panting as she digs her fingers into his shoulder blades. It isn’t exactly easy to be in this position– to hold her up against the sink but also ensure that she’s pressed firmly to him– but it’s worth it. “One of these days I might let you beneath my jeans.”

He smirks against her, kissing her again and squeezing his palm against the plump flesh of her ass beneath the denim. “Is that so?”

“Maybe.”

“And what will I have to do to earn such a privilege?”

She hums and giggles all at once, shrugging and capturing him in another kiss, effectively silencing him. “I’ll know when I know.”

He laughs. It’s a real laugh. But his arm gets tired, what with him being unable to hold her with one of them, so he rests her weight on the porcelain sink for a moment. It was only a moment, honest, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Apparently, two weeks of making out against a free-standing sink puts a great burden on its structural integrity, and almost immediately as he puts her down, the porcelain shatters beneath her, splintering under her weight and sending her towards the floor.

“Fuck!” he shouts, trying to catch her and hoping that her frightened shouts don’t draw any attention from the other customers. The destruction of the sink stems from the basin and into the pipes, the breakage sending water at each of them and they’re soaked through faster than they can even comprehend.

At first he’s worried, trying to pull her out of the way and block the spraying pipes, but then her laughter rings louder than the forceful sound of the water and he can’t help but to look up at her with a smile.

“Look at you,” she laughs, her hair curling with moisture and the skin beneath her eyes blackening with her running makeup.

“Look at you!” he laughs back, shaking out his hand and standing by her side. “You look frazzled. Beautiful, but frazzled.”

“I’m gonna have to call someone about this,” she says lightly, as if it’s the furthest thing from her mind. “But thanks.”

“For breaking your sink?”

“For giving me an excuse to leave early,” she says, pulling him close to her once again, pressing onto her toes so she can press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m gonna have to go home and change. Apparently I’m frazzled.”

“Aye,” he says softly. “As am I, I'm sure.”

“You could always come back to my place. I have an energy efficient dryer.”

“And what will I wear in the meantime?”

With a shrug, she tells him, “I’m not sure I’m overly concerned with what you’re wearing. Or what you’re not wearing.”

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, not thinking before he wraps his right arm around her waist and pulls her close. “You’re…” He still can’t find the right word. Enigmatic?

“Horny.”

“Aye?” he whispers.

“Yes. I want you.”

She never hesitates to tell him exactly what she’s feeling and exactly what she’s thinking and exactly what she wants. It’s why he finds it so easy to believe her. Why wouldn’t he believe her?

~~~~

Her apartment is small, and he doesn’t even feel strange when he chooses the word cute to describe it in his mind. It’s nicely decorated, although somewhat bleak, as if she hasn’t had the time to move in since she’s moved in. The space itself is quaint, aged in the best way, and the boxes stacked in the corner of her living room give it character.

He isn’t able to see much else, though, the rest of the apartment turning to a blur as she pushes him against the wall by the front door and ravages him with her mouth and hands, lifting a leg to hitch over his hip and grinding against him with as much coordination as she can muster.

She must be something of an athlete, he thinks as she maneuvers around him, contorts herself so that she’s as close to him as possible. How else would she be able to maintain a position like this if she wasn’t used to working on gaining strength and stamina?

He backs her up suddenly, her back against the wall now, his hips planted firmly against hers, and she hisses. “Fuck,” she chokes out, her head falling back against the wall when he mouth latches to her neck. “Fuck, yes.”

“This is what you want?” he asks with more bold enthusiasm than he was expecting from himself.

“Yes, don’t stop doing that.”

She’s panting, her breath warm as it washes over his head, and it makes him more wanton. He shifts downward slightly, his mouth finding the top of her breast and sliding along her skin until he reaches the fabric of her tank top. With further exploration, he discovers that he must have been right that second night when he assumed she wasn’t wearing a bra, because she isn’t wearing one now.

“Minx,” he bites out, pulling on the ribbed black fabric to expose more of her breast. “Do you always go braless to work?”

“You’ve gotta flaunt what you’ve got in my line of work,” she explains breathlessly, and he bites the soft flesh just above her hardened nipple.

“Suppose someone should see this one day,” he proposes, licking against the pebbled flesh and drawing a surprised gasp from her, “poking through your top. Is that merely a ploy for more tips?”

“Maybe,” she breathes. “Maybe it’s a cry for attention.”

“From Leroy?”

“From you, you idiot.”

He silences her when he pulls her hardened nipple between his lips, sucking just hard enough to drag a moan from her throat. It’s then that he realizes that he’s on her left side, and normally, were sex truly like riding a bicycle, he would reach for her other breast. Only he doesn’t have a left hand anymore, so how is he supposed to squeeze her right breast? This thought gives him pause, just long enough for her to notice and to take his face in her hands.

“Do you want me?” she asks him, the question surprising.

“Can you not tell how badly I want you, love?” he asks, his hips firm against hers, his cock hard in response to her. He thrusts against her gently, watches her eyes fall shut and a soft moan escape her lips. “Shall I show you?”

She nods with enthusiasm, her chin bumping lightly against the top of his head, and he works hard to hold her tightly with his blunted arm so that he can squeeze her left thigh in his remaining hand. He slides it up, able to feel the soft fabric of her tight leggings and the contours of the muscles she has hidden underneath, and he’s jealous of his right hand for the loss of his left as he feels the roundness of her ass against his skin.

“Fuck,” she whispers again. “You’re so fucking hot.”

It’s not something he’s used to hearing. In fact, he isn’t sure anyone has ever called him that before– hot. Before Lily was Milah, and before Milah was a slew of unimportant women who warmed his bed. He lived his life that way for years, since losing his whole family one after another started to become too much. But then with Milah– after Milah– it became… not enough.

Maybe that was backwards. Maybe the loss of his family should have been more traumatic than the loss of a woman he almost loved along with his hand. Maybe it just goes to show how broken he truly is.

But here, and now, with Lily in his arms and her back against the wall and her hips grinding into his, he realizes that he isn’t as broken as he thought he was. Well, maybe that isn’t true– he’s certainly still broken. But maybe he can heal.

His hand, or what’s left on the end of his wrist, is healing. The doctor says it’s healing nicely. But he’s gone through the last eight months, two weeks, and three days assuming that his brain and his mind and his thoughts would never be more than the fragments of his shattered life.

How Lily calling him hot can change his mind, he isn’t sure, but it drives him forward, convinces him to allow her access to his belt, and then to his button and then to his zipper. It drives him to the waist of her damp leggings, soaked through with water from that blasted sink. It drives him to suck a small mark into her collarbone, eliciting a desperate gasp from her as he tugs at the stubborn fabric until it’s resting at her knees.

His fingers find her hot and wet and waiting for him, and he looks her in the eyes and is met with her quick nod, her bottom lip captured tightly between her teeth. Her head falls back against the door when he touches her, her jaw falling slack and making it impossible for him to stop himself from attaching his lips to her soft, pinkening skin on her neck.

It’s difficult to hold her up and continue to trace intricate patterns over her clit. It’s harder, still, to keep her pressed against him and suspended from the floor while he slips a finger, then a second, into her core. But as she grows closer and closer to that precipice, as he drags her to the cliff and holds her close as he encourages her towards the edge, he can ignore the cramp in his arm and the tightness in his back.

She calls him Peter when she comes. He wouldn’t expect anything else, but it makes him long for the truth. It makes him want to be his true self with her, and he hasn't wanted to be that in a very, very long time.

He carries her through her half-empty apartment as she catches her breath, her arms around his back tight, her fingers clinging sharply to the sweater he longs to take off. When he drops her onto her mattress, her eyes are hooded as she stares up at him. She reaches for him, seeming unhappy with being apart, and the thought makes him fight off a smile. Once she has her hands on him she finds the hem of his sweater, the one he doesn’t particularly like, the one that reminds him that he’s Peter and not Killian, and pulls it over his head.

They’re breathless when they come together. Finally tucking himself inside her is a feeling unlike anything he’s ever experienced or is likely to again. He thought he was beyond any sort of happiness, and having her beneath him is perfection. It’s overwhelming to realize that he’s here with her and it makes his breathing stutter as he drives into her with more force. The change of pace makes her cry out, her knees tight around his hips, and he can feel her squeezing him as she reaches that precipice again. The warm tightness makes him squeeze his eyes shut until her hand finds its way to his cheek, encouraging him to open them, and when he does, it’s like something shifts.

He’s loved Lily since the first time he saw her. But now, as their eyes meet and they climax together, he knows he’ll never be the same. And he knows he can’t lose her.

~~~~

Her head is heavy on his chest, the weight of it comforting against his heart as her even breath washes over the coarse dark hair that she can't seem to keep her fingers out of, even in sleep. He hears her hum softly, her fingers moving just slightly as she seems to drift into consciousness. She nuzzles her cheek against his chest and he feels a soft pressure as if she’s smiling against him. It makes him smile, too.

As she starts to stir, she tightens her grip on him, her arm sliding along his chest and hugging him close to herself, and everything is almost perfect until she stiffens. Following a low, deep rumble, she gasps, tensing above him and looking up at him with the widest eyes he’s ever seen. “Excuse me,” she says in embarrassment.

“Did you just belch?”

Her cheeks are set aflame, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as she fights back a laugh and nods. “Sorry.”

“You’re insane.”

“Well you just slept with me, so what does that make you?”

“Also insane,” he agrees with a laugh. Without hardly thinking about it, he finds himself grinning, rolling her until she’s on her back and he can cage her between his arms, the marred one hidden beneath the pillow under her head. She laughs brightly as she stares up into his eyes and he feels his heart racing. “Sleep well?”

“Mhmm,” she hums. She lifts a hand and lets it cup his cheek, her thumb tracing the small scar that he thought was unsightly until he lost his hand. “You?”

“Mhmm. It’s, um… it’s been a bit.”

“Since the last time you were with someone?”

“Aye,” he whispers.

“Me too,” she whispers back, giving him a soft comforting smile. “My last boyfriend turned out to be a major creep.”

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. He rolls onto his side and she follows, staring at him in a way that he isn’t used to. “You deserve better than that.”

“So do you.”

He finds it hard to answer. He isn’t sure that’s true, considering everything, so he says, “Well, my last girlfriend turned out to be married.” And then murdered.

“Yikes,” she cringes, shaking her head. He catches the way her eyes drift off beyond him, her thoughts consuming her for a moment, before she asks, “Was it before… before your hand?”

Of course it was. The last time he was with Milah was just before she told him the truth, about her husband, about his treatment of her, about the way that she was prepared to go back to the monster of a man. It was just hours before the last time he saw her alive. Just hours before he saw the life drain from her eyes and felt the blood draining from his wrist.

“Yes,” he chokes out, plagued by the memories of a woman who never really loved him but died for him anyway.

She touches his forearm again, the one that he thinks he’s done a pretty good job of hiding from her, and squeezes in a way that’s more comforting than he was expecting. His scars are healing, no longer raw or burning or swollen, the stitches long gone, but it’s still the ugliest part of him and having her hand just above the unsightly wound makes him shiver. Her eyes meet his, gleaming in the morning sunlight and reminding him of a shard of sea glass as she stares so deeply at him that he thinks she must be seeing his soul. He wonders what she finds there– wonders if it’s actually his soul, or if it belongs to Peter Harrison, the man she believes him to be.

Without saying a word, without her eyes leaving his, she takes his wrist towards herself, her lips still just slightly swollen as she presses them against his tender, broken skin. She gives him a smile, her thumb gently running along one of his longer scars, and kisses him once more, causing a chill to run down his spine.

“Are you okay?” she asks in a whisper, and the question, he thinks, goes deeper than just to inquire about his hand.

“I think so,” he answers honestly, just as softly as she had asked her question, and his response makes her smile.

“I just… obviously I haven’t been in your shoes. But I know this is probably a lot for you to process.” David had said that once, that it’ll be a lot to process. It is; the loss of his hand is only one piece of the puzzle that, when put together, will tell the story of his suffering. His hand being obliterated to the point it could not be saved is only one of the things that haunts him. The horror of watching a woman he could have loved being strangled, watching her take her last breath, will never leave him.

He thinks of that night too often, recalling the way that horrible man destroyed every part of him as he took his shots, missing the one he shouldn’t have. Had he not struck Killian two inches too far to the left, perhaps he would have reached his goal of killing him. Perhaps, in that case, Killian would have been put out of his misery and he never would have had to become Peter Harrison.

But he doesn’t want to die anymore, at least, he doesn’t think so. With Lily’s fingers sliding along his chest, he thinks he’ll allow himself to live for a bit longer.

“What’s this?” she asks after a consuming silence forces its way between them. When he comes back to himself, forcing away the thoughts of pain and suffering, he notes the way her fingers slide along his skin until they find the scar on his back, the one from the bullet that almost missed him and almost killed him, too far to the left to have done any damage. Her fingers circle the small wound that’s all but healed and he shivers again.

“A scar,” he answers simply, his voice rough and deep and forced.

“From what?”

He’s silent. He can’t answer, because for whatever reason, he gets the impression that she already knows. Even if he was allowed to tell her the truth, to tell her that his name isn’t Peter and that his life is in danger but that he doesn't truly care, he knows he wouldn’t, because he couldn’t stand to see the look on her face if he were to tell her what truly happened.

So he rolls her over and he kisses her again, and he keeps kissing her until she’s consumed by him as he always is by her, and she seems to forget that she asked in the first place.

~~~~

He’s unsure of what to do.

There’s nothing he really can do, truthfully. For a moment he wondered if physical therapy would help, but then he recalled that there’s nothing there for a physical therapist to work on.

All he can do is suffer.

The pain is as agonizing as it is disorienting. How can he look at a hand that isn’t there and feel such pain within it? All he can think about as he sits at his too-small desk in his too-small office is recall the feeling of Gold’s bullet penetrating his skin and muscle and bone, shattering it until it was of no use to him.

And now there’s nothing there to treat, so all he can do is dig his remaining fingers into the wood of his desk and start digging through his drawer for a pen that he hasn’t broken yet.

“Good morning!” he hears as he grips the pen in his fist, the door swinging open and revealing his panting, sweating, cursing form to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. “Peter?”

He grunts as he forces the pen out of his fist, dropping it to the floor and trying and failing to drag in some oxygen. He can’t speak to her, his jaw is clenched too tightly. He hears her hurrying into his office, something dropping onto the desk and something else dropping onto the floor as she kneels before him and takes his fist in her hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asks in worry, her thumb running along his knuckles, and it would be comforting if this was the hand paining him. “Peter,” she says more soothingly, voice soft and angelic, and she stands between his knees and takes his face between her hands, pressing his forehead to hers. “Peter, just breathe. It’s okay,” she whispers onto his mouth.

He tries, he really does. The breath he takes in is short and forceful, the sound escaping him embarrassing. “Deep breaths,” she instructs gently, her fingers scratching against his scalp. She shushes him and the sound penetrates his thoughts and his agony until he’s able to breathe deeply enough to smell her intoxicating perfume. “That’s it,” she encourages. “It’s okay.”

The pain is still there, but it’s lessened somehow, and he didn’t need to thrust a pen into his desk to achieve the same results. “I’m sorry,” he finally forces out when he feels himself able to speak again.

“Don’t apologize,” she whispers, and then before he can think or even open his eyes, her soft, pliant lips are pressed to his and his thoughts are erased at last. She stays there for only a moment, not long enough before she pulls away and runs the perfect tip of her nose along the bridge of his. “What happened?”

He shakes his head. He can’t possibly burden her with this foolishness, so he keeps quiet and lets his hand hold onto her wrist as her own fingers continue their ministrations along his scalp. “Nothing,” he murmurs, and she feels her breath escaping her lips in a soft laugh that lands against his mouth.

“That wasn’t nothing, Peter,” she accuses. The more she hears that names fall from her lips, the more he longs to correct her, and it’s becoming almost as agonizing as his hand that no longer exists. “Is it… I mean, I’ve heard before that sometimes amputations can–”

“Aye,” he interrupts. She’s right, of course, but he’d rather not put it to words. He much prefers to ignore it. “You’re right, love. I’m sorry that I ruined your visit– I wasn’t expecting you.”

She seems to read him easily, pulling away and smiling as she stands up straight. “I was surprising you,” she tells him with a smile. “The point is that you didn’t expect me. I brought you coffee.”

“Well, thank you,” he says, forcing a smile. “I’m sure I needed this.”

“Peter,” she says, more serious suddenly, and his face falls at the sound of her voice wrapping around a name that isn’t his.

“I’m alright, Lily,” he says, trying to reassure her, although her face falls the same way he’s sure he did. “What is it?” he asks, placing the paper mug on his desk and taking her hand in his.

“Nothing,” she smiles, and it makes him think of himself, telling her the exact same thing. “Just… I found out I’m not actually on the schedule for today when I thought I was so I figured I'd pay you a visit. I, um– I missed you,” she admits more shyly, and it makes him smile.

“Well, I missed you, too, love,” he smiles back. How is it possible for him to be smiling when he was halfway to wishing for death just moments ago? “I’m glad you paid me a visit; I'm just sorry you had to… to see that.”

“I told you not to apologize,” she reminds him, leaning forward and pressing her lips to his in a tender kiss that makes his heart stutter behind his ribs. She leans away and hoists herself onto his tattered desk, able to ignore the tiny holes that little the surface and crossing her ankles as she smiles at him and reaches for the bag from Granny’s. “I also got you a bearclaw.”

“Oh dear,” he says, shaking his head at her playfully. “I’m afraid I'm much more of a donut person.”

Lily takes in a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh, shaking her own head and then rolling her eyes. “Okay,” she says with a nod. “Well, Peter, it was nice while it lasted, but we’re going to have to break up now,” she teases as she hops to the floor and starts to step away. He catches her, though, his hand reaching into the back pocket of her tight jeans and tugging her towards him until she falls into his lap with a ringing laugh.

His lips find her neck, and he finds himself much more playful than he’s ever been after having one of his episodes of pain and self-hatred. “How can we be broken up,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear, smirking when he feels her shudder, “when we never established a relationship in the first place?”

He isn’t sure what makes him ask– he’s never been so bold or straightforward, not even with Milah. But her answer makes his boldness worth it. “I thought you knew that you’re stuck with me,” she says, her tone joking and yet somehow completely serious.

“My, my. Lily Quinn, are you asking me out?”

She stills for a second before turning to face him and nodding. “I suppose so.”

Their lips meet, and everything else in the room disappears. Every hardship he’s ever experienced melts into the background as she kisses him, her mouth soft and perfect and her tongue tracing along his own in a way that makes his spine tingle. He can do nothing but pull her closer once she’s maneuvered herself into his lap, her legs straddling his and her fingers finding their way into his hair again.

“Are you busy?” she asks against his mouth breathlessly.

“Yes,” he breathes back, suddenly consumed with need as he picks her up with some difficulty and deposits her on the desk. “With you.”

She lets out a breathless laugh, the sound cut off by her gasp when he kisses her. Their actions are quick and hasty, their need for each other only mildly outweighed by their need not to be caught. Neither of them bother with their shirts, Lily reaching for his belt and loosening it just enough so that she can undo his trousers and watch them fall to the floor. He steps out of them, though perhaps he shouldn’t. He lets her pull his boxers down, though, and he steps out of those, too.

He finds the jeans she wears intoxicating. He loves when she wears them to work almost as much as he loves when she goes to the bar without a bra, but there’s no time to explore the soft skin of her breasts today. Instead, he pushes her jeans off of her ass and squeezes the flesh there with his one remaining hand, the other arm resting at his side and desperate to feel her with his lost fingers. Her tongue finds its way into his mouth as he slides her underwear down, too, the garments landing on the floor beside his own trousers.

She gasps when he enters her after just a moment of foreplay, his fingers quickly ensuring that she’s ready for him before his cock slides home inside her. She bites his lip, her fingers clinging to the material of the gray knit on his shoulders. “Fuck,” she breathes into his mouth, a moan escaping her throat.

“Okay?” he asks.

She nods rapidly, desperately, her hips starting to move and bounce above him, seeking the pressure and the friction that’ll get her to ecstasy. “Harder,” she begs almost silently, and he grips her hips to thrust forcefully up into her, making her cry out too loudly.

They both come quickly, their mouths latching together to ensure that they’re silent enough not to get caught by his coworkers. And he holds her, feels her breath panting out against his hot skin, and even though the life he’s presented to her is technically a lie, he’s never felt more like the person he wants to be.

~~~~

“There’s someone new in town,” she says after a while, her breathing having evened out although her fingers continue to draw small patterns into the skin of his collarbone along the neckline of his shirt.

“Is there?”

“Yeah. I think he’s from Boston, too; do you know him?”

He kisses her temple over the hair clinging to her skin and chuckles. “I’m afraid I don’t know everyone from Boston, love.”

“I think his name is Ian, or something.”

His hand slips along her back beneath her top, although he slows his movements slightly at her continued inquiry. “You’re rather distracted by this newcomer,” he points out, and she shrugs. With a joking tone, he asks, “Should I be jealous?”

“No,” she giggles without a second thought before she presses a kiss to his neck and then drops her head back down to his chest. “No,” she says again with more relaxation. “I’m just curious.”

“I know,” he murmurs against her head. “You are quite a curious lass.”

“Are you calling me a lass because of how much younger I am than you?” she asks in jest, and he moves his hand so that he can pinch her hip, making her giggle again.

