I'm so, so sorry for how long this has taken to get out. Lots of things happened and then refused to happen, but at least it's like 10k? One day there might be more in this verse, but I make no promises, because, as we've all seen, I suck at actually updating.

Storybrooke feels different.

She can't tell if it's because of everything that's happened to her, or if it's the town itself...but things are different. Maybe it has something to do with the pirate who follows her around like an unfortunately sexy lost puppy.

Seriously, when he said he wasn't going to leave her, she hadn't really thought he meant he was never going to leave her side. That's an exaggeration, but not by much. Every time she turns around, it seems like he's there. At the office(he drops by to, as he claims, prove he's not causing trouble, which part of her appreciates but the majority of her loathes, because it means that she gets no work done while he pesters her with questions and flaunts his ass like it's his job), at the diner(seriously, he must be best friends with Ruby at this point, the number of times she's walked in to find him sitting at the counter, chatting with the waitress), even in her own fucking apartment. That last one is, admittedly, her own fault; she didn't exactly leave that extra key sitting on her counter just for decoration. She had hoped he would see it when he helped her move, and the next time she'd looked, it was gone.

She didn't know why she didn't just give it to him; he spent his nights (and, apparently, most days) with her, and that had always been her hope. They hadn't talked about them, not really, since the return to Storybrooke. And so they kept to their ambiguous relationship; they slept together and he ate breakfast with her and stared at her and waited for her. Sure, he was less than saintly, stolen kisses and innuendo and "forgetting" to put a shirt on and "accidentally" losing track of that wandering hand , but he was still there, wasn't he? Just like he'd promised. The bastard refused to give up, and somehow, it was working.

It was hard, trying to remember all the reasons they were a bad idea, why he was a bad idea. And maybe that's why it feels like everything has shifted, why the air feels a little less sharp, why she finds herself smiling just a little more.

She's given up on trying to explain her actions to herself, to justify why she lets him in. Honestly, she lost that fight the night she gave into his comfortable embrace. It's a battle not worth fighting, because either way, she loses. She had never planned on letting him get to her, but just as certainly, she had, and he'd firmly cozied up inside her walls like he had been meant to be there all along.

Either way, he's not here now, and she has actual work to do; she's been gone for so long, first to the Enchanted Forest and then to Neverland, that it seems like it's been ages since she last did her job. The neatly-filled forms stare back at her mockingly, daring her to process them.

Sighing, she closes her eyes. As much as she dislikes dwelling on her personal life, it's still infinitely more engaging than filing paperwork and filling out more forms. When she'd taken the job she'd known there would be paperwork, but she hadn't anticipated the sheer volume. Especially when David was off for the afternoon, Mary-Margaret insisting that she needed his help to repaint Emma's old room.

She'd tried really hard not to think about what else her parents might be doing. Instead, she looks at her watch, groaning when she realizes it's nowhere near quitting time. As if trying to give her an excuse to get out of the building, her stomach growls, a friendly reminder that she'd skipped lunch in favor of a nap.

Shoving away from the desk with her toes, she grabs her jacket and stands. To the diner, then. And hopefully, her unconventional roommate would be elsewhere. Sharpening his hook or shining his buckles or something.

She winced as she stepped outside; even in her head that sounded positively dripping with something suggestive. She was starting to sound like him. It was a truly horrifying thought.

The bell on the door tinkled brightly as Emma pushed in on it, and her eyes instantly fell on the only person sitting at the bar; actually, the only customer in the restaurant.

Of course. Because her luck was never that good.

Hook was amicably chatting with Ruby, a faint smile playing at his lips as he picked at the plate of fries in front of him. Both of them looked over at the door when she entered, and both lit up with smiles on seeing her.

It's was eerie. Not for the first time, she realizes she's dreading the day when they start plotting against her. Shaking her head, she took the seat next to Hook. Ruby raised an eyebrow at her.

"Slow day?"

Emma groaned and slid her elbows across the bar. "Paperwork," she huffed, and Ruby nodded understandingly.

"Noticed you weren't in for lunch; you want the usual?" Emma nodded, dropping her head into her hands.

"To go, please," she added as Ruby headed off. As if he had just been waiting(and in reality, he probably had) for the dark-haired woman to disappear, Hook's hand appeared on her thigh, far too high for where they were, considering anyone could walk in at any point.

"You know, if you'd like to make your afternoon more interesting, I'd be more than happy to help, darling." She didn't have to even look up to be sure he was smirking; she could practically hear it dripping off the words.

"If you don't move your hand, you'll find yourself with two hooks in a minute, buddy," she said without malice. His hand lingered for a moment, gently squeezing before obligingly vanishing from her leg. A tiny part of her missed the connection, but it wasn't right. They were in public, for christ's sake.

And she probably shouldn't be letting him touch her like that anyway. The fact that that's a secondary concern in her own head isn't lost on her. She's slowly crumbling, and she's finding the bad memories associated with him seeming more and more surreal, the nights where he holds her like she's the most important thing in the world shining brighter than anything else.

He'd said that he'd be there, and here he is.

"Thinking about me?" His voice is startlingly close to her ear, and she jerks, her head whipping up to see him leaned towards her, his face inches from hers. She licks her lips involuntarily, and regrets it when his eyes flicker down to her lips, his whole body swaying towards her with the movement.

"Maybe," she replies, turning away from him again. It would be useless to deny; he would just pester her until she told him the truth and then he would crow at her and it would be incredibly embarrassing. And she's trying to be less closed-off to him. He's making an effort, she should at least do the same. The idea seems rather foreign, but she's trying, okay. That should count for something.

"Good things, I hope?" He's smiling at her, now, soft edged and stupid. Affectionate. It curls her toes, honestly, sends a happy little thrill through her. It's childish and insignificant, but it makes her feel good. His stupid smiles and light-hearted flirting and constant presence feels good.

There. She admitted it. That's one step down, nine hundred and ninety-nine to go.

At that very moment, Ruby arrives, handing Emma her food. Hook looks more than a little crestfallen at the interruption, but Emma reasons he'll get over it. It's not like he never sees her or anything.

