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It’s the morning after the magic storm at the sorcerer’s house and Emma is attempting to introduce Elsa to chocolate chip waffles—when Killian appears at her elbow, looking windswept and disgruntled.
“Swan,” he says in greeting, voice gruff. “I hope this morning finds you well?”
She can’t help but smile up at him, the familiar thrumming of awareness rolling through her at the sight of his blue-bright eyes and stubborn jaw. “Well enough. Join us for breakfast?”
He swallows, eyes jumping from her to Elsa and back again—a burning intensity in his gaze. She catches the clench of muscle in his cheek before he drops his eyes and answers. “Thank you for the—delightful offer, but I’ve other obligations this morning. I just wanted to return your device to you—I believe you misplaced it last night?”
He’s holding out her cell phone, casually, and there’s something about the way it sits in his hand that strikes her as weird. But it’s Killian, and he’s been trying so hard to understand how Storybrooke and the realm without magic works—and she’s still exhausted from days of fearing her magic was going to destroy everything in her life. It’s probably nothing. She takes it from him without comment and lets her fingers trace over the line of his palm, expecting him to catch her fingers, turn her hand, and drop a kiss on the back like he does when he’s feeling particularly courtly about their whole thing.
But he—doesn’t. He swallows and ducks his head, and steps back and away. “Good day, love. I’ll be seeing you later, I hope.”
She watches him stride away, watches the way he storms out of the diner like the hounds of hell are after him, like he’s fleeing. The sense of weirdness persists, and she sets it aside to come back to later.
When she turns back to Elsa, the other woman looks pleasantly confused by the whole thing. “I hope your—Captain is not avoiding time with you because of me,” she says after an awkward pause, and Emma considers it for a moment before waving a hand.
“No; if Hook’s doing his loner thing, it won’t have to do with you or my—our magic.”
“No?” Elsa repeats cautiously. “Are you so sure?”
Emma snorts, reaching for her hot chocolate. “That man has seen a lot: magic spells, curses, pixie dust, demon children, hearts going in and out of chests… What happened last night is probably a 2 on his freakout scale.”
Elsa’s face is still twisted up in confused concern, but she eventually nods and returns her attention to her breakfast. “If you’re sure,” she says finally. “I just know the strain that can be put on the bonds of friendship by magic.”
Emma hums her agreement, eyes on the diner door.
::
After breakfast, she heads to the sheriff’s office, which Regina had managed to repair with five minutes of magic and no less than three barbs about the mess.
Thankfully, David is out on patrol, so Emma steals the desk in the office so she can plug in her dead phone and start sorting through the tornado of paperwork left behind after her adventure. The worst part, of course—other than the residual echo of yesterday's whole emotional disaster—had been the realization that she’d been played and the Snow Queen had gotten exactly what she’d wanted: confirmation of Emma’s power.
But other than the near-miss with removing her powers, nothing else has happened, yet. The town seems to be holding its breath, stuck in another stand off.
It’s nearing noon when she finally switches her phone back on, fiddling with the power cord as she waits for the loading screen and password prompt. It starts dinging almost immediately with notifications from the night before—half a dozen from Henry; a handful of missed calls from David and Mary Margaret; another from Regina, and two from Killian. There’s also a collection of unread texts from Henry.
She’s just about to text Mary Margaret about lunch when her phone dings again, this time with a new notification from one of the apps she installed before Maine to keep her work contacts and messages backed up and secure because she kept breaking phones during suspect pursuits.
Data sync in progress, it says, 4% complete.
::
She has lunch with her parents, and then goes to check in with Belle and Elsa in the library. They’re investigating the myths and history of Arendelle, which sounds extraordinarily dull, so Emma excuses herself as politely as she can and heads out.
Halfway to the docks with a vague idea of inviting Killian to dinner, she runs into Gold who is prowling the streets outside his shop with the same sort of predatory malfeasance she remembers from before Neverland. She’s fairly certain he’s just a pile of secrets and selfish motivation in the shape of a man—which is at least consistent.
A pain in the ass, absolutely, but consistent.
He offers her a false smile as she approaches and asks how she’s feeling after the excitement—that’s the word he uses, excitement, like it was the same thing as a surprise party or an unexpected visitor—the night before.
“I’m fine. And thank you again for your willingness to help out with the whole thing.”
It almost looks like he’s snarling at her. “You’re quite welcome,” he says in reply, and she’s pretty sure he’s lying—which is, of course, the norm for him.
“Say hi to Belle for me,” she says instead.
He nods, briefly, and moves on down the street.
