Forget that he's largely given up his path of revenge in favor of taking the hero's path towards Emma's happy ending. If they ever track down the bloody Crocodile, he's going to skin the little imp alive. They're traipsing through the woods near the Toll (Troll? Bloody Hell, he's not sure what to call it now - too many realms and traditions and names) Bridge looking for Gold and whatever vengeful curse he's trying to cast now.

It's still early in the Spring, the nights still cold enough that Emma's feet often find his shins in order to warm up her frigid toes (and damn if it doesn't startle him to full wakefulness every time - followed swiftly by the world's largest, most unpiratelike, goofy grin because Swan is in bed with him; they have a home together). They've been wandering the woods for hours, following the Dark One's trail and several false ones he's been smart enough to leave behind. Killian has no idea how long they're going to stay out here, but if the cranky, stubborn look on Swan's face is any indication, they won't be making it to Granny's any time soon.

And then he hears something. Or rather, he doesn't hear anything.

The birds have stopped calling and singing. The rustling in the undergrowth from the hyper little woodland creatures that make Emma smile have ceased. It seems like even the wind is holding its breath.

Killian freezes.

He's not one for tracking through the woods, more at home interpreting the changing winds on the seas he called home for centuries than the minute differences between the trees. But even he understands that the forest should never be silent.

Not like this.

He draws his sword, the screech of metal enough to make him cringe and for Emma to finally turn. "Kil-"

He cuts her off with a wave of his hook, his every sense directed into their surroundings.

The sound of her feet shuffling closer to him echoes through the clearing, the brush of her hand on his back nearly enough to make him jump. But he's had centuries to control his responses - learned early and often with far more heavy-handed taskmasters than his love with her gentle touch. The end of a lash was a terrible consequence should he lapse in his learning.

And then he hears the breaking of branches - whatever is coming is far larger than their prey, far larger than any of the other hunters in these woods.

The muffled whuffling reaches his ears, and he tenses, caught between the need to pull Emma more fully behind him and knowing that she'd neither appreciate nor need his protection. Even if he wants nothing more than to give it.

When the creature finally breaks through the treeline, Killian has to do a double take. The animal he had imagined was much larger - this not much taller than Archie's dog, if not a lot heavier. It almost looks like a youngling. Emma's sharp inhale and her fingers tangling in the back of his jacket are at odds with the danger this creature doesn't pose. Killian looks over his shoulder, making sure that some other foe hasn't snuck up behind them while he was occupied with the cub, but Swan's eyes are trained on the small animal in front of them.

"It's a bear cub," she whispers, as if that explains her fear.

Killian shakes his head in askance, still watching the way the 'bear cub' wiggles around in the new growth, rolling on its back and playing with its paws in the air. It reminds him of the little prince when he plays. All innocence and happiness and wonder at the simplest things.

It's... cute. He has trouble even now, even in this realm and with this iteration of himself, thinking of things in these terms. Before, there was only pain and anger and angst. Now, with Swan at his side, things are new, are light and whimsical and carefree. But he can't understand how something so cute could make Emma so frightened.

"Have you ever heard of the phrase, "fierce as a mama bear?" Her fingers are wrapped so tightly in the leather at his back that it's pulling his shoulders back.

He nods, "The last time a villain threatened Henry, luv, I heard the phrase in reference to both you and Regina."

Emma huffs under her breath, a reluctant smile breaking free before it's quickly snuffed out by the masked fear in her eyes. "Regina and I've got nothing on that cub's mama, Killian. We need to get out of here. Quickly."

The damn cuff that Gold had magicked onto Swan's arm prevents her from just 'poofing' them out of the woods and back to safety, but he's not going to second guess her. Not now, not ever. (Usually, most times, unless it's in reference to her continued presence in the land of the breathing - then all bets are off) So he reaches back, wrapping his hook around her hip to keep her close to him - her independent streak be damned - and starts sidestepping away from where the bear cub has rolled to its side and is watching them curiously.

The second bear comes out of nowhere, and Killian is frozen in the sheer SIZE of it.

This is the animal he had imagined coming out of the woods before.

This is the thing that he thought would have put that look of fear on his Swan's face.

This is a dangerous animal.

And he and Swan are in between this creature and her offspring.

He can't move. He can't breathe. He's staring down at this animal that moved so silently through the brush the he hadn't even known she was there. And part of him understands that he's imagining things, but she looks angry. In fact, he's seen that exact look before - directed at him no less. When he'd tried to take Henry to New York to keep him safe, Emma had looked at him exactly like that.

