Charming knew she'd been out all night; she could see it on his face. But her father had been seriously reluctant to agree to the arranged marriage in the first place, and had admitted to her while breaking the news that he had put it off for as long as possible — to give her time to put Neal behind her, she learned later.

Her mother wasn't much more excited about it, but she was a fundamentally practical and generally optimistic person, so she had been emphasizing the fact that everyone said Prince James was unbelievably handsome and a… charming man… and that had been about the extent of positives she'd been able to come up with. Mostly, she'd admitted finally, no one really knew much about him, except that he was kind of distant and sort of cold.

"Well, what does he look like?" she asked her mother, who looked at her and shrugged.

"Didn't see him," Snow replied.

"He never showed," her father added, fussing over the sleeves on her dress out of nervous energy, and gave her a falsely-admonishing smile. "He has that in common with you."

"I showed up," she countered, and her mother snorted, but it sounded fake, too. "I did! You saw me."

"You were at the ball for exactly thirteen minutes, Emma," her mother said, crossing her arms. "I counted."

"Which is showing up," she replied snottily, and her dad looked to his wife and shrugged.

"She has a point," he conceded. "And it is thirteen minutes longer than this prince was there."

Snow opened her mouth to reply, but Red poked her head through the door before she could. "They're waiting on you, Snow," she said, and glanced at Emma. "Wow. You look stunning, Emma."

"Thanks," she answered, and then thought about it as her mother nodded and walked through the door almost like she was going to the gallows. "Wait, Red," she called, and when they both looked back at her, she bit her lip, feeling a little stupid. "You've seen him, right? Is he — " she asked, making a hand motion that she hoped would suffice to say not a troll at least?

"Yeah, I've seen him," Red replied, nodding and laughing a little. "I'm… a little jealous. A lot jealous," she added, and smiled. "Your children will be gorgeous." It was meant in kindness, but it twisted Emma's gut up in knots all the same, and the way her father's fingers tightened on her arm suggested that it twisted Charming's gut up in knots, too.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Snow countered, mock-indignant, and, with a final glance back at them, left for the chapel, and she was alone with her father and her fears.

"Okay, Emma," Charming said, stepping over until he was directly in front of her, looking her in the eyes seriously and taking her by the shoulders. "Do you remember the code?"

She wanted to roll her eyes and smile and hug him and cry, all at the same time. "Yes, Dad, I remember the code," she replied, smiling fondly at him. He'd made her memorize — and swear to use — the phrase 'I miss having peaches for breakfast' in a letter to him if she was in trouble and needed him to come to her aid. He didn't openly admit it, but his concern was really if this guy turns out to be abusive.

Emma's father was, quite possibly, the only person less happy about her getting married and going off to a distant country with a man she didn't know than she was.

"Good. Look at me, Emma," he went on in that serious, urgent voice, eyes locked on hers. "If you get up there and something about him seems off, or wrong, or he rubs you the wrong way, or anything that makes you think he's bad news: you turn and you walk out."

"I can't just — " she started, and he shook his head.

"I will deal with the king and smooth over anything I have to, any way I have to, before I will see you stuck in a marriage with someone who might ever hurt you."

She hugged him tightly around the middle, blinking back tears. "Okay."

"Promise me," he told her sharply, and she smiled up at him.

"I promise."

.

She took a deep breath, eyes closed, and tried — tried tried tried tried so hard — to forget black hair and wicked smirk and piercing blue eyes, as the doors opened and her father walked with her into the chapel.

But, to her absolute and overwhelming horror, she didn't have to forget.

.

He'd only looked at her long enough to see her false smile freeze, before he'd turned back to the altar to hide the wince.

She took his hand with slow, deliberate movements and that same frozen smile, as the minister — a high-ranking knight with dark skin — glanced between them in confusion for a second before starting the ceremony. His words were white noise.

"Would you care to hear an explanation?" he whispered.

"Not particularly," she replied, through clenched teeth. He nodded slightly, as much as he could while being discreet.

"It's a very good one."

"I don't care."

He bit his tongue and suppressed another wince; he'd expected this, but he hadn't anticipated just how angry she would be. "I didn't actually lie to you," he muttered, and her jaw tensed in such a way that said the only reason she didn't hit him right then was because she was in front of so many people and the stakes were so high for her country… and because then she would be forced to explain herself.

"Right," she hissed, teeth clenched, if it was possible, harder, "your name just happens to be James-Killian, yeah, I believe that."

