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This is supposed to be the part with the happy ending. After the desperation and emotion of the final act, the epilogue of the story. The part where everything is quiet, where she can finally rest.

Where the sloppy, desperate kisses from before finally have the time to become something more. Where she gets to hold him, where she allows herself to be held.

This is supposed to be the part with the happy ending.

But as she stands facing him, her fists clenched and anger burning through her skin; as he looks at her with frustration etched into his face, his own fist clenched so tight that his knuckles turn white.

She wonders if she should have known better.

It begins like this.

There is a chill in his bones.

A strange sort of stiffness in his soul, leftover perhaps, from when his heart had been wrenched away from his chest. Every minute without it had felt hollow, lesser somehow. Every feeling muted, every touch dull, every colour dim and he had hungered for it. To feel his heart beating a song into his ribs when Emma Swan kissed him, to feel his blood burn when the Crocodile threatened to hurt her, hurt this town that despite everything had become his home.

But, as soon as her hands had cradled it, he had felt warmth flood his body. It was as though his heart had known that it was safe with her.

And when she had pushed (rather forcefully) it back into him, it had been like feeling everything all at once. It had pulled at him like a riptide, drowning him and he had gone willingly. He'd kissed her desperately, hand roaming, mouth reaching for her lips again and again. He had tried his best to make up for all those days where every kiss and touch had been false and wrong. But then she had left, called upon by her duties, called upon by the other people in her life.

And when she had, the feeling had gone away, leaving only exhaustion and emptiness in its wake, his body sagging with the weight of it. The wall had suddenly begun looking like the perfect thing to lean against and fall asleep. He had shaken himself and gone upstairs to his room to make an attempt at rest. But his mind would not let him, wandering in a million directions at once, his heart pushing him to feel every feeling that he had missed. But no matter where it strayed, every thought ended with her.

And that no matter how much he wishes that she could stay with him, that he could keep her for himself, even for one night, he would never begrudge her wanting to find her family. He knows better than anyone how it feels to have nobody-

His heart stings with bitterness and it takes him by surprise. It's been a while since he's felt it. It had been an ever present reminder when he was a child. A reminder of the fact that he had no one to ruffle his hair, nobody to sing him to sleep, no one who would envelope him in the warmth of a hug. He had no one. The sour taste of it had become a steady friend of his over the years but never once, for as long as he had known her had he felt it in regards to her.

He assumes it has something to do with his recent ordeal and ignores it, eventually falling into a fitful sleep, his dreams fast and disturbing, filled with screams and whispers of love in equal measure, fighting each other for dominion.

Later, this is the moment that he comes back to again and again.

The moment he should have known that something was terribly wrong.

It's been a week and she knows that this is how their— whatever they have works. They give each other space and wait for the other to open up at their own pace.

This is how it works.

But, it's been a week and they haven't talked about it. They haven't talked about the fact that he had almost died, that he had lived for days without his heart. They haven't talked about the fact that she hadn't known. They haven't talked about how he had lost it to begin with.

They haven't talked.

It's not as though they've been distant, far from it. They still reach for one another instinctively, seeking out each other's eyes in every room. He still kisses her and smiles at her, the same as always. The language of touch had always come easier to her and she'd let it slide. She had been lost in the comfort of finally having time to breathe, finally feeling safe and loved.

But, the fact that she hadn't seen it before still irks her. It is a needling in her chest, a chafing in her throat. She thinks back now and it seems so obvious that something had been wrong, so clear that he was hurting, that he was empty. His eyes hadn't sparkled with mischief, his smiles so strained.

She feels guilt and shame and anger. A tumultuous cocktail of emotions that causes an ache in her, a churning in her stomach. She has been trying to clamp down on it, to tell herself that everything is alright, that he is alright but it hasn't worked very well. She still finds herself waking up in the middle of the night, hot and sweaty, her mouth open on the verge of a scream. She sees him pale and still on the floor, the remains of his heart floating towards her on a breeze.

