Written as my CSSS gift on tumblr. This wasn't at all what I had planned (it's fair to say the plotline got away with me) but I hope you all like nonetheless.

...

Emma used to hate riding.

She used to hate the blisters the reins wore into the creases of her fingers and the ache of her thighs from the stiff saddle. She resented the prissy palace girls always made to accompany her and the mind-numbing conversations that would carry them through the sluggish walk she was constricted to riding with. She hated how the grass and the plants made her sneeze. She hated it, resented it, despised it.

Now, however, now she loves it.

Now that her blisters have calloused and her hands are tough – not soft and pliant like when she was a girl – and her legs are stronger and don't hurt nearly as much, the grass and the plants no longer making her sneeze. Now that she's seen her seventeenth birthday and rides when and where she pleases – free and fast and boundless.

She loves the wind in her hair as it sifts through. She loves the absence of heavy skirts and stiff corsets, loves the give of the tan breeches she wears in their place and the way her riding coat swings behind her as she gallops and the feeling that accompanies it – like the ground isn't even there and she's weightless. She loves her horse, Kelsea, too and how it knows her and likes her in ways none of her other horses did and now, making her way through a familiar patch of forest, sun streaking through the canopy of leaves above her head and casting delicate shadows and strips of light across the ground, Emma decides riding might just be the highlight of her day.

There's a shift of mood as she slows to a walk, passing through a clearing, and at the sight of a tensed and wary deer, she decides it's definitely the highlight of the day.

Because she knows this clearing (all too well).

She slows her horse to a halt, scanning the surrounding bushes and shrubs, shielding her eyes from the sun.

When she spots him – dark hair all sticky-upy and visible from behind a bush – she smiles, watching as he carefully draws his bow. She sees in his action all the things she taught him (all the things her mother taught her); elbow high, both eyes open, and she smiles wider because she's always found his concentrating face funny – the way he bites on his lip and chews at it. She watches his fingers tense, readying himself to take the shot at the unsuspecting deer, and as she does so her hand relaxes fatally against the rein, her horse taking one step too far and a branch crunches loudly under its hoof. The dear starts immediately, heading snapping towards her, and it fixes her one scared and startled look before cantering off into the woods, away from the pond it had been drinking from.

She hears a string of curses and winces.

"Sorry, Killian," she sighs as her friend emerges from the bushes, slinging his bow over his shoulder in a grumbled manner, his wolf at his heels.

"Graceful as ever then, Swan," he says, rolling his eyes and proceeding to mess his hair further. She knows he only does it when he's agitated and she feels bad for ruining his shot, biting her lip as she swings herself off her saddle, petting Kelsea and letting her graze. When she turns back to Killian he's just slumped down onto a log. She frowns at the lack of annoying banter slipping past his lips, and then, upon noticing, the circles under his eyes.

"C'mon, I said sorry. It's just one deer."

He just fails at hiding his cringe when she says that, not looking up from where he scratches his wolf behind his. The very pet was a birthday present from her, one he'd tried to refuse (just as he'd tried to cover up the fact it was his birthday, something which made her heart ache just a bit), but had eventually accepted and named fluffy in what was supposed to be some hilarious joke ("Ironic humour, Swan, you wouldn't get it").

"Killian?" she says slowly, frowning, thinking he's never got this worked up over a ruined shot in the past, and his head snaps up.

"Right, yeah, just a deer." He looks up to her, and then grins teasingly. "And it's not like I expect anything less from you, isn't that right, my Swan?"

She rolls her eyes at the nickname (the one she never admits she likes) reaching round to pet his wolf.

It's what he's called her by the most since they'd first met (his other choices being royal pain in the ass, and then occasionally Emma) when it had first come about in a clearing not unlike this one. She'd come off her horse – product of a rather fool-hardy insistence that she could make a very ambitious jump – and he, ever the gentlemen, had helped her up. When, on her way back to her horse, she'd tripped once more he'd chuckled, folding his arms and grinning "As graceful as a swan, aren't you, love?"

"Shut up," she'd said, dragging herself back to her feet and dusting the dirt of her breeches. And of course, him being him, he'd only smiled wider.

"What's your name, lass?"

"None of your concern."

