|i|

His mouth is still tingling from the shock and enthralment and sheer delight that had been their kiss. He tap-tap-taps his fingers against his lips, as if trying to retain the memory of it; the taste of her lips brushing aptly across his, sweet and benign at first before deluging in it completely, sweeping from mouth to mouth with arrant force. It's as if he can feel the weight of her lips disappearing; ghosting over his in a taunting manner, almost dreamlike. He runs his thumb over his lips once more, securing the thin cleft upon which Emma had kissed and doing his best to keep it there — to keep her there.

He doesn't ever want to forget it, because he isn't sure if it's going to happen again anytime soon — or rather, anytimeat all.

Emma does her best to avoid him, but he doesn't take it to heart because he knows not to expect her to warm up to him instantly. But he also doesn't expect her to completely snub every attempt he makes at conversation without so much as a grunt.

When he finally does catch her alone, piling up the more angular twigs for smaller fires, he stops her in her tracks. Her gaze falls to the wood as she proceeds to eye the stack of planks in her arms more intently.

"Swan," Hook murmurs, his voice coming off more sheepish than rehearsed. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't they be?"

"If I didn't know any better, lass, I'd say you were avoiding me." He frowns. "You can barely even look me in the eye, what's that about?"

"Nothing," she says, but the trivial word escapes from her lips too quickly. "It's nothing, Hook."

"If you say so," he replies tautly, his jaws clenching.

"I do."

Emma moves to walk past him towards the camp, but Hook is still unsatisfied. He detests loose ends, especially with Emma, and he feels their loose end becoming more and more detached; it's hanging too freely, and he fears that it will only grow more difficult to mend the tether. If she walks away from him again, Hook will just feel her tugging at the loose end more forcefully, imploring it to break off altogether. Her brittle gait comes to a halt as he idles in front of her again.

"Wait, Emma, talk to me." His forehead is creased deeply with fret and she can feel his gaze boring into her, making her skin jitter and prickle with unease. The pile of sticks are already starting to make her arms ache but she's still fixated on them, trying too hard to ignore the way his voice almost breaks into a plea. "Please."

"Hook, I—you…" She breaks off mid-sentence; except that is the end of her sentence, because she shuts her lips tight.

"Swan?"

David rustles in through the bushes, and Emma has never felt more relieved. She doesn't glance at Hook once as she follows her father back to the their camp. Her flaxen hair whips pliably against her back, and he sees her shoulders tense as her footsteps die away. The time for her tall, looming wall that she has spent more than two decades building, to come crumbling down, is not today.

She can't say that she's waiting for the day it does, though.

|ii|

I'll never stop fighting for you. Never.

They're hemmed in Hook's thoughts, the words; encircling his mind like a haunting cadence. It's not just a promise from Neal to Emma, it's a promise that only further enhances that of Hook's pledge. When I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it…

The vow corrals itself so deeply into his mind that he almost doesn't realise Neal's heavy palm on the shoulder of his coat. It feels more patronising now than supportive, and Hook resists the urge to shrug it off. Before the damned Echo Cave, when he'd only carried nothing more than the knowledge that Bae — Neal — was alive, he'd had a sliver of hope that the two of them would mend their frayed relationship. He'd be lying if he said that he didn't prepare a tear-inducing speech just to bury the hatchet between them.

But as quickly as they'd found him, Neal's declaration of his undying love for Emma only made Hook realise that whatever he'd shared with the lost boy on the Jolly Roger was gone, perhaps even permanently, and the acquaintance he'd intended to share with Neal would just be further strained.

Emma is still where Neal has left her, probably too astounded or overwhelmed by Neal's 'secret'. Hook thinks back to his own secret as he paces towards her.

"Swan." He greets her with a rather chastened smile on his face. "How are you coping so far?"

"Now's not really a good time, Hook." Emma wipes forcefully at her eyes. "I'll see you back at the camp."

"No, wait, just…" Hook's fingers go to wrap around her arm. "Don't push me away again, Emma. I need to know how you're doing."

