He sleeps long and often, once they return.

She can't bear to wake him when she leaves for work in the mornings (having finally returned after being mandated to a long break by her family - she didn't protest much when they insisted). Sometimes he stirs when she presses a gentle goodbye kiss to his bare shoulder, sliding a drowsy hand into her hair and bringing her lips to his. He will mirror her smile and wish her a good day, but he always rolls over and burrows into the covers after she leaves.

He will be bright-eyed and charming when he meets her for lunch, but his energy levels always seem to lag when the sun goes down. It is a rare thing for him to make it to the end of a movie, so much so that he's taken to watching them with his head in her lap rather than falling asleep at an awkward angle on her shoulder.

Emma can't say she minds all that much, not when she can absentmindedly run her fingers through his hair with one hand and caress his neck with the other, feeling his pulse beat warm and strong under her fingertips. Sometimes he'll give up the pretense of watching the movie altogether and lie on his back, humming contentedly as her thumb brushes across his forehead.

It would probably worry her if she didn't know how badly he needed it. Before, he was always up with the sun and she'd assumed it was the naval officer in him. She knows better now, knows that her own poor sleeping habits came from three difficult decades - and that he has ten times the weight on his soul, a bone-deep exhaustion that will take more than a few months' rest to overcome.

Sometimes she'll fall asleep on the couch with him, only to wake up the next morning to find herself curled against his side in their bed.

("You were dead to the world, darling. I quite liked carrying you.")

(Maybe she needs the rest, too.)

She hasn't seen him touch a drop of rum in ages. His flask sits empty in a drawer on their nightstand.

He hasn't sworn off alcohol completely. He'll still have a beer at Granny's, sometimes too many - she'll never forgive herself for not taking video of the time he started belting out sea shanties on their walk home from Robin's birthday party - and lately he's developed an affinity for wine, so much so that he'll even ask Regina for recommendations.

There are so many more options for him in this world and he tries them all. He prefers reds, pinot noirs and cabernets. The face he makes when he samples some of Mary Margaret's moscato is highly amusing ("Is this a drink or a dessert, love?"), but he does seem to enjoy the champagne on New Year's.

Tequila, they both quickly learn, is a bad idea. Whiskey goes down a bit better, and she thinks she's created a monster when she introduces him to single-malt scotch.

Emma only asks him about it once, when she's rooting through the drawer for a pen and finds the flask sitting there.

He hesitates, but she can feel the truth in his response. "I don't know. I just… don't seem to have a taste for it anymore."

It's enough of an answer for her. And she does love the taste of wine on his lips.

He doesn't wear his rings anymore. She doesn't know where he's stashed them away and she doesn't ask.

It's strange at first, to hold his hand and not feel the cool metal pressing against her knuckles. Emma had enjoyed the feel of them before - no one else's hand could feel like that in hers, not with the telltale jewelry branding his every touch. It's such a simple thing, but still an adjustment. There are a lot of those in their lives these days.

She finds she likes it, though. His hand feels warmer like this, and when their fingers interlace they can press even closer together without the metal and stone getting in the way. She's almost fascinated by how it feels, and she'll regularly find herself grasping his hand in both of hers without a thought, soothing caresses over his bare skin.

She knows he notices. He finally brings it up one night on the couch when she thinks he's already drifted off, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp while her other hand holds his, her thumb tracing over the knuckles where the tan lines have finally faded.

"Emma." He doesn't open his eyes, a serene smile on his face.

"Hm?"

"The only ring I'm interested in is the one on your left hand."

Her hand stills in his hair for a moment and she can't help but smile, the red stone of Liam's ring catching the light as she resumes her movements. He sighs in appreciation and gives her hand a quick squeeze.

In a few months he'll have a ring of his own to match.