::
Killian is moping majestically in the falling dusk, sun at his back as he squints out at the foaming Atlantic. It’s charmingly emotive but slightly concerning—she hasn’t caught him sea-gazing with quite so much guilty intent since Zelena cursed his kiss.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she calls when she’s close enough that the salt-spray won’t steal her voice.
He turns—carefully is the only word she can think to apply to him right now. But the light in his eyes is still there when he sees her, expression open and wanting in a way she’s starting to feel vaguely addicted to.
“Swan, love: what are you doing here?”
She grins at him as she claims her spot on the pier at his side. “Oh, y’know. Seeing the sites.” Their shoulders bump as he turns back to face the water with her, warm against her arm.
“Is that all?” he asks, voice dry. He lifts a hand to clutch at his chest, dramatically silly. “How personally devastating for me.”
She turns to look at him, outlined with fading sunlight, and wants so desperately she’s half afraid of it. “Who says you’re not one of the sites?”
His attention jerks to her like she’s summoned it. “Is that what I am, love? Something you visit on your way by?”
There’s a thread of something in his voice that’s raw and rough, but Emma doesn’t shy away. She's learned enough about Killian Jones to know that they’ll fight their battles out in the open when they need to.
“Ships passing in the night,” she muses out loud, and Killian flinches.
“What are you doing here?” he asks again. “Is all—is all well?”
She can feel the furrow in her brow as she watches him, wondering. He’s tense and frustrated and distant, and it’s odd after—after everything. “You tell me,” she says. “I wanted to see you, and ask if you wanted to grab dinner, and instead you seem—”
He looks away, hand lifting to drag over his face. “I’m—I’m sorry, love. I'll not be good company, I’m afraid.”
She’s considering him when her phone dings, breaking her attention. Killian seems to jolt at the sound, too, and she offers him an apologetic smile as she pulls it out to check. It’s a text from Henry, announcing dinner at the loft in 30 minutes, which she reads out loud.
“Want to come?” she asks hopefully.
His smile makes her think of Marian, for some reason, in that prison cell under Regina’s castle—resigned to what comes next. “I'll have to cry off tonight. My apologies.”
She makes herself nod. “Okay. Want to do breakfast tomorrow?”
He’s nodding before she’s finished asking, leaning into her space with intentions. Desperate intentions, she hopes. “Aye; I’d love nothing more.”
When she leans in to kiss him, she can’t help but wonder at the heat in it, like he’s burning up, like there’s a fever in him.
::
After dinner—Henry asks where Killian is, unable to believe he wouldn’t be joining them for the meal—Emma walks her son to Regina’s for the night before heading back to the loft. She stands for a moment, watching Mary Margaret and David rock the baby, before wishing them a goodnight and retreating upstairs to get ready for bed. It’s as she’s scrolling through Leroy’s Storybrooke Facebook group for any updates on the snow situation that her phone dings, and then dings again.
Data sync complete, says the first notification.
Killian Jones: New Voicemail (2), says the second notification.
They’re dated the day before, she realizes, finger hovering over the screen. Weird, she thinks. Very weird.
She opens her voicemail and only hesitates for a second before pressing play.
The first one is a few seconds long, and Killian sounds half-crazed. Emma, it's Killian, he says, Call me right away, or you may never make it home for cinnamon and cocoa, ever. Well that’s freaking ominous; she knows he’d been worried, but he sounds convinced she was going to die.
The second one is longer, and Killian sounds—he sounds—Emma feels like she’s forgotten how to breathe as she listens to a message she suspects she wasn’t meant to hear, a confession that tears something loose inside her.
Swan, it’s Killian again. You have to listen to me—I know that you’ve been to see Gold. I saw what you did. And if he’s promised to get rid of your powers, don’t listen to him. He doesn’t want to help you; he wants to collect your powers in a bloody magic hat, and when he does—you’ll be sucked in, too. I—I don’t know what he’s planning, but I know that he’s been lying to Belle. The dagger he gave her is a fake. I only know all this because—because I’m afraid I’ve been lying to you, too. Gold blackmailed me into helping him. He knew—
He knew I’d do whatever it takes to be with you, and he used it against me. I just wanted to be a better man for you, Swan. But I failed. And now, because of that—I might lose you. And I’m sorry. But I hope you never forgive me, because that means you’ll get this in time to save yourself.
Good bye.
She’s up and dressed two minutes later, striding out into the night.
::
She lets herself into Granny’s inn via the back door, ignoring the fact that it’s nearly midnight and she’s basically breaking and entering. She knocks on Killian’s door, toe tapping anxiously as she waits for him to answer. When there’s no response, she reaches for the handle and her magic, popping the lock with enough force she’s pretty sure it won't lock again. Oops.
