1: Never Let Me Go, written for prankstersunited. Rated M.

Prompt: Future fluffy story of Emma and Killian's first Valentine's Day together? :D

The computer let out an affronted ping for the tenth time in half as many minutes, and Emma mashed the keys, swearing under her breath for what was definitely more than the tenth time in said minutes. She backspaced, tried again, and filled in the boxes properly (the snafu was a mistyped Social Security number, leaving her to wonder how cursed fairytale characters got Social Security in the first place) then clicked the form to submit. She'd been up all night finishing these claims, and her sleeplessness was surely contributing to her technological incompetence, but she didn't trust anyone else to do them. The insurance agent who was supposed to be on the job had too much of a Pied Piper vibe for her liking, even if he insisted that he only played the flute in his off time, and there was a stack of them to get through after Anton the giant, the final showdown with Cora, and Gold going psychotic had left half of Storybrooke in a jumbled, splintered mess. Now people wanted, understandably, to be recompensed for their lost property, and the prospect of getting a state inspector in here, potentially dealing with the feds, disaster relief coordination, making absolutely sure that no one did anything like get turned into a toadstool or grow wings while FEMA was poking around…

Emma let out a moan at the very thought, realizing that the problem of coordinating this was going to fall on her shoulders, and probably David's as well. But no matter how conscientiously her father would assist, he wasn't the one cohabiting with a pirate fond of guyliner and black leather, who had refused to give up either, and was often to be seen swaggering around town in said ensemble. After Hook had turned against Cora in the final battle, had been crucial in telling the Charmings how to defeat her, had given up a perfect chance to destroy Gold… well, it hadn't made everyone forget, but they were aware that without him, the devastation would have been twice, three times as bad. And since part of that devastation had included the Jolly Roger, which was in drydock for extensive repairs, Hook obviously needed a place to crash for a week or so. And while the citizens of Storybrooke thanked him for their lives, they weren't about to give a pirate keys to the front door.

Thus, it had fallen on Emma to do the civic duty of taking him in. The apartment was hers now, as David and Mary Margaret had finally bought a new home, and she had promptly shipped Henry off to them. Regina was still in custody as the new DA – a pretty young woman named Jack, who hid the soul of a ruthless mercenary behind sparkling blue eyes – investigated what charges to press for her involvement with Cora's reign of havoc. And besides, Henry loved his grandparents and David was teaching him to swordfight. They'd be fine. More than fine.

Emma's congratulating herself on this brilliant plan had lasted maybe an hour. If that. Once she got Hook into her apartment, up into the loft, and exasperatedly answered his hundreds of questions about everything from electrical outlets to potato peelers, she also realized that she really should have kept Henry as a buffer zone. Her son was already far too fond of the pirate (she supposed he had a reason, seeing as Hook had also rescued him from Cora) and Hook, who also had a reason for his hang-up about parting sons from their mothers, would have acted like a perfect gentleman if Henry was present. Instead, with any theoretical constraints on his behavior removed, he had blizzarded her with a never-ending procession of sass, flirt, charm, suavity, and pick-up lines that wouldn't have sounded out of place in a porno. (She had purposefully not taught him about the Internet for this very reason.)

And, well…

The first time had happened that very night. Emma should have held out longer, but she was emotionally vulnerable and not thinking straight (or so she told herself) and she hadn't been disposed to resist when Hook padded down the loft stairs and invited himself onto her bed. Despite the impertinence of this action, he didn't move to touch her, just lay next to her as if to let her know he was there. She would have known he was there if she was blind and deaf. She could feel him, could smell his scent, salt and male sweat and leather. And finally, she was the one to roll over and reach for him. He had always done that. Let her know in no uncertain terms how much he wanted her, but leave it up to her to make the final choice.

Their coupling that night had been magnetic and shattering. She told herself it was a one-time thing. Then it happened again the next night, and the next.

