"You'll look for any excuse to use that thing, won't you?"

At first, he thinks she merely sounds peevish, irritated at what she sees as his childish antics with his hook, but then he hears it, the almost undetectable note of something else.

It's curiosity, and decidedly not of the morbid variety.

Well, well, well.

After she's yet again walked away from him, he follows her through the frozen landscape, indulging himself in the study of the way this realm's trousers cling to her magnificent arse and legs, his mind cataloguing their past conversations. It's an easy feat, given that he remembers every word she's ever said to him.

He thinks of the way her lips had parted on a shocked breath when he'd first hooked his steel around her wrist, pulling her injured hand towards him after their beanstalk climb. He thinks of the way her breath had come harder and faster the instant he'd put her on her back at Lake Nostos, the piercing scrape of his hook along the length of her sword that still seems to ring in his ears at times. He thinks of challenging her with the most clichéd of taunts from a hospital bed, talking of attachments and things being in perfect working order, and how something dark had flickered in her eyes before she'd slammed the shutters down. He thinks of the blush that had touched her cheeks when he'd donned his hook upon their arrival back in Storybrooke, the way she'd let him flick the bright strands of her hair without flinching.

Smiling at her elegantly stiff back, he files away his theory for another time, a time when they will have nothing and no one to distract them. He's a patient man, but even the most patient man can grow weary of interruptions.

His kiss is cursed, his love defiled, all his sacrifices for naught.

His failure burns through him like a forest fire, but he still knows one thing.

No matter what the cost, he will keep her safe.

An evening of black magic at the behest of the Queen, and he would be lying if he said his insides weren't soured at the thought of Cora tainting this realm once more. But it's a necessary evil, if an unpleasant one, and he will do whatever is asked of him.

Mary Margaret takes his good hand in hers, her clasp surprisingly strong, and he feels Emma's gaze upon him. His hook has been a part of him for centuries, and he has long grown to accept its presence, even revelling in it, but he's never regretted sitting to the right of someone more than he does in this moment. He lets his gaze meet hers, and there's a mute appeal in her eyes has him stretching out his left arm as though in a dream. Her touch is hesitant at first, then he feels the weight of her hand on his wrist, her fingers curling around his hook brace.

It's been an age since anyone has touched him thus and, for an instant, the instinct to pull away is stronger than his desire to help. Emma's hand tightens around his wrist, pushing it down gently onto the polished tabletop, her thumb resting against the curve of his hook. The shared knowledge that he could easily pull away from her touch hums between them, and he feels the tight knot of tension in the middle of his chest loosen, if only a little. The hook is undeniably a part of him, and that is apparently acceptable in Emma Swan's eyes.

Regina's dark magic works, as he suspected it would, but there is no happy ending this night, not for Cora's second daughter. And perhaps not for himself, because Emma Swan had gripped his hooked hand as though she was afraid to let him go now that she'd finally touched him, the very fabric of his long-held dreams, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Later that night, having coaxing him into staying by her side, his torment continues, Emma's smile curving with the pleasure of teasing him as she playfully vanishes his hook right from his hand. If he had suspected earlier that she had accepted every single part of him, he now knows for certain.

She's laughing, joy shining brightly in her eyes, joy in her triumph over her own fears, and only the deadly burden of Zelena's curse keeps him from taking her right there in the dinner, her back flat against the hard tabletop, his body finally claiming hers in a hot rush of mutual capitulation, pleasuring her until a very different kind of magic engulfs them both.

Instead, all he can do is be angry - angry at himself, at the Witch, at life's cruel sense of timing - and the one person with whom he's not angry is the one he's wounding the most, and the irony twists hotly in his gut, the pain as sure as if he'd been skewered by his own damned hook.

Irony, indeed.

He confesses his burden. This time there is no Echo Cave, no witnesses. There is only the two of them alone in her home with his wretched bloody secret.

At first she's furious, telling him that he's an idiot for not telling her sooner and she'll never forgive him for making her think that he no longer cared about them. Then her face softens, giving him scant warning before she grips his coat lapels and hauls him closer. Panicked, he tries to pull away.

"Swan, don't!"

Rising up on her toes, she kisses his forehead softly, a lingering caress that sinks right down to his very bones. "We'll find a way. I promise."

Their shared moment is soon interrupted by the arrival of the Prince and his wife and the rest of their trusted soldiers, but he wears the brand of her lips like a shield the whole day.

He is still cursed, but he is no longer alone.

They're holed up in a small shack near the docks, waiting for Leroy to join them. Knowing they only have a short time before their privacy is once again disturbed, he decides to test his theory. Things are easier between them now, although the spectre of the forbidden still looms large at every turn. Still, that's not to say that they can't discuss the matter, surely?

Holding up his hook to the light, he watches the sunbeams bounce off the curve of it. "You know, Swan, when you left me shackled at the top of that beanstalk-"

From her position at the small window, she turns to glare at him, but not before he catches her eyeing the hook surreptitiously from beneath lowered eyelashes. "Seriously? You're bringing that up now?"

"I had many hours in which to meticulously plan how I was going to make you pay for your betrayal, all of them involving my cherished namesake." Her pale throat works as she swallows hard, and his tongue itches to taste soft skin there, just below the curve of her jaw. "Some ideas were bloody." Her eyes widen, and he gives her a reassuring smile as he comes to lean one shoulder against the wall beside the window. "Many were quite dramatic, I must say." Reaching out with his left arm, he captures her wrist in his hook, watching her carefully. "Most of them, though, involved conquering you in a very different manner." He gently tugs her towards him, letting his hook slide up and down the length of her forearm. "I can be quite creative with this particular attachment if the occasion calls for it."

Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, her green eyes dark in the dim light, and he feels the heat of her calling to his most carnal of urges, a bloody siren's song. "And yet you ended up locking me in a dungeon."

There's no recrimination in her tone, but he simply shrugs, knowing that this subject is perhaps a conversation for another time. "Not my finest hour, I admit." Turning back to the window, she scans the outside world carefully, then moves to stand before him, effectively trapping him against the wall. "What are you doing, Swan?"

Her hands tighten on the front of his vest. "Seizing a good moment," she shoots back in an urgent whisper, then he feels the brush of her lips on his throat, the scrape of her teeth on his skin, and a rush of heat blooms in his blood. "Why don't you show me how creative you can be, Captain?"

Mentally, he feels as though he's been winded, his body clamouring to oblige. He knows she's seeking a distraction from their woes, seeking the fun he once promised her, but he can't. They can't. "Zelena's curse-"

"Fuck Zelena, and fuck her curse, too." The coarse words falling from her lips has him instantly, painfully hard. "Just don't kiss me and we'll be fine."

He knows a challenge when he hears one.

Before she has a chance to protest, he spins them around until she's the one pinned against the wall, catching both her wrists in his right hand and raising them above her head. Her eyes lock with his, and he sees both permission and pleading swimming in their depths, and his cock aches with the need of her. He slides the curve of his hook up her thigh, watching her eyelids flutter at the sensation. "Is this what you had in mind, Swan?"

The tip of her tongue comes out to touch her bottom lip. "Maybe."

He deliberately avoids touching her where he knows she wants it most, instead trailing his hook up her belly until it reaches the curve of her breast. Her eyes fly open at the feel of him dragging down the neckline of her sweater, then a moan vibrates in her throat as he rubs the curve of his hook over the jut of her nipple, teasing it through her undergarment. "God," she mutters, shifting her weight against him, and his mouth burns with the hunger to kiss her until she is senseless with want.

"Swan." He can hardly get the words out, but he has to put a stop to this. "The dwarf will be here soon." She twines one long leg around his, an unmistakable invitation, and he can no longer resist the urge to press her back against the wall, hard, letting her feel the rigid thrust of his cock against the soft mound between her thighs, letting her feel what she's doing to him. "Emma-"

"I know. I know." Her head drops to his shoulder, her breath hot against his throat, and he's never come closer to taking a woman where she stands in his life. He releases her wrists, and her arms are instantly around his neck, pulling him closer. She's trembling in his arms, but then he's hardly rock-steady on his feet himself, his senses literally overwhelmed by the force of her. Not a single item of clothing has been removed, and he still feels as though he is being burned from the inside out.

Sighing, she bring her hands to his face, once again kissing his forehead. "Who'd have ever thought you'd turn out to be the one who showed restraint?"

"Restraint?" He knows his smile is shaky and lopsided, but he doesn't care. Their future may be clouded, but he sees her more clearly in this moment than he ever has before. "I'm not the one with the thing for manacles, love."

His bicep is still stinging from her punch when the dwarf arrives.

Afterwards, when it's all over (well, after Zelena has been vanquished at least, as he's come to share Emma's belief that things will never be over, not in Storybrooke), he watches her as she sleeps on the narrow bunk in the Captain's Quarters.

His beloved ship and the woman he loves. Two things he never truly let himself believe he would have in his life again, and yet here they both are. He feels lighter than he has in centuries, almost weightless, his feet barely touching the ground despite the gentle rocking of the Jolly.

The Saviour sleeps like a restless child, he observes with amusement, kicking off the top sheet, long legs akimbo. She's on her stomach, arms tucked under his pillow, and his gaze feasts on the sight of her lovely back and magnificent arse. They'd slept naked last night, but now in the soft morning light, he can finally admire what his hand and mouth have already explored. Sitting on the edge of his own bed, he takes the luxury of simply looking at her, the pale skin dotted by the most charming array of freckles and what he referred to as beauty spots (they're called moles, she told him with a derisive snort last night).

Stars above, last night.

It had been long overdue, admittedly, but even he had been unprepared for the ravenous blur of need and release it had become, a celebration of life and triumph over death, and this morning he feels pleasantly battered and bruised. His Swan is indeed a tough lass, as fierce in the bedchamber as she is in battle, and the memory of that first thrust inside the tender clasp of her body has him aching for her again in the space of a heartbeat. His faintly swollen lips carry the memory of kisses too numerous to count, a heady reclaiming of what had been stolen from them, and it's a discomfort he will gladly bear.

He hadn't worn his hook last night, afraid that he'd be too clumsy in his weariness and need of her, leaving himself open to the possibility of scoring her delicate skin. Now though, in the cool light of morning, his hook is as steady as a rock, and he will be taking his time.

After a few enjoyable moments, his gentle explorations finally rouse her from her sleep, her voice muffled by the pillow. "What are you doing back there?"

"Mapping out a course, Swan." He dances the tip of his hook lightly over her creamy skin, mapping out imagined constellations between the tiny dark spots scattered across her flesh, admiring the way the goosebumps rise up in its wake. "Every sailor knows that preparation is the key to a safe journey."

He hears a snort of laughter, then she rolls onto her back, giving him a glorious view of her breasts, all sumptuous curves and tight pink nipples. "What? No safe passage jokes? I'm disappointed."

He smiles down at her, aware of her gaze traveling hotly over his own bare chest and shoulders. "The day is young, love."

Reaching out, she drapes a lazy hand on his thigh, her touch warming him through his hastily donned linen trousers, the brush of her thumb tantalisingly close to his rapidly burgeoning erection. "Come back to bed."

Feeling almost incandescent with longing, he shakes his head. "First things first, Swan." He holds up his hooked hand, and watches with smug delight as her eyes widen with erotic realisation. "I believe we have some unfinished business."