The room is empty and dark, and Emma slips inside and closes the door behind her. For a moment, she stands and lets her eyes adjust, before switching on one of the bedside lamps and looking around.
It’s spare but tidy. There’s very little in here to indicate that Killian Jones, for all intents and purposes, is living here—no obvious markers of his presence beyond a few limited personal effects. She’s reminded of the three cardboard boxes she’d had shipped to Storybrooke way back when—another thing they share, she realizes.
She’s on her third circuit of the room, fingers tracing over the stack of books on the desk, when she hears the step outside the door. She holds herself still and waits, listening to him fumble with the key, realize the lock is broken, hesitate briefly—when the door finally opens, he’s prepared for a fight: stance careful, hook leading.
She knows the moment he spots her: the way he stills, frowning, before forcing himself into casualness. “Swan, darling: to what do I owe the honor of your company?”
There’s a name for fools like her, she realizes, watching him. Because this is weird—like Killian has become someone else in the last 24 hours, like he’s a stranger to her—and she lives in a world of witches and magic and spells and curses. There are any number of things that could make a man she—she trusts no longer himself.
“Killian. I just had to see you,” she hears herself say. “I—I realize I never said thank you, for yesterday.”
He gives a hollow little chuckle, the sound a lie. “I deserve no thanks for anything that happened yesterday, love. I’m only glad you’re okay.” There: that, at least, is something he thinks is true.
The urge to go forth into battle is rising in her blood. She’s good at action—the need to tread carefully makes her uncomfortable. She doesn’t know, exactly, how these things might work, but she’s not willing to leave him without—without something.
As she crosses towards him, she can watch the play of emotion on his face—the confusion, the desire, the yearning, the fear. He makes himself still, eyes burning bright.
“Now it’s my turn,” she says when she’s an arm’s reach away, looking up at him. He’s got his jaw clenched, expression fierce, and she wonders at him all over again. “To make sure you’re okay.” She lifts an arm and loops it around his neck, pulling him down so she can kiss him. He holds himself apart for one breath, two—and then seems to give in, crumbling into the kiss like a dam breaking under a surging river. His arms fold around her waist, heavy and encouraging, pulling her close; his mouth opens under hers with a groan, lips and teeth a hot welcome.
She can feel the firmness of him against her—his arms, his chest and stomach, his erection, his hips and thighs—
“Swan,” he manages a moment later, mouth against her throat. “Swan, we shouldn’t—not like this—” He’s panting against her skin, hot and damp, and she flexes her fingers, tangled in his hair, trying to release him.
“I know,” she soothes against his temple. “I know.” She gets a hand loose and drags it down his shoulder, to his chest—pressing hard where his heart should be pounding.
She can’t tell if what she’s feeling is him, or the echo of her own thundering pulse.
::
Regina is not pleased to see her; the glower on her face going slightly pink when Robin clambers down the stairs behind her a moment later.
“Emma Swan. What do you want?”
Emma can’t help but raise an eyebrow at her as Robin hastily reties the robe he’s wearing. “Miss Swan, a pleasure,” he says. “I’ll just go see about some tea, shall I?” He disappears towards the kitchen, leaving Emma and Regina in the foyer.
“I need to understand how heart magic works.”
Regina’s expression goes from annoyed to furious in a blink. “Why would you need to know about that? And why ask me—I haven’t done magic like that in months, Swan. How dare you come here and—”
“Jesus, Regina,” Emma interrupts, holding up a hand. “Calm down. I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’m here because—” she pauses, biting her lip, watching Regina’s metaphorical feathers settle. “I think someone—Gold, probably—has done something to Killian, and I’m trying to figure out if it could be his—his heart, or if it’s another spell, or something.”
“And you think I—?”
“I think you have experience in that area, and would be willing to help, yes,” Emma cuts in before Regina can re-inflate.
Regina draws herself together, the specter of her royal persona showing through, even though she’s in a knee length bathrobe over what looks like a silky negligee; Emma refuses to look any closer. “Fine. I suppose this can’t wait for morning…?” At Emma’s expression, Regina nods and heads further into her house. “What makes you suspect that the pirate is under a spell?”
Emma follows, hands fisted at her sides, still eager for action. “He’s—yesterday, when I was going to give up my magic, Killian tried to tell me that Gold was planning to—to do something that would hurt me. But I think Gold got to him first, because he’s been—he’s been not himself, since then.”
“Not himself?” Regina repeats, leaning against her kitchen island with a raised eyebrow. “How so?”
Robin is putting the finishing touches on three cups of tea, and he gives Emma a solemn nod as he hands her one of the mugs, Regina another, and then withdraws, leaving the women to their conversation.