The Roger was almost seaworthy again, but Emma hadn't mentioned it to him. She felt cowardly for doing it. But he was a pirate, that ship was his life, and Greg Mendel, the bean geneticist, had also stayed in Storybrooke and was doing some very interesting things after consulting Anton the giant. There might soon be a new portal again, and anyone seeing the pirate here, so baldly out of place in the fairytale clothing he refused to relinquish, with that hook and sword and spyglass, could tell that he was just waiting to go home. All those little questions that she acted so annoyed about, about newspaper crosswords, about why on earth anyone would purchase that rubbish from a SkyMall catalogue… what if he took that to mean she didn't want him to…

At that Emma, to her mortification, realized that she couldn't see the computer screen through a haze of hot, stinging salt. God, I need a break. She pushed her chair back and tried to dab at her eyes without smearing her makeup, then glanced up at the clock. It was 9 AM. She'd been working since five.

It was a gray, dreary day, a few flakes of snow trying to drift out of the sky and all of Storybrooke suffused with a hard New England February chill. Emma stared blearily at it, tying to work up the ambition to grab her coat and head down the street to Granny's for some coffee and donuts. But people would want to know how things were going, when they were going to arrange that inspector… complain about paperwork delays and everything and…

Emma moaned again, feeling very sorry for herself indeed, and toppled facefirst into a teetering stack of said paperwork, reaching out automatically to stop it from sliding off the desk. Just as she did, however, she heard the front door of the sheriff's office open.

She bolted upright, doing her best to look professional, wondering who it was this time. The old woman who lived in a shoe, who around here was known as Cathy, was making a stink (literally?) about her kids and how they were entitled to individual damage claims and how the city better not condemn her home for foot odor when they came by on the inspections (if they ever did, as Cathy clearly doubted it). She was just one of the people making Emma's life a hassle. If it's Cathy, I'm hiding under the desk.

But, thank heavens, it wasn't. Instead, it was her mother, carrying a bag emitting such heavenly aromas that Emma almost cried again. "Oh my God, you read my mind," she said, spinning the chair around. "What are you doing here?"

"Sweetie, you're working yourself like a slave." Mary Margaret set down the bag, opened it, and pulled out a fat, sumptuous cinnamon roll that made Emma's eyes cross in lust just to witness. "Besides, I'm sure you have…" She hesitated. "Plans?"

Emma stared at her blankly. "Yeah, uh, finishing up these so Cathy doesn't – "

"No. Not her. I… Emma, I know I'm not your roommate anymore, but I am your mother and I know what's going on there now, and I just – "

"What?" Emma almost choked on her bite of the cinnamon roll. "Are you asking me if I am… if Hook and I are…" The answer in any case would be yes, which was probably not something she should admit to. "What does that even…"

She trailed off, regarding her mother suspiciously. Mary Margaret's cheeks were pink, she was wearing a red scarf, and something that looked like a new necklace. "What's the occasion?"

"Occasion?" Mary Margaret looked surprised. "Emma… it's Valentine's Day."

Oh, shit. It was. Singles' Awareness Day, as she'd always called it sardonically in the past. Even if she was casually one-off seeing somebody, she'd made it a point never to be together on the big V-Day, in case they got the wrong impression. Seeing happy couples all around her in the restaurant, at least half of those getting proposed to with the ring atop their chocolate mousse, would have made it even worse. Even with Neal – Baelfire, she supposed she had to call him now, a thought that still made her stomach twist with rage – their idea of romance was stealing a bag of Hershey's kisses and sneaking into a movie theater after the usher had stopped checking tickets. She had never once done the traditional corporate sappiness thing. Somehow she didn't think Hook had either. Hell, he didn't even know about the holiday.

"So?" Emma said, trying to disguise the fact that she had absolutely no idea how to answer this. It was alarming enough that she'd automatically thought about Hook when her mother had mentioned it. Well, they were living together, and yes, sleeping together, and Mary Margaret was almost certainly aware of this and was going to have a small chat with the pirate about treating her daughter right, which would at least go better for Hook than if it was David doing the chatting, as David's chats with Hook tended to involve fists…

"Well, I just thought… isn't it a day to be with the people you love?"

"I… guess," Emma said slowly. If you got rid of all the commercialism and whatnot, she supposed that was the essence of it. And she'd never had a family to think about before. "Isn't – Dad – taking you out to dinner or something?"

"Yes," Mary Margaret said patiently, "but not until tonight. You don't need to do those now, Emma. Come on."

Emma regarded her mother with a jaded expression, waggling the cinnamon roll. "That's why you brought this, didn't you? Bribery."