He would answer with as much a joking tone as she had given him, but they’re interrupted, the ringing of his phone distracting him from the softness of her skin against his and reminding him that she lies half naked atop him, her jeans lying beside his on the floor of his office, which anyone can enter at any time. He kisses her once more, moving carefully so that he doesn’t disturb her too much as he reaches for his phone in his pants pocket.

“Is it your other girlfriend?” she asks, and he swats her ass playfully, making her yelp and laugh.

It’s not, of course. It’s David– the last person he wants to talk to with Lily resting pantsless on his lap. “A friend,” he explains with unease.

She removes herself from him, reaching for the box of tissues on his desk and giving him a look that invites him to swipe the screen to answer. “David,” he says tightly, hoping that his tone gives away the fact that it’s a horrible time for him to be calling.

“Killian,” he answers too loudly, but Lily doesn’t seem to notice. “How are things?”

“Fine.”

He watches as she struts back towards him, her underwear back on but her jeans still sitting on the floor, and she stops to pick up his boxers and toss them at him. “Good,” David says as he struggles to keep the phone tucked against his shoulder while tugging his boxers back over his legs. She giggles and bites into her bottom lip as she watches, walking around to the back of his desk chair and placing her hands on his shoulders, holding his phone against his ear for him. “I’m probably going to pay you a visit.”

“That’s no problem,” he answers, although he clears his throat loudly when she bends towards him, her lips dancing along the shell of his ear that isn’t being burned by his Marshal’s interruptions. “When?”

“Tomorrow, if not Wednesday.”

“Fine,” he says with a cough and a sigh.

“Killian, Are you alright?” he asks, and how is he supposed to correct the man on the other line when her mouth trails down his neck and her hands start to scratch through the hair on his chest? “You sound… strange.”

He clears his throat once more, leaning his head against hers and sighing. “I’ve got to go,” he says with more urgency. “I suppose I'll see you tomorrow or Wednesday.”

“Alright, just tell me to bring a pepperoni pizza if you’re in danger right now.”

Bloody hell. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve plenty of food at home. See you soon, Dave.”

He hears her giggle in his ear before he even drops the phone to his lap, and he spins in his chair so that he faces her, pulling her back down into his lap and pinching her hip once more. “You’re a scoundrel.”

“Mhmm,” she agrees happily, leaning in to kiss him earnestly. “Are you expecting a visit?”

He shrugs. “I suppose I am.”

“From a friend?”

“An old friend, uh, from school. Certainly not a girlfriend.”

She hums and kisses him once more. “Good. And do I get to meet this friend?”

He gulps. He doesn’t really know the answer to that, isn’t familiar with the ins and outs of a witness’s new girlfriend meeting their court appointed Marshal. So he shrugs and says, “I’m not really sure. Dave is, well, he’s quite shy.”

“But I'm such a catch,” she jokes, pressing a kiss to his nose before standing.

“Yes, you are,” he answers with a solid pinch to her bum as she makes her way to her jeans.

Once they’re pulled onto her long legs she stands straight before him, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “I’m off,” she says. “I need to go grocery shopping.”

“Just a visit for a quickie, then?” he jokes, and she rolls her eyes.

“I guess so. But maybe I’ll stop by your place tonight.” She shoots him a smirk as she walks towards the door and he realizes that he’s still not wearing pants. She winks and walks out the door without so much as another word.

~~~~

It’s raining when he walks home that night. The roads are slick and although it’s not too cold out, he longs for a leather jacket to keep the moisture from soaking into his back.

He hasn’t felt like himself since he’s gotten here, forced to change everything about himself from his name to the way he used to like to dress. He’s not himself anymore, in fact; the Killian Jones he used to know had two hands and less to worry about.

But if there’s one thing that makes him feel like himself, or at least a version of himself who he can stand, it’s Lily.

She’s bright, and contagiously happy, and hilarious. She’s youthful and energetic, beautiful and intelligent. He can’t get enough of her. He can’t get her out of his head. He had thoughts of hatred for himself when he moved here, and she’s begun to chop away at them all, because if she can stand to be around him, hell, if she can enjoy her time with him, maybe he’s not that bad after all.

He loves her. He’s only known her a few months, but it’s been more than enough time for him to fall madly in love with Lily Quinn.

He’s confused when he sees her on his way home, though. She had already texted him and told him that she wouldn’t make it over tonight because she found out last minute that she has to work. But here she is, well past the time her shift should have started, sitting in her Bug and staring contemplatively out the window at the building across the street.

“Lily,” he says through the open passenger window, and she jumps a mile in her seat and looks at him in complete shock, as if seeing him is the last thing she would have expected. “What… Are you okay?”

“Peter,” she says back, placing her hand on her heart that he assumes must be beating erratically. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” he tells her, and he watches her unlock the door and takes it as an invitation to join her in the passenger’s seat. “I thought you were working?”

She clears her throat, her eyes darting, looking at everything in her line of sight except for him. They both hear a sound, the front door of the building she’s watching opening, and she jumps again. He looks ahead at the man leaving the building and feels a cold sweat settling over him as a pit forms in his stomach, realizing quickly that something isn’t right. Because even from this distance and even in the dim street lamps, he can tell clear as day that the man they’re both staring at is his old roommate from Boston. “Fuck,” she breathes, looking around again nervously this time and turning to her back seat.

That’s when he turns, too, taking in the contents of the box sitting on the floor behind her seat and noticing a jacket. A black leather jacket, useless now with a hole in the torso and a blood stain on the left sleeve.

That’s his jacket. The one he was wearing on the worst night of his life.

“Where did you get that?” he asks her slowly, and she looks like a rabid dog caught on a leash as she watches August jump into a truck and drive away, obviously wanting nothing more than to follow him. “Lily.”

“Fuck!” she says again, louder this time, her hand colliding with the steering wheel before she rests her head on it. “God dammit.”

“What the hell is going on?” he demands. As he watches her painfully grappling with what to do, with whether she should start her engine and follow the man she’s clearly been watching, the man who could have followed him from Boston and could be about to ruin everything, he feels something shattering. Suddenly everything starts to fall apart, the trust he had for her slipping through his fingers and the happiness he thought he felt seeming to melt away.

“I’m… I don’t know how to tell you,” she says, and when he looks at her with anger in his heart, he can see the way that she’s breaking, too. He has no idea what’s going on with her, with the two of them, but he finds it hard to believe that whatever is between them isn’t splitting at the seams. She sniffles and says, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks with a bit more tenderness in his voice, finding it impossible to handle seeing tears starting to well in her eyes. “What’s going on? Why do you have my old jacket in your backseat? Why are you following August?”

“August?” she asks in confusion, shaking her head. “That’s not August, that’s the new guy from Boston; the guy I was asking you about earlier.”

“No, that’s–”

“Wait.”

“Lily–”

“Did you say–” Her face falls. Her mouth slacks open. Her eyes grow wide with fear and something else. She whispers into the dark, “Your jacket?”

“Aye, mine. I thought I’d lost it; it wasn’t with my personal effects when I left the hospital.”

Her hands cover her mouth, her eyes growing more tearful as she shakes her head. “No,” she chokes out before letting out a sob. “No. Fuck, no.”

“Lily–” he starts, trying to put his hand on her shoulder, but she pulls away.

“Don’t call me that,” she insists through tears before she turns to start her engine.

He lets out a sarcastic laugh and asks, “And what will you have me call you, then?” he asks in exasperation, watching on in concern as she peels away from the curb without barely checking her surroundings and rushes towards his apartment, not hers. “Lily, what are you–”

“Emma,” she says forcefully, turning to him for just a second before wiping her eyes and looking back to the road. “My name is Emma.”

The only word he can use to describe himself is stunned. He’s silent, his mouth hanging slack just as hers was just a moment ago. His brows pinch together in thought as he looks at her, really looks at her, and for the first time, something seems to click.

Emma.

He can’t even be angry with her. He isn’t sure what reason she could possibly have to make up a fake name, but it dawns on him once more that she’s known him as Peter Harrison since they met almost six months ago. How can he be upset with her for lying about her true identity when he’s done nothing but lie to her from the moment they met?

All he can say is, “Why?”

She pulls sharply into a parking spot just outside of his building, looking around suspiciously before hurrying out of the car and towards his building’s front door, leaving him to follow.

He hurries out of the car behind her, throwing the door shut and taking out his key to open the door for her. “Li– Emma?” he tries, not used to feeling the name on his lips, but she rushes ahead of him, bypassing the elevator as she shoves the door to the stairs open and pushes through, barely waiting for him before sprinting up to his floor.

Once they’re inside his apartment, he stands behind her as she locks the door, and then, overcome with frustration and confusion and a need for answers, he places his hand and wrist on the door around her head and forces her eyes to meet his. “What the hell is going on?”

“Peter,” she starts, and he almost corrects her, but he can’t get a word in. Tearfully, she says, “Tell me you didn’t live with that man. Please, please just tell me that isn’t your jacket and this is all just a cruel joke.”

He stares at her for a moment, consumed with sadness and confusion. “Why would it be? Why would you know that?”

She shakes her head, looking down from his eyes. “Then you know… You know Robert Gold, then?”

His jaw tightens immediately, his teeth clenching together painfully, and he almost presses his hand to her neck at the threat but chooses instead to dig his fingers into the wood of the door and deny her freedom when she tries to pull away from him. “Why do you know that name?” he asks through his teeth.

She glances up for a moment and then back down. “I work for him,” she whispers.

He almost hits his hand against the door and pulls away, anger all consuming, boiling his blood and sending it singing through his veins as he tries to catch his breath.

But he can’t catch his breath, not as she continues to speak a harsh truth. “I’m a bounty hunter. I was hired by Robert Gold to find the witness to his wife’s murder; a man in his early-to-mid-forties who wears a lot of leather and–”

“And what?” he seethes when she doesn’t go on.

Her eyes meet his and sadness rim them as she weakly admits, “And had his hand… shot off… a year ago.”

“Bloody hell,” he curses and while he’s angry, furious, he can’t help but to feel something quite the opposite as he looks at her and realizes he finally knows the real her. Emma.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers in anguish, wiping away the tears in her eyes. “I don't– This can’t be happening.”

“Aye, well, it is,” he says with just a touch of snark staining his voice, and she lets out a sob, dropping her face to her hands.

“I thought you were Peter Harrison,” she cries. “You lost your hand in a boating accident. You never wear leather! If I had known that you were the one I was supposed to be looking for…”

“What? You would’ve gotten it over with sooner?” he asks with viper shooting through his words.

“I would’ve left!” she shouts honestly, desperately. “I would’ve fled.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? She would’ve left. Just like every other good thing in his life, she would have brought this to an end. “If your plan is to turn me in, you may as well just–”

“No. I’m not going to do that; I would never hurt you,” she says lowly, painfully, her eyes filled with wet tears he’s never seen before. “I swear to you, Killian.”

He stands before her, eyes widening despite his attempts at staying stoic and angry, and he realizes… she knows his name. She knows the real him. Practically speechless, all he can utter is, “I…”

“That’s right, isn’t it? You’re Killian Jones. You had an affair with Milah Gold and were present when her husband shot her in cold blood, right? He thought he killed you, too; shot you in the back and in the hand. But he found out the hard way that you had escaped when his clean up crew couldn’t find you.”

He shakes off the shock of hearing his story told back to him after hiding it for so many months and becomes defensive again even though the words hurt as they leave his mouth. “The fact that you know this just… I have to call someone. I have to have this taken care of.”

“Pe- Killian, I’m not going to turn you in, you have my word!”

“I don’t want your word,” he tells her without thinking, turning back to face her and meeting the tragedy in her eyes. “I– Emma. All this time, we've been lying to one another! All I want now is the truth.”

“The truth?” she asks softly, stepping close to him and meeting his desperate eyes with her matching ones. “The truth is that it doesn’t matter to me who you are. I don’t care if you’re Peter or Killian; it doesn’t matter.” She lifts her hand timidly, as if nervous of his reaction, but chooses to place it upon his heart anyway. “I fell in love with you. The second I met you I wouldn’t have hurt you. If I had known it was you, I would’ve run then and there.”

“Run?” he asks, the word stinging as it leaves his lips and his hand lifting against his will. If he had them both, they would be cupping her cheeks. But all he has is the left side of her face against his palm.

“I have to run,” she whispers up to him. “When Gold finds out… he’ll kill me when I don’t–”

It’s amazing how quickly and easily he makes up his mind, knowing without a single doubt that he’ll do anything to ensure that he doesn’t have to be without her.

He cuts her off, mostly because the thought of her leaving, even after all of the revelations and truths, makes him nauseous. But also because, in all the hazy frenzy, he’s just now realizing what she said. And he’s realizing that he fell in love with her, too.

And he’s always been the first one to say it.

She returns his kiss as if she isn’t even thinking, her hands sliding into his hair easily and quickly and a soft whimper breaking between their lips. Neither of them seem to even breathe before he’s backing her up to press her against the door, gripping her ass as best he can so that she jumps into his arms and locks her legs around his waist.

His lips slide down to her neck, latching to the tender skin above her collarbone, and she lets out a soft, intoxicating moan before whispering again, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he begs against her skin, sucking a mark into it as he feels her fingers scratching against his scalp. “Don’t say that again. Please.”

“Peter, I– fuck.” She drops her head back against the door and when he looks up at her and finds her bottom lip stuck between her teeth, tears filling her eyes again, he smiles at her sadly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. His forehead falls to hers and he kisses her softly. “It’ll probably take some getting used to, not calling you Lily.”

She looks at him for just a moment and smiles sadly before her face shifts, tears returning and her smile flipping into a frown before she looks away.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he says again. “You love me?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately, firmly. She’s crying again when she says, “And I’m so sorry that I lied to you all this time, Killian.”

“It’s not like I was being entirely truthful with you either, love.”

“But you have a good reason to lie,” she argues. “Witness protection, right?”

He nods. “You did, too, though. I’m sure you can’t roll into town and announce your true intentions.” She nods, too, still saddened and struggling to meet his eyes, so he kisses her once more, soft and tender and with as much love as he can pour into her. “What would you have done?” he asks. “If I had been someone else? Just a random bloke from the bar?”

She’s pensive for a moment, pursing her lips in thought. “I would’ve come back,” she whispers. “I would’ve brought the target in and quit, and then I would've come back. But then… that would’ve been a lie, too.”

“Then perhaps this is for the best?”

“What is?”

With a small smile, he tells her, “I love you, too. It’s probably best that we get this all out in the open now, aye?”

Her hands find his cheeks, her thumbs running along the skin beneath his eyes, along the scar he’s had for longer than he can recall, and he’s never seen someone look so saddened. “How can you love me, after everything?” she asks in defeat.

“The same way you can love me even though a big part of me hates myself.”

She sighs heavily, shaking her head and frowning deeply. “I hate hearing you say that,” she whispers, tightening her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as if trying to bring him impossibly closer to herself.

“It’s true,” he says simply. “I never thought I would feel this way again, after everything with Milah. But… Emma, with you, it’s so much more.”

Her forehead is pressed to his as she nods. “For me, too.”

“Then don’t run,” he practically begs. “Don’t leave me.”

She whispers his name, his real name, against his lips and it sends a shiver down his spine. “I need you,” she tells him, the desperation in her voice sending a jolt of desire straight down to his cock. “Not just… I mean, not just now; not just physically. I need you. I don't want to think about what my life would be like without you in it.”

“Then don’t,” he begs, finding himself repetitive but not caring. Maybe if he says it enough…

Her lips are on his in an instant, hot and desperate, the feeling rushing between them like a current as they attempt to sooth the pain they're both in. He can’t help himself now, pressing her firmly against the door with his hips and groaning in response to the needy sound she makes. She angles her own hips just right so that he can feel the heat of her skin through his jeans and it makes him shudder. And she never once breaks her lips away from his as she fumbles with his belt and then his button and his zipper, letting his jeans fall loudly to the floor and tangling around his ankles.

“Please,” she breathes into his mouth, the heat of her voice making him thrust his hips towards her. The feeling of her leggings against him is strange but not unwelcome, although he wastes no further time as he starts to precariously tug at the waistband and pull the fabric from her heated skin. “Please, Killian, I need you.”

She’s never begged like this before, and something about it drives him even more wild. It’s something possessive and carnal within him that sparks in the base of his spine and in his belly and radiates out to every part of him, his fingers tingling and his cock twitching as she desperately pulls his boxers over his hips and sends them down with his jeans. He tugs at her underwear, the small cotton thong no match for the desperation in his fingertips, and he feels her whimpering against his mouth as he touches her, intent on ensuring that she’s ready for him.

Her tongue is dancing against his in a graceful frenzy and then she breaks away, her eyes deep and watery as they look into his and she nods quickly. He watches her teeth sink into her bottom lip as he drags the tip of his cock along her folds, her center hot and wet, and she lets out a breathless whimper and locks her eyes on his when he finally eases himself inside. Their foreheads collide, but it doesn’t hurt. Their noses brush against one another before she captures him in a bruising kiss.

She moves with him, eager and intense as she uses the door at her back to ground herself and circles her hips to meet each of his thrusts. Her fingers are tight in his hair, tugging relentlessly before she drops her right hand between them and finds that perfect spot just above where they’re joined. She moans out his name, throwing her head back against the door in what he knows must be a painful collision, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.

It’s good like this, quick and dirty and just what they need, but after a moment something tells him that it isn’t quite enough. He braces himself, pulling her body close to his and using his good hand to grip her ass tightly so that she bucks towards him, then he kicks his jeans off of his ankles clumsily as he stumbles his way through the apartment. She protests softly when he breaks his mouth from hers, regretting it too but needing to see where he’s going, and instead of waiting, she busies her mouth with his neck, her tongue dragging from beneath his earlobe down to his collarbone. Her mouth breaks away from his skin with a pop of suction when he pulls out and drops her to the mattress, and she lets out another irresistible moan.

Her name falls from his lips as he crawls onto the bed with her, hovering over her and unable to catch his breath before her legs are cradling his hips and her heels are pressing into his ass in a desperate attempt to get him back inside her. With how insistent she is, how needy and hot she is, he finds it impossible to resist giving her exactly what she wants.

They stay like that for a bit, with him heavy on top of her as he thrusts in, trying to find that perfect angle that makes her shout. But she’s restless, the emotions flowing between them making her jittery, so she presses against him until they’re rolling over, Killian landing on his back and Emma straddling her thighs over his hips and throwing her head back at the new depth.

“Fuck,” she breathes out towards the ceiling, her fingers sharp as they dig into his shoulders. “Just like that.”

“That��s good?” he asks, finding himself more verbal than usual as he seeks out her approval. She’s moving against him but he finds that he can’t stop himself from thrusting up, too, meeting each of her thrusts with his own and unable to hold in the groan that escapes his throat when she tightens her muscles around him.

“So fucking good, Killian. Don’t stop–” she chokes out. She lets her fingers find her clit again, rubbing furious circles as he digs his fingers into her hips.

“Come on, love,” he begs, feeling unlike himself but not caring. “Come for me; I know you’re close.”

The sound of his voice seems to have the effect he was hoping for. He feels her core go impossibly tighter, her fingers moving over her even more quickly as her mouth hangs open and her eyes squeeze shut. Then, with a cry of his name, he feels her reaching that precipice, and as she collapses onto his chest and her muscles continue to contract, he lets himself go, too, holding onto her more tightly than he thinks he ever has.

~~~~

She’s heavy on his chest like she usually is when they find themselves in this position, her head resting against the hair that she enjoys running her fingers through. Every now and again, the small ring she wears on her middle finger catches slightly on a strand of hair and makes him jump just a bit, and he feels her lips pressing against his skin in soft apology, her arm tightening around his waist in a soothing hug. It’s what makes him realize that he feels just as she does: he can't even begin to consider how his life would be without her in it.

But then, as much as the weight of her over his heart soothes him and calms his rapid pulse, he can’t help the sense of dread that floods through him each time he considers the fact that this can’t last. It simply can't. She’s meant to bring him to his death and he’s meant to die. The two of them can’t be together despite how badly they both want to be.

“You’re making me dizzy,” she whispers after far too much silence has passed between them.

“What?” he asks with a soft laugh despite how much pain he’s in at the thought of losing her. Part of him thinks that this might be the last time he’ll ever hold her.

“You’re thinking too hard. Those gears in your head are turning so fast that they’re making me dizzy.”

He sighs, unable to fight the small smile that she always seems to bring to his lips. “I just don’t know…” he trails off helplessly. “Is it a coincidence that August should happen to be here, as well?”

She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers drawing soft circles in his skin, before she softly admits, “I kind of… after you left Boston, I searched your place. One of Gold’s goons broke me in. I found out, I mean, I guess August’s dad is from here, I couldn’t get a ton of information after the Marshalls cleared out your apartment. But I figured it was only a matter of time before you– or he– came here. I didn’t know you had a roommate, and you both wore leather. When I heard he was here, I thought… I thought it’d finally be over, you know?”

“Aye,” he whispers. “I know it's odd to say about someone who should be trying to kill me, but I don’t want to lose you. I’m… I’m scared.”

“Me too,” she whispers back immediately, her body stiffening a bit in his arms and making his hand run along her spine. “But I think I have–”

The sound of the door to his apartment swinging open makes him jump more than he thinks he ever has, and Emma, too, startles and tightens her arms around him. They each stiffen, fumbling with the blankets and pulling his sheets over their shoulders, but he’s fairly certain that his neglecting to shut the door to his bedroom means that his friend has just caught a good look at Emma’s ass.

“We need to get you out of here; there’s a– what the fuck!?”

“Dave–!”