The bear cub is still behind him, unconcerned and playing. Emma pulls on his jacket and Killian tries to step with her, away from the bears.

The growl freezes him in his tracks.

Not moving seems to be safer. Seems to be the only way the bear doesn't see them as a threat. But they're still between the cub and this monstrosity, and no amount of noise from the mother bear will call the cub from its play.

And then he sees Gold out of the corner of his eye.

The maniacal smile sends a bolt of sheer terror through him, settling as cold fear in his gut. The bastard has the nerve to wave jauntily at him before a wave of his wrist leaves behind an innocuous "whoomp" of magic that Killian has long since come to associate with something disappearing.

Gold is still standing there, Emma's hand is still wrapped in his jacket. But there is no noise behind them.

The bear cub is gone.

He knows Gold has made the cub disappear as surely as he knew when his hand was gone, when Milah was gone. When Liam had gone where he couldn't follow.

Knows this spells his death as surely as the moment Emma ran him through with Excalibur.

There isn't likely to be a magical and godly intervention this time.

Emma is with him. Emma is in danger. Emma needs to run.

But he knows she won't. He knows she'll stand by him and fight - her tiny weapon likely to be little use against a monster of this size. The bear still in front of him calls out repeatedly, each one (he's sure) more frantic and worried than the last.

He can't move. He can't breathe. He can't think.

And then the bear stands on his back legs and Killian can't even process how LARGE this animal is - how much more terrifying it seems now that it's towering over him.

He does the only thing he can. He spins around Emma, shoving her with all his might with his hook still at her hip, not bothering to watch her stumble and fall to her knees with a yelp as he takes off in the opposite direction, yelling and shouting and flailing - anything to draw the bear's attention to him.

He thinks Emma screams his name, can hear the anger and fear interposed through each syllable. There had been a time when he would have begged to hear her call him "Killian" in any tone of voice, but now he just wants her gone. Wants her silent. Wants her to get away, to run to safety.

Run for help.

Because he knows he needs it. He saw the bear's claws right before she dropped back down to all fours. The earth seemed to shake under his feet as she growled at him. He has no illusions of how this is going to go, how much this is going to hurt if he can't escape. He may be a hell of a captain, but there's no Jolly Roger here to help him outrun his fate.

And gods is the bear fast. She was just across the clearing from him, far enough away that he thought he had a chance to make the treeline. But he's barely had time to turn tail and scout out a route to the nearest tree when he can smell the musty odor that he will never forget - if he makes it out of this.

He can feel her breath on his neck before he's taken three steps, still yelling and waving his arms. Abandoning his plan to lure the bear away from Emma, he whirls with his sword, trying to score a hit before the bear can do him in.

She swats the metal out of his hand like he hadn't been gripping the pommel for dear life. He manages to swing his hook around, burying it in the meat of her shoulder before she can put her paw back on the ground. The howl of pain is incensed, not fearful - and he doesn't have time to contemplate that he understands that difference - and she roars right in his face.

It's the last time he thinks anything other than "survive" and "is Emma safe".

The bear swipes at him, and bringing his right arm up to try and block the blow does nothing to stop the claws from raking through his leather. The pain is sharp and immediate, his arm nearly immobile from the fire that races out from the wounds. He can feel the blood trickling down his arm, and he's thankful that the leather of his jacket protected him a bit. He can still feel just how sharp those claws are, and he doesn't want to give her another chance.

Tearing his hook back out of her flesh, Killian swings around and tries to flee into the woods again. He can hear Swan's weapon firing rapidly, and the bear unleashes a howl of pain in response, but it's still angry pain and not enough to deter her from the threat that she believes took her young away.

All of a sudden, it feels like the time he was half buried under rubble from a landslide that had almost claimed his life once on Neverland. He has no idea how he's gotten to the forest floor, his mouth full of dirt and sticks, and his back aching like he's been hit with a battering ram. His legs are tingling from the shock of being struck by the bear's head, but he struggles to his feet regardless.

He never gets there.

The bear digs one paw into his back and leans her weight down until it feels like he'll never inhale again.

Her cold, wet nose buries itself into the side of his neck and she breathes in noisily. Killian wants to cry out in fear. He doesn't have the breath to make a sound, so he shudders instead, trying in vain to pull in much needed oxygen around the piercing pain in his back. Her claws dig into his flesh, the pressure on his ribs steals his breath, and the terror solidifies in his chest.

