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Emma stands stock still, staring at the air as the portal disappears before her eyes, flashing away with a zinging flick of light. Tears stream down her face and she discovers that she can’t keep her cries quiet any longer - her heart is too heavy in her chest, her limbs too weary, her conscious too restless and muddled for her to keep up with it - so she lets a sob tear through her throat, a broken and wretched sound, as she allows herself to break.
A hand wraps around her shoulder and suddenly she’s pressing her face into the chest of her father, his touch comforting as he rubs his hand across her back and soothes her gently. She clutches David’s shirt for dear life, balling the fabric into her fist as if she was a little girl and it breaks his heart all over again. From somewhere in the distance she can hear her mother’s voice, frantic and concerned, and then she’s warm all over as her mother’s arms come around her, a soft Oh, Emma, spoken before a gentle kiss is pressed against her forehead.
She’ll be okay, eventually. She’s the savior - she has to be.
The next couple of weeks pass by uneventfully, much to her surprise. With the lord of the underworld taking residency in their quaint little town, she had expected nothing short of chaos to ensue. But luckily, she’s gotten some time to breathe, which allows her some precious time to mourn. She falls into a routine of sorts, balancing her time and busying herself by spending her mornings and afternoons at the station despite the fact that time has seemed to come to a stand still. Her evenings are spent with her family and they’ll usually get out of the loft, opting to have dinner at Granny’s, or The Rabbit Hole, where there are other friendly faces and occurrences to distract them from the person who’s left a bigger hole in their lives than they realized.
She sneaks out every night to his ship, changing into one of his ridiculously flowy shirts from his meticulously organized wardrobe before crawling beneath the covers of his bunk, running her fingers over the quilted pattern of his duvet and breathing in the scent of him - of leather bound journals, spilled ink, and the sea - and she’s helpless to crying herself to sleep. She discovers his journals, written on every page with no space in between, and she admires his penmanship, loopy and neat, before running her fingers over the rough lines of his maps and sketches. She finds his books, stories about unknown lands, tales of magic and mischief and adventure, pages upon pages of unfamiliar languages that she later translates to Greek, Latin, and Arabic, and she smiles fondly - a weak and watery thing - as she recalls their last adventure and the translated words that had started it all: μόνο η αληθινή αγάπη μπορεί να περάσει - only true love can pass.
And they had passed, they were true love. But it wasn’t enough.
It’s a particularly stormy night by the time Emma drags herself out of station, deciding that she’s distracted herself with enough paperwork that will last them months. She shuffles into the driver’s seat of the bug, hesitating only for a second as to whether she should spend the night on The Jolly Roger with the storm that’s brewing as a flash of lightning darts through the sky, a low rumble of thunder sounding mere moments later.
She has to - she’s not ready to give that up yet, even if it’s for a night, and she drives down to the docks with her heart in her throat and her magic buzzing under her skin. Something about tonight feels different, she decides, but she’s sure that it’s just the storm. Storybrooke hadn’t had a storm in a few weeks, not since Killian’s funeral, and the realization has her halting in her steps as she makes her way onto his ship. She pauses, turning on her heel slowly and scanning her eyes across the expanse of water before her. The night is shrouded with grey clouds and a rush of wind whips past her while the ship rocks gently beneath her feet.
Emma ignores the anxious churning in the pit of her stomach, changing into one of Killian’s shirts and ridding the rest of her clothes before grabbing one of his books and snuggling into his bed. She’s halfway through reading a story that Killian had penned about a mission with Liam that had gone awry due to their own foolishness, when a mighty bout of thunder rolls through the sky outside, causing her yelp in surprise and scurry out of bed.
Something isn’t right, she concludes, and she’s performing a balancing act as she pulls her leggings over her legs and up her hips before stuffing her feet into her boots. Her leather jacket, her armor, is pulled on over Killian’s shirt and she’s racing up the ladder, across the deck, and onto the docks as rain pours viciously from the sky. She peers up at the storm clouds, holding her breath as a streak of lightning flashes from somewhere in the distance.
The sky is lit up for a split second and she catches a shadow of a figure making its way leisurely down the pathway from the town square and to the docks. She blinks, momentarily stunned at the familiarity of the figure - she knows that lithe body and those hunched shoulders from somewhere. The rain whips around her, blurring her vision, yet somehow her gaze doesn’t once falter off of the figure making its way towards her as she begins taking slow steps of her own.