"You want to know how I'm doing?" The smile that cracks on her face is disdainful; spiteful, at the very least. "I'm just perfect."

Hook blanches at her tone. Intuitively, he releases the grip on her arm and moves his fingers behind his head to knead at the back of his neck. Emma's hands are balled up into fists at her sides, and she almost spits her next words through her teeth.

"I just found out that my father can never leave the island. My mother outright admitted that she's unsatisfied with her life, with me, and the man I've spent the past ten years trying so hard to move on from literally vowed never to stop fighting for me. Not to mention the fact that it's already been three weeks on this goddamn island and we haven't even gotten close to finding my son."

Her voice is unsteady and tears are clearly threatening to spill from her eyes, but Emma keeps it together. She always keeps it together no matter how awful things get, and it's this tenacity and staunchness of hers that had convinced Hook she would make a great pirate (despite also being the first of her qualities to have sparked his special attention). He glances down at the sod beneath their feet, willing himself to look past the fact that Emma has just blatantly disregarded everything he'd had to say in the Echo Cave. He fails considerably, and the fact alone cuts through his chest like a sluggish dagger, piercing right through his heart, and he lets out a shaky breath before finally looking into her glassy eyes.

"What about me, Emma?"

"What about you?" Emma blinks, and it takes Hook a long moment to realise that she's genuinely oblivious.

"You heard my secret," he says, still unable to wipe off the disbelief on his face, "yet you haven't said a word about it."

There's a long pause as her gaze locks in his. Her prior smile is upturned on her face, and the only thing that's running through Hook's mind is It was just a kiss. Why Emma would expect him to simply tuck it away in the back of his mind is beyond him. Perhaps it's because in her mind, he's still nothing more than a pirate; a swashbuckler always looking for the next perilous adventure, too occupied in handfuls of harlots to recognise the significance of love and what it means to be consumed by it. He wonders then if she's forgotten about the futile centuries he'd spent avenging the murder of Milah, his first love.

"I—I can't, Hook."

"What is it that you can't, Swan?" He closes his eyes and feels his body sag, but not out of weariness. "Enlighten me, please."

"I just…" This time, Emma closes her eyes; practically squeezes them shut, and he can tell that she's frustrated. He reads her like an open book, and there's clearly something she wants to say — perhaps even multiple things. But all that comes out is, "I just can't."

He doesn't say anymore, just leaves the conversation as open-ended as they've both made it to be. He doesn't want to push her too close to tears as she'd just been before. Instead, he only sighs as she brushes past him without another word. And he realises then that she's just as scared of opening up as any lost orphan girl would, and that her hesitancy to trust anybody has simply stemmed from that.

Abandonment has done her worse than it had anyone he's ever seen.

|iii|

He closes the door behind him. Emma shrugs her coat off her shoulders and almost immediately, he notices her quivering — and not from the cold, either. Her fingers shake violently as she flops her coat over one of the chairs. In fact, her entire figure is so tenuous that for a fleeting moment, Hook expects her to collapse onto the floor altogether. Emma collects the half-empty glasses from the table and teeters towards the sink. Hook simply watches on, puzzled.

"What are you doing, love?"

"Cleaning up," she replies, heaving a sigh at the pet name. "I'm going to bed; Henry's expecting me first thing in the morning."

"Swan—"

"He's a monkey." She shakes her head. "I mean, he was a monkey — he… he's always been a…"

"Swan."

"I can't believe that for a second I actually…" Emma lets out a breathy laugh and shakes her head again. "Saviour."

"Emma, I…" Hook drops his gaze. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter. We're going back, aren't we? Back to Storybrooke?"

"Aye, but if you…"

"If?" Emma laughs again, and the bitterness in it makes Hook's face crumple up. "There's no 'if' for me, Hook; only 'when'. These kinds of things; they're not in the cards for me, remember? I just have to keep going no matter what."

He sees it then — the drained look behind her unflagging eyes, drawing out all the energy from her wobbly limbs. She barely even has time to breathe; things are always whizzing past, one stumbling block after another. And because of this, it's easy for him to believe that the time will never come when she may even have the slightest feeling for him the way he always will for her. Emma's life is one never-ending adventure, only more hazardous and life-threatening than either of them could ever hope for.

