A/U Unbeta-ed so please don't hate me for mistakes made - I'm just having a lot of feelings because of One Republic and this song.

Lately I've been, I've been losing sleep

Dreaming about the things that we could be

But baby, I've been, I've been praying hard

Said no more counting dollars, we'll be counting stars

Yeah we'll be counting stars

The inky sky was dotted with stars, all shining brightly against the darkness. They twinkled like fireflies, their magnificence never dimming in spite of the constant night that surrounded the dark island. Killian could still remember when Neverland had been bright with golden light and soft white clouds like cotton balls. He was yet to find out what had changed; what had altered the atmosphere of the island to such a degree that it was no longer the vibrant paradise but a blackened and hellish pit.

He studied the stars for a long moment, and even attempted counting them, anything to take his mind off the small congregation of sleeping bodies somewhere to his right. And yet, it was as though there was a tether connecting him to the heroes – or at least, one in particular. Every time he tried to distract himself, he would inevitably fail.

His lips tingled as he stared up into the opalescent moon, hanging in the sky like a pearl drop on a chain of diamond stars. Killian's fingers itched to soothe the area, to feel the skin she'd brushed with hers. A voice still whispered illusion in the back of his mind, but there was no way any figment of his imagination could have that affect.

Visions of her face mere centimetres from his flashed in his mind's eye, the feel of her hand in his hair, the way she seemed to put as much conviction into her kisses as she did everything else. And he wondered what it would be like to make her stop and savour, force her to really feel her actions.

He could only imagine how different it would be to kiss her softly, to cup her face and lean in slowly so she understood. He could only picture being about to wrap his arms around her waist as she smiled that elusive open smile. He could only envisage the way she would feel curled against his side in the dead of night, a warm and constant reminder that he wasn't the person people thought he was. A flicker of hope burned to life inside of him as he considered what it would be like to have that, to have it all with her and even Henry – to feel like a man again, like a lover, like a father.

Killian's eyes dropped from the sky to the dirt ground, his thoughts following the same path as that flame of hope was extinguished, the memories of the last two days illuminating the dark recesses of his insecurities like a floodlight.

After quite a lengthy internal conflict, the selfish part of him that had reigned dominant for over three centuries still protesting the decision, he'd told Emma about Neal. It was the honourable thing to do; at least, that's what he repeated to himself every minute or so.

The second she found out, the group had quickly sought to save him – Killian's knowledge of the Lost Boys pointing them in the right direction. He'd watched as she shut herself away from him, cradling the sword in her hand like a delicate object that needed protecting, and he'd pondered the notion that she held it like she held her heart; lightly. Nothing had been mentioned of their kiss since it occurred and he didn't make comment.

He felt no desire to make innuendo about how she'd practically thrown herself at him, especially not when her heart so very clearly belonged to another man.

Idiot, the selfish part of him chided and he tried to shove it down, ignoring the way his stomach twisted painfully.

Killian took a sip from the bottle of rum in his hands, his mind reeling with flashes of the day prior when they'd found Neal, tightly wrapped in a lovely wooden box like a gift from the heavens. He could see it all as the alcohol burned his throat: spotting the box, Emma's face washing with unadulterated relief as she ran towards the tree, cutting the rope that suspended his prison, the man himself breaking out of the box and running instantly to Emma, the embrace he'd been dreading since he found out about the man's status.

It was a reunion, the sort of thing that he had no business interrupting. And so he'd stood back and watched, a painful tightening in his chest, as Emma wrapped her arms tightly around Milah's son, holding him to her like an anchor. David had been the only person to notice his strange behaviour, sidling up to him and giving him a side-eye that had him questioning the prince's sanity.

But she didn't kiss him, a hopeful voice perked up. Killian barked a humourless laugh, uncaring that any surrounding people might construe his behaviour as mentally lacking. It was true, they hadn't kissed – though he could quite distinctly recall Neal leaning down as though to try. Emma had simply put her forehead to his and smiled before pushing away, subtly shutting down the romantic advance.