“It’s just—we’ve been—I know him. And he’s been different. It’s like—” she pauses, considers the full inventory of shit she’s been involved in recently. “Remember last year, when we caught Killian trying to take Henry to New York?”
Regina nods, clearly re-irritated at the reminder of that whole fiasco.
“He’d been cursed—”
“Oh, I remember,” the witch seethes, hands tight around her mug.
“—yeah, and he was trying to protect us. By being all stand-offish and dumb.”
“Protect you, I would argue—but I think I see your point. He’s doing it again.”
“Exactly.” Emma takes a sip of tea, watching as Regina considers the situation. Her heart is still pounding in her chest—concerned and anxious.
“There are a few things we could try,” Regina says finally. “But it’s difficult to know what makes the most sense, and we’d need to be careful if Hook—if he’s truly under Gold’s control.”
Emma swallows, and nods. “Okay. Okay—where should we start?”
Regina looks like a shark that’s caught the scent of blood. “I think—I know Gold could do a binding ritual easily enough, but those need to be refreshed every so often, and there’s no…collateral if the spell is broken. And while there’s half a dozen other curses I could think of that would—change a man’s face, or his personality… the fact that he’s acting like he is tells me that he’s still somewhat in control of himself. Are you sure it’s not another kissing curse?”
“I’m sure,” Emma says.
Regina makes a face. “Disgusting. And not Gold’s style. Hmm.”
She pauses, and the silence draws out until Emma feels like she’s suffocating.
“Does that mean—” She licks her lips nervously. “What does that mean?”
“I think…Gold has his heart,” Regina says gently—too gently. “It’s what—it’s what I might have done, if I needed someone close to—to you. And it will give him the ability to control him, and hurt him, and kill him.”
For a moment, Emma feels the whistling terror of falling before it passes. She had suspected, and to hear Regina confirm it is—it’s a direction. It’s a step closer to fixing it. She breathes out, sets aside her mug, and nods.
“Okay. So if Gold has his heart—we need to recover it. Without alerting Gold. And then we can—put it back. Okay.”
Regina is watching her over the rim of her own cup. “Very pragmatic of you, Swan.”
Emma snorts. “What—were you expecting tears?”
Regina’s shrug is unconcerned. “Perhaps. But I can’t say I don’t appreciate the direct approach.”
“So, how do we do this? How can you—find someone’s heart? Is there a locator spell we can use, or some kind of tracer magic, or—?”
Regina’s already shaking her head. “No: those won’t work. They’ll just point at Hook himself; not his heart. I think we’ll have to assume that Gold is keeping the heart at his shop—his house would be too dangerous, with Belle living there, and he doesn’t spend a lot of time anywhere else.”
“That makes sense, yeah,” Emma says. “So we need a distraction and an extraction, and we need to move fast—before Killian is hurt. Any ideas?”
The former evil queen’s smile makes Emma glad they’re on the same side. “Oh, a few.”
::
The plan is simple: Emma’s going to lure Gold into a conversation at Granny’s Diner about controlling magic while Regina looks for Killian’s heart.
Emma hates the plan.
All her arguments—she was a thief and knows how to break in; Regina and Gold already have history; it’s Killian’s heart; if he has the heart, shouldn’t he be arrested?—had been effectively countered in Regina’s kitchen at ass o’clock in the morning. (“What about magic, Swan? Are you prepared for wards and protection spells? And Gold doesn’t trust me anymore now that I’m friendly with the likes of you. We both know a prison won’t hold Gold; the laws in this realm don’t cover heart magic. And what, exactly, are you implying—that I’m not a trustworthy rescuer of a pirate’s heart?”)
But before they can do anything, she has a breakfast date.
She’s exhausted—she hadn’t slept the night before between breaking into Killian’s rooms and plotting with Regina—but she can’t bring herself to cancel. She needs to see him—needs to make sure he’s not—
He’s waiting for her when she arrives, tucked into one of the booths with a book open in front of him. He looks just as tired as she feels—but he’s dressed impeccably, having clearly spent time preparing for breakfast. It makes her feel even more rumpled and unkempt, which is wildly unfair.
“Hey, you,” she says as she slides into the booth across from him, grinning as he startles and hurriedly makes more room for her at the table.
“Hello yourself,” he returns once the book has disappeared into his coat. “I honestly wasn’t sure you’d make it this morning—I know you had a late night.”
“I did,” she agrees, trying to sound flirty and not worried. “And what about you? Anything…keep you up late?”
His eyes light, briefly, before he seems to remember himself. “You’d know better than I, Swan,” he says finally, and she can’t help but roll her eyes at him.