"It is a name I go by very often and quite a lot of people know me by it."

"You have a really fluid definition of the truth, don't you?"

He couldn't suppress the wince this time, because her fingernails were digging painfully into his arm, and deeper with each word he said, and so made the perhaps-belated decision to keep his mouth shut until they were alone. Even if he didn't think she might throw propriety to the wind and attack him if he didn't, it was starting to get hard for the minister to focus and keep the confusion hidden on his face.

The rest of the wedding was a surprisingly-short blur, and he didn't think there was such a thing as a more awkward — or quick — kiss than the one she accepted from him.

She managed a genuine-ish smile when they turned to the clapping crowd, although he didn't bother to because he could get away without bothering — one of the perks of having an ambiguous and vaguely negative reputation.

"Neither of you are going to explain that to me?" the knight muttered behind them, and he shot him an apologetic smile. He might have stayed to explain, but he was completely sure that if he released Emma's arm she would disappear into the crowd and he wouldn't find her again until much later.

"Long story, mate," he replied.

.

She knew he was trying to get her alone so he could explain himself, but Emma didn't want an explanation — especially not if it did turn out to be a good one. If she wasn't furious with him right now, she'd start taking full, mortified stock of all the things she had told him last night, things that he had no need to know about her and which she had only said because she was never going to see him again.

Gods, she had told him about Neal! And the pregnancy scare! They had discussed their sex lives!

Why the hell would he have done that? Did he want some kind of power to hold over her when she got back to his country? How much of what he'd said had been true? Had any of it been? Shit, what was the code? Something about peaches, and —

Why hadn't she turned around and walked out like Dad had told her to? She had objective proof that she was at the altar with a liar and a pirate, both of which added up to the walking definition of "bad news," the bad news Dad had been so worried about.

"Will you at least listen to me?" Killian — or James, although she privately, and somewhat traitorously, thought his false name suited him much better — hissed, trying to pull her closer to him surreptitiously.

"Oh look at the cake," she said brightly, woodenly, as they led the procession into the banquet hall for the after-party and wedding feast, although the thought of it made her nauseous.

"We'll have to discuss it eventually," he snapped, and she twitched.

"Then we'll discuss it then," she replied in a tight voice, cheeks aching from how she'd been forcing them to smile for the better part of the past hour.

He rolled his eyes, and gave up. "Fine," he said acidically, finally releasing her arm. She couldn't immediately run out of the room and hide until the horrid embarrassment faded and/or she had enough wine in her bloodstream to both kill her lingering hangover and make the whole thing seem funny, because she had to smile like a puppet and flit around and be sociable and that traitor in her head wondered what jokes Killian would have made with her to make this party less awful.

But Killian was a lie. It didn't matter if he claimed it wasn't, it didn't matter if she'd seen a whole crew of pirates apparently proving that it wasn't. He was a lie.

He was a lie.

That was it.

Nothing else.

.

She couldn't explain exactly why — probably something to do with the mortification that refused to leave her with how often she was expected to be around him — but she was avoiding her parents. And maybe her mother had sent her, or maybe she had picked up on it on her own, but it was Red who caught up to her and — laughing off the scandalous looks people shot them (and making her laugh a little in the process) — pulled Emma onto the dance floor, using the excuse to talk in semi-privacy.

"You okay, sweetie?" she asked seriously.

"Yeah," Emma replied, too fast. "I'm fine, why?"

"Don't even try it," Red said, giving her a slightly patronizing, but mostly concerned, look. "You're walking around like a doll, not yourself at all. What's wrong with the prince?"

"Nothing," she answered in that same too-fast, completely unfooling voice. "He's fine. You were right, he's beautiful."

Your children will be gorgeous.

It struck her like an arrow and she suddenly thought she might die, right there on the dance floor with her godmother. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's all right," she whispered, "but you look like you need to."

"Did Mom send you?" she asked desperately, and Red just looked at her.

"No, she didn't," she replied, sounding a little offended. "I was watching you the whole ceremony, your parents were busy trying to take stock of the prince and writing up full personality profiles and judgments." Emma almost smiled, shaking her head. "I don't think they were impressed."

"Why not?" she said hollowly, a little desperately. "What's not to like?"

The song was coming to an end, and anyway Red knew when to stop asking questions, but she did lean forward to say, quietly, in her ear: "The code is 'I miss having peaches for breakfast,' and I know your dad said to send it to him, but he's wrong. You send it to me and I'll pay him a visit the next full moon, all right?"