And when she'd jumped back onto her horse, wheeling it round and riding off with every intention of never seeing Mr Blue-eyes again, with no name to use he'd had no choice but to call her Swan.

That's what he'd called her the next time she saw him – sat in a tree with a book in hand – and even though he'd been waiting to deliver the news that he'd found out her name (and hence her royal status) he still hasn't use it as much as his pet name.

And Emma hasn't complained. Much.

In fact – a few more random forest encounters and tavern run-ins with Killian Joneslater – she'd even started answering to it.

"Shut up," she says, moving to sit down on the log next to him, reaching across and petting his wolf. When she hears nothing in return – no grinned make me or childish you shut up – she looks over to him, finding his eyes lost somewhere ahead of him, his expression blank, as though he's lost in thought. She frowns. "Are you okay today?"

He blinks, looking over to her. "Hm – oh, yeah, fine."

"Good," she smiles, pushing up off the log. "Then I'm riding down to the docks, want to come?"

He looks up, grinning. "Fine, but I'm not going on foot if you're going on horse."

….

The ride to the harbour is short, a fast pace having been set by him (they tossed a coin for who went in front – despite her protestations that it's her horse and so she gets to ride – and with her luck, he won) with the greens and browns of the late summer flying past them, and she tries to ignore how the proximity makes her heart beat wildly against her chest and how her soft curves fit perfectly into his hard lines, but when she tucks her head into his shoulder it has little to do with seeing ahead.

No matter what she tells him (or herself).

….

"How's Liam?" she asks once they're there, sitting side by side on a bench, overlooking the busy sailors and rocking boats of the port.

"Oh, I'm sure he's having a bloody wonderful time, waltzing about that ship and informing anyone who'll listen that he's captain. All the letters he's sent me have been to remind me that he is, pretty much."

She snorts a laugh. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I, Swan?" He asks, arm wrapped around his wolf from where it's perched beside him. "Because you should have seen him the day he left. I'm surprised the ship hasn't sunk under the weight of his inflated ego."

She nudges him in the shoulder as she laughs, shaking her head. "Stop pretending you don't want to follow in his footsteps and become his lieutenantas soon as you can."

"Hush, Swan," he says, and she smiles because he only says that when she's right. When he can't think of any more annoying retorts or teasing remarks.

"I'll miss you if you go," she says, turning a stone over in her hands, moss crumbling against her fingers. She doesn't usually like to think about those things – to think about when they'll both be older and have responsibilities and pressures creeping down on them; for him to work and for her to marry and reign.

She can tell it infuriates her parents sometimes – when her mother wants to talk to her about princes and balls and dresses and her father about the running of the kingdom, and all she wants to do is practice sword fighting with her friend or go riding to their clearing – but she can't really help it, not when she finds the palace so incredibly suffocating sometimes and when days with Killian taste like summer and freedom and fun. Not when with him, she feels much less like The Princess and much more like just Emma.

She likes being just Emma.

"I'll miss you too," he smiles, arm coming round the back of the bench, and with his hand playing absently with her long, blonde braid, she supposes he likes just Emma too.

They laugh and joke for the rest of the afternoon – she tells him about the mishap in the kitchen the other day where the head cook thought her father said fifty bags of potatoes instead of fifteen and how now she's going to be eating potatoes until the day she dies – and with his eyes bright and his smiles wide, she forgets all about his momentary sulk about the deer that got away.

….

They go riding the next day – across the land bridge and then around the great lake, sun shining through the clouds and casting the whole landscape in its light – and when he's quiet again, always nibbling on his bottom lip as though in a constant state of worry, she remembers his momentary sulk about the deer that got away. She's about to ask him if something is wrong – perhaps it's Liam, or maybe he's had another fight with his father – when, as though sensing her searching gaze, he tugs on his reins, moving his horse from where they'd been resting and sending it back into a gallop.

And when she goes to the clearing the next day, and finds him nowhere to be seen, she starts to think something actually is wrong.

….

The tavern that sits to the left of port market is one of the nicer ones of this area, much less a drinking hole for pirates and thieves and whores and much more one for sailors and miners and blacksmiths and other men of trade, lacking in the stench of crime that other places carry. It's for this that Emma feels perfectly safe crossing into its threshold, head bowed beneath her hood (she'd rather not be recognised tonight).

