And with this chapter, the little story that was originally going to be two chapters long is finally finished. I haven't wrapped everything up in a neat little bow, but that was never the plan. I'm sure I'll come back to this universe from time to time in the future, but for now, it's done and dusted. :) Thank you all so, so much for reading along and making this one so much fun to write. Special thanks to my bestie scribblecat for all her behind-the-scenes work.

Killian watches the battle unfold on the small viewing screen, trying to make sense of the strategic movements in play. This particular ball sport is called football, apparently, and he takes careful note of the Prince's obvious enjoyment of it. He's a man in love, after all, and he's not above using every trick in the book to win favour with Emma's father.

After five minutes or so, he can no longer contain his curiosity, and asks the question burning on his tongue. "Is it customary for them to wear so much armour?"

David chuckles at the question. "I know, right?" He gestures towards the helmeted figures running up and down the paddock. "I'd love to see how they'd manage a fire breathing dragon."

Killian scoffs quietly at that. "Or a jousting field."

They share a complicit grin, and Killian can scarcely fathom that he's here, sharing such a moment of camaraderie with the Prince. Given their colourful history, he can hardly be blamed for thinking that perhaps he's merely imagining this strange turn of events.

You're nothing but a pirate.

He pushes the bitter memory from his mind, focusing instead on the soft sound of female voices drifting out of the kitchen area. He is pleased that Emma has seized the chance to speak with her mother, although he can't help wondering if he is one of their topics of conversation. The prospect is rather unnerving, to say the least.

The game being played out before them seems to reach some kind of crescendo, bringing the Prince to literally sit on the edge of his seat, and the knock on the door doesn't register at first. He hears Emma's booted footsteps, then the voice that still has the power to haunt his nightmares.

"Good afternoon, Miss Swan. I understand you needed to see me."

Killian finds himself on his feet without conscious thought. Beside him, the Prince has also risen, the curious sporting event on the television forgotten as they hear Emma speak. "Uh, yeah. We have a little problem."

"This is Storybrooke, dearie." Gold sounds amused and bored at the same time. "You know as well as I that there's no such thing as a little problem."

David glances at him as Mary Margaret asks their visitor to come in, and by tacit agreement they silently make their way towards the kitchen.

"Not particularly, but I shall." Again, Gold's voice is brimming with ennui. "Now then, Miss Swan. Tell me all about your little problem."

Emma shuts the door behind Gold, her brows pulled together in a frown. "Are you seriously telling me that you didn't notice that the town was buried under three feet of snow and ice overnight?"

"I'm a newly married man, dearie. I've been a trifle preoccupied." He gives Emma a smile that can only be described as smug. "So perhaps you'll humour me and be quick about spitting out what it is that you so desperately wished to discuss with me." Over Emma's shoulder, his gaze finds Killian's with an unnerving accuracy. "I've learned it's not wise to leave a wife to her own devices for too long."

Killian returns his gaze unflinchingly. Anger might be searing a hole in his temper, but he takes a deep breath, knowing that allowing the Dark One to antagonise him will prove nothing and help matters even less. Emma glances behind her, her eyes following the path of Gold's regard, and she turns back to give the older man a hard look. "Bitch at him another time, okay?"

At Emma's invitation, Gold takes up residence at the small kitchen table, waving away Mary Margaret's offer of coffee. "Thank you, but no. As I've already said, I've other places to be today."

Emma slips into a chair across from him, her elbows on the table top. "Okay, I know you don't remember, but when we fell through Zelena's portal and went back in time, you helped us."

"I did?" Gold's glance flicks from Emma to himself, his scepticism obvious. "That sounds most unlike me."

Emma huffs out a frustrated breath. "You took a memory potion so you wouldn't remember any of it."

"After you locked us in your vault without any means of escape," Killian can't help adding, and amusement suddenly flickers in Gold's dark eyes.

"Oh, well, that sounds much more like me." He turns pointedly away from Killian and David, focusing on Emma once more. "This is all very interesting, but it's not a good enough reason to interrupt a man's honeymoon, so if you'll excuse me -"

Emma raises her voice, halting Gold in the act of pushing back his chair. "We think something in your vault might have followed us back to Storybrooke."

Gold stills, his expression becoming blank, unreadable. "There's only one way that would have been possible." His eyes narrow, his gaze sliding across to study Killian once more. "And that's if you two meddled in something that was clearly none of your concern, not to mention vastly beyond your understanding."

Killian can feel Emma's eyes on him, and he knows she's worried he's going to snap back, and that alone is enough to prompt him to hold his tongue. To his relief, David picks up the conversational mantel. "We're not interested in playing the blame game, Gold."

The Dark One eyes the Prince steadily. "Are you sure? Because it seems to me that you're all quite eager to hold me responsible for something that may or may not have come from my vault."

"The only thing we touched was an urn." Emma cuts in, and Killian presses his lips together at her choice of words. We. "It had been shoved into an unlocked cabinet."

Gold's lips curve in a humourless smile. "You expect me to recall a single trinket out of the thousands of items stored in a vault I last visited almost three decades ago?"

Emma gives Killian a beseeching glance, and he takes a step forward, his gaze trained on Gold's face. "The urn was made of some kind of metal, and was about this tall." He gestures with both hand and hook. "Two handles, curved lines."

A tiny flicker of something ripples across the other man's face, but he merely smiles apologetically. "I can't say I recall it."

Emma exchanges a quick glance with her mother, as if for reassurance. It appears to work, because Emma lifts her chin and fixes Gold with a resolute stare. "Okay, just tell me this - did you keep anything, whether it was a spell or a person, in your vault that could have turned this town into a freezer in the blink of an eye?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you, dearie." Dismissing Emma with a flick of his head, he turns to Mary Margaret, offering her a warm smile. "How is the new Prince?"

Mary Margaret frowns, obviously taken aback by the change of tack. "He's fine, but-"

"Just answer the question, Gold." Emma's father has, just as obviously, had enough of their visitor's diversionary tactics. "I know you. You never forget a damned thing unless you want to."

"As I've already said, my dear Prince Charming, I can't help you." He glances at Killian, then at Emma, and once again there is a glimmer of something unnameable in his eyes. "But I should remind you that I wasn't always the Dark One." He smooths his left hand down the front of his waistcoat, his new wedding band gleaming. "That particular castle has had many occupants by that particular name over the centuries."

Emma frowns, her expression uncannily like her mother's. "Are you saying that you might have inherited whatever it was that might have followed us back to Storybrooke?"

"What I'm saying, Miss Swan, is that I can't help you." Gold rises to his feet, his movements economical and deliberate, and Killian feels the same sour sting in the back of his throat that always accompanies the sight of this man. Reluctant truce or not, he is still the Crocodile, his black heart filled with both cowardice and the love of power, and that will never change. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must return to my wife."

And with that, he's gone, the front door slamming behind him, leaving behind an air of frustration and an odd sense of relief. "He's lying," Emma declares in a flat voice, and her father sighs.

"I agree."

Killian shrugs, doing his best to tamp down his own irritation. "I'm sure we're all greatly surprised."

Emma leans against the kitchen counter, defeat etched on her lovely face. "I don't know what I expected, but I thought maybe since he'd gotten married to Belle, he might be-" She hesitates, her gaze darting to Killian, and he hastens to break the suddenly awkward silence. They all know what had occurred the last time Gold had been married, after all.

"Believe me, love," he tells her quietly. "The Dark One's matrimonial state matters little when it comes to furthering his own ambitions."

The sound of footsteps on the staircase has them falling into a conspiratorial silence, and soon Henry is back with them, his portable telephone clutched in his hand. "Mom wants to know if I'm coming home tonight." The lad looks at Emma, his frown an identical match for that of his birth mother's. "She sounded like she had a cold."