She genuinely smiled at that, and as the song finished, gave her godmother a hug. "I don't think I'll need to, but I'll keep it in mind."

"You'd better," she replied, hugging her tightly. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

.

Emma could only put it off for so long, and by dusk, she was standing in the hallway outside her room opposite him, trying to decide if it would be better to have this conversation here — where someone might (would) hear or stumble upon them — or in her room — where the awkwardness might kill her outright.

He was watching her with those piercing eyes, waiting for her to make the first move, and she realized, dimly, that he'd done that all night, wait for her to act and going along with whatever she said. Interesting, that traitor whispered.

She glanced around; there were guards at either end of the hallway, and… well, he'd have to be in her room anyway, for the show of things.

He followed her in, his fingers light on the small of her back, and for a second, she gave into the sensation and acknowledged the way her stomach flipped at his touch. She closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

"All right," she said finally. "What's this great explanation?" He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off suddenly. "Actually, no, start with explaining to me how you weren't lying to me."

"Killian Jones is not my birth name," he answered, like that meant anything, "but I've been using it for the better part of ten years and everyone who doesn't live in a palace or a castle knows me by that one."

"I live in a castle," she snapped, "and was apparently engaged to you! I didn't deserve to know the truth?"

"What would you have told me if you'd known?" he asked in exaggerated curiosity, and she glared. "How much would you have said about yourself?"

She wanted to lie and say she wouldn't have been much different, but he didn't give her the chance.

"And don't even try to tell me you would've been honest," he cut in caustically. "It would be a lie. You'd've said nothing."

"So?" she spluttered, throwing her arms open wide. "Why did you need to know? This is just a — a political contract, it doesn't — "

"You'd rather be married to a man you know nothing about?" he countered. "You'd rather be standing here wondering if this stranger was going to take what he's supposedly owed tonight?" He paused, as she looked at him, uncertain, and his expression darkened. "If you believe for one second — " he started coldly, and she shook her head.

"I don't," she said immediately, truthfully, but then the bitterness rose up in her, and with it, the desire to draw blood. "I — no, I don't think Killian would, but you're not Killian, are you, you're Prince James."

Finally, the tense propriety he'd maintained snapped, furious at her mistrust. "You think I would — I didn't lie to you, Emma!" he spat, stepping forward in anger and freezing as she stepped back against the door again. "I am not going to hurt you," he hissed in a low, incredulous voice. He closed his eyes and his jaw clenched as he regained control of himself. "And I didn't lie. In fact, I was more honest with you last night than I have been today. D'you think I want to be king?"

Emma didn't answer, shame already creeping up her neck but too proud to admit it.

"I hate it, I've hated it since I was old enough to think about it," he said, running a hand through his hair. "So I started volunteering for any diplomatic mission to anywhere, so long as it got me out of that damn castle. I bought a ship," he went on, shrugging. "I made up a fake name and I bought a ship and anytime I'd get the chance to leave, I'd take it and pick up a crew and make my own way wherever it was I was going."

"And became a pirate in your spare time," she said slowly, stepping forward, and then the venom came back out as that sunk in. "You're a prince, you don't need any of it, but you attack people and steal everything they have just for — for the fun of it?"

He rolled his eyes. "I've never claimed to be a good man — " he started, and she cut him off with a harsh laugh.

"And that makes it so much better?"

" — and," he snapped sharply, "I don't steal from my own people, and when I dissolve a crew I've picked up, they split everything between themselves. You're right, I don't need it," he conceded, but without any real concession. "And you're right," he added in caustic brightness, "I do it because it's fun — and you know you'd do the same if you had the chance. You and me, we're a lot alike."

She wanted to scream at him that he was wrong, but he wasn't, and she couldn't come up with a decent response; so, she redirected the subject. "So, what was the point?" she asked, voice shaking with either anger or hurt, and she didn't want to examine which. "You hate it, you planned to leave it — you asked me to leave with you! Why did you come back, why did you — " she tried to stop herself, but couldn't. "I could've stayed, I could've been free," she whispered (hurt). "You hypocrite," she shouted, hitting him — hard — in the chest several times, trying not to cry. "You hate it as much as I do, but you locked me into it!"