"Thanks, Ruby." She grins at her friend, purposefully not looking back at Hook. "I'll see you later," she adds, still ignoring the pirate as she slides off the stool.

"What about me?" He's pouting at her. Jesus. She can't resist, really; playing with him is just too much fun.

"Yeah, you'll probably see me later at some point too," she says, furrowing her brow for a minute, as though contemplating the idea. Behind the counter, Ruby is trying (and failing) to keep her grin hidden.

Quickly, before he has a chance to react, she reaches out and ruffles his hair, sticking it up in all directions before spinning on her heel and heading for the door. His indignant cry of "Emma!" is like music to her ears. It has her smiling all the way back to the office.

When she finally pushes her own door open, completely exhausted but unable to stop thinking, it's to a completely unsurprising scene. The sight of Captain Hook sprawled across her couch, watching some stupid daytime talk show, should probably be more surreal, but this is the fifth time she's caught him gazing intently at the screen, soaking up the "reality" of her world.

It brings a stupid smile to her face that she tries desperately to stifle. She hangs her coat up and toes out of her shoes, kicking them off by the door before turning back to him, only to find her breath catching in her throat when she meets his gaze.

His attention is focused on her, now; the TV plays on in the background, a dull hum, but his eyes are quite firmly fixed on her. The couch faces away from the door, so he's had to tip his head over the back, craning his neck, which must be uncomfortable, but christ, is it worth it. Just from here she can see the expanse of his neck and the beginning of his chest, dark hair curling teasingly, the way it doesn't disappear into his shirt, because he doesn't seem to understand that the point of a button-down is to actually button the fucking buttons.

"Hey," he says softly, and it snaps her out of it. She realizes she's been staring for far too long at the curve of his skin. Already she can feel the blush creeping up her neck, and she tries desperately to stamp it out.

"Hey," she replies, though it definitely comes out as more of croak than an actual word. His lips quirk up at the edges, and she knows the heat on her cheeks must be obvious. It occurs to her that he's doing it on purpose, the asshole. She narrows her eyes at him and his grin blossoms into a full-blown smirk. Yup, on purpose.

"You suck," she hisses at him, stomping away from the door, towards her room.

"But you love it!" His shout is mirthful even as she slams her door, and she can hear him laughing at her from the other side.

And, she realizes belatedly as she brings her fingers up, there's a smile forming on her own lips, and she can't stamp it out.

Goddamn it. Why is it so hard to remember what he's done? Who he's supposed to be? All the times just his presence had made her want to cry. How alone she'd felt because of him. Because right now, her mind is flooding with good memories; their second, third times, discovering new things about each other even as they struggled to keep quiet. Three evenings ago, when she'd been grumpy because Henry was growing up, angry that she'd missed the times in his life when he'd needed her, the way he'd pulled her tight against her chest and told her that her kid would always need her.

The worst part is that he makes her forget, about everything. About being hurt and broken and feeling like no person could actually care for her without being obligated to do so.

His stupid innuendos are starting to put her at ease instead of raising her hackles.

Sighing, she pushes herself away from the door, stripping her clothes off mechanically before throwing them in a pile near the door. She's going to have to face him again, and there's something swirling inside her, pressing her to make a move, to do something, a weight that is getting harder and harder to ignore. Her thoughts are a mess as she picks out an over-sized t-shirt and shorts from her dresser, perfectly acceptable for spending the evening at home in.

Her body is perfectly willing to let him back in; bruises and aches long-forgotten in the giddy rush of how he looks at her. And her head has fallen in line, rationally noting that the intervening months have been nothing but peaceful, that he has been honest and good and that the man who once never did anything for anyone else has actually been trying for her.

The only hold-out is her heart, of course. Because that way he looks at her; it may be a rush, but there's always a crash. She's more scared of herself than she is of him; has been for a long time. He's already woken up something inside her that she'd thought long-dead; something so intense that it hurts less to give in and let it wash over her. She actually cares, and that means she can't just shut out the terror, the fear that if she starts something physical they won't just find themselves in the same places all over again. That her heart won't end up broken again. That she won't be proven wrong in trusting him with this.

She shoves the idea out of her head the instant her eyes start to sting, desperate to keep any outward sign of her internal struggle out of her face. Instead, she steps into her shorts, yanking them up before she throws on her shirt and swings her door open, stalking back into the main room.

He's still on the couch, and she notices as she rounds the corner to sit next to him that he had in fact actually buttoned his shirt. Well, partially. Two buttons, half-way down, have been slipped into their holes, but for all the good that it does; he might as well not be wearing anything at all. And the stupid pants he's wearing, slung low on his hips, don't help matters any either. He looks like a mess, and it's still fucking sexy.

She blinks, hard, one, twice, trying to clear her head of those alltogether dangerous thoughts. She turns her attention back to the TV, instead, for the first time noticing that apparently his daytime show is off the air and instead he's watching...Wheel of Fortune? Scoffing, she turns to him, their shoulders rubbing as she swings her arm over the back of the couch.

"Is this all you do when I'm not around? Watch TV?" She raises an eyebrow incredulously.

"What?" He doesn't seem to understand, his eyebrows coming together in puzzlement. "What's wrong with this box? It's extremely eye-opening about your world, Swan." The question from his gaze fades as he leans towards her, his head tilting mischievously. "And no, it's not the only thing I do without you," he finishes with a wink.

Emma rolls her eyes, more than accustomed to his never-ending innuendos.

"Really? You seem to be unable to button your own buttons without me. I doubt you can do much else." She nods her head at his shirt. "Do you need help or something?"

His eyes light up at that. "Darling, you can help me any time you like, if it bothers you." He's grinning again, wide and teasing. She sighs and presses her lips together, desperately trying not to let him see her own amusement.

"It doesn't bother me. It's indecent. What if someone were to see you like that?" She raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't falter.

"Then I'd ask them if they wanted to help me," he sasses back. "Besides, I think you're a liar. I think it does bother you." He's inching closer to her, his arm already instinctively curling around her shoulders. Quickly, she turns her attention back to the television, where Pat Sajak is asking one of the contestants about his family. He's from New York and he has three daughters, she notices, desperate for the distraction. It doesn't seem to phase Hook one bit, his breath ghosting across her shoulder, the side of her neck, his nose brushing the curve of her neck, eyelashes fluttering against her skin. She barely represses the shiver that goes through her when he presses a soft kiss against her jaw.