“Got any big plans for the day?”
His expression doesn’t change, but it does—falter, slightly, as if he’s stumbled into some new thing he can’t speak about. “I was considering going for a sailing excursion,” he says finally. “Unless, of course, you have some more pressing need for me?”
“Well, I know David was looking for you,” she offers.
He looks playfully concerned. “Are you implying that your father might have a pressing need for me?”
“Oh, ew,” she says with feeling, and Killian laughs.
The sound makes her want to howl.
::
She decides the best way to get Gold’s attention is through Belle, which feels pretty gross. Except she knows if she goes to the shop, he’ll want to stay at the shop. Which won’t work. So she goes to the library.
Belle is happy to help; happy to invite “Rumple” to lunch in order to talk about magic control in more detail. She offers to bring some books, too, which is just—nice.
Emma smiles, or tries to smile, as Belle reaches for the phone behind the desk to call her husband.
She sends Regina a text on her way down the street—Lunch at noon. Good luck.
Regina’s answer is, You’re the one who needs luck, Swan.
Well. She’s not wrong.
::
“So how is your magic controlled?” Emma asks midway through lunch, gesturing broadly with an onion ring. She doesn’t know quite why she asks, only that the conversation so far has been nothing short of excruciating.
Belle seems to think that Gold is Emma’s magical mentor or something, which means that Gold refuses to go anywhere near the conversation they’d had that evening at the sorcerer’s house, staring at a door lit with flashing gold.
Nope: he’s content to act the part in front of his doting wife, answering Emma’s questions as if they’ll—naturally—revisit the topic at their next “training session”.
Emma manages to keep herself from vibrating anything off the table, as much as she might want to.
So halfway through her sandwich, she decides, screw it, and goes for broke. “I know there’s a dagger that allows its wielder to dictate your magic, but is that all your magic or just the magic they want you to use?”
Gold clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “Miss Swan—that’s a very personal question, and I—”
“Oh, I’m sorry—I just thought it might be helpful to understand another magic user’s situation. I’ve always been better at learning from experience, you know.” It’s been a while since she needed to play to a mark like she’s doing now, but the fact that he’s sitting there like that while Killian is—
Belle smiles at Emma and lays a soothing hand on Gold’s arm. “Come on, Rumple—this is Emma, after all. She’s just asking a question.”
Gold’s face is caught somewhere between infuriated and placating, and it makes Emma want to laugh. “The wielder of the Dark One’s dagger controls all expressions of the Dark One’s magic,” he manages.
“All your magic? Really? That must be a pain in the—butt.” Emma glances at Belle, who is still smiling warmly. “I mean, we’ve talked about how magic can be reflexive, so if you don’t have your dagger…”
“Oh, well, it depends, of course, on the nature of the wielder’s command,” Gold says through clenched teeth.
“And I’m sure Belle’s—well… I’m sure you have a pretty long leash, right?”
Gold’s hand slams down on the table so hard that both Belle and the cups jump. Emma doesn’t, but only because she was prepared for it—attention firmly locked on the man’s roiling expression. “That’s enough, Miss Swan. The nature of my magical affairs and their intersection with my wife is none of your business.”
Emma waits for a ten count, studying Gold as he glares back at her—and then she lets herself fold away from the conversation, shrugging and reaching for another onion ring. She feels like she’s wearing a poorly fitted mask, but it’s important that she steal as much time for Regina as possible. “Totally get it—sorry. It’s just that this magic stuff is new to me, and you’re the most powerful magic user I know.”
There’s a minute where she doesn’t think Gold will buy it—but he eventually relaxes back into the booth, lifting a hand to cover Belle’s where it’s still sitting, frozen, on his arm.
“I understand, of course. But perhaps some manners are in order to go along with your innate…curiosity?” He says the word as if it’s the most vile curse he can think of, which—she’s been called way worse.
“Maybe,” she says finally, waiting until she’s halfway through another onion ring to answer. “But then again: maybe not.”
::
She ends up walking Belle back to the library after lunch, apologizing if she made things uncomfortable. Belle seems distracted, chewing on her lip as they make their way down main street.
“Can I ask you something, Emma?” she asks when they pause on the corner outside the library. “Can you really tell if someone is lying when you ask them a question?”
“Almost always, yes.”
Belle nods, glancing down the street. She looks—a little heartbroken. “What would you do if someone you—you loved lied to you?”
Emma takes a breath. “I think it would depend on why they lie, you know? Sometimes people lie for dumb reasons—because they think they’re protecting you, maybe—but sometimes they lie to protect themselves. And those kind of lies? They’re usually the dangerous ones.”