His tenuous control snapped again and he shoved her against the door, grabbing her hands and pinning them to the wall on either side of her head, leaning in disconcertingly close. "I came back for you," he whispered, in a way that suggested he might be thinking that was a mistake. "If I hadn't returned, what would've happened then?" he hissed coldly. "What would've happened when your parents needed to make another alliance? D'you think he would give you any choice?"

In a flash, Emma understood, but the anger in his eyes and still poisoning her blood made her rise to it. "And you have?" she countered, seizing onto the only thing she might be able to refute at all.

"If you would let me!" he snapped, and finally shoved himself away from the wall, startling her. "Yes," he shouted, "I hate it as much you do, but if I'm to be trapped in it — " he cut himself off, clearly fighting to control himself again, and more or less succeeding " — if I'm to be trapped in it, it will be on my terms, or not at all."

"And what about — " she started, but he cut in before she could finish her sentence and, in all likelihood, piss him off worse.

"You can be free," he said, teeth clenched, and then opened his arms expansively. "I'm your husband now," he explained, in false cheer, "which means I officially have the authority to say I have no authority over you."

She froze against the wall, unwilling to jump to any conclusion about what he meant. "Something I probably wouldn't get from another arranged marriage," she supplied hesitantly, and he gave her an annoyed, incredulous shrug, like why the hell are you so mad at me for this?, a question she was beginning to ask herself, too.

"Yes," he replied, tension falling from his shoulders and slowly calming down. "You don't have to come with me," he explained, and she couldn't look him in the eyes. "And if you do, you can leave whenever you like, do whatever you like, because — " he laughed a little " — I can promise you, sweetheart, I'm not selling my ship."

I'm not selling my ship, that traitor in her head repeated. You can do whatever you like.

Emma had never been any good at swallowing her pride, but the anger had faded and been replaced with horrid, crushing remorse, and now she had to come up with a way to apologize that hopefully didn't involve admitting she'd been wrong.

"The reason I liked you is because you were independent and refused be shamed for it," he said, like he almost regretted it. "I don't believe such a rare woman should be caged."

She stared hard at the floor several inches beside his feet; the past tense wasn't lost on her. "I'm sorry," she whispered, clutching her elbows, because it was all she could say.

"That's nice," he replied coldly, voice barely louder than hers.

.

Propriety, and the traditions held to political marriages, were a bitch.

He had offered to sleep on the floor, but that would have only made her feel worse, but he refused to let her sleep on the floor, which left them with only two options: either share the bed, or share the floor.

It probably said too much about each of them that they chose the floor.

For the first quarter of the night, anyway, until Emma finally had enough of laying cold stone when there was a large, comfortable, warm bed right there. "Killian," she hissed, because he just wasn't a James to her, and because she knew he had to be awake too. "I think we're being stupid."

He didn't respond for a moment, just long enough to make her think that maybe he was asleep after all, but then he sighed. "I have been more comfortable," he grumbled, and she couldn't stop herself from laughing and covering her face even though he wouldn't have been able to see her even if there wasn't a bed between them.

"It's a big bed," she sighed, standing up and crawling in. When he didn't follow suit, she shifted to the other side and leaned over, glaring at him in the darkness. "Do you need a hand up?" she asked flatly, guessing that he would be too stubborn to move. She could barely see the glare he gave her as he relented and stood to get into the bed, but knew it was probably a mean one.

Emma curled up on the far edge from him, but still couldn't sleep in spite of her bone-crushing exhaustion; the guilt was only getting worse as she lay (technically) next to him.

"I really am sorry," she whispered, half-hoping he had already fallen asleep. "I just… panicked."

He didn't reply, but she wasn't sure it had anything to do with sleep.

.

She had made the mistake of taking the eastern side of the bed, and when dawn came — brilliant and early — it woke her up and ignited one hell of a headache.

"Oh, gods, am I still hungover?" she muttered into her pillow, and was surprised to hear chuckling behind her; the memory of the previous night crashed over her suddenly, and she winced, face already burning hot. She'd lashed out at him, less out of anger than embarrassment and pent-up frustration with the whole arranged marriage in general, and now that she'd slept on it and calmed down, she could accept that this was — quite literally — the best possible way this situation could have worked out for her.

He'd made it the best possible way the situation could work out for her, and she'd attacked him for it.

"You said you could handle it," he mumbled, maybe teasing or maybe mocking (depending on whether or not he was still angry), and in a voice low and hoarse enough to make her suppress a shiver.

"You may have noticed," she replied flatly, "but I have a real problem with admitting defeat."