"Hook..." she starts, ready to tell him to stop, to reestablish their barriers, but he stops on his own, one small press of his face against her neck before he pulls away and turns his attention back towards the television.

The answer is the Mississippi River, which she knows Hook is never gonna guess, but when she flickers her eyes over to him, he's gazing intently at the screen, as though he can puzzle out the answer with sheer willpower.

She sighs, and as though he knows what is coming, his arm across the back of the couch tightens.

"We need to talk." His face doesn't change, but she can feel his body stiffen where they're pressed together, thighs brushing. He brings his arm down from behind her, and clicks off the TV with the remote. For a moment there's nothing but silence, the voice of one of the contestants echoing in Emma's head.

"Are you going to tell me to go?" He speaks first, his gaze still locked on the TV. She doesn't miss the way his jaw clenches. "Because I will if you want me to." He looks at her, then, the full force of his gaze turned to hers. "But you should know I meant what I said. I'm not going to leave you."

She's not sure what exactly she had meant to say, because it's all thrown into the air with the way he's looking at her. Intellectually, she's always known that the kind of man who loves fiercely enough to seek revenge for three hundred years must be intense to face, but here she is confronted by just a tiny speck of that and it still feels like drowning in a tsunami.

Instead, she reaches for his fist, balled in his lap next to the forgotten remote. Carefully, she peels his fingers back and slides her own palm flat against his, just as he'd done with her so many nights ago.

"I don't want you to leave, okay?"

Like his strings have been cut, he heaves in a huge breath, all the tension rolling out of him. He squeezes her hand gently, his gaze softening, searching, now.

"Then what?" He's quiet, his eyes flickering across her face as he asks the question.

Honestly, she doesn't know. They do need to talk, to figure this out. To figure them out. A label, because they're not sleeping together(except for how they are), and they're not together(except for how they are). How is she supposed to explain it to the ones who've started noticing (her parents, her son, Ruby) that they're different? How can they explain what they are without more questions, questions that have answers she's never planning on telling?

How does she explain that against everything, she cares more than she should and it's terrifying because what if he breaks this again?

She realizes that he's still waiting for an answer, still waiting for her, thumb absently brushing against her hand. Her mind flashes back to another time, hazy, now, after all that's passed since then, sitting together on a beach, trying to figure out how to move forward. He was waiting for her then, even before she completely realized it.

Before she even registers what she's doing, she's moving forward, pressing her lips against his. He's surprised at first, she can tell from the way he freezes under her, but he loosens readily enough, his hand untangling from hers to come up and cup at her cheek. They've kissed before, short presses that have only gotten out of hand a couple times, leaving her flushed and him apologetic. But this is the first time she's instigated it, and she knows it surprises him, though he doesn't let it show. He seems willing to continue letting her lead, his lips opening against her softly enough to let her decide if she wants to go there. And she does. Oh, she does. It's an awkward position, but she brings her hands up to the sides of his face, kissing him with all she can, licking into his mouth, savoring the taste of him.

His hand moves to the back of her skull, cradling her head gently as he deepens the kiss in return, letting her set the pace but still kissing her back as passionately as he can from the angle. He moans against her mouth, desperate and aching, and it sends a shiver through her, sparks under her skin. She slides her legs under her, pushing forward against him without breaking the kiss, and he obliges, one foot sliding up onto the couch so she can settle between his legs as he lays back across the arm of the couch.

Dimly, she registers that his other arm has snaked around her waist, holding her against him even as she grips his shirt, pressing against his mouth, unwilling to break apart. She releases his shirt, her hand easily sliding inside, against his chest. The buttons offer little resistance, popping both at the same time as she slides her hand lower, skimming across the flat plane of his stomach and then back up his side. He nips at her lip and then sucks it into his mouth, fingers tangling in her hair. She groans and feels it reverberate in his chest as he echoes her. His hook rubs against her side idly as she presses further against him, slotting her hips against his. She's burning and still she wants more; she settles for tightening her grip on his ribcage, pressing further into his mouth. His hand brushes the top of her hip, slides under her own t-shirt. And suddenly, everything is wrong. As though by magic, his touch makes it feel like the skin there is burning and freezing, like rubbing ice on burn, and instinctively, she hisses, pulling away. He freezes, instantly withdrawing his hand like she's on fire and he's scared he'll be burned. Which she does kind of feel like, right now, and she hates herself for it. Her skin is on fire and it feels like she just jumped into frigid water. Every point where they're touching, where she can feel the heat of his skin, is like a pinprick of light, and it makes her uncomfortably aware of their positions.

When she finally slides her eyes up to meet his, they are wide, fixed on her, waiting for her reaction. "Fuck," she swears under her breath as she tips her head down, hair brushing across his bare skin. She's intimately aware of that, too, that he is laid out under her like some kind of sacrifice, offered up for her. His arms have fallen to the sides, carefully away from her bare skin, and while he looks wrecked physically, shirt torn open, lips bright and kiss-bitten, hair sticking up in every direction, his eyes look absolutely destroyed when she meets his gaze. And not in a good way.

"Shit, I'm sorry, fuck, I didn't-" he stops himself, fingers twitching at his side. He wants to touch her, she knows, recognizes that tic of his. He wants to do something, but he doesn't want to make things worse. He doesn't know how to be there for her without actually being there.

"No, stop. Stop apologizing. Just-" she pauses to heave out a sigh. "Just stop." Slowly, she lifts herself up and away from him. Leaving him hurts almost as much as staying, and how fucked up is that? Her skin is coming alive, again, conflicting signals screaming at her to touch and feel and just let go while others urge her to curl into a ball and never leave her corner of this couch.

She hasn't really thought about that day since they got back home, even before then, but she can feel it, dangerously close. What she'd felt after, the anger and the pain and the desperation, all bubbling right under the surface. All she has to do is let them in, and they'll be right there, ready to consume her again.

