Prompt: a little CS/Gremma drabble about Killian asking Emma where she learned to play Darts like that

The bed in his room at the inn is far more comfortable than the one in his quarters on the Jolly Roger had ever been. And with the Wicked Witch still on the loose, perhaps more dangerous than ever, Killian knows he really ought to sleep.

He tries for almost two hours before giving up. It's been the same every night - there isn't anything wrong with his accommodations but for the fact that they aren't right, he's used to the rocking motion of a ship, used to a narrow little plank of a bed and now whenever he lays down he remembers he'll never have that again. It was worth it, of course it was worth it, but - he's been taking walks every night, nonetheless.

He pulls on his clothes, making sure to tuck his key into a pocket (it's unnecessarily large, attached to a metal holder carved with a ship much like the Jolly, and he tries not to rub his fingers over it too often), and slips down the hall as quietly as possible, grazing his hand over the doorknob to Emma's room on the way to the stairs.

At the bottom of the steps he pauses; there's light spilling in from the door to the diner, which is slightly open. Every other night so far it's been locked up by now, and he's had to use the back entrance, so the difference is intriguing. Sidling up to the entrance with his hand on his sword, Killian peers through the crack.

Moments later he's nudging his way through, because that's Emma Swan, throwing back a swig of rum straight from the bottle in one angry motion before turning and whipping her arm out at the dartboard.

Despite the lack of time spent aiming and the third of the bottle already gone, the dart hits very close to the inner ring. There are already two on the board, pressed together on the bullseye, and Killian whistles quietly as he approaches.

"Reconsidering my dartboard idea, love?" he asks, edging closer and holding out his hand for the bottle. It's a long, long moment, and another frustrated gulp, before Emma gives in and hands it to him. "I knew you'd see it my way."

He sips at the rum himself, before walking around Emma to set the bottle down far away from her behind the counter. If she really needs it he won't stop her, but her eyes are a little wild and she flings the final dart with a certain vehemence that has him hoping she won't indulge further tonight.

Another bullseye.

Killian leans against the counter, and raises an eyebrow as Emma goes off to retrieve her darts. She still hasn't spoken, so he takes it upon himself to continue the conversation.

"You're quite the expert marksman there, Swan. Get it from your mother, I assume?"

Emma turns back, darts clutched in her hand, and it's like she really sees him for the first time. She blinks.

"I - no, actually, I used to be awful. I can aim a gun, but… I used to hate darts." She looks down at her hand and sighs, before approaching him. Killian tenses, but she only sits down on a stool and offers the darts to him, ignoring the bottle of rum. "I don't even know the rules."

Killian accepts the darts, swallowing when his fingers brush warmly against hers in the process. He walks over to stand directly in front of the board, and takes his time aiming, but his shot still goes a little wide - he's never excelled at projectiles.

"Why the change of heart?" he asks, lining up his next shot. It hits closer to center, but not by much. The third misses entirely and he sighs as it clatters to the floor. Instead of going after it, he turns to Emma curiously.

She's staring at the dart on the floor, and there's an odd, far-off look on her face. She has yet to answer him, but heartbreak in her eyes is telling enough, and Killian swallows hard.

"Oh," he says quietly. "Neal taught you."

That gets her attention, head jerking up to stare at him. "What?" she says incredulously. "No. Neal never even played, as far as I know."

"Then your monkey."

This gets him a caustic look, but once again she shakes her head. "No. Not Walsh either."

But - "Then why do you look so sad?"

The words slip out of his mouth before he can catch them, childishly blunt, and Emma looks stricken. She ducks her head, and casts a longing glance at the bottle of rum, but her hand drops even as it starts to reach for it.

Her fingers pause at an empty spot on her belt, hesitating as though they expected to find something there.

"I - " she stops and the breath she takes next is ragged. Killian wants to regret asking, but he can't. Shameless as it is, he wants to know - how many times has Emma's heart been broken?