“Is this your–”

“Stop, stop! Put some clothes on!”

“Since when do you have a key?!”

Chaos. The only word he can find to describe the scene he feels like he’s watching from outside of himself is chaos. He fumbles some more for the blanket, desperate to cover Emma but finding himself so preoccupied with covering her breasts that he exposes himself. And David’s eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that when he turns away from them, he trips over Killian’s forgotten jeans and collides into the wall, shouting in pain. It’s pure, unadulterated chaos.

Emma’s eyes are wide with shock as Killian clumsily stands up, covering himself with his pillow as he rummages through the room and then tosses a shirt at her, its condition and cleanliness questionable at best, but it’s the best he can do at the moment. Then he finds a pair of boxers to pull over himself, and as the world starts to slow down and his adrenaline calms with a reminder to himself that he isn’t in danger, he sighs heavily, a curse escaping his lips.

“Yeah, I'll say,” David mumbles under his breath. “Do you have any idea what you just got yourself into?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me, rather than standing there and saying meaningless things knowing I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Maybe he’s being rude, but really, what can anyone expect?

“I need to speak with you. Privately.”

“You can say whatever it is you want to say right here.”

David’s face is stiff as he glares behind Killian, staring daggers at Emma as he says, “I don’t think you fully understand what’s going on here.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“She isn’t who she’s told you she is.”

Boldly, he steps to the side and forces David to meet his eyes, cutting off his line of vision that he casts on Emma. “She told me she’s Emma Swan, and that she’s the bounty hunter Gold hired to bring me in. Does that about cover it?”

He scoffs, shaking his head and widening his eyes as he stares at Killian like he’s the stupidest man he’s ever come across. “Do you have any sort of protective capacity at all? Ki– Peter, what you’re doing is grounds for–”

“I’m going to testify.”

Both of them turn to the source of the sound that catches them so off guard, Emma’s soft voice cutting through their argument easily if only because of the absolute dissonance that it provides. She’s looking quickly between both of them at first, but once Kilian turns, her eyes meet his and lock in place, her gaze long and deep and completely serious.

“Against Gold. I’m not turning you in, and I'm gonna testify against him if that’s what’s going to keep you safe.”

There are arguments, mostly from David who doesn’t believe a word out of her mouth, but he’s been predisposed to the idea that she’s this evil huntress with her heart set on destroying Killian. He can see in her eyes how serious she is, though, how truthful she’s being, how dedicated she is to ensuring that her wrongs are made right and that Gold pays for what he’s done. He can see how intensely she’s resolving herself to really doing this, how dedicated she is to making this work, and if there’s one thing that he knows about her, it’s that she won’t let anything get in her way.

So even when David tells her that if she testifies, her entire character will be in question because of her profession, even though he tells her that she could face consequences for her involvement, she doesn’t back down. And eventually, after what feels like hours of negotiations, the three of them come to a conclusion.

~~~~

Being in witness protection had always been something that felt surreal. It had always been one of those things that he had seen in movies, but never felt like it was actually his life. The whole time he lived in Storybrooke, it felt like he was simply going through the motions; go to work, grab a drink, go home, repeat. Now, though, his life is his again, and it finally feels worth it once more.

It feels odd to appreciate the events that have led him here. It’s odd to recall the things that took Milah from him, that took his hand from him, and smile. It feels odd to consider the way he spent months and months in hiding, using a false name and living a life that wasn’t his, with fondness in his heart. But at the end of the day, each time he thinks about the things that have brought him to this moment, he has to smile, because despite what he’s lost, he’s gained just as much. More, probably.

Because he gets to spend the rest of his life with Emma Swan. And they don’t have to hide anymore, her clever plan granting her protection with him and then her own freedom once she had provided the testimony that put Robert Gold and his entire team in prison for life without parole. And he’s always felt whole whenever she’s with him, even though he really isn’t. She’s always made him feel like a full person, even without a hand. She’s always made it so that he could forget the hardships that he’s been through and just live a life of joy and contentment and love.

He loves Emma Swan. She gave him a new lease on life, and he’ll always be grateful for that, especially because a very large part of him had allowed himself to believe that, before he met her, his life was over. After Milah died, after he lost his hand, he didn’t think anything good could come from a life that had treated him so cruelly.

But she’s always been different from everyone else he’s ever known, better to him than he’s ever deserved. So once it came time to testify, they returned to Boston hand in hand and they spoke their truths, even with the knowledge that Emma was admitting to some illegal activities. But the immunity she was promised by David in exchange for her testimony made it so that she could leave the courthouse with him that day. And even though they were both wracked with guilt, even though Emma felt like a monster whenever she thought about what they’ve been through, watching the judge call out Gold’s sentence and knowing that it was all over was as therapeutic as meeting with their therapist has been.

It’s behind them now, and they never have to worry about it ever again.

He still gets those phantom pains, randomly throughout the day or startlingly at night as he’s dragged from sleep, but he hasn’t needed to find a pen to stab into his prosthetic or the surface his arm rests on in quite some time. Whenever it happens now, Emma holds him and she presses soft tender kisses to the tattered skin on his wrist and he heals without the destruction that he had grown so accustomed to needing. As with everything else in his life, she’s taken what he’s destroyed and she’s given it a sense of strange, abstract beauty.

So, once they put the final box down on the floor of their new entryway, he pulls her into his arms for a solid, warm hug and he breathes in the calming, grounding scent of her tropical shampoo, and they allow themselves to feel at peace as they process the fact that they can finally move on with a life together. So he slips the modest ring onto her finger quietly; he’s a bit shy as he presents his mother’s diamond to the love of his life, but he finds that he doesn’t really feel all that nervous doing it. Because she pulls away from him and she looks up at him with tears in her eyes and a smile that’s so bright and beaming that he feels that same familiar warmth that starts blooming in his chest and radiates out to every single inch of him.

And she nods, her grin contagious but easy enough to wipe off her face with a press of his lips to hers. And his heart grows and the warmth he feels when he’s with her chases away the burning in his hand and in his memories each and every time.

He’s come to realize, as his life has fallen back into a place of contentment and safety, after spending months and months (18 months, two weeks, and four days since he met her) trying to figure it out, that the only word he can use to well and truly describe Emma Swan is home.

~~~~

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#captain swan #captain swan fanfic #witness #witness ff #cs ff #captain swan ff #cs smut #smut #cs angst #angst #cs fluff #fluff #hurt/comfort #finally finally finished this one #it only took like a whole year

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killiansprincss · 1 day

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So I am going to start posting my Captain Swan Enchanted Forest AU where every chapter is inspired by a different Taylor Swift song and wondering if anyone wants to be tagged when I do ��🥺 👉🏻👈🏻

#this fic has been my baby and I’m so excited to share it #I want people to love it the way I do #captain swan #captain swan fanfic #captain swan ff #cs ff #my writing

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sotangledupinit · 1 year

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running home to your sweet nothings

PROMPT: Enchanted Forest AU

SUMMARY: His informality is refreshing; like water in a desert, Emma is parched and desperate for more. “Take note, Princess, that I take no pleasure in pointing out the susceptibilities of your security or skills. It is my loyalty to you that wants you to remain safe.” There’s an earnestness to his voice and Emma feels her cheeks heat. His breath fans against her face in soft puffs as he speaks and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. “What have I done to earn such loyalty other than wear a crown?” she asks in an equally quiet voice. She’s breathless as she speaks but she yearns for his unfiltered response. // or the four gifts of killian jones

RATING: Mature on AO3, Teen on Tumblr.

WORD COUNT: Over 16k words. (16,932 on AO3)

AO3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Please note that the tumblr version of this story as seen below has been edited to be a T rating. If you want the M version, please click the AO3 link above.

Chapter 1 of 2

six and ten. spring.

The castle walls suffocate her. They act as a constant reminder that despite her position — Princess Emma Margaret Nolan of Misthaven — she is trapped. Guards follow her every move; every breath she takes, each time she blinks, and even the side of the mouth she chews her food on are all reported back to her parents. Her clothes are picked out for her, her day is scheduled to the second, and she isn’t allowed to venture outside of their grounds.

She understood, albeit begrudgingly, when she was a child. Regina had been a massive threat for most of her life. Fireballs scorched castle hallways for years, the Evil Queen’s magic able to break through the protection barriers only momentarily every once in a while. Out of an abundance of caution, Emma was confined to a singular wing of the castle grounds, limiting her already strained freedom. Worry lined her parents' faces whenever she saw them, and a great relief escaped their lungs whenever they saw her alive and breathing before them. They told her of Regina’s threats, of her power, of her determination and thirst for revenge.

So she understood the fear that took hold of their hearts for so many years.

But she’s sixteen now and Regina’s been dead for four months already. She needs freedom. She needs to spread her wings like her mother’s birds and explore their kingdom beyond the castle walls. Meet their people, understand their lives. Instead, her requests to her parents are met with firm denials as they say that the land is still unsettled and they haven’t determined all of Regina’s followers yet. They fear one of them might make a martyr of Regina and start an uprising of their own. And so she goes back to her days cataloged to the minute and her guards counting the steps she takes on one foot versus the other.

Five months post-Regina, Emma sees an opportunity.

The Duke of Atlantica is visiting and Emma, having been excused for the evening, finds herself in her room with minimal security outside and a lone guard sweeping the perimeter under her window every twelve minutes. She guesses everyone else is too busy protecting her parents and the Duke.

She puts on her riding trousers, a loose top, and a scarf around her hair and face. A glance outside tells her the drop from her windowsill to the courtyard below is a bit higher than she anticipated and her magic is still too unsteady to be guaranteed to work if she needed it to stop her fall. Instead she grabs bedsheets, dressing gowns, and a curtain and knots them together sloppily, tossing the bundle over the sill to billow in the breeze below. She tugs hard on her contraption and once satisfied, descends.

When she was young, less than half her age now, her parents and her would play a game. It was their way of tempering her restlessness and her thirst for adventure. The castle grounds by her wing of the castle quickly became her playground. They would take turns hiding while one of them sought the others. Her father would proudly proclaim their family motto whenever he finished counting.

I will always find you!

One such game led to Emma hiding amongst the buttercups she planted the spring before with Johanna. The flowers had started to climb up the stone walls enclosing the garden she played in and, as she ran her hand along the blocks, she noticed the area was rarely in sight of any of their guards or the towers. After the game, she’d searched out the area from her window and noticed a steep drop on the other side, a slope that ensured an inability to broach the castle walls.

But it didn’t stop anyone from leaving.

At first, she had a fear of the area. She questioned her parents about Regina being able to climb the wall and her parents had Blue cast protection charms over it to cease her nightmares.

But as she grew older and the restraint on her freedom grew tighter, Emma looked at the wall in a new light. Now, as she dashes across the castle gardens to where the buttercups grow wild and free, it is her salvation.

Emma’s eyes cast around for anything that could ruin her potential night of freedom but nothing seems amiss. The patrols have left the area and she has about four more minutes until they come back. Before she climbs the wall, she turns back towards her room and casts her hands out. Eyes squeezed shut, she whispers a spell to hide the evidence of her escape and glances up in time to see a glimmer across it. Releasing a deep sigh, she climbs the wall.

Her boots are muddy and Emma slides more than walks down the slope outside the wall. It’s steeper than she anticipated and the recent rain has left it hard to keep her balance. She’s not sure how she’ll go about getting back over the side but she supposes it’s an issue to figure out on her return.

Specks of mud have kicked up from her boots and onto her trousers and she winces at the sight. She knows she’ll have to hide them from the staff until her next riding lesson to ensure no one asks any questions. A lie will have to be prepared, ready to be said on the tip of her tongue, if anyone should ask about her whereabouts tonight. She knows she’ll have to practice it on the way back. But now she approaches the nearest village to the castle and lanterns are lit outside of the dwellings and there’s an orange glow cast around the streets like sunset had found a permanent home right there.

Boisterous laughter rings out of a nearby tavern’s open window and she hears the chittering of women in the building beside it. She can barely see it but further down the street, there’s a boy and a father at the docks putting on an act for bystanders and an upturned hat at their feet holding a few silver pieces.

There is so much life and joy in the village and Emma wants to explore every inch of it. She stays on the outskirts at first, observing with a thrill of excitement as she tries to decide where she will explore first. The scarf had slid down her face during her hike from the castle wall and she hasn’t bothered to fix it as the different aromas from the village assaulted her nose. She breathes it in and decides her first place will be the inn where a most delicious smell seems to come from its dining hall.

A destination in mind and determination settling in her shoulders, she barely lifts a foot to step forward when one arm wraps around her middle from behind and another comes up to her throat, the shine of silver glaring in her eyes for a moment before she feels the cool metal of a knife against her throat.

“Shhh, love. Don’t scream.”

The voice that speaks in her ear is accented from a place far from Misthaven. It’s the first thing she notices before her fight instincts kick in and she wiggles in her captor’s grip. Her efforts are futile as she can’t free her arms from where he’s trapped them at her sides and the knife follows her throat with each moment.

“Let go of me,” she demands through gritted teeth, her words coming out stronger than she feels. “Do you know who I am?!”

“Aye,” the voice continues and then he lets go only to grab one of her wrists and spin her to face him. “That’s why I’m disappointed it was so easy to grab you.”

Shock doesn’t begin to describe how she feels when she faces her assailant.

He’s young, probably her age if not a year or two older. His hair is dark and disheveled and his piercing blue eyes meet her gaze. He sheathes the knife he had pressed to her throat just moments ago and sighs. The urge to run away – back to the safety of the castle, away from the troubles her parents always feared for her – pulls at her muscles yet her feet remain rooted to the ground. She holds the boy’s stare, only a little comforted by the fact the knife now rests safely against his thigh.

He glances around quickly before he tugs on her arm and brings her to the side of the building, out of the lantern lights and under the alcove hanging from the local blacksmith shop.

“With the tools and talents at your disposal, Princess, I had hoped you’d be on your guard better. Especially considering you’re wandering around alone. Are you even aware there’s still people who sympathize with Regina that live in the kingdom?!”

The tone of his voice reminds her of a reprimand she’d get from her parents and her nose scrunches up in annoyance. Who is he to be lecturing her? He was the one who grabbed and threatened the Princess of Misthaven with a knife to her throat. She opens her mouth and says as much. Every bit of moodiness she feels as a trapped woman just sixteen years of age bleeds into each word she speaks to him. It builds stronger as he stands there looking bored.

His answer, though, comes through a heated whisper as he steps closer to her in the darkness. She notices the way his eyes scan their surroundings and realizes he’s been keeping watch even as he points out her glaring mistakes. “I’m the one who could have killed the Princess of Misthaven because she’s too bloody foolish to pay attention and be on guard when she sneaks out.”

“Perhaps you’re the foolish one for attempting such a thing when I could have your head on a stake by morning’s light.”

“If it means the Princess learns to take better care of herself on her future adventures then it will have been a thankless action well done.”

Emma glares even as she tugs her wrist free of his loose hold. “How do you know I snuck out anyway? I could have a number of guards waiting to grab you on my signal.”

He snorts and rolls his eyes and the action looks so good on him that it infuriates her. He is nothing but a young man who thought himself a know-it-all. What she’d do to wipe the smug expression off of his face.

“You’re not exactly hiding, Princess. You’re like a swan swimming amongst ducks. I spotted you the moment you entered the edge of the village and there’s not been a single movement in the trees behind you nor a rustle of chain link in the air.”

The you’re alone is unspoken yet it rings as loudly in her ears as if he’d yelled it. Despite his sheathing of the knife, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and she checks her surroundings from the corner of her eye. She hates realizing she was unaware of the vulnerable position she’s placed herself in until he so unceremoniously pointed it out and the thought makes her nervous. Had she really let her guard down so much that a stranger could come up on her and do this?

Foolish, indeed.

Her eyes give him a once-over, taking in his ragged clothes and the dirt on his handsome face. His fingers are red and he stands tall with a straight set of his shoulders. The knife at his side is low enough that Emma guesses she could nick it off of him and have herself with a means of protection should his intentions differ from his words, but that only remains the issue of how to get closer to him.

She imagines the blood vessels in her father’s forehead straining at the thought of her within a foot of a male her age. Unsupervised at that. Her mother would find the situation hilarious and provide her tips for the future. Similar to how I met your father, she’d say in amusement. Nevertheless, it is all with a plan in mind.

Clearing her throat, she holds her head high like her mother taught her and meets his gaze.

“I thank you for your service to, and protection of, the Royal Family of Misthaven, no matter how unconventional your means are.” He cocks an eyebrow, amusement dancing along his features. She swallows hard as she steps closer and extends one hand to him. The smirk remains on his face as he takes her hand in his calloused one and bends to place a kiss upon her knuckles.

“If you think you can take my knife, Princess,” the mystery boy begins, his lips brushing her skin with every word. It takes her breath away and she forgets to inhale. Mirthful blue eyes meet hers from under the cover of his eyelashes and she’s mesmerized. Few in the realm hold magic. Most users, like Regina and her mother Cora, learn through difficult training that involves more blood and soul than most are willing to give up. Very rare others, like Emma, find their power from being the product of True Love. As far as she knows, she’s been the only one for the last two centuries.

But as this boy – no, young man – stares up at her from where he is bent at the waist, she swears he must have magic. For there is no other reason that she would be so entranced by his gaze and the sound of his voice. It takes her a moment to realize that he continued speaking.

“… then you will be sorely disappointed.”

Her eyebrows pinch together as she stares at him in confusion. It’s not until he presses a gentle kiss, finally, to her knuckles and then stands while holding his sheathed knife in his other hand that she understands he was onto her ruse. She rips her hand from him and steps back despite the way he doesn’t move to hurt her.

“You must think yourself so clever.”

“Well, I’d rather hope I am. Otherwise the rather great army that Misthaven boasts about over-promises and underdelivers. Especially in matters pertaining to the skillset of their princess.”

Emma huffs but says nothing as he’s clearly shown her up on more than one occasion in their brief meeting. Instead, she inquires about his identity. “May I at least know the name of the person who takes such glee in pointing out our weak spots?”

He steps closer, the sheath held tightly in his palm rather than the knife’s handle. Voice dropping to a whisper, he dips his head as he addresses her. Everything about his posture and his proximity goes against the expectations of the court but she finds a thrill in it. Nothing about her interaction with him has been anything like her usual meetings with advisors and other royals. Stiff greetings and full addresses are nowhere to be found. When he addresses her as Princess, his tongue forms the word as if it’s a nickname rather than her royal title and it sends a shock of excitement down her spine.

His informality is refreshing; like water in a desert, Emma is parched and desperate for more.

“Take note, Princess, that I take no pleasure in pointing out the susceptibilities of your security or skills. It is my loyalty to you that wants you to remain safe.” There’s an earnestness to his voice and Emma feels her cheeks heat. His breath fans against her face in soft puffs as he speaks and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.

“What have I done to earn such loyalty other than wear a crown?” she asks in an equally quiet voice. She’s breathless as she speaks but she yearns for his unfiltered response.

“Your heart,” he says as he takes another step forward. His toes touch hers and she prays he can’t hear the way her heart beats against her chest like she can hear its echo in her eardrums. “It is pure and light and, like your parents, you chose to see the best in people. Even if they don’t have the best of intentions towards you.”

He licks his lips as he looks at her. Not as the princess, not as a trophy to be won. But as if she were just another girl at the market. No, not just another girl. Like a girl who stole his attention and he has no thought but for her. It leaves her gobsmacked and a part of her wishes he would kiss her, be her first. But she’s not sure how many more lines she can cross tonight.

“What is your name?” Her question breaks his gaze from her mouth and it quickly darts up to meet hers. He scratches at the back of his head, just behind his ear, and she finds the action endearing. For all his suave moves and confidence, he is an awkward adolescent just like her.

The answer that laid on the tip of his tongue is stopped by an approaching voice.

“Killian?” the voice calls out, a deeper, more mature male voice with a similar accent to the mystery man’s.

“Bloody hell,” the figure before her murmurs with his head turned towards the alleyway. She assumes it is safe to assign the name to her companion this evening. As the other voice calls his name again, Killian turns towards her and adjusts her scarf over her hair and face before she can even blink, successfully concealing her identity for the time being.

Right as his fingers curl the cloth around the shell of her ear, the other figure emerges from the darkness.

“Bloody hell, Killian. I’d been calling your name for…”

The voice trails off as the person takes in the fact Killian isn’t alone.

“My apologies, Miss…”

The first thing that comes to mind is Killian’s earlier statement, the odd comparison he’d made, and so she blurts out before he can, “Miss Swan.”

“Evening, Miss Swan,” the gentleman says as he steps closer to the sole lantern light on the side of the building. He has a sharp jawline reminiscent of Killian’s with matching blue eyes. His hair curls close to his head and Emma notices he wears the uniform of her family’s navy. “Lieutenant Liam Jones. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, despite the late hour,” he says. The end of Liam’s statement is directed towards Killian in a way that reminds her of the subtle way her parents reprimand her when in company.

He takes her hand in his and bows as he bestows a kiss on it. It’s routine and perfunctory and so different from the one Killian had placed in that very spot moments prior. She only hopes that the turn of her head is enough to keep him from recognizing the uncovered parts of her face.

“Aye, apologies, brother,” Killian starts. He steps in front of Emma just slightly and she feels tension in her shoulders she hadn’t realized were built begin to release at his actions. “She’s a new servant for the royal family. It’s her first night away from the castle and she seems to have gotten lost. I was just escorting her back to her quarters.” Emma peers just slightly over his shoulder to see his brother’s narrow-eyed gaze fixed on Killian in contemplation. She wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t believe him.