She remembers the day at the diner when he had seemed off, when he had shrugged off her concern, when he had gripped her hand in a death grip. She should have known then. A thousand excuses flood her mind and despite the fact that most of them make sense, it doesn't help ease her guilt.

He had been suffering and she hadn't known.

But, this time she has noticed. They're small changes, not as drastic as before but she's seen them. His hand is not as quick to reach for her lower back as they walk together. His kisses goodbye are hesitant somehow and sometimes it is as though he isn't even there.

He isn't okay and they aren't talking about it.

And that's the thought that spurs her into action. She rises from her spot at her desk and begins to march towards his room at Granny's.

This ends today.

He lets out a deep moan as he sinks into the water, praising the gods of this world for whatever magic it is that lets them have hot water with such ease. His muscles begin to relax and he sighs in relief.

The day had been hard, as were most days recently. His body is healthy but his soul feels bruised. A niggling pain ever present in the general area of his chest, not allowing him to forget that his heart had been misplaced for a time.

His emotions are like chaos itself, like his heart has forgotten what it is like to feel. It makes mistakes. A rush of residual pain when he catches sunlight glinting off his hook, a spark of jealousy when he sees Emma with her son (whether he is jealous of her or him, he cannot tell). It is disconcerting and overwhelming when strange misplaced, mistimed, often forgotten emotions resurface almost at random.

But, sometimes, there is nothing. He feels blank and free and it is worse than when his heart had been taken. At least then, there had been some sort of muted emotion but now, there is nothing. He finds that he drifts off in the middle of conversations, his eyes glazing over. He has to remind himself, shake himself into reacting appropriately.

There had been a moment earlier today when he had been speaking to Henry. The boy had been trying to teach him something or other about his strange new home and before, he would have felt the curling warmth of Henry's concern, the joy curling at the edges of his smile as he excitedly taught him something new. But today, he doesn't know where it had come from but just like that, the boy had begun to look like his father. The same deep brown eyes, the same wide smile.

And his heart had pounded in his chest, feeling the loss and the betrayal all over again. He had excused himself as gracefully as he could and left a confused Henry in his wake.

There was also the other day when he had forgotten to speak to Emma the entire walk from her home to Granny's, his hand lax at his side, his hook tucked neatly behind his back. Ordinarily, he would have cherished this moment of peace, taken the time to know her like he has wanted to ever since he had met her. Ordinarily, he would jumped upon the chance for some time alone with her. But that day, all he had done was nod and occasionally hum in response to her attempts at conversation.

He stares at the water, the small ripples forming around his chest as he breathes. Evidence of the fact that he is here, that he is alive. He grabs hold of the feeling, breathes in the truth of it.

It is becoming harder and harder to believe that he is not a ghost.

Her agitation only grows as she gets closer to him and soon enough all her feelings of inadequacy, of helplessness, turn into rage. She feels the fire of her anger, lets it blaze within her so that by the time she reaches his door, her magic is sparking at her fingertips. She knocks, her voice rising as she calls out to him.

"Killian! Open the door!"

He doesn't answer even after she has shouted his name multiple times but she knows he's in. It's the middle of the night, where else would he be? Images of him hurt and bloody invade her mind. She shoves them away and tells herself again and again that he is here, he is safe.

And then she does the only logical thing she can think of, she breaks in.

He raises his head above the water, sucking in a deep breath as he does so. Sound rushes into his ears, birds squawking, a car passing by and muffled footsteps? He is just about to get out of the bath to see who it is when his door bursts open.

"Emma?"

His mouth opens in surprise and her name is the only thing that slips out. He would have said a dozen things then, but every quip and innuendo gets stuck in his throat when he sees the look on her face. It is fire and it is ice.

She is furious and it is breathtaking.

(It takes a minute for him to register that her anger is directed at him.)

He's in the bath. Here is she is working about him being mauled by some new villain from a fairy tale and he's lounging in a bath. She stalks over to the edge of the tub and takes in his shocked face, giving only a fleeting look to the rest of him.

(That could wait.)

(Even though she feels a quick flash of heat between her legs, she squashes it brutally. Not now.)