It was probably because her parents were there – wouldn't want them to witness their daughter sharing saliva with the father of her son. Maybe that was how she worked; kissing men in the shadows so nobody ever truly knew what was going on inside her heart until she was good and ready. He should have felt bitter. But he didn't; he just felt blank.

His eyes searched the dirt ground as though looking for some meaningful truth.

They had all retired to bed an hour ago and, unable to find sleep when his eyes kept wandering to the blonde, and the man whose mattress was set up a short distance away from hers, Killian had simply stood up and left. He just needed a drink.

One-handed pirate with a drinking problem, Pan's words echoed mercilessly in his ears and he winced. She'll never like you, David's icy voice reverberated in his head and he chewed on the inside of his cheek. You're nothing but a pirate, the prince's words burned into him again. It didn't matter that the man was now treating him with respect and even fondness. He'd still said it, and Killian had always believed that words spoken in the heat of the moment were usually the raw truth – uninhibited by bias or agenda.

So he gave himself a moment to drown his sorrows, to count the stars and think about what could have been, entertain the idea just long enough to accept it would never happen. Hence the rum, which was now making a new path down his throat as he took a lengthy swig.

Rustling leaves sounded to his left and he turned his head, not even bothering to stand and draw his sword. If it was Pan, the demon had magic and any defence would be futile – not that he entirely cared at the present moment.

He couldn't have been further off-base.

Killian felt himself go rigid when his eyes landed on her form breaking free of the shrubbery and entering the small clearing he'd found himself in. Her blonde hair was tussled and he felt something like fire burn in his gut, a mental image of her rolling around on the ground with Neal implanting itself firmly into his brain.

He schooled his features into an expression of mild amusement and smirked at her, the countenance nowhere near reaching his eyes, "What are you doing up at this hour, Swan?"

Emma started to walk towards him, "I could ask you the same question," she retorted dryly.

Killian leaned back on the rock which he'd seated himself upon, his eyes ascending to the glittered sky as he replied sarcastically, "I'm pondering life's great meaning." When he looked back down to find her, she was standing in front of him, her arms folded across her shoulder, "And your reason?" he inquired with a raised eyebrow. He could hear the sharpness in his voice, and he could see that she heard it too, but neither pointed it out.

Instead, she shrugged as she moved to sit down beside him on the large boulder, "Couldn't sleep."

And suddenly the hair made sense – tossing and turning, no doubt. But the bitterness didn't seep away, only dimming a bit as he turned to her.

"So you sought my audience?" he asked incredulously.

Emma shrugged again indifferently, her hand reaching out to take the bottle of rum from him and lifting it to her lips. She took a short sip and wiped her lips, returning his look with equal disbelief –though her eyes questioned whether he was oblivious.

"Are you surprised?" she said, holding out the rum for him to take back. Her tone belied the notion that this was commonplace – that of course she would come to him when she couldn't sleep. And he didn't know what to do with that. Sure, he'd offered her rum numerous times in this journey, mostly to ease some kind of pain. It was their thing – rum was the bridge that brought them to a mutual understanding. It was a silent form of comfort, and yet the idea that she'd picked up on his habit was disconcerting.

Killian watched her carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. Her eyes were softer than usual, the way she regarded him quickly forcing him to take back the rum and look to the tree line in front of him. He took a short sip and tried to ignore the way he could taste her on the edge of the bottle.

"Well, I would have assumed you'd seek Neal for comfort," he retorted icily.

Beside him, Emma's eyes flashed momentarily with some far more intense emotion. But she subdued it, and when he turned to the sound of her voice, there was a defensive edge to her stance.

"Just because I'm glad he's alive, doesn't mean everything's back to normal," she commented, abruptly taking the rum from him and tilting it so she could take a deeper sip. He smirked indifferently at her and raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, trouble in paradise, love?" he mocked.

Emma held the rum in her lap, her eyes snapping onto his and he was surprised to see understanding there, her next word throwing him entirely off guard with the strange mixture of signals he was receiving from her.