“Let’s be on our way then, little brother. It is late.”

Liam looks at them expectantly and Emma barely pays attention to the mutterings of Killian's 'younger brother’ as blood pounds in her ears. This spells disaster.

Killian, it seems at least, would go along with her charade, not turn her into her parents and let her be on her way. Perhaps he’d have escorted her back but standard practices don’t exactly seem his way of life. Liam, on the other hand, exudes the essence of the perfect soldier. Straight back, formal introductions, and following the expectations of the court to the line. If he finds out who she is, Emma will never be able to escape again. Her father will have her under lock and key and her mother…

She’s not sure what her mother would do.

Being at the center of Regina’s turn to evil never rested easily on her mother’s shoulders. The ten-year-old little girl inside of her carried the guilt of a kingdom despite never truly doing anything wrong. Regina’s misplaced anger resulted in the suffering and death of far too many. It wasn’t an experience her mother took lightly. Emma’s heart breaks at what would become of her mother finding out about her activity.

But she knows of her mother’s own thirst for adventure, of the trials and tribulations that she faced when forced to fend for herself during Regina’s reign. The same kind of living that led to her meeting her True Love.

Emma’s True Love isn’t Killian; she’s positive of that from the way he grates on her nerves and his infuriating confident swagger. Snow, though, doesn’t need to know that – especially if it permits her more time away from the castle.

She shares a glance with Killian and he reads the short expression on her face like he spent all day in the library pouring over his favorite book and he immediately steps in to intercept his brother.

“I hardly think that both of us going is necessary. It’s just a short walk up to the castle grounds.”

Disapproval radiates from Liam in waves as he glares down at his younger brother. The minute shift in Killian’s stance would have been unnoticeable if she weren’t nearly pressed against his back.

“It would be improper to allow you to escort Miss Swan back to her quarters unattended.” Liam’s reply is only thinly veiled in a polite tone.

The trio trek in silence, dew from the grass wetting her already muddy trousers. She sticks close to Killian’s side and keeps as far away from Liam’s gaze as possible. Whenever he turns back to check on them, she turns her head away, allowing the scarf to conceal her identity from the angle of her tilt.

“Will you find yourself in trouble when you return?” Emma whispers hastily to Killian, lifting the edges of her cloak as they come upon mud spots. Her trousers and boots are already going to be a pain to clean, the last thing she needs to do is add to her secret laundry list.

“As long as no one finds out about tonight, Miss Swan,” he says, emphasizing the fake name she gave his brother. She levels a glare at the amusement that seeps into his words before he grows more serious. “Then both of us will be free of trouble. Let’s keep it that way.”

She huffs, turning her gaze onto the pathway leading to the servants quarters. Rarely does she ever find herself in that portion of the castle, but she’s thankful that her lockdown for the last sixteen years meant she had the chance to explore it more than once. The only trouble she’ll face is bypassing any servants that may see her.

Liam coughs as they happen upon the entrance, turning to Killian and Emma expectantly. “Goodnight, Miss Swan.”

Emma panics for a moment, glancing at Killian before she curtsies to Liam. The action feels strange in front of a party other than her parents or fellow royals but she hopes he’ll blame any clumsiness on a supposed shy servant unused to such attention. “Thank you, Lieutenant Jones,” she begins, turning to Killian next and curtseying again, glaring as she comes to a stand when she spots the quirked corner of his mouth. “Mister Jones.”

Killian turns to his brother and raises his eyebrows expectantly only for Liam to shake his head. But Killian persists. Emma acts as a spectator to the silent conversation between the brothers, confusion clouding her thoughts until Liam sighs heavily and turns slightly to the side, gaze away from the two of them. Killian waits a moment, staring at his brother’s back, before he moves.

He steps closer to her until his toes touch hers. Bending slightly, his face is a breath away from hers and her eyes widen. Killian has been the only boy - no, man - brave enough to get so close to her and her breath catches for a moment until he stands straight again, the knife from his thigh in his hand. He uses his free hand to lift one of hers until it rests on the scabbard. He curls her fingers around the knife and pushes it towards her.

“Learn to use it. You better be the one to surprise me next time.” He smirks, dipping his head for a moment to press a searing kiss to her knuckles before he steps back and speaks at a volume that allows Liam to hear. “Have a good night, Miss Swan.”

Emma’s eyes bounce to Liam’s imposing figure briefly before she locks her gaze with Killian. Despite how infuriating their encounter has been, it’s one she’s grateful for. She thanks him, her words quiet but no less genuine, and hopes he understands how deep they ring before she hastily curtseys once more, hurrying into the servants door and counting her blessings that it is empty for the moment.

As silent as she keeps her footsteps, she’s sure anyone within a ten-foot radius would be able to hear her racing heart.

- - -

nine and ten. summer.

Sweat trickles down her back down a familiar path created over the last hour. Hair pulled back in a high bun, the bangs that usually frame her face are plastered to her forehead as perspiration drips from her hairline. It pours from her in areas she didn’t know it could come from. Her breathing is hard and she feels uncomfortably hot in her disguised clothing.

The heat, she figures, is a combination of the unbearable humid summer night that waits outside the walls of the blacksmith’s shop and the roaring fire in the back of the room.

“Again!” Killian yells out to her, bringing his body into a starting fighting stance. He’s moved aside the tables he works at during the day and created a small area in the middle of the blacksmith’s shop for them to spar.

After that fateful spring night, Emma hadn’t seen Killian for three years. Managing to get her father to agree on a joint royal visit to the village had taken weeks and, where her past self would have been overjoyed at the ability to go beyond the castle grounds, her mind only drifted to seeing Killian.

He, though, was not in the village that day, nor on the other nights she snuck from her tower room. Life picked up after that, royal engagements and duties begun to pile upon her shoulders with great weight and a part of her missed the solitude from Regina’s torment. Her ventures to the village that were numerous at the start trickled down to once every few months as Emma found herself sitting in appointments and teachings with her parents. It wasn’t until she let her guard down during another spring festival, watching from afar yet again, that he managed to sneak up behind her.

He’d been disappointed at the fact it was so easy to do once more, and merely rolled his eyes when she told him she’d been practicing.

Her tutors weren’t suitable for the kind of fighting and defense she needed, he preached. Her tutors were the best of the best, she cried back at him in exasperation, they were teaching her well. It was a stance she held until he asked her to spar and had her on her back in twenty seconds.

“Propriety of the fight has no place when someone wants to kill you,” Killian said at the time. “On the battlefield, soldiers are fighting soldiers. They will follow similar rules of war. But for you, Princess, they will fight to harm you, to murder you. There are no rules at that point.” She remembers how he swiftly danced out of her range, using the objects within the shop to his advantage until he fought her to the ground again. “Listening to your tutors will get you killed.”

“So teach me,” she challenged through gritted teeth from where she laid on her back. She still remembers the way he contemplated the idea before he accepted.

Three months later and she’s yet to win a fight against him.

Her feet turn her body in a smooth spin on the sand of the shop and their swords clang loudly in the otherwise silent night. The shutters are closed, for they both know they can’t risk someone peeking in and seeing the princess in a sword fight, so the fire provides their only light. It glows against his tan skin like a sunset and she blinks in rapid succession as she feels vibrations from her sword down to her elbow.

Boots shuffling on the floor, she desperately tries to overpower him or dislodge his weapon from her own, to no avail. It is only as she is managing to move his sword above her head that he pulls from her and she sighs, yelping just a moment later as he smacks the flat of the blade against her backside.

“Hey!” she calls out, hand instinctively reaching behind her to rub at the sting. “You truly are a pain in my ass, you understand that, right?”

He smirks. “It is my duty as your friend to keep you humble under the weight of that crown. We simply cannot have you getting too comfortable.”

Emma shakes her head to hide her grin at his words. Friend. She doesn’t think she’s had one of those before. Most of the people she associates with have a large age difference between them and what interests her doesn’t typically interest them. She’s interacted with other royals her age but most of the encounters were awkward and stifling.

With Killian, things are easy. Awkward moments are few and far between, and he doesn’t tiptoe around her feelings. He is honest, if a bit too blunt, and open about what he thinks. There is no stuffy protocol or ‘Yes, Princess,’ ‘Of course, Princess,’ with him. In fact, she swears that he gets more enjoyment out of denying her almost anything she requests. So confident in that idea, she’d bet her crown on it.

Her arms feel heavy as she lifts them to her starting stance once more, without Killian needing to ask. “I’m ready,” she says through her labored breathing.

“Think you can handle it, Princess?” he taunts, that infuriating smirk glowing on his face.

“Please,” she scoffs, “you’re the one who can’t handle it.” She adjusts her weight and nods to him. “Let’s go.”

Their swords clash again, the ringing of metal meeting metal echoing in the blacksmith’s shop. While Emma is soaked in her own perspiration, she can only spot a few lines of sweat trailing down the side of his neck and small beads along his hairline. There’s a sluggishness to his moves, an effect of the two hours of training they’ve exhausted themselves with tonight, but her moves are far worse. She feels the delay in her response and the way she doesn’t see his sword come towards her.

She belated raises her own to stop him and the rattling is enough to spring the sword from her grip. Killian attempts to stop the unexpected downswing of his sword from the loss of hers, but it isn’t enough. The tip of his blade swipes across her open palm and blood immediately comes to the surface.

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

Emma merely stares at her hand in shock, the stinging sensation faint noise in the back of her mind.

She doesn’t remember the last time she bled this much from an injury. Perhaps it was when she was six and she fell from the tree in the palace gardens, stockings stained red. Maybe it was when she was eight and poked herself with a quill. It could have been from the split lip she got when she was eleven while fighting a stable boy when he wouldn’t leave a maid alone. One thing she is certain of is that most cuts and bruises healed incredibly fast once her full powers came in at twelve.

Cuts barely bled and what should have been black and blue bruises remained a light pink.

In the time since Regina, she’s barely had any instances to result in such an injury. The sight is mesmerizing, even if its implications are terrifying, and she barely registers the way Killian stands in front of her, readying a bandage, until a harsh and sudden sting, not from the initial sword swipe, causes a hiss to snake through her clenched teeth.

"What the hell is that?!” she whispers hotly as the liquid from his flask runs over her cut. She tries to pull her hand away but he won’t let her. All she succeeds with is getting pulled closer to him.

“Rum,” he mutters, eyeing the cut. “A bloody waste of it, too.”

The response that sits on her tongue never makes it past her lips as she watches the way Killian wraps a cloth around the palm of her hand, concentration on her injury. When he finishes, he holds the cloth in place with one hand, grabs an end of the material with his other hand and grabs the other end of the cloth with his teeth. He pulls, gently but enough to tighten the makeshift bandage around her hand.

She’s positively captivated by the way he looks so tempting in the glow of the fireplace. Scruff is finally coming in thick sections across his jaw, teeth a perfectly white shine that could make the stars jealous. And his eyes… Perhaps it is the firelight that makes it so, or it is the way he looks up at her from beneath his eyelashes with the end of the cloth between his teeth, but Emma’s never seen a sight so alluring.

“Now,” he says, voice low. Her head tilts closer to his, afraid to lose his words to the deafening silence of the night. “Hopefully those damned tutors gave you some proper first-aid lessons. Nothing like the sad excuses for combat training they’ve given you.”

“My mom taught me first-aid,” she whispers back. She takes pleasure from the way he looks up at her in surprise and slight embarrassment.

“Then you were in good hands, indeed.”

“Not as good as these ones, though, I suppose.”

Her breath hitches in her throat as she registers what she’s said. Wide green eyes stare at his ocean blue ones, the flirty tone of her words sinking in for them both. She swallows hard at nearly the same time he does and her heartbeat quickens under his attention.

“Is that so, Swan?”

She licks her lips, suddenly dry in the heat of the night, and feels her body grow hot as his eyes follow the movement of her tongue. Panic rises within her as she becomes keenly aware of her inexperience.

It doesn’t come due to thinking he’d judge her for it. No, she worries she could do something wrong or embarrass herself further and she cannot have that. Her ego can only take so many hits in a single night, most of which already occurred in their impromptu sparring circle.

Words come from her throat in response though she barely thinks before she speaks.

“Are you ever going to tell me where you were for the last three years?” she asks in a hurry. “You were here and then you disappeared.”

He clears his throat at that, drops her hand, and steps back. She feels cold without him near but there’s a comfort in the fact that static still dances in the air between them. The heat has gone from searing to simmering though she knows that it can turn up again with a single look. It’s happened to them in the past when their sparring has gotten them particularly close or in damning positions.

The answer rests on the tip of his tongue yet he remains hesitant to say it. He struts to the fire on the far side of the room and rests one arm above it, leaning towards the heat. Only when she opens her mouth to prompt him again does he speak.

“I’ve been in training at the naval academy,” he says. She suddenly feels like she cannot breathe, for a different reason entirely. “I was promoted to Lieutenant and assigned to my brother’s ship eight months ago and we’ve been away on a mission until this spring.”

“W-Why?” she stutters.

“That’s need-to-know infor –”

“Cut the bullshit, Killian,” Emma says. She feels anger rising in her chest and stares at him from her spot in the shop, hands clenching and unclenching while her breath quickens. “Why’d you join?”

“Why shouldn’t I have?”

“You could get killed, for starters!”

How could he value his life so little that he’d thrown himself into danger? He made a name for himself, if the villagers were to be believed, as the blacksmith’s apprentice and could have easier taken over so the old man could take a step back. If he didn’t want to do that, Emma would’ve found a place to put his skills to use within the castle.

His eyes shoot up to meet hers in a quick fury, the flames dancing beside him in a matching rage. The clench of his jaw is the only other sign she gets that he’s trying to keep his temper in check. “There are still rebel groups scattered throughout the Enchanted Forest who are loyal to Regina and –”

She glares, face hardening. “And what? You’re going to eliminate the few scattered remnants singlehandedly with your superior swordsmanship?”

Killian takes a step closer, leaving a large gap between them still, and curls his fingers into a tight fist. “Few scattered remnants,” he mocks, voice pinching up as he does so. He shakes his head. “Regina reigned for over two decades, and she tried to kill you for nearly all your life! Nearly forty years of hatred doesn’t disappear in a few years, love. Don’t be naive.”

Tears burn at the back of her eyes but she refuses to let them gather and fall. “Don’t patronize me,” she grits out.

“You need to understand what’s really going on out there. This isn’t a game; it’s not sneaking out to play with swords. Real people are putting their lives on the line for you and your family.”

Indignation keeps her tears from falling. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then start acting like you do!” he cuts to her, temper rising and anger barely under control. “Regina may not be here but the threat is still real!”

“But why did you have to join when we have armies already doing this work!”

“Why is it such an issue for you now? You haven’t cared about it in the past. This is something that’s always been done for the crown.”

“Of course I’ve cared!”

“Not like this.”

“Because none of them were you!”

The dead silence of the night invades the shop. Blood pounds in her ears as they stare each other down and she can see the way his chest heaves the same way hers does from their heavy breaths. The string connecting them is pulled taunt until Emma feels a shock travels across it, the two of them immediately jumping into action and marching towards each other.

Their mouths meet in a messy kiss, all clanging teeth, bruised lips, and fighting tongues. Her sword clatters to the ground around the same time his fingers thread through her hair. She completely surrenders herself to him and feels her body melt in his hold, his arm around her waist being the only thing holding her up. Her skin tingles under his attentions, a full-body shiver shaking her spine when his mouth descends onto her neck.

It reminds her of when she had magic.

The humid night air outside is nothing compared to what is boiling within the blacksmith’s shop.

She swears that when their passion cools from its rush and they exchange a short, soft kiss, the softest of the night, a spark of magic emits from her fingertips. The tingling sensation beneath her skin paired with the overwhelming warmth is the exact feeling she’d get right before performing magic. But Killian doesn’t yelp or flinch or react at all to anything other than their kiss.

Must have been a trick of her imagination.

Later, as they almost finish readying to leave for Emma needs to return back to the castle before the quickly approaching daylight beats her to it, he says, hesitantly, “This cannot happen again, love.” Her head shoots up from tying her cloak around her neck and he quickly amends his wording. “I – I don’t regret a moment. Trust me,” he adds with a grin that has her blushing. “But… this is not feasible. We cannot, Princess.”

It's a proclamation and a resignation in one. A reminder, too, of what exactly their roles are in the social hierarchy.

“My father was a shepherd,” she points out.

“Who was able to masquerade as a king before marrying your mother.” He raises an eyebrow at her and she’s never hated it so much before. Despite their two years age difference, the way he looks at her now makes her feel like a child and he the responsible adult.

As much as it was brought up in their past meetings, especially their first, the realization of their different lives and expectations never sunk in until then. While not outright forbidden, their friendship is taboo. At least to the eyes of the kingdom.

He is right that her father took on the role of prince from his deceased twin brother and no one was the wiser. The truth trickled out from the very start and once her parents took the throne back from Regina, it became Misthaven’s worst kept secret. In truth, half of their people believe it to be just a story, a little detail added to romantic love story of Snow White and Prince Charming to make it grander, more epic, truer.

Funnily enough, the people also seem to forget that nearly all of the council are regular folks just like themselves, Blue being the exception. Red, the dwarves, Geppetto – they were all just regular people who helped her mother when she had no kingdom, no throne, no knights. They continued to help her parents when they needed it, no expectation of being rewarded.

But things were different now. The kingdom had lived in fear and uncertainty for Regina’s return for sixteen years and only now is gaining a sense of security again after all the turmoil.

She knows what her people expect of her – to marry a man of noble standing from a foreign kingdom to help strengthen Misthaven’s armies, grow relations with allies, expand borders, and produce an heir. It is an expectation of any heir in order to help their kingdom thrive. While Killian doesn’t look at her like that’s what he sees in her future, it’s clear he anticipates it as a way of life and refuses to get his own hopes up. He’s lived in other kingdoms before he and his brother settled in hers; he’s seen the expectations and routine of royalty elsewhere. All he has to go off of is his own knowledge.

Emma isn’t sure what makes her say it but she finishes knotting her cloak and lets her words land heavily in the silent room.

“My parents want me to marry for love, no matter who it is or what they can or cannot provide for the kingdom.” She chances a glance up at him. “They know the sacrifice that comes with the crown, the sacrifices they have made over and over again through the years, and this is one that they will not have me make.”

Killian gulps and stares at her.

Clearing her throat, Emma nods her head at him. “You going to escort me back to the castle or am I roughing it alone?”

He shakes his head and gives her a wry smile. “At your service, Princess.”

She catches what he doesn’t say, what he means both in front of and behind the veil of his words. She waits until his face is turned away from hers, focused on lacing his boots, and asks, “When do you ship out?”

His fingers still their movements before resuming the action like she never spoke. “One week’s time.”

“Oh.”

The last three years without him were fine. She stopped looking for his dark hair around every corner in the village after the first month and she didn’t dare ask any of the townspeople about him directly, lest word get around that the young princess had a crush on the blacksmith’s apprentice. She even stopped coming up with excuses to drop in on her father’s meetings with the blacksmith himself, Atticus Brown, when they discussed new armory for their soldiers. He quickly faded to a thought that crossed her mind only once in a blue moon.

Then she spotted him in the market three months ago and their eyes connected like they were drawn to each other. She snuck out that night in hopes that he would find her again and walk her back to the castle. His ability to come up on her without recognition or fast enough retaliation led to her baiting him into teaching her how to truly fight – how to fight for one’s life.

And now it is at its to end and she’s not sure how she’ll make it through this absence. They’ve become friends now, albeit friends that, as of minutes ago, do more than friends normally do, but friends nonetheless. His presence has become a constant in her life and she can already feel the aching void he will leave on shore.

She sucks in a breath, unsure if she wants to actually know the answer, and quietly asks, “What’s going on out there?”

Killian scratches behind his ear as he diverts his attention back to the fire momentarily. He doesn’t want to let her in on the dark dealings he has faced, that much is clear to her, but she cannot be left unaware any longer.

Her inexperience is no excuse. She’s going to be a queen one day – she needs to be in tune with her people, their wants and needs, their worries and fears. Counselors and her parents can only keep her in the dark for so long. To succeed when she takes the throne, she cannot be left floundering for information because they’d been too scared or nervous to give it to her.

“The dissenters are getting desperate but it also makes them crafty. They’re taking on guerilla war tactics and picking off troops slowly until they are all gone. Right now they’re focusing on military camps and ships.”

“But…” she starts, eyeing him considerably. “You’re worried they’re going to go after merchants and civilians next, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, waving one hand away before it rubs at his mouth, his other resting on his hip. “I… I think I am the only one worried of such a thing but I know these types of people and there is only so long they can be held at bay with just this. They’ll keep pushing until they succeed, no matter the cost.”

“Shit.”

Killian’s sudden, booming laugh startles them both and Emma can’t help but fall into a fit of giggles. She quickly slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound but the moment she thinks it’s passed, a suppressed giggle leaves her shoulders shaking. Killian laughs quietly with her but he holds a soft look in his eyes, one that she can’t decipher the meaning of but she knows is the same as the look she gives him.

When they’ve finally calmed down a few minutes later, they both confirm they have what they need and begin their departure. Or, so she thought they would.

“Wait,” Killian starts. She turns away from the door and to him, words teetering on the tip of his tongue. He settles on just two. “Take this.” He extends his arm and Emma gasps.