"Why won't you talk to me?"

He seems to recover himself, his hand drifting behind his ear as it does when he's embarrassed. But still, something is wrong, his movement is tentative, jerky, like has to force himself to go through the motions.

"Darling, would you rather we finish this conversation when I'm not quite so," a pause, "underdressed?"

"No. We're doing this now. Here."

She isn't sure where the stubbornness comes from. All she knows is that it's been too long and they need to talk about it now. She can't wait anymore.

"Emma—"

She huffs out a breath and unzips her boots, takes off her socks. Her movements are broken, agitated. She takes a seat opposite him in the tub, her feet dropping into the cooling water.

"Killian, your heart got taken from your chest."

He stiffens instantly, his hand clutching tightly at the edge of the tub where it rests.

"Yes, and you put it back. Everything is fine now."

He smiles then and it makes her fingers clench, her throat tight. This isn't him. Why is he so hollow?

"It's not. You don't think I see it? Killian, please tell me what's wrong?"

Her voice sounds exactly how she feels, shaky and unsure. She hasn't let herself feel this way around anyone in a long, long time. But he is different. He makes her feel like her vulnerability isn't a weakness.

So, she lets him see her.

As soon as the words fall from her lips, he feels his heart revolt. The words slip past his mouth seemingly without his consent and he knows that they will hurt her. But, at that moment, it doesn't seem to matter.

"Nothing is wrong. Perhaps if you had noticed earlier, you wouldn't have to barge in here like this to ease your conscience."

He feels the anger at the tip of his tongue as he bites out the words. He can taste the bitterness of it. He sees her face fall, her eyes dim at his barb.

She doesn't deserve this.

Regret and despair quickly follow his rushed reaction. He wants to thump his chest and shout at his heart to work correctly. This is not what he feels, this not what he had ever wanted to say to her. Her, of all people. The woman who had pulled him out from under the shadow of hundreds of years of darkness, the one who had seen past the pirate and the scoundrel. The one who had made him feel human again.

She speaks again after a moment, her voice low, more controlled than before. He can almost see her walls raising back up.

"How could I know if you wouldn't tell me?"

And just like that the anger is back. He knows at the back of his mind that this is not what he wants. This is happening because something is broken inside him but, the words come out anyway.

"You don't think I tried? You were too preoccupied with your friends to notice."

He spits out the words and rushes to stand, water splashing out onto the floor.

He refuses to believe that he could ever feel such resentment towards her. He tries to control himself, tries to get his heart in control but, the fact that this might all be real crosses his mind in a instant of doubt and he begins to feel his nakedness acutely. Her eyes remain on his face but he can't continue this discussion like this.

He leaves the room, trying to ignore the way that her eyes have now begun to shine with unshed tears.

It feels like somebody's hit her in the stomach. She feels the breath leave her body in a gasp at the venom in his voice. The bitterness and anger usually reserved for people who wanted to hurt them was now suddenly directed at her. She has never seen him this way before, only heard the soft voice and the gentle words. Murmurs in the darkness and feather light caresses to her skin, igniting a thousand little flames wherever they touched.

Even though her heart is screaming at her to run and a little voice in her head is whispering that he's right, that it was all her fault; she knows now, more than ever, that something is wrong with him.

She takes a few deep breaths and tries to calm her rapidly beating heart. Then, she follows him out.

He's dressing quickly, his pants and shirt already on when she gets to him. He pulls on his jacket and then turns around to face her. His movements are an antithesis to before. He stands hunched and exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes suddenly more prominent in the low light of the room.

"I apologize. That was unfair of me," he mumbles as he continues to refuse meeting her eyes.

"I— Killian, I'm sorry. You're right. I should have known," she murmurs her own confession.

His demeanour changes again, his fist clenching tight, his knuckles white with the strain. She looks up to meet his eyes and there is madness in them as he looks at her.

"I did it for you. All of this, this pain, this heartache was for you, Emma," he is slow, deliberate as he speaks, as though holding himself back from shouting, "and you didn't even notice, didn't see. Just like always."