Emma swears under her breath, and Mary Margaret gives her daughter a curious glance. "Is she alright?"

"When we left the library, Robin had just turned up, wanting to talk to her," Emma mutters, shoving her hands into her back pockets. "Doesn't sound as though it went too well."

"Or maybe," her mother counters with a hopeful smile, "it's just a cold."

Emma combs her fingers through her son's hair. "If that's what you want to do, kiddo, Killian and I can drop you off on our way to Granny's." Her parents' heads turn towards Emma in perfect unison, their faces a picture of mild censure, and Killian feels as though his intentions regarding their daughter are suddenly branded onto his forehead. Emma, however, proves undaunted in the face of silent parental interrogation. "You guys need some space," she points out, her tone firm despite her smile, and her father clears his throat loudly.

"I might just go pay a visit to my son." He grins at Henry. "Want to come say hello?"

"Sure." Emma watches as her son leaves the room with his grandfather, then turns to Killian with a smile. "I might go say hello too."

She's slipped away before he can protest, leaving him alone with the indomitable Snow White. Recalling Emma's recent words to mind - trust me, it's not my father you'll have to win over – he finds himself rubbing the back of his neck as he searches for a polite conversational opening. "You're well, I trust, milady?"

"Relax, Hook," Mary Margaret returns easily, sitting down in the chair recently vacated by the Dark One. "I'm not going to bite you."

There is no polite rejoinder to that remark, so he simply nods and perches on one of the high stools at the kitchen counter. "I hesitate to echo the Dark One, but I hope the young Prince is thriving?"

Her face lights up. "He's a joy."

"Quite the handsome babe, from memory."

"David and I do seem to produce beautiful children." Emma's mother's smile takes on a knowing air. "But you already know that."

He feels twin spots of heat touch his cheeks. What was it about this woman that made him feel like a youth still wet behind the ears? It seems her beauty isn't the only thing she's passed onto her daughter, and he decides honesty is his wisest avenue. "Aye, that I do."

Her face softens at his admission. "You know, Henry seems to enjoy spending time with you."

"The feeling is quite mutual." He can't stop the smile that spreads across his face. "He's an adventurous lad and no mistake."

Mary Margaret studies him carefully for a moment. "You never had a child of your own?"

Thinking of Baelfire, his heart twists, and he finds himself diving behind his usual irreverent answer to that particular question. "None that I'm aware of, milady."

Emma's mother gives him an exasperated look. "I take it that's a no?"

He waves an apologetic hand, making a silent resolution to think before he speaks in future. "I've cared for a child as if he were my own, but I have no blood offspring." Seeing the spark of curiosity in her face, it seems only polite to elaborate. "Milah's lad, Baelfire," he explains, and realisation dawns in her eyes.

"Neal."

"Aye." There's no avoiding the subject now, although he definitely intends to keep the details vague. "Happenstance brought us together when he was around Henry's age."

"Does Emma know?" He merely looks at her (sadly, it appears he has a long way to go before he earns this woman's trust) and she seems to give herself a shake. "Of course she does," she goes on quickly, answering her own question, but he still feels inclined to speak on his behalf.

"Yes, she does." He presses his hands flat on the kitchen counter, the surface cool beneath his too-warm palms. "I keep very few secrets from your daughter."

Mary Margaret's eyes search his for a long moment. "That's a good place to start with someone like Emma," she finally tells him, her tone wistful. "You seem to have learned that lesson faster than a lot of people."

He has no clue as to whether she's referring to herself or not, but he feels the need to reassure her. "I wouldn't presume to-"

She looks at him as though he's got naught but wet sand and barnacles between his ears. "Just - just keep her safe." Her pale throat works as she swallows, as if the words have cost her something to utter. "That's all I ask."

It's never been easier to make a promise. "Until my dying breath, milady."

Her eyes widen at his words, but they are both saved from further discussion by the sound of Emma's boots on the hardwood floor. Her reappearance breaks the odd tension in the room, and he belatedly realises how stiffly he's holding himself. "You two look serious," Emma remarks, looking from her mother to him. "Everything okay?"

He smiles at her, but decides to let Mary Margaret answer. "We're all good." Beaming at her daughter, she neatly changes the subject. "So, did your brother spit up on you?"

"Nope." Emma laughs, her eyes bright with amusement. "David, however, is currently changing his shirt."

He joins in the resulting merriment, his heart seeming to swell in his chest as he looks at Emma revelling in the company of her family. It is a vastly different feeling from the last time he'd stood and watched her bask in the warmth of her family's affection (when he'd been no more than a few feet away and yet felt as though he may as well have been in another realm) and he soaks it up, holding it close.

"Listen, I was thinking that we might drop Henry back to Regina's, then do a quick patrol around town before dinner." Emma brushes the back of his hand with her fingertips, the chaste touch seeming to warm his skin through his clothing. "Just to make sure no one's still snowed in."

"Good idea, Swan." He does his best not to sound too enthused by the prospect of leaving the loft, but their brief dalliance at Granny's has made it almost impossible to stop thinking of the feel of her - so slick and warm - in his hand, her soft exhalation of completion as she'd trembled in his arms. "Perhaps we should check on Loxley and his family, while we're about it."

Mary Margaret frowns at the mention of Robin, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. "I hope he didn't make things worse by going to talk to Regina."

Emma sighs. "Well, it's not as though she'll confide in me about it." As if a light has just gone on in her thoughts, she turns to her mother. "She'd confide in you, though."

Her mother drums her fingernails on the table top. "I guess I could call her." She offers Emma a wry smile. "Someone needs to tell her about Gold's visit, anyway."

"Yeah, well, that's not going to improve her mood." A frown plucks at Emma's brow. "I know Henry's fine with staying the night over there, but if she's really upset-" Breaking off, she throws Killian a look of mute appeal, and he reaches out to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"For all her Majesty's failings, love, she adores the boy." Catching her eye, he gives her a reassuring smile. "He might end up with temporary dyspepsia from being force fed too many sweet pies, but he'll be fine."

Her green gaze narrows, but he sees the smile tugging at her lips. "You've got an answer for everything, haven't you?"

"Three hundred odd years of practice, Swan." Sliding off the high stool, he gives her a wink as his boots hit the wooden floor. "I'm accomplished at many things." Perhaps he should curb his tongue in front of her mother, he thinks, but the sight of the blush creeping across Emma's face is reward enough.

"Promise me something, okay?" Sitting in her car outside Regina's place, she reaches an arm out through the rolled down window to rub a smudge of God-knows-what off her son's chin. "If anything weird happens, you call me."

Henry grins at her. "Do you mean normal weird or Storybrooke weird?"

She gives him the exasperated mother look she'd spent a year perfecting in New York. "Both."

Hefting his backpack onto his shoulder, he peers into the interior of the car. "Hey, Killian?"

Killian leans across her, his hook resting on the back of her seat. "What can I do for you, lad?"

"We are going sailing again soon, right?"

Emma's throat tightens at the raw hope in her son's voice, and she's grateful for her passenger's quick reply. "As soon as I can find a suitable vessel to commandeer," he begins, and Emma pinches his leg, hard. "Or should I say," he goes on without missing a beat, "as soon as I speak to the harbour master about hiring a suitable vessel, we'll be ready for another adventure on the high seas."

Henry looks as though he's just beaten a particular brutal level on his favourite video game. "Awesome."

Emma watches him as he walks around the car and towards Regina's front path, noting with a pang that he seems to growing an inch taller with every passing day.

"He'll be fine, love."

"I know." Her hand is still on his leg, and she takes the opportunity to give his knee a grateful pat. "It's just I feel like I'm backsliding." She sighs as she restarts the car, the familiar throaty rattle of the engine vaguely soothing. "Things have never been easy between me and Regina, but things were better after I came back from New York." She pulls away from the kerb, grateful that she doesn't have to negotiate any icy roads, and tosses him a quick glance. "But the whole Maid Marian thing has put the two of us right back at square one."

