Graphic here: tmblr . co/ZVRwvr1vPrGzH

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: This is the end! Thank you all so much for reading and special thanks to everyone who reviewed. You guys brightened my days. Thank you again!

They fall into a routine. Building, sowing, growing their little corner of this world.

They fall into a routine that is perfectly designed to avoid one another as much as possible. In the morning, when Emma checks on her garden, Killian works on the house. Henry stays with him and helps and she is glad that Killian has someone to keep him company, someone to listen and talk to. Someone, since it cannot be her.

In the afternoon, he disappears into town while she and Henry clean out another one of the house's many cupboards and shelves. They find old books, well-worn and read often with their spines bent and their pages filled with notes. They find clothes, moth-eaten and full of holes but some salvageable enough to be put back into use. They find sheets and curtains, baubles and knick knacks but they never find anything that would hold a clue to Killian's past. No diaries, no paintings or letters.

Nothing to tell them the story of the man who had grown up here. Either version of him.

He comes back in the evening, having traded his services in town in exchange for food. The house fills with the smell of freshly cooked stew. Sometimes soup and bread, sometimes grilled meat and vegetables. They cook together, dancing around one another, trying their hardest not to accidentally touch, not to look in one another's eyes for too long, not to make any contact that forces them to have a conversation longer than a few sentences.

They are getting quite skilled at small talk.

Henry has noticed but hasn't said anything. She catches him watching them walk up and down the kitchen area while he sits with his book at the table. He follows Killian's back as he stirs their dinner, lowering his eyes to the pages as soon as Killian makes to look at him. She wonders if he watches her the same way, with that pensive look on his face. His eyes considering, his lips turned down, comparing them perhaps to the versions written in the stories.

The brave pirate and the fiery princess, slowly falling in love in the midst of heroic adventure and daring deeds. A far cry from the people who stand before him now.

A man who cannot remember and a woman who cannot forget.

The house is quiet when they eat together. Sounds of cutlery with occasional mumbles from Henry as he tries to make conversation are punctuated by heavy silence that fills the distance between their hearts. She feels his every movement like a physical pull in her belly, calling for her to go closer. But she can't.

She can't pretend anymore.

One day, as she sits at their table, Henry asking Killian some question or other about sailing, their quiet murmurs filling the air, she realises that she hasn't heard him laugh since before that night, only ever seeing his tight, anxious smiles and his downcast eyes. Her heart grows heavier in her chest and suddenly, she cannot eat anymore, her breath caught in her throat.

She excuses herself hurriedly. Kissing Henry goodnight and putting her dishes away, she nods in Killian's direction before racing back to their room, all the while trying to hide the tears that lurk behind her lashes.

She wonders sometimes what Killian sees when he looks at her. Blurred at the edges, a phantom of a person come into his life, claiming him for herself. She wonders if she looks wrong to him too. Perhaps he would have preferred someone sweeter, someone less broken. Someone whose kiss didn't sting and leave blood on his lips. Someone whose touch didn't chafe him, who's eyes didn't look through him, looking, always looking for someone else.

But, sometimes he looks at her like she is something divine, something come to save him and she isn't sure which one hurts more.

It has been what feels like days since she had begun sifting through the pile of sailing books that they had found in one of the storage spaces in their bedroom. The dust and the heat of the day are beginning to make her feel like she is trapped in a small box, oppressive and sticky.

She looks over at Henry who seems to have given up on his pile, lost in the pages of one of the books. Her lips curve into a fond smile, ruffling his hair as she gets up off the floor.

"I'm going to take a walk, kid. You're ok?"

He makes a distracted humming noise, his hand coming up to touch her wrist as she pulls away.

She leaves the house with the smile still on her face.

It is a hot, hot day. The sun beating down on the world, relentless in its assault. The trees look sad almost, their leaves drooping gently, the occasional wind from the ocean perking them up as if enjoying the respite. She makes her way to the market in town, looking for something cold to keep her insides from catching fire.