She takes a seat at the bar and when the bartender comes up she gets a glass of rum, nursing the drink between her hands. She takes a sip, sighing when the taste brings back memories of various encounters with her friend. She remembers one particular one – sitting on a bench beside him, chin resting on her knees as she hugged her legs, laughing and joking as they passed that flask of his back and forth, heads growing lighter with each sip of the rum.

She misses that, misses him – the friend who's been rather absent recently. She's ridden down to that clearing – their clearing – six times in the past two weeks, only to find it empty. No head of messy hair sticking out from behind a bush or bashful eighteen year-old perched high in the trees with a book in hand. Not even Fluffy, who sometimes lurks there even in his owner's absence was anywhere to be seen. It's curious and disappointing and has had her returning to the castle in worse spirits than usual, ache in her heart growing.

And then just as finishes taking another sip of her drink, letting the tumbler fall from her lips and drop back onto the table, the door behind the bar swings open and through it walks Killian Jones.

Her eyes widen. "Killian?"

"Emma," he says, clearly surprised as her. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," she replies, folding her arms and leaning them against the bar. "Since when do you work at this tavern?"

"They had an opening," he answers after a hesitation. "I thought I may as well make some money."

She has a reply poised on her lips, perhaps a question as to why he feels the need(his father works selling ships – he's always said he's fine for money), when the landlord comes bustling in, instructing Killian to get back to work. Killian gives her an apologetic look before moving to serve some other customers.

That leaves her alone, sipping quietly at her rum and wondering why she has such a strong suspicion that Killian Jones, her friend, has just told her something not quite truthful.

She finishes her drink in two long gulps, pushes two cold coins across the counter, and takes her leave.

….

"You've been spending a lot of time here recently," he father comments from his place at the desk.

Emma frowns from where she's stretched across the leather settee. "I've always liked the library, you know that." And she has, ever since she was young, slipping away from royal engagements and affairs to go find comfort in its shadowed corners and the mysteries and adventures tied up in its leather-bound volumes.

She rubs her fingers against the yellowing pages of her current book: the biggest atlas she could find. She traces the mountain ranges and coastlines and deep forests with wistful fingers, and turns another page as she hears her father's quiet chuckle.

"Not the library, the palace," he says, dipping his quill in his inkpot. "You've hardly gone out at all this past week…I think your dear Kelsea misses you."

Emma only hums, feeling no particular inclination to tell him of how she's wanted to go out, only that with the knowledge that the person she usually goes riding to won't be there, and the suspicion he's been keeping things from her, she's ended up with little desire to do just that. Hence the library dwelling.

"Or do you no longer like your horse? Perhaps there are fields that would benefit from her, then – "

"No," Emma protests quickly, looking up to find her father smiling over his work. She sighs, and closes the book, placing it on the floor and turning over, letting her head fall against the cushion at the end.

"Is this about Killian?" he asks, and she scrunches up her nose.

"No." And then, after a pause, she sighs, staring up at the intricate woodwork of ceiling. "Or maybe a little bit…" she admits, and she hears his amused huff.

"What happened?"

"Nothing really…" she sighs. "I don't know…he's stopped coming to our meeting place in the forest…and he's started working at the tavern by the harbour without telling me…I don't know, I just feel like he's keeping things from me." Her father says nothing, and so she turns her head to him. "What do you think?"

"I think you're resolving very little by sitting in my awful company," he reasons, and Emma smiles. "Go talk to him now."

"Now?"

"Yes, now. I've had word from the kitchen that we need more strawberries, so you can go to the market while you're there. Should I send word for the stable boy to get Kelsea ready?"

Emma rolls her eyes at the lack of negotiation offered, swinging her legs over the edge of the settee and slipping the atlas back into its place on the towering bookshelves. "I can get her ready myself," she tells him. "And your company isn't that awful," she adds with a smile, kissing the top of his head on her way out.

….

She rides her horse down to the harbour, tying her up were the trees thin out and forest becomes town. The large clock from the port rings loudly six times as she walks through the alleyways and past stone houses, letting her know that she has a whole half hour before the market reaches its closing time of six thirty. With this knowledge, she walks straight past it, heading in the direction of the tavern instead.