"That might have had something to do with it," Mary Margaret admitted, with her pixyish grin. "I promise the town isn't going to come any further apart in your absence."

"Not so sure about that," Emma muttered. While Gold's fit of psychosis had been temporary, it had nonetheless been hell on earth. Belle didn't quite have her memories back either, but she'd at least gotten used to Gold's presence and willing to tolerate his visits to her rehab facility. He and Hook had simmered down into a mutinous mutual truce, mostly due to Neal/Bae, which if nothing else Emma could thank him for. But Neal had gone back to New York, and Gold, seeing everyone else happily with their loved ones today, could all too easily get ideas.

That thought, in fact, made Emma abruptly push back from the desk. "You know what," she said, "you're right. I can give this a try. Let's go."

Mary Margaret eyed her curiously, as if wondering what had been responsible for this sudden change of heart, but didn't question her good fortune. Instead, she grinned again and made a gesture toward the door. "After you."

Emma spent the rest of the morning with her parents. David took them to Storybrooke Coffee & Tea Emporium for drinks and snacks, and some of her weariness began to ebb away as she sat in the warm, kitschy space with her hands wrapped around a mocha, slurping the whipped cream off and determinedly not talking about everything she still had to do. Mary Margaret had taken a leave of absence from her job in order to help her husband and daughter with the sheriff's workload, and also so she could reassess if it was what she wanted; mild-mannered, elementary-school teacher Mary Margaret Blanchard was not the same as the fierce warrior princess Snow. Whenever she wasn't psyching out about it, Emma found it both morbid and fascinating to watch her parents navigating their two identities, their cursed memories and their real memories competing for space in their heads. At times like those, she was devoutly grateful that she'd escaped the curse after all. One memory was more than enough for her.

They took a walk afterwards, managed to avoid running into Gold (he seemed to find an excuse to do so every time Emma stepped out into public, another reason she tried not to) and had lunch back at the new house. Then Emma and her mother curled up on the couch to watch a movie together, like they had when they were roommates, although Emma spent most of it dozing on Mary Margaret's lap. When it was done, they headed out with David to pick Henry up from school. She'd insisted that he get back in as soon as possible, wanting to minimize the disruptions and revelations that had recently rocked his life. Finding out that Rumplestiltskin was your grandfather was enough to weird out any eleven-year-old, even one as bombproof as Henry. Then again, she figured the whole Evil Queen/adoptive mother thing had primed him early.

Henry himself, however, was as ebullient as ever, rushing over to show them the valentines he had made in arts and crafts period. Emma felt her heart melting as she looked at his elaborate construction-paper invention, and the picture he had drawn of her on the front: "To Mom, Love Henry Hugs & Kisses." Then she opened it, and choked on a shocked laugh.

"Kid," she said. "Is this…"

"Yeah." Henry beamed. "Do you like it?"

Emma didn't know what to say. Henry had been furious with her for finding out that she'd lied to him about Neal, and while they'd made up in the heat of the crisis, she hadn't thought even until now that he'd entirely forgiven her. But it wasn't Neal that he'd drawn on the inside of her card. Instead, it was unmistakably the one and only Captain Hook, complete with swishy black leather duster. And sword. And spyglass. And, of course, hook.

"This…" Emma said faintly. "You've got… some real art skills, kid."

Henry looked pleased. "Are you gonna show it to Killian?"

Emma clutched the card to her chest, aware of her parents' twin avid stares boring into her back. She didn't know whether to be horrified or very horrified that her son was apparently on chummy first-name terms with the guy she was not-really-sort-of-okay-was with. This implied a whole lot of hanging out that she was unaware of. But she had been cocooned in the office, of course, and totally not paying attention to the real world, and apparently had missed a lot of…

"Come clean, kid," she said, leveling a narrow stare at him. "What have you guys been doing?"

Henry had the decency to look abashed. "Nothing! I mean, well, he's showed me the ship and everything, and told me stories about Neverland and okay, so maybe I practice some swordfighting with him when Gramps is busy, and he told me never to get involved with a mermaid or a pixie, but that's kind of silly because obviously there aren't any, here I mean, and I don't even want to go with girls like that, and – "

"Give it a few years, sport," David advised his grandson wryly. "You'll change your mind."