"From what you and your lad have told me about your arrival in this town, Swan, I doubt matters will regress that far." He quirks one dark eyebrow at her. "Do you truly believe Regina will attempt to poison you into an eternal coma a second time?"

"When you put it like that, I guess not," she mutters, checking her rear view mirror. Since Regina had dealt with the ice and snow, the traffic on the roads has greatly increased, at least by Storybrooke standards. "Check the docks first while it's still light?"

He agrees with her suggestion readily (it seems he's more than happy to be spontaneous if the Wicked Witch of the West isn't involved) and they're soon walking along the wooden expanse of Storybrooke's dock. She soon realises she has no idea what she's looking for, and glances hopefully at her companion. "Everything look okay to you?"

He stares at the seemingly endless row of boats, his gaze narrowed against the late afternoon sun. "No slipped moorings that I can see." He flashes her a mischievous grin. "That there are no townsfolk running about like fowl with their heads cut off is also a promising sign."

"Hey, I know you." They both turn at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. A middle-aged man dressed in wet-weather gear is standing outside the bait shop. He scowls at Killian, his meaty hands tightening their grip on the rope he's carrying. "You were with that witch who turned me into a fish!"

Startled, Emma looks at Killian, and knows immediately that the disgruntled fisherman is telling the truth. Sighing, Killian pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then gives the man a uncomfortable smile. "My humblest apologies, mate."

Still scowling, the man takes a step towards them, and Emma puts up one hand. "Hold up a sec, okay?" She looks at Killian, knowing she's about to ask an extremely rhetorical question. "Cora?"

Killian grimaces. "I'm afraid so."

She moves towards the stranger, deliberately putting herself between him and Killian. "I don't believe we've met," she says with a bright smile, and the man's frowns eases.

"Joe." His voice is gruff. "Joe Andrews."

She taps the badge on her belt with her fingertips. "I'm Sheriff Swan, Joe." She can literally feel Killian fidgeting behind her back, as if he's getting ready to step in, and makes a point of talking quickly. "I'm really sorry you got caught up in Cora's net," she stops then - because could her foot be any more in her mouth? – and ignores the almost inaudible chuckle from behind her. "And I'm glad to see that you're back to your old self now."

The man glowers over her shoulder, his hands worrying the rope he's carrying, then his pale blue eyes meet Emma's. "Don't think I'll ever be back to my own self, miss." He's obviously making an effort to be polite, and Emma gives him an encouraging smile. "Once you've been a fish, I reckon there's not a man alive who could go back to being a fisherman."

Pretty sure her own expression resembles that of a stunned fish right now, she gives herself a mental shake. "I guess that would be a little weird."

"My brother runs the bait shop now." Joe shrugs, thick shoulders shifting. "I just don't have the stomach for it anymore."

"What do you for a crust now, mate?" Killian has come to stand beside her, his gaze trained on the other man's face.

And just like that, the tension is again thrumming in the air, Cora's former victim glowering at Killian. "Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?"

Killian looks as confused as Emma feels. "Definitely not, I assure you."

The other man huffs, his breath visible in the still cool air. "Me and the brother, we swapped jobs, you see." He darts an almost shy glance at Emma. "I'm the baker now."

"That's great." Emma bites the inside of her mouth to keep her smile from becoming a laugh. "Well, it's been good to meet you, but we should keep going." She doesn't look at Killian. "Make sure everyone's doing okay after the snow storm."

Joe the Baker gives her a sceptical look. "Snow storm?"

"Yep." She starts to back away, silently willing Killian to follow her lead. "You take care now."

She manages to keep it together until they're back in the car, then she doesn't know whether to laugh or punch Cora's former henchman. "A fish? Are you kidding me?"

"I had nothing to do with it, love." He buckles his seatbelt with one hand, then looks at her with wide blue eyes. "The chap asked if he could assist us, and before I knew it he was the proud owner of a fine pair of gills, flapping about on the dock."

She can't help rolling her eyes as she starts the car. "Given what I know about Cora, I'm amazed she didn't gut and fillet him at the same time."

"Well," he mutters, as if the admission is cause for embarrassment. "I may have booted him off the dock into the water before she got the chance."

She tosses him a quick glance as the car pulls away from the docks. "You really are full of surprises, aren't you?"

He shrugs. "Cora's brand of power was rather indiscriminate." He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "I preferred to keep my pursuit of revenge more specific."

She drops the subject. There's still so much they need to learn about each other's pasts, but some topics are easier than others, and the time he spent with Cora isn't something to be casually discussed in the cramped confines of her car. To be honest, she suspects alcohol might be required for that one. "Rabbit Hole next?"

He grins at her, all awkwardness gone. "I'm at your service, Sheriff Swan."

They spend the next hour cruising the streets of Storybrooke. To her amusement, he constantly hums along with the radio, even though she knows he can't possibly be familiar with the songs in question. "You've got an ear for music," she tells him when they finally pull up in front of Granny's, and his casual shrug can't hide his obvious pleasure at her comment.

"I'm a pirate, love." He waggles his dark eyebrows at her suggestively. "I know many a bawdy tune, should you wish to expand your repertoire."

He's a ridiculous man at times, but she can't stop the laughter that bubbles up in her throat. "Maybe some other time."

He watches curiously as she grabs her overnight bag out of the back seat, and she realises he'd been too busy talking to Henry about 'those DVD things' when they'd left the loft to notice what she'd brought with her. "You've come prepared, Swan."

She feels heat tint her face at the knowing glint in his bright eyes. "Call me crazy, but I'm not a fan of wearing the same underwear two days in a row."

The knowing glint in his eyes becomes something dark and wicked. "You could always go without, love."

"With you around?" She's pleased by the bravado in her voice, because her knees seemed to have turned to water. "I think that would be called tempting fate."

He laughs at that, the sound rich and warm, and she can't help smiling. Her smile widens when he reaches for the bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. "Let me, Swan." He gives her a wink. "Can't give the she-wolf even more fodder now, can we?"

While he whisks her bag upstairs to his room, she finds herself chatting to Archie at the long counter in the diner. He's in the middle of an early dinner, but looks pleased to see her. "I've been meaning to talk to you about Henry." As always, his voice is soft and comforting, and she feels the usual compulsion to blurt out all her secrets. "How he is dealing with the return of his real memories?"

"He's happy to be back, I know that." She climbs up onto the stool next to him. "If there's anything worrying him, he hasn't told me."

"He's growing up," Archie observes mildly. "Teenagers do tend to be more secretive, especially about their emotions."

Emma nods gratefully at Ruby, who is making the time-honoured 'do you want a drink?' motion behind the counter. "Well, I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she tells him, then pauses, decided now is the time to mention something that's been plucking at her thoughts ever since she'd made the decision to stay. "I'm been thinking, though-" He looks at her expectantly. "What about school? Henry was doing so well in New York."

Archie's smile is one of approval. "Classes begin again in a few weeks, I believe." He takes a sip of his coffee. "After Zelena was defeated, the PTA held a meeting and decided it would be the best thing for the children if some kind of normalcy was restored." He raises his eyebrows at her. "As normal as things can be around here, of course. The school board needs to deal with the issue that this town is going to need a high school now that the curse is broken."

Smiling, Emma shakes her head (because seriously, this place is still capable of weirding her out) then freezes, because she's just noticed the occupants of the end booth. Robin is sitting opposite his wife and son, and while he's smiling at something Roland is saying, his body language is anything but relaxed and happy.

When Archie speaks, Emma knows he's followed her gaze. "Ah, now there's a complicated situation," he murmurs, and there's more than a touch of sadness in his tone.

"You can say that again," she mutters. "Any suggestions?"