She's just about to walk through the door – head bowed, hood up – when she bumps into something – or rather, someone – and when she raises her head and sees that it's Killian who has his hands bracing her shoulders, she lets out a sigh of relief. Better him than some awkward sailor who'll feel the need to stammer apologies and bow low.

"Careful, Swan, you'll knock someone over," he says. She tells herself it's his absence that causes her heart to thump at the sight of his crooked grin. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"My father sent me for the market, we need more strawberries apparently," she tells him. "But I thought I'd stop by given that I've hardly seen you recently." She pokes him in the chest as she says it, and he sighs.

"I know, I apologise, I've just been busy with this new job and all…" he trails off, glancing to the tavern behind her.

Emma huffs with annoyance. "Why don't you just quit? Your princess commands it," she adds in a mockingly bossy tone and he sneers at her.

"My princess is simply using the fact that she's princess to bully her friend out of his new job."

She pouts. "Oh come on…you don't even need that job…and I've been bored…" she looks up at him from beneath her lashes. "…I miss your stupid face."

"I miss you too, love, but I can't just quit my job because her royal highness needs someone to wreak havoc with," he says, eyes dancing with amusement. When Emma sees no lies lurking there she sighs.

"Fine…but at least come with me now, since you're not work" she says, tugging once on his hand and walking away from the tavern, Killian by her side.

"Where are we going?"

"To the market."

He stops walking beside her and as well hidden as it is, his tone of voice develops a nervous streak. "The market…won't that be closed?"

Emma frowns and continues walking. "No, it doesn't close until six thirty."

He looks stiff, wary, but re-joins her at her side as she walks out towards the docks. He tugs on her hand. "I don't really want to go to the market, let's do something else." He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Emma shakes her head, turning a corner, the bright colours of the market coming into view. "The castle kitchens need more strawberries, I promised my father."

Even at this late hour the market is busy – this being the biggest port and port town in the whole of the kingdom – and she has to dodge people as she enters, making her way past the various stalls. When she looks to Killian she finds him biting on his damned lip again, twisting his fingers.

"Please, Emma, I don't feel like going to the market now…"

She frowns at him, at the pleading tone and desperate edge, and is about to ask what exactly is going on (since when has he been so incredibly adverse to the market?) when a shout cuts her off – loud and gruff and sounding suspiciously like "tha's 'im" – and before she has time to think, to wonder why on earth this man is stumbling through the market in their direction, Killian's hand closes around her wrist and she's being yanked away from the scene, forced into a run.

The commotion continues behind them as they run, her Killian, waits being completely ignored as the shrieks of the shoppers they push out of the way follow in their wake, the gruff and furious voice of the man getting quieter and quieter as he gets trapped behind the bustle of the narrow isles between the various stalls.

Killian still doesn't explain or answer her pleas as they exit the market, the colours and banners and yells fading behind them as he pulls her down cobbled streets and unfamiliar roads. He takes her down past the houses, the stone beneath them turning to wood and the view beyond them becoming the sea and ships and boats.

It's only when they're at the end of the docks, wood beneath them creaking and Emma's breath ragged and muscles aching from all the running does Killian let them slow to a halt.

"What – the hell – was that – about?" Emma pants, clutching her side.

"Nothing," he says hastily.

"Nothing?" Emma flares. "Killian, what is going on? Why did you not want to go to the market? Why was that man chasing you?"

Killian winces, turning away and scrubbing at the back of his head with his fist. "I – uh – I stole from him," he admits.

Emma's eyes widen. "You stole? Since when do you steal?" Her friend is many things – a tease, an idiot, a flirt – but a thief? "Why would you do that?"

"It's a long story," he sighs.

"I'm sure," she says quietly – anger fading and disappointment taking its place. One of the reasons she loves having him as a friend in the place of other highborn girls her age is that with the constant game of deceit and backstabbing that seems to lie beneath relationships with such girls she's liked the honesty of his friendship. Honesty quickly fading. And then she notices something else. "Where's Fluffy?"

He frowns. "What?"

"Fluffy, your wolf. You haven't had him with you all the past times I've seen you, where is he?"