"Hey."

His voice draws her attention out, up, to him. Apparently he'd followed her up, which she appreciates, because she's not sure she could handle him looking like that, looking at her like that; too many conflicting things running through her mind for it to be even remotely safe.

"Don't leave me." His hand is very carefully sitting in the middle of the couch; close enough to touch, but far enough for her to ignore if she wants. He's trying to watch her without making it obvious that's what he's doing, but he sucks at it. Just like he's always sucked at pretending he isn't always focused on her.

She takes a deep breath, shoving away what is lurking just beneath the surface, and reaches out. His fingers close around hers and she nearly cries with relief, nothing but the feel of his calloused fingertips against her skin, his palm meeting hers. Tears threaten the edge of her vision, top and bottom turning watery.

Taking her lack of violent reaction as a sign, apparently, he leans over, his arm curling around her shoulder to press her against his side. All she feels now is warmth, comforting and soothing, and it makes her feel like a child for her previous reaction. Still, she presses her face against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, spicy and just there, breathing through the fading tears in her eyes. The cuff of his brace rubs against her arm gently as he tips his head down to press a kiss into her hair, surely not missing the way she clings to him like he's the only safe haven.

It's fucking ironic, is what it is.

"I love you," he murmurs quietly against her head, the words muffled by her hair. But she hears them clear enough. She's not sure how to react. He's never said those exact words, but he's made it obvious how he feels. It's not news. Except for how her heart clenches up and beats a little faster. But she's so tired, emotionally and physically, that she just doesn't want to address it. Opening that can of worms right now would be a recipe for...well, nothing calm.

And maybe she doesn't want to deal with her own feelings, her own insecurities and issues. Or the fact that her instinctive response is to simply reply in kind, and that has never been her. Not in the past decade, at least.

Thankfully, it seems he wasn't expecting a response, because several long minutes pass where nothing happens; he continues stroking her arm as her breathing evens out.

"I don't want anything from you. I don't expect anything from you, okay?" He pulls away from her enough to catch her eyes, make sure she's looking at him. His voice drops as he continues. "I don't want you to do something you aren't one hundred percent sure about. And," his lips quirk, "I think you're still only about ninety percent sure about me."

She snorts, grateful at the escape tacked onto the end there. She's not ready to talk about this; she probably never will be. Talking isn't her strong suit. "Ninety percent? Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

His trademark smirk is firmly in place now. "I do believe you kissed me just now."

"Don't remind me," she teases back, pulling away from him enough to stretch her arms out over her head, hoping he'd caught the teasing lilt to her tone. She appreciates this, that he doesn't press her, not on this. That every time he does something so stupidly sweet and understanding he always manages to throw something onto the end there for her to latch onto, restore their lighter dynamic.

"Just keep telling yourself that, darling." She didn't have to look over to know he was grinning. The couch shifted and she glanced over; he had eased himself up off of it and was now standing over her. Despite the voice inside her nagging that it was probably a bad idea, she let her eyes roam over his exposed chest, the sharp lines of his hips disappearing into his pants.

It feels like she's on a fucking roller coaster; one minute she's panicking because he touched her, and the next her skin is heating up because she wants to touch him again. She wants to drag her lips across his skin, feel him tremble under her fingers.

He shifts, crouching a little in front of her, interrupting her thoughts and forcing her eyes back up to his face, where that smug look is quite firmly taunting her.

"Now" he says pointedly, breaking the silence, "I'm going to go take a very cold shower."

"Sorry," she replies, even though, selfishly, she's not actually that apologetic. It's nice to know that she affects him, even if she still feels miserable for her reaction. He hums, grin never breaking.

"I'm sure you are." He chuckles before pressing a quick kiss to her lips, and then he stands. It serves to bump her heart rate, and she's pretty damn sure it's not the same panic as before. He's half-way across the room when she finally looks up, a small smile tugging at her lips when she notices that the buttons from his shirt are falling down the crack of the couch. It's not like he was using them anyways, really, and it makes her feel warm inside.

"Hey," she says, and he pauses, turns back. "Don't wait for me, okay?" He nods curtly, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he disappears into her room. In a minute, she hears the door to the bathroom shut, and, eventually, the pipes coming to life as he turns the water on.

She's still staring into the space where he had been standing, though, her mind racing as she taps her fingers idly against her lips. She stays like that for a long time, just thinking, letting her mind skip from thought to thought, moving when any one becomes too much to consider.

All she knows is that their little encounter had made some things painfully clear; she wants him, despite thinking that she never would again, and she didn't know how to have him, not without a repeat performance of their painfully awkward moment earlier.

She's so lost in thought that she doesn't notice when the water shuts off and light goes out in the bedroom. It only occurs to her how late it must be when she looks outside and has a moment of confusion at the darkness. Suddenly she feels guilty, upset that she's been sitting here thinking for so long, her mind going in ever-shrinking circles. Sighing, she picks herself up and makes her way to the bedroom.

She pauses at the doorframe, taking in the way he looks, so peaceful in sleep. It's warm in the room, residual heat from the bathroom making it a little hotter than usual. He's wearing his usual fare; shirtless, thin pajama pants that look suspiciously like something her father would wear barely sitting on his hips. He's lying flat on his back, arm stretched out across her side of the bed, as though he's just waiting to pull her against him.

It sends another of those strange, meddlesome pangs through her chest, so she shakes her head and heads over to the bed, crawling in next to him. She throws her arm over his waist, nestling her head against his shoulder. He shifts a little, his arm curling around her.

She feels her eyes drooping, exhaustion taking over. And she lets it, gives in, because she's warm and comfortable, safe here.

When she manages to pry her eyes open, she's still in the same position, and the sky outside her window has just started to lighten.

For a long moment she just watches him sleep from her vantage point against his shoulder. The rise and fall when he breathes, the relaxed lines of his face. The way his fingers sometimes twitch against her side, like he's dreaming of something.

She closes her eyes and presses her face against his skin, enjoying the comfort of the moment, trying to not think of the previous night.

Of course, trying to not think about it is the same as sending a bright flashing sign to her brain that says 'THINK ABOUT IT'. And it's hard, in her still-drowsy mind, to remember why it's a bad idea to think about it.