“That—that’s very helpful,” Belle says, almost a whisper. “Thank you.”
“If you ever need—to talk, or whatever—we’re here for you. Me, and Mary Margaret, and—all of us. You know that right?”
Belle blinks, and then glances up with a soft smile. “Right, yes. I do know that. Thank you again for lunch today. I hope you have a lovely rest of your afternoon.” She turns and goes inside, shoulders tight and clearly deep in thought.
::
Emma heads towards the mayor’s office. She has a single text message from Regina that says, Out, with no additional context or punctuation, and she’s ready to fist fight a god if needed for answers.
Regina is waiting for her behind her stupid imposing desk. She glances up when Emma comes in, eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “And how was lunch?”
“Gold thinks I’m nosy and rude,” Emma answers as she closes the door. “So a success. How about you—how was your lunch break?”
Regina waves a hand, and a wooden box lifts off the desk and soars across the office to Emma. “Mostly successful.”
“Mostly?” Emma repeats as she catches the box. It’s heavier than she was expecting, and she can feel the steady pulse of a heart against her palms, through the wood. There’s something about its weight that makes her nervous; this is unfamiliar magic and Emma has never done well with unknowns.
“I didn’t locate Gold’s dagger, unfortunately. But I did find the heart, and a safe in the wall that has multiple protection spells on it. And I also found this, which is something.” Regina lifts—it looks like Gold’s dagger, the thing Zelena flashed around for weeks.
“Isn’t that—?”
“It’s a replica,” Regina explains, and her smile is smug and satisfied. “I don’t know why it was hidden in his shop, but I figured removing it from play could be interesting.”
“Good idea,” Emma says, attention locked on the box in her hands.
“What I don’t understand is why that—” she gestures at the heart, lips twisted scornfully, “—wasn’t stored with the real dagger.”
“Milah,” Emma says automatically. She glances up to find Regina watching her, eyebrows raised. “Gold’s wife—she ran away with a pirate, with Killian, and Gold never forgave them. He killed her, and took Killian’s hand. So macho shit.”
“I see,” Regina breathes, looking like the heart of her nemesis has just fallen into her hand. “His pride couldn’t bear the insult. That makes sense.”
“So how do I—?” Emma starts.
Regina waves a hand. “Just put it back: it knows where it belongs.” She pauses, considering. “I suppose I should mention that it will hurt.”
::
She takes the box back to the loft, struggling with the best way to approach Killian.
It seems like he should be able to tell that his heart isn’t in Gold’s control, but—maybe he can’t? Maybe it’s only when it’s touched? Emma doesn’t have the first clue how any of this works, and she hates it. Should she just—call him? Let him know she found something of his? Ask him to meet somewhere, so she can—?
It’s really the worst.
Mary Margaret is folding laundry when Emma arrives, offering a slightly hesitant smile as she shakes out a pair of David’s jeans. “Oh, there are you, Emma. Is—is everything okay?”
“No,” Emma says, strangely relieved that she’s made it home. “But it will be.”
“What’s going on?” Mary Margaret asks. “The way you ran out of here last night, we thought—but you didn’t call for backup so we assumed it wasn’t the Snow Queen. And David said you texted him that you weren’t coming in today…?”
“I was recovering this,” Emma explains, setting the box on the dining room table. She keeps one hand on it, afraid to let it go.
“Oh my god, is that—?” Mary Margaret steps forward, clearly horrified. “How did—whose is it?”
“Killian’s,” Emma says, voice flat. “Gold had it.”
“Gold—?” Mary Margaret repeats, hand lifted to cover her mouth. “Oh, Emma—that’s—”
“I know.”
“Poor Hook,” she says, taking a seat at the far end of the table. She keeps looking at the box with something like fear in her eyes, her hand now fisted against her own chest. “I can’t imagine—what happened?”
“Killian was trying to warn me about something Gold was up to—I think Gold tried to clean up the evidence, and took Killian’s heart to prevent him from telling me himself.”
“And his—his heart?”
“Regina helped me find it.”
Mary Margaret’s eyebrows jump, but she nods consideringly. “She does have a lot of experience with torn out hearts,” she says.
“Exactly. Now I just have to—” Emma cuts herself off with a half-hearted shoving gesture. She looks at the box a minute longer. “I’m worried I’m going to do it wrong.”
Mary Margaret’s face immediately softens into the familiar maternal glow she wears whenever anyone needs reassurance or mothering. “Oh, Emma: you’ll do fine. There’s no need to be worried.”
Emma frowns. “It’s his heart, Mom—it’s not—it’s…”
Her mother reaches over to grab her shoulder, eyes bright with certainty and hope. “I think we both know there’s no one else he’d entrust with it.”