As always, Archie doesn't hide behind bland euphemisms. "You did a good deed, Emma." When she turns to look at him, he gives her a warm smile. "Whatever is meant to be will happen, and you shouldn't blame yourself for saving a life."

"I'm trying," she admits, taking the cup of hot chocolate from Ruby with a nod of thanks. "But you know Regina."

Archie's wide mouth turns down slightly. "Indeed I do," he begins, then pauses, his attention drawn by the man who has come to stand on Emma's other side. "Captain."

Emma bites back a sigh. What is this, 'run into everyone that Killian's crossed in the past' day? She knows this is his battle to fight, though, and she busies herself by taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

Killian clears his throat. "I'm very pleased to see you've recovered from your visit to my ship, Doctor." He hesitates, then holds out his hand. "I believe I owe you a grave apology."

Emma's throat tightens, because he sounds as much embarrassed as he does repentant. She knows how hard this is for him. He'd once told her that he's not a man in the habit of apologising, and she realises (not for the first time) what he's prepared to do in order to stay in Storybrooke.

To stay with her.

She gives Archie a look of mute appeal, and he doesn't let her down. Putting down his fork, he takes Killian's outstretched hand and gives it a firm shake. "Welcome back to Storybrooke, Captain. I hear you and Emma had quite the adventure in the past."

"Aye, that we did." Relief swimming in his eyes, he looks at Emma. "She's a bloody hero, this one."

The tension broken, Emma finds it easy to laugh off the praise. "It was a team effort," she shoots back, and he grins.

"If you say so, love."

Uncomfortably aware that Archie is watching them with bright, all-too-seeing eyes, she makes their excuses. "We'll let you finish your dinner in peace," she tells him, and he nods.

"If you and Henry want to talk, you know where I am."

Killian waits until they're settled in a booth before he speaks again. "What's that about you and your lad needing to talk?"

She stares down at the menu, wondering if she's hungry enough to bother ordering. "Archie wanted to know how Henry was dealing with having two sets of memories in his head."

He frowns. "He seems contented enough to me."

"Me too, but that doesn't mean he is, if you know what I mean."

"I do." He bumps his knee against hers beneath the table. "We all have our secrets, I'm afraid."

She arches an eyebrow at him, softening her words with a smile. "Some of us more than others."

To her disappointment, he doesn't take the bait. "I'm glad you had the chance to spend time with your mother," he remarks as he studies the menu, and she grins at the unspoken question in his words.

"Go on, ask me." She bumps his knee right back. "I know it's killing you."

He turns the menu over, apparently fascinated by the list of beverages on offer. "It's not my place to pry, Swan."

Oh, for God's sake. "If you're wondering if I talked to her about you, the answer is yes, I did." She puts down her own menu, knowing she'll just end up ordering a serve of fries anyway. "I didn't want things to be weird."

His smile isn't exactly a smug one, but it's a close thing. He fidgets with the plastic menu for a moment, then his expression changes, becoming thoughtful. "Did you speak to her of the man in New York?"

Emma blinks, because that was the last thing she expected him to say. "No."

"Perhaps you should, love." His bright blue eyes search her face. "Speak of him, I mean."

Emma presses her lips into a tight line. She so doesn't want to have this conversation. "To you?"

"No," he assures her quickly, and she feels the press of his knee against hers beneath the table once again. "You need the ear of someone with less of a vested interest, perhaps like the good Doctor Hopper there."

She knows what he's saying makes sense, but that doesn't stop her from feeling as though he's trying to palm her off. "You don't want to hear about him?"

"He broke your heart, Swan." The short, simple words hang in the space between them. "I fear I would be rather biased towards campaigning for his swift and painful demise, rather than being an objective listener."

Her pulse quickens at the barely restrained anger in his voice, and there's no answer to that statementshe's comfortable giving him in a public place. "Let's just eat, okay?"

If he feels rebuffed, he doesn't show it. He's carefully polite with Granny as they order, and is the model dinner companion. It's just after eight o'clock when they head upstairs. He insists she use the bathroom down the hall first, loading her up with two clean towels and a new bar of Granny's lemon soap. When she returns to his room, her hair pulled back in a careless ponytail and her skin flushed with heat, feeling relaxed to the point of being ready to drop into bed, his eyes widen, and he seems to be fighting a personal war with himself.

Maybe it's her choice of sleepwear that's got him on edge, she muses. She has to admit, the boxer shorts and white tank are a little more skimpy than she'd normally wear, but she'd been in a rush while she was packing her bag. (Also, she didn't see the point when it was highly likely her clothes would be coming off sooner rather than later.)

Carefully keeping his distance, he gathers up a change of clothes and another clean towel, literally edging his way out of the room around her. When the door shuts behind him, she can almost hear his sigh of relief, and can't help grinning smugly. Maybe she should have put a bra on after her shower, she thinks, but where's the fun in that?

While he's gone (she smiles at the sight of his hook, placed carefully on top of the chest of drawers) Emma sprawls on the bed in her makeshift pyjamas and sends a text to Henry. He responds quickly, telling her that Regina seems fine and that they've been watching movies and eating popcorn. Breathing out her own sigh of relief, she asks if he'd like to have breakfast tomorrow morning, and is answered with a grinning, nodding emoticon holding a knife and fork.

Estimating she's got about five minutes before Killian returns, she calls the loft, and is pleased when her mother answers. She's not sure she's ready to talk to her father from Killian's bed. "Hey, it's me."

"Hi!" Even over the phone line, she can picture her mother's bright smile. "Everything okay?"

"Yep, just checking in." In the background, she can hear her father's soothing voice and the sound of her baby brother fussing. "Did you speak to Regina?"

"I did." She hears a muffled noise, as though her mother has put her hand over the phone, then the line is clear again. "Sorry, your father is just trying to get Neal to settle."

Emma grins at the mental picture. "How's he doing?"

"He's a natural." The pride in her mother's voice is palpable. "I called Regina after dinner, and she seemed a little down, but nothing like David says she was when you met her at the library."

Emma fights the urge to chew on her thumbnail. "Did she say anything about Robin?"

"Not really." Mary Margaret's tone is subdued. "She just said he'd been worried about her and that they'd talked for a while."

It's better than nothing, Emma decides. "Did you tell her about Gold?"

Her mother sighs. "Yes, and she's just as frustrated as we are."

"So, what's our next step?" She knows by asking she's as good as admitting she's out of ideas, but she doesn't care. "We keep badgering Gold to tell us what he knows?"

"Regina said she's going to do a sweep of the town tomorrow, see if she can pinpoint the source of that freezing spell."

"Okay." She feels stymied by their lack of progress, but clearly there is nothing else she can do tonight. Storybrooke is no longer frozen solid, and Gold seemed (whether he was being truthful or not) unconcerned by whatever it is that might have been kept in his vault. "Want to have lunch tomorrow?"

"That would be great." She can hear the pleasure in her mother's voice, and feels a small pang of guilt that she's not there with them this evening. "It'll be good for Neal to get some fresh air."

After saying her goodbyes, Emma puts her phone on the bedside drawers, wondering if it's too soon for her parents to bestow a catchy nickname on her new brother.

When Killian returns - her own stomach tightens at the sight of his damp hair and flushed skin, and she understands his reaction so much better now - they end up sitting on his bed, their legs stretched out in front of them, their backs against the bedhead, sharing sips from the bottle of Caribbean spiced rum she'd smuggled into her bag from her father's liquor stash at the loft. "I believe you promised me one or two stories this evening, Swan," he says lightly, his fingertips grazing the inside of her left arm from elbow to wrist, making her shiver. "Don't think I can be so easily distracted by your lovely bare legs and deliberate lack of corset."

