A/N: Finally had a bit of spare writing time and my muse decided it would be spent doing another on of these! This got kinda feelsy. Hope you enjoy!

Being out late – stars visible, streets desolate, the silence only perturbed by the occasional shuffle of boots or shutting of a door – is something Killian Jones has always enjoyed; something about the dark of the waters as they lap against the sides of the docks, ships bobbing sleepily, creaking of the wood just about audible over the bemused chuckle that sounds from his right.

A laugh that goes straight to his heart and in fact – Killian muses, eyes on her as they walk – if there's one thing that makes good-for-nothing strolls in the middle of the night any more enjoyable than he already finds them it's having her beside him.

Emma Swan – in all her blonde-haired, red-lipped, foul-mouthed, leather adorned glory.

The waterfront is empty as they walk down it, Emma turning on her heel – crimson coat swinging, tight breeches tight – and going stand in front of him, walking backwards and raising the bottle of rum to her lips again.

"Truth." She says, passing the bottle back. He ponders it, keeping up the albeit slightly juvenile but nevertheless enjoyable game they've been playing ever since they began this walk.

(How that's come to pass is another thing entirely – the always very welcome (as much as she might hasten to deny it) coincidence of docking in the same port, a late night at the tavern and then the rum induced idea for a stroll that just sort of happened – )

The questions – whilst generally less occurring than the dare option – have had varying degrees of depth and he wonders if he's pushing it with this question, but it's past his lips before he can really consider it –

"Do you ever feel guilty?"

She opens her mouth – something like surprise lacing her expression – before that tell-tale sarcasm takes over. "Well, well, Captain Jones – we are getting philosophical, aren't we now?"

"I'm serious, Swan." He says as she turns back around, falling in step with him again.

Her hands slip into the pockets of her coat as she sighs, stretching her neck to look at the stars that shine above them, pinpricks of twinkling light against an expanse of black. "Guilt about what, exactly?"

He shrugs, idle musings slipping off his tongue in a way that they never seem to with anyone else – just her (there are a lot of things that have become just her – but he doesn't really dwell on it). "This life. Stealing, killing – whatever."

There's a moment of pause, something quietly completive about the way she keeps her head tilted back. "Sometimes." She says, restriction toying with her tone and he supposes that she mustn't really like this – them talking, properly talking as a pose to just flirting and doing other things – that it must break all those careful rules he knows she's lain down.

She drops her head. "But then I remember that the shitheads who abandoned me probably didn't." She doesn't meet his searching gaze, keeps her eyes trained forward, green orbs hard. "If killing and stealing means I don't get fucked over then so be it. That's life."

He nods – not that she can see, eyes still stubbornly avoiding his, although again, he supposes it's hard. It's not like they discuss their pasts often, just those occasional mentions wrapped up in sheets and quilts, limbs tangled, minds hazy.

She finally lets out, turning to him. "Do you?"

"The same." He says after a pause. "The king killed my brother… " He trails off.

"…and at least amongst thieves there is honor." She finishes his sentence, the very fact that she can making his lips quirk up in a smile and some of the slowly gathered tension dissipates.

Noise beings to sound up ahead, the tranquil of the empty waterfront slipping away as lights from whatever taverns and shops are still open shine blearily. "Truth or dare." She challenges.

"Dare."

She looks around, searching for something or anything to get him to do. "I dare you to…"

And then her eyes fall upon something, mouth curving into a slow grin and her eyes dance with mischief because as well as carefully guarded as she is she's also a bloody minx –

His eyes follow hers to the line of shops and he barely has a chance to register what she's looking at before the words are passed her lips.

"…get a tattoo."

The stand is small, various designs pinned up against the wooden framework, heavily built man with several piercings sitting behind it.

"A tattoo?" he repeats as they come to a still in front of it, arched eyebrow only making her grin wider as she takes a sauntering step towards him. "You want me to get a tattoo?"