She is just about to pay for her purchase when she spots him. He is standing next to a woman in a blue dress, her head covered by a scarf, a basket in her hand. And the first thing she realises is that he is laughing. She can hear it, a low rumbling sound from somewhere in his stomach as his eyes sparkle with mirth.

She feels it like a punch in her gut, like all the air escaping her lungs in a whoosh.

The woman's hand rests on his forearm as she leans in close to say something to him. She watches the tips of his ears go red, as his hand comes up to rub at his neck, a laugh bubbling out of him once again.

She almost doesn't hear the shopkeeper as she hands her the drink, her hands shaking as she accepts the mug.

And even though she knows that she should leave, that she has no right to–

Her eyes are drawn back to him as though like a magnet.

They are smiling at one another.

(She has to stop by the river to wash her face so Henry doesn't see the redness in her eyes.)

She can't stop thinking about it, imagining the scene in her mind again and again until she isn't sure anymore what is true and what she had embellished.

She cannot tell if he had leaned into the woman's space, leading with his hips the way he used to when he was flirting with her. She cannot tell if the woman had been staring at his lips the entire time. She cannot tell if he had–

It doesn't matter, she tells herself, it doesn't matter.

He is not hers. She has no right to expect anything of him, to expect him to tie himself down to her after the way that she had pushed him away. She has no right.

But, then why does it hurt so much?

Killian finds her when she has got a trunk open in front of her, clothes haphazardly thrown in as she tries to keep the sobs trapped in her throat from escaping. She has managed to be quiet despite her pulse hammering away in her throat. For Henry. He can't see her like this, not now. He hasn't noticed anything yet, having moved out to the garden to read.

Killian finds her just as she is trying to figure out with how she is going to tell him.

"Are we, uh going on a trip, milady?"

He hasn't said her name since that morning either. He should be able to say her name.

"No, just Henry and me."

"What- Is something wrong?"

She turns to face him and he's looking at her with those alien eyes again, concern swimming in their depths. She takes a deep breath. Her voice needs to not quiver when she says this.

"Killian," already her voice is trembling," I- you deserve better than this. You deserve to be able to live your life the way you want to, with whom you want to. It isn't fair that I expect you to stay with us, when I–"

His brows scrunch into a frown.

"I don't understand. Have I done something–"

She interrupts him before he can apologise, before he can push the knife in her gut even deeper.

"I saw you today. With that woman and you seemed happy and you haven't laughed in so long Killian. I don't want to be the person who- it would be best for both of us if I left."

His eyes search hers and she wants him to fight for her, to scream and shout and tell her that it is only ever going to be her, that he remembers everything, that he loves her, loves her, loves her.

She wants it with every inch of her selfish heart.

"Is that what you want?"

She can only nod dumbly in response.

"But what about your reality, are we not–"

His hand rises as if to gesture but falls away when can't seem to find the words. She blinks back more tears before answering him.

"Yes. But, you're not him."

She can almost see the walls rising in his eyes, so much the same and yet so different. He nods at her once, walking closer and slowly pulling one of Henry's pants out of the trunk, placing it back on the bed.

He is close enough now for her to notice that his scent is different. No more surrounded by the smell of the ocean and clean soap, he smells like wood and earth and the sage they keep between their clothes to keep them fresh. It is another tiny ache in her chest, another thing to mark away as not him.

His eyes are fixed on the fabric, his fingers running over it before his hand falls back to his side.

"I will be gone by morning. I can find a place for myself, a ship or boat like before," he meets her eyes, tilting his head to the side, smiling a sad smile at her and she feels the lump in her throat grow.

"But you and Henry, you should have this—" he clears his throat, his eyes wandering the room before coming back to meet hers, "You've made it come alive again."

She wishes later that she had stopped him. That she had had the words.

But she only watches the hunch in his back as he leaves, listens to the sound of the door clicking closed.

(The sound of her heart breaking.)

Henry finds her sitting amidst the pile of clothes on the bed, her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling. He doesn't say anything, just sits beside her, his arm coming around her and she thinks again how unfair life is being, how unfair she is being to him.

