There's a strange woman in her home, a beautiful blonde wearing a sparkly blue dress and holding a shepherdess' crook.

It's not the weirdest situation Snow White has ever encountered, but still, it's right up there.

David explains things quickly - over the years, the two of them have gotten used to explaining the unexplainable in bullet points - then kisses her soundly as he takes the sleeping baby from her arms. "If he's already asleep, I'll put him down for a nap while we're ahead of the game." He gives her a bright blue wink, something that shouldn't give her butterflies after all this time, but it does. "Back soon."

Her arms feeling oddly empty, she looks around the loft. Her grandson is showing the strange woman (her name is Elsa, David said) how to make hot cocoa, and her daughter is sitting swaddled in blankets with the heater at her feet and a kneeling Captain Hook's arm around her shoulders. It's an odd tableau, and she can't help feeling that she's missing some important details.

"Okay." Her voice is loud in the quiet loft, and all four heads turn swiftly in her direction. "I think someone better give me the longer version of what happened tonight."

To her surprise, the woman called Elsa speaks first, her eyes suddenly downcast. "I'm afraid it was all my fault," she begins in a low, steady voice, but Emma is quick to interrupt her.

"No, it wasn't."

Hook gives Emma a pointed look, and she offers him a sheepish smile. "Okay, maybe it was," she mutters as she turns back to Elsa, "but you fixed it." She huddles closer to the man kneeling beside her chair as she speaks, and Snow finds herself hiding a wry smile. Emma might not be able to describe what's happening between her and Hook, but labels are pretty superfluous when things are blindingly obvious.

"Allow me to elaborate, my dear." Snow feels the familiar touch of her husband's warm hand on the small of her back. Back from putting Neal to bed, David takes on the role of storyteller, explaining the downed power lines (Snow allows herself a gloating moment to tell of her own adventures at this point, earning herself several proud smiles and a high-five from Henry) and the wall of ice and their efforts to free Emma.

Throughout the telling of the tale, Emma and Hook are oddly silent. David's careful to keep his tone light and cheerful, but Snow knows him too well. She can see the remembered fear in his eyes. It's the same fear that's still etched on Killian Jones' face as he crouches at her daughter's side as though he is prepared to be parted from her only on pain of death. She listens to David and looks at Emma's still pale face, and a hard, heavy knot twists in the pit of her stomach. All this was happening while she was messing around with switches and fuel pumps and feeling good about her first achievement as town leader.

Her daughter almost died tonight.

Snow feels her jaw clench. Her eyes are gritty and her breasts are sore and her back is aching, but she doesn't care. Patting David's hand, she walks to where Emma and Hook (Killian, she needs to remember that) are sitting. Part of her hates to interrupt such a cosy scene, but Emma is still shivering, and it's obvious that the combined efforts of a leather-clad pirate, a mountain of blankets and a small heater aren't doing enough.

"Hey." Crouching on Emma's other side, she takes her daughter's hand in hers. God, her skin is like ice. She flutters her fingertips over the still livid cut on Emma's temple, the knot in her stomach tightening even more. "That's quite the battle scar you've got there. Does it hurt?"

"A little." Emma tries to laugh, but it comes out as a breathless wheeze. "Must have happened when I fell on my ass."

Killian frowns at her words. "You swore to me that you weren't in any pain," he mutters almost accusingly, and Emma's other hand tightens on his hooked arm.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

Feeling as though she's watching some strange type of tennis match, Snow holds her hand up between them. "Sorry, but I'm with the Captain on this one, Emma. You need a hot shower, some hot food, and a warm bed."

Typically, Emma shakes her head in protest but, to Snow's surprise, Killian nods. "I agree." His expression is suddenly unreadable, as though he's trying to detach himself in more ways than one. "I'll guess I'll leave you to it, then."

Emma looks up at him with almost panicked eyes, and Snow tries not to stare at the way her daughter is gripping his hooked arm, preventing him from getting to his feet. "No, don't."

They gaze at each other, the tension between them uncomfortably palpable, and Snow makes a quick decision. Stubbornness might run in the family, but so does practicality in unusual circumstances. "Emma, he's not going anywhere, but you can at least let the poor man get up off his knees."

Her daughter looks startled, as though she's only just realised there's one chair between the three of them. "God, sorry about that."

"Think nothing of it." As Killian slowly unfolds himself from his crouching position, Emma reaches for his hand, threading her fingers through his as he stands. "I've been in more uncomfortable positions, I assure you."

Despite her trying evening, Emma seems to have no trouble summoning the energy to give her besotted suitor a teasing smile as he pulls her to her feet. "Why am I not surprised?"

Snow can't quite hear Killian's murmured reply, but she sees the rosy glow rise in her daughter's pale cheeks as he lifts one cold hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her curled fingers. Despite what she's quite sure was a reply not fit for a mother's ears, it seems the Captain's frequent boast of being a gentleman isn't an idle one.