Pain flashes hot in his eyes before he quickly masks it, looking anywhere but her and biting his lip. "He's lost."

Emma gapes. "Lost? What do you mean lost? You would never lose him, you love that stupid wolf." He winces, scrubbing at the back of his head again and his whole body seems stiff with anguish. "What is going on with you, Killian? You got in a strop because of a deer – I've hardly seen you recently, you're stealing and now you've gone and lost Fluffy? He was a present from me…I can't believe you've lost him."

His expression softens, façade slipping, and he looks upward – up to the clouds that swirl dark above their heads, promising rain and thunder. "Fine," he says quietly, flatly. "I didn't lose him."

She inhales and exhales slowly. "Where's your wolf, Killian?" she asks.

He shuts his eyes and swallows. "I sold her."

"You sold her?" Emma repeats – voice soft with disbelief. "That was a gift from me and you sold it?" He nods stiffly and a sick feeling twists her gut. "Is it – is it me? Is that why you've been avoiding me, do you not want to be my friend anymore? Did you sell my gift so I wouldn't owe you anything?"

He runs a hand through his hair, messing it with agitation. "No, Jesus Swan, of course not. You know I love being your friend."

The sincerity with which he says it eases the tightness in her chest slightly – but she's still bewildered. "Then why?"

He looks to the tired wood of the docks, hand slipping into his pockets. "I needed the money," he says.

She frowns. "Money? I thought you were good for that – your brother – "

" – has been gone for months – "

" – well then your father."

A self-deprecating smirk twists his lips, and he shakes his head, shoulders sagging. "My father is gone," he sighs. "I woke up a bit less than month ago and all his things had disappeared…all the money too. He left me," he adds quietly, bitterly.

"Gone?" she repeats softly, disbelievingly. And then she thinks about the deer he got all sad over (the one he must have wanted to sell) the job at the tavern that meant he couldn't see her, the circles under his eyes, the way she swears he's lost weight – and it all clicks in to place. "Why – why didn't you tell me?" she splutters. "I could've helped you – got you stuff – "

" – which is exactly why I didn't." He cuts her off in a voice plagued with despair.

She blinks at him. "What?"

His sigh is heavy, the way he rubs at his eyes defeated (and in a way that makes her skin crawl) and when he speaks again it's with a soft desperation that makes her heart ache. "Gods, Emma, don't you get how it must feel to have to have you to help me with money? Or food? I didn't tell you because I knew you'd want to help…you always do…bloody kind lass that you are…but accepting your money or your food…it just reminds me that I have neither and you have plenty. I'm not complaining, I'm not," he adds quickly at the way she cringes and then sighs again. "It reminds me how different we are…that you'rea princess and I'm not a bloody prince and that me and you, we…"

Her voice is soft and pleading. "We what, Killian?"

His is sad and flat and just that little bit broken. "We can never be…more than just friends."

Emma inhales sharply through her nose. "…I thought you didn't think of me in that way."

He stares at her, raw and honest emotion woven into the sad smile that quirks his lips, shining in the depths of his ever-blue eyes. "When you're as beautiful as you are its bloody hard not to, Emma."

Her heart stutters and her breath hitches. With all the supposedly charming princes and highborn lords she's had the pleasure of knowing, she's never been called beautiful by anyone but her parents. And never with the sincerity that he speaks it – like it's a poem or a great truth. Like her beauty is his very undoing.

"How long?" she asks, because it's all she can manage. "How long have you…felt like that."

A smile quirks his lips – sad and wistful. "You remember the day you came off your horse and fell on your arse?"

"Yeah," she says.

"Since then."

A whole bunch of things suddenly come to mind – those serious and sometimes longing glances she'd see him sparing, the way he seems to vehemently dislike all the lords and princes that come visit, the comments he makes that are meant be silly and annoying but could be seen as much, much more – and Emma gapes. "This whole time? Why didn't you say something? Do something?"

"What would have been the point, Swan? You're heir to the bloody kingdom…your parents are king and queen…I'm just a boy whose brother went to sea and whose father left him."

