A/N: Well, hey. Since this is my last note to you all, it's gonna be a long one. Indulge me, would you?

THANK YOU SO MUCH! Thank you for reading, and recommending, and favouriting this story. Thank you for writing to me, and encouraging me, and telling me how I've ruined your productivity and sleeping patterns, and being so rad. Thank you for sharing my enthusiasm for these characters.

And a special thanks to Anni, my self-appointed sidekick, who has been an unswerving ally from the very first, bulldozing my doubts with a well-timed "Tschacka!", talking me through plot decisions, and writing ridiculously upbeat "criticism" to keep me motivated. You're simply amazeballs.

I've got a few shorter canon and AU Captain Swan stories in the works right now, before I decide on my next big thing. If any of that interests you, you should follow me, maybe.

As for this here epilogue thing, you all pretty much implied you would rise up as one and end me if you didn't get to see what went down at the wedding. And to that I say: "As you wish."

"C'mon, Swan," Killian's impatience was muffled through the door. "Give us a look."

Emma let out a shaky breath, clenching her hands at her sides. The carefully made up Emma who stared back at her in the bathroom mirror did the same. She just needed a minute. Just a minute.

It wasn't Killian's reaction she was worried about. She was wearing the yellow dress. She'd gotten the wings of her eyeliner just about even. Her hair had been loosely curled, golden tresses cascading down her back. She looked good. As good as she was gonna get. He should be so lucky.

That wasn't what had kept her stuck in this bathroom past her allotted time, carefully manicured nails digging into her palms, an odd tightening in her chest.

"You certainly know how to keep a man in suspense, darling!" Killian called from out in the hallway. "And I'm sure I'll be very appreciative of your efforts, but the wedding starts in ten minutes. So do you think you could maybe hurry things along?"

And there it was. The real reason for Emma's delay. The wedding.

Ever since the three of them had rolled into the quaint hamlet of Storybrooke, Maine the previous afternoon in Killian's Charger, it had been an endless flurry of last minute wedding preparations. Talking Henry through his best man responsibilities. Making sure his tiny tux fit properly. Helping to fold a million napkins into the shape of sailboats. Keeping Tamara from killing her younger sisters every time they found something new to dislike about their matching bridesmaid dresses. Keeping Tamara's ancient Aunt Dottie's wandering hands away from Killian's ass.

With all of her attention diverted elsewhere, Emma hadn't had all that much time to think about where all this crazy was eventually leading.

Neal. Tamara. Man and wife.

Not until she'd finally found herself sequestered in the tiny ensuite bathroom in Storybrooke's only bed and breakfast, had it really registered. She'd meant it when she'd said she didn't want Neal back. She didn't. But it hadn't stopped an invisible hand from reaching into her chest, and squeezing until it hurt. It hadn't stopped the familiar rush of rejection, the internal chant of Never you, Never you bouncing around the inside of her brain.

"Emma?"

His evident concern was enough to startle her out of her own thoughts. The concern of a man who'd willingly subjected himself to a five hour car trip the previous day, even if he'd spent most of that time unconscious, lulled to sleep by the dulcet tones of Jim Dale's narration from Henry's book on tape. A man who'd laid on the charm from the moment they emerged from the car, his hair still mussed, accent thick from sleep, shaking hands and remembering names, agreeing to help with even the most menial of tasks. A man who'd laughed off an encounter with a handsy pensioner, and taken Neal's unsolicited comments in stride.

All because Emma had asked him to.

She was being ridiculous.

With one last glance at her reflection, Emma threw open the bathroom door, stepping back into the room they were to share for the weekend. Killian was pacing the three feet of spare floorspace restlessly, when his head shot up at the sound of the bathroom door slamming against the wall, and his mouth fell open.

Emma had already seen him resplendent in all his wedding finery, the exorbitantly expensive suit jacket merely the giftwrapping for a rather attractive package, but that didn't stop her pausing to admire it again, letting her eyes wander. His beard had been trimmed, his hair teased into something sinful and dangerous, his blue eyes seeking out hers, even as he stepped forward to take her hands in his, mouth still hanging open in a way that appealed to Emma's inner vanity.

She offered him a small smirk as their hands entwined, and he blinked, getting himself together.

"You look stunning, Swan." His words were quiet, and he imbued them with as much depth of feeling as he could muster. Which was no small amount, considering how Emma stumbled over her next words, as she tried to return the sentiment.

"I know," he smiled, letting some of his signature smirk creep back.

Annoyed at already losing the upper hand in their exchange, Emma motioned to the door leading out into the corridor. "Shall we?" she asked.

He linked his arm with hers, drawing her to his side, his other hand coming to rest on her arm. "We shall."

The service took place in the Storybrooke's only church, the same one Tamara's parents had been married in thirty five years earlier. It was postcard perfect, the white clapboard church just off the main square, grey steeple reaching to the sky, the maple tree outside a brilliant autumn red, the occasionally leaf tangling into the hair of unsuspecting guests as they waited to be ushered inside.

Whereas Emma would have been content with an unassuming place in the back, Tamara's parents had insisted Emma and Killian join them in the front pew, with the rest of the immediate family. Family. Emma had expected reticence from these people. Suspicion, even. She was the unmarried ex-girlfriend of the groom, after all. Mother to his illegitimate son. A convicted felon, with an unusual job that usually didn't go down so well with the PTA. She'd screeched into town in a muscle car, a leather-clad Irishman in tow. What she hadn't expected, was warmth, and kindness. And yet, they'd been the consummate hosts.