Smiling, she glances down at her tattooed wrist, and takes a deep breath. "I was sixteen, and I'd just run away from my last foster home." Suddenly hundreds of miles and a dozen years away, she stares unseeingly at the delicate black lines on her skin. "The tattoo artist looked so cool. She had bright red hair and all her tattoos were red and black." She smiles at the memory. "She knew I was underage, but she still did the tattoo for me."

"Underage?" He sounds puzzled, and she reminds herself that there's a lot he has to learn about this world.

"In this land, you have to be over eighteen before you can get inked." She brushes her fingertips over the heart and dagger (it's Gold's dagger, she realises with a dull jolt, why has she never noticed before?) on his forearm. Too occupied with other things while they were both naked, obviously. Now that he's taken to wearing David's donated t-shirts and sweatpants, she can see his ink work much more clearly. "I take it things were a lot more relaxed where you came from?"

He nods. "I've seen many a tattooed cabin boy in my time."

She can't help smiling at that. "Okay, that sounds a little creepy, but I get what you're saying."

"I'm curious, love." Taking her left hand in his, he rubs his thumb over her tattoo. "Why did you pick this design?"

"It's not a very interesting story," she admits, and he gives her a sad smile, and she knows he's thinking of the reason behind his own tattoo.

"I'm glad to hear it."

She swallows hard. "Well, I had all these grand ideas, you know? Phoenixes and dragons and butterflies and koi fish." She rolls her eyes, thinking of her sixteen year-old self. "There was a flower cart a few doors down from the tattoo place." He threads his fingers through hers, but says nothing, and his touch is comforting. "The guy had some bunches of buttercups, and I'd never seen them before, outside of a book, I mean." She smiles as she thinks of those bedraggled yellow flowers, the way they'd almost shivered in the breeze. "It was cold and windy and those flowers were literally just hanging in there and that was it."

He smiles at her words, then peers at her tattoo more closely. "Aren't those particular flowers yellow, love?"

She makes a face. "I didn't have enough money for anything but the outline." She looks down at her wrist, remembering the sting of the needle. "I kept telling myself that one day I'd get it finished one day, but I don't know." She shrugs, and his hand tightens around hers. "I like it this way."

Lifting their linked hands to his lips, he kisses her wrist. "It's lovely."

A few sips later, she finds the courage to tell him about Graham. To her relief, he doesn't interrupt to ask questions. He simply holds her hand and lets her talk, and if he's jealous of her grief and sorrow over another man, he doesn't let her see it. She explains the bootlaces she'd worn around her wrist (that she'd needed something, anything, to remember Graham by), and again, to her relief, he just listens.

It doesn't take long to tell the story - she mourns afresh the fact that she had so little time with someone who had tried so hard to be her friend – and it's only when she gets to the inevitable end that her voice falters. "He told Regina he was leaving her, and an hour later, he was dead." Killian's hand squeezes hers, and she clears her throat, knowing she's a whisper away from crying. "He collapsed while we were at the station and he died in my arms and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do to save him."

Releasing her hand, he curls his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, letting her cry. "Let it out, love." His voice is soft in her ear, the stroke of his fingertips soothing on her skin. "Don't let it stay inside to fester and rot."

"Doctor Whale said it was heart failure, and in a way he was right." She closes her eyes, remembering the pain on Graham's face right before he'd fallen, choking out her words. "Graham kept trying to tell me someone had taken his heart, but I didn't believe him."

"You grew up in a world without magic, Swan." His hand cups the back of her head, tucking it against his chest. "Why would you believe him?"

Taking a deep breath, she sniffs loudly, then says the words she's never dared to say out loud before. "Regina crushed his heart."

To her relief (and her dismay) he doesn't try to convince her otherwise. "Aye, that seems likely."

"I've never called her on it." God, what was in that rum? She seems to be having trouble keeping anything back tonight. "I should have said something when he died, I should have confronted her, but so much has happened since then, and Henry's so much happier spending time with her now-"

"You don't want to dredge up the past in case it upsets your boy." She nods, hurriedly pressing the back of her hand to the tip of her nose, and he sighs. "I know this will sound strange coming from me, love, but sometimes it's better to let go of the past."

"So if it was Regina who killed him, she just gets away with it?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounds flat. Defeated.

"For now, perhaps." He strokes the nape of her neck, left bare by her hasty ponytail. "But Henry won't always be a child who needs protecting from dark secrets, love." He presses a soft kiss to her temple, then pours another nip of rum into her glass, then his own. He leans down and puts the bottle on the floor beside the bed, then picks up his glass, holding it aloft in a toast. "To remembering the fallen."

She clinks her glass against his in silence. Her tears have stopped (although her eyes water a little at the burn of the rum) and, for the first time since Graham's death, she feels as though a weight has been lifted off her chest. One day, she thinks, Henry will be ready to hear the truth about how his friend died. It's a small justice, but it's still justice of a kind. "Sorry." Sucking in a long breath, she gives Killian a shaky smile. "I'm a fun date tonight, aren't I?"

"Don't apologise, love," he replies, then tilts his head to look at her. "Date?"

She's done it again. God, how does she explain this? "That's when two people who, uh, like each other spend time together doing something special, like having dinner together or going out dancing."

"How about sharing a drink?" His mouth curves in a slow smile. "Or attending a royal ball, perhaps?"

Her eyes are still tender from her tears, but she can't help grinning. "Kind of like that, yeah."

"So, by your reckoning, Swan, you and I have enjoyed a few dates already." Leaning closer, he kisses her temple again, going on before she can form a reply. "If you wish to repair your leather laces and don them once more, you needn't think I'd object." His fingertips trace the ridge of her collarbone, his touch warm. "Loyalty is a prized trait, and one that is to be admired."

Lifting her hand, she touches his tattoo, one fingernail following the path of Milah's name, curious about the unknown woman who was so many things to the people in her life. Gold's wife. Neal's mother. Killian's love. "You must have loved her very much."

"That I did." His dark lashes hide his eyes as he studies where her hand rests on his arm. "I had come to believe I would never love another." His gaze lifts to meet hers, and the emotion glittering in his eyes makes her heart rate pick up speed. "And then you held a knife to my throat and tied me to a tree as ogre bait, and I was no longer the sole master of my heart."

She stares at him, knowing that no matter how much time they spend together, she will probably never get used to the way he speaks of love. "You could not seriously have found that alluring," she rebukes him sternly, but he merely gives her a soft, secret smile.

"You have no idea how alluring you were, Swan, even when you were clapping me in irons." The hand on her shoulder dips lower beneath the neckline of her top. "My only regret is that we wasted so much time finding our way to this happy arrangement."

Goosebumps are rising in the wake of his touch, her nipples drawing up tight against the fabric of her shirt. "Anything worth having is worth waiting for," she quips in a voice that's not quite steady, and his smile widens.

"Tell me something, love. Where would a man of this realm take a beautiful woman on a date?"

"Well, for a start, he could take her out to dinner." She purses her lips, trying to focus on something other than the fact that she really, really wants him to move his hand lower. "Something that doesn't involve fries or a burger."

He looks thoughtful, as though he has no idea his touch is making her squirm. "It's not that I don't appreciate its rustic charms, but would I be correct in assuming the only venue on offer would be Granny's?"

Tired of not touching him, she climbs into his lap, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. "There are other places, but I have a better idea."

His right hand slides up her thigh, his wrist brace at her waist. "I'm all ears, love."

Leaning forward, she kisses the corner of his mouth, and feels the faint shudder that goes through him. "The rest of the town might be stuck behind the town line, but we're not."

Comprehension dawns quickly. "And just where would you like to go, Swan?"

"Somewhere no one knows us." She nudges his nose with hers, breathing him in, and the hand on her thigh begins a slow journey upwards.

"Consider it done." He brushes his lips against hers, his warm hand sliding underneath the hem of her top, gliding up her belly until he's cupping one bare breast, making her bite back a gasp. Finally. "By the way, Swan," he whispers, his lips warm as they tease hers, "you were definitely worth the wait."