"You think I care about that?" she says. "You think my parents care about that? I've been suffocated by annoying princes and stiffy lords and others my parents are hoping I'll fall for and…not one of them has told me I was beautiful like you just did." He doesn't say anything, doesn't even keep his eyes open, devastation carved into each rise and fall and hard line and line curve of his face. Her voice softens, and she takes a step towards him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He doesn't open his eyes. "Because you deserve better than me."

She shakes her head, stepping closer. "I don't care what I deserve, why didn't you tell me?"

"Because your parents would never allow it."

She scoffs quietly, now so close their toes are almost touching and she can just about hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat. "That's bullshit and you know it." She says, reaching up a hand and cupping his cheek, angling his face towards hers. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't ever think you could love me back," he whispers.

She reaches up her other hand, cupping his face. "Idiot," she whispers, and then kisses him hard.

He freezes for a second – two whole heartbeats – and then slowly, tentatively, he softens – melting in to her touch and kissing her back. His hands find her hips, sliding and curling around her waist just as thunder sounds loud and echoing over their heads and it starts raining. Hard.

His hair is wet as her hands slip into it, droplets sliding from their heads to their foreheads and down their noses and she tugs him closer. When it starts raining even harder – pitter-pattering hard against the docks and stony pavements beyond and splashing into the darkening waters – and both of them are practically sopping, she pulls away, a laugh slipping past her lips.

"You're so stupid," she says, his forehead falling against hers.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he echoes.

"I didn't think you thought about me that way," she replies, thumbing at the fastenings on his coat.

He smiles. "Then love, you're pretty stupid too."

She looks up to him, finding that for the first time in a while, with hair sticking to his forehead and raindrops on his nose, he looks happy. He ducks down quickly, pressing another kiss to her lips before he grabs her hand. A giggle slips past her lips as he tugs her down to the end of the docks, both of them trying carefully not to slip.

It's just as another fork of lighting lights up the dark evening, followed shortly by another boom of thunder, that Killian tugs Emma under the shelter of a stable – rain now coming down on the thatch above their heads, horses grunting behind them with hay below their dripping shoes.

His fingers slip from they're clasped around her wrist, sliding down and lacing through hers. His hand is rough and calloused in places but it's warm too and it fits neatly against the dips and curves of her own.

They stand in the shelter for barely ten minutes – watching the rain come down hard against the pavestones, his thumb rubbing against the top of hers – before racket above their heads draws slowly to a close, marking the end of the storm. When Emma looks outside she sees that the only drops of water that splash against the pavement become the droplets that slip from the slopped roofs of the houses.

"Come on," she says, not letting go of his hand as they leave the stable.

….

The air always seems to feel clearer once rain has fallen; any clamminess or humidity having been washed away and replaced by something much cooler, crisper, much easier to breathe in.

They walk back over to the docks, clouds clearing slowly and allowing them the light of the falling dusk. They walk past where the ships rock sleepily, any sailors or pirates previously on board chased away by the flash storm, and Emma doesn't stop until they reach the end, sitting herself down on the tired wood, letting her legs tangle over the edge and hang above the waters. Killian comes down and sits next to her.

"I'm sorry your father left," she says after a moment.

He shakes his head. "I'm not, not really. I was angry when it happened, I mean, but I won't miss the shouting or the drinking…" He glances to her. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

She huffs out a laugh through her nose. "You should be." She looks over to him, hands braced behind her and he winces. "I was worried, you know, when I didn't see you. I thought I was losing my only real friend."

"I know, god, I'm really sorry, Emma," he says in earnest, and then drops his voice so she has to strain to hear it. "I just hate having you giving me things…when really I've just want to give you things…everything…"

She raises an eyebrow. "Everything?"

"Everything," he confirms, tucking a strand of hair that's fallen loose from her braid behind her ear. "The whole bloody world." He looks to the waters beneath their hanging feet. "But I couldn't give you that," he says, his voice small. "…and so I didn't tell you how I felt about you…because maybe they could give you that."

"They?" she repeats.

"You know…all those lords and princes from far off realms…they could offer you castles and kingdoms and I couldn't…can't…" and he trails off, picking up a stone that's wedged between the planks of the deck, turning it in his fingers before casting into the waters beyond them.