She is supposed to be the strong one, the parent, the person who keeps his world steady and together even as it sways and shakes. And here she is shaking in his small arms.

"I saw Killian leave. He hugged me goodbye. Mom, what happened?"

His voice is soft as he rubs her back in soothing circles. She straightens. Wiping at her tears hastily and trying to smile, she turns to look at him.

"It's nothing. We just–"

Deep breath.

"Everything's fine. Don't worry about it."

His eyebrow goes up then, his mouth in a tight smile that says, Are you kidding me? I know you're lying.

And it is like looking in a mirror. She lets out a little bark of a laugh, her hand coming up to take his at her shoulder.

"I don't know what to do, Henry. I–"

She shrugs her shoulders, her eyes falling to the floor.

"You should go talk to him," he says as he ducks his head so his face is level with hers, "Mom, I know he's not our Killian but–"

She turns to meet his eyes. She doesn't know when her Killian had become Henry's Killian too. She lets go of his hand, moving hers around his shoulders to pull him to her.

"I still care about him," she finishes his sentence.

Her hand moves to his hair, ruffling it again before kissing his forehead.

"You're too wise for your age kid."

"I learned from the best."

He pulls away from her, grinning and pulls her to her feet.

She goes to the docks.

Walking along the water, she looks for him in the throngs of people walking, eating, laughing. It is sunset and the world is slowly getting dark, people gravitating towards the brightly lit, warm and inviting taverns.

She has no idea where he is, her stomach doing flips every time she spots a man in a black vest with messy black hair, plummeting every time she realises that she is wrong. The impending darkness is making it hard to see and it is not for the first time she wishes that they had cell phones in this world.

She keeps walking along the water until she reaches a quieter part of the docks, opposite some sort of office. It is free of crowds and that is where she finds him. His legs dangling over the edge, his hand clutching at a large bottle.

Her breath finally calms and her relief is like a physical thing, falling over her shoulders like a warm blanket. But then, she freezes not knowing how to approach him. Not knowing what to say.

She forces herself to walk forward until she is standing beside him, dropping down to sit. He looks at her in surprise, his mouth opening to say something before shutting when he realises who she is.

"Room for one more?" She asks, her voice low and cautious, the sentence ending with her eyebrow rising, a small smile on her face.

His eyes are bright as he looks at her, taking a long pull from the bottle before turning back to stare at the ocean. It takes her a second to realise what is wrong, that she's never seen him like this before.

"Are you drinking? Aren't you allergic? "

She feels pinpricks of worry as she looks at him closer, checking to see if he is alright. She moves to do something, she isn't sure what, touch his shoulder? Take the bottle away from him? But, before she can complete the movement, he pulls it back to his chest.

"Oh no, you'll not take this away from me too."

Her hand stops its progress at his fierce mumble, freezing in place near his chest before she pulls it back to her side with a jerk. He straightens at the movement, seemingly just realising what he had said.

"I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean–"

"No, you're right. I deserved that."

He sighs, his head dropping as he places the bottle behind him.

"Even so. I apologise."

He clears his throat, looking up at her, "That was uncalled for."

"No, I'm the one who should be apologising."

Her hand rises again to touch him, falling away again. Touching him had become so easy, a language for them to communicate in that didn't involve her having to stumble through words far too clumsy to ever be enough. But now, it is as though this man sitting beside her is written in a foreign language and she does not know how to speak it.

"She was an old friend. I think we uh, grew up together but I can't be certain."

His voice is stronger now, steadier.

"Were you two–?"

The words are out before she can think through what she is saying, before she can decide if she wants to know the answer. But, he laughs. That self deprecating chuckle and shakes his head, turning to face her.

"No, you are the first woman I've ever–"

The smile drops off his face as he searches her eyes, his face earnest and sincere.

"I know I'm not what you want Emma. I can see your eyes looking through me when you see me."

Her mouth opens to answer, she thinks, but what could she say that would make it better?

He smiles a small smile and looks away from her, his eyes going back to follow the movements of the waves. The night is bright under the full moon, his face soft under its light.