She wants to think about it, to think about him. After all, she just spent the night in his arms and she was fine. What else can she look for, what else can she expect?

She knows she trusts him, knows with every fiber of her being that he would (literally) fall on his own sword before he did anything to her. The months since that day have more than proved that he was deadly serious when he'd sworn he would not touch her.

But now she was ready; she wanted to touch him. She wanted him to be able to touch her. In her head, she replayed every second of last night, every movement, trying to figure out where it had gone wrong.

Abruptly, she found the moment. His hand had slipped under her shirt, fingers grazing the top of her hip. The realization pushed the last dregs of sleep out of her consciousness, and she eased herself up, frustrated. She wanted to choke on how simple it was. He'd just touched her, quite literally just a brush of fingers, and she'd fallen apart.

And it didn't make any sense; he touched her all the time, little brushes to let her know he was there, easy and gentle and affectionate. Of course, the back of her mind nagged at her, you weren't trying to get into his pants those times.

Sighing, she pulled her feet under her and scrubbed her hands over her face. She wasn't good with words. She didn't know how to explain to him how she felt, how things were different; all she knew to do was to show him, and even that seemed to be impossible.

Slowly she slid out of bed, careful to avoid waking him up. It was early, she noted, glancing over at her alarm clock. Far too early for her to be awake, really, especially on a Saturday morning, but she couldn't curl up next to him and go back to sleep when she was still trying to figure this out. She sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror, hair messy and tousled, shirt crooked over her chest. Behind her in the reflection, Hook slept on, blissfully unaware of her troubles.

She resisted the urge to stomp her feet and yell and demand that all of her body fall in line with her desires. It was stupid and childish but she felt stupid and childish. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she yanked the shirt up over her head and shoved her shorts down. Maybe she just needed a nice, long, relaxing shower. She snagged a towel and headed to the bathroom, hoping he would still be asleep when she got out.

He wasn't, of course.

She came out of the bathroom with her hair still damp, the towel wrapped loosely around her, and headed straight for her dresser. It wasn't until she caught his eyes watching her in the mirror that she realized he was not only awake, but still in her room, sitting on her bed, watching her with amusement and that ever-lurking spark of something more. She nearly jumped out of her skin, her hand instinctively going to pull the bottom of the towel down over the backs of her thighs. She was suddenly very aware of how small it was.

"Jesus christ, Hook, you scared me," she gasped, trying to ignore the way her skin was flushing under his gaze.

"Oh, don't mind me. Just pretend I'm not here at all." A smug grin was plastered across his face as he leaned back against the pillows, his arms going behind his head. She glared at his reflection, but it did nothing to dissuade his expression. If anything, it made his grin wider.

Well, fine. If that's how he wanted to play it.

Meeting his gaze in the mirror, she let the towel drop, kicking it aside when it pooled next to her feet.

For just a split second, his eyes widened, sweeping slowly over her bared skin before snapping back up to hers. And then he slammed his eyes shut, but not before a pained whimper escaped his lips. For a second she marvelled at that. He wanted her; it was obvious, had always been obvious. But he wasn't even looking at her, purposefully not looking, like she hadn't been the one to choose to get naked in front of him.

It warmed her heart even as it sparked a tiny amount of annoyance inside her. She wanted that heated gaze on her skin, she wanted to see those parted lips and desire-filled eyes. Was it so bad if she wanted a little bit of disrespect there?

"One day you're going to be the death of me," he muttered, voice suddenly quite low, though she wasn't sure if it was because she was naked or he was frustrated. Or both. She glanced back to his face. He had clapped his hand over his eyes, pressing firmly against the bridge of his nose; apparently his strength of will wasn't quite that good.

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she didn't. Instead, she reached down, pulling open her dresser to gather together her clothes. But when she reached inside to pull out her underwear, her eyes fell to something else entirely. Tucked away carefully in the corner was something she'd completely forgotten was there. It was the scarf from so long ago, the one from their very first adventure, when he'd bandaged her hand. She'd kept it at the office for a while, but after he'd stolen his hook back and left it behind, she'd relocated it to her house, assuming he didn't want it anymore, entirely unsure why she hadn't just thrown it away, why she'd tossed it in with her mismatched socks.

And remembering the brush of it against her skin, the way he'd looked at her like he would have been more than happy to use that mouth wherever she may have wanted, an idea sparks in her mind. A terrible, very bad idea that sends heat curling under her skin.

She contemplates it for just a moment, wondering if he'd even be up for it. It seemed like an eternity ago when he'd been handcuffed to a bed and full of suggestions; a lot had changed since then.

Abruptly making up her mind, she shifts gears, dropping the underwear and reaching instead for the strip of fabric. It's light; if he wanted to he could probably tear it, but she doesn't think he will. Well, not if he lets her do what she's thinking of.

Quickly, she shuts the dresser and turns around. He's still lying there, hand firmly placed over his eyes, his left arm resting loosely on his stomach. She frowns, her gaze drawn to the brace that holds his hook in place. He doesn't really ever take it off; she has never pried, and it's just become another part of him. But now she eyes it carefully, noticing the lip where it meets his forearm. Yes, this could work.

The thought of him in her bed, naked and panting and begging for her shoots through her mind and she really does not need to be distracted, but she gives herself a moment to appreciate the mental image.

If she wasn't sure before, she's sold on the idea now. It solves the problem of him touching her, and, to be honest, she kind of likes the symmetry of the idea, of him being at her mercy.

Now she just has to see if his interest extends this far. She paces over to his side of the bed, shaking the scarf out so she can gauge its size. It should be more than long enough for what she wants.

"Hey," she says, reaching forward to peel his hand away from his face. Unsurprisingly, his eyes are wide open behind his hand, but they don't drop to her body this time. This time they're firmly fixed on her eyes.

"What are you doing, love?" he asks softly, his fingers refusing to let go of her hand. His gaze shifts to the scarf in her hand quickly, and then returns to her face, curious, questioning.