She meets them halfway, halting as soon as she reaches the bench - their bench that they had spent so many mornings, afternoons, and evenings on. They’re quite a few feet away, too far to immediately recognize their face and their features, especially beneath the darkness of the night and the heavy pour of the rain, but Emma was close enough to just know.
“Killian,” she breathes out in disbelief as she breaks out into a jog towards him, her heart soaring in her chest with elation.
He looks up then, the sound of her boots against the wood of the docks breaking him out of his reverie and causing him to pause. His hair is plastered against his forehead from the rain and his eyes widen in surprise as Emma comes racing towards him, an uncontainable grin on her face as her hair lashes behind her in streaks of golden glimmers against the darkness of the sky.
“Emma,” Killian gasps, letting out a choked laugh as he opens his arms just in time for Emma to jump into them. Her legs wrap around his waist and her arms twine around his neck immediately as she clings to him, searching his face and wondering how in the world he managed to get here.
“Oh my god,” she cries, her expression scrunching up as she presses her face against his. “Oh my god, you’re real. ”
“Emma,” he repeats, disbelief and awe tinging his tone as he cradles her head and holds her to him. “My love, I missed you so mu-”
She cuts him off with a searing kiss, sobbing from relief against him as her hands cup his face. He eagerly responds, reciprocating the hurried slide of her lips and the brushes of her tongue as they breathe each other in, making up for lost time and pouring out all of their heartbreak from the time that they had to spend tragically apart. She tastes his tears on her lips and she knows that she isn’t any better, and she pulls away from him enough to run her fingers across the skin of his face, taking in his happy but tearful eyes and his watery smile.
“I thought I was dreaming,” she admits, her breath washing over his swollen lips hotly as she nudges their noses together. Her eyes are wide with astonishment and he hums in assent, swallowing his own incredulity. “I can’t believe you’re here, how are you here?”
“The lord of the sky,” he murmurs against her lips, unable to pry himself away from her warm and intoxicating embrace. “He paid me a visit a bit after you left. Heard about us from Megara and that hero of hers before he decided to give us a hand. Did you know that the gods and goddesses have been watching us like a bloody soap opera? They’ve been waiting for our true love confirmation for three years - three years!”
Emma laughs at the incredulity of it all, unable to help herself. Her heartbeat settles in her chest and she feels more grounded than she has in weeks. She nuzzles herself into Killian’s neck, showering a spray of kisses against his jaw as he steadily lowers her to her feet.
“I’m so glad you’re back.” she grins, holding onto his hand for dear life as he wraps her into a hug.
“As am I, my love, as am I.” he smiles into her hair, kissing the damp skin of her forehead reverently and following obediently as she leads them back to his ship.
“No more goodbyes, okay? I don’t think I could handle it and I’m sure the high and mighty’s up there could use a break from the tears.” Emma says.
Killian laughs as he glances at her lovingly, falling into step beside her, “You have my word, love. No more goodbye and no more tears. I don’t plan on going anywhere for quite a while.”
Emma grins, “Good.”
As soon as the door to his quarters falls shut into place, the storm outside stops. The clouds part, revealing a stretch of a brilliant, midnight blue sky and one by one, twinkling stars start to appear. That night, if you were to close enough, you could make out a hook that looked like a bowing swan in the corner of the sky. But as soon as it appeared, it winked out of sight with a flourish - a gift from the gods themselves.
“And that, my little princess, is the story of how your parents became the greatest story of true love to ever be told in all of the realms.”
“Telling your granddaughter your favorite fairytale story, again?” Snow asks amusedly.
David startles only slightly, used to his wife’s stealthy antics as he steadies the baby in his arms, sliding Henry’s book off of his leg, and turning over his shoulder to shoot her with a mock glare.
“What do you mean, again?” David scoffs, rocking his granddaughter gently as she fusses for a moment. “That was the first time I’ve told it today!”
“He’s lying,” Henry snarks, slipping onto the sofa beside him before poking at his little sister’s cheeks as she coos up at him. “I heard him narrating parts of it when he volunteered to change her diaper.”
Snow snorts into her mug of tea as David scowls, “Traitor.”
“Well,” Snow muses as she subtly nods towards Emma and Killian, who are huddled away in a corner of the kitchen. They’re too busy wrapped up in each other and in their own little world as they grin, talking in hushed voices and gifting each other with soft touches, to notice their audience. “Their story is the greatest love story to ever be told. It’s written in the book and everything. Even the gods said so themselves.”
“Yeah,” Henry agrees, a soft smile on his face as he drinks in the sight of his happy parents. “The greatest love story to ever be told, a tale as old as time.”