The implications of that are enough to make Emma want to climb the walls—but as with most things concerning Killian, it’s also starting to feel more and more familiar, too. Which is—she’d been worried, in Neverland, that he’d weaponize things, use his feelings to demand direction from her. But he hadn’t: even now, even when they were—he’d left their heading in her hands.
Which: proof positive right there she’s getting used to him if she’s defaulting to sailing metaphors.
“Maybe so,” Emma says finally. “But that doesn’t make it any less horrifying that I’ve got his heart in a box on my parents’ dining room table.”
“Perhaps we should move it to the coffee table,” Mary Margaret says with a pensive look over her shoulder.
Emma shakes her head and pulls the box closer. “I’ll go, in a minute. I just needed—”
Her mother glances over, smiling faintly. “Of course. Of course; take all the time you need.”
::
She goes back to Granny’s, to Killian’s room. He’s not there—he’s probably out at the pier, she thinks, remembering how he’d looked out at the ocean the day before—but she pulls out the desk chair and tries to settle in to wait.
It’s not much longer before she hears footsteps in the hall, and she knows David has done as he said and gone out to find him, send him to her.
There’s a pause before the door handle turns. She realizes she’s holding her breath as she gets to her feet.
And then it’s him, pushing into the room with that casual bravado of his. She’s starting to hate it, now that she knows him better. “Ah, so the summons was real,” he says, pushing the door closed behind him. He doesn’t move any further into the room, shoulders back against the wood, trying to appear unbothered. “Dave was particularly reticent with details.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell him what was going on,” Emma manages, fighting the urge to rush him, kiss him, shake him, claim him.
“And just what is going on?”
“Well,” she says, licking her lips as she reaches into the bag on her shoulder. “I was hoping you could tell me.” The box feels heavier, again, as she holds it out, watching him.
His face—she can trace the realization across his skin, the dawning guilt, fear and horror, anger, want—and still, he doesn’t move from his position against the door. His eyes are luminous in the low light, tired and wary.
“Is that—?” he manages, voice rough.
“Yes.”
“How—? No, don’t answer that. Swan: what did you do?”
She paces towards him, still balancing the box on her palms. He presses himself back and away—almost afraid. “I got your message and figured it out. Now, how do you want to do this?”
He closes his eyes, swallowing. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, Emma. Everything. I won’t lie to you. There’s no need to compel me.”
“—what?!” She nearly fumbles the fucking box as she realizes what he’s implying. “Shit, no—Killian, you idiot: that’s not—”
He’s peeking at her from beneath confused brows, eyes narrowed and wary. “My apologies, love: I seem to have misunderstood your question.”
Emma can’t help herself: she surges forward to touch him, hand against his cheek with that stupid box caught between them, a corner of it digging into her chest. He leans into her fingers, instinctively, and she wants to scream. “How do you want me to put your heart back into your chest? That’s what I—”
“Oh. That's—well, I suppose…” Killian makes a sound in his throat, a low thrum that she can feel buzzing through her. “No time like the present, as they say.”
“Of course. Okay. Let me just—” She turns and sets the box on the bed, opening the lid with trembling fingers. His heart is pulsing vibrantly and she has to pause for a moment before reaching in and lifting it out, hands shaking. The sensation of it is—obscenely enthralling. It’s warm, against her skin, and it’s him—the truest, most honest part of him. She can see the curls of ember smoke amongst the crimson glow; she can feel the surging sense of feeling in the palm of her hand. The rush of—of power, of desire is—
“Killian—” she starts, glancing up at him, uncertain.
“Shh, love: it’ll be alright.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“Aye, and being without it hasn’t exactly been painless either.”
“...right. Are you ready?”
“Yes. Just be—”
She doesn’t let herself hesitate, stepping forward and pushing it into place in one swift movement. It rocks him back on his heels, shoulders knocking against the door as he gasps, the cords of his throat standing out in sharp relief.
“Gods above, Swan—”
“I’m sorry! I just thought if I did it quickly, it’d be like ripping off a bandaid—”
He surges forward, pulling her into arms. She can feel his mouth against her temple, the heat of his words caught in her hair. “Thank you, love. Thank you.”
She lets herself hold him back, hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket while he catches his breath, letting the rapid thunder of his heart settle. Emma is content to press her ear against his chest and memorize this safer version of his heartbeat.
“I don’t think I’ve mentioned today that you’re bloody amazing, have I?” he says a while later. “Because you are—fucking, absolutely, bloody brilliant.”
“Are you okay?” she asks instead of answering him. “Did Gold—?”
