Author's note: Kind of missed writing CS fanfics, so decided to start playing around with an idea I've had in my head for ages. Because carpe diem right?

Takes place after season 4, except without the whole Emma becoming the Dark One thing.

Chapter 1

Just twenty feet more, and then my boots are coming off, my jeans tossed onto the bed, hair up in a sloppy ponytail. Emma could already feel her terribly worn yet soft sweats against her legs, and the warmth of the blanket she was going to throw over herself, as well as the delicious, cheesy first bite of the pizza Killian had known to order early. Just twenty feet more, and it will be the beginning of my Friday evening.

She inserted her key into the lock and turned it, throwing it onto the table by the door as she slammed the door behind her. "Killian?" A simple sniff told her that the pizza had not yet arrived. "I hope you made sure to order extra cheese," Emma said as she made her way into their bedroom. "because last time they forgot and-"

Her words stopped midway through their journey out of her mouth as she paused in the doorway. "…and, and…it was a real travesty. What's going on here?"

Killian stood with his back to her, his shadow blocking the framed watercolor of the Jolly Roger in front of him, as he rifled through the dresser, examining a shirt before tossing it into the open duffel on the bed, saying nothing as he did so.

"Going somewhere?" Emma watched as he repeated his previous action three more times. When there was no response, she snapped her fingers loudly. "Hello? Earth to Killian. What are you doing?"

"Packing" Was the brusque response she received before he shoved the drawer shut and opened another, this time piling pairs of socks into his arms.

"Yeah, I kind of got that. Care to tell me why?"

Her words were unnecessary; his next silence reaffirmed her theory, causing her growling stomach to slowly quiet, the hunger being replaced with something akin to dread. "No." She choked. "No. No."

Killian slammed his sock drawer shut and zipped his duffel. "I'm sorry." His eyes met hers for the first time as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

Emma opened and closed her mouth several times, bits and pieces of various thoughts swirling about her mind before she said the word that stuck out most prominently amongst the chaos. "Why?"

That word, too, was superfluous, as she already knew.

It seemed that he was aware of this fact as well, as he simply smiled sadly before his long legs started to carry him past her, down the hallway, and towards the front door.

She remained immobile, following him on his journey out of their room (and subsequently out of her life). "Please. Don't do this."

Killian shot her a look of commiseration. "I'm sorry." He repeated.

The door opened and closed with a click, and then he was gone.

With a sharp intake of air, her eyes flew open, meeting the white wood of the table beside her bed. Took in the watercolor of the Jolly Roger that she'd hung up above the dresser, and she squinted against the glare of the sun coming off the painting. The same painting, only this time shadowed by a head of dark hair, flashed before her eyes, and she suddenly became aware of the muscled arm that was flung over her middle in an embrace.

A dream. She thought as something akin to relief flowed through her, strong and sweet. It hadn't been real.

But it hadn't been just a dream either-more like the dream.

"Mmm." A low voice rumbled into her ear, a nose nuzzling against her hair.

Emma turned around to face him, wonder washing over her as it did every time she laid eyes upon the pirate. Her pirate. Even moments after waking, with sleep crusted eyes and wrinkles from the pillow, he still managed to look too gorgeous for words (although she would never admit that allowed, not even under duress). "Morning."

"Morning, Swan." He responded, smiling lazily. "What're you doing awake at this hour?"

She shrugged. "Just woke up early."

"Well, then. I suppose we shouldn't waste any time. Bad form and all."

"Yes, I suppose so." What was I so worried about? Emma thought as he leaned forward to kiss her, their bodies melting together perfectly.

A loud buzzing on the nightstand caused him to open his eyes and groan loudly. "Not that bloody contraption again."

"Do you have to get that?"

He pulled away and sighed. "Aye, you know just as well as I do that if I don't, your father will come storming in here like an ogre."

"Or maybe you just want to talk to him." Emma teased, rolling her eyes as she flopped back onto her pillow, listening to the way his accented voice spoke into the phone, transforming the simplest of words into music.

He hung up the phone minutes later. "Dave wants me over at their place."

"Now?" She glanced at the clock. "It's only 7."

"Your point?"

"It's 7." Emma repeated. "Practically the ass crack of dawn."

"Not for everyone else. 7 is a perfectly acceptable hour."

"What does he even want?"

"Something to do with tuxes…oh, I don't bloody know." Killian responded as he began to make his way to the door. "I'll bet your mother had something to do about his early morning call."

Almost as if someone had turned a knob to dramatically shift the light in the room, a hard, sour knot appeared in the pit of her stomach at the mention of tuxes.

Killian paused, his hand on the doorknob, an eyebrow raised. "But don't worry. I'll hurry back, and we can finish-"

But her desire had all but disappeared."Maybe." Emma said absently. She listened for the telltale squeak and groan of the pipes that signaled the shower turning on before swinging her legs out of bed and crossing the room to where his jacket was flung over a chair.

Just as it had been there yesterday, the day before that, and so on, the folded napkin remained in the inner pocket of Killian's jacket, almost as if waiting for Emma to find. The now very familiar napkin unfurled itself in her hand as she laid it out on the unmade bed.

4/12

4/19

4/26

5/3

And it went on like this, stopping on 5/16, the day after tomorrow and the only day that deviated from the pattern.

Her wedding day.

Below the list of dates was simply the initials A.W., followed by a phone number.

Who "A.W." was, she had no idea. She'd been tempted to call this mysterious A.W. many, many times, going as far as to push talk before hanging up the phone. She would not become that person, the jealous and obsessive archetypal girlfriend. She wanted, no she needed to know, oh she did. She wanted also to trust him, believe in someone she'd grown so comfortable with, finally letting go. He'd been that person for her for so long she was surely reading too much into this.

But the evidence suggested otherwise.

The first couple times, three days after she'd found the napkin, had seemed like a coincidence. Twice did not a pattern make. Three certainly did, however. On the third week, 4/26, she'd very nearly asked him what in the bloody hell (as he would've put it) he did every Sunday afternoon.

"Oh, I went for a drink with your father and Robin." He'd said, when she knew very well that Robin and Regina had taken Roland to feed the ducks. They'd extended the invitation to Henry, who'd declined in favor of spending time with his friend ("just a friend, Mom") Grace.

Another time, he'd regaled her with tales of helping Leroy fix his ship. But she'd walked by the docks that day, and they'd been nowhere in sight.

Did he really think she wouldn't find out? He didn't seem to know that she knew, though. Or maybe he did, and just didn't care because….well, it was a thought she did not prefer to dwell on.

He was hiding something (again), that much was certain. But did she want to know what it was, allowing how far she'd come to just disappear?

Author's note: Well, well, well. What's Killian hiding?

What did y'all think? Comments, anyone?