a/n:
1. go listen to work song by hozier
2. try not to think about what a wayward mess this is
3. leave me a review, maybe, if you want
4. cry over this captain swan separation angst with me

(just, I will not be okay until Killian Jones and Emma Swan are happy and alive and cuddling in their bed, thanks)

The whole thing is kind of a mess when it comes down to it. Splitting hearts and true love's kiss and a litany of other trials and tribulations. Not to mention the bloody tyrant of a keeper of the Underworld and his ridiculous hair that tends to catch aflame at any split second. Killian was sure that in his 300 years of living, he'd seen it all. But being dead, it turns out, brings on experiences of its own.

Though, none he'd ever wish to redo.

Which is exactly what he says to Emma as she loops an arm around his back and leads him up the road of Storybrooke. The real one this time, not the twisted spectacle he'd spent God knows how long in. She huffs out a laugh, one that sounds relieved, and he revels in the way she looks against the soft colours of the town. His vision has been tinged with red hues for what feels like an eternity, so there's a certain calmness that comes with its absence.

The place is surprisingly quiet, no rampaging monsters or too loud dwarves milling about. The hour of dawn might have something to do with it, or maybe it's just his peace of mind that he's blissfully aware of.

When they get to the steps of the house, Emma steps away from him to push open the front door. Its hinges creak from lack of usage, and there's a layer of dust that he can plainly make out even with the bare light filtering through the sheer curtains. He hears Emma sigh. Whether it's at the condition of the house or at the weariness in her bones, he isn't sure.

It might be both, he thinks. And then some.

He feels a heaviness pull him down towards the floorboards, and in the adrenaline of Hades and Cora and Zelena and even the damn Crocodile, he hadn't had a chance to realise how tired he was. Is. Will probably be for a few more days, if not a week.

Emma turns to face where he stands at the doorway. "I don't know about you but I think I could use a nap."

He raises an eyebrow in insinuation, a tired smile raising his lips up, "Are you sure that's all you could use?"

She shakes her head in amusement, the bottoms of her eyes lined with a darker shade that makes her look exhausted. "Come on," she says softly, stretching out a hand to him.

He shuts the door behind him before slipping his hand into hers, squeezing it for good measure. She squeezes back, and it sends a rush of warmth right up to his ears. He likes that feeling of her magic as it surges in between his muscles. When they'd found him first, she'd spent hours pressing her palms into his skin until her own ran cold. She'd clear a wound and he'd run his lips across the pads of her fingers in gratitude.

He'd cried then, seeing the wetness in Emma's eyes; seeing Emma at all.

It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep once he's discarded his torn up jacket along with his boots and hook. She follows suit, shuffling out of her leather jacket and shoes to curl herself against him, nose tucked into his neck.

He falls asleep easily, eyes drifting shut at the warmth of Emma's body pressed up against his side. Killian has no dreams, no nightmares, it's a peaceful slumber. Something he's been denied for a very, very long time.

He drifts back into consciousness eventually, though unaware of the hour. Emma's fingers are tracing at the scars below his ear; He has many of those now, all in one stage of healing or the other. Battle wounds, Henry had said to him proudly after they group had decided on an offense strategy, they're like medals of honour for heroes. Killian smiles at the memory.

"You're awake," she practically whispers.

"Could say the same for you," he rasps out, voice rough with sleep, as he opens his eyes to take her in. "How long have you been awake?"

She hums noncommittally. "Not too long."

They lie there in silence for a while, drinking each other in. That's the thing about death, Killian thinks, there's so much it takes you away from, a strict promise at its lips to never return to what you once had. And yet, he lies with the woman he loves, very much alive.

"I'm hungry," Emma mutters, more to herself than to him. And he can't help the small huff of laughter that escapes him.

"Would you like me to make you dinner?" He squints at the window at the other end of the room, "It is dinner time, aye?"

"I think so," she smiles, the pad of her thumb tracing his jaw from chin to ear. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"Well, I don't believe souls need to eat," he tangles his own hand in her hair. "I believe it's been a while." She scrunches her nose up at him as the drowsiness disappears from her eyes.

"That settles it, we'll get takeout," she pushes herself upright and out of the bed, and all Killian can do is groan.

