Thank you SO much for your patience! I know you had probably given up hope that this would ever conclude, but I hope this chapter, which is about 1/3 as long as the other 13 chapters combined, will make up for it.
I agonized about where to end it, but I'm fairly happy with how it turned out. Feel free to let me know in the comments if there's anything more you might want out of it. I bet I could get an epilogue in by Actual Christmas (and yes I do mean of this year) (happy mid September!)
Thank you ESPECIALLY to my WILDLY patient beta, @motherkatereloyshipper, who has been cheering me on and improving my story for literally several years, and has never stopped expressing excitement when I have something written.
Thank you also to my dear friend stormy_sea, for reading through 40K words of a fic for a show that she has