“You’re not serious,” she whispers as she admires the handle of the blade she’s been using for the last few months. It’s one she recognizes, one that he’d been working on for his personal collection for the first month after they reconnected as he waited for her to come for their training sessions. She’s watched him a few times when he asked for a few extra minutes before they began and the proud smile once it was finished, his insistence that she try it out. It quick became her favorite and she repeatedly selected it to use in training.

The way Killian works with the weapons and metals in the blacksmith’s shop is how she imagines some people might admire her magic, had she still had any ability to use it. He works with an ease that makes his efforts look simple and he manipulates the heated metals in a way that leaves her speechless. On more than one occasion, her mouth has gone dry as she witnessed his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and sweat glistening on his skin.

In a way, it’s a shame that Killian’s joined their navy. He is a fine blacksmith and would have been an incredible successor to Atticus when he retires soon. None of the apprentices that he’s taken on since Killian’s left have been inspiring. But she knows, from her gut, that he’s an asset they cannot afford to lose in the navy. He’s on the fast track to captain, she’s sure.

Killian gives her a scabbard with a leather belt to sit around her waist. She struggles to get the sword in it at first, the angle awkward and the action unfamiliar.

“Here,” Killian says as he comes up behind her. Emma sucks in a breath and delights in the shiver that crawls down her back as he presses against it and takes hold of the wrist clutching her new sword. “Focus, love,” he teases. His lips brush against her neck as he speaks, deliberately so, and Emma whines. All talk of the fact they cannot have a repeat of earlier tonight is out of her mind until Killian clears his throat.

Words fill the air but she hears none of it. Instead, she concentrates on the feel of his skin against hers, the way his chest vibrates against her back as he talks, the smell of ash, sea water, and wood wax. She collects what little tidbits she can, even as he helps her practice sheathing her sword. For all she knows, this may be the last she has of it. Of him.

The thought brings tears to her eyes and she blinks them away, glad they are gone by the time she turns around to face him. “Ready, sailor?”

He grins and her heart flutters and its then that she realizes she’s in deep shit. “Aye.”

The inevitable freakout that comes from her startling realization is shelved until she’s alone in her room, away in her solitude. For now, she enjoys their walk back to her secret exit. They’ve done the route enough that they could make the trip with their eyes closed while walking backwards, but Killian remains vigilant and continuously scans the area for anything out of the ordinary.

The dawn’s early light is breaking over the hill beside the castle and Emma knows they only have precious few moments left. With that in mind, she breaks their comfortable silence.

“How did you recognize me? That first time?”

“You’re hard to miss. Like I said,” he teases, a grin tempting the corners of his mouth. “A swan amongst ducks.”

She gives him a wry grin. “That’s not an answer. Only a handful of people knew what I looked like then.”

Killian swallows audibly at being caught, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. They’ve moved close enough that she can feel the tensing of his knuckles against her own and a part of her longs to reach out and tangle their fingers together again. A blush works its way up her neck, warmth making her feel hotter than the humid air already has, as she thinks back to the first and last time they held hands earlier that night.

In all honesty, she didn’t know what she was going to say when she opened her mouth. Their first meeting certainly hadn’t been on her mind. But now that the question hangs over their heads, she has to know.

“I was there,” he says. Taking a deep breath, he focuses on his rings, fingers fiddling with the metal he probably crafted in the very shop they left. “That day, when you killed Regina.”

Her heart races. Blood pounds in her ears. The adrenaline rush she gets now is different from what she’s experienced before in his presence.

No.

No, this is panic. Fear. Anxiety. No one is supposed to know it was her doing that killed Regina. She can count on her fingers how many people do know, simply because it was unavoidable. So she does what she does best and hides her heart in a concrete vault, walls scaling higher than the castle tower they’re approaching.

She remembers the way her mother flinched back when the magic burst from her palms. How her father got caught in the crossfire and nearly died when her magic shot him across the room. What happened to Regina wasn’t what she intended. All she wanted was to stop her, protect her family from being hurt by her again.

Despite years of teaching and training, Emma’s magic was more powerful than anyone had seen in the realms before. The only one who came close to what she was capable of was the Dark One and he’d gone into hiding nearly two decades ago. With her incredible power came an incredible lack of control, no matter what she did or what Blue tried to teach her.

Little things she could do. Small spells that magical beings learn when they’re young. It was the stronger spells, the ones that required her to tap into more of her power, that gave her issue. The more power she needed, the less control she had. Her mind couldn’t find a focus, a singular thought, a strong enough pull to keep her centered.

She doesn’t remember much of the night Regina broke the magical barriers to the castle and attempted to murder her and her father in front of her mother. Attempts to recall the way in which Regina stole her from her bed and brought her to the highest tower of the castle result in a blank. How her and her father broke free of Regina’s magical holds is an unknown to her, one that her parents refuse to tell her.

But Regina’s murder – the way her own magic made her a monster… that she cannot forget.

The smell is what always comes to mind first. Burning flesh holds a rancid smell unlike any she’s experienced and incites her gag reflex. The sound is next. Regina’s gurgles as her blood boiled beneath her skin and her organs melted within her body makes Emma want to sob until she is dried of all her tears. Last is the vision. The sight of Regina crumpling in pain as Emma’s magic destroyed her body from the inside out, of the once evil queen begging and pleading for mercy while Emma’s magic wouldn’t let up.

For decades, her parents showed Regina mercy. They gave her chance after chance to prove herself, never wanting to sink to her level. And Emma ruined that in a single night, providing one of the most gruesome deaths in Misthaven’s history.

Emma avoids his gaze, eyes fixed on that very tower before them as she feels her good mood dissipate.

“If what you’re saying is true, shouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

Her tone doesn’t reach the joking lilt she is aiming for so she nervously laughs to cover it. Killian’s small glare at the side of her head tells her she is doing a miserable job.

“What was it you said before, Swan? Bullshit?”

A warning tone takes hold of her voice as she says, “Killian…”

“No one else knows,” he prefaces. “I didn’t tell a soul, I promise.” She turns and holds his gaze for a few moments and he lets her, completely unguarded and honest like he always is. A few of her newly constructed bricks fall. He waits for her nod before he continues.

“I had just finished a meeting with your father, Graham, and Atticus regarding upgraded protections for the troops. Graham and Atticus left a few minutes prior and your father offered to help me gather the materials we brought. One moment he was handing me a chest plate and the next, he disappeared in a cloud of purple and gray smoke. I knew something had happened, something bad, so I went looking.”

“Why didn’t you tell any guards?”

“There were none.” Killian eyes her curiously. “How much do you remember from that night?”

“Only what I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

She remembers the aftermath even less. The incredible use of her magic left her asleep in bed for nearly three months as her body attempted to recover from the amount of power drawn that night. Physically, it helped her. Magically, however, is another story.

He stops her then, just outside of the wall on the hill that she uses for her escape. The jovial atmosphere that has come and gone throughout the night has completely disappeared. Killian’s hand gently gripping her elbow sears her skin, imprinting itself there forever, she hopes, and she is left stunned by the gravity of his gaze.

“Regina very nearly killed your entire family that night, love.”

The breath Emma sucks in is swift and sharp. A physical pain hits her chest at the thought.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever found out how she got through but when she did, she killed nearly the entire guard. The entire eastern side of the castle was decimated. By the time I made it to the tower where she took you and your family, she was holding your father’s heart in her hands and had a poisoned arrow held mid-flight, pointed straight for your heart.”

No matter how hard she tries, her mind cannot formulate the images he describes. It does bring to the forefront of her mind her mother’s screams as the events unfolded. She hears the echoes of her pleas for Regina to not do this. She feels the rattling in her chest from her mother’s earth-shaking sobs. The agony and helplessness that gripped her mother runs through her blood again and she feels the hot tingle of her magic beneath her skin despite nothing coming to the surface.

“So then you must have seen what I did to her,” Emma says. She meets his gaze head on, eyes welling with tears, and steadies her chin so it doesn’t tremble. “My magic made me a monster.”

“Your magic made you a hero.”

“I killed her. Slowly. Torturously. I listened to her beg for her life and I didn’t even feel sorry. That’s what a monster is.”

“I’m sorry, I must have missed the part where you did all of this as a grab for power or to quench your own bloodlust,” he shoot back at her, eyes narrow and frown etched upon his features.

“I went to her level, Killian.”

“Bollocks, Emma. Complete and utter bollocks.” Killian shakes his head as he begins a short pace back and forth, glancing at her every few steps. “I’ve heard a lot of asinine things in my life but never from you, until now.”

She takes a step back, hurt clear on her face. “What the hell!?”

“No,” Killian starts, shaking his head again before he approaches her, voice cut low so not even the early morning crickets can hear him over their musical sounds. “You are not a monster. Your magic does not make you a monster. It’s a part of you, Emma. A strong, beautiful part of you that comes from love.”

“But –”

“But nothing. Regina used magic through anger and bitterness to get revenge and hurt people. You used magic to protect the people you love. That makes all the difference. You are not the same as her. You never could be.” Any retort she has dies on her lips as his hands come up to cup her face. Their noses brush but their gazes remain locked. “I know the outcome of that night hurts you, but that’s because your heart is good. Your magic isn’t something to be ashamed of. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

She swallows hard. Her eyes flutter closed as she inhales shakily, her words a quieter whisper than even his. So quiet she’s surprised he hears her at all.

“My magic’s been waning since then,” she confesses. “I don’t know what’s happened, but I struggle to tap into it and whenever I do, it’s like there’s barely anything scraping the bottom of the well. I – I don’t think I have any left.”

“Emma…” Killian’s quiet, comforting voice is drowned out by the calling of her name from the tower beside them. The two of them break apart in a hurry, eyes darting up to see if they’ve been spotted but all that greets them is the billowing of her curtains.

“I need to go,” she says regretfully. She hoped they’d have more time for a proper goodbye. Her parents and her are travelling to the opposite coast to spend two weeks touring some of the villages and she won’t be able to see him off.

“Have your sword?” Killian asks. Emma pats her side where it sits in the scabbard. “Your dagger?”

“In my boot,” she answers, raising one heel to tap the side of her boot where the dagger he gave her years ago sits sheathed in its hiding place.

Killian surges forward, pulling her into a hug and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. “Be safe, Swan. Promise me.”

She clutches him as tight to her as possible, closing her eyes as she takes stock of him one last time. “Only if you do too.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, love. I’m a survivor.” She huffs out a laugh at that and shakes her head. A second call of her voice from the tower has her pulling away and whispering a final goodbye.

She feels his eyes on her back the entire time she climbs up the side and she bets he’d clamber over the side wall in an instant if she were to start falling. Not that she wants to test that theory. One of her legs swings over her windowsill and she takes the moment to look back at his waiting form at the tree line. She waves and her heart soars at his wave in return. Always watching, waiting, protecting.

Emma swings her other leg over the sill, coming to a stand in her room in a daze, soft smile on her face.

“You know,” her mother’s voice rings out from Emma’s bed. Snow smirks in delight and amusement as she watches Emma’s eyes widen and face pale. “Of all the times I snuck out of here growing up, I was never caught.”

---

three and twenty. fall.

Atticus Brown dies by the time Emma turns 22.

His blacksmith shop in town lays vacant for the first few months following his death until Emma starts holding workshops with potential apprentices from visiting blacksmiths of allied nations. It makes her feel closer to Killian in his absence while also serving the purpose of scouting a new royal blacksmith. They’re getting by, at the moment, but stores are waning and there’s only so much their allies can offer up without putting themselves at a disadvantage.

The answer comes in a blacksmith from a land Emma’s never heard of before.

A recommendation from Atticus in his dying breath of a man who responds to a letter with a royal seal in only three months’ time. Isaac Heller.

She heard the name in passing before. He’d been one of Atticus’ apprentices before moving away when he was her age. The man never kept up letter writing with Atticus despite the numerous ones he sent Isaac’s way, and that alone left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Then there is the slimy way that Isaac finagles his way into every conversation he hears. It’s like a habit of his, or even a curse. She can spot across a room the way his ears perk up, his back straightens, and his face instantly brightens in faux interest as he inserts his way in.

“I don’t like him,” Emma tells her parents one day once she’s positive Isaac has left castle grounds. “There’s something about him…”

“Is this because of your gut or because he’s not Killian?”

Emma’s cheeks burn at her mother’s mention of Killian while her father’s head shoots up in alarm.

“Killian? Killian Jones? Why would Emma be concerned Isaac’s not Killian?”

“Now is not the time, David.” Snow turns her attention to Emma as David glances between his wife and daughter in horror. “So, which is it?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “My gut says don’t trust him. He has a hidden agenda.”

Snow nods her head. “Your father and I agree. We’re not letting him in on any military plans, but unfortunately he’s all we have for the time being.”

“None of the apprentices from the workshops can do it?”

David rounds the table, coming to stand beside Snow. “They don’t have enough training and aren’t able to do what we need to. With anyone else, we’d have them continue a regular apprenticeship under our blacksmith.”

“But with Isaac being our only option right now, we want as little of his influence anywhere as possible,” Snow finishes.

She sighs, nodding her head in understanding. There had been a time, about a year or so ago, when one of their ships called Jewel of the Realm were making great headway on Regina’s loyal supporters. Apparently the captain and his lieutenant were battlefield masterminds on the water as well as the few times they took their crew to fight on land too.

Then a few months ago, deep in the Enchanted Forest away from any nearby villages, Snow’s birds started bringing her items to indicate a new, growing resistance in the name of Regina. They’ve all come to the conclusion that they found themselves a new leader to organize them into action, gaining numbers by the day.

“Can we get back to Killian and Emma?” David questions after a moment of silence.

“Nope,” Emma says, backing up with her hands in the air. “No way. I am out of here.”

The next time she sees Killian, she’s halfway through her third year in her twenties and it’s at a ball held in his honor. Sort of.

As a way to keep morale high amongst their troops as well as show their appreciation for all their sacrifices, her parents hold a ball to honor their servicemen who have been promoted. Liam attended a ball three years ago when he became captain and Emma faked sick, worried on the off-chance he’d remember her as the servant girl from that one night years ago. It was a risk she couldn’t take so she begged off and stayed in bed for the night. Sneaking out had been out of the question as the castle had been crawling with military officials. Now that she’s become more of a public figure, there were too many chances she could be noticed.

In all honesty, she considered contracting the same fake illness the night of this ball as well until her mother came into her room holding a beautiful red gown and a teasing smile on her face.

“I think Killian will be left speechless to see you in this.”

“That’d be a first,” Emma mutters to herself as fingers the silky material of the dress. It’s soft and smooth against her fingers, sliding off her skin like water. The red is a particularly eye-catching color, familiar too. Almost the same color as the vest Killian wore as an apprentice blacksmith.

Wait.

“What do you mean ‘Killian’?”

Snow grins, barely contained joy hidden beneath it. “Yes, I must have forgotten to mention it to you. Both Killian and Liam have been promoted for their efforts on the Jewel of the Realm and we’ll be honoring them tonight.”

The rush of blood through her system drowns out anything else her mother might have said and blocks her from noticing the servants who’ve come in to help her prepare. Emma moves with them out of habit rather than any real thought, her mind anywhere but in her room.

Killian and Liam were the ones on the Jewel, conquering both sea and land. Not that that should surprise Emma. Killian’s always been incredibly intelligent and strategic in the time she’s known him. He works hard to stay one step ahead of his enemy and it had clearly been paying off. Still, her heart lurches when she recalls how many close scrapes the Jewel has been through over the last few years.

Her mind races over the possible scenarios in which they see each other again for the first time in years. Would she trip? Would he still be excited to see her? Would this be another time that evil descends upon their castle and ruins everything?

Her palms are sweaty by the time she sits besides her parents on their thrones in the ballroom. She fiddles with her fingers constantly as allied dignitaries greet them and she half expects her mother to slap her hands away as if she were a child. Once the ball officially starts, Emma is immediately surrendered to the dance floor. She spends over two hours dancing with nearly every military officer there and considers her plan to contract a fake illness once again. Clearly Killian isn’t here tonight, nor is his brother. Her mother simply played a cruel joke to get her to join them at the ball.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Killian speaks from behind her, a gasp of surprise leaving her lips before she turns around. “You know,” he starts in a low voice. “You must have done something bad for your parents to torture you with these dances. I don’t think I’ve seen your toes stepped on so much.”

Emma huffs, barely able to keep the laughter out of her voice though she suspects her glee at his appearance is as obvious as his own. “Are you saying you won’t be one to step on my toes?”

“There’s only one rule, Swan,” he starts, coming closer and wrapping one arm around her waist as he grabs her hand with his free one. “Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

Music starts and the rest of the ballroom fades away as they let the music move them. Their eyes immediately lock onto each other and Emma can’t help the upwards twitch of her lips. “Who taught you to dance?”

“Liam, believe it or not,” he confesses, his shoulders hunching up for a moment before he settles them down for the dance. “He said I’d need to know how to dance if I ever wanted to impress a princess.”

“Oh, just any old princess?”

“Aye. Your lot are a dime a dozen, love.” She only lets enough of a laugh escape for him to notice, their eyes twinkling as they bask in the moment alone together. “But are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Impressed?”

He passes his inquiry off as a joke but the earnest pinch of his eyebrows give him away. Anyone else could have looked at him and missed it but they know each other like their favorite books. So she smiles, the hand on his shoulder sliding over to the back of his neck and starting to play with the hair that rests at his collar.

“Eh,” she starts. He huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes until she whispers his name softly. “You’ve always impressed me.”

He swallows hard, the action audible to her in their close proximity. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers.

“I missed you too.” She blinks quickly and offers a reassuring smile at his concerned expression. His hand that had tightened against her back relaxes as they continue to move without thought. “Even if you are constantly putting yourselves in danger.”

“Anything to keep you safe,” he says even quieter than the last.

“When do you ship out again?”

“Not for a few weeks.” She tries her best to keep up her smile for him but it wobbles. It seems like she is only destined to get him for blips of time, never granted more than that. “But it seems that, as her new captain, the king and queen have requested that Misthaven’s capital be the Jewel’s homeport.”

Emma pulls back just enough to get a full look at his face, her eyes roaming over every inch to see if there’s any hint of a joke there. Not that he’d joke about that but she couldn’t let herself accept it until she knew it was completely true. The hopeful grin he gives her and the small nod he adds has a wide smile breaking onto her face.

“Really?” she asks in disbelief. His homeport is now the capital. She could keep an eye on the Jewel from her bedroom window.

“Aye.” His eyes finally broke free of hers as he glanced over her shoulder towards where the thrones sat on a dais. “Had a personal visit from Her Majesty to let me know the news.”

“Wait, seriously?” Killian nods again and Emma doesn’t hold back her laugh this time. There is no bigger meddler in the realm than her mother. Her father comes as a close second but her mother’s brilliant plans and determination keep her in the top spot.

It’ll be easier on her heart to have him so close, she decides in that moment. She knows Killian has no intention of courting her, regardless of what she thinks his feelings are. He’s grown up accustomed to the fact that princesses don’t marry commoners, even military officials. Nothing she says will convince him of it otherwise and part of her wants to hate him for denying them a happiness they most likely won’t find with anyone else. At least not in this way. But she understands too.

Her duties, her role as princess to her people, heir to the throne, must come first, same as his duties to the crown. Just like her, he acts in what he thinks is in the best interest of Misthaven. But her parents refuse to allow her to sacrifice love just to keep their kingdom. She knows that if she were to abdicate the throne for any reason, especially love, they’d understand and support her.

Killian would never forgive himself if she abdicated for him though, not that she ever thought of actually doing it. Since birth, Misthaven’s well-being has been her top priority. She loves her kingdom and her people and she wants them to thrive. She never thought she’d give it up for anything. But if it came to a choice, her kingdom or her… Killian, Misthaven stands no chance.

They may never be what she wants them to be, and she’s accepted that. At the very least, she will be able to keep him in her life, close to her heart even if he won’t accept her offering of it.

But their connection will not break. It’s too strong, taunt with tension that reinforces its binding, to ever break. She knows it will continue to tempt them and she knows they’ll fall for it every time. She’ll take what she can get, she decides. From the looks he gives her as they dance, she assumes the same to be true for him.

A respite among duties.

It’s not until they hear roaring applause that they stop dancing. The musicians who have been performing throughout the night are taking their bow and her parents are offering their thanks for their services. Heat seeps into her cheeks as she realizes she spent four songs dancing with Killian, none the wiser.

A flush dances on Killian’s neck beneath his collar as he clears his throat. “Liam will be disappointed.”

“Why?”

“He hoped to dance with you tonight,” Killian says, embarrassed. “He believes you were masquerading as a servant girl a few years ago and wanted confirmation on if he was right.”

Emma smirks. “Me? Pretending to be a servant girl? Why would I ever do that?”

He chuckles quietly, looking around the room as he licks his lips. Satisfied that the coast is clear, he leans down and whispers, “Meet me tonight?”

She nods before he can even pull away and they share a smile before Killian disappears into the night.

He wants measurements. At least, that’s how their visit starts. His hands trailed over her, his touch sending a burning sensation through the cloth of her riding blouse down to her skin.

“Bloody hell, love,” he grumbles. “Stay still.”

“I can’t,” she whines, hip lifting and her hand slapping his away. “I’m ticklish.”

“I’m never going to get this done if you don’t stop moving.”

“What is this even for?”

“Come on, Swan. It’s not a present if I tell you beforehand.”

“What? You gonna sew me a dress?”

“As much as I’d love to see you cut quite the figure in a few more dresses like earlier tonight,” he begins, a heated look making its way towards her before he attempts to get a measurement of her hips again. “I was a blacksmith’s apprentice, love, not a seamstress’.”

