There's a moment when the ship leaves Neverland in the distance behind them — a second when he crosses into safe seas and out of reach of Pan and his ever-growing handful of lost little children — where Killian Jones feels hope creeping up his spine. It's not a bright thing, as the promise of finally finding his Crocodile is still steeped in months of searching once he leaves this place, but it's more than he's had in the last century. That, and he's looking forward to leaving the bloody sweltering jungle for more than a couple nights on end.

(Finding himself so close to the lost boys' camp on the island had been a dangerous accident, especially when he heard them whispering about the boy ruler of the island as they patrolled the beaches. Relief had flooded through him when he'd realized they were unaware of their shadow; the more he overheard from them without making himself known, the better.

Most of it was obvious to him already. They were looking for him, of course. Terrorizing their Captain Hook and his men was their favorite pastime. They also had plans to head to another realm and bring a child back here, and it was at the hushed mention of enchanted hearts that he forced himself to stop listening. Memories of Milah still stung deep enough to burn at the reminder of what he was doing on the island in the first place — as if he ever forgot. Losing true love took away more than just the feeling that had sparked between his fingers whenever he'd held onto her.

It was mention of a Savior that brought him back. Someone who was rumored to be able to break the Curse, who could bring magic back, to make it possible for them to find their Truest Believer — and by extension, Rumplestiltskin.

Emma Swan was his key to getting his revenge, and it only took minutes to convince Pan he was the man for the job. It didn't matter what he promised, so long as he could leave.)

She was supposed to be home, out of the dress she's been tugging down her thighs all night and in her favorite pair of pajamas. The particularly charming bail skip she's spent the night chasing down has made her late to her annual date with her Princess Bride DVD. Emma's not one to linger on wishes that her world was more like the one Westley and Buttercup had adventured through, especially given the night she's just endured, but she does think a birthday girl deserves a little leeway.

The cupcake from her supervisor is a nice surprise, at least. Emma toes the door shut with her heel before resolutely kicking it into the back of her couch, along with its partner, and sitting on the cushioned barstool at her kitchen counter has never felt so comfortable.

Emma doesn't mind the quiet that surrounds her when she hums happy birthday to herself. It's familiar, she tells herself. Practically tradition.

(Never mind that she'd spent most of her early life reaching out and hoping she would feel something in the hands of the families who took her home. It wasn't exactly the definition of true love that she'd learned about, but it was the one the little Swan girl had craved. Back then, true love didn't mean one special person whose touch sparked understanding and connection into your veins. It meant a sure meal every night and someone to make her feel like she was wanted, like she was good enough.

And when she met Neal and grabbed at his wrist that first time, it hadn't happened at all, but it hadn't mattered then. She'd stopped trying a while ago.)

But when she's done blowing out the candle and making the only wish she's ever allowed herself since she got out of jail, she hears a noise that interrupts her train of thought. She can't even place the kind of noise it is as she slides herself off the stool and reaches for the first blunt object her hands can find.The cast iron skillet in her drying rack volunteers for the job, and Emma only just gets used to the awkward weight of it in her hand as she creeps down the hall to her bedroom.

It could just be a noise. It could be any number of things, Emma supposes, but the warning feeling in her gut doesn't just go off for nothing. She shifts her grip, grabbing the pan handle with both hands as she slides into the room and finds what she's looking for in a heap on the floor near her bed.

There's a man in her room, too busy cursing under his own breath and swiping at a small cut on his cheek to notice her. He's bent over at the waist, chest heaving like he's just run a marathon, and his breaths sound so ragged that for a moment she simply stares.

Then, as if he can actually hear her thinking, blue eyes shoot up and strike lightning into hers. Emma knocks him unconscious before his expression can change. She spends another long moment catching her own breath and staring between him and the open window, eyes finally landing on the shiny metal hook at his wrist.

Why did she always have to deal with the crazy ones?

The man starts to wake fully when he realizes she's handcuffed his leather-coated arm to one of the legs of her bed frame. He doesn't realize it at first, pulling his hand away from its restraint as if to rub at the lump on his head, but eventually the cold metal slides and hits his skin. His head lolls down when he blinks confusedly at the metal attracted to his wrist and to her surprise, he chuckles, as if it's just another Tuesday night for him.

"I'll admit, Swan, I'm impressed. I can count the number of people who have bested me on one hand."

She bristles at that, changing him from burglar to stalker in her head when she hears her own name. He doesn't look familiar at all, so he can't be an old skip. Emma schools her face into one that shows no vulnerability, only impatience and authority, and aims it straight at him.

"You've got sixty seconds to explain how the hell you know my name and how you found me."