“I’ll be fine, love. I told you before: I’m a survivor.”
Emma pulls back just enough to pull his mouth down to hers—the kiss an explosion of relief and frustration and worry and need. He meets her just as furiously, turning them so now she’s caught between him and the door. She's shoving hard at his coat, hand curled over the point of his shoulder as he deepens their kiss, licking into her mouth with a sort of desperation that makes her groan, that makes him groan in response.
And she thinks she can tell the difference—there is his heart, in this kiss, all that feeling never far from the surface.
“Killian—” she says when he’s distracted by kissing the hinge of her jaw, teeth against the place where her own pulse is throbbing wildly. “We do, eventually, need to talk about—” she gasps as he nips her, gently, soothing the mark with his hot tongue. “—fucking hell; we need to talk about Gold—”
That name, at least, seems to cool his ardor, and he presses one last kiss against her neck before stepping back. He looks ravished, she thinks smugly, with color high in his cheeks and his coat half off and his shirt untucked. She has to bite her lip to keep from laughing as he attempts to put himself somewhat back to rights.
“What about the Crocodile would you like to know?” he says finally. He gestures to the desk chair but instead she catches his hand and pulls him to sit on the edge of the bed beside her.
“Tell me what actually happened two days ago, when you left me those messages.”
He blinks, surprised. “You received those? He’d implied they’d been destroyed.”
“I don’t think Rumplestiltskin understands the cloud,” Emma says with a dangerous smile. “You left me voicemails that he must have—what, deleted from my phone? But my phone’s set to make copies of everything and store them in another place so I don’t lose anything.”
“So you know—”
“I know you were trying to warn me about him. And that he’d been—blackmailing you?”
He glances down, at the hook perched on his knee. “Aye. When I—returned my hand, he required a deal of me. And made me—he has a hat that will consume people who have magic. And a plan to break the dagger’s hold on him so he can escape Storybrooke, and any limitations on his—goals.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looks up with fierce, sad eyes. “Once he had my heart, I couldn’t—but before then… I should’ve. I should’ve but I didn’t. I was afraid, love. I’m sorry.”
“That you might lose me?” Emma prompts him. She wants to touch him, wants to reach out and take his hand but this is—she’s afraid if she touches him, she’ll lose track of what needs to be said. Touching him is an exercise in distraction.
“It was bad form, Emma, and I’m sorry. It’s only been a few weeks since the proper initiation of our—our courtship. I was frightened by the possibility of—I will never forget how long it took me to prove myself worthy of—”
“Wow, okay, no: I’m not really interested in playing the worthiness game with you, especially not when it comes to—us, being together or whatever.”
He swallows, uncertain.
“I’m not sure I understand, love.”
“I’m saying we both have histories, and that’s fine—you don’t have to prove yourself to me. Cause then I'd have to prove myself to you, and it'd be a whole thing. And that's not... It’s who you are today that I want to be with, to go to dinner with. And breakfast, or lunch, or midday outings, or whatever.”
Killian’s eyes are still glowing with emotion and she gives into the urge to press a quick, messy kiss to the side of his mouth. He bites back a huffed laugh. “I do quite like our outings,” he says quietly, reverently.
“Good,” she says. “Me, too.” She kisses him again, keeping it gentle and careful, hands cradling his jaw as he relaxes into the embrace. “I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”
“Anything, love,” he replies almost instantly, curling his arm around her to tug her across his lap.
“The next time something comes up—about your history, or your fears, or Gold, or—” she breaks off as he starts his wandering kisses down her neck again. “—or anything like that—can you just give me a heads up?”
“Give you a—what?” he asks, pulling away to blink at her in confusion. His hair is majestically disastrous, and his hand and his hook are holding her fast against him. It’s getting more and more difficult to concentrate.
“Sure—I mean, just give me a warning. That there’s—stuff, coming. You know, buckle down the hatches, or whatever.”
For a moment, he just watches her—and then he smiles, and it’s like trying to look into the sunrise.“Batten, love. Batten down the hatches. But I see your point. To weather the storm, we must do it together.”
“Yes, right, yes, exactly—” He’s kissing her again, hand and hook dropped to her thighs to hold her in place as he grinds up against her with filthy intention. She’s got his jacket down around his elbows, again, and his vest has come completely undone, and his shirt is missing at least three buttons. She’d call it progress if she could get her mind off the way his hand is now splayed against her waist, thumb brushing the bottom curve of her breast. “What were we talking about?”
“What we’re going to do together.” He presses a kiss against her throat, all innuendo and lust.
"Is that all?” she asks through kiss-bitten lips.
He laughs. “Aye, that's all, Swan.”