"Oh, I'm aware," he said. "Pride is most definitely your mortal sin."

She almost denied it indignantly, but then realized that she would be proving his point if she did. "Yeah," she answered, wincing. "I'll admit that. What's yours?" she asked instead, finally turning to look at him and finding, somewhat uncomfortably and somewhat consolingly, that he was watching her carefully. He took a while to respond, long enough for her to become disconcertingly aware that he — admittedly, like most men — slept without a shirt on.

"Wrath," he admitted finally, and it took her a second to remember why he said it. "Followed closely by pride… and I believe lust and greed are not far behind." He gave her a half-apologetic smile. "I can't help it, I'm a man of many vices."

"You're in good company, then," she replied, turning away from him again because she wasn't sure she could keep up a conversation while he was looking like that and looking at her like that. She couldn't really explain why, but it had become a matter of, well, pride to her that she wouldn't be the one to give in first, that she would at least maintain the show of being unaffected by him. Distantly, she thought that maybe he was aware, and maybe this was a form of punishment for the things she'd said yesterday.

Maybe their game was still going.

"Please, darling," he said sardonically, and she could almost hear him rolling her eyes. "Compared with me, you're the very definition of virtue."

She snorted. "You have a seriously messed-up definition of virtue, then. I get nasty when I'm mad, and jump to conclusions — " he snickered at that, and she winced " — and I'm jealous, and lustful, and — "

"Really?" he challenged, cutting her off, and she caught her mistake seconds too late to draw it back in. "Lustful, are you?"

She hadn't heard or felt him move — damn feather beds muffling everything — and jumped when his fingers ran lightly over her exposed arm, drawing goosebumps and making her tense in an attempt to avoid giving herself entirely away. "That isn't what I meant," she said, and was gratified to find that it sounded reasonably believable.

He should not be allowed.

"Sweetheart, you do know," he whispered, perilously close, "don't you: you can't lie to a liar"

Yes, he was definitely taunting her: he knew she was too proud to give in at this point (although she was beginning to care less and less about winning their unstated game), and she had the sneaking suspicion that he'd push her into giving in to him and then walk away without even giving her a taste. Because he was as stubborn as she was about proving points, and wrath could take many forms.

"So you admit you're a liar," she replied, and her voice came out rougher than she'd like, fingers tightening in the pillow as his hand trailed up her arm and over her shoulder, and began tracing — with the lightest of touches, dear mother of all things holy, he wasn't even fair — abstract shapes on the center of her back.

"As are you, my dear," he countered, and this time she did feel him shift closer, breath hot on the side of her neck. "In fact, you're lying right now."

"I am lying in a bed, yes," she snapped, too fast, too hoarse, trying much too hard. He laughed darkly, and his hand flattened on her back.

"Your heart is simply pounding, love," he whispered, close enough that his stubble lightly scratched her earlobe. A shiver ran unwillingly down her spine, made worse as his fingers followed it to about halfway down her back; there was no way that winning this game could possibly be worth it.

But just as she was about to cave in and throw herself at him, a heavy knock came at the door, shattering the atmosphere, and he growled, rolling away, onto his back. "Yes?" he snapped irritably; Emma took the chance to collect the scattered pieces of her thoughts and try to decide if she was relieved or furious at the person knocking.

(Roughly equal concentration of both, she concluded. Pride: 1, Emma: 0, Killian: cheating.)

"It's time to get up," her father said, voice muffled by the wood, and she groaned into the pillow. "You'll miss the tide if you wait much longer."

Emma jumped out of bed immediately, well aware of what would happen if she didn't, and ignored the way his eyes followed her as she stubbornly stalked to the wardrobe and began pulling clothes out of it with perhaps too much gusto. "I'm up," she called. "Be out in a minute."

"Right," Charming replied, hesitant and awkward and audibly uncomfortable. "I'll just — Right."

She laughed, and then made the near-terminal mistake of glancing back at the bed, where Killian was lounging — like he owned it — with arms open and resting on the headboard, watching her with particularly intense eyes. When she did glance at him, he shot her a devilish smirk and made a point of looking her over in that same mentally-tearing-her-clothes-off way he had when she'd first met him.

With more than a little difficulty, and just a shred of smug satisfaction, she rolled her eyes and walked into the powder room, locking the door behind her.

.