His pulse is pounding, the sound of blood is rushing through his ears - drowning out Emma's cries and the bear's whuffling as she learns his scent.

Tears leak from his eyes and he wants to get away. He can do nothing more than pull his arms up over his head, scrabbling to protect himself as best he can.

The weight on his back lessens and Killian gasps, trying to take in air before his brain can even process the change. He drops his hand and hook to the earth, rising to his knees and crawling a few paces until he can get his feet under him.

He hasn't made it past a crouch when the tearing of the skin down his back steals his breath again. He drops back down to the earth, crying out against the rake of claws and tries to writhe away. Killian rolls to his side instinctively, scrabbling to get away from the pain, away from the monster that is playing with him. He knows that's what she's doing, has seen the cats on his ship playing with mice like this.

Killian curls up into the smallest ball he can manage, ignoring the pain as torn skin and muscle stretch across bone.

She noses at his head again, hard, the strike to his skull hard enough to snap his chin to his chest and make him see stars, the movement enough to pull just a little bit more at the wounds on his back. Killian hears someone whimpering, and he's surprised that the sound comes from him - small and weak as it sounds. He's shaking, terrified of what she'll do to him next.

He doesn't have long to wait. Her claws swipe across his arm and his back again, rolling him onto his stomach and then over again until he's resting on his back for a split second.

There's pain everywhere, he can't focus on anything else.

But he's been in battle before, and he knows that he needs to protect his organs, protect his vulnerable belly from those claws. If they caused as much damage as he imagines they did to his back, then he doesn't want them anywhere near his stomach. He has no intention of dying while holding his own disemboweled guts.

Killian rolls, bringing his knees to his chest and digging his hook into the earth to anchor him and protect his abdomen. She roars again when she rakes her claws over his left arm, trying to get to the soft parts of him. When he doesn't move, the metal appendage wrapped around a root that holds, she steps down on his arm, making his ribs bow and crack under the weight of her.

Emma is screaming somewhere, she thinks he hears her call for her father, but the bear doesn't turn away, and Killian manages a sigh of relief.

Then something in his chest snaps with an audible crack, and he's drawn back to the bear trying her best to tear him apart. The tears in his skin are white hot, the shattered bones in his ribcage send sparks of lightning through his body. He can feel the ends of the bones grind against each other every time they shift over his lungs. Something pokes sharply, deep inside, and he wants to cry out against this new insult. Every breath he takes is a little bit harder, each inhale ignites the fire that the bear has bathed him in - Hades' torture chamber had nothing on this new assault.

Shivers wrack his frame, adding insult to injury as he tries to keep still. The cold is pervasive, chilling him from his very core, and it's frightening to remember that the last time he was this cold, the Crocodile had just cut off his hand and his men were trying to stop the blood pouring from his stump.

The thought that he might be leaving Emma to face this foe alone won't leave him. The pressure leaves him briefly before it comes back with the weight multiplied tenfold across his upper arm. The bear must have stood onto her back paws before she crashed back down on him.

The pain is blinding, all-encompassing as his arm goes completely numb and flops uselessly, all muscle tone gone. The sharp agony of the bone in his arm shattering into the muscle that surrounds it gives him clarity for a moment. He tightens every muscle to stay protected before the pain steals away his sense again. The only reason he doesn't roll out of the ball he's crumpled in - the position that he hopes will save him - is his hook.

He's never been so thankful for the loss of his hand.

Then she's biting into his shoulder, teeth tearing into flesh and clamping around what's left of the bone of his upper arm, and he's lost in the agony.

She yanks back, pulling his arm straight out of the brace, and tosses him across the clearing. Killian impacts with a tree, wrapping around the trunk with an audible "oof" as another rib snaps under the assault and the wind is knocked from him again. When he drops down to the soft earth, his stomach is a cacophony of pain and he wants to wrap his arms around himself. It hurts too much to move and he can't do more than open his eyes. He briefly sees his hook still buried around the tree root, the leather brace sticking up straight almost comically. And he can't help it.

He laughs.

It's a cross between delirium and hysteria, but once he starts, he can't stop. The pain has faded away from him now, the chill of blood loss and the shock of his injuries so far removed from his thoughts that he's floating somewhere far above the scene. That poor bastard that the mama bear is playing with, the one whose arm is once again locked in her jaws - he's in serious trouble; but all Killian can do is watch and laugh.

He knows Emma is there somewhere, and he wants to float away to find her. Wants to let her know that she shouldn't worry any more. That it doesn't hurt any longer and she doesn't need to cry and scream like she's doing at the moment.

