He knows there are witches and demons and dragons still to be slain, but at this precise moment in time, he can't say he cares.

He'd laid his heart bare before her and she hadn't flinched, hadn't gently demurred with polite platitudes. Instead she'd kissed him, her lips sweetly determined. He'd tasted salt, her tears a match for his own, burning his eyes until all he sees is her. His happy ending, whether at sea or on dry land, no matter in which realm they find themselves.

They stand entwined, swaying as if dancing to music only they can hear, and he decides he would be content to remain in this damp cabin for eternity. The heat generated by their kisses is still crackling between them like smouldering flames beneath kindling, but they both know this is neither the time nor the place to indulge their voluptuary senses any further.

Emma's arms are tight around his waist, her cheek warm and soft against his own, and when she finally speaks, her breath whispers lightly over his ear. "We should go."

He nods, resisting the urge to bury his face into the warm curve of her neck. "You need to check on your friend."

A tiny ripple of tension goes through her, like a stone being thrown into a still pond, and he belatedly realises she's read more into his simple observation than he intended. When she speaks, her tone balances on the razor's edge between reassurance and mild defiance. "Uh, about August. Our history is pretty complicated, but we never, I mean, I don't -"

"Swan." He leans back in her embrace, finding her eyes with his, rueing that his remark has caused her to feel as though she must defend herself. "You have the most wonderful capacity for love." Her whole face softens, and he feels her hands flex at the base of his spine. "I would never begrudge you having another person in your life who treasures you."

She licks her lips, a quick nervous darting of her tongue that has his gut clenching, then smiles, her brilliant green eyes still glittering with tears. "Are you coming back to the loft with us?"

He hesitates, thinking of the Jolly Roger and how much of the tale of his history with Ursula he still needs to impart. "Ordinarily it would be my pleasure, love, but I feel as though I should ensure that Ursula and her father obtain safe passage from this realm." He also plans to extract any information he can from the sea dwellers before they depart, but there's no need to burden Emma with that small detail at this point. "Perhaps you'd do me the honour of meeting me at the harbour when you're finished at the loft?"

Her eyebrows rise at his request, but she nods readily. "Sure, but I don't know how long I'll be."

He grins, feeling the simple joy at the truth between them bubbling up inside him like a water spout. "You should know by now that I'm a patient man, Swan."

Her lips tremble, making his own mouth tingle with the urge to kiss her once more, kiss her until she's breathless and weak-legged. "I'm learning a lot of things today," she murmurs, her eyes searching his until he feels as though she's seeing into every single dark corner of his very soul. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

She kisses him then, soft and sweet, a promise of unspoken words, and when it's over, he's the one who is as breathless and weak-legged as any landlubber. Her mouth curves in a smile as she grips the lapels of his jacket, giving him a tiny shake. "Just try to stay out of trouble until then, okay?"

The gloom that has been cloaking his thoughts like some insidious fog lifts, clearing the path for what feels very much like contentment. "I was about to say the same thing to you, darling."

Following at her heels as they leave the cabin, he takes great delight in kicking the Crocodile's wooden door so hard that the toe of his boot leaves its mark. It's a small, petty victory, but he'll take it.

Perhaps he should have waited on the docks for Emma to join him, if only to soften the shock of her first sight of the Jolly Roger, but he cannot resist the chance to savour the company of the ship he'd thought lost to him forever. He walks the deck, trailing his fingertips (and hook) over the curved lines, the subtle scent of salt-infused wood teasing his nose. He reacquaints himself with every inch, from bow to stern (he really does need to fix that wobbly plank), then finally allows himself to go below deck.

There are many possessions and trinkets in his quarters that he doesn't recognise, but that matters not. Indeed, he will take great pleasure in disposing of Blackbeard's belongings.

(That bastard's actions caused the most marvellous ship in all the realms to be shrunk and trapped in a bottle only fit for holding a domesticated bovine's milk. Perhaps he should make a pyre of said belongings before consigning them to the deep.)