"Stop."

He frowned, faltering in his façade, "I beg your pardon?"

She simply shook her head, "You always do that. You always deflect things that make you uncomfortable by being an ass. It's like a defensive mechanism."

Killian narrowed his eyes at her and extracted the flask from her hand with precise movements, his gaze never dropping hers, "That's rather rich coming from you, love. Your walls are higher than that beanstalk we climbed," he retorted harshly. Emma's eyes bored into his and, despite the desire to meet her every challenge, Killian very suddenly wanted her to stop looking at him like that. Because she couldn't look at him like that, especially when he was trying so hard to make her leave – for his own good and for hers.

She didn't blink as she said, without missing a beat, "So are yours. You're just better at hiding it."

He didn't respond, his brain whirring frantically as her words sunk in and he realised with utter clarity that she was right. Her words from the diner in Storybrooke seating themselves deep within his soul; you and I, we understand each other.

When was the last time anyone had taken the time or effort to get to know Killian Jones? He couldn't remember the last time anyone had cared enough to look past the innuendos and cruel taunts that were his own personal emotional walls. As she'd said, it was a defensive mechanism – and one that had worked without fault for the past three centuries.

Until now.

He had to look away from her and he looked down to the appendage on his left wrist, playing with it idly as silence enveloped them. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken words and he waited for her to leave.

But she didn't.

And eventually she spoke again, this time her voice curious and just the slightest bit thoughtful.

"What did you mean the other day?"

He met her gaze with a raised eyebrow, his façade of indifference already firmly in place "You'll have to be more specific."

She looked down at her hands and it occurred to him that she felt unsure, hesitant even.

"In Neal's cave… you said you knew what it felt like to lose hope."

Killian swallowed and looked down at his hand in much the same she was staring at hers, his face hardening as he recalled the failed attempt to bond with her followed immediately by the harsh comments of her father.

"And I distinctly remember you telling me you weren't in the mood," he responded.

Emma turned to look at him and he saw from his peripheral vision as she chewed her lip, something he desperately wanted to tease her for – and maybe, in another life, he would and then demand she stop because he was the only person allowed to nibble her bottom lip. Regardless, he didn't face her, just stayed playing with the point of his hook.

"Maybe I'm in the mood now," she said quietly and paused for a moment, her tone taking on a lighter edge as she tried to break the tense atmosphere beginning to smother them, "What was your great loss of hope?"

He smiled sharply down at the dirt, pain clenching his chest, "Should I list them in chronological order?"

"That many, huh?" Emma asked, understanding rolling off her in insufferable waves. He could deal with defensive Emma, witty Emma, walls-up Emma. And, despite his recent purpose in life being to make her open up, the sudden prospect that she might actually let him in made his lungs close up and his breath escape him.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he replied a little breathlessly, voice husky and low.

Her reply came as though it was second-nature, "Perhaps I would."

His head snapped up so he was staring at her, their eyes locked in the darkness of the night. He felt his mouth open, though he hadn't a clue what he was even intending to say to her, and clamped it shut before he could reveal anything compromising. She looked back at him with unyielding intensity, the green pools shining with something fierce and unidentifiable.

He wanted to kiss her again.

So he forced himself to look away from her.

His brows drew together in a deep furrow and he kept his sights trained on the sticks beneath his leather boots, "You should get some sleep, Swan." When she didn't move, he felt the innuendo bubble up before he could stop it – the knee-jerk reaction spilling out of his mouth like unfiltered waste, "Unless, of course, there's something else you'd rather be doing?"

He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and put on his most convincing smirk of amusement; silently hoping she would roll her eyes and leave. But he knew she wouldn't, it was as though his last failed attempts to repulse her with innuendos were not the only. Emma didn't move to kiss him though, but rather cocked her head and gave him a slight shake of her head.

"There you go again," she sighed almost resignedly and stood up from the boulder so she faced him, her eyes boring down into him with some greater meaning than her next words alone could convey, "You don't have to do that – nothing's changed."