She kisses him, tasting rum and mint and the warmth of his tongue, lifting one hand into the air, feeling the magic flowing through her. Candlelight dances into life around them, the light bulb overhead fading, and he smiles into her kiss. "Enchantress."

It starts off slow and sweet, a languid dance of taste and touch, then he puts his mouth to her ear and tells her to do exactly what he plans to do to her tonight. In the half-light, she feels her skin flame with something akin to embarrassment (God, how can something so filthy sound so poetic?) but she's already touching him, her hands sliding over his belly and between his legs, her mouth finding his, swallowing his groan of pleasure. Their kisses become slick and hungry, almost dirty, and she finds herself whispering things back to him, her hands and mouth matching every word with an action that has him shuddering against her.

Their clothes in a pile on the floor, he lets her unbuckle his wrist brace and put it aside, and soon he's bare to her eyes in more ways than one, and she knows then, in that moment, that she loves him. She loves him more than she ever expected to love a man again, and it's exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

She hurriedly fishes a condom out of the drawer beside the bed, tearing it open with clumsy fingers. He rolls onto his back, settling her on top of him, which is exactly where she wants to be, her hands delving between them, smiling at his soft groan as she slides the condom on. She rises up over him, her hands pinning his (hand and wrist) hard into the pillow on either side of his head, then slowly sinks down onto him in a hot, slick slide that sends an immediate spasm of pleasure rippling through her. Not yet, she thinks desperately. Not yet.

He rises to meet her, again and again, and when she frees his hand and wrist, she feels them on her breasts, then between her thighs, seeking and stroking and finding and inflaming. He smells so good, like lemon soap and mint and warm skin and desire, and she wants to sink her teeth into his shoulder. The aching pressure builds, pushing her higher and higher every time she moves, her blood pounding in her ears. And through it all, she feels their resurrected past nipping at her heels, stalking her every touch, every kiss, sliding in and out of her thoughts like an unwanted guest.

When he's almost there, almost as though he knows what's happening in her head - but God, how could he? - he pulls her down to him, his lips pressed against her throat, and tells her in a rough whisper that he loves her, no matter how long he had to wait for her, and suddenly she sees all that embarrassment and thwarted longing and pretence for what it really is, nothing more than an illusion spun to protect herself from the coming storm. He kisses her, and she opens her body and her heart and lets the final shadow of their mistimed history shatter into a thousand tiny pieces, blowing away like dust as wave after wave of pleasure begins to thrum through her.

She digs her fingers into his shoulders, clutching him tightly as she moves against him, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out. His hand is tight on her hip as he rocks himself into her in hard, short thrusts, his body arching beneath hers as he quickly follows her into a state of boneless, sweaty satiation.

When he finally speaks, it's in an unsteady voice, sounding as though he can't believe what they've just done. "Bloody hell, that was - "

"Really something," she prompts helpfully as she flops down beside him and slides one arm around his waist, trying to catch her breath. "Or something else, I'm not sure." He touches her face, then cups her jaw in his palm, bending his head to hers to press a lingering kiss to her mouth. He kisses her slowly and deeply, as though they've just come to bed, instead of being sprawled across it, unable to move. When it's over, her heart is hammering anew and he's gazing at her with something akin to quiet amazement.

"Perhaps it's just as well this didn't happen sooner," he finally whispers, his lips quirking in a smile. "I may not have survived long enough to escort you to Neverland."

She buries her answering smile against his damp shoulder, inhaling the spicy scent of his skin. "The infamous Captain Hook, bested by a woman." He yawns softly, making her own mouth ache, then smiles at her. "I would have gone to my grave a happy man, love."

She stretches languorously, suddenly feeling as though she could sleep for days, but not before she visits the bathroom. When she returns a few moments later, he's already half-asleep. She slips into bed, moulding herself to his warm back. He murmurs something in a drowsy voice, his long legs tangling with hers beneath the bedclothes, and she smiles against his shoulder. Darting one hand out from beneath the covers, she flutters her fingertips in the direction of the candles, and the room is plunged into darkness.

Sleep eludes her, though, and she finds herself wondering exactly where they go from here, never a good train of thought to follow in the middle of the night. She loves being here with him and she knows he's pleased that she's stayed the night again, but this is not her home, and she can't help wondering how long it will take before they both feel the need to reassess this arrangement. He can't stay at Granny's forever, and she doesn't want to live out of an overnight bag.

Maybe they could –

No.

It's too soon.

She screws her eyes shut tightly, but she can't stop the thought from coming. She could find a place of her own. Henry's always wanted to live near the water. Something big enough for the two of them (when he's not with Regina, she knows she has to keep sharing him), and for anyone else who might need a place to make them feel like they belong.

God. The fact she's even thinking about this should terrify her, but quite frankly, she's too damned tired and happy to be terrified right now.

Closing her eyes, she pushes the thought from her head and she lets herself drift towards sleep. The past is behind her, the future lies ahead, and both directions present their own problems. Right now, though, all she wants to do is fall asleep in this bed with this man. Anything else can wait until morning.

He's awoken by the sound of her portable telephone chirping loudly - half-asleep, he's relieved to realise there isn't an actual bird in the room - and by the time he's shaken the fog from his head, she's sitting up in bed and talking softly. "Hey, David." She rubs her eyes as she listens intently, then he hears her sigh. "Really? Again?" She glances at the large clock on the wall (it's just after seven), then sighs again. "Okay. I'll meet you there in fifteen."

Pressing her thumb on the small screen, she drops her phone onto the small table beside the bed and flops back down beside him, her head on his shoulder, her arm flung over her eyes. "Ugh."

Their quiet morning together is obviously at an end. Taking the opportunity to sift his fingers through the silken gold of her tousled hair, he's careful to keep his disappointment from his voice. "Official duty calls, I take it?"

"Single car accident at the town line, no serious injuries," she mutters, grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Someone changing their mind about trying to leave town at the last minute, I guess." Blowing out a loud breath, she releases his hand and sits up again, giving him a delightful view of her naked back. "Shit." She twists around to look at him, affording him an even more delightful for her lovely breasts. "I'm supposed to meet Henry for breakfast downstairs in half an hour." Putting her hand on his thigh, she gives him a winsome smile. "I don't suppose you'd-"

The thought of saying no doesn't occur to him, and it's not just because she's as bare as the day she was born. "I'd be delighted to entertain young Master Henry."

"Thanks." Leaning down, she bestows a warm kiss on his mouth, and he allows himself the simple pleasure of smoothing his hand over the curve of her shoulder, determinedly ignoring the enchating sway of her breasts. "I'll owe you one."

Grinning, he gives her a look which makes it plain what he's likely to request as reimbursement, if the twin spots of colour on her cheekbones are any indication. "I promise not to commandeer another vessel until you're back with us."

Another brief, hard kiss, and she's gone, picking up her clothes from the floor and strolling towards the water closet. "Make sure you do, Captain."

He stretches luxuriously as the door shuts behind her, feeling the pleasant ache in his bones that a night with Emma Swan always seems to bring, and tries not to overanalyse why the thought of spending time with her son brings a broad smile to his face. He's long stopped seeing the boy as an echo of his father, but he can't deny that the combination of young Baelfire's bravery and Emma's spirited intuition makes for an entertaining dining (and sailing) companion.

Emma's as good as her promise to her father, taking little more than ten minutes to ready herself. She leaves him with a final remark about putting some clothes on, lest he traumatise the patrons at the diner, her bright green wink making his chest tighten with a longing for something far more enduring than simple lust. Scrubbing his hands through his hair, he picks up his usual clothing from where he'd left them after his bath the night before, and studies them dispassionately. Emma had suggested (admittedly, in the throes of passion when the fastenings on his trousers were vexing her) that he might consider purchasing some modern clothing. Such a course of action would surely signal, as much as any words he's thus far uttered, his intention to stay in this town.