"You know I've been to hundreds of balls…" she says, taking his hand in both of hers. "…surrounded by all of these lords and princes you seem to think are so much better than you…and since I met you I've spent every single one wishing you were there…wishing we could make fun off their pompous accents together and talk about who has the biggest stick up their ass and which princess's corset is pulled the tightest…" she runs her thumb over each of his knuckles, and then nudges his shoulder with hers. "They may have castles and kingdoms but they're not you, Killian Jones."

He smiles down at his feet and then looks up to her, eyebrow raised in a silent really?

If she's ever been resentful of her royal status it's now – with his blue eyes so doubtful and smile so hesitant. She smiles in return, reaching up and cupping his neck and kissing him – long and soft and tender.

"Let's go," she says, pulling away gently, gathering herself up onto her feet.

He frowns. "Where?"

"Home, to the castle." When he looks like he's about to protest, she quickly cuts him off. "No, you're not living alone anymore. My parents will happily find you quarters."

He bites his lip, doubt creeping into his expression, but when she gives him a look that offers little negotiation he sighs in submission, and takes her outstretched hand.

….

"You're excited."

"Not much."

"Please, Killian, you're practically bouncing."

"Am not," he protests indignantly, pouting and she's sure if his hand wasn't entwined with hers he'd fold his arms to complete the look.

She rolls her eyes. "Just admit that you're bouncing like a little puppy because you're excited to see your stupid big brother," she says, imitating the accent on his last part.

"Hush, Swan," he says as the dot that has been identified as The Jewel of the Realm gets bigger and bigger – going from mere dot on the horizon to actual ship, drawing closer and closer (Killian's hand getting tighter and tighter around hers).

(And the idiot pretends he doesn't miss his brother.)

The ship clunks loudly as it comes up to the docks, sailors working quickly and efficiently to dock it safely (Killian nibbling anxiously at his lip the whole time) until the gangplank comes down on the docks with a thud, Captain Liam Jones walking smoothly down it.

"Killian," Liam greets warmly, smile curling his lips as he messes his curly brown hair – and then he halts at the sight of her. "My – my princess, your highness, it's an honour," he says, and then bows low.

She smiles, holding out her hand to him once he has risen. "The honour is all mine, Captain Jones. Killian has told me a lot about you."

"Right – Killian – " and at the sight of their entwined hands, and the closeness with which they stand, it seems her love's dear brother is lost for words. Emma tries to be subtle in the way she bites down on her grin. "Uh – brother, can I've a word? If that's okay with the princess, of course – "

She lets go of Killian's hand, gesturing him for him to follow her brother, gracing them both with a polite smile as if she isn't finding the whole thing extremely amusing. She wonders what her reaction would be if she got home from sea to find her brother courting the heir to the kingdom, and it only makes the desire to laugh grow.

It doesn't help when she overhears their hushed conversation.

"Bloody hell, Killian, I go away three months and when I come back you're courting the bloody princess?"

Killian's eyes go wide at his brother's outburst, and he holds his hands out. "We've been friends for a while, you know that. Now we're just…more than friends."

That doesn't seem to a great job of calming his brother down, the captain's fists clenching and unclenching at his side. "More than – Killian, do the King and Queen know?"

Killian sighs exasperatedly. "Well I'm not going to court her without their permission, am I?"

Liam looks sceptical as he holds Killian's gaze. "And they agreed?"

"Yes. They said they had no intention of arranging her marriage, just as theirs wasn't ever arranged, and so as long as their daughter was happy they were glad for us to be together."

Emma smiles at how he just about quotes her parents word for word (he'd been so worried about asking them in the first place he probably memorised their response out of disbelief).

"And the princess is happy with you?"

Killian nods. "I should hope so."

"And you are happy?"

"Happiest I've ever been," Killian says and Emma knows hiding her smile is fruitless. She looks to her feet for a moment, and looks back up just in time to see Liam smile, pulling his brother into a tight embrace.

She turns away, letting them have their moment of peace, only looking back to Killian when he re-joins her at his side, asking if Liam could come up to the castle for dinner.

Liam's face when he realises his brother has been living in a castle in his absence has her biting back another laugh as she of course, agrees, but walking back up to where their horses are grazing, Killian's smile bright as he talks animatedly with his brother, she gives way to the grin that tugs her lips.

….

Review? Pretty please?