"Must we move?"

"Don't be lazy, Captain," she snickers as he attempts to reach for her waist to pull her back onto the sheets. "I'm calling Granny, I'm sure she'll send something over."

She picks up her device and presses it to her ear after fiddling around with it. She comes back to sit on the corner of the bed, right next to him, tangling her fingers with his as she speaks to Widow Lucas. He shuts his eyes for a few seconds, soaking in the feeling of her touch - one that he'd dreamt about mercilessly while under Hades' rule.

After her brief discussion over the phone, she brings her attention to him, taking him out of his reverie. And for the time it takes for the food to arrive, they spend it half in simple conversations that make him forget about where he's been, and half leaning into each other in careful caresses and soft kisses.

He lets himself get lost in the curves of her face, the way her cheeks fill when she smiles. Her laughter still comes out a bit broken, but that's to be expected; they're still healing, they'll get there. Before he knows it, the doorbell sounds, and she's moving to stand.

"I'll get it, love," he offers, pushing himself up, but his body protests immediately. He isn't quite sure how long it'll take his limbs to regain their proper functions, but right now, they don't seem to want to comply to his wishes.

"You will stay here," she reprimands him, bending down to press a feather-light kiss to the side of his mouth to soften her words. "Be right back."

Killian hums lowly, the flick of her wrist turning on the dim bedside lamp as she leaves. He turns to take in the room in the new light. It, too, is covered in fine dust, and lays untouched. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells him that it's half past eleven, and that he's surely slept the entire day away. The Underworld didn't operate according to time, and the part of him that was a Lieutenant, all those years ago, appreciates the ability to create himself some sort of concrete schedule.

He's lived through so many lives, so many parts that have correlated together to bring him to this exact moment where he sits surrounded in crumpled sheets, furrowing his brows as he attempts to identify the colour of the paint on the walls.

He's about to ask Emma when she enters, but his speech is cut short rather quickly when he sees her walk in at a slow, almost cautious pace. She's holding a plate in one hand, the other hovering over it and blocking his view of what's on it.

"Swan, what's this?" His brows knit closer together as she comes to sit in front of him, cross legged, and sets the item down in between them. It's a small bit of sponge, the dark colour telling him it's chocolate. She's put a candle in between it, and it burns even brighter than the pathetic lamp.

"It's a cupcake," she says matter-of-factly. She rolls her eyes good naturedly when his confusion remains. "I was going to suggest we eat dinner first but it's almost tomorrow, and I didn't want to risk that."

"Sorry, love, you've lost me."

She sighs a little. "I did, lose you, that is," and he would give his life a hundred times over if it meant making that frown of hers disappear. "But now you're here, and alive, and I realised that I don't actually know when your birthday is, so I've decided to have it today. The day you were," she gestures vaguely to his form with a shrug, "reborn, I guess."

His eyes move from her back to the cupcake between them. It's a small gesture, but one that has eyes glazing over as an onslaught of overwhelming emotions hit him. He must stay that way for a while because Emma reaches out to place her palm on his knee.

"You're supposed to make a wish and blow out the candle," she says, with a knowing smile on her face.

He wishes to be reborn, but only if it means it is next to her. He wishes for her, in every moment and every lifetime. He wishes for her in the years that come after their souls depart from their bodies. He blows out the candle, and she squeezes his knee, a soft cheer on her lips.

"Happy first birthday, Hook," she grins.

"Does this mean you'll refrain from jesting about my age?" He raises an eyebrow at her.

"We'll see," she hums, taking the candle and putting it on the plate before biting into the cupcake.

"Swan, that's my birthday treat you're devouring."

"I don't mind sharing," she mumbles with her mouthful, only swallowing to press her lips against his reverently.

He's lived through so many lives, indeed, the universe working in perfect tandem so that he can reach this point, the one where he can suck on his Swan's lower lip and taste the chocolate there. And as she smiles against his mouth, his thumb coming up to smooth against the dimples of her cheeks, he doesn't think about the people he's lost or the sins he's committed or the literal hell he's been through. All he thinks about is dusting off the surfaces of their home and starting anew, and he wouldn't have it any other way.