He's good for her. The thought comes to her unbidden, and she files it away to be dealt with later, when her head isn't so fuzzy from midnight feeds and power outages and daughters in mortal peril.

Gentleman or not, however, she still makes a point of ensuring that Killian is safely out of the apartment with David and Henry to pick up some takeout while Emma has her shower. She might have been a naive schoolteacher for almost thirty years, but she's not an idiot.

Her head hurts.

Hangover?

No.

Her legs ache too, and her right shoulder feels weird.

Not a hangover. This is something different.

She's too warm.

Blinking into the darkness, Emma slowly feels herself coming back to the surface. It's like swimming through warm treacle, her mind gradually getting clearer as she gets closer and closer, remembering cold, hard ice and desperate voices and a blur of white light, then finally familiar faces and hands, reaching for her and holding her close.

Hook.

She struggles to sit up (she's in her bed, but she doesn't remember how she got here), her breath snagging in her lungs as she pushes at the weight that seems to be holding her blankets in place. To her surprise, the weight moves, and she realises she's not alone in her bed.

"Easy there, love." Killian's voice is as gentle as his hand on her shoulder, and the tight knot of panic in her chest loosens. "You don't want to undo all your mother's expert mollycoddling."

As he flicks on the lamp beside her bed, she sinks back down onto her pillows, trying to take in this new and quite surreal development. There is a fully-dressed pirate (he seems to have lost the coat and boots, though, as well as his hook) camped out on her bed (lying on top of the covers, God, he's such a cliché) and she's wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt (and no bra) and apparently her parents have allowed all of this to happen.

Glancing blearily at the clock on her bedside table, she sees that it's just after two in the morning. "Am I dreaming?"

"You tell me, Swan." He stretches out beside her, his head propped up on his right hand, his grin ridiculously smug. "Do you often dream of finding me in your bed?"

Feeling her face grow hot, she's never been more grateful for the dim wattage of her bedside lamp's light bulb. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The mattress dips as he leans towards her, and through the bedclothes she feels one long, hard thigh pressing against hers. "If you need to ask me that question at this late stage of the proceedings, love, then I'm afraid you haven't been paying attention."

His closeness and teasing words send a flurry of nerves curling through her belly, and her t-shirt suddenly feels way too tight across her breasts. "How the hell did you get my parents to agree to let you stay in my room?"

He shifts on the bed again, and she holds her breath, because if he touches her, she knows she won't have the strength or the will to resist. To her surprise (and okay, disappointment, she admits it) he seems reluctant to take advantage of their current situation, instead gathering her closer until her head is resting on his chest. His vest is cool beneath her cheek, and the mingled scent of leather and Granny's guest soap tickles her nose. "Your father and I appear to have reached a new level of understanding during our latest adventure."

Closing her eyes, she thinks of David hauling her to her feet and straight into Killian's arms. "So I gathered." She remembers everything now. The scalding hot shower her mother had made her have while David and Killian had gone to Granny's for takeout burgers and fries. The fierce hug her mother had given her when she'd emerged from the bathroom, almost bringing her to tears in the middle of the damned kitchen. The way Killian had looked at her when they'd returned from Granny's with the food, as though the sight of her in her tatty old sweatpants and her hair pulled up into a messy bun was something he'd never dreamed he'd see. Listening to everyone else talk while they ate, Killian's hand soothing as he stroked her back. David telling them the story of how he'd met Anna (aka Joan) in the Enchanted Forest when he was younger. Elsa telling them about the first time Anna had helped her control her magic. Something about Bo Peep being a warlord (she must be imagining that part, because come on), and then –

Nothing.

She frowns. "I don't remember anything after we ate dinner."

"You were in danger of making a pillow out of your meal, I'm afraid, so your mother decreed it was off to bed with you."

"Right." It seems she's beyond embarrassment tonight, because normally the thought of falling face-first into her half-eaten hamburger would be mortifying. She does have one question, though. She splays her hand flat on his chest, right over his heart, imagining she can feel its solid thump thump beneath her palm. "Please tell me you didn't carry me up the stairs?"

He chuckles, a faintly wicked sound in the dim stillness, and she feels the goosebumps rising up on her skin. "Alas, no." His hand comes up to stroke her arm, running his fingertips slowly from shoulder to wrist in a motion she guesses is meant to be soothing but instead just makes her aware of the fact that she's not wearing a bra, he's in her bed and she could have died tonight without telling him how much he means to her. "Your mother saw you safely to your bed."

Tilting back her head, she finds his eyes with hers. "So how did you end up in it?"

His mouth curves in a soft, slow smile, his eyes glittering in the half-light. "You refused to let go of my hand."

Okay, now she's embarrassed. "Where's Henry? And Elsa?"

"Your parents are quite resourceful, which comes as no surprise, given their past lives." He sounds amused. "They have quite the supply of those air mattress contraptions." His hand moves from the curve of her shoulder to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling with her hair. "Henry said something about a slumber party."