Her gaze lingers to the door, and he realises that she's waiting for him to leave. She wants nothing more than to be alone, and as much as it pains him to watch her crumble, he knows better than to push his luck. He wants to sit at the table again; he wants to clink his glass with hers and tell her about the throes he'd faced in the painfully long year without her. Instead, he only lets out a long breath and glances at her.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Swan."

"Wait," she calls, and he freezes in his tracks. "Where… where are you staying, anyway?"

"A little run-down motel not too far from here." He notices her lips almost tugging into a smile (or at least, becoming less of a frown) and he nods. "A bit like Granny's, actually."

"Oh." Emma nods back. "Good. I'll… see you tomorrow then."

"Right. Good night, Emma."

"Night, Killian," she finds herself saying, but he's already out the door and her voice sounds too faraway to feel like her own.

|iv|

Despite missing his ship, Hook still finds himself wandering aimlessly along the docks, especially at night. Ever since he taught Henry how to navigate by the stars, he's spent a fortnight admiring them himself. He's forgotten just how mesmerising they look, strewn across the cobalt sky like far-off gemstones. He often climbs up the neighbouring ships (it's almost tempting to just hijack one of them to go off and find his Jolly) and leans against the hull. Pulling out his pocket telescope, he focuses the sky into view and watches as a brilliant, flaming star falls off balance and travels, ever so slowly, down from its rooted path. Glancing at its tail, he realises it's a comet.

Before he can even make a wish (not that he's accustomed to wishing upon falling stars), he spots a sliver of ash blond hair making its way — her way — towards the very ship he's on. He puts away his telescope and gazes at her with his own eyes instead (because she clearly shines brighter than any star possibly could) while she scrambles up onto the vessel.

"This isn't your ship."

"Good eye, lass." He sighs, because the statement alone is enough to evoke the memories of Ariel and Blackbeard and his stupid, stupid mistake that he longs to put behind. "Aye, you're right. It isn't."

"Well, where is it?"

"Gone." Hook doesn't bother elaborating, and Emma doesn't bother pressing him on about it. "What brings you aboard the—this ship, Swan?"

"Henry couldn't stop talking about the stars," she says, giving the ghost of a smile, "so I wanted to see them for myself."

"Looks like I've grown on the lad, haven't I?"

"Looks like it." She tilts her head to his side and smiles. "So come on, show me something, Hook. What's out there?"

"Beauty in all its abundance, Swan." Hook pulls out his telescope and holds it out to her. "And you're in luck; there's a comet out tonight."

"There is? Let me see!" She practically snatches the telescope out of his hands and fumbles with it. "How do you…?"

"Here, lass, let me." There's an amused look on his face, and though Emma would normally be annoyed by his self-satisfaction, tonight she couldn't bring herself to be. Hook unfurls the telescope and brings it closer to her face; in the process, bringing his own face closer to hers as he adjusts the level of the telescope. He tries not to let himself be shaken by the fact that her fair hair is pressed up against the side of his face. He chastises himself for allowing the gap between them to be fastened. He shouldn't be this close to her, what with the curse on his lips —

"I see it," Emma breathes. "Wow, that is something."

"Yes, it is," he agrees, his gaze not so much meeting the flaming star as it is fixed upon her.

"So," she says, handing the telescope back to him, "you wanna tell me what's up with you lately?"

"I don't know what you mean, love." His hand goes to rub at the back of his neck. "I've never been better."

"Have you forgotten about my superpower already?" Emma's tone is stern, but the look on her face is teasing. "Regina's been teaching me magic, so I think it's even stronger now."

"I'm not lying," Hook says defensively. I'm merely evading the truth, he adds silently. "There's nothing going on, Swan."

"Well, something's bothering you, I can tell." She rests her chin on her folded hands. "But I can also tell you're not going to spill tonight, so I'll just drop it."