The churning in her stomach intensifies. She opens her mouth to say something but her mind is blank, unprepared to respond to the accusation, the hurt in his voice, the resentment.

"You'd made it quite clear how you felt about my shortcomings, how you felt about the hook. So I tried to be better for you. I tried to get my hand back, I tried to be enough for— " he breaks off, his voice ringing with so much self-loathing, her heart squeezes in her chest. Even though she feels like he is slowly breaking her apart, piece by piece.

"That isn't fair and you know it," her voice sounds more composed than she is, "I never asked you do any of those things."

She gets through the sentence without her voice breaking once but the effect is ruined when she takes a breath that is half a sob. If it had been anyone else, she would have been livid. Burning up in her anger, she would have let them have it, told them that she was not responsible for their actions. That they had no right to put the consequences on her shoulders.

She would have taken the first chance to run away.

But today, she doesn't. She doesn't because she knows that something has happened to him, that something is hurting him. Despite the fact that she has known him for but a half year, she knows him. She knows him as well as she knows herself. They don't talk about it much because well, she not really one for talking. He's always been open with his emotions, carrying his heart on his sleeve, ready to hand it over to her whenever she asked. She, on the other hand, has always been more inclined to show him how she feels but now she wonders if that had been her first mistake.

She hasn't expressed to him how much he means to her, that her blood sings when he is near, that he makes her feel safe, that she has never let herself fall like this before, that she doesn't know what she would do if something happened to him. She hasn't told him that when she had seen Rumplestiltskin holding Killian's heart, she had been ready to burn him down to get it back. She hasn't told him that his hand in hers grounds her, makes her feel alive. She hasn't told him that his touch sets her skin afire but also makes her feel like she is wrapped in the softest blankets.

She wants to tell him, she wants him to know but the words are stuck in her throat, broken clunky phrases that would never be enough.

She's been staring at him so intensely that she is startled when he speaks next.

"But, I did them Emma and I will do them again and again and again. Because I love you," her breath hitches in her throat, his eyes are fixed on hers, shining with tears as he continues, "I only wish you felt the same way."

She reaches for him, unable to bear the distance between them anymore. It takes two steps for her to stand in front of him and then her arms are around him, her head buried in his chest. He stiffens, but soon enough his arms close around her, crushing her with the force of his hug.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she mumbles apologies into his chest, her fingers holding fistfuls of his jacket.

She feels his head shake in denial where it rests at the crook of her neck, his lips brushing against her shoulder.

"It's not your fault. It's not— It's me. I don't know what it is. My heart feels wrong— I never wanted to hurt you."

He says it all in a rush and she barely hears it as they sway in place, holding each other so tight that their bodies would bear the marks of their grip on one another.

She pulls away from him so she can see his face, her hand coming up to caress his cheek.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. We'll figure it out. Together."

Her voice is to his heart, the way her fingers feel on his skin. Gentle, soothing. It calms the storm inside him. But, as soon as there is calm, he begins to lose control. He wants to cry, he wants to apologise, he wants to stop hurting.

He wants.

He bites his lower lip, so hard that it begins to draw blood, trying to hold in a sob but it doesn't work, the tears escaping his eyes anyway. She holds him as he falls to his knees and cries, and it's like he's finally letting go of all the emotional upheaval of the last few weeks, letting himself feel the pain of losing his heart, the pain of getting it back. All the times when he had restrained himself. It all comes out all at once.

And she holds him through it all.

Later she is wrapped around him, under the covers, her hand resting on his heart, her even breath on his neck as she sleeps. He whispers his love into her skin again, into her neck, her shoulder, the sharp edge of her collar bone. He whispers it just so he can hear himself say it, so he can hold on to the one truth in his life.

(He doesn't know that she has heard every word.)

(He doesn't know that she feels the same for him.)

(She hasn't told him many things but when she whispers the words back, his eyes widen and his smile looks like it could make all the stars in the sky look dim in comparison.)

(It's a good start.)