"I want to be him. I wish I could remember how to be brave."

His voice is softer now, wistful and her hands twitch again. She needs to touch him, a hand on his forearm, going lower to take his hand; their fingers tangled together. She wants to apologise, to tell him that it doesn't matter, that it was unfair for her to do this to him.

But, perhaps he is not the only one who has forgotten how to be brave.

"I don't know what to do. It kills me that you don't see me," she wonders if she's imagining the shudder in his breath, "I wish I could leave. I wish I had the courage to tell you how much it hurts–"

He laughs, small and sad and shakes his head.

"Perhaps you are right and there is no good to be had with us–"

He swallows thickly before looking back at her.

"–together. But, gods help me, I can't stay away from you."

His hand grips the edge of the wood so tight, his knuckles are white with it and just like that, he looks like her Killian. She has seen this look on his face before. The same sincerity in his eyes, the same slight upturn at the corners of his mouth.

The same devotion etched into his skin.

She touches him then, knowing that her words would never be sufficient to explain the storm pulling at the edges of her mind. She takes his hand in hers, moving closer until their shoulders touch. The warmth of his skin leeching through their thin shirts. They had found his coat in one of the shelves, dusty just like everything. But, he had only worn it once, his face falling as he had walked around in it.

He had said that it didn't quite fit.

He looks older now. Like these last couple of months had aged him by a century and she hates that it is her who has done this to him. She is the reason that there are now lines on his forehead, that there is roughness in his hand. She loves her Killian. She loves him so much her every breath rings with the echo of his name but she does not want to cut and break and mould the man beside her until he fits the hole that he left behind.

She looks away from him, her eyes on the hand in her grip. She brings it up to her lips, trying to get her fingers to stop trembling, and presses a kiss to the cold of his rings.

Her eyes meet his, and for the first time, she sees him. She sees all the ways in which he is different. She sees all the ways in which he is the same. She sees his strength, his will and his courage.

She sees how they are quiet in him.

He is not the man who had fought a thousand demons, including his own, to win her heart. He is not the man who had travelled across time and realms and curses to find her. He is not the man whose every heart feels as though it is beating in time with her own. He is not the man who has lived, been broken and put back together more times than he can count, whose soul is as patchwork as her own.

No. He is softer. He is the man who had stood beside them, who had given them his home, his life. He is the man who is made up of almost memories and misplaced love. His strength lies in his steadiness, his will in his solidity in the face of uncertainty, his courage in his unwavering devotion to people who were as good as strangers to him. Even though he is not the man she is in love with, he is hers.

As she is his.

She leans up into him, his nose brushing against her cheek, his eyes fluttering shut along with hers. His breath is warm against her skin and she can feel his deep sigh when her lips meet his.

It is kiss of apology, of regret. It is a kiss of almosts.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice is a sigh.

"I'm sorry too."

Her head rests against his shoulder, their hands still entwined between them.

"I just want you to know that you're," her voice seems to give up on her and she turns her face into his shoulder, breathing in, "the one I want to want. But I—"

She lets go of his hand, turning to face him, her eyes wandering his as she searches for the words.

I see his shadow every time you move. He haunts my every dream. I cannot shake the ghost of his touch from my skin.

He almost smiles then but it is a sad thing, his eyes taking her in. His fingers rise to graze her cheek, barely there, falling away almost immediately.

"It's alright. I understand. You can't love me because well," a chuckle," you love me."

She lets out a wobbly laugh as she pulls away completely, her hand reaching behind them for the bottle.

"I think we could use a drink."

They sit together then, until the streets clear, until the moon is the only thing that lights their sky. They sit until they slowly drift apart from one another's orbits and the bottle behind them empties.

They sit until it stops hurting.

("Come home?")

("Aye.")

She wants to say that it gets easier but she isn't sure that it does.

Perhaps they just get used to it.

He gets sick from the ale.