Her breath is lofty as she watches his deft fingers move across her then pencil notes on the parchment beside her body. “Is that what you prefer?”

“Hm?” he asks, distracted.

She licks her lips, watching as the fringe of his black hair falls into his eyes as he writes. She just barely keeps her hands gripping the table’s edge to not push it out of the way. No, she wanted his reaction to her next statement.

“Me in dresses and corsets. Is that what you prefer?” she asks and his head shoots up to her in an instant, writing paused. “Or is there another state of dress or… undress… you prefer?”

It takes him all of a moment – the parchment and pencil swiped to the side to clear the table – before he reacts, coming into her space, cradling her head, and crashing his lips onto hers.

The measures wait until another night.

---

five and twenty. early winter.

Isaac Heller could, well, go to hell, for lack of a better phrase.

Killian and Liam’s conditions are partially his fault, after all.

The first time she sees Killian after Neverland, he’s hiding away in the blacksmith’s shop with a bottle of rum that’s nearing empty, bloodied bandages wrapped around his empty wrist. Dark circles have found a home beneath his eyes and his face is gaunt.

“You sent them where?!” Emma roars, turning on her father in anger.

“They know the risks and they accepted them.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to send them!”

“They’re the best equipped, Emma. Liam and Killian are the only ones I trust with this.”

“It’s Neverland!” she shouts back. Frustrated tears well in her eyes and no matter how much she tries to blink them away, they simply multiple.

She knows that the trip is necessary. Regina loyalists have poisoned all their weapons with dreamshade and that, topped with the poor quality of armor and weapons that Isaac is overseeing, Misthaven’s armies are being wiped off the map. The advantages that they’ve worked hard to take back, all the effort Killian has put in as the Jewel’s captain the last two years, are gone.

“We need a cure. With it, we still stand a chance,” David says. He approaches Emma slowly, cautiously. “They know dreamshade is dangerous. They know Pan might still be around. But this is a risk we have to take. We have one chance at this.”

Emma sniffles. “They know you’re just trying to get the cure, right? That you’re not like King George or Regina’s loyalists and going to use it as a weapons?”

“Of course they do.”

“And – and they’re together, right? You sent them together.”

“I wouldn’t have done it any other way.”

Emma nods her head, trying to reassure herself the best way she can. David sighs sadly and pulls Emma into his arms, cradling her head to his chest as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Liam won’t let anything happen to Killian. And Killian’s a survivor.”

“He better be,” Emma mumbles. “Or I’ll kill him.”

According to the reports of Smee, Killian’s first mate, the Jewel of the Realm landed in Neverland’s waters without issue. Mermaid seas were quiet and the pixies left the crew alone. Pan led them right to the dreamshade with no issue, though not without attempts at manipulation. It wasn’t until Liam plucked enough of the plant to bring back and Killian raised a torch to light the rest on fire that Pan raised issue.

Sending the Lost Boys after the Jewel’s crew was a cruel decision. They were just kids, Your Majesty, Smee stuttered in his explanation as he cradled his red hat to his chest. We didn’t know what to do. But they were savages too.

She’s not sure how he did it but Killian led the crew through the ambush with no casualties on their side. Injuries, plenty, but miraculously no casualties. Most of the injuries came from fractured armor, simple strikes breaking the metal protection and leaving the men vulnerable. The worst of it happened to Killian and Liam.

With the rest of their crew being overwhelmed by injuries from the armor’s lack of protection, the two of them took on most of the battle themselves. It came to an when they fought Pan side by side, according to Smee, and the boy who never grew up didn’t want to give up. He used his magic to play dirty tricks and took delight in making the brothers suffer. He sliced Killian’s left hand off with his own sword, broke Liam’s back with a sliding boulder as he checked on his younger brother.

Pan was only stopped from finishing the job by the call of a strange bird none of them could see. Possibly the only thing that frightened him as he flew from the area in an instant. The crew rounded up the remaining Lost Boys to put in the ship’s cells and brought Killian and Liam straight to the healers once returning to Misthaven.

I’m a survivor.

He’s alive, yes, that much Emma can see from the entrance of the blacksmith’s shop, but did he survive?

“Killian?” she asks quietly into the still air of the shop. His head jerks up at the sound of her voice and he immediately hides his left arm behind him. “Oh, Killian,” she whimpers, striding up to his side and pulling him into a hug.

A sob cracks against her shoulder and Emma feels Killian drop his weight onto her, his tears wetting through the fabric of her cloak. They stay in their embrace for longer than she cares to count. Her focus remains solely on him and his hurt, her heart aching through his pain.

“I can’t go back,” he whispers as his tears dry.

“You will never have to go anywhere you don’t want to,” she reassures him.

“No,” he says with more strength. He pulls away from her, wipes his sleeve along his nose and cheeks. “I can’t go back into service.”

Her brows furrow in confusion. “You’re an asset to our navy. You’ll always be wanted. You’re brilliant and –”

“No,” he says more forcefully. “I won’t go back into service.” He glares at his left arm and she knows that’s not really the issue. Misthaven will take him in whatever shape he’s in, if he wants it. But there’s a darkness to his gaze now and a self-hatred that hadn’t been there before Neverland. Rage curls around her chest as she wonders what horrors Pan must have twisted and made Killian believe.

“Killian, you don’t have to go back into service if you don’t want to. That’s fine. We –”

“I have to take care of my brother. He’s spent his life taking care of me so I must attempt the same for him.”

“I can hel–”

“Leave, Princess.”

Emma stares, dumbfounded at his abrupt change of tone.

“Now.”

He doesn’t look at her as he speaks, anger and disgust in his voice as tells her to go. She doesn’t know if it’s directed at her or not but it hurts, nonetheless. She turns and walks to the door in a fog, stopping briefly before she goes.

She turns her head only slightly, just enough that she can’t see him but her words will still carry his way. “Thank you for making it back,” she says and it isn’t until she closes the door behind her that she hears his agonizing cries.

It takes all of her willpower to not march right back inside and wrap him in her arms for the rest of the night. But there are some things he doesn’t need or want her for.

Instead, she throws her focus into the young apprentices that had continued to study under the visiting blacksmiths. The next time she enters the shop, there’s no sign that Killian had been there aside from some scoffed hay. It pains her to see how easily he leaves no trace of himself.

Isaac only continues to oversee a dwindling quality of the armor every day, claiming the old materials they used to use are inaccessible due to the enemy’s bases. Sneaking into the bases and stealing anything is a no-go as someone in the loyalists’ camp is using magic to protect them. He says there’s no other areas they could mine for it but her gut tells her that’s a lie and she sets to work trying to find something.

In the meantime, she continues to encourage the workshops as a royal ambassador and hopes that one of the students will get skilled enough in time to save them from a suddenly losing war.

The second time she sees Killian post-Neverland is at one of the workshops. He comes into the blacksmith’s shop with an apron on and a hook where his left hand used to be. He seems startled to see other people in there and Emma takes pity on him, grabbing his elbow and bringing him aside. As much as their last moments together hurt her, she hates to make him feel anything other than wanted.

“It’s a workshop to train potential apprentices,” she offers.

“Oh.” Killian’s eyes studied the pack of students, only a small number of four. “Why?”

Emma sighs, crossing her arms with a roll of her eyes. “We need to get rid of Isaac and… this is all we have right now.”

“You have me.”

She turns sharply at his words, eyes narrow and her breath caught in her throat.

“I – I know I mucked things up when you saw me last,” he says, raising his hand to scratch at his ear. “And I’m sorry. I never should have taken my turmoil out on you. It had nothing to do with you. I promise.” He stares, waiting for an acknowledgement and only when she nods does he continue. “I’m not returning to the navy; I need to take care of Liam as he heals. But I can help with the workshops. Get these kids trained and ready.”

“You’d trade your free time to help with the workshops?”

“Aye.” A single simple nod to accompany his one-word affirmation. She reaches over and grabs his wrist, squeezing gently.

“Thank you.”

“There are a few places near Segovia that should still have available mines for the materials. Granted, it’s been a few centuries, according to the records, but hopefully that means that the stores have come back.”

Emma watches as Killian pours over the map on the council table, her parents on one side of him and Liam in a wheeled chair on the other, Graham, Red, and Blue behind them. He doles out strategies like he’s on his ship captaining her off to battle and the rest of the room listens like loyal crew. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and she’s fascinated by the way the leather brace for his hook contrasts with the color of is skin, and how the new addition to his body only accentuates the rest of him.

That’s not even to mention how attractive she finds him waving the hook around as he talks, like he’s already accustomed to having it instead of his hand.

She knows he still struggles. That he’ll still poke himself and accidentally bleed or create rips in his shirts and trousers. But he works hard to figure out ways to treat it like his left hand. It helps him in the blacksmith’s shop, he told her once. He’s able to change the way he handles his work and it actually works better for him than two hands ever did. It also helps him more on the few times he went sailing, borrowing a boat from the docks to get Liam back on the water for an afternoon of fishing.

His proud smile and the twinkle that’s starting to come back to life in his eyes only makes her grin.

God, she loves every part of him.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, little brother,” Liam starts, sharing a teasing look with Emma as Killian mumbles a correction under his breath. “But this route skirts their main camp. It runs the highest risk of discovery.”

“Aye,” Killian heaves with a heavy sigh. “It’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

“No.”

All eyes turn to Emma before she even registers that it was her who shot out a clear rejection of his plan.

“It’s a good plan, Emma,” Snow says gently. “It’s also the only hope we’ve got.”

“That’s why I’m going,” she replies. Her statement gets a round of denials and outrage from everyone but Killian, who stares her down. His hand and hook press hard into the table and she’s sure she’s the only one to notice the tear he put in the map.

“I’m going and you’re not, end of story,” Killian finally interjects.

“Absolutely not,” she fights back.

“Give me a good reason.”

“Oh, you just want one? Because I have several.”

“Go ahead, list them. I’m all ears, love.”

“Fine,” she scoffs. “My parents are out for the obvious reasons of not escalating the conflict further and not losing the rulers of the kingdom at the same time. Liam’s out because he’s still healing. Graham, Red, and Blue are our trackers and keeping eyes on the front line. And you’re out because we need you training the apprentices.”

“They can go a few weeks without me.”

“Well I won’t allow it.”

Killian shakes his head. “You can’t stop me.”

“I will have you arrested.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Do you like seeing me hurting?” she blurts out suddenly. The room falls silent and Killian stares at her with wide eyes. Varying degrees of shock play across the faces of the rest of the room’s occupants and Emma swallows hard. “Because I cannot go through again what happened with Neverland, and what happened with the battles before it, and the many, many close calls you’ve had. You might not give a shit but I do, okay?! And I’m not going to sit by and let you put yourself in a situation where you might die, especially when you clearly have no regard for your life, because I cannot go through it. I – I,” she stops herself, inhaling shakily before she regains her bearings and continues. “It’s out of the question. I’m not needed anywhere specific so I can be spared. It’s the most logical reason but it’s also the one I’m deciding on no matter what. I’m going. Ready a few horses and the best skilled knights we can afford to take from the castle. I leave in two hours.”

Emma doesn’t bother to give Killian another glance as she storms out of the room.

Her parents meet up with her quickly and try to talk her out of it to no avail. They see the determination in their daughter’s gaze and the straight set of her shoulders. Admitting defeat, they help her get ready.

Killian waits for her by the horses, pacing back and forth until he hears her footsteps coming closer.

“Good,” he breathes out in relief, immediately stepping into her space and adjusting the holdings on the armor he made for her a few years back as a gift. “You’ve kept it.”

“Of course,” she says softly. Her anger at his disregard for his own life melts away in an instant. “I keep all the handy gifts.”

Killian holds up his hook with a gaze playfully narrowed. “You trying to make a joke, Swan?”

She rolls her eyes but fails to keep the grin off of her face. “You’re going to be the worst, aren’t you?”

“Always.”

They grin at each other for another moment before the sound of the nearby knights startle them out of it. Killian’s grin falls as a grim expression overtakes his features, the gravity of the situation falling onto them with startling clarity and he’s unhappy at the turn of the events.

“Not so fun being on the other side, huh.”

“Most definitely not,” he agrees with a frown. “Are you –”

“Killian.”

“Aye, as you wish.” He sighs, his hand coming up to brush some hair behind her ear. “Please be safe, love.”

“I will be.”

“I want you to come home alive, Swan, got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Emma,” he says warningly. There’s a heat in his gaze that she files away for later. He closes his eyes briefly and when he reopens them, he focuses on readjusting the holdings again. “Got your sword?”

She taps the sword in the scabbard he gave her years ago. “Right here.”

“Dagger?”

She taps the heel of one boot to the side of the other. “In my boot.”

They look at each other, a longing pull tugging both of them closer. “Emma…”

“I’ll be fine, promise,” she says with a small smile and shrug.

“Not a moment will go by I won’t think of you.”

“Good.”

He walks her to the horse as if he’s walking her to her execution and her chest feels tight. Despite their friendship, or whatever you could call their friendship, they’ve never seen the other off. Their schedules wouldn’t allow them the opportunity. Now she can’t tell if that was a blessing or a curse, especially when every second she spends in his presence makes her want to go less and less.

As she turns to climb atop her horse, he stops her with his hook grabbing her elbow.

“Wait,” he pleads. She turns and gives him her full attention. “No matter what, please come home.” He pauses. “To me.” It’s as close to an admission as he’ll allow himself and her heart soars. Her fingers tingle and she swears that if she had any magic left, they’d be sparking.

Emma takes a page from her parents’ book and takes a step closer to Killian, gripping the lapels of his vest and pulling him down for kiss in front of the stables. She hears a clattering of chain-link and knows her knights are giving her what little privacy they can offer. It’s a short kiss, yet still full of passion and promise. “Have another gift ready for me and you’ve got yourself a promise.”

He laughs as she climbs her horse. “Any preferences, love?”

She smirks, pretending to think about it. “Something we can match.”

The knights follow her out of the stable compound a few minutes later, the hooves of the horses pounding a rhythmic beat against the forest floor. She feels euphoric.

Her good mood lasts all of five days before everything goes to shit.

#captain swan #killian jones #emma swan #my fics #temporarystatus #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs fanfiction #captain swan fanfic #captain swan ff #enchanted forest au

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searchingwardrobes · 1 year

Text

Scarborough Fair: 8/?

I apologize for the long wait for this chapter! We just moved into a new house, and at first we didn't have internet. I also felt that every spare moment needed to be spent unpacking and getting the house all set up. I finally escaped to Barnes and Noble to write because I just can't do it at home right now! Anyways, I hope the contents of this chapter make it up to you. We're getting to the good stuff ;)

Is the situation Emma is in as a pregnant foster teen accurate? I really have no idea, but it's in the book Impossible that this is based on. I also have no idea if you can make a shirt like that. Again, I'm going by the book Impossible. I'm not following it exactly, but those two plot points were kind of important, so I left them in. Anyways, things are going to keep getting steamier from here on out, though our lovers are far from out of danger. Plus, we've still got Snow, David, and their kingdom out there somewhere, so hang on, folks! It's gonna be a romantic yet bumpy ride.

Summary: Seventeen-year-old Emma Swan has had a charmed life, despite being a foster child. She has a wonderful family who loves her, and the best friends in the world. The only thing that mars her idyllic existence is her birth mother: a homeless woman who mutters nonsensical rhymes and claims to be Snow White. One fateful night, however, Emma’s world is shattered. Perhaps her mother’s rhymes aren’t nonsense after all.

Rated: M for date rape, dubious consent, teen pregnancy, and sexy times (the good kind!)

Words: Over 3k in this chapter

Also on Ao3

Tagging: (let me know if you wish to be removed or added): @snowbellewells @teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @xhookswenchx-reads-blog @thisonesatellite @welllpthisishappening @spartanguard @ohmakemeahercules @tiganasummertree @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @jamif @undercaffinatednightmare @onceratheart18 @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @jonesfandomfanatic @hollyethecurious

Chapter Eight:

The entire family jumped right in to help Emma solve the riddle that had defeated her mother. Liam dove back into every bit of research he had accumulated about the song Scarborough Fair. He and Ingrid met with the art professor he had mentioned who had done her dissertation on textiles. Elsa talked to the scientists on board ship and zoomed with the family every single day. Even Anna found her niche, taking Emma to the library and helping her check out every book available about pregnancy and childbirth.

And Killian? He was the rock she could lean on. The one who made her smile or laugh just when things got too heavy. He also ran whatever errands he needed to: taking Emma to her first prenatal appointment, shopping for a long list of different types of fabrics at the craft store to make this impossible shirt, and going for a late night ice cream run when Emma’s cravings started. In some ways, nothing changed.

Yet his declaration of love still hung in the air. He hadn’t brought it up again, hadn’t treated her any differently, hadn’t asked her on a date or tried to get physical. He was giving her space to decide what she wanted, and it honestly was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her.

At the same time, Emma was confused. She had always loved Killian, of course. But was it romantic love? She could even admit she had been physically attracted to him at times, but did that mean she was in love with him? Did she even want something like that right now, when she was processing having a kid of all things and still healing from a violent rape? Did Killian fully understand what he would be getting himself into? Did she want to burden him with all her crap?

She was just completely and utterly confused.

Then, as if she didn’t have enough to worry about, Ingrid came home one day from work visibly shaken. The entire family stilled in the process of getting dinner on the table when they saw her standing in the kitchen, her face ashen.

“What is it?” Liam asked, his voice filled with dread.

“Emma,” she said, her voice choking on her foster daughter’s name, “Liam and I need to talk to you. Immediately.”

Killian found Emma later, sobbing in her bed. When she poured it all out to him, he was livid.

“This is absolute shit! I can’t believe they would do that!”

“They would, and they can,” Emma explained as she hugged her pillow to her torso. “Because I’m still technically in foster care, my baby automatically is, too.”

“They can’t just take it away from you!”

Emma shrugged. “Ingrid and Liam are no longer licensed to take in infants. I either have to find somewhere else to live, or my baby will be put in a different foster home.”

“Can’t they just get licensed?”

Emma shook her head. “It’s a year-long process of paperwork and visitations from social workers. I’m due in five months! Killian, what am I going to do? Where am I going to go?”

She began to sob again, and when Killian eased into the bed next to her and put his arms around her, he could feel the small swell at her abdomen where her baby was growing. He felt a strong desire to protect them both.

“We won’t let them take you or the baby away from us. We’re a family.”

“That’s what your brother said. Exactly.”

Killian chuckled. “Of course he did.”

“But Killian,” she choked out, “what happens if I don’t solve the riddle? I was comforted at least knowing my baby would be safe and raised by Ingrid and Liam, but now . . .”

She sobbed again against his chest, and he held her tight. “I won’t let that happen,” he vowed. “You aren’t going to go mad, Emma, you won’t. We’ll solve this. All of it. Together.”

*************************************************************************

The only time Emma’s family ever used the formal dining room was on Thanksgiving. Someone always had to actually dust the table and air out the room, but Ingrid always insisted they “do Thanksgiving right,” even down to the old chipped china plates with the maple leaf border.

So it felt odd to be in here now with the warm summer sun spilling through the window and shining on the ancient area rug. Assorted fabrics littered the table and a sewing mannequin stood in the corner, the headless and limbless torso sending an ominous shiver down Emma’s spine.

“So this one is probably our best bet,” Ingrid explained.

She cradled the bundle of scratchy, thick fabric and held it out to Emma who reached out and ran her hand over the coarse woolen felt.

“That feels like it would make the most uncomfortable shirt in the history of the world.”

Ingrid shrugged. “Does it really matter? You wet this fabric, mold it to that torso over there, and according to Dr. Freemont, when it dries, it will hold together.”

Emma took the fabric and nodded. “So then we have it. A shirt made without needle or seam.”

“Who’s gonna wear it, though?”

Ingrid and Emma whirled around at the sound of Killian’s voice. Emma’s mouth went dry immediately. He stood there, his hair wet with sweat, and his chest bare. Emma couldn’t stop staring at it. She used to think chest hair was gross. She was wrong. Killian’s was thick and dark, and it set her pulse pounding. Realizing just how long she’d been ogling him, she dragged her gaze up to his face. He gave her a knowing grin as he lifted a carton of milk to his mouth and took a swig.

“Where the hell is your shirt?” Emma snapped.

“Where the hell is your glass,” Ingrid added drily. “You’re not the only one who might like some milk, you know.”

“I just got home from work, and I’m hot,” Killian responded, as if that explained everything.

Emma tried really, really hard not to think of the other connotation of the word hot, but she was failing. Killian hadn’t brought up his declaration since that fateful dinner last week, and Emma was still trying to process it. Yet ever since, she was hyper aware of Killian’s presence.

His lack of a shirt didn’t help, either.

“Pour that milk in a glass, Killian, I’m not kidding,” Ingrid said in her rarely used mom voice.

“Sure,” Killian said, sauntering back towards the kitchen. He gave Emma one more backwards glance with a delighted smirk on his face. Emma’s face heated several degrees.

“I think I know what he means, though,” Ingrid sighed.

“What?” Emma asked, her head still a little fuzzy.

“Is it really a shirt unless someone actually wears it?”

Emma sighed in exasperation. “So have someone wear it.”

“I’ll do it.”

They whirled back around to find Killian standing in the doorway again. He had a glass of milk in one hand and a stack of Oreos in the other. He still hadn’t donned a shirt. Emma found herself staring again, admiring the way a summer working in construction had toned his muscles. She dropped the fabric she’d been clutching in her hands and swore under her breath as it rolled across the floor. Killian smirked at her, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap it off his face or kiss him senseless.