Hook brings his fingers to his lips. The last time he'd felt the weight of her lips there, it had summoned up his courage to finally let Milah go; to rediscover new love in its purest form. Now they've become a weapon to the owner of that very pair of lips that had brought him that much hope. All it takes is one kiss to obliterate every ounce of magic in Emma; the power that she'd carried with her since the moment she'd been born.

"Listen, Emma, I—"

The clock strikes midnight. It's not unusual, except it gets louder with each bong and there's green smoke rising from the bottom of it. It's billowing in the air, heavier and thicker as it's jetting out in streams. They hear the familiar cackle, followed by people crawling out of their houses screaming. They see blinding light and Regina's fireballs, and just like that, Emma flees from the boat and heads to the clock tower with Hook following closely behind.

|v|

"What are you doing here?" Her voice sounds unbearably tired; so delicate, so close to falling apart. He observes one of her hands balled up into an indignant fist, and he thinks that for a moment she's going to take a swing at him. He slides his hook around one of her wrists just in case.

"I came by to check on you." His voice sounds equally weary. His words come out as raw and honest as they ever do, but never thrusting enough so as to snap at her. "You ran off as soon as the celebrations began."

"They're celebrating in advance," she says morosely to the linoleum below her. "I don't like to celebrate if I know it's not over yet."

"And it will be," he says, his eyes glowing with the same optimism as they had back in Neverland, back when their mission had been to save Henry. "Have faith, Swan."

Emma slams her free fist on the kitchen counter. She's far too exhausted to be persuaded to believe in herself. Not after her parents, the dwarves, Belle and Ruby and Archie and even Regina, whom she would've known better. Zelena is still out there, and even though they haven't heard from the Witch in a while, it doesn't mean that they've won. She could be planning her ultimate scheme right as they were celebrating at Granny's, and Emma had felt something was off. Emma takes in a sharp, impatient breath, and there's a dull edge in her voice when she speaks up again.

"I know." She grips the lip of the counter. "It's not like I'm not reminded to have faith every day."

"I only—"

"You're only looking out for the best of me, I know, Hook. Everyone already is, so what difference does it make if you tell me, too?"

"It makes plenty difference."

"Why?" Emma narrows her eyes convulsively.

"I love you," he chokes, almost vulnerably, as if he can't help himself. As if he can't help loving her.

"Hook." Something flickers in her eyes but it's only fleeting. Emma continues to stare straight at him; through him, and her brows pucker in a frown. "We don't have time for this."

He's staring back at her, his mouth agape with incredulity. It stings, her words; twisting his heart this way and that in his chest, leaving it bent and misshapen and cold, much like having its fire hastily stamped out. Her rejection always stings, but this one seems to last longer than any other. This one sounds too much like confirmation; a less steely rendering of no, almost bordering on never.

He swallows hard and drops his gaze to the floor. His hook is still wound around her wrist. She doesn't wriggle out of it, though, just waits patiently for him to let go.

He doesn't want to.

After the pause draws out longer than he pleases, he finally releases the cool metal. There's a crescent-shaped groove in her skin where the likeness of his hook had been pressed in earlier. Emma's mouth is slightly ajar, as though she wants to say something, and there's a soft, indistinguishable look in her eyes.

He waits for what feels like a millennium, but eventually she turns. Her fair, golden hair hisses behind her, as it always does, and her boots clack away from the kitchen counter — away from him.

[1.]

Her eyes are wide and gaping, and it's almost as if she's staring up at the brilliant sky; except her mouth is also wide and gaping, and no hint of breath comes out of it. He doesn't want to panic just yet, though he's licking his lips much more than he usually does and his hand is trembling as he presses down on her ice-cold chest that's turning more glacial with each passing moment.

"Damn it, Swan," he slurs, "don't do this now."

There's a deep, legibly physical hole in her chest where the Witch had ripped her heart out before vanishing into thin air. Magic had prevented Zelena from obtaining it painlessly, and now Emma is not breathing and bleeding out so much that Hook is virtually terrified at so much blood and gore and redness oozing in between his fingers and gathering into a clotted plash in his palm.

The first thing Emma dreams of is him.