His skin clammy and his heart fast, he lies in bed with his hand to his stomach, sipping on the potion she had fetched for him. She wishes she had a pill and some soup, a prescription perhaps, something she understood. But no, it had to be a swirling green concoction handed to her by a woman at a cart piled high with bottles in a thousand colours, herbs with heady scents hanging from the top of it.

He holds it now as Henry reads to him. He had insisted, digging up a book of poetry from one of the piles they had uncovered earlier. She watches them. Henry's voice low and serious as the words roll of his tongue and Killian's eyes closed as he listens to poems about coming home.

And despite the alienness of it all, it is as though her heart begins to settle, beating steady and calm in its space behind her ribs.

He comes home one evening with a long package tucked into his side, apart from his usual bags of bread and meat. He gives it to her with a mumble of thanks. ("For caring for me when I was ill.") She unwraps it, a gasp escaping her as she uncovers a sword hidden in the brown fabric, its blade shining in the light of the fire. It is a beautiful thing, all sleek lines and sharp edges. The grip is wrapped in leather with some sort of metal thread running through it, giving it a dull shine as she turns it in her hand. The pommel is jewelled, studded with little emerald stones. She runs her fingers along its length, still astounded by the fact that he had bought this for her.

"Killian, how much—"

He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the blade.

"It doesn't matter. It reminded me of you and I just wanted—" he shrugs, smiling at her. His fingers dance along the pommel of his own blade hanging from his waist. It was an old thing they had found in one of the rooms and had cleaned and sharpened. He believed it was his father's, he had said, his hands running up and down the decorated sheath, or perhaps his brother's. But, he couldn't be sure.

"I was wondering if you could perhaps, uh," he laughs nervously, "teach me how to use this?"

She smiles.

Teaching Killian Jones how to use a sword is a strange experience to say the least. They stand in the garden on an overcast afternoon. It had rained earlier that day, the world smelling of wet earth, a slight chill in the breeze. Henry stands opposite Killian, his sword drawn as he follows her instructions. She is teaching him the techniques that he had taught her with his hand covering hers, his breath upon her neck, his warmth at her back. It was a memory she treasured, a small moment they had stolen away from the world. But now, she keeps her distance choosing to direct him in his movements as he spars with Henry. Watching him now, it almost as though she can see him. A shadow following Killian's steps, his sword steadier, his posture straight.

They continue successfully for a while. His movements are sloppy but passable as he builds up a sweat, his shirt beginning to cling to his shoulders in the humid air. But eventually, he loses his balance in the middle of a complicated block that involves him turning in place and his sword drops to the ground, his hand reaching for Henry's shoulder to keep himself upright. It is so sudden and so comical that she has to slap her hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing. But, it escapes anyway. A little burst of amusement that has both Henry and Killian, still struggling to stand steadily, look back at her. Their faces are still twisted in surprise and her laughter bubbles out of her until they are laughing too, dropping down to the wet grass, their swords lying at their sides.

Later when they plod back inside, still fighting the occasional burst of the giggles, their clothes wet and muddy, she ruffles Killian's hair along with Henry's before she goes to clean up.

(She doesn't notice the little smile on his face, his eyes lit with joy as he watches her go.)

Her plants begin to bear fruit.

Vines laden heavy with tomatoes, cucumbers. Peppers in red and yellow and green dotting the leafy plants that bear them. Little bunches of herbs, thyme and basil and rosemary popping out of the earth. It looks truly alive for the first time.

They spend the day picking their produce, carrying it inside and discussing all the ways they could cook tomatoes as the number of crates brimming with them just keeps growing and growing. Henry requests onion rings at the first onion he sees and she can't help but laugh, hugging him close and promising to figure out some sort of recipe. Killian looks confused even as he smiles at their conversation and as Henry explains the wonders of fried food, she walks a little distance away. Trying to push away the memory of him bringing her grilled cheese and onion rings at the station. The feel of his hand rubbing her back, the way his smile had lit up the room, the way her cheeks had hurt from her own smile. Her fingers run over the bark of the tiny apple tree, still far too young to bear any fruit as she tries to ground herself.

Not today. Not now.