"It wasn't like that," she says, unconvincingly. "There's a dartboard at the station, the sheriff before me used to play."

It's the first time Killian has heard of any sort of law enforcement in Storybrooke besides Swan and her parents, but it makes sense. There must have been some system set in place before the curse was broken, for appearance's sake (he's certain all decisions went through Regina).

"And this former sheriff, where has he gone off to?" Killian settles onto the stool beside Emma's, knees brushing against hers. "One would think a lawman would be happy to help our little witch-hunt."

This time, Emma finishes her reach for the bottle. She closes her eyes as she swallows, and when she finally speaks Killian wonders if she only drank to excuse the thick rasp in her voice.

"No," she says hoarsely. "He died before the curse was broken. We were - he just died."

Killian opens his mouth, but there's nothing to say. Emma takes another swallow of rum and turns to meet his eyes.

"He remembered," she says suddenly. "Before he died, he remembered who he really was. And I - I thought he was crazy." She laughs bitterly, and shoves herself up to go collect the darts, yanking them out with short, jerky movements. "He was all feverish, going on about a curse, about not - not having a heart…"

Emma stoops to pick up the dart that missed the board, and for a long moment Killian wonders if she's going to get up again. Her voice is shaking, she's hunched tight in over herself; he wants more than anything to go to her.

Not having a heart, he thinks, and remembers Milah fallen on the deck. He just died.

But stand she does. With a deep sigh, Emma rises to her feet, and returns to her stool. He can see her swallow before speaking: "I just - I started using his dartboard afterwards, that's all. Got pretty good."

Her tone is light; dismissive… but her knuckles are clenched white around the darts in her hand.

He wants to know the rest of the story. Everything she isn't saying.

Slowly, Killian reaches out and touches his fingers to hers. She starts, but doesn't pull away, and he can feel his breath catch at that. He curls his hand beneath hers, slowly pulling her fingers out of their fist, catching the darts as they drop one by one from her grasp. The tip of his middle finger brushes the center of her palm. They're almost holding hands.

Emma's staring silently at him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.

"You're more than just 'good', Swan," Killian tells her, and draws his hand back to set the darts on the counter. He makes sure not to look away. "You're phenomenal."

It feels like time is slowing down in the pause that follows, each second dragging hot and rough against his skin. Neither of them move, and the air between the buzzes with it, with the effort of not moving closer, not touching her again. He wants to put his hand in hers, to close the scant inches and let their knees press together. Wants to drop his forehead against hers and brush their noses against one another and open his mouth against hers, wants to stand in the space between their stools and wrap both his arms around her while she sits, to pull her tight against him so there's nowhere they aren't touching, to close his eyes and breathe her in and never let go.

"I'm going back to bed," she says slowly, and stands up to leave.

It's not a surprise.

"Aye," Killian replies, leaning back against the counter as he watches her go. "Sleep well."

She ducks her head in a nod, smiling softly back at him, and is almost out the door when he calls after her again, unable to help himself.

"Swan, wait." His voice is too urgent, and she turns back quickly, halfway through the door. "The sheriff - what was his name?"

She seems surprised by the question, and Killian finds himself wondering if no one else has cared to ask. Or perhaps they all knew better.

Whatever the reason, she says his name like it's the first time since it happened. Her voice breaks a little.

"Graham. His name was Graham Humbert." Emma takes a deep breath - and then unexpectedly smiles at him again, a quick sad flicker of a grin. "You should go to bed too, Hook. We've got another big day tomorrow."

"Aye," he says, but she's already gone, "in a minute."

He fingers the darts for a moment, lining them up neatly in a row. Picks up the half-empty bottle of rum and just holds it, for a long time.

In the end he caps it without taking a drink, and turns off the lights before going straight back up the stairs. There's a dim glow under Emma's door, which goes out as he walks past. He pulls his key out of his pocket, fingers tracing against the ship, and lets himself into his room.

Killian undresses in the dark, and lays down on his large, soft bed to sleep, thinking of too many names too long unsaid.