She dreams of a fleeting moment of happiness, delineated in the guise of Milah and a young Baelfire. Baelfire, spitting hate through his teeth as he begs to be taken away from him. His shattered face as he cradles a dying Milah in his arms. I love you.

She dreams of the face quickly shifting into a repulsive, black hatred; shoulders tensed, jaws clenched, fingers clamped together and digging into his only palm. Bloody crocodile.

She dreams of Neverland in all its haunting glory as the same broken face spends each passing day hell-bent on revenge. His centuries' worth of hatred slowly (but surely) melting away when he meets her. She dreams of the betrayal he feels when he's abandoned on the beanstalk, and the betrayal she feels when she's abandoned in Rumplestiltskin's cell.

Then Neverland squeezes through her mind again and Emma jolts out of her slumber then because she feels it searing her lips, their kiss. She feels it shaking in every nerve and every fibre and every speck of blood cell of her being. She feels his anger dying away as quickly as putting out a raging fire. She feels the dim yellow of the moon, the ebbing warmth of the sun, and every known emotion spouting in her chest with the swelling force of the ocean.

The first thing Emma sees is David's wide, anxious eyes slowly relaxing. He tells her where everyone is, everyone except the only person she's actually curious about. But he understands, and nods.

And then she makes her way to the docks.

She's half-trotting, half-running towards his ship — the ship — and her heart is rattling freely in her chest but it feels all wrong, leaping in too many directions at once; as if it doesn't know what it was doing, as if it's not used to being lumbered in her chest. As if it doesn't belong to her. She jerks to a halt and feels the skin around it, stitches upon stitches to cover up the bloody mess of Zelena's fist driving into her chest, yanking her heart right out of it.

"Swan," he greets, just like he always does — just like he always will. "You shouldn't be here."

"Why not?" Emma blinks momentarily.

"I meant here." Hook gestures to the docks around them. "Out of the infirmary."

"Hospital."

"Yes, that." He gives her a smile, but it vanishes when he sees the anxiety on her face. "What's the matter, Swan?"

"You…" Emma is still clutching at her chest, feeling the foreign thing beating violently against it, and she shakes her head. "Hook, you didn't."

His jaw tenses when he realises what she means. "Aye."

"Aye? Aye what? Are you completely insane?" She feels the back of her eyes prickling, but she keeps it together anyway. "Why the hell would you do something like this?"

"Why else do you think?" His voice is so quiet, so gentle that Emma relaxes a little. "You know perfectly well why I did."

"I…"

"I would gladly give heart up for you, Emma, my life even more so. I would think that after everything I've proved, it couldn't possibly surprise you anymore, could it?"

Emma runs her fingers across her chest again, feeling a surge of warmth spread through the heart — his heart. He had no obligation to save her. Her actions were her own choices; she'd chosen to let Zelena rip her heart out. Hook wasn't supposed to give her his own heart as a replacement. And yet he did, and she can see it on his face that he doesn't regret it, that he would do it a thousand times over if it meant that she would live.

Her tall, ever-rising wall starts to moulder; she can see it being chiselled into a pile of dust. She's been denying it for too long, yet the desire is still fresh in the back of her mind where she'd pushed it down in hopes of never having to confront it. And so she does what she'd done in Neverland — she coils her fingers around the neckband of his waistcoat, pulls him towards her and presses her lips as firmly against it as she can. Hook's hand naturally goes to wrap around her head, letting her fair hair ravel between his fingers, and he lets his mouth wander over every untouched corner of hers, exploring each area and enclave of it. He feels the same tingling sensation as he'd felt when she had first kissed him, only it's stronger and more prominent and more real.

"Emma," he breathes, "what—what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry," she says, and he briefly panics because he thinks she's talking about the kiss. "I'm sorry I didn't… I should've done this sooner. I shouldn't have let myself push you away, push this away just because I thought it wasn't in the cards for…"

"Emma." He strokes a thumb across her jaw. "You know I would have waited. Months. Years. Forever."

"Good," is all she says, because in the next moment she's kissing him again, and again and again, making up for all the lost (and wasted) times.