Not now, when this place is finally beginning to feel like home. Not now when she is supposed to revel in the wonder of having made this, of having grown this.

No, she will save this memory, tuck it away in the back of her mind to dwell on later.

"Mom! Potatoes!"

She chuckles, wondering how Granny would react if she knew that Emma Swan— somehow manages to burn toast Emma Swan - was going to be spending, potentially the next week figuring out how to make onion rings and fries. She joins them, a laugh on her breath as Henry continues Killian's education on modern food, his words frantic, his gestures wild as Killian watches in barely concealed amusement.

They spend all evening cooking. Killian is far better than she is at it and when they finally manage a crisp onion ring, she almost hugs him in her joy, her shout of triumph and his happy laugh filling the air. But, they stop short of one another, arms outstretched, smiles slowly falling from their faces before suddenly, Henry is there snatching the onion from between Killian's fingers, breaking the awkwardness of the moment.

"Hey! Bad form, lad!"

But, Henry is too far gone, his eyes shut in bliss as he tastes this little bit of home.

Working together feels easier now. They move with the ease built of living with one another. Raising their arms laden with food as the other ducks beneath them to get something, flattening themselves against the table while the other moves around them. When they finally sit down to eat, they pass each other plates heaped with all their experiments, cringing at the more disastrous ones and praising each successful one with increasing extravagance. Words like exquisite, magnificent, awe-inspiring, dazzling are thrown about as Henry and Killian try to win this inadvertent game they had started.

It is only when Killian calls a tomato slice sublime, resplendent in its crimson blush as he speaks directly to it in a deadpan voice that Henry finally admits defeat. His shoulders shake in silent laughter as Killian watches him with a fond smile.

His eyes meet hers across the table and she raises her mug to him.

To new memories.

Not all days are that easy though.

Some days when she wakes up in the morning and sees him with his wild hair and soft eyes, she has to look away. He looks too much like him. His every step, his every gesture feels like it is followed by a shadow of him, correcting it. Standing slightly taller, his movements just a touch deliberate, his smile laced with a little mischief.

On those days she feels like the walls of the house are closing in around her, boxing her in until she forgets what his voice had sounded like. On those days, she takes a walk.

Henry has learned when she needs this, sometimes pushing her out the door himself with a call to come home for dinner.

She wanders the wood, touching the rough barks of trees, running her fingers over leaves, taking off her boots and curling her toes into the earth as she remembers him. She tries to ground his every memory into the tangibility of the forest that surrounds her.

She presses his smile into a hollow of a tree that stands by the river, its leaves hanging over the water. She remembers the heat of his skin as she runs her fingers over the gnarled roots of the tree she sits under. She traces his laughter into the chill of the flowing water as she dips her hands in it. She makes sure every memory of him lives in this earth, these trees, this water in this place that has become home.

And when she is finished, she goes back, her heart a little lighter, her breath coming a little easier.

One evening as they sit by the fire after a particularly well-cooked meal, Killian asks to hear his story.

"I just wanted to learn about the man I was—" he frowns, "-am? Something."

Henry runs to fetch the book as she continues to stare at him and she realises that she had ever seen her Killian this way. This light of heart, this free with his affection, this easy with his soul. He is not weighed down by three hundred years of stories. He is not weighed down by loss and pain and the constant fear of losing the people he loves to some new evil.

It is a thought that hurts and heals in equal measure.

Henry returns and they soon realise that their book does not contain much of Killian Jones' history, focusing mostly on his life after he had met the saviour. So, she begins to fill in the gaps.

She remembers the evenings they had spent by the water, sitting on their bench as they told each other stories. Her eyes are stuck on the coiling flames of the fireplace as she recounts the tales he had told. She remembers his wistful smile as he had talked about Liam, his face hard and impassive as he had spoken about his father, his head falling into her lap as he had talked about Milah and Bae and his mother, her fingers running soothingly through his hair. She remembers him holding her close, letting her breathe him in as she had falteringly recounted her history with Neal, as she had talked about Henry's birth. She remembers the weight of his arms around her, making her feel safe as she had opened old wounds to show him that they had existed and that he was not alone in his own.