Detaching his hook, he unlocks the small safe and methodically begins to transfer items from his satchel. The tiny piece of his ship's rigging had only been one souvenir he'd been careful to take with him before he'd said goodbye to the old girl. Milah's last self-portrait, now creased and tattered (caused by both the passage of time and Baelfire's anger). Liam's insignia, the word Jones now barely visible after Neverland. A small carved mermaid that had once belonged to his mother.

He smiles sadly at the last item. His mother had quietly longed for adventure, dreaming of faraway seas while tenderly caring for two rambunctious lads instead. An irresponsible husband and an early grave had seen those dreams unfulfilled, leaving her sons to take to the sea in her stead.

She would have loved the Jolly, he thinks now, trailing one fingertip down the mermaid's tail. He's quite sure she would have also loved Emma Swan.

When he hears the sound of booted heels on the deck above his head, he knows exactly to whom those impatient footsteps belong. He closes the safe and heads for the ladder, only to be met with the delicious sight of Emma's jean-clad legs and arse as she climbs down into his quarters.

"Are you freaking kidding me?" She lands awkwardly, and he sees that she's carrying a large box under her arm. "How is this possible?"

"It's quite real, if that's what you're asking." He sounds as giddy as a callow youth on his first shore leave in foreign realm, but he doesn't care. "The short answer is that my ship's return is Ursula's doing." He looks curiously at the box she's cradling against her chest, but decides she'll explain in her own time. "The long answer is, well, much longer."

She's wide-eyed as she looks around them, then her gaze locks with his. "Are you doing okay?"

He feels the same irrepressible urge to burst into laughter that he'd felt standing with Ursula that morning, watching the mists clear to reveal the achingly familiar lines of his ship. "I'm more than okay, Swan."

She shakes her head, still clutching the box as she slowly pivots to take in their surrounds. "Someone told me that your ship was moored in the harbour, but I didn't let myself believe it until I saw it with my own eyes." She turns to face him, and he realises that her eyes are red-rimmed, her smile not quite at home on her lips. Recognising the box in her arms, and his heart clenches. It's where she stores the mementoes of her past, both good and bad, and he suddenly fears that the hours they've spent apart have brought yet another unfortunate development.

"No doubt it was that irritatingly garrulous dwarf who has taken it upon himself to spread the news of my ship's return." He closes the narrow distance between them with two steps, taking the box from her arms with gentle hands and places it on the table behind him. "Are you alright, Swan?" Dipping his head, he catches her gaze with his. "You seem out of sorts. Is your friend August not recovering from his ordeal?"

She shrugs, glancing at the box on the table. "He's pretty sore after his visit with Gold and the others, but he'll be okay." She hesitates, her teeth white against the pink of her bottom lip, then looks at him with a pained expression. "It's something else."

"I'm all ears, love."

She digs the toe of her boot into a knothole in the plank beneath her feet, scowling. "Something weird's going on with my parents."

The thought occurs to him that there are many things he could say in answer to this statement, but none of them will win him any favours with his fair lady. "What do you mean?"

"They're lying to me about something," she returns in a flat, almost hard voice. "We were talking with August about the book and the author-" she breaks off, her red-rimmed eyes growing wide. "Crap. I have a long story to tell you, too."

Reaching up, he smooths his hand over the curve of her shoulder, that briefest of touches still detecting a tension shimmering beneath her skin. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers with hers, tugging her gently towards his bunk. "Why don't you come and sit down?"

She darts a quick glance at his bed, and he would swear that her cheeks grow pink. "Okay."

The air is thick with possibility (this is as private a moment as they've ever shared) as they sit side by side on the edge of his bunk, and the chaste clasp of her hand in his is more distracting than he might care to admit. "Okay, first things first, I guess. The author is trapped in the book."

He stares at her. He really should be used to nonsensical events unfolding before his very eyes, but then again, there's a limit to a man's ability to suspend disbelief. "Come again?"