Suddenly she's nervous, and very aware of his eyes boring into her, her hand pressed tight in his fingers, of how close she is to him, her very naked body leaning towards his. She doesn't know how to explain to him all her jumbled thoughts, the tangled path that lead her here. Instead, she brings the scarf to his hand and starts wrapping it around his wrist, careful to avoid trapping her own with his.

The space between his eyebrows comes together, his eyes still questioning on her, but she ignores them, the air still just edging the line across from uncomfortable. She finishes wrapping it around and slips her hand out of his, preparing to tie the knot. Pausing for just a moment, she looks up, meeting his gaze, asking for his permission.

For must a second he seems confused, and then realization dawns on him, she can see the way it takes over his face, the confusion dropping away. Something indiscernible flickers across his eyes and then it's gone, replaced by the slow crawl of a smirk across his features.

"I knew you were really into tying me up," he breathes, and his sex voice is firmly in place here, even when it dips with amusement. It's everything she wanted, everything she'd hoped for from him, and she rolls her eyes, letting only the barest hint of a smile curl her lips as she ties the knot, perhaps a bit tighter than is absolutely necessary.

"Up," she says, ignoring the innuendo. She pulls his hand over his head by the scarf, looping it around her headboard. The movement stretches her across him, bringing the side of her body close to his head, and he takes full advantage of the moment to turn his head and blow a hot breath across her chest. She nearly loses her grip on the fabric from the sudden rush of heat across her skin, and she mutters a curse under her breath. He just chuckles contentedly and lifts his left arm up so she can tie it as well.

Satisfied, she pulls back far enough to admire her handiwork. His hand is tied against the metal directly, the rest of the scarf looping around the cuff of his brace before coming back around to the front, the whole thing knotted firmly together. There will be no quick way to get him out of this. He tilts his head up to look at the set-up, flexing his fingers experimentally, humming appreciatively when he pulls and can't move.

She really wants to lick a long line down the side of his exposed neck, and abruptly she realizes that she can. And there's nothing he can do about it.

His gaze shifts back to her, and for the first time he lets himself drink her in. She watches him, the way his eyes curl around her breasts and slide down her thighs. Just the way he's looking at her is enough to send a spiral of arousal through her belly and she decides right then and there that she is going to enjoy this.

"Emma," he whispers, and he sounds gloriously wrecked, his voice cracking on her name. She smiles and slides onto the bed, throwing one leg over him so she can straddle his thighs. His pants are already tented with his arousal, and the thrill that she did that, that he is already hard, just from her tying him up and letting him look at her, it sets her insides on fire.

Carefully keeping her hips away from his, not ready to give him the satisfaction of contact just yet, she leans forward, bracing herself over him as she bends down to press a kiss to his chest. His breathing stutters and and he gasps, shifting restlessly under her. So she does it again, moving up across his collarbone. He hisses and tilts his head back, giving her access to the line of neck, and she takes it, nipping and sucking at the skin there. Under her, he moans, a desperate little sound that she's never heard before, even with all the times they'd been together in Neverland.

She pulls away and brings her hand up to the side of his face, tilting his head towards her. His eyes are wide and dark with desire, his tongue slipping between his lips as he pants up at her.

"Gods, I love you Emma," he murmurs. The words are low and reverent and he may have sex on the brain but she's never seen him more honest. It makes her chest feel like it's going to just explode and she can't contain it anymore, she leans forward and kisses him with everything she can, pouring into it the words she can't say.

He surges against her, opening up instantly. She clutches at the sides of his face, licking into his mouth, tasting him, so familiar and bright. It's been a long time since she felt this free, and she is taking advantage of every second, every soft noise he makes against her. She tangles her hands in his hair and shifts forward, pressing their bare chests together; he hisses into her mouth at the contact, and she nips at his lip, enjoying the way his hips skitter between her legs.

Slowly, she pulls away from him, hands sliding down to his shoulders. He's breathing heavy, chest heaving, body twitching under her. It's a heady thrill, a spike of pure power coursing through her. For the first time in a long time, she feels in complete control. But she wants more. So she finally lowers her hips against his, grinding against him harshly. The weight of her body is the only thing that keeps him on the bed, her hands pressing hard against his chest as he pushes up against her, a desperate cry escaping his lips. His hand twists desperately against the material of the scarf, fingers opening and closing uselessly.

She circles her hips again, reveling in the feel of him, the thin cotton of his pants doing absolutely nothing to hide the sharpness of his arousal, the heat of him. Shifting a little, she drags her fingers down across his chest, nails pulling lightly at the dark hair on his chest. His eyes slide shut, back shifting off the bed a little, following the press of her fingers. The muscles of his stomach twitch and flutter when she reaches them, and she enjoys scraping lightly at the trail of hair that disappears into his pants. He bucks his hips up against her, her name spilling out in breathy little moans that only stoke the heat burning between her legs.

Twisting her fingers in the waistband of his pants, she quickly squirms down his body, pulling them with her. He lets out a disappointed noise when when she moves away from him, but lifts his hips obligingly so that she can strip away the one bit of fabric between them. Yanking them off his feet, she tosses them off the side of the bed before crawling back up him to press a soft kiss against his lips. His eyes flutter when she pulls away, his head following her even though the rest of him can't make good on that motion.

All previous plans she'd thought she had made are gone, completely forgotten because he feels amazing under her and it's become a serious distraction. For a moment she considers untying him, just to see what he would do, but she dismisses the idea quickly. She's come too far to risk anything. She wants him, and she can have him, nothing standing between them.

"Emma, if you don't want..." he trails off, misreading her ponderings as hesitation. His face is tilted forward towards her, eyes dark but edged with caution.

For a moment she just looks at him, blinking, digesting what he'd just said. And then she tips her head back and laughs. Shifting her hips lower, she teases her core against his cock, rubbing her wetness against him. His hips buck against her and the muscles in his arms tighten, trying desperately to not pull too hard at bonds holding him back.

"Do you really think I'm backing down now?" She leans forward, bringing her lips to his ear, enjoying the scrape of his scruff against the side of her neck. "When I have you right where I want you?" His breath shudders past her ear and he tilts his head just enough to press hot, open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach, across her neck and jaw, desperate and sloppy.