Deep in thought, he washes quickly and dresses, not wanting to keep young Henry waiting. The clothing given to him by Emma's father might be suitable for lounging in his bedchamber, but not for venturing into polite company. Perhaps, he thinks as he buckles his belt, he might go on an exploratory venture later today, and see what the shopkeepers of Storybrooke have to offer. He picks up his heavy coat, then glances at his reflection in the small mirror. He may not be in possession of any modern wear, but change can come in small increments, after all. Feeling ridiculously as though he's taking the first step into a new adventure, he leaves the coat on the end of the bed.

To his relief, Henry looks pleased to see him. "Mom sent me a text telling me that she had to go on patrol." The lad pushes a menu across the table at him, his face alight with a hopeful grin. "Are you sure she trusts us not to hijack a boat after our pancakes?"

"I suspect she trusts you far more than she trusts me, lad." He smiles at the boy. "The cost of our breakfast will be assigned to my lodgings, so have at it."

Henry takes him at his word, reminding him that he'd forgotten how much a teenaged boy could eat. He's barely halfway through his eggs and toasted bread by the time the lad has demolished a pillow-sized pile of hotcakes drenched in sweet syrup, with several rashers of bacon on the side. "You'd give Smee a run for his money, mate," he teases, but the boy looks unfazed.

"It's the most important meal of the day."

He watches the lad scrape his plate for a moment, then comes to a decision. "I once saw your father eat the better part of a whole roast sturgeon."

Henry's eyes light up, and Killian knows he was right to mention Baelfire. "That's a fish, right?"

"Indeed." Leaning across the table, he gives the boy a conspiratorial smile. "And a rather large fish at that."

Henry pushes his empty plate aside, and puts his elbows on the table. "Before, when you tried to tell me about my dad-" He hesitates, and Killian waits, not wanting to rush the lad. "I couldn't remember him, so it didn't really mean as much as maybe it might mean now?"

Killian knows a less than subtle hint when he hears one. "Shall I tell you about the time he got his breeches caught on a nail up in the crow's nest and had to climb down the mast without his dignity intact?"

"Definitely." Henry's grin seems to reach from ear to ear. "And anything else you've got, too."

As Killian drains the last of his coffee, he glances around, seeing that the diner has become crowded. Perhaps they should do the polite thing and vacate their booth if they've finished their meals. That he also feels the need for some fresh sea air is extra incentive, and the thought inspires his next question. "Perhaps we could venture down to the waterfront?"

The lad sends Emma a message through his telephone, and his mother imparts the news that she and David are still at the station, dealing with paperwork. The unfortunate driver was uninjured, and his vehicle had been towed to the garage for repairs. She's agreeable to his taking her son to watch the coming and goings of the boats, and says she'll meet them there when she's done.

Henry lopes along beside him, and he marvels at how much taller the boy is now compared to their first encounter. He also can't help noticing that the boy seems to have discarded that hand-held game device that had been his constant companion before his memories had returned. "Now, then. What would you like to know?"

"How exactly did you meet my dad?"

It's amazing how quickly a bright idea can backfire on you, Killian muses. Wishing he'd thought to discuss with Emma exactly how much her son knew about his family history, he decides on the middle ground of vague but honest. "My crew and I fished him out of the ocean after he'd been dropped by Pan's shadow."

The lad's dark eyes widen. "No shit."

He fixes the boy with as stern a stare as he can muster. "I'm not sure your mother would approve of such salty language, mate."

Henry grins. "Sorry."

They make their way to the docks, and as they walk, Killian fills in the gaps of the lad's knowledge as best he can, as gently as he can. So many of Baelfire's younger days were filled with the stuff of nightmares, and he has no wish to impart the legacy of such dark thoughts to the man's son. He speaks of their time together about the Jolly (this affords the telling of many a hilarious tale, most of them at Bae's expense, he's afraid) and he can almost see the phantom becoming a real person in front of Henry's eyes. When they finally reach the waterfront, they take up a watchful position on a comfortable bench, their legs stretched out before them, and Killian knows the time has come for the inevitable questions.

"Did my dad know about you and my Mom?" Henry looks at him with dark, serious eyes. "I mean, you guys were friends, right?"

"Ah, well, your mother and I, that's rather complex." Killian finds himself rubbing the back of his neck, searching for the right words, deciding to err on the side of gallantry. "And that particular tale is your mother's to tell, lad, not mine." He gives Henry a gentle smile. "Just know that your father and I made our peace before he left this world." His chest tightens, but it's a relief to be able to share such a simple truth. "There was no anger between us."

Nodding, Henry turns to watch at the bobbing boats at their moorings, his gaze narrowed against the sun. "It's nice here," he says in a small, quiet voice. "I wish we lived in a place where I could look out my window and see the ocean."

"Regina's mansion is very grand," Killian tells him, careful to keep his tone casual. He's never one to judge a man for longing for the sight and smell of the sea, but it appears the Cricket's concerns may be rooted in reality, after all. "You could do worse, mate."

The boy shrugs. "It's just the two of us in that big house, and when she's unhappy or upset, it feels even bigger." He turns to look at Killian, his expression very much like his mother's, open yet guarded in the same heartbeat. "Hey, maybe you can help me talk Emma into finding a place near the water."

Killian's heart seems to catch in his throat. "I wouldn't presume to coerce the lady when it came to something so important. Besides, it's hardly any of my concern where your mother choses to live."

"Oh, please." The boy gives him a disdainful glance. "I'm fourteen, not four. I know you guys are hanging out together." He shakes his head as he turns to watch the boats once more. "Are you worried what people might say about a pirate dating a princess?"

There are very few times in his life that Killian Jones has found himself lost for words. This would be one of them. Indeed, it takes him a moment or two to find his voice. "Like I said, lad, when it comes to your mother and myself, things aren't exactly simple."

Henry gives him a look that clearly says he's not convinced, but drops the subject, and Killian breathes a silent sigh of relief. His relief grows when he hears the familiar sound of Emma's yellow vehicle approaching. It seems he is greatly out of practice when it comes to dealing with the word games of youngsters with an agenda.

"Hey, you two." Emma smiles at her son, then at him. "Nice to see you're still on dry land."

Killian gives her a look of mock offense as she kisses the top of Henry's head. "I made that promise only yesterday, love. Did you really expect me to break it so soon?"

"Sorry, old habits." She smiles as she pats his shoulder. The gesture is faintly awkward, and he realises she's too conscious of her son's presence to truly relax. Emboldened by his conversation with Henry, he reaches for the hand on his shoulder, lifting it to his mouth for a kiss.

"I'm a changed man, Swan."

Her fingers tighten around his as she glances anxiously at Henry, but what she sees in her son's face obviously reassures her. He can feel her tension ease, and she goes as far as to give him a playful smile. "So I've heard."

Henry grins up at his mother. "So, can we talk to the harbour master about hiring a boat?"

Apparently, Killian thinks with a private smile, serious matters of the heart pale in comparison with the possibility of a trip at sea.

"Not today, kiddo." Emma pinches Henry's chin gently. "I think maybe we should have a talk about you going back to school before we work on the after-hours stuff."

Her son pouts briefly, then leans back against the hard wooden bench with a sigh, as if recognising the inevitable and yielding to it. "Mary Margaret wouldn't be my teacher anymore, wouldn't she?"

"Not at the moment, no." Emma darts a smiling glance at Killian. "She's pretty much got her hands full at the moment."

Killian grins, remembering how much of his parents' attention young Prince Neal had commanded last night. "Literally, in fact."

"Hey, I need to get a newspaper." With the usual vigour of youth, Henry has already moved onto another topic. "I want to check the real estate section."