She didn't see him when she stepped back into the bedroom, and for a moment, she thought he'd already left, but then she closed the door and he caught her wrist, pulling her back and around and pinning her to the wall like he had last night, arms pinned on either side of her head, but in an entirely different way.

He had been waiting behind the door. What a — what an ass!

His eyes gave him away, and it occurred to her suddenly that maybe she had won, maybe he was through playing — and thank all the gods for that if he was, that traitor in the back of her head whispered.

"What, exactly," he hissed, thumb pressing into her palm, "do you want from me?"

Even if she'd had a good answer, she didn't think she could come up with it right now; his hand was slowly crawling up to her own and the only thing she could focus on was the texture of it, callused and cool and strong. All she could do was stare into his eyes and open her mouth ineffectively to talk, and he took a step closer, raising her arms above her head as he did.

Off the top of her head, Emma knew at least three ways to get out of this hold if she desired — he'd left his entire torso exposed, he was more than close enough to headbutt, both of her legs were free to kick — and a tiny part of her wanted to make use of it, just because no one dominated her like this.

The rest of her was distracted by his mouth and his body heat and his hands and his eyes and — he could tell, he could see it, he was searching her face and probably finding what he wanted, but they were still both too damn stubborn to make the first move.

"I'm waiting," he whispered, barely an inch from her face, and — and screw it, just screw it.

She closed the distance between them and kissed him, hard; his reaction was immediate and overwhelming, releasing her arms, sliding one hand around to the back of her head and the other around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and —

"Emma, really," her father's voice came from the other side of the door, accompanied by several sharp knocks. The back of her head hit the wall and Killian groaned into her shoulder.

"Damn that man's timing," he snapped, and Emma snickered, almost against her will.

"I think he does it on purpose."

"I know he does it on purpose," he muttered. "There's plenty of time to catch the tide."

"He thinks if you're on time, you're late," she replied, and slipped away from Killian, determinedly not looking back at him even as she felt his eyes on her. "Dad," she said, finally opening the door and looking her father in the eye. "It has not even been ten minutes, stop being impatient."

"Oh," Charming replied, and she could tell — from his tone and the look on his face and just logic, really — that he had, in fact, been trying to break up anything that might be happening in her room. "You're… almost ready," he muttered, redness steadily creeping up his neck, and she couldn't help but laugh at him.

"What did you think I would look like?" she asked innocently, and he opened and closed his mouth several times before nodding.

"I'll be, um. In the dining hall. Because breakfast. Is there."

"That sounds lovely," she said sweetly, and closed the door, still shaking her head and snickering.

But when she turned around, Killian was leaning against the wall, watching her with an odd expression, halfway between affection and bitterness. "You won't come, will you?" he asked quietly, and she looked away, because she didn't know what to say or do. She wanted him, but she really didn't know him that well and she really didn't want to leave everything behind for politics and a man she hardly knew but she wasn't sure they'd be able to just pick up where they'd left off if she stayed and she'd always wonder if —

"Ask me later," she whispered, and he nodded slowly.

.

He didn't ask her later. She suspected he didn't have to.

When she walked into her room after breakfast, a silver coin, old and worn and still sticky from alcohol, was sitting on the bureau.

I'm not selling my ship.

Her dress suddenly felt unbearably stifling.

.

She turned the coin over and over in her palm, not really seeing where she was going. Dad had been so relieved when she'd told him she would stay, at least for a while longer, until she was good and ready to go in her own time; Mom had watched her in a way that she wasn't sure she'd liked.

She found herself standing at the main doors, staring at them blankly, and she started violently when someone placed a cloak over her shoulders.

"This used to be mine," Snow said, smoothing out the wrinkles and coming around to look her in the face. "You'll need it; winter comes on faster over there than it does here."

"Mom, I said I'm not going yet," she replied, laughing a little, and recieved her mother's tried-and-true yeah, sure look. "I'm not!"

"Well," her mother said, shrugging, "it's chilly out there anyway, and I don't think you actually said goodbye. That's hardly proper." She led the way through the doors, arm linked with hers. "I mean, he is technically your husband, and he seems decent. He deserves a goodbye at least, don't you think?"

Emma watched her mother carefully. "What do you know that I don't?"

"How to manipulate Happy into talking," her mother replied matter-of-factly, and she gasped, offended and betrayed, but Snow shook her head. "I can't believe I didn't think to ask him anything before now. It seems so obvious."

"What did he tell you?" she asked slowly, and realized that they were taking a lot of shortcuts through the city, bringing them to the harbor much faster than Emma would have if she'd been alone.

