Hook sunk. Further than ever before. The bottom of his ship blurred as the depth increased. He held his breath—why, he didn't know—and his throat cinched tighter as the time passed. At last he hit the bottom of the bay. His body floated above its tethered point. The salt still stung his cuts.

His ribs ached. He just wanted to cough. Just once, to stretch them. With eyes shut tight, he pictured clear skies and full sails. He was happy, with a ship to his name and a good crew. The love of a good woman . . .

Oh. Bad place to go.

Images of Milah played across his mind. The fun times, at first. But then she was dead, cold on his deck, and his promise to avenge her echoed around him on the sandy bay floor.

He lungs burned. When he opened his eyes, he tried to blink the saltwater away. He couldn't hold back anymore—he coughed. Water pooled into his mouth the moment his lips parted and slid down his throat. Instinct mandated him to cough again, so he did, and more water followed. The cycle had begun, and Hook fought against the panic as he filled.

It would be over soon. His pulse throbbed in his ears and his heart hammered in his chest, but soon, it would be still.

Please, he breathed, just let her be all right.

Milah hurt to remember, so he remembered Swan. The beanstalk. Storybrooke. Getting hit by that blasted car. The smile he alone coaxed from her.

He stared up through the depths, fixing on the bottom of his ship. As if staring could tell him what happened to Emma. Black spots speckled his vision. He swallowed another mouthful of water.

And then, he saw something. An illusion, surely. A cruel trick of the mind.

The cruel trick of the mind swam until it was in front of him. Reached out hands. Tugged under Hook's arms.

Emma.

She grunted and kicked her feet harder.

What was she doing here?

Frowning, Emma snapped her fingers in front of his face. Tried to, at least. She grunted. She wanted him to swim with her.

Hook didn't understand how, but now was not the time to quibble. He gathered the weights against his body, wincing. She took some of them. Together they kicked and clawed to the surface.

They breached. Hook did his best to float. Emma grappled with the rope lapping against the ship side. She dropped the loop around his waist, cinched it shut, and climbed up the side like she was climbing a mountain. Hook dropped back under the water, cut short after several feet by the rope.

When nothing happened, the panic returned.

She'll be here. Give it time.

The rope tightened. He inched upwards. When his body left the water, the weights dragged behind. His ribs hurt again, but this time, he didn't care. To distract from the broken bones, he looked out over the water.

The horizon had never looked so blue.

He was halfway up when the rope suddenly dropped. He free fell back to the water. The weights pulled on his ankles, and when he hit the surface, he heard another crack from his ribs.

And then he blacked out.

Hand over hand, Emma hauled the rope. It felt like an eternity after she'd reached the deck, to thread the rope lead through as many rigging pulleys as she could find.

An eternity, but necessary. There was no way she could lift a two-hundred pound pirate in wet leather and metal weights without some help from physics.

Even then, it was hard. Her hands were wet, as was the rope, which made it a slippery, prickly experience.

At the halfway mark, it proved too much. The rope slid through her palms. She didn't let go, so it burned all the way. But she couldn't stop it. She heard the splash.

Not again.

With a hard face, Emma grabbed that stupid rope and pulled with everything she had. She walked backwards and wrapped it around the mast, using it as another pulley. This sucker was coming up, and he was coming up now.

Water broke and a body slid past it. That much she heard. She did not heard coughing or breathing. Not good.

Emma hung her head back and huffed as loudly as she wanted to. She leaned so far back on the rope that she was nearly parallel to the deck.

Hook's body rose into sight. She tied the rope off around the mast.

He didn't move as she hauled him aboard. His eyes were shut.

"Absolutely not."

She severed the rope around his chest. She couldn't do anything about the chains. She didn't even take time to free his hands.

The deck would be hard on his broken bones, but she had to resuscitate him. She stretched him out, pumped his chest. Something cracked and she forced herself to keep going.

At the appropriate time, Emma ceased chest compressions. She opened his mouth and blew oxygen into his lungs.

Hook's eyes opened. Emma was above him, giving him breath. Now this was a feeling worth remembering.

He lurched upright. Saltwater spewed out of him, into her face.

"Hey!" Emma pulled out of the fire line.

When he could breathe, Hook dropped his head to the deck. He tried to hold onto the memory. "Promise me one thing, Swan," he said, searching for her fingers with his secured hands.

"What?"

Hook smiled his best version of devil-may-care. "Promise me I can wake up to that every morning."

"Not on your life."

He closed his eyes. "I feel weak. Resuscitate me."

"Get up and steer your dang boat back to Storybrooke."

The doctor entered the waiting room. Emma stood.

"He'll be fine," she answered Emma's question before it had left her mouth. "The nurses are nearly finished."

When Emma asked how he behaved, the doctor's answer made her laugh.

"Dreadful. But I've had more ill-tempered patients."

"Thank you for putting up with him."

The doctor glanced at her clipboard. "How are you doing, young lady? The nurse tells me you're sporting a bruised spot yourself."