Taking a seat on the other side of Henry, Emma raises one sculptured eyebrow at her son. "What for?" Her tone holds more than a note of suspicion, and Killian holds his breath, knowing what's coming.

"Well, it's kinda crowded at the loft now, and I would be thinking it might be nice if you and me had a place of our own." The lad says the words in a rush, as though he might better sneak them past his mother if he speaks quickly. "Somewhere near the water."

Emma's bright green gaze meets Killian's over the top of her son's head and, for a brief moment, there is a wistfulness in her eyes that has his breath snagging in his chest. Then she looks down at Henry, and the moment is lost. "There's a lot of stuff going on right now, kiddo, and that's definitely something I'd need to discuss with Regina first." She threads her fingers through his hair. "We will talk about it, though, I promise."

Once again, her gaze darts up to meet Killian's as she speaks, and he has the sudden sense that she's not only addressing her son. His pulse quickens - surely he's imagining such a thing – and he gives her a tentative smile.

The smile she gives him in reply makes him feel as though the sun has just come out from behind the clouds.

"Come on, lad." He cuffs Henry gently on the shoulder. "I think we should escort your mother to Granny's for her breakfast."

"Thank God," she mutters, making a face. "David brought some muffins to work but they were bran and apricot."

"I take it that particular foodstuff isn't palatable?"

"They're the worst."

As Henry walks ahead of them (he keeps peering at the different boats, as if assessing their appeal, and Killian can't help but feel an odd sense of pride), Emma bumps her shoulder against his, her hand catching his for a brief second before releasing it. "So, what did you guys talk about all morning?"

He allows himself the luxury of resting his hand on the delicate curve at the base of her spine for a few steps, then hooks his thumb into his belt, removing himself from temptation. "His father, mostly." She nods, her expression solemn, and he adds, "And you, of course."

She glances at him, her clear green eyes brimming with curiosity. "Me?"

"He's rather concerned with your living arrangements."

"Aha." Again, the faintest hint of a blush touches her cheeks, and she glances down at her feet, a tiny smile curving her lips. "He's a very determined kid once he gets something in his head."

He lets his shoulder brush against hers. "Sounds like someone else I know."

She gives him a look that is part exasperation, part tenderness. "Look who's talking."

They follow in her son's wake to where her car is parked. As he walks beside her, the reflective gleam of the sun bounces off the curve of his hook, reminding him that there are ways in which he may never fit in, but he still matches his step to hers, because there is no other place in this realm (or any other) that he wishes to be.

They've just reached Granny's when she sees it.

Henry is trying to convince her that he needs a mid-morning snack (Killian has already mentioned the giant pile of food her son put away earlier) and she turns to him with a smile, a joke about hollow legs on the tip of her tongue, when the words die in her throat. She grabs Killian's arm, pulling him to a halt, because there is a reindeer standing in the middle of Main Street.

When she was much younger, depending on the foster home at the time, there was a television show she liked to watch. It was set in Alaska and to the inhabitants of that small town, seeing a giant moose wandering up and down the main street was normal.

But this is Maine, not Alaska, and there should not be a freaking reindeer in the middle of Main Street.

Oh, no. This cannot be happening.

"Henry, did you want to go in and order me a grilled cheese sandwich and a hot chocolate?" She puts herself between him and the reindeer, hoping to block his line of vision. "I just need to check something out."

He frowns, then nods. "Sure. Can I get something too?"

"Knock yourself out." Lazy parenting, she knows, but she wants him inside and safe until she knows exactly what's going on. "We'll be in soon."

She wants until he's gone, then turns to Killian, who is looking at her with obvious confusion. "What's going on, love?"

She gestures towards the reindeer, which now seems to be strolling along Main Street as though it's sightseeing. "Something look out of place to you?"

His eyes widen. "Bloody hell."

"Exactly," she replies as she pulls out her phone to call David. She's pretty sure he never had to deal with this kind of beast at the animal shelter, but she'll feel better if he's with them. She leaves a message on his voicemail (that will no doubt have him wondering if she's taken to drinking in the morning) then tucks the phone back into her pocket. "Okay. Let's do this."

They approach the animal cautiously, but when they get within ten feet of it, they both come to a halt. "It appears the beast isn't travelling alone," Killian murmurs in her ear, and Emma can only nod, because things just got way more complicated.

She takes a deep breath, then walks over to where the unfamiliar young couple are standing hand in hand, looking around them in the same what that Emma has seen over and over again from tourists in the middle of Times Square.

"Hi!" They both jump, obviously startled, turning in unison to face her. Emma takes a few seconds to catalogue their appearance, and every single damned thing she sees makes her heart beat a little faster. "You look lost. Can we help?"

The woman is a pretty redhead with a heart-shaped face. Just as Emma thinks that at least she's not wearing plaits, the other woman opens her mouth and complicates everyone's lives. "Oh, I hope so. We're looking for my sister, and we got word that she might have somehow come to your little town."

Beside her, Killian is a silent, solid presence, and Emma is very glad he's there. "I'm Emma Swan. I'm the sheriff here."

"Nice to meet you." The other woman's dimples flash as she smiles. "I'm Ana, and this is Kristoff," she adds, gesturing towards the burly fair-haired man beside her.

Emma stares at them. Well, shit.

Before she can open her mouth to reply (or say a few choice curse words), she hears the pounding of teenaged sized feet, then Henry is suddenly beside her and beside himself with triumphant glee. "I knew it!"

Right on cue, Leroy comes barrelling around the corner. "Strangers! Strangers in town!" He skids to a stop at the sight of them all, his eyes widening at the large reindeer which is now sitting like a dog next to its master. The dwarf looks at Emma, disappointment at having his thunder stolen written all over his face. "Just thought you should know."

She looks at Killian, who merely grins. "It was getting a little quiet around here, love." He nods at their visitors, then tilts his head towards Granny's front door. "Perhaps our guests might like some refreshment."

Emma stares at him, then at the couple who are looking at her with expectant, hopeful faces (even the freaking reindeer is looking at her as though it's waiting for her to speak), and officially gives up on trying to have a normal day. Sighing, she puts her hand on Henry's shoulder (she has the feeling he's itching to pat that reindeer) and gives their visitors a resigned smile. She has no idea how they got to Storybrooke (how are they even in this time?), but she's sure she's about to hear all about it. "Come on, then. Let's get you something to eat and drink, and you can tell us more about your sister." She looks at the large, hairy beast, which has now gotten to its feet, his snout resting on his male owner's shoulder. "Maybe Granny can find some carrots for your friend there."

"They're his favourite." The guy's eyes widen. "How did you know?"

Henry smirks, as only a teenaged boy with the knowledge of two different worlds can smirk. "Just a lucky guess."

Leroy leads their motley crew towards Granny's, but Emma hangs back, desperately needing one last moment of peace before she plunges back into the craziness that is her life. Killian, as he always does, notices her reluctance to join the others, and comes to her side, his hand catching her hand discreetly, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You alright there, Swan?"

"I just need a minute." She squeezes back, taking comfort from the way his palm fits so perfectly against hers, the way his calm voice can soothe her jangled nerves with the most ordinary of words. She takes a few deep breaths, then nods. "Okay. Let's go see what the hell's going on now."

"As you wish, milady," he tells her, his lips curving in a slow smile, and anticipation of their next adventure gleams in his eyes.

It lights the same spark inside her, damn him, and she takes a chance and seizes one of the good moments. Standing in the main street of the town, she rises up on her toes and pressing a quick, firm kiss to his surprised mouth. "I like you without the coat."

She turns on her heel and starts walking, but not before she hears his delighted chuckle and the words saucy and wench. Grinning, knowing he's following, she takes the steps to Granny's front door two at a time, suddenly feeling as though she could fly.

They're both in the book now, and the future is hers to write.