And Killian in front of her listens. He listens to every word she speaks and asks for more.

It becomes a ritual.

Emma and Henry tell Killian all the stories they can remember of themselves, of the people they love. They tell them to him every night after dinner in the warm glow of the fire, the air filled with low murmurs and sudden bursts of laughter as they describe all the moments and adventures and experiences that had made them.

That had made him.

And he keeps them alive. He keeps their stories, their histories safe in the blank space where his own are supposed to live.

It is a bleary, cold morning when he wakes her, his hand shaking her shoulder as she bolts upright, her hand reaching for the blade by her bedside. He never comes into her and Henry's room so her first thought had been that–

"Easy, nobody is in danger. Apologies, Swan I didn't mean to— I just—"

He stumbles upon his words and his face comes into focus, her eyes finally adjusting to being awake, she sees the red of his complexion, the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, his hand still scratching at is ear and she can't help but smile. She slips out of bed quietly so as not to disturb Henry and walks up to him.

"Why am I awake so early, Killian?"

Her eyebrow rises in question, her mouth curving into a smirk as she watches him struggle to answer. His mouth opens and closes multiple times as he tries to find the words, eventually just giving up and holding out his hand.

"Would you allow me to show you?"

His eyes shine with excitement, sparkling in the early morning light and her hand fits easily into his.

"What do you think?"

He stands beside the bed, his arms behind him, his chest puffing out as he takes a deep breath, waiting for her reaction. But, she is stunned, her fingers running along the edge of the footboard, deep brown with the edges carved to resemble rope.

Henry's bed. It's finished.

She walks around it in awe, running her hands over all the little details. The curve of the lettering that forms his initials. The tiny flowers in the posts that rise from the corners. The small compass carved into the centre of the headboard, her fingers lingering on the carving of the letter "N", tracing it again and again.

"So that he never loses his way, even when he's asleep."

He is standing behind her as he watches her discover all the ways in which he loves her son. Her hand reaches behind her to take his, squeezing it tight.

"The house is finally complete as well. There is not a broken floorboard in the place."

She laughs at the pride in his voice, her own chest swelling with it for him. She turns to look at him, her other hand taking his hook as she meets his eyes.

"Thank you. So much, Killian. For everything."

She could swear then, that his smile lit the world better than the sun peeking over the horizon. She can't help but answer with one of her own. He bends forward to press a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"Always."

Her heart rings with truth then, when she realises that no matter which realm or universe or time they found themselves in, Killian Jones is her soulmate.

And even though in this world, she could never be in love with him, her soul still crying out for the man they left behind, she loves him.

He is family.

(Not all love is about grand declarations and true love's kisses. Some love is quiet and steady and solid. Some love is friendship.)

(And it is enough.)

There is something to be said of almost happy endings, she thinks as she watches the fire on a chilly evening.

Blankets cocoon both her and Henry's bodies as Killian pokes at the flames to make them last longer. They all wear variations of the same lazy smiles, their bodies pleasantly sore after a morning spent weeding the garden, getting rid of older plants and planting new seedlings, their little green stalks rising from the packed earth. They'd gone down to the docks in the afternoon, spent the rest of the day in town, wandering the markets and eating strange and wonderful things until they had staggered home with full bellies and full hearts.

There are still days when all she can do is retreat to her wood and hide under his tree until she can breathe again. There are still nights when Henry wakes from nightmares, his mother's name on his lips. There are still days where Killian gets frustrated with the fact that he cannot remember the family that raised him, the life that made him. But even so, their makeshift, poorly put together, creaks when it moves too fast, family, is happy.

Her heart still aches for the people they have lost, but the ache has dulled somewhat. Her splintered memories softened by the new ones they had made here. The walls of this new home echoing with their laughter and tears. It has been a few months and they are changing, all of them. Her hands are growing calluses from her work in the garden. Henry is on the verge of speaking at least two new languages with all the reading he does. And Killian. Killian can now spar with the best of them.