"I need you, darling," he growls when his mouth reaches her ear, and he tilts his head again, lips coming down on the underside of her jaw, sucking and nipping at the skin there.

Emma chuckles and pulls away, one hand firmly planted against the center of his chest.

"And here I thought I was the one in charge?" She shifts her hips against his, rocking against him. "Don't worry pirate, you'll get yours." At that, she smirked, giddy with the thrill of him, what he was letting her do. "Eventually."

His eyes narrowed at her, but his attempts at looking intimidating were undermined quite forcefully when she brought her hand between them and slid her fingers around him, thumb rolling over the tip of his cock as she slowly started moving. If she had been any less prepared he might have actually bucked her off, the unexpected movement drawing a long cry out of him.

It was like fucking music to her ears. Sliding down his hips again, she caught his gaze, watched the way his eyes widened when she pressed a light kiss to his navel. Slowly, she pulled away from his skin, never breaking eye contact.

"Fuck, Emma," he groaned when she released him, bracing both her hands against his hips. She just smirked at him, enjoying the way his eyes were fixed on her, the way his breathing stuttered when she blew air across his heated skin.

Leaning forward slightly, still refusing to break eye contact, she licked one long stripe up the underside of his cock. He tasted like salt and heat and him and it was intoxicating. She wanted more; she wanted everything.

She moved forward, letting her jaw drop open, eyes locked with his, letting him see exactly what she was doing, exactly where she was taking this. Slowly, she lowered her head, her hair drifting across his skin, and his hips stuttered, an aborted thrust that he fought hard to reign in. Deciding that she'd played him enough, she dropped her mouth on him abruptly, pushing down as far as she could go. His hips bucked against her hands, a long whine spilling from his lips as she bobbed and sucked, her tongue rolling along the bottom of him.

There was no denying it; the way he unspooled under her, a mess of twitches and nonsense words tripping out of him, all of it, it was amazing.

She never wanted to stop.

"Emma, Emma, Emma, oh, Emma," his voice stuttered, hoarse and rough. Under her fingers his skin was hot, his face and chest flushed even as he thrashed his head to the side. The muscles in his arms twitched and when she followed her gaze up she noticed he'd managed to rotate his hand enough to get a grip on the bar he'd been tied to.

She hummed and pressed down further, until his cock was pushing against the back of her throat and she could feel her herself starting to choke, the air in her lungs giving out. It was worth it, though, she thought when she pulled up off of him, to see the way his eyes rolled and fluttered. He whined when he finally noticed the loss of her mouth, but she leaned down and pressed her lips against his hip, his abdomen, his thigh, wherever she could.

Slowly, she moved forward, pressing herself against him as she went, revelling in the drag of her skin against his. Apparently he enjoyed it too, because his tongue darted out, rolling over his lips for a split second before his mouth fell open. He was panting and half-formed curses were coming from his lips, time slowing down when Emma paused and sucked a mark at the bottom of his neck. She kissed her way up his neck and across his cheek, finally meeting his lips again.

He kissed her like he was drowning and she was all he had left. And she returned the sentiment, surging against him, pressing close enough to crawl into his skin. He nipped at her lip, pressed into her mouth, careless of the way their teeth met in his hurry.

Emma circled her hips against him, desperate for some friction of her own as she rocked against his cock, teasingly close. He moaned into her mouth, low and throaty, rumbling through his chest and setting her on fire all over again.

All of a sudden, it wasn't enough. She wanted to feel him pressing into her, she wanted to throw herself across him and just revel in the way their bodies moved together. Kissing him fiercely one last time, she pulled up and away, flipping her hair over her back, knowing full well what she must look like to him. His eyes were half-lidded, his mouth hanging open slightly as he heaved in breath after breath. I did that, she thought with no small sense of accomplishment.

His voice dropped into a long growling sound when she reached between them and grabbed his cock again, carefully lining himself up with her entrance. She pressed down, enough to take just the head of him inside her, and his eyes flew open wide as he sucked in a deep breath.

"Emma, oh, fuck, Emma," he said, his voice rising as she lowered herself down on him slowly. And he was hardly the only one affected. She kept her pace slow even though it was killing her, revelling in every inch of him pressing into her, the stretch and slide and pure heat of him inside of her. He was trying to not thrust up into her and finish the job himself, she could tell from the way his hips stuttered nervously under her palms.

Finally, she was flush against him, so close and she rocked her hips, loving the sounds that spilled out of him in time with her own moans and heavy breaths. It felt like she was speared open, he was so deep inside her, too much and nowhere near enough at the same time. Her legs trembled where she was braced on either side of him.

Slowly, she rose up off of him, using her hands to help lift herself up. And then she dropped back down on him, driving him even deeper with the sudden movement. His head went back, pressing hard into the pillows as he let out a curse. Under her fingers, his body shook with how hard he was trying to not respond to her movements.

"Hey," Emma said, leaning forward over him to press a light kiss against his lips. "You can move, you know." She rotated her hips, rocking against him in short, lazy motions that only emphasized the feel of him pressing into her, hoping to urge him on.

But he didn't take it, instead following her lips, tilting his head against hers, desperately licking into her mouth like he thought she would deny him. She wouldn't, couldn't, not right now, not when she was tangling her fingers in his hair and pressing their bodies so close together. He had found his way inside her, and not just in the physical sense; she was wrapped up so entirely in him, the smell and the feel of him, her mind constantly returning to him, her heart beating out his name even when she didn't want it to.

Finally, he broke away, no longer kissing her but still nuzzling at her cheek, something so gentle and sweet and uncharacteristically him. Combined with her own overly-affectionate thoughts that had spiraled out of control, it made her pull away.

"What's wrong?" His voice was still a little spaced out, light and unanchored, even as his eyes found her face and focused.

"I should be asking you that," she replied, rocking her hips against his to illustrate her point. He hissed and his knuckles went white against her bedframe, but other than that, he was still, unwilling to meet her movements with his own body. "What's wrong with you?"

"Emma…" he trailed off, his head turning to the side, away from her.