"Whatever." Henry appeared untroubled. "So, are you going to show him?"

Emma pressed two fingers to her temples, unsure whether to laugh or dig herself a six-foot hole on the spot. "Uh… maybe. It's… it's very… sweet of you and everything, but…" She'd never faced the pitfalls of dating as a single mother, wondering when was the right time to introduce the guy to the kid and all that. On one level, it was a good thing that Henry and Hook had apparently taken care of it for her, but…

"At least he's been around," Henry added accusingly. "I don't even see you."

Emma winced. "Look, you know how busy I've been. I haven't had time to – "

"Yes, you have," Henry informed her. "You're just scared. You're scared that when his ship's fixed and Greg works out the bean, he's going to go home and leave you. So you're shutting yourself off in hopes that it's not going to hurt when he does."

Emma stared at her son with jaw dropped. Jesus, what had she done to deserve such damned precocious offspring?A few strangled noises emerged from her lips, bearing no resemblance to actual words.

Mary Margaret hastily cleared her throat. "You know, Emma," she said. "We'll take Henry back to our place. Why don't you head home?"

"Home?" David began. "But isn't that where – " Then he cut off abruptly, with a sound that suggested his wife had just stepped hard on his foot. He was, of course, quite aware that his only begotten daughter was living in sin with Captain Hook (although Emma had been very careful to limit his knowledge of the extent of said sin) but he still wasn't happy about it. But at another look from Mary Margaret, he coughed and said, "Actually, yeah. How about you go home?"

Emma eyed them narrowly, sure that they were setting her up as much as they had been when Mary Margaret came to retrieve her from the sheriff station, but at Henry's Cheshire Cat grin, she threw up her hands. "All right, you bunch of swindlers," she sighed. "I'm going."

—-

The place was dark as Emma opened the front door and started upstairs to the second-floor apartment, leaving her to conclude that her family's attempt to play matchmaker had definitely backfired. Hook was probably out terrifying little old ladies again (although some of the little old ladies definitely hadn't minded the terrifying – come on, the guy was sex on legs, liked to play the perfect gentleman, and had that accent) and thus had left her to marinate in frustration by herself. Why did Henry have to be so devastatingly accurate? Of course she was terrified that Hook was going to collect his ship and set sail for some far horizon, and while he might ask her to come with him, she wasn't going to uproot her entire life and take off like a dumbass eighteen-year-old again. She'd done the vagabond thing over and over. And once or twice she'd fantasized that it wouldn't matter if they took Henry along, but what kind of life was that for a kid? He needed an education and a good start in the world, not learning how to… how to…

Emma reached the apartment, took out her keys again in expectation of having to unlock the door, and was surprised when it was open. She stumbled through into the dark apartment, thinking that if someone (say, Gold) had been prodding around here and had –

It, however, wasn't actually dark. It was late afternoon, of course, but while the lights were off, various little candles had been set all around, beaming with a bright twinkling glow. Paper lanterns were strung up overhead, and a red tulle curtain had been draped over the bedroom alcove, giving it the look of some exotic, mysterious pleasure den. In fact, both the quality and amount of the decoration (none of which, needless to say, had been present when she left for work) made her realize at once that there had been a conspiracy going on to keep her out of the apartment. Her son and her mother looked like Culprits #1 and #2.

"What the…" Emma expelled an amazed, disbelieving laugh. "Killian?" The name tasted strange on her lips, given that the only time she spoke it was to moan it while certain… other… things were happening. It was too intimate for everyday use, like walking around dressed in lingerie. The rest of the time, she called him Hook.

There was a pause. Then he emerged from the drapes with a rustle, clad in his full and magnificent pirate ensemble, with a red vest she had never seen him wear before and which immediately did horrible things to her faculties of reason and restraint. Not to mention the eyeliner. It was probably bad how much she really didn't mind the eyeliner. Really, really didn't mind it. And the way he was looking at her just now and the fact that she…

"Hello," she said faintly. Wherever her blood was, it wasn't in her head.

"Hello, love." He grinned. "Was wondering how long I was going to have to sit with my thumb up my arse, waiting for you."