“Well,” Ingrid said, seemingly oblivious to the sexual tension in the room, “if Killian’s going to wear it, then that makes things a little more complicated.”

“Why?” Emma and Killian asked simultaneously. He had stepped further into the room, and his close proximity almost made Emma lose hold of the fabric she’d just stooped to pick up.

“Well, if we mold the shirt to that torso over there, and it dries, I don’t think it will fit him.”

“So measure me,” Killian said, taking a bite of a cookie. His back was to Emma now as he addressed Ingrid, and it was just as distracting as the front of him. He had freckles across his shoulders, and a few along the small of his back.

“That won’t work.” Ingrid shook her head. “The fabric doesn’t work that way. Not if we’re trying to make it without needle or seam. We’ll have to mold it to your body.”

Emma gave a little squeak at Ingrid’s words and nearly dropped the fabric all over again. To Killian’s credit, he didn’t acknowledge her reaction.

“What would that entail?” he asked casually, taking a sip of his milk.

“I’m not sure,” Ingrid mused, tapping her finger on her chin.

Silence fell for a moment, the only sounds from Killian snacking on his milk and cookies. Then Ingrid suddenly clapped her hands together.

“I’ve got it! Duct tape!”

Killian’s eyes widened. “If you wrap me in duct tape, you’ll never get it off. Not without taking my skin with it.”

“You could wear a shirt,” Emma said.

“You made that clear already,” Killian smirked at her. “I told you, I’m hot.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I mean for the duct tape. You wear a white undershirt, I wrap it in tape, then I can put the shirt, molded to your torso, on the mannequin. Then I make the shirt.”

“You’d need to be wearing the shirt when she tapes it,” Ingrid clarified.

“I figured that,” Killian nodded.

Emma’s throat went suddenly dry. She’d have to put her hands on his body. She’d have to be in extremely close proximity to him. She was equal parts giddy at the thought and terrified. She was light-headed just thinking about it.

“Perfect,” Killian announced with a grin. “When do we start?”

Emma wanted to ask Ingrid if she would do it for her, but she couldn’t risk that. The riddle implied that Emma had to make the shirt herself. She steeled herself and turned to Killian.

“Shower so you don’t stink, and then we’ll get to work.”

“As you wish,” he told her with a mock bow before he turned from the room.

Ingrid, still oblivious to the fact that Emma was practically swooning and trembling simultaneously, turned away from the dining room table and grabbed her purse from a nearby chair.

“Since you’ve got this under control, I’ll head to the supermarket. Anything you need?”

Slightly dazed, Emma managed to shake her head “no.”

“Great, I’ll see you kids later.”

In the kitchen, Killian rinsed his dirty glass and put it in the dishwasher. He smiled to himself as he headed up the stairs. He hadn’t pressed Emma in any way since his declaration. Whether she shared his feelings or not, he’d told himself, he would still be there for her. Yet the way she’d reacted to him just now gave him hope. Maybe he would win her heart after all.

*******************************************************************************************

“Sit right here,” Emma instructed, pointing to the dinner room chair directly in front of her. Killian obeyed, and when he looked up at her, his eyes didn’t hold teasing as she’d expected. They were tender and vulnerable. Emma swallowed nervously.

“Don’t be nervous,” he told her.

“I’m not,” she scoffed.

“You’re holding that roll of tape so hard, your knuckles are turning white.”

Emma scowled at him and pulled a long strip of tape from the roll. He blanched, and she laughed.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” she told him.

He swallowed, and she followed the motion of his adam’s apple. She licked her lips as she drew closer, touching his arm gently as she raised it.

“I’ll start with the sleeves,” she explained unnecessarily.

She had to slip her fingers beneath the fabric to make sure she didn’t accidentally tape his skin. She thought she heard an intake of breath from his throat as her fingers skimmed his bicep, but maybe she’d imagined it. She wound the tape around and around the sleeve of his shirt, but when she began to wrap it around his shoulder blade, she had to step closer to him. He spread his legs to allow it, and she leaned over him, her breasts pressing against his collarbone. The sharpness of breath this time was impossible to ignore. She paused and locked eyes with him - he face was so close to hers . . .

“Did I hurt you?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head, so she continued. Was his breathing becoming shallow, or was that her? Was that his heart thumping so fast, or her own? When she wrapped the tape around his chest, she could feel a “thump, thump” beneath her palm.

“Um, Emma, give me a second.”

Killian grabbed a throw pillow from the wingback chair in the corner of the dining room then resumed his seat. He clutched the pillow in his lap, and his face flamed all the way to the tips of his ears.

“Oh,” Emma breathed softly.

Killian swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Emma said, her own cheeks warm.

“I just don’t want to freak you out . . . or scare you or anything. You know, because . . . because of him.”

Emma shook her head, tendrils of hair brushing her cheeks where they fell from the messy bun on the top of her head. She bit her lip as she got lost in his eyes; darker than usual and stormy. She stepped close again, between his legs, and she almost laughed when he clutched the pillow tighter.

“Emma,” he groaned, his eyes falling shut.

“I’m glad,” she said, her own voice deep and trembling, “that I have that effect on you.”

“You do?”

He opened his eyes, and she nodded. Her hands shook as she lifted them and rested them upon his temples. She threaded her fingers through his hair. It was softer than she had imagined. He tipped his head back and watched her intently. She thought of him the other night, stating so matter-of-factly that he loved her. He had said it as something unshakable and infallible. Something as predictable and steady as the seasons. Then they had gone on as they always had, with no demands that she respond to his declaration in any way.

“And you could never scare me, Killian,” she clarified.

Then, suddenly, she was kissing him. She was kissing Killian in the middle of the dining room. His torso was half wrapped in duct tape, he was helping her make this crazy, ridiculous, magical shirt . . .

And she was kissing him. He was kissing her back. He was kissing her back after declaring his love for her at the kitchen table. He was kissing her thoroughly, his tongue exploring her mouth, even though she hadn’t said it back. Or maybe it didn’t matter, she wasn’t sure. After all, this was only the second boy she’d ever kissed. But no, she wasn’t going to think about that or him. Not when Killian was kissing her within an inch of her life.

The pillow he was clutching fell to the floor when he wrapped his arms around her, and Emma could feel his arousal through his jeans and pressing into her. For a split second, fear tried to grab hold of her, but it was banished quickly. He wouldn’t just take her; he wasn’t like that.

Killian pulled away, and Emma was shocked to hear a whimper slip past her lips, especially when he stood up from the chair and took a step back. Why was he pulling away, when they - oh.

He was sinking down on one knee, and she suddenly wondered if she were dreaming. It all felt so surreal, and he was still half wrapped in duct tape. Maybe Snow had whacked her in the head with one of those bottles after all, and all this time she’d been in a coma at the hospital. It would explain so much, honestly.

“Emma,” he said, (and were those tears gathering in his eyes?), “I know this is a lot to ask of you, since you haven’t even told me yet how you feel about me. And this is something I think I always knew I would do eventually, just not now.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them and continuing. His words reverberated in her soul, and she knew he was right, they were always going to arrive here, somehow. She knew it the same way she knew her own reflection.

“But with everything going on, I don’t want to wait. I know you face an uncertain future, Emma, but I always want to be by your side. So, will you marry me?” He didn’t even pause for her answer, but plunged ahead. “It makes so much sense, if you think about it. I mean, we’re going to break this curse, Emma, we will. We won’t give up, ever. But, I know you worry, and if I’m your husband, you won’t have to. You’ll know I’ll be there for the baby. It will be mine, legally. It won’t end up in foster care. Not that anything’s going to happen to you, I swear to you it won’t, but if I can ease your burden . . .”

He trailed off, and Emma sank to her knees right along with him, reaching out to cup his face in her hands.

“And if I do go insane -”

“You won’t!”

“But if we don’t break the curse . . .”

“I’ll take care of you,” he said solemnly, “always and forever.”

It would be selfish of her, she knew that it would, to ask that of him. Nevertheless, his vow felt like the sun breaking through the darkest of clouds, and she knew she couldn’t refuse his gift. Her hands slipped down his shoulders, then his arms, and she clasped his hands tightly in hers.

“I love you.”

It wasn’t, she discovered, difficult to say. It was just so true, so undeniable, like how she knew the sun would come up each morning. His smile was bright and blinding, and she smiled too at the sight of his dimples. They had been so rare lately.

“Does that mean yes?” he asked her teasingly.

A tear slipped down her face, and she found she couldn’t speak. She nodded, and he understood. Everyone would say they were crazy, of course. He was nineteen, and she was seventeen. It was absolutely insane. Ingrid and Liam wouldn’t like it, she was sure, but she also knew they wouldn’t stop them.

He dried her tears with his thumb, then traced her lips before kissing her tenderly. The kiss continued as they clung to one another in blissful, shining faith and hope. In that moment, she believed him: They would break the curse.

Emma and Killian were so wrapped up in one another, they didn’t notice the slight shaking of the house or the rainbow colored light that swept through the room.

**************************************************

It wasn’t the first time Robert Gold had entered the Swan/Jones home when the family was gone. He had explored every nook and cranny, flipped through photographs, smelled their clothes. He knew this family; every weakness to be exploited had been sifted and examined.

Yet the house had never protested like it did today, and when he turned towards the dining room, he could clearly see why.

It was a shirt. Hideous, smelly, and dripping wet, but a shirt nonetheless. When it dried, it could even be worn.

“Well, well, well,” he muttered, reaching out a hand towards it.

Almost immediately, he recoiled, the shirt burning him before he’d even grazed it. Magic radiated from it. The glamor spell he always wore faded, and his hands turned a scaly green, nails yellowed and gnarled at each finger tip. It wasn’t just the shirt, he realized. The entire dining room reeked with the magic, and he was in pain from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet.

“Of course you’re in pain, Dark One.”

He writhed on the ground and cried out as a much younger face pulled away from his ancient, twisted one.

“Stop fighting me!”

“I’m doing all this for you, son!”

“Are you, Papa?”

“I got her for you, didn’t I?”

“But I can’t keep her!”

The Dark One could no longer hold onto the shared body, and the younger man stood to his feet, opened the front door, and walked out onto the sidewalk. Neal Cassidy was the name he preferred in this realm, a name that Rumplestiltskin hated. Baelfire was his name: a strong, powerful name.

“Oh Papa,” Baelfire - Neal - whispered, “settle down and cooperate.”

“You know I’ll take over again eventually.”

Neal didn’t argue. Instead he clenched his jaw and gritted his next words through his teeth.

“This won’t work forever. You’re losing, and you know it.”

“They only finished the first task. They’ll never complete the rest. Not in time, anyway.”

“But that magic - you know exactly what that was.”

Ah yes, he did. True love. He wasn’t worried. The Dark One had defeated true love before, and he would do it again.

#cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fanfic #captain swan ff #cs impossible au #cs au #lieutenant duckling #modern fantasy #angst #cs angsty august #captain swan angsty august #impossible au

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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laianely · 3 months

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Hooked Swan, Chapter 12

I signed up for CSSNS event, but I feel I should give respect to my current works before plunging into something new. So we have new chapter of "Hooked Swan".

Tag people who may be interested: @killianxswan @teamhook @booksteaandtoomuchtv @exhaustedpirate @anmylica @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @undercaffinatednightmare @resident-of-storybrooke @caught-in-the-filter @tiganasummertree @stahlords @lfh1226-linda @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @motherkatereloyshipper @soniccat @jrob64 @beckettj @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jonesfandomfanatic @zaharadessert @bluewildcatfanatic @once-upon-a-happy-end @ultraluckycatnd

#captain swan #emma swan #killian jones #captain hook #once upon a time #ouat #cs fanfic #captain swan fanfic #captain swan ff #cs ff #laianely’s fanfics #hooked swan

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cosette141 · 1 year

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It's Called Trust | OUAT fanfic

Summary: (season 2 "Tallahassee" canon divergence) Emma forgets that handcuffs cannot hold a pirate.

AO3

For a moment, the two of them inches away, Hook felt himself smile, the steel walls he hid behind for so long beginning to loosen for the first time in centuries.

But it was shattered, when he felt Emma click something around his wrist.

She shot back, stumbling away from him, eyes wide like he was a terrifying, bloody giant.

The grin of his faltered, his eyes finding what was around his wrist.

A manacle, chaining him to the wall.

Shock drove every warm feeling out of his chest, making it once again the frigid wasteland he was used to.

But somehow, this betrayal hurt far worse than anything he could ever remember.

"What are you doing?" he felt himself whisper, standing to follow her, but she only took another step back, and the chain prevented him from taking another step forward. "What are you doing?" he repeated, voice gaining an edge of anger, but it wasn't anger.

It was hurt.

"I'm sorry," escaped her lips, her eyes wide and scared, her body like that of a frightened animal.

"So you're just going to leave me here?" he demanded. "To let that monster tear me apart? Crush my bones?"

"He's not a monster," she said too quickly, too fast for it to just be about the giant, and for a fleeting second, he wondered what it'd be like for someone—for her—to defend him like that. "And you're not going to die," she said, firmly, surely, and for half a second he wondered why she cared to ensure it.

"Why do this to me now?" he tried, mind racing, yanking at the chain, that didn't give at all. "Have I told you a lie?"

That made her pause.

He knew she hadn't sensed any lie from him.

Because he hadn't told her one.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, like she meant it, something almost choked in her voice, a pain in her eyes as she whispered, "I just—I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you."

She backed away.

She was going to leave him here.

She was going to bloody leave him here.

She bloody used him to get the compass, and now that she had no more use for him, she was going to leave.

"You're sorry?" he echoed, hurt anger building into a rage he's so often killed with. "You're sorry?!"

She didn't respond, but her eyes did.

Then, she turned and ran.

"Swan!" he growled, yanking hard at the chain. "SWAN!"

There was no bloody way she was getting away with that compass, with double-crossing him.

No one double-crosses him.

Trembling with rage, it took longer than he would have liked to pick the lock with his hook, but he got it—pirate—and soon he was running after her.

Emma's entire body trembled with fear as she carefully switched handholds and footholds on her way down the beanstalk. Don't look down, don't look down… thoughts of returning to Henry kept her focused, kept her fear from overflowing.

However, she couldn't help seeing Hook's face flashing into her mind.

The moment he realized she'd chained him, that their alliance was abruptly severed.

It wasn't anger in that look.

It was shocked hurt.

Never in her life, for Emma had met many villains as both Emma the Savior and Emma the Bail-bondswoman, never in the moment her target learned they were cornered, did she see hurt.

She would see anger, rage, fury.

Never hurt.

But she shook it from her thoughts, focusing back on Henry, doing this for Henry, for what business did she have feeling guilty about leaving Hook behind?

But she was a little more than halfway down the beanstalk, where the trees below finally looked more like trees and less like dots, when something struck her wrist, pinning her to the stalk.

She let out a little yelp in surprise, glad that she hadn't been in between hand and footholds, and her eyes snapped to her wrist to see—

Oh, no.

A silver hook.

"I believe," snarled his voice as he revealed himself from the other side of the stalk, and Emma desperately tried to yank her hand free, "that you have something of mine, love."

The love was spoken with a sharpness that was nothing like the epithet's namesake.

Emma's heart jumped into her throat. "H-How did—?"

"Pirate," he reminded her, though the smirk wasn't in his features like it had been on their way up this beanstalk. "Give me the compass," he said firmly, and Emma tried again to get her hand free where he was pinning her to the stalk, but she was effectively trapped. A little panicked sound escaped her throat, at the same time that Hook's eyes snapped to her jacket pocket, where the chain of the compass gleamed in the sun.

"Ah," said Hook, that smirk back, but none of it holding any amusement. "I'll just take it myself."

He removed his hook from her wrist, and swiftly instead hooked the steel through the chain.

"Stop!" growled Emma, removing her hand to grab at the chain before he could take it, leaving them both in a sort of tug-of-war with it.

However it only lasted a few moments, because suddenly the entire stalk shook violently, as if—

Emma's eyes shot wide. "Crap," she breathed. "Mulan."

"What the bloody—" began Hook, but another strike to the beanstalk sent it swaying sharply. And both she and Hook, who only had a one-handed grip on the beanstalk, suddenly lost their holds.

A scream rose in Emma's throat as she fell, the sharp weightlessness feeling like the most terrifying thing. They were still hundreds of feet up in the air; the fall would kill them.

A flash of black leather as Hook fell next to her, and Emma suddenly felt an arm wrap around her waist, pulling her flush to a leather-clad body, and Emma suddenly didn't know if the falling or this was more terrifying.

But just as fast as they fell, something stopped them abruptly, along with a groan from Hook. They jarred to an almost-stop, and Emma's eyes snapped open, seeing that Hook had used his namesake to grab a branch of a tree that must have stood at least a hundred feet tall.

Though it interrupted their fall, the branch snapped on impact, and they fell, Hook attempting to grab another branch, each one breaking as he did, but also breaking their fall.

And suddenly they were crashing to the ground, Hook's arm releasing her as they did, both of them groaning as they hit the ground. However, the way the branches had slowed their descent, it didn't feel like they'd just fallen hundreds of feet through the air. It felt more like they'd only fallen a dozen feet.

Emma groaned as she pushed herself off the ground, feeling bruised, but surprisingly alive and not even having suffered more than scratches.

Beside her, Hook was painfully getting himself off the ground, wincing as he moved his shoulder, and Emma was stunned he hadn't dislocated it.

But even Emma was safe from the fall, she wasn't safe at all.

She stumbled to her feet even as Hook was trying to get his bearings, massaging his shoulder, and Emma snapped her head around, but the beanstalk wasn't even in sight.

"Where the hell is it?" she breathed, panic in her chest.

"Seems," came a pained voice as Hook rose to his own feet, "we've landed a ways away from the Beanstalk."

But Emma suddenly remembered something else.

What they'd been fighting over.

The Compass.

Her hand shot to her pocket, but it wasn't there; she didn't have it.

And from the way Hook seemed to remember at the same time, his hand going to his own pockets, his eyes scanning the ground around them for a gleam of metal in the grass, Emma knew they were screwed.

From Emma's own scan of the area around them, the compass was nowhere near.

They'd dropped it, and it could be anywhere.

Emma's eyes suddenly landed on Hook's, both of them realizing exactly what happened.

And within the same seconds, as if in a race, they both took off, running in opposite directions, eyes glued to the ground, looking for anything that sparkled in the sun.

Emma would kill for a metal detector right about now.

She needed to find that damn compass.

If she didn't find the compass, she couldn't get back to Henry…

Emma huffed a frustrated breath.

Right now she had no idea where to find the compass, and no idea where to find Snow, Aurora and Mulan, and she was pretty much completely lost in a world she knew nothing about.

And as much as she had tried to tell Snow she was fine and that she could take care of herself, that was on Earth, in a world that didn't have magic and irritating pirates and ogres and chimera as a traditional food—

Emma felt herself shiver beneath the leather jacket, and she pulled it closer around her.

The air was getting chillier as the daylight was fading, and she was suddenly growing far more scared than cold.

Don't be scared, don't be scared, she thought, just as she had so many times in a new foster home or one of the many times she found herself homeless, sleeping under bridges or in vacant cars.

But this wasn't even a world she could do that, and it made her realize how screwed up she was that the fact that sleeping under a bridge was even in her comfort zone more than where she was now—

She briefly shut her eyes, walking a little faster, wanting so badly to call out Mary Margaret's name, but learning the hard way that ogres are blind and they follow sound.

Emma took another unsteady breath, walking quicker through the forest, trying to be quiet and fast, but her boot suddenly snapped a twig under her feet, and at the same time, she felt a tension in the air.

Then, the ground shook.

With a heavy footstep.

The roar of an ogre that did not sound far suddenly rose a scream in her throat, but she swallowed it down, whipping her head around to try to figure out what direction it was coming from, her heart beating a million miles a second.

But it turned out it was coming from behind, and Emma whirled around, seeing the huge, hulking, ugly beast running at her. Without a second thought she turned and ran, nearly tripping over herself, choosing speed over silence, but it seemed this ogre was fast, too.

"Crap," breathed Emma, voice cracking with fear, skidding around a tree and ducking, curling herself as tiny as she could and holding her breath.

The pounding footsteps of the ogre came closer and closer, and suddenly it was in front of her, but it froze, tilting its head in the silence.

Emma pressed her hand over her mouth, her lungs burning, but she dared not make a sound.

But the ogre took another step closer to her, like it could sense she was there, and an involuntary gasp escaped her, and the ogre heard.

It roared so loud it shook the forest, and fisted its hand, moving to land a blow that would certainly kill her. She shut her eyes, burying her face in her arms—

Only for the ogre to roar in agony.

Emma's eyes snapped open, watching in shock as the injured ogre ran away, limping badly, to reveal—

Emma couldn't hide this gasp, either.

Hook stood where the ogre had been, his blade dark with what looked like blood.

He was thoroughly out of breath, like he'd been running for some time, and even in the faded light, she could see the fear in his eyes.

But when he looked at her, the fear was pushed away and traded for a smirk, but it was a lie Emma could have seen miles away.

"Hook?" breathed Emma, suddenly feeling very vulnerable in the curled up position she was in. She stumbled to her feet with difficulty, but her legs felt numb from the close call.

But with him in front of her, sword still out, she wondered if he or the ogre was more dangerous to her.

Emma expected either a smirk or a glare for leaving him behind, or perhaps to be the second victim to his sword.

