A/N: Well Hello there, friends! How are we all coping with the hiatus? I personally AM DYING.

And that is the reason I've started writing this fic. I've really only just started it and have very little written, but I will try and keep on top of it as there will be a fair few chapters. Now, I'm not begging for reviews (cough), but judging by past experience, they really do help motivate me to keep going, so if you find you're enjoying this along the way, please do consider leaving me a comment and letting me know your thoughts. It might just bring the updates forward a bit!

This will be a HEAVY story. This is going to be the story of Killian's and Emma's respective childhoods. And because I love angst, I will be pulling no punches. I'm talking violence, abuse (including of a sexual nature), potentially self harm depending on how mean I want to be to these characters. So please, if you're likely to be triggered or uncomfortable with any of this (it won't be too graphic, but still...) then please don't read on.

If you're still with me after that warning and this rambling, welcome aboard. The first two chapters of this will serve as somewhat of a prologue, and then from chapter 3 onwards we will dive right into the back stories of our beloveds. So grab a cuppa, keep on reading, and leave me a review! Much love!

Disclaimer: I literally own nothing except my car and my MacBook.

WARNING: ABUSE, SEXUAL ABUSE, VIOLENCE.

Chapter 1

Killian was already on the edge of wakefulness when Emma bolted upright for the third time that night to his right hand-side, sweat clinging to her brow and her breathing wild and unsteady. His tired muscles almost seemed to groan as he pushed himself up from his prone position beside her on his bed on the Jolly Roger, his forehead gently falling to rest at the join between her neck and shoulder. His hand travelled softly up her spine, coming to a stop at the nape of her neck and remaining still except for his thumb, which stroked back and forth across her clammy skin.

He felt her calm instantly at the familiar action; the quiet, soothing rush of his breath against the round of her shoulder, and the softness of his hair against her ear as he nuzzled his nose further into the warmth of her skin, were forms of contact they'd repeated numerous times each night since Emma had been saved from the darkness, little over a week ago. At first, he had tried to comfort her with words, quiet whispering and hushing as she cried into his neck. But after so many nights, and even more nightmares, words had quickly run dry. He'd come to realise, though he had suspected it from the start, that nothing he could say would be enough to drive the nightmares away. So he resolved to just be there with her, lending her the sound of his breathing close to her ear to bring her own shuddering gasps back to a calmer pace, and the gentleness of his touch to cool her fevered skin.

Their ritual had been the same each time she awoke: they would sit in near-silence until the frigid terror gripping her bones subsided, at which point she would reach her hand up to the back of his head, signalling that she was alright. He would lift his head from her shoulder, plant a tender kiss against her jaw, and draw her close to his chest with his good arm. Her arms would curl around his torso, and he would slowly guide her backwards to lie down beside him, pillowing her head upon his bare shoulder as her face turned into the warmth of his chest. It had become a perfectly choreographed dance, but tonight, after her third nightmare of the night, she finally broke the routine.

With his head still tucked against her shoulder, her breathing still ragged, and moisture still seeping from her closed eyelids, she spoke.

"I'm sorry," she choked out.

Startled by the unexpected sound of her voice in the quiet of the cabin, he felt his heart constrict painfully at the brokenness of the two quietly uttered words as they fell from her lips. His head rose from its place against her skin, and he found himself leaning forward, searching her eyes out in the semi-dark room, lit dimly by the moonlight gleaming in through the windows looking out over the ocean.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, love," he spoke gently once he'd found his voice, though it sounded gravelly and coarse as sleep lingered.

Her response was a silent, breathy sob as her knees curled closer to her chest, her hands coming up to press against her eyes.

"Emma," he whispered sadly, "Emma, look at me."

Reluctantly, her hands dropped away from her eyes, but they remained closed as her head hung forward dejectedly. His right arm wrapped tighter around her back, and he reached forward with his stump until it came into gentle, timid contact with her chin, and pulled her face towards his searching eyes.