She smiles as she remembers their last session earlier in the week, when he had finally disarmed Henry successfully and Henry had hugged him, their whoops of joy ringing through their home.

There is something to be said of almost happy endings, she thinks as she sits surrounded by warmth and love. Her arm around her son, sleeping soundly against her shoulder, healthy and happy. Her other hand reaching for the man sitting by her side, the man who will always be by her side.

She falls asleep surrounded by family.

There is something to be said of almost happy endings.

She wakes on tarmac.

When her mind first breaches consciousness, her first thought is to remind Killian to take a look at the floor because it feels far too uneven. But, then she realises that the bright light in her face is the sun and someone is shaking her awake.

"Mom!"

Henry! Henry is shaking her awake and she sits up immediately, her hand going to his shoulder as he helps her stand.

"What–?"

"Mom we did it! We're back home!"

He releases her to hug Regina who has just begun standing on shaky feet as well. She is still in shock as she watches them sway with the force of their hug and then suddenly she is running.

She finds her parents awake when she bursts in through the door of their house. She cannot stop the way her eyes shine and her hands shake as she pulls them into a hug. She savours the joy of being held by her father again, his hand stroking her hair. She drinks in her mother's smile, pure and happy again.

But, god, she needs to see him. She needs to–

"Where is he? Where's Hook?"

"He was there," David points at a spot by the counter, Henry's book lying on the floor, "right before we got dragged away."

"Everyone reappeared where they were before this whole mess started."

The panic in her gut grows as she walks further into the apartment and he isn't there.

"No—"

Her voice is a thread as she feels it come back, the need for her to run into the woods and find the river to sink her feet into, to find him because he isn't here, he isn't–

"Yeah, sorry about the mess. I really needed to find that book and I'm usually a bit tidier."

She swears she can feel her smile split her face in two as she runs into his arms.

Her hands keep tracing his face.

She runs her fingers along his nose, his cheek, his jaw. She leans over him in her bed, bending occasionally to drop kisses to whatever skin she can reach. His arms fit around her waist, his hand going up and down her back, eventually slipping under her shirt so he can feel her skin against his.

But, for the most part, they are content to look, to trace every line, every curve and dip in each other's faces, bodies. It is as though a puzzle has finally clicked into place. His smile is perfect, curving at just the right angle, his eyes looking at her with all the knowledge of their history together, his hand knowing just where to touch.

Her vision begins to blur with tears as her forehead drops to meet his, her eyes closing.

"I missed you. So much, I missed you."

"Aye, me too my love."

She laughs, a watery chuckle as her tears begin to stain his cheeks.

"I haven't heard you say that in–"

Her eyes open and his are bright too, shining with his own tears. He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear before rising up to run his nose along her cheek, his mouth hovering just over hers, their breaths mingling.

"I feel like I have waited an eternity to kiss you."

"Why are you still waiting?"

His lips meet hers, his arm tightening around her waist as he flips them and suddenly she is on her side. Their smiles bump together and she feels like she is on fire.

(She has spent a lifetime without him but now he is here and she can finally breathe easy.)

His finger traces the roughness of her hand as they stand together at Granny's watching the joy and relief on people's faces as they reunite with the ones they love. She turns her face into his shoulder as his arm shifts to come around her to accommodate.

(It feels so good to be able to do this again. Her heart singing at the smoothness, at the ease with which they move with one another again.)

(This is the moment she remembers later, just as the darkness takes over the edges of her consciousness, taking him away from her once again.)

"I miss him," she says after an extended silence. Even though she doesn't elaborate, he understands immediately.

"Seems being jealous of myself is a skill I need to cultivate."

Even as she bumps his hip with hers, rolling her eyes, another piece of her heart slips into place. She looks up at him, placing a kiss under his jaw, unable to control herself now that she can. Her smile softens as she takes him in, her love, her Killian. But, she can't help but feel a pang for the man who had stood beside her all these months, the man who had become her family.

He sobers when he sees her face, his hand coming up to press her head closer, dropping a kiss in her hair.

"He was a good man."

"He is."