What she didn't expect was for him to look at her with only more fear in his eyes. "It isn't safe out here. Come with me." He sheathed his sword, starting to walk away, but when she didn't follow, he turned back with impatience. And as if reading her mind, he said, "If I had wanted to bring any harm to you, Swan, I'd have let the ogre do so. Let's go."

He started walking again, and Emma felt indecision tearing her apart.

However…

The idea of being out here alone…

When the distant rumble of another ogre's footstep rocked the ground, Emma's feet made her decision for her.

She followed Hook, keeping herself a few feet away from him.

"Hook—" she began.

"Don't speak," he said sharply, eyeing the forest carefully, and Emma suddenly remembered the 'be quiet' rule with ogres.

Neither of them spoke for at least what felt like an hour, walking out of the forest and into dried up land by the side of a mountain, and after a while of walking through it, she saw Hook take a breath of relief.

"This way," he said, making her jump, as they'd been in silence for so long. "We can find shelter." Just as he said the words, Emma felt a few drops of rain hit her shoulder.

By the time they found a cave, and a tiny one at that that made the bridges Emma had slept under look like the Four Seasons, it had begun to pour. Luckily, they'd missed the heaviest of it, and Emma turned to watch it thunder down.

"The ogres don't often travel here," explained Hook, unsheathing his sword, and making Emma flinch a little, but he only held it to the rain to clean the blood from the blade. He eyed the sky. "Even if they do, the storm will drown out any noise we make."

Somehow, those words made her uncomfortable.

Emma swallowed.

A slight silence as he cleaned his blade, and Emma couldn't stop herself.

"Why did you do that?"

He looked at her, pulling his sword back under the shelter. "Do what?"

"Why did you stop that ogre from killing me?"

Why did you save me?

He looked at her, and in his hesitation, she saw a sort of uncertainty, like he didn't quite know the answer.

But instead, she saw a flicker of that hurt she saw when she'd handcuffed him, and Emma was suddenly far too aware he was still holding a sword.

"Why did you betray me?" he countered, lifting a brow that looked so much more dangerous than it had been up until now.

Emma felt a chill sweep down her spine.

Suddenly she was wondering if she should have taken the chance with the ogres.

He took a step toward her, and Emma kicked herself for moving an inch back instinctively. But instead of smirking at her fear, it seemed to… bother him.

He sheathed the sword.

Emma swallowed hard, standing up a little straighter, trying to gain some sort of confidence she didn't feel in the slightest. "Did you find the compass?" she asked, trying to keep her voice direct, unemotional.

She saw his…disappointment?...that she didn't answer his question, and his irritation at the new one.

But he pondered her question, a hesitation that was just enough for Emma to catch the consideration of telling a lie.

Her heart picked up.

But he seemed to think better of it, yet it also seemed to irritate him further and look like premature regret as sharp as the lightning that flashed outside, and he answered with movement, pulling out from his pocket—

"You found it!" breathed Emma, moving instinctively toward the compass to take it—the hope, the only way of getting home to Henry, the only way to not abandon him the way she was abandoned—but Hook's fingers closed around it, and he pulled it back a little.

"Yes," he said, the word careful. Measured. Watching her like he didn't know how to predict her. "I found it," he said slowly.

Emma again reached for it, but he pulled it further out of her grasp, lifting a brow as sharply as he'd raise his sword.

"I need that," said Emma, her desperation almost making her voice crack, her heart hammering.

"As do I," said Hook slowly. And before Emma could try reaching for it again, he pocketed it once more, making Emma flinch. "We should wait until morning," said Hook, when the silence spread too long. "The ogres are nocturnal." He kicked around some of the rocks and twigs that had gathered in the very small alcove, as if making room to sit.

"And what happens in the morning?" asked Emma, voice on edge, body tense, eyes still fixed on his pocket.

They both wanted, needed that compass.

He turned then, and watched her for a long moment. She could just see the war of emotions behind his own steel walls. Fear. Irritation. Hurt. Confusion.

But for the first time, she also saw exhaustion, and it was more than just in need of physical rest.

"I wasn't lying to you today," he said, voice suddenly serious, and Emma was surprised to hear how much he seemed to want her to believe him. "You are much safer company than Cora. At least, that was what I had thought before you left me to the giant's disposal."

"He—" began Emma, ready to defend Anton, but Hook didn't let her.

"I would be open to taking this compass and going to your land with you, so long as I can trust you." said Hook, looking her right in the eye, as if looking for a lie in her own.

And it somehow felt offensive that he deemed her untrustworthy.

"Or," countered Emma, "as long as I can trust you."

His brows shot up. "Me?" he said with surprise. "Love," he said, "I am not the one who left you handcuffed at the top of that bloody beanstalk." He took a step toward her, radiating an anger he seemed to have been keeping at bay, and Emma felt her back hit the wall of the shallow cave. "I," he said firmly, "have done nothing to warrant your betrayal or your distrust. I have saved your life three times now. And all you have done for me is leave me behind." He was inches from her now, brows narrowed into a glare that was so angry it could only have been caused by pain, and Emma couldn't look away from it.

He seemed to realize in that moment how intimidating he was being, and like he was shocked with cold water, he stepped back, that anger softening a little, doused like a cooling fire.

Their eyes, however, never left each other.

"I have no plans to betray you," he said firmly, keeping his eyes on hers, and Emma read every damn truth in them.

But she's done that before.

And Emma felt herself quietly say, "Betrayal isn't really something you plan."

It was as vulnerable as being without clothes to say the words, and she could tell by the shift in his face that he heard the vulnerability.

And in that shift, was almost an understanding, like he not only understood, but knew exactly what that felt like.

And maybe that he was beginning to realize that her leaving him at the beanstalk had far less to do with him.

"Well, then," he said, voice only just louder than the thundering rain. "It comes down to trust, then." He lifted a brow. "I'll ask you again. Care to try something new, darling?"

Emma watched him for a long moment.

And for the first time, actually… considered an alliance with him.

He had saved her life a few times now when he didn't have to.

And…

He had the compass.

He had already found the compass when that ogre nearly killed her.

He could have let her die, and gone off with Cora.

But he didn't.

And even after he saved her life, he let her accompany him to a safer place.

And he told her that he had the compass.

Perhaps he'd simply known she'd be able to tell a lie if he'd denied it, but he still did tell her the truth.

If he really wanted to, he could kill her right now.

She winced inwardly a little, realizing that he was right.

She was the one who was untrustworthy.

But for some reason, after everything, he still wanted to give her another chance.

Everything inside her screamed that it was an angle he was playing, that he and Cora were up to no good, that he was going to backstab her in the end. Possibly literally.

But the look in his eyes now…

It didn't look like he was going to hurt her.

However, neither did Neal.

"While you think that through, love," came Hook's voice, shattering her from the daze, he sat down, leaning against the wall of the tiny space, "you may want to get some rest. If we're to travel back to the beanstalk where your friends and mother are waiting for your return, we've quite a trek ahead of us."

He shut his eyes, seemingly to sleep.

Emma didn't move.

Her eyes fell to his pocket, where she could even see the slight gleam of the compass chain peeking out.

She looked back outside, through the dense falling rain, hearing a distant roar of an ogre.

Her heart skipped.

She looked back at Hook, who hadn't moved, but Emma knew was perfectly awake.

Try something new, darling.

It's called trust.

Emma sighed.

And out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw Hook's lips twitch upward.

She sat down herself, trying to put distance between herself and Hook, but the alcove was stupid small. Her legs out straight brushed his, and a feeling that Emma decided to call fear rushed down her spine.

Hook, however, didn't seem to notice.

She pulled her knees to her chest, glad she had at least a few inches of space between her shoulders and his, but any further and she'd be in the rain.

She was still close enough that his scent enveloped them both, something like the ocean and leather.

Emma just hugged her knees tighter.

Silence fell.

She looked at Hook, who again seemed to be sleeping, but Emma knew he wasn't.

What if she fell asleep and he took the compass and left her here?

What if that was his plan all along?

Though then why would he save her from the ogre?

It took Emma what felt like another hour of pondering, but as she did, exhaustion weighed down.

She let her head tilt toward her shoulder, hugging herself tighter as a chill from the storm swept through. Her eyes shut, and she let them, planning to open them in a few minutes.

She was asleep long before then.

The soft light of day nudged Hook awake.

But it didn't come with what it usually did.

Usually, morning came with facing yet another day without his revenge sated, as each day without it was a failure. As each day without her was an empty and angry one, destined to only be worse than the last.

But for some reason, this morning… didn't bring that emptiness, that fury.

For some reason, it felt almost good.

His eyes opened slowly, rest having taken the edge of what had turned into a long day yesterday. Outside, the storm was over, though rain had left puddles and wet dirt. The scent of post-rainfall wafted through the area, and it was like the aroma of a fresh start.

Something he knew he could never have.

He was planning for a bitter end, and he'd made his peace with that.

But the strange… light feeling in his chest begged to differ.

Still half-caught in sleep, he moved to sit up straighter where he'd slept against the hard wall, but realized something probably far too delayed.

There was a… heaviness on his shoulder.

He looked down, and felt his heart stop.

The Swan girl.

Emma.

The last he'd seen of her last night was when she'd been curled up as far away from him as she could get without getting drenched in the rain, her eyes darting between his pocket where he knew the compass was, and the outside. She was quite the open book, and he knew she was pondering every possible plan to take the compass from him and leave with it.

But though distrustful, she was very smart.

Perhaps those qualities went hand in hand.

She knew as well as he did that she had no idea how to get back to the beanstalk, and she would have been dead within an hour if she had left last night.

But it wasn't just the fact that she was still here and the compass was still in his pocket.

It was that she was sleeping on his shoulder.

He couldn't tear his eyes away, frozen there, just staring at her.

Somehow in the night, she'd listed to the side, his side, resting her head on his shoulder, under his chin, almost like she fit there.

In a way that Milah never even had.

Her one hand was curled in toward her chest, as if protecting her heart, her other resting on his sleeve by his hook. Her eyes were shut, and she slept on, an occasional wince in her face, a twitch in her muscles, like sleep was never as restful for her as it should be.

Hook had had plenty of… female company over the years after Milah, but… they were enjoying the company for the same reason he was. For the passion.

But this… closeness?

It was something he hadn't experienced since…

He should move, he should wake her, he should run, he should leave her here like she left him.

He should have let the ogre kill her like it would have if he hadn't stopped it.

A question slipped through his mind, for about the thousandth time since last night. The same question she asked him.

"Why did you stop that ogre from killing me?"

He didn't know why.

He had every right to.

She'd betrayed him.

She was after the one thing he needed to get his revenge.

She'd have deserved it.

But something inside him had made him run the moment he knew the ogre found a target, and the moment he knew it was her.

Maybe it was something in the way she apologized for betraying him.

Hook had been betrayed many times over the years.

Never had the betrayer been sorry.

She'd hesitated after she'd done so; there was an agony in her decision.

It wasn't meant to be cold hearted.

He didn't know why she did it. But it was more than just because he was a pirate.

"I do not plan to betray you."

"Betrayal isn't really something you plan."

She was like that of a frightened animal. And seeing her there, terrified as the ogre nearly killed her…

She wasn't on this mission for anything more than to return to her child.

She knew as well as he did what abandonment does to a soul.

Sometime after she'd nearly left him to the ogres' mercy and before she'd left him to the giant's, there were cracks in those steel walls of hers. There were shaky smiles and there was…

He shook himself.

She was safer company than Cora, and he… he's… he's just… trying to help one more boy avoid becoming a Lost One.

That's all this alliance is.

But Emma suddenly shifted, lifting her head from his shoulder, opening her eyes.

"Morning, love."

Emma suddenly went rigid at his voice, and proximity, and her eyes snapped to him, realizing how close she was.

She flinched back instinctively, that fear that was as much a part of her eyes as the hazel in them deepening. And he tried to not feel the sting of her reaction.

They both got up, Emma very quickly, but Hook had a feeling it wasn't because of how uncomfortable he made her.

It was something of the opposite.

But there was something else in her shock, almost as if she was stunned he was still there.

She looked at him, like she was shoving every bit of that discomfort away. "You're really going to help us and not Cora?" she asked, changing the subject fluidly.

There's that distrust again.

"Aye." he said honestly.

Why did he suddenly want this woman's trust?

"If you want me to trust you," said Emma slowly, "let me hold onto the compass."

She held out her hand, waiting.

Hook lifted his brow. "Love, the last time I did that you handcuffed me on top of the bloody beanstalk." He lifted the brow higher. "I believe it is you who is in need of earning my trust."

Something shimmered in her eyes. And less than a whisper, she said, "I need to get back to my son."

Hook felt something deep inside his chest shift at the agony in her words, the pain of being away from her son.

So, he simply nodded, and said, "Then let's get you back to him."

Emma's eyes lingered on his pocket, on the compass, for a moment longer. But she shut them, and then opened them, giving him the tiniest of smiles.

It was a start.

They were walking for what felt like an hour or two, almost completely in silence other than some of Hook's directions and warnings.

The two of them walked with a few feet of space between them, like neither of them wanted to get too close.

Emma, at least, knew exactly why she wanted to keep her distance.

How could she have fallen asleep on his shoulder?

She never was one for cuddling, not even with Neal.

Why on earth would her body betray her like that?

All she knew was that she had hated it.

She utterly hated the feeling of being so close to him, just as much as when she had prevented him from breaking the trip wire in the giant's treasure room, and he had grabbed her.

She hated it, hated it, hated it.

Because a little part of her thought it felt good.

Not good in an he's attractive way, either.

That, she had chalked up to his ego and vanity and stupid charm.

But it was more that he felt almost…

Safe?

Emma wanted to scoff at the idea of thinking of Captain Hook as safe, but… clearly her body thought so, as she woke up sleeping on his shoulder.

As much as she wanted to think that was flat out wrong, with every footstep, Emma was starting to maybe… do it. Actually, for the first time since Neal…

Trust someone.

And just as she had the thought, they saw it in the distance:

The beanstalk.

Emma's little gasp of relief made him look at her.

"Aye," he said. "We're nearly there."

Emma smiled a little, walking a little faster, thinking about how terrified Mary Margaret must be right now.

"Here."

Emma stopped at Hook's voice, turning to see—

"What?" she breathed.

For he held out the compass, gesturing for her to take it.

"Take it," he said. At her unspoken question, he sighed and said, "Trust works both ways." A little uncertainty, he said, "You won't run off with it, will you?"

This time, Emma didn't even find herself thinking about it. "No."

He smiled a little, like he could read the truth in her eyes.

She took the compass, smiling.

Soon, Henry. I'll be home soon.

Hook started walking again, but Emma didn't, staring at the compass, the trust he placed in her hands.

Trust she really didn't deserve.

So, before she could change her mind, she said softly, "I only trusted one person in my life."

He stopped.

"And…" Emma felt her throat close a little. "He betrayed me."

Hook turned, watching her, listening with a little furrow in his brow.

Not like he didn't understand.

Like he didn't understand why she was telling him.

"He… he never told me a lie," said Emma, voice shaking a little, like her body was trying to reject the words that came out anyway. "And he… he betrayed me anyway." She took a shuddering breath. As hard as the words had been to say, words she had never said aloud before, it felt like relief. "That's why," she said, explained. "That's why I left you." She swallowed hard. "I…"

"I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you."

Something shift in his expression, like he was replaying that moment too, with new context. And after a moment, a little sad surprise, like he was replaying another thing she'd said.

"I thought you'd said you'd never been in love."

"Maybe I was once."

Something about Hook's demeanor… softened.

Like he knew how much she'd just given him.

And how vulnerable it made her.

He was quiet for a moment, but then said, "I'd like to tell you why I saved you." he said, and Emma remembered her question to him.

"Why did you stop that ogre from killing me?"

Hook took a step closer to her. "However… I truly don't know why." Emma could read the truth, the confusion in his eyes as he looked at her, and she didn't even know if he realized he was still walking toward her, even closer. "I had every reason not to."

He was an inch away now, looking into her eyes, like the answer was there.

But instead of stumbling back, getting away from him like her body was screaming for her to do, she instead gave him a rare smile. "Truce?"

He seemed to shake from a daze, realziing how close they were. But he cleared his throat a little, smiling too. "Aye."

"Well isn't this cozy," came a cold voice from behind them

Cora.

Emma went rigid.

"I see you've found my compass," said Cora with a cold smile directed at Emma. "Good work, Hook."

Emma felt her entire body run cold.

She stumbled back a step.

Away from them both.

Her eyes snapped to Hook. "You told me I could trust you!" she breathed, feeling every nerve in her body go numb.

It suddenly felt like flashing back to the day she was arrested.

Hook, however, was still caught in shock, and had something so agonized in his eyes at her words, which was nothing like the smirk Emma had been expecting.

"And you've brought company," drawled Cora, taking a step toward Emma. Her smile faded. "However, I was on the fence on bringing you along with me. I certainly cannot trust the daughter of Snow White." And with a chilling smile, she said, "Kill her."

Emma felt fear slide through her like lightning.

She stumbled back another step, her heart pounding.

"We…"

Hook's voice stuttered, and to Emma's shock, he looked afraid.

"We…" he began again, like he was clawing for words. "We don't have to kill her. We… we can take her with us. Use her."

Emma froze.

He was trying to save her?

And his last words were a lie.

He was stalling.

"Hook," said Cora, in a terrifyingly quiet and frigid voice. "I allied with you under the condition that I had your full loyalty." She took a step toward him, and Emma nearly saw him flinch. "Kill her," she demanded. "Or I will kill you."

Hook was frozen.

But then, his eyes shifted to Emma.

Something horribly sad in them.

And then quickly— "Swan, run—!" he breathed.

Cora's features twisted, and she reached for his chest.

His heart.

His eyes shut.

And Emma's feet moved instinctively, throwing herself in front of him.

"EMMA!"

Emma felt Cora's hand sink into her chest, making her gasp like she'd swallowed ice. She felt the cold grip of fingers like claws curl around her heart and pull—

—but her heart didn't move.

Emma's eyes opened, seeing the witch's hand still in her chest, yanking at her heart that wouldn't move.

"What—?" she gasped, furious as she kept trying.

But then, a brilliant light exploded from Emma, the power of it so strong it struck Cora, throwing her back dozens of yards, crashing her into the ground, unmoving.

The light faded, and Emma stumbled, gasping, putting her hand to her chest.

"Emma!"

Suddenly he was touching her, his hook at her side to steady her, his hand finding her face, looking into her eyes with such a strong worry it made her lose her breath.

"Are you all right?!" he breathed.

"I… think so," said Emma breathlessly.

"Why did you do that?" he gasped.

Emma blinked, realizing what she'd just done.

She nearly died for him.

"I don't know," she whispered, looking at him.

Though she was no longer unsteady, he didn't let her go.

And it felt like she needed support now more than even before.

"You saved my life," he breathed, shock and awe coloring his blue eyes even bluer.

"You saved mine," countered Emma softly.

A moment held them in tense silence.

He was still looking at her, eyes inches from hers, and she couldn't tear hers away.

And his brows twitched, as if with curiosity, as if with wonder, and before she knew it he was leaning in and she was meeting him halfway.

The kiss felt like nothing she'd ever experienced.

It felt like speaking everything that had been in the tension between them the past two days.

He pulled back, their eyes opening, both of them caught in the shock of it.

But he broke the moment with a look toward Cora's unmoving form, and he said, "We need to get to your friends and then to you land. Quickly."

Still too stunned to speak, Emma only nodded.

And they began to run.

By the time they made it to the base of the beanstalk, Emma was out of breath.

But relief struck her at once.

They were still there.

Mary Margaret was pacing, Aurora was watching her with sad eyes, and Mulan—

….was tied up on the ground, cursing and fighting it.

"Mary Margaret!" called Emma as loudly as she dared as to avoid ogres hearing.

The moment Mary Margaret heard her, she gasped, spinning around.

She wasted no time; she ran, crashing into Emma, and grabbing her in a crushing hug.

"Emma!" she exclaimed, every ounce of worry poured into her name. "You're okay! Oh, my god, you're okay." She pulled back, eyes wide. "Where have you been?!" She suddenly glared at Hook, eyes threatening. "If you hurt my daughter—"

"No, he didn't," said Emma quickly. "He… um, actually… saved my life. A couple of times," she admitted.

Mary Margaret's brow raised. High.

"We found the compass," said Emma, lifting it. "But… Cora found us."

Mary Margaret and Aurora gasped, and Mulan stopped struggling.

"What?" breathed Mary Margaret.

"It's a long story," said Emma, "but she's unconscious and we should really get home."

Mary Margaert looked like she very much wanted to know that story, but let it go.

Emma suddenly asked, "Why is Mulan tied up?!"

"She tried to chop down the beanstalk," said Mary Margaret, using a very parental tone, and Emma winced. "We're going to talk about that when we get home." she said, with a pointed look at Emma.

"She really is your mother," commented Hook under his breath.

Mary Margaret's eyes shifted to him. Warily. "You expect Hook to come with us?" she asked Emma, suspicion and distrust in her eyes.

"Yes," said Emma, the word firm and certain.

"How do we know we can trust him?" asked Mulan as she stood, Aurora untying her.

"Because," said Emma, looking at him. "I do."

Mary Margaret's brow lifted, for she knew just how hard it was for Emma to trust.

Slowly, Mary Margaret nodded.

The other three women started leading the way, and Emma looked at Hook.

He was already looking at her.

And they both smiled.

-.-.-.

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