Emma lifted her shirt high enough to let the doctor inspect the bandage on the lower half of her trunk. "Just sore when I laugh. I'll be fine. It's him I was worried about."

The doctor handed her a folder of paperwork to take home. "Six broken ribs, two concussions, moderate neurological damage, facial abrasions, one black eye, two puncture marks along the neck, and deep bruises all over his main body cavity. I can't understand your concern, my dear."

Again, Emma smiled.

"He's tough. We fixed up his ribs and bandaged just about anything else we could find. He needs a place to recuperate though, and I'm concerned when he said he has no permanent housing."

"He recently arrived. I'm sure he will look soon."

The doctor nodded. "Be that as it may, if he can't identify his place of lodging, I'm assigning him a spot in our public care facility."

"Uh," Emma shifted. "That's not a good idea. He has enemies here."

"Are you willing to assume responsibility?"

After everything he'd endured for Henry, she'd assume responsibility for every crime, misdemeanor, difficulty, and social faux pas he committed from this point onward.

She was not planning on actually sharing that piece of information out loud.

"Yes," she said. "I will take him."

"Here we are," Emma sang out as she pushed Hook's chair with wheels through her front entrance. When she was distracted with putting her things away, Hook wheeled the chair away from her protective grasp and explored the rooms.

"So," he mused, after finding his way to the entrance of her personal quarters, "to gain passage into your quarters, a man merely needs to be kidnapped, starved, beaten, and drowned."

She grasped the rear handles and spun him away from the room. "Your 'quarters' are over here, my friend."

They entered a small bedroom, single bed, cream comforter, and tan walls. Entirely unsuitable for the amount of time he planned to spend with her.

Hook pouted. "I don't wish to be locked away all alone."

Emma folded her arms. He scrunched his eyebrows and widened his eyes and pursed his lips further.

"I am not falling for it."

But oh, yes she was, if that adorable little quiver in her voice was any indication.

Hook pointed over his shoulder at the main area. "Perhaps I might sleep on yon . . . soofu, or whatever the bloody thing is called."

"Sofa."

"Sofa," he repeated.

"It won't be comfortable enough. I want you to sleep well."

"If that's what you're worried about, love," he murmured, "I've the cure for that."

"I take you in out of the goodness of my heart . . ."

Hook's stomach interrupted her when it gnarled his insides. He grimaced. Emma wheeled him to the kitchen, where she deposited him in a chair before creating a large glass of a frothy white substance.

"What is it?" Hook frowned.

"A nutrient shake. The doctors said you can't handle real food until we help your body recover and rehydrate."

"Bloody doctors," Hook muttered. He gave the shake a dubious groan before he threw it back.

Emma had surprised Tamara and Greg with a furry-fueled attack. What he would give to have witnessed it. She rendered them unconscious and locked them in his ship. Apparently the authorities arrived at his ship only moments after they departed for the large infirmary, but even then, it was too late. They had escaped. Hook didn't care. Emma had been with him at the infirmary-minus one trip that lasted about twenty minutes-and now she was here. Making him vile drinks.

Beautiful.

The "shake" slid down his throat, eliciting a grimace. "I prefer rum," he croaked.

"Yeah, well, none of that for a while, either." Emma slid her hand inside his jacket. She grasped his flask and tried to pull it out before he could stop her.

Hook caught her wrist in the crook of his namesake. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. He trapped her with his eyes. "Are we playing games, Swan?"

Emma dropped her gaze to his hook. She cleared her throat. "Happy with the replacement?"

Apparently, while he lay at the mercy of strangers with plastic hands and white faces, Emma had persuaded the queen to conjure a replacement hook in the stead of the one taken by Tamara and Greg.

"Quite. Although that's nothing compared with how I feel about the nursing staff." He kissed her hand.

Emma sat in the chair. He smiled when his fingertips under her wrist felt her pulse beat against them.

"I feel like I owe you," she said softly. "I appreciate what you did for Henry."

"I know how you can repay me." His wiggled his eyebrows.

She gave him a warning look. "What."

He stopped clowning. He kissed her hand and whispered, "Just sit me. I am tired."

Emma helped him to his feet. They took hesitant steps towards the couch. After lighting the fireplace, Emma sat down with her legs stretched along the length of the cushions. She helped Hook lower himself. He rested against her, his head tucking nicely beneath her chin. She unfurled a blanket, it mushroomed around them, settling lightly over their legs.

Her arms were warm as they slipped under his and pressed with care against his waist.

Hook let his head fall deeply against her, savoring the warmth and soft firmness all at once. "Are you all right? Tamara took a crack at you, as well."

Emma shushed him. Her fingers worked through his hair and massaged his scalp. Hook closed his eyes.

This must be the feeling of home.

"I'm all right." She kissed the top of his head. "Sleep well."

And that night, he did.

Author's note: Thanks for reading! I'm working on a sequel entitled "Roots," which takes place a few days after these events. Hook is hurting on the anniversary of Liam's death. In her efforts to help him heal, Emma arranges a "family" camping trip. Is one camp site big enough for Captain Swan, Neal, Henry, and Snowing? Probably not.