A/N: Everyone has been so very kind with their response to this little story. I am beyond pleased that you muffins are enjoying it. I just wanted to let you know that this is less of a story, and more a series of drabbles in the same universe, so it won't be getting the full multi-chapter treatment. It's just a fun world to play in. :) Hope you enjoy this little baby bit!

-/-

She doesn't see him again for three weeks.

When she does, he's sitting on the deck of his ship; legs crossed neatly at the ankles, his black boots shining in the setting sun. He doesn't look up from the tedious task of sharpening his blade as the heels of her boots click neatly against the aged wood, but a smile does quirk the corners of his lips and she assumes she's been forgiven.

"I thought Mary Margaret told you to retire somewhere safe."

She had received the message early in the morning – take shelter this evening. Messages sent in Mary Margaret's quick and messy scrawl typically meant that a raid or attack was being planned for later in the day, and it would be in her best interest to stay indoors. Avoid the hazards of crossfire.

Naturally, she had immediately ventured from her home.

She watches the easy movement of his hands over the blade – back and forth, back and forth – his wrist twisting lightly with each pass.

"Am I not safe aboard your ship, Captain?"

He sighs and looks up, and she's struck again with how tired he looks. It feels like just yesterday they were standing in the candlelight of that room in the tavern, the same weary lines etched around his eyes. Except now there are deep purple circles beneath as well and while he's clearly tried to comb his hair into some order of semblancy – it sticks up in the back. Riotous tufts that tell her he's been combing his fingers through it over and over, the way he does when he is particularly agitated about one thing or another.

"You should not be here, Swan."

"Relax," She lifts her skirts up around her ankles and walks to his side, sliding down against the crate he's using as a chair and making sure to tuck herself out of view. She had been diligent in her journey down to the docks, pulling her hood over her head and keeping a careful watch of the comings and goings of the British soldiers. "There were no men about when I came aboard."

"You still should not be here." He grumbles, back to turning his wrist over his blade, and she stills.

"Am I – " She swallows hard to rid the tremor from her voice, busying herself with the laces of her boot instead of looking up at him. "Am I no longer welcome aboard your vessel?"

She doesn't know what she will do if he says yes. She knows things between them are complicated – they've always been complicated – but it doesn't mean she doesn't like the easy calm that settles in her chest whenever he is close. The way she forgets about everything else – the war, the burned churches, the aching loneliness that keeps her awake at night – when he arches an eyebrow at her and makes a quip about her hair or her boots or her inability to wield a blade without nearly costing him an ear.

Her breath comes shorter the longer she waits for an answer, and she begins to wonder if she can just pitch herself off the railing – sink down to the depths and forget this conversation ever happened.

She stands on shaking legs with no small amount of effort, heart somewhere in her throat as she tries to think of something to say. She doesn't dare look at him. She doesn't want to see the pity in his eyes.

(Poor little lost girl with nowhere to go – choosing to hide out on the enemy's ship instead of going home by herself.)

"I'll just – "

"Emma." He loops his hand around her wrist before she gets two steps towards the gang plank, his palm rough and warm against her pulse point. He curses under his breath when she still doesn't meet his gaze and tugs a bit harder, not relenting until she is tucked back into her hiding space next to him.

"You are always welcome on this ship. Always." He releases her wrist and trails his fingertips over the back of her hand instead, a gentleness in his touch that was missing as he pulled the sharpening stone over his sword. Her skin tingles with the touch of it, and she remember how it felt to have his palm pressed against the small of her back, her nose brushing his jaw and her heart hammering in her chest.

She finally meets his gaze, and it seems he's remembering their shared moment as well. His eyes are the same shade of blue and he doesn't look tired as much as – alert. Just a touch of apprehensive and –

Amused. Definitely amused.

"What were you going to say? That night?"

He blinks quickly, thick eyelashes brushing the apples of his cheeks, and she can't help her grin when he blushes. "Oh, uh – " He scratches behind his ear and takes his place back on his crate, long legs stretched out in front of him. His gaze searches the horizon for a brief moment, seemingly gathering his courage, before he looks back to her from the corner of his eye.

"I was merely going to point out that I was not – " He huffs out a sharp breath through his nose and drops his shoulder. "I was not fit for sober decision making. I had quite a few glasses of rum before you arrived at the tavern."

Lie.

Part of what makes her such an invaluable asset to the cause is her ability to spot a lie from a league away. But he's still shifting back and forth uncomfortably – blush rising with every moment of tense silence – so she decides to let it go. For now.

She pulls an apple from inside her cloak, rubbing it back and forth over the well-worn material of her skirt. "You're lying to me, but that's alright." If he's surprised by her assertion, he certainly doesn't show it. He just quirks a smile and knocks his head back against the mast, bouncing the blunt side of his sword on his knee. "We all have our secrets."

His grin is wide and boyish, and she feels the echo of it on her own features.

"Aye, love. That we do."