"Sorry," she said, having no clue what she was apologizing for. She waved at the romantic paradise around them. "I thought you didn't even know what Valentine's Day was – !"

"Insider source." Hook smirked. "Very helpful."

"Henry," Emma said immediately. "How long have you two cretins been planning this?"

"Also proprietary information. And beside the point." He reached out and looped her wrist in his hook, whirling her around and pulling her solidly against him. He wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. "Well, love? Aren't you going to say something?"

"I just tried to say something, and you shut me down," Emma pointed out. Rather lamely, she knew. But she didn't trust herself to say anything else. She wanted to believe in this more than anything ever, and that kind of wanting hurt her at the depths of her soul. "Hook," she murmured. "I… don't get me wrong, it's beautiful, I love that you did it, but… why?"

"Why?" He sounded puzzled. "A man needs an occasion to surprise the woman he loves? Especially on a bloody holiday dedicated to the whole idea? I'm fond of it, rather."

Emma bit her lip. "But you… aren't you going to…"

She couldn't get the rest of the sentence out, suddenly feeling like there was a golf ball in her throat. But Hook picked up on it, and he turned her around to face him, eyes suddenly very serious as he pressed his forehead against hers, cupping her cheek in his good hand.

"Love," he said, half-teasing, half-tender. "My stubborn suspicious lass. I'm not leaving you. I haven't even entertained the notion in my foggiest of moments, and with all the nonsense that's been flying about, I can testify that there have been many. I'm alive, after three centuries of trying not to be. And for some godsforsaken reason that I shall freely admit is beyond my comprehension, I've somehow got you to put up with me. You. To put up with me. Now, I'm not the wisest of men, but I'm also far from the thickest. I think that's a bloody miracle."

Emma's eyelashes fluttered. "But your ship…"

"I can't wait until it's finished." Hook bent down and began to kiss her collarbone. "Then we can…" in between kisses, his lips burning her throat like a brand – "take lovely sails around… and you can… show me a bit more of… your world. Only ever seen… this part of it. Bit… rinky-dink… really. And I could… do without… Gold."

"But…" Emma's fingers slid through his dark hair, compelled by the urge to keep him there. Her knees were rapidly giving out; her entire body stopped functioning properly when they were together like this. "Doesn't that mean…"

"Mean what?" He was obviously aggravated by her refusal to get on with his attempt (well, not really an attempt, he could teach a graduate-level course) to seduce her. He lifted his head and stared her down. "Mean I want to go? Bloody hell, love, you hear a word I just told you? I've lived on a ship enough years of my life. If I wanted to go back there, if I wanted to live and be anywhere else than where I am right now… trust me, you'd know it."

Emma smiled tremulously at him, and he caught her hand as she reached for him, bringing it to his mouth and kissing each knuckle. Then he began to trail kisses in the hollow of her wrist, her tired hand, her cramped fingers, loosening them with heat and slow strokes and the insistent pressure of his lips. He turned her palm over and kissed it as well, the hand he'd once bandaged atop a beanstalk with rum for disinfectant and scarf for a bandage, pulled the knot tight with his teeth. The sensation in her stomach then was exactly the one now, even though probably nothing less than torture could have gotten her to admit to it.

She sighed then, small, softly, and reached out for him with both arms. That, as always, was the signal he'd been waiting for, waiting for her to tell him that it was about bloody time, and he lifted her and swung her back against the wall, bracing her in such a way that she had to wrap her legs around his waist. She cradled his face in both hands, his impossibly good-looking face, his dark stubble rasping against her fingers as the two of them put on a textbook display of kissing the ever-living bejeezus out of each other. He wedged himself between her legs, using his hook to help support her weight, tangling his hand in her hair and grinding against her. She moaned, mouth open, gasping for air and only finding him.

"Say we continue the conversation in the bedroom, love?" Hook whispered, peeling her off the wall and helpfully supporting her through the red curtain; her legs were totally useless by now. But she still managed to reach up and seize hold of him, pulling him down on top of her; he laughed as they rolled onto the disordered quilts. "Oy. Mind the vest."

"The hell with the vest," Emma muttered savagely; her present concern was getting it off as fast as possible. "Buy you another one."