Emma buries a grin against the solid warmth of his chest. Her family is definitely prone to making the best out of a weird situation, she thinks, then the ramifications of what he's just told her start to sink in. Everyone else is sleeping downstairs, and she and Killian are alone in her bedroom behind a closed door. She's beyond tired, but being this close to him in the darkness is making her skin hum.

She could have died tonight.

"You know," she whispers as she slides her fingers between the fastenings of his vest, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. "I seem to remember being promised champagne."

Beneath her cheek and hand, she feels the soft laughter that ripples through his chest. "Aye, that you were." His hand smooths over the curve of her head, fingers digging gently into the tender spots at the base of her skull, making her bite back a moan. "But I felt it more prudent to wait until your lovely teeth had stopped chattering."

She closes her eyes at the feel of him kneading her scalp as though he's been training as a masseuse all his life. God, talk about adapting to having only one hand, she thinks, and a flutter of something hot and hungry darts low in her belly. "Maybe on our third date," she tells him softly, her hand drifting down his chest to rest on his belt buckle.

"I'll hold you to that, love. Now go back to sleep before we're both chastised by your dear mother for gossiping instead of resting." He touches his lips gently to her forehead, a chaste kiss completely at odds with the tension she can feel in his body.

She lifts her head, fixing him with the most challenging glare she can summon at two o'clock in the morning. "You call that a goodnight kiss?"

"On this particular occasion, yes." Even in the half-light, she can see the struggle in his eyes, the way his lips bite off the words. "I may be a reformed pirate and a gentleman, love, but I'm not a saint."

"I know that." She shifts closer, tugging the barrier of blankets between them downward, and sees his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. "Neither am I."

His mouth is just a whisper away from hers now, and his sigh seems to come all the way up from the soles of his feet. "You're playing with fire, Swan."

"I know," she breathes against his lips, then they're kissing, slow and deep, his tongue curling around hers languidly, the taste of him dark and sweet in her mouth and fuck, this was a mistake, because she's not going to be able to stop. She curls her fingers around his wrist (he's cupping her head) and tugs his hand downwards, pulling it towards her breast. His rough groan tastes like heaven on her tongue, then he's touching her at last, his palm hot against her breast through her thin t-shirt. He rubs his thumb over the stiff rise of her nipple, making her gasp into his kiss, and desire pulses like a freaking live wire between her legs.

Jesus.

This isn't like Neverland, she thinks through the red haze of her hunger as she arches into his touch. This isn't like any of their other kisses. This is the kind of kiss you share with someone right before you fall into bed and strip off their clothes and fuck them until neither of you can speak or walk or even think.

She knows the timing is all wrong (her head is still woozy and her body feels strangely heavy) but when he kisses her, she forgets everything else. She forgets that she almost died, she forgets about being the Savior. When he kisses her, all she knows is that she wants him as much as he wants her, and that she's tired of waiting for the right moment.

However, it seems she has underestimated her gentleman pirate, because she can feel him pulling back, his hand on her back now rather than her breast, his lips now pressed against the top of her head instead of her throat. "Emma, we can't, not tonight."

His voice is little more than a strangled whisper, and she presses her thighs together in a vain attempt to control the hollow ache that's making her whole body tremble. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"Trust me, there have been times when I've dreamed of little else but having you in my bed." He brushes his knuckles against her cheek, then kisses her forehead. "Do you remember your mother giving you some lovely painkillers for that bump on your head?"

She frowns. "No."

"There's your answer, I'm afraid." Despite the tension she can still feel buzzing through him, his laugh is a soft, easy one. "Go back to sleep, love, before we do something you won't remember in the morning."

"Let me guess," she mutters darkly as she resettles herself on her pillows, rolling onto her side, putting her back to him. She knows he's right, damn him, but that doesn't keep her from feeling more than a little deflated. "That would be bad form?"

"Indeed." For a long moment, there is only silence and the sound of his steady breathing, then his lips are suddenly close to her ear, the broad warmth of his chest pressed against her back. "When you and I finally have a night of privacy in the bedchamber, Swan, I promise it will be something you will remember."

Desire flickers through her, but it's muted now, like a damped down campfire. She tells herself she's glad he had enough common sense for both of them, and it's almost the truth. "With champagne." It's not a question, but he answers it anyway, and she can hear his smile in his voice.

"Yes, darling, with champagne." She feels his lips brush the back of her neck, then the mattress shifts as he settles into a more comfortable position, his hand finding hers amidst the bedclothes. "Now, please go to sleep before your mother strings me up from the nearest telegraph pole for being the world's most reprehensible nursemaid."

"Definitely a twenty-first century man," she mumbles, hazily recollecting another conversation about power poles, and the last thing she remembers is the breathless sound of his laughter (soft and lilting and warming her down to her bones) and the feel of his hand in hers.