"That you went out last night with the prince — a man you thought was a dashing stranger — and came back as happy — and horribly drunk — as he'd ever seen you," she answered, smiling both apologetically and affectionately. "I'm impressed at how well you hid that hangover, by the way. I think your father and I were the only ones who picked up on it."

Emma laughed into her mother's shoulder. "I thought I was gonna die," she croaked weakly. "I still have a headache."

Snow laughed out loud. "You should've invited me," she said petulantly. "I could show you how it's done."

It wasn't like she hadn't gotten along with her mother — it was just that she'd never felt like they had that much in common, and she'd always just been closer to her dad, ever since she could remember. But right now, she was thinking that her mother understood her much better than she'd ever given her credit for.

And just like that, they were at the harbor, and Emma pulled her mother's cloak tighter around her against the chill of the sea breeze and the sudden goosebumps that had risen at the sight of Killian standing at the docks, arguing with someone dressed up entirely too fancy for his own good. "I'll be right back," she said, and Snow looked at her.

"No, you won't," she replied, voice soft and tender. "I'll tell them, don't worry." She paused for a moment, taking Emma's face in both hands, and then kissed her on the forehead. "I love you."

"I'll be right back," she repeated.

.

"I am not having this discussion," he was saying in a low voice as she walked up behind him, feeling awkward as hell. "I don't give a damn what your law books say."

"But it isn't — it isn't proper, my lord," the man replied quietly, in a tone that said he'd had this argument a thousand times before, and lost every time.

Emma was robbed of her chance to take him by surprise when one of Killian's crew — it turned out to be Smee, that little bastard — whistled at her. "We was wondering when you'd show up!" he cried. "Thought for a second we'd be leaving without you."

Killian turned slowly to see her, but she couldn't look right at him just yet. The silver coin was digging into her palm.

I'm not selling my ship.

"You will be," she replied, and was a little disappointed when his expression didn't change. "I just have to talk to the captain for a second."

"Well?" Killian asked, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow, and Emma glanced to Fancy Pants behind him with a look that said everything she needed to say.

"Right," the man muttered, turning and stalking off.

She opened her mouth to form the word goodbye, but what came out instead was, "Do you really form a new crew every time you take a trip? I thought they were supposed to be more… I dunno, permanent than that."

He blinked. "That is what you came here to say," he replied bluntly, incredulously, staring at her; she suppressed a wince, and when she didn't say anything else, he shrugged in exasperation. "It's mostly the same group," he answered, a bit irritably. "They usually live quite comfortably between journeys and prefer to sail with me. The cut of the treasure is larger than among most other crews."

"Right," she said slowly, looking at the ship. "That makes sense."

You can do whatever you like.

"Is that all?" he asked coolly. "Now we are on the clock, so if you've got no further questions…"

She met his eyes, and couldn't come up with anything else except the rising to desire to distract him, waste his time, make him miss the tide so he'd be forced to stay just a little longer. What had she come here to say? "I… no, that's all I had to ask."

"Right," he said, emotionless, and started to walk away.

Emma tried again to form the word goodbye, but instead: "I'll come with you," she called out, and he turned around again, face unreadable. Mentally, she cursed her mother for knowing her too damn well, but she couldn't take the words back and honestly had no desire whatsoever to do so. "On one condition."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Without thinking about it, she flicked the silver coin to him, and he — impressively — caught it, eyes flicking down to his hands and then back up to her. She smiled. "We take your ship."

Killian gave her an almost fiendish grin. "And the scenic route, perhaps?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely," she replied matter-of-factly, smirking as she breezed past him, toward his ship. "I mean, what kind of ruler could I be if I've never seen how other cities and countries function? And besides," she whispered, pausing at the gangplank, "I'm still a point behind you."

"Two points, darling," he countered, sliding a hand around her waist and guiding her onto the ship. "You never did explain to me how it was my fault that you didn't think your bet through," he explained, and then leaned in to whisper, "also, the number was fourteen. I almost didn't catch the hair sticks."

"I think you cheat," she muttered, looking at him suspiciously, and he raised his eyebrows, smirking.

"Pirate," he explained. "I believe that actually means you're three points behind me, doesn't it? You've got a lot of catching up to do, love."

"Oh, believe me," she replied, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "I will."

.

—and i don't know where i'll be tonight
but i'd always tell you where i am.

.

.

.