But the bear releases his arm and rolls him to his back, her claws tearing into the soft cloth on his chest, and he's brought back to himself sharply. His sternum is caving under her ministrations, and he can look into her eyes when she leans down so they are nose to nose. His hand comes up to wrap around her paw uselessly. Tugging at the fur and the claws and the pads of her foot.

He doesn't know what makes him think of it, the claws tearing deep into his skin. She's drawing her paw slowly down towards the unprotected flesh over the organs in his belly that keep him alive. Killian ignores the pain and swings wildly with his right hand and punches her right in the nose.

He doesn't imagine it will do anything, doesn't imagine it will be anything more than a final "sod off" to the animal that is going to be his death. He only hopes that it's over quickly. That Swan doesn't come across him shaking and bleeding out, crying at the pain - and the abject terror that has gripped him - that he's now helpless against. His defenses and walls have been completely obliterated by the bear's ministrations, and he can't hide from the fear. Can't be strong any more.

He doesn't want his Swan to see that. Doesn't want her to see him acting the coward. He wants her to think of him as the brave, devil-may-care pira- no, the hero he wants to be for her. The hero she already believes he is, even if he doesn't.

He rocks back and punches the bear again, this time with his stump on one side of her snout and his fist right on the nostrils that are whuffling out a breath. She roars in response, and now he can hear the fearful pain, the anger gone in favor of confused hurt - how her plaything has done this to her is beyond her. The pressure on his chest finally leaves him for a moment.

He's fading fast, but he has enough strength to give in to instinct, some well-ingrained reflex to flee from the hurt and terror. He scrambles backwards, pulling himself painfully inch by inch. He travels only a few feet before his arms give out, collapsing him back to the earth and driving the last of the air from his lungs. Darkness is encroaching on his vision, blackness that promises an escape from the pain and the fear and the weakness that are his tears.

He thinks he sees a tree branch crash across the bear's nose, thinks he hears Emma yelling fiercely, and he smiles. She's here, she'll take care of the bear. She'll take care of him.

He passes out with the smile still on his face.

It's soft here in the darkness, quiet and warm. He's floating as if on his back in the middle of a hot spring, letting the tranquility wash over him and the water buoy him. The peace takes all of the weight away from him.

Somewhere, off in the dark, Killian can hear someone calling him, can feel the pull where he should answer - needs to answer - but he doesn't want to. He wants to stay here in the dark where it doesn't hurt and he feels nothing.

But something continues to tug at him and he's drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

In the back of his mind, in a place he doesn't want to concentrate on too closely in case it draws him back to the pain, Killian knows that he has to answer this call. That he would normally do anything and everything - move mountains and pull the very stars from the sky, give up his ship and his home and his very life - to answer this call.

But he's tired; and he knows that responding means dropping back down to where it hurts, where the pain will numb his mind - and not in the way that floating here does.

It doesn't matter.

Whoever it is that is calling his name is frightened; she's crying and begging, and he must answer. He will always answer her.

Killian's eyes shoot open against his will and he's blinded - both by the light filtering through the trees above him as well as the pain in his chest, his arms, his back, and his head. He can barely make out a blonde head bowed over him, can only just understand that the whimpers and cries are his - drowned out by the person at his side calling his name and begging him to stay with her.

He tries to roll away from the pain, his brain still working off reflexes and instinct and the last conscious thoughts he'd had to get away from his attacker.

"No. No, no, no, no, no," he whimpers, trying to roll, to scoot back on his arms, to crawl.

Anything to get away.

Anything to be safe.

He's terrified, fear that he hasn't known since he was a small child faced with the whip belonging to the quartermaster of his and Liam's first ship. He can't focus on anything else but the need to get away.

Then her fingers card through his hair, her other hand wraps around his stump, her tears soak the bare skin of his chest where his shirt has been torn away.

Emma. He can focus on her.

Though the pain and the fear and the reflexes seek to steal his sense, she is more important. She is who he needs to console.

Emma is crying and afraid and his every need is to comfort her.

Killian reaches out with his free hand, trying to wipe away her tears, but his arm won't support his hand in the battle against gravity and it flops uselessly back to her lap.

It's enough to drag her eyes up to meet his. They're red-rimmed and swimming with tears that haven't yet joined the others coursing down her cheeks.

He smiles through the pain, wanting nothing more than to see her return it - wanting to see her smile light up her face and make the tears stop. Gods, he'd do anything for this woman - even come back from the brink just to make her happy.