With Tamara the oldest of her two sisters, and no grandchildren yet in sight, her parents had latched onto Henry in a big way. Fussing over his outfit. Making sure he ate enough. Asking about his favorite subjects in school. And having no grandparents of his own, he'd been content to lap up the attention, even taking up their offer to sleep in the spare room in their attic, rather than on the cot set up for him in their room at the B&B. Killian, especially, had appreciated that.

It was everything Emma had ever wished for Henry, to see him surrounded by people who doted on him, who saw what she saw in him. So sweet, and smart, and occasionally cheeky. A rather large part of her was still tempted to snatch him back from their grasp, and keep him all to herself. Like it used to be. But she resisted this urge, content to squeeze Killian's arm in delight through her tears when his big moment came, presenting Neal with the rings with slightly shaking hands, flashing Emma a proud smile when it was over.

And then came the vows, and Killian nudged Emma's foot with his own, a discreet glance checking if she was okay. They'd written their own, infused with humor and references to the life they had already cobbled together over four years. Emma hadn't had many opportunities to see the two of them work as a unit. Not really. She mainly dealt with Neal, and only when she had to for Henry's sake. But she couldn't deny that they seemed to work. Not every relationship would survive a surprise son springing up out of the woodwork, after all. Theirs had. Had probably weathered greater storms than that, even. They deserved to be happy.

Emma answered Killian's query with a serene smile, placing her head on his shoulder as she watched the bride and groom share their first kiss as a married couple. She joined the laughter when Henry made a face when they went back for a second kiss. And when the couple and the bridal party made their way past on the way back down the aisle, in a flurry of taffeta, she caught Neal's small nod, and offered one in return.

Three whisky neats later, her chin resting on Killian's shoulder as they spun in a lazy circle to a Rod Stewart hit, Emma could feel herself coming around to the idea of weddings. Though maybe that was the alcohol. And the company.

There were only a few couples left on the dancefloor, the hour being late, and most of the remaining guests well into their cups. Emma kicked a stray golden balloon across the dancefloor with her sandals, searching for her son in the dark. He was right where she left him, fast asleep, his tiny body laid across three chairs, bundled in his father's tuxedo jacket.

Neal and Tamara had made their excuses an hour earlier, changed back in their street clothes, their nearest and dearest pelting them with rice on their exit, Killian's aim seeming suspiciously accurate. They were off to the airport, eager for their honeymoon to begin. A warm Floridian vacation in sharp contrast to the freezing rain which had begun bucketing down halfway through the speeches, drowning out Tamara's sister in the middle of a particularly embarrassing teenage anecdote, to the relief of many.

They'd left the DJ spinning, and the bar tab open, and Emma was loathe to let either go to waste.

"Thank you," Emma murmured into Killian's neck.

"Hmmm?"

He pulled back a little to see her face, his eyes glassy, no more sober than Emma. "Thank you," she repeated. "For everything."

"For everything?" He rose one eyebrow.

She shrugged, returning to her position nestled into the crook of his neck. "For everything."

He didn't say anything for a minute or two, as if considering this, content to merely sway to the music.

"It was a pleasure, Swan," he said at last, placing a kiss to her temple.

Suddenly the music changed, a jaunty piano intro and Smokey Robinson's voice filled the room.

"Motown?" he grinned down at her, as Emma let her shoulders roll with the familiar beat.

"Always," she replied, the smile stretching across her face, letting him lead her into a spin.

"Careful, Swan," he warned, when she was facing him again. "No dancing on tables. We all know how well that works out for the table in question."

She trod on his foot in warning, but he merely drew her closer to him, steering them to a less crowded corner of the dancefloor.

"It's been a week and we haven't screwed this up yet," she murmured, a tone of surprise creeping in.

"Nor do I intend to." His gaze was level. "Not for a long time. Maybe never."

Emma froze, his hold on her loosening.

"Never?" It came out as much more of a squeak than she would have liked.

He swayed to a stop in front of her. "Are you saying you're opposed to a happy ending with me, Swan?" His eyes betrayed the seriousness of his question, even if there was still a curve of a smile on his lips, his escape route in case he needed to turn it into a joke.

"After a week?" A hint of incredulity in her tone.

"It was a really good week." He waggled his eyebrows, and it was so ridiculous, Emma smiled back despite herself, even as she grasped for the right words.

"I'm just..." She tried again. "I don't like to get my hopes up."

"Correction," he held one finger out before her. "You don't like getting hurt. I'm not a huge fan of it myself. But I don't intend to cause you harm, Emma."

"I know." Whatever else, that much was obvious.

"And I'm in love with you."

Emma felt her gut constrict tightly at his words, freely given, all traces of joking fleeing his lips.

"Oh?" She was squeaking again.

"Oh yes." Not a trace of doubt in his words.

Fearless. That's what he was. In a way that Emma had never been. Wasn't sure if she ever could be.

"Too much?" He asked, cocking his head to the side, a trace of nervousness creeping into his expression.

"No," she shook her head. "Just..." And then she saw the glimmer of doubt take over, and she knew she had to act. Because despite her cowardice, she knew how she felt. And he didn't deserve anything less than the truth.

She grabbed him by the lapels of his ridiculously expensive jacket and kissed him. It was everything that Emma wasn't. Sure. Confident. Unyielding. And when they broke apart, his sideways grin was back.

"Convincing?" he asked, forehead resting on hers.

"I love you," she replied simply.

"That's what I thought," he said, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, holding out his hand for her to hold. "Another dance?"

She placed her hand in his. "Always."

THE END.