It was the way she said it that had Killian's heart racing, like she was referring to something more important.

"Excuse me?" he said.

She gave him a look that screamed, 'You heard me' even as she leaned ever so slightly closer and enunciated each syllable slower, "Nothing's changed." He felt a part of him begin to glow as her words hit him, echoing in his heart even while his head screamed idiocy. She couldn't possibly have been referring to Neal or his effect on the state of their relationship – if you could even call it that.

No, Emma wasn't forward like that.

Emma wouldn't reassure him.

Emma wouldn't make it clear that she wasn't done with him.

But then, she wasn't exactly making it clear. She was doing what she did best, communicating in vague and subtle ways that sometimes he wondered if she fully understood. Emma wasn't the type to spell it out for you, and half of him hated it while the other half lo-

He cut the thought off abruptly, and the response came easily to his lips, "On the contrary, love, everything's changed."

Emma's eyes narrowed a fraction and she frowned before turning around and walking slowly in the direction of their group. She'd only taken two steps when she threw back over her shoulder with a slightly knowing edge, "Well, I guess a man who doesn't fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets."

Did she just?

She'd barely taken another step when he stood up and began walking towards her, the defensive lilt in his voice obvious and tangible, "Perhaps a man knows when to stand down because fighting will only result in unnecessary collateral damage," he said vehemently, coming to a stop in front of her as she turned to face him with a barely-there smirk.

"Or maybe," she pondered aloud, stepping closer to him again so they were a hairs-width away from one another, "a man is afraid of getting hurt because, despite the bravado, he's scared." The way she leaned closer to him was just asking for a challenge and he made sure to shuffle closer so their noses nearly touched. Warning bells tolled unceremoniously in the back of his head, telling him to leave because letting this happen would only end in heartache for everyone.

And he couldn't do that, not to Neal and most definitely not to Emma.

"Or he doesn't want to hurt others," he whispered, his breath puffing out across her face.

She stared up at him unrelenting, "Perhaps that's not his decision."

His eyes darted between hers, the tension between them building until it could be sliced clean with a knife. Emma didn't drop his gaze, the silence more telling and more meaningful than any words could be as she wordlessly implored him. And he was already gone, falling into the endless abyss without a hope of return.

Killian didn't know who moved first, but suddenly her lips were pressed against his and he was stumbling forwards as she grabbed a hold of his lapels and pulled him forward. His hand and hook went automatically to her waist to steady her, his mouth slanting over hers without pause as they moved until she was pressed firmly against a tree by the full length of his body.

He let his good hand drift up her side, trailing over her shoulder and reaching up behind her neck. His fingers threaded in her hair and he felt her hands leave the lapels of his coat so they could grip his shoulders. It was intense and he felt the air being sucked from his lungs, but he didn't want to stop. She was like a drug, something rare and delicate and euphoric that he was almost afraid to touch (almost).

He pillaged her mouth without restraint, the pirate coming out in him as he pulled her impossibly closer. But she matched his every move, duelling him with her tongue and teeth so he felt winded when he eventually pulled away to catch his breath.

They both gasped for air, chests rising and falling, hands still entangled around each other.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head forwards, nearly jumping in surprise when she met him halfway. They eventually caught their breaths and Killian waited on bated breath for her to speak, for the inevitable brush off to come. When there was still no speaking after a long moment, he chose to break the silence.

He began to disentangle his hand from her hair as he said resignedly, "I know... one time thi –"

He never got to finish the sentence. Because her lips slanted back over his, a softer kiss that was slow and languid and made him groan into her mouth. And it was as though she was trying to communicate to him, her actions booming without a voice that she wasn't going to abandon this.

Whatever this was.

And he felt the glow inside of him ebb brighter still because she wanted him to fight for her.

And as they continued to move together, a meeting of lips that looked as though they were savouring a fine wine, Killian felt a building burn in the bottom of his chest. His nerves, licked by fire at her touch, tingled. And he decided that if kissing her was to be consumed by fire, he would happily burn.

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