But her chin just wobbles and a look of determination replaces the mournful look she'd been wearing previously.

He cries out when she starts pushing down on his chest again. There is pain there, something shifting inside him, and it's hard to breathe. He raises his head just enough to see that she's cut or ripped his shirt away, the skin and hair on his chest covered in blood and gashes. The sight of it makes his stomach roll, but he can see that - at least - his insides have stayed where they belong. The image of his disembowelment fades as he takes in the way his stomach rises and falls with each gasp.

Emma moves then, cradling his head on her lap and soothing him with her fingers in his hair. She's almost manic in her movements, the tears that are still falling freely down her cheeks now splashing down onto his forehead.

Her arms are bare, and there are goosebumps on her forearms, the minute tremors under his head not just from him.

She's freezing.

"Em-" he gurgles out, unable to keep enough breath in his lungs to complete her name.

He wants to ask where her jacket is, where her sweater is. He wants to tell her to take his coat and keep warm. But he can't make any of that pass his lips. He can't form the words around the pain in his chest, the agony increasing as she pushes down with fabric that looks suspiciously like the top she'd been wearing earlier that day.

His head rolls to the side, nuzzling into her stomach to try his best to add his warmth to hers. He wants her warm, safe and away from these woods and the bear...

The bear. Where's the bear?

He starts, a shot of adrenaline pushing him up on his elbows as his head jolts around.

Her arm comes around his shoulders, the rest of his shirt falling away from his torn back as he uses the last reserves of energy that he has trying to peer around the woods.

"It's gone. She's gone, Killian. I scared her off." Emma's voice still shakes in his ear as she hugs him close, and he beats back the blackness that's threatening to pull him under.

She's still afraid; he needs to be here with her.

For her.

But his arms shake under his weight, tearing and something sharp and bright coursing through his mangled arm.

He collapses back against her, cradled against her chest and he can't help the way his fingers grip her shirt spasmodically before latching on tightly.

She's warm and safe, and despite the pain, the chill, the sheer feeling of something wrong in his chest, he's comforted.

He's with Emma.

"Shh shh," she whispers across his forehead, the soft coos settling him and easing some of the fear in his heart. He can't rest - not yet - not until they're out of the woods and away from the bear that could come back at any time. He can't protect her now, wouldn't even be able to protect the ant that is crawling across his jean-covered knee.

The blood leaking down his arm into the earth below and the blood that is pooling in his lap from his chest frightens him a bit, but the thought that this could have been Emma makes him shiver. He can't hold on much longer, and the bear could come back any time.

"You need to go, luv," he manages to whisper just loud enough for her to hear. "You need to... to get to... to safety."

"Like Hell," she whispers vehemently, tightening her hold around his shoulders and pushing down harder on his chest.

It makes him cry out, the ribs shifting and making his stomach clench against the nausea.

He can't hold it back, tearing himself away from the safety of her arms to retch into the pine needles he'd been laying on. He heaves until there's nothing left, alarmed to see the amount of red mixed in, and he can't look at it any more. He closes his eyes against the tears that course down his cheeks, pain and fear and embarrassment all battling against his normal - and completely shot - defenses.

He's completely spent, weak as a newborn foal, and is relieved when Emma lays him back on the ground, her jacket balled up under his head. He can feel the wounds on his back, the way they press uncomfortably on the uneven ground under his own jacket.

"I'm not leaving you, Killian. Don't even think it." She's leaning over him now, the tears dried and a fierce look of protectiveness that he'd seen most recently on the bear's face. "I called my father already, he's getting Regina and they'll be here soon. Just stay with me. Please, Killian, please just stay."

He wants to. He wants to be back in her arms and comforting her as much as she's comforting him.

But it's easier to breathe stretched out like this, and he's not sure how long he can stay awake either way. But if he's not battling the pain of being crunched in a ball in her arms, he might be able to hold on just a little bit longer.

He's never been this cold before, it seems to be pervasive and coming from the very core of him. Something in him knows this isn't good, knows he should be afraid of how cold he is. But he can't show it.

Not now.

It's getting harder to breathe, too, like he's deep under water and only has a long straw to breathe through. He can hear the high pitched wheezes and is a bit surprised to realize they're coming from him. His arm squeezes against his chest, trying to push against the pain there in hopes it will ease his breathing. He can't pull in enough air, and the spots in his vision are clouding together. He needs to get some air, any air, and he has to hold on, to stay awake, to make that look of terror fade from Emma's vision.