She relates this latest development carefully, as though she'd memorised the details for his benefit, and he is touched by her obvious determination to include him. Apparently they'd made little headway in their deductions after this extraordinary revelation, and it's obviously not what's foremost in her thoughts. Leaning his shoulder against hers, he squeezes her hand gently. "You said that your parents are hiding something from you. Do you suspect that they know more about the author than they've admitted?"

"I don't think so. I think it's something else." She closes her eyes, eyelashes dark against her pale cheeks. "I think it's something to do with Gold's three new buddies."

"What makes you think so?"

"It's hard to explain." She rubs her free hand across her forehead, as if wishing to massage away the frown that has appeared there. "But August started talking about how villains usually seek out the people who wronged them the most, and the looks on my parents' faces were just-" She takes a deep breath, as if to steady herself. "Let's just say they're not very good at lying." Opening her eyes, she looks at him, tears brimming once more. "I've always thought of them as heroes. What if I've been wrong all this time?"

Later, he will think that he's never chosen his words more carefully.

"Good people can do bad things, love, just as bad people can do good deeds."

(The irony would burn a hole in his stomach if he let it.)

She presses her lips into a tight line, as if to stave off the tears gleaming in her eyes. "But they're my parents," she tells him in a small voice that pierces his heart. "Why would they be keeping secrets from me?"

His throat tight with useless platitudes, he silently rebukes the Prince and his wife for their current approach to parenting. "Now that, I cannot say." Lifting his arm, he wraps it around her shoulders, their hands still linked, and she immediately leans into him. "If they are keeping something from you, perhaps it's because they feel it's for the best."

She rolls her eyes at that, shaking her head as it rests against his shoulder, but says nothing. Hoping to distract her from her distressing thoughts, he nods towards the box she'd brought with her. "That's your box of memories, is it not?"

"Yeah." She sniffs loudly. "I collected it from the station, thinking maybe I'd keep it in my room at the loft." Her pale throat works as she swallows hard. "David arrived at the station just as I was leaving, and I mentioned something to him that had been bothering me."

"Which is?"

"Well, we know why Ursula was seeking a happy ending," she says with care, her hand tightening around his in a reassuring gesture, and the lingering heaviness in his heart lightens. "And if my knowledge of Cruella is anything to go by, it's got something to do with her dog obsession." She frowns again, shaking her head. "I really should go see Archie, make sure Pongo's okay."

"Swan-"

"Sorry." She looks at him steadily, her chin firm, her eyes glittering. "I asked David if he could think of what happy ending Maleficent could be chasing, when the only person in Storybrooke who'd really wronged her was Regina and all it had taken was one drunken night before they were back to being good buddies."

She makes a very good point, he thinks. "And?"

Her lovely face seems to crumple. "He brushed me off. He gave me some garbled story about how Maleficent had known the Dark One back in the Enchanted Forest and who knows how a villain's mind really works. Then he said he had to head back to the loft and he pretty much ran away from me."

Damn you, David. Killian pulls her closer, savouring the soft warmth of her pressed against his side. "I'm so sorry, love."

She gestures towards the table. "I didn't want to go back to the loft, then Leroy told me that he'd seen your ship in the harbour, so I just -"

"So you thought you'd come see for yourself."

"Yeah." Ducking out from under his arm, she releases his hand and gets to her feet, walking to the table where he'd placed her belongings. One hand on the lid of the box, she turns back to him, flashing him a quick, almost shy smile. "She's beautiful."

The admiration in her voice warms him right down to his bones. "All the more so for having you aboard, Swan."

Her smile changes, becoming something closer to wicked. "You know, the last time we were in this room, there were two of you."

He's very pleased to see her smile, but that doesn't excuse the jibe at his expense, he decides. "I'll thank you not to remind me that I had to witness you kissing my oafish past self, love."

She laughs softly, and he's more relieved than he can say to see the light back in her eyes. "You were certainly a lot more forward back then."

He rises to his feet, his steps seeming to ebb and flow with the tide cradling the Jolly's hull as he forces himself to stroll rather than rush to her side. "You sound almost disappointed, love."