"What's wrong, Captain?" She says, running her hands up the lapels of his jacket, their proximity making the air between them hum and he smirks, never having been one to back down from a challenge. Her voice is low and taunting, just a teasing whisper against his lips. "Scared?"

"Absolutely not." He says, drawing out each word. "What you want me to get done?"

She runs her tongue along her bottom lip – god – and then uses her grip on his coat to tug him closer.

"My name." she whispers, the intimacy of the request making his heart stutter slightly and Christ she's standing close –

"Where?" He near growls and it only makes her grin wider.

"Right…here" she slips her hand into the v of his shirt, sliding it up to the left until it covers the space right above where his heart beats in his chest.

She lifts her head back up, eyes meeting his and she's so close that he can see the little flecks of brown in her eyes, can see the shadow of her eyeliner and she's enticing and beautiful –

He pushes forward, pressing his lips soundly to hers – her kiss making him buzz, mind already slightly hazy from the rum as she smiles into it – before he pulls back, just a murmured I accept into the space between them before he draws away completely, her hand slipping from his chest as he turns round, approaching the stall.

"How can I help?" The man offers, sitting forward in his chair. Killian flicks through the tired pages of the book that sits on the counter, moving past the various images and onto the styles of lettering. After a few moments of consideration he picks one, tapping it with his finger.

"There." He says. "That – I want Emma tattooed here." He pulls away his shirt, showing the space and the man makes a compliant hand gesture, nodding to the stool beside him, going under the counter to prepare his needle as Killian takes his seat, dropping his coat and pulling the shirt completely away.

His eyes meet Emma's from where she leans against the stall and she wiggles her eyebrows, eyes shining and he wonders – pushing away thoughts of weak and pathetic that drift unbidden in his mind – if there was anything he wouldn't do to see her like that –

The needle is sharp and burns against his skin, but he ignores it, titling his head as he watches her name – a name he's whispered countless times, murmured it into her skin as his hands trail up her sides, a name that comes to him in the dark of the night, times when he's trying to do anything but think about her (a pointless feat) – become inked into his skin, needle following the delicate and intricate pattern of the stencil.

It takes time – his eyes finding Emma's throughout, faint smile etched upon her lips – and when it's done – still fresh and stinging and did he really just get Emma Swan's name tattooed onto his chest (of course he did) – he looks down, admiring it for a few moments before he slips his shirt back on, fabric covering only part of the fresh tattoo. He pushes himself up, pulling the coins from his pocket as the man specifies and dropping them into his hand.

When he looks to Emma she's pushing off the counter, shaking her head, smile curling her lips and she lets out a short laugh. "I cannot believe you just did that."

He grins, following her as she turns back in the way they came.

"Mm…sure you can." He murmurs, coming up from behind her, hands sliding to anchor on her hips as he speaks, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I think you'll find…" He says, kissing a path up the gentle slope of her neck "…that there's very little I wouldn't do for you, Swan."

He doesn't know it it's the rum that makes him say it – maybe it's just the truth – but he still does, Emma humming in response and she turns round, arms looping around his neck as she pulls his lips to hers, teeth grazing, eyes slipping shut as they continue to move down the barely lit road.

He sees his ship somewhere ahead, the words in the mood for a nightcap? Barely past his lips before they stumble aboard, moving in sync past the empty deck of the Jolly Roger and down to the captain's quarters.

After that, he only sees her – blonde hair falling around her head, her eyes slipped shut, lips soft and coaxing as they fall against the soft of the bed.

(What he doesn't see is two days later – his ship having left port, her mind tangled with memories of truth or dare, inked promises – when she returns to the battered tattoo parlour. He doesn't see her sit down, intention conflicting with all her morals and yet still blaringly clear, as she gets the name Killian tattooed in small lettering on her left forearm.)

(And what he doesn't realise is that when he's standing on his ship, fingers brushing over the raised skin, she's doing almost exactly the same thing.)

A/N: I've never got a tattoo so sorry if that was super inaccurate. Review?