"But this is… a special one. Not worn it in…" Hook hesitated, then kissed her again. "A long time," he whispered into her mouth. "Let's just say that."

"All right, but considering the amount of my clothes you've torn off…" That was his favorite trick whenever he couldn't be bothered with the modern invention called bra fastenings. At the rate Emma had to replace her underthings, it was a miracle the whole town hadn't caught onto them. She fumbled around and got hold of the buttons, undid them with shaking fingers, and shucked the entire kit and caboodle off of him. Vest, jacket, shirt, the whole nine – a favor which he promptly reciprocated. He even did her bra the normal way, with a deft flick of his fingers, which made her instantly suspect that he'd been lying when he protested he couldn't do it with one hand, as most men clearly found them bewildering enough with two.

Bastard. But he was her bastard, her pirate captain, hers, and Emma couldn't summon up the remotest damn to give. She wriggled around to a better position underneath him, getting a knee up and bracing her heel on the bed, noting in dizzy amusement that he hadn't worn his usual tight leather trousers; he was wearing looser-fitting breeches instead, apparently in expectation of removing them in hasty circumstances. She happily obliged him, while he was ransacking her own jeans in return, swearing only once when the button refused to slip out of the eye. Then she was down to just her panties, and those quickly went the way of the dodo.

Emma gave a muffled squeak as Hook pressed his thumb between her legs, rasping on the sensitive spot until her eyes crossed. It was practically criminal to be so close, stark naked, and to not have him inside her, to not throw any and all sense of propriety out the window and climb him like a tree. (Why shouldn't she? He was hers.) Then his mouth dipped down to kiss what his fingers had just been exploring, and her entire body clenched like a fist, scraping the sheets.

Hook lifted his head to give her an extremely self-satisfied smirk, then bent back to business. Her legs twisted and her hand clawed at his hair, hard enough that she was probably hurting him, but if so, he didn't appear to care. Then he pulled back and began kissing his way up her stomach, over her ribs, between her breasts, and finally nipped at her throat, leaning up to catch her bottom lip between his teeth. As he was carefully, lusciously exploring her mouth, he slowly nudged her apart, creating just a barest whisper of contact, enough to cause her to go haywire on the spot. She groaned, arching her back, pulling at him as greedily as a miser, as he shifted his weight over her, positioned himself at her entrance, and pressed inside just a maddening inch.

Emma was wearying of the pace of things, and she had two hands to make her opinion known. She linked one arm around his back, grasped his shoulder, dug in her heels, and worked up enough momentum to flip him over, flat on his back like an overturned turtle. The look on his face was extremely enjoyable, but she had other priorities. She grasped his hips and guided him the rest of the way into her, her knees driving into the bed on either side of him.

Hook – Killian – chucked throatily, managing to look debonair even with eyes crossed. "Good – form, lass," he grunted, adjusting the angle to get better penetration. "Very – good."

Emma grinned triumphantly, and they scooted backwards on the bed until Killian was almost sitting up, holding her on his lap as they rolled their hips together, Emma's arms wrapped in abandon around his neck, mouth open as she kissed the point of his ear and the hollow of his throat, his shoulder, everything she could touch and taste and see. His own mouth was thoroughly working over her breasts and shoulder and jaw, and she shuddered, tightening around him, slick and hot and hard, lips finding each other again and kissing until neither of them could breathe, until he drove into that spot deep inside her and she saw nothing but the stars.

They remained entangled for who knew who long after that, gasping. Finally, Emma extricated herself and sat up. "So," she said, still breathless, but grinning. "Happy Valentine's Day?"

Hook groaned. "Thank the gods it only happens once a year," he said indistinctly. "Not sure I could survive another one of those."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you poor little innocent virginal choirboy, I'm sure you couldn't. Well, then, you're just no fun at all, aren't you? It's not like I – "

She cut off in a squeal as he rose up like a tornado, got both arms around her waist, and slammed her back down on the quilts, kissing her as if he, too, lived in fear that she might one day disappear. Kissed her to within an inch of her life or his, mouths bruising and wet and swollen, tasting of each other, of salt and sex and sweetness, until at last he pulled back with a positively feral smile, eyes as dark as black sapphires. "Maybe I couldn't, lass," he breathed. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to try."