He falters a little when she says it, and Emma can't help but smirk a little at the man from across the room.

(He's wearing a toothy grin that she might find charming if she saw it out on the street instead of, you know, handcuffed to the foot of her bed.)

"I'm not sure I can dutifully tell the tale in such a short span, lass."

His voice is rough and accented with something, but she's too busy ignoring the way his eyes are trailing over her to linger on it. It fits the whole pirate thing he has going, but not well enough to distract her.

"I don't really know how this kind of thing usually goes for you," she says, taking a half-step to the side in an attempt to prove just how little his tactics are working on her, "but you picked a really bad window to climb through. You can sit here and tell me who you are and how you got here," she offers, "or you can sit here and wait while I call the cops."

The unnamed man sighs long-suffering and looks at her for a moment, resting his hook and his hand in his lap as he weighs the cost of giving her an answer.

"I doubt you'd believe me if I told you," he says, and Emma is surprised when she hears truth in his speech. The curve of his hook glints in the dim light as he shrugs, talking about how there's more to both of them in an inviting voice, just begging her to ask him what he's talking about.

"And why is that? Because I don't put much stock in liars?"

"Because you don't know who you really are."

If there's a time to stop talking to him and go to the police, this is it, before she lets him distract her with stories that are bound to be as ridiculous as the outfit he's wearing. It's hard enough even looking at him when he sounds more serious, more desperate than he did minutes ago. It occurs to her that he may not be the only one trying to get to her tonight, that he may not be working alone, and all of a sudden she's feeling a little desperate herself.

"You'll have plenty of time to tell me on the ride to the station," Emma tells him, reaching down to grab onto his wrist with the intention of cuffing his other, the one with the brace and the hook on it. It only takes her a second to realize he's been picking the damn cuffs with his hook while they talked and that he's free of his restraints.

Emma dives for his arms immediately, knowing she's got a bit of leverage since he's still sitting down. His hooked arm swings up into her vision, making her duck backwards and lose sight of him in a second. Adrenaline takes up residence in her veins for the third time in the night as she ducks to avoid his elbow, trying to stand herself up without giving him room to knock her over.

It's uncoordinated, not even a full-on fight yet as they shuffle around to get the upper hand on each other. It's almost fun, especially since he keeps sending her little one-liners about good form and how he'd much rather their positions were reversed, but it only takes a second for Emma to forget herself.

She means to swat him away, to create the distance she needs to think for a second and take him down. What she does, though, is reach for his wrist where it waits protectively near his face, ready to block any more punches that come from her. It's that kind of recklessness that leads to her fingers brushing against the skin of his neck when she reaches for his collar in a stupid attempt to intimidate him. It's why the backs of her fingers skim his throat and her nails scrape along the stubble underneath his cheek as she grips onto the leather. It's why she sees an actual static spark light up the room for a second as her skin meets his.

Killian is dumbstruck. He's looking at her with eyes as wide as hers as they stay crouched together in the darkness of her bedroom, minds trying to catch up with their bodies.

"That was —"

"Shut up," Emma hisses, dropping her hold on him as if his touch had burned her. He watches her scramble away in an effort to get away from him, but he knows it's moot. He can tell from the terrified look on her face that she knows exactly what's just happened to them, that she knows what it means. True love.

And for a minute or two, it's like he has a complete out-of-body experience. Something else must have happened, some kind of bizarre mistake, because there's no way in all the realms that he could ever find this again after Milah.

(He'd spent so many decades of hate running through his veins, spent so many nights staring up at the stars of Neverland and not even bothering to chart their changes. There may have been some kind of pattern in the constellations, but what was the point of charting them? He'd lost the one woman who had lit up his life after losing his brother, and life wasn't worth living alone. Survival was all he had left.

Or so he thought.)

And Killian doesn't know a thing about the woman he's staring at, other than what he can see and what she can do if she believes the story he came here to tell. She's blind hope, and the certainty of knowing his happy ending lies with her changes everything.

And Emma snatches her fingers back from him in a second, rocking back with the sheer force of her own retreat. She can feel the future washing over her bones even though she can't see it yet, and then it's the knowing that has her pushed against the wall.All her life she's told herself not to chase a touch that might never come, that might hurt when it did, but now she's gone and done it to herself.

Twenty-eight years of loneliness falls thin onto the carpet around her ankles as she stares at the dark-haired man in front of her. Certainty comes from nowhere within her chest, blooming as she meets his eyes in search for a lie that isn't there.

She doesn't know how it happens, but by the end of the night she's leaving Boston with him in the passenger seat, hoping with everything she's got that trusting someone won't leave her empty this time.

(It doesn't.)