"No, don't do that." She leaned forward again, bracing herself over him with one hand while she grabbed his jaw with the other, turning him back to her. "We were fucking every day for weeks, buddy. I know how you have sex. And this? This is not you." Abruptly, like a sliver of ice down her spine, she realized something. "You do want this, right? Oh, god…"

At that, he moved, surging forward as far as he could to catch her lips with his own, swallowing the rest of what she might have said. Slowly, he drew back, their lips barely brushing together.

"I want you, never doubt that, my dear. I want to sleep with you and I want to hold you and I want to fuck you and I want to be the only one touching you." His gaze slipped down her face, from her eyes to her lips before flicking off to the side. "But I don't want to hurt you. Again." He took a deep breath and continued, still not meeting her eyes. "I want everything, and you know I take what I want, I do what I want...and if you continue this, I won't ever be able to let you go. I won't be able to just sleep next to you in this bed without thinking of this."

It wasn't exactly surprising to Emma. She'd known what she was getting into when she crawled onto him.

This time, she knew what exactly she was doing.

"Hey," she said, trying to pull his attention back to her. Finally, his eyes returned to hers, and the mix of emotions there was exactly what she'd expected. He was scared and resigned, still desperately turned on but there was an edge of something else, like he knew she was going to just leave him.

Fuck that.

"Do you think I'm incapable?" she asked, again reaching for his face, forcing him to look at her.

"What?" His eyebrows went up, confusion evident. "No, of course not."

"Do you think I don't know what I'm doing?"

The confusion melted away, understanding dawning on him. "No…"

Emma leaned forward, then, pressing a crushing kiss to his lips, brutally taking what she wanted, nipping at his lips and then pulling away before he had a chance to respond. "Then stop acting like I can't make my own choices and fuck me." She shifted her hips again, rolling and undulating against him, a sharp reminder of where they were still joined together.

Anything he might have been about to say in response transformed into a long groan, and he shifted under her, his knees coming up behind her, forcing her forward and even further down on him. It was Emma's turn to gasp and moan, the angle shifting. Not one to be outdone, she rolled her hips and tilted herself back, enough that she could properly ride him. She didn't bother being slow anymore, and apparently he had gotten the message, because when she lifted herself up, he thrust up, meeting her half-way.

Quickly, they set a rhythm, fast and probably too rough for as long as it had been since they'd been together, but Emma couldn't care, not when he was sparking her with every thrust and her legs felt so close to giving out. Reaching one hand behind her, she grabbed his knee, needing the stability. The other went to her breast, since he wasn't exactly available for the task. She rolled her nipple and kneaded at the skin, revelling in the way it all felt, a heady mix of sex and desire and something she wasn't quite as willing to name. Beneath her, Hook gasped and stuttered out her name, the word rolling off his tongue like he'd been born to say it.

"Fuck, Hook," she groaned when he shifted his hips and took over, setting his own pace that brooked no room for argument. It was all she could do to hang onto him and let herself get lost in the sensation, her eyes sliding shut as she felt the tightening low in her belly that signaled her impending orgasm. She could feel herself fluttering around him, and the way his breathing stuttered, he'd felt it too.

"Gods, Emma, I want to touch you. I want to kiss you and I want to feel you coming on my fingers and tongue and I want to see you fall apart. I want to feel you, love," the words flew out of his mouth, exactly what she needed right then, and she gripped his leg harder. She managed to pry her eyes open to meet his gaze, and his eyes met hers for just a moment before flickering down between them to where their bodies met. "Touch youself, darling." A grin spread across his face. "I'd do it, but I'm a little tied up at the moment."

Ah, there he was. The return of her cocky pirate shouldn't have been as hot as it was, but god it was, and she was utterly helpless to do anything other than what he'd said. Her hand abandoned her breast and slid down between her legs, fingers fluttering against her clit as she bounced on him.

Combined with that spot he was hitting inside her with every thrust, it was enough to see the wave of pleasure crashing over her. She lost herself; dimly she was aware of cursing and screaming, a voice that sounded like her own, the feel of him inside of her, but it all paled in comparison to how she felt, and it went on and on, blurring and sticking together as she finally started to come down.

At first, she realized that there was something warm under her, and then she realized that he was still moving, even with her draped across him like so much dead weight. Soft curses were coming from next to her ear, and without thinking, she opened her mouth and started kissing and nipping at the skin under her lips, tilting her head to follow the line of his neck. Apparently that was all he needed, because his hips slammed into her once, twice more, and then he was coming, her name a hoarse whisper on his lips.

For a long moment she just laid there, breathing him in, enjoying the way their bodies were still tangled together.

"Emma…" he trailed off, his voice hoarse and it should not be twisting up her insides like that, but god, it did. But she slowly levered herself up and off of him, resisting the urge to whimper at the loss of contact. Her whole body tingled pleasantly, the muscles in her legs already protesting. But it was worth it, so worth it.

She tried to untie him as quickly as she could, but her fingers were numb and it took longer than she'd wanted. He sat there patiently, though, his eyes never leaving her. Finally, when she managed to get his hand free, she started rubbing at it, knowing he probably couldn't feel anything, not with how hard he'd been pressing against the knots.

Leaving the scarf where it was, she brought his arms down and pressed them against his chest. He didn't try to move, he just looked at her, that gaze that she was starting to recognize as undisguised affection.

It always made her uncomfortable, but right now, she just couldn't care. Instead, she lowered herself back down on the mattress next to him and wrapped her arm around his waist, her head leaning against his shoulder.

He didn't hesitate to throw his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer. It felt nice, and that wasn't just the post-orgasm endorphins pumping through her body; it always felt nice. The silence wasn't awkward, even when it stretched on long enough for Emma to feel her eyes start to droop. Things weren't perfect, weren't ever going to be perfect...but for now, Emma felt open and bare, and it wasn't scary. She felt safe, and before she knew it, she was drifting. The last thing she remembered was the comforting rise and fall of his chest.

She dreamed of him, of coming together over and over again, of holding each other and stupid sweet words that she hadn't heard from anyone in a very long time.

She woke up to bright light and light kisses on her shoulder, fingers brushing through her hair, a smile pressing against her skin.