She hesitates, and he wonders if she regrets opening this particular can of worms, as his landlady is fond of saying. He stills, leaving a clear foot of space between them, watching the myriad of emotions flickering across her face as she fights some internal battle. "You do seem to prefer taking things a lot more slowly these days," she finally says, gesturing between them, very carefully not looking at the bunk behind them, and this time he's quite certain that she's blushing. If truth be told, he's feeling a little warm himself. "I mean, you've never even tried to-"

She breaks off, embarrassment etched on her delicate features, and (amidst the fog of desire clouding his thoughts) he decides to throw her a lifeline. "Are you asking me why I haven't taken advantage of our budding romance to throw you down onto the nearest bed and ravish you until you're incoherent with pleasure?"

Her mouth drops open, and the raw arousal gleaming in her eyes is almost his undoing. "Something like that."

Suspecting he'll hate himself afterwards, he closes the distance between them with one step, taking her hand in his and lifting to his mouth. "I was a gentleman long before I was a pirate." He presses his lips to her smooth, soft skin, and feels her hand tremble in his. "I told you once that I believed in good form, love, and I'd much rather it wasn't discord with your parents that brought you to my bed." He slides his arm around her waist, his hook resting at the small of her back, because apparently he's determined to test his resolve at every turn this evening. "More importantly, despite the many twists and turns your life has taken, Swan, you are still of noble birth, and you deserve nothing less than a proper courtship."

She gazes up at him, the corners of her lovely mouth quirking in amusement. "That is the most complicated way of saying let's not rush into anything before we're ready I think I've ever heard."

He narrows his gaze, but that only seems to amuse her further. "Is that a compliment?"

"Mostly." She sways closer, her hands curving over his hipbones, her breasts brushing against his chest. "Soon though, right?"

"Aye." He closes his eyes as the intoxicating scent and heat of her wash over him, overwhelming his senses, and tells himself that he's survived hundreds of years without having Emma Swan in his bed and he can bloody well survive a few weeks more. "Soon."

Of course, that doesn't mean they can't spend an hour or two practicing the fine art of kissing.

Making out, she calls it, but she isn't adverse to his use of the term ravish, particularly when he breathes the word against her throat, his hand palming the soft swell of her breast through her blouse.

By the end of the evening, he's tested his willpower more than he ever thought possible and learned several new words, none of which seem to make sense in this particular context, but he's an adaptable man. Next time, I'll tell you all about first base, she tells him as she tugs her sweater back into place, hiding the glorious swell of her breasts from his gaze. Amongst other things, she adds with a mischievous emphasis that has him suspecting his dreams will be especially lurid tonight.

He slips his hand beneath the bottom of that very same sweater to stroke her back, tracing the tender arch of her spine with his fingertips. He's as hard as a rock (a more impressive cockstand he can scarcely recall) and yet the prospect of postponing their inevitable dalliance until another day is strangely exhilarating. I'll be counting the days, Swan.

Before she reluctantly takes her leave for the evening (she tells him she's not going to run away from her problems with her parents, and pride swells in his chest) she picks up her box of treasures and places it carefully on the end of his bunk. "I know you're not sentimental, but-"

"I'm afraid I may have misled you on that point, love." He thinks of the mementoes in his safe, his throat tightening as he remembers the feel of Liam's insignia against his fingertips. "I have many treasured tokens of my own."

Her answering smile is a hopeful one, and it makes him feel as though the magic of flight might be possible without a Pegasus sail after all. "Do you think maybe you could put mine with them?"

The request startles him, because she's entrusting him with the tokens of her past, trusting him to keep them safe. He thinks of how she'd stared at him earlier, when the words it's you had left his lips, wide-eyed with shock, scarcely daring to believe her own ears. It appears he's not immune to the sensation himself.

He knows there are witches and demons and dragons still to be slain, but at this precise moment in time, he can't say he cares. "It would be my honour."