She did not fight him, her head turning willingly to his and her eyes falling open slowly to meet his own. Fresh tears broke free and rolled carelessly down her cheeks as her green eyes burned into his blue, the desperation and fear he saw there slicing through him sharply.

"Tell me," he implored softly.

"I can't," she whispered, shaking her head slightly without breaking eye contact.

"Please, love," he swallowed thickly, knowing he was treading on thin ice, "I hate seeing you like this. Let me in."

She let out another quiet sob as she shook her head again. Killian considered his next words carefully. Part of him knew he should stop pushing now. He should just pull her to him like so many nights before and let her silence remain, uncomfortable but unchallenged. But a larger part of him knew that was no longer an option. Right now, he was on the brink of either helping her open up, or having her push him away and flee. It all rested on a knife's edge, but they couldn't go back. He couldn't keep doing this, night after night, watching her suffer and doing nothing about it. So he pushed, just one last time.

"Help me understand," he requested timidly, the fear of her rebuttal hanging thickly in the air between them, "please."

She took a deep shaky breath, and he knew she could sense his desperation to help her. She seemed to consider him for a moment, or perhaps she was steeling herself, but suddenly her eyes left his to look down at her knees, and he thought for a moment that he'd lost her. And then, at last, she spoke.

"The darkness," she started slowly, barely more than a whisper, her eyes trained intently on her knees, "it showed me things. Memories."

"Your childhood?" he asked softly.

She nodded quickly, just once.

"Things I'd pushed down and hidden. Things I didn't want to remember. It knew. Somehow, it knew what it had to show me to bring out the darkness inside me."

Killian knew Emma's childhood had been a far cry from ideal, much like his own. He didn't fully understand the systems in place for orphans in this realm, but he knew she had grown up without her parents, and though they had never truly discussed the details of either of their upbringings, he could tell there was much in her past that she wished to forget. It was a sentiment he was all too familiar with.

"Perhaps if you were to share these memories with someone," he offered, trying his damnedest not to sound pushy, but needing to give her the opportunity to talk.

"Killian," she whispered, her eyes falling shut again, "I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't."

He understood. Truly, he did. He had never spoken in any detail of his own years growing up to anyone, and he suspected her reasons were similar to his own; that to speak of such events serves only as a reminder of that pain. To speak of it is to relive it in a way, and some things should never be relived.

And then he remembered something. The book.

Emma fought to control the crippling fear that refused to dissipate tonight. The normal ritual of falling into Killian's comforting embrace had been broken, and she was stuck on the brink of revealing herself. She felt his persistent gaze burning into the side of her head as she forced her eyes shut tight, forehead falling against her knees.

She wanted to open up to him. She wanted to tell him every fear and every painful memory that haunted her each and every night, but she couldn't; the words would not come. There was just a sickening lump that rose in her throat and strangled her into silence, and a burning terror that accompanied the notion of allowing herself to become so vulnerable. She trusted this man with her life, her heart, everything. But some habits were hard to break.

Then suddenly, the warmth of his arm across her back and the hand curled into her waist was gone. Her eyes flashed open, head turning to follow him as he clambered from the bed. She watched him with curiosity as he crossed the room, eyes trained on the familiar, faint scarring across his back, which she had never asked about. He reached across to the bookshelves above his desk, pulling down some kind of notebook and depositing it tightly between the underside of his left bicep and his ribcage, before reaching down to tug open a drawer and pull out a second, more tattered book, using his knuckles to slide the drawer shut with a practised elegance.

She lowered her knees and pushed herself back to lean against the headboard as he climbed back onto the bed beside her, the two books coming to rest in his lap. She reached up to wipe the remaining wetness from her cheeks, and watched as he appeared to steel himself. His hand gripped the side of the books tightly as he stared at them intently, and Emma noticed a slight tremble in his fingers that hadn't been present moments before.