But the stars are popping in his vision and his chest can't rise any more.

He's nearly drowned before, because of Ursula and Nemo - as well as a number of foes who sought to end him under the very ocean that he called home. In the last moments before the stars fade and he floats away, Killian has a moment to think about how ironic it is that he's going to drown here - on dry land and in his own blood.

The rush of panicked awareness comes back with a vengeance, stealing his sense and his strength, and the last thing he hears before he's claimed by the darkness again is the desperation in her voice as she begs him to stay.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur - Emma's tears as he gasps back to a blessedly pain-free awareness, Regina's smug look as the tingle of her magic abates and she throws him a backhanded compliment, David's look of sheer relief from where he's standing with his arms wrapped tightly around his daughter - one hand cradling the back of her head.

It only takes her a minute to free herself from David's grasp, to rush over to him and tug him to his feet.

To bury her nose in his neck, her arms around his - thankfully healed - torso and squeeze so tightly that he can't breathe all over again. He pulls her back, ducking his head down to look her in the eyes, and the tears that are still there are happy tears. She's being dwarfed by her father's jacket, the material draping off her shoulders and her hands lost somewhere in the arms. She's still covered in his blood and the dirt he'd been lying in, but she's never looked so beautiful in all the time he's known her.

His hand comes up to tangle in her hair, pulling her closer until their noses bump and their foreheads collide. Her eyes are closed in the serenity of the moment and the world fades away from them. It is only him and her and nothing else matters - they're here, they're alive, and they're safe. He breathes in the feeling before she surges up on her toes and kisses him.

Her lips are soft, and he can taste the salt of her tears as he seeks to deepen the kiss. She tilts her head to the side, nipping at his lip before her arms wrap around his shoulders, her fingers diving into his hair. He closes his eyes then and surrenders to the feel, the emotion of coming together like this.

The twin clearing of throats from Regina and David bring them back to reality, but Emma is clearly unwilling to pull back from him, tightening her arms around his neck and burying her head under his chin.

He'd be a happy man if she never moved from there again.

The absence of pain is a relief, the fact that his skin is covered in goosebumps from the Spring chill and not from the stickiness of drying blood makes him breathe easy, but the fears can't be magicked away quite so easily, and the tremors that wrack his frame are from memory now instead of blood loss, internal injuries, and shock.

Regina 'poofs' them all out of the woods, to their living room where Mary Margaret hugs him tightly with the little prince practically squished between them. Emma drapes a blanket over his bare shoulders, but he shrugs it off to wrap securely around her and pulls her back into his embrace to warm her - her shivers are still from the cold.

Mostly.

It's not enough, though, not when their family finally leaves them to the large house and the quiet settles around them. This is their home, and he knows he's safe here - safe with Emma and their combined mementos making this their haven. But he can still remember the smell of the bear, the sounds she made as she was learning what his scent was like in case he got away, the feel of her tearing into him. He imagines that she could track him down even now, follow his trail and come back to finish the job, and he can't seem to get warm.

Emma smiles knowingly, wrapping her fingers around his hook and tugging him out the door. He's a little bit lost, following her in a daze down the street.

It isn't until they turn down the road to the docks that he realizes where she's taking him.

He sits on a barrel near the helm as she maneuvers the wheel, setting the Jolly Roger's sails into the wind and taking them out into the harbor.

They don't go far, he can still see the lights of town when she releases the anchor and locks the wheel in place.

They're safe here. The bear can't get him here. He knows this, feels it deep in his bones as the gentle rocking of the waves under his feet seem to bring back the warmth a bit. He's always been at peace out here - even in those tumultuous years after Liam's death, after Milah's, after Bae's harsh words and easy dismissal of him. It's not home - not in the way the big house is for them both - but it is a safe haven that he's always relied on.

And Emma has always known this.

Always known him.

She leads him below, stripping down until she is just in her undergarments, reaching for his shirt and tugging it over his head and settling it over her own shoulders as he watches in a daze - his breath caught in his chest again, but for a far different reason now.

His shirt has never looked so good on someone.

She sneaks under the warm covers of his bunk, pulling him with her and cocooning them in warmth. Emma falls to her back, maneuvering him into her embrace with his head tucked under her chin and and her fingers tight around his upper arm and in his hair. Their legs are tangled together and he's so wrapped up in her that he's not entirely sure where he ends and she begins. He's never been safer - here, in her arms, in the bunk that has seen him through so many awful times.

Here, he can sleep, knowing that Emma and the Jolly Roger will watch over him.