"They say to have love and lost is better than never having loved at all, but that's the biggest piece of bullshit I've ever heard," is the first thing he hears, the first thing she says as her breath comes out in ragged puffs in the Maine night air.

Killian Jones stares at Emma Swan, unsure what this is all about and what is going on. He wants to ask, but he can see she's not done yet.

"And I know that, I know that first hand because if I could go back…" her voice breaks, and he feels rooted to the spot, because this is it, he can feel it, and his heart is in his throat and he thinks he should take her into his arms and comfort her, wants to, but knows that he has to wait a little more, just a little more, "and Henry, but the pain, and Killian," it's the use of his name, his actual name that snaps him out of it so he finally, painfully, drags his gaze to hers, unable to read the whirlwind of expressions, "and," she says, only to close her mouth abruptly, looking severely aggravated.

It is at this point that Killian finally decides to speak, but before the words sound, her hands close around her own neck roughly and she pulls hard, wincing, and Killian yells, "Emma!" but she ignores him in favor of placing the object she so roughly pulled into his hands. Their hands brush but she retracts them hastily, and he tries not to be disappointed by that.

It's a chain, with a little round keyring, and Killian stares at it in confusion. He knows it means something; that she's telling him something very important, but he doesn't know the context. Is he suppose to supply the keys to the ring and subsequently, into her heart? Or is this a token of remembrance before she jettisons the other way? Makes a different choice?

"What is this, love?" he asks, finally managing a word edgewise, but Emma is staring at the necklace in his hands, her fingers ghosting over the hollow of her neck where the keyring use to sit, and she looks awed, as though she's just been set free, and wow, she is beautiful.

"Neal gave this to me," is all she says at first, and he feels the sudden urge to throw the necklace over the docks and simultaneously, keep it hidden in a treasure chest, "back when… well, before he sold me out. I kept it as a reminder never to trust anyone ever again."

"Do you still feel that way?" he asks, curious, a little hopeful, but mostly sad because she'd kept this on all this while?

"No," Emma says firmly, meeting his gaze steadily.

Killian gulps, forcing himself to breathe normally. For all his bravado about winning her heart and his most valiant attempts thus far, he is, by every account, nervous as hell. And scared.

"There's Henry now, and Mar-Sno-my mother, and my father, and then there's you."

"Me?" he reaffirms, but it comes as tentative question because he wants this so much, and yet it still shocks him, because this is her choice, he understands that now. He is her choice. Thank all the gods.

"You had no reason to come back, no reason to stay, no reason to help and endanger your life or let him on your ship, but you did-"

"I had a reason," Killian says, cutting her off, taking a step forward firmly into her personal space.

Emma tilts her head up at him, a fierce look of steely resolve, like she's about to do something completely irrevocable, but Killian beats her to it, saying, "You were my reason. The only one I needed."

She grabs him by his collar, not unlike their first kiss on Neverland, and slants her lips against his, flaming the fiery heat he's always felt in her presence. He feels it, as he's sure she does – a blast, radiating outwards, warmth and rightness and love, and he opens his mouth to say something, but she just uses the opportunity to push her tongue along his and he swallows his words in favor of other more pleasant activities. Besides, they'll have all the time in the world to talk later.

After several seconds, (or minutes, or days, or 300 years, who the bloody hell is counting anyway) Emma pulls away, looking light, happy, content and says, completely needlessly, "I choose you, Killian Jones. You."

"About god damn time, Emma Swan," he replies, pulling her tighter to him against the night sea breeze, the Jolly Ranger swaying lightly beside them as the glow of the ship casts a warm shadow and this, this is it, he thinks. This.

A/N: I haven't written an actual, publish-able story since my avid Potter days, but here is this ship that has given me the fortitude and muse to write again. I have another in the works, so do look out for that if you liked this. Cheers to all you Captain Swan shippers - may the next 2 weeks (and subsequent hiatus) fill you with plenty of fics.