She reached over to rest her hand atop of his, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers, as if woken suddenly from some distant thought. A slight blush crept to his cheeks as he threw her an awkward half-smile, before he cleared his throat and looked back down at the books.

"After my brother, Liam, died," Killian began, his words slow and deliberate, "I was angry, for a long, long time. But I was also scared. He was all I had in the world, and I owed him my life, for reasons I shan't go into."

He appeared to drift away with that thought slightly, brought back only by Emma's comforting squeeze on his fingers.

"I had many a nightmare after that," he continued, "Memories of things I had hoped to forget. They never really stopped. That is, until Milah suggested I write it all down."

Emma's eyes fell to the book at the top of the small pile. It was a plain, if slightly faded, black cover, with an embossed gold border that swirled intricately in a wave-like pattern, running just inside the four edges. The book looked old, slightly tattered and worn, but did not appear to have been opened and read many times.

"What did you write?" Emma asked curiously.

"My life. My childhood," he answered, eyes coming up to meet hers pointedly, "Everything I remember from my youth, all the memories that plagued me every night. It's all in here."

His fingers slipped from under hers and trailed reverently across the cover, following the golden waves, as her hand came to rest upon his wrist and over the tattoo of his first love's name.

"You loved her," Emma said softly, trying to keep the slight edge of jealousy from her tone, "Milah."

"Aye, I did," he nodded, "but I was a different man, then."

His eyes gazed into hers, and the love she saw there, raw and unbridled and just for her, chased that pang of jealousy away, and she found herself smiling ever so slightly.

"Did it work?" she asked, breaking the spell their eyes had cast upon them, "writing it down?"

"Aye, somewhat," he gulped, returning her timid smile.

His eyes fell back to the books once again, and suddenly he was sliding the second one out from beneath the black one. This one was plain, dark red, and crisp, seemingly untouched. He lifted the cover and the first few pages to reveal the blank, lined pages.

"You want me to write my story," she stated, her tone becoming instantly more sombre.

"I understand how hard it is to talk of such things," Killian began deliberately, clearly searching for the right words, "but I also know how vastly the weight can be taken from your shoulders by acknowledging, and coming to accept the past. I don't suppose to assume that what worked for me will also work for you. But if in some way I can help take away your pain…"

She could tell he was floundering slightly, tiptoeing so carefully so as not to upset her, or drive her away. And she couldn't blame him; given her track record, it wasn't so crazy for him to assume such a thing was likely. Despite all his bravado and self-assuredness, he was still so vulnerable around her, so careful with his words. She would need to work hard to show him that she was with him now, unconditionally. No more running.

"OK," she answered simply, cutting him off from his awkward explanation.

He blinked at her, surprised at her quick response.

"OK?" he repeated questioningly.

"OK," she affirmed, swallowing thickly, "I'll try it. If you think it'll help, I trust you. I'll try."

She couldn't help the slight smile that spread across her mouth as his face visibly lit up. He carefully handed her the red-covered book, and she took it from him confidently, testing the weight of it in her hands.

"Tomorrow," she finished, pulling the black book from his lap, and leaning over to place both books on the floor.

"Tomorrow," he echoed as he joined her in scooting back down the bed.

She straightened the pillows just as his head came to rest, and after leaning over to place a soft, slow kiss on his lips, she reinstated their normal ritual, curling herself into his chest and wrapping one of her legs over and around one of his. She felt him press a kiss to her forehead, leaving his lips resting against her hairline, his right hand rubbing soothing circles on her back and his left wrist covering the hand she had placed firmly over his heart. The exhaustion of many sleepless nights hit her like a freight train, and within minutes she felt herself drifting, calmed by the strong, unwavering warmth beneath her cheek, and a glimmer of hope that soon she would be able to move forward. Tomorrow, she would face those fears head on, arm herself with a pen, and trust Killian's judgement that, come morning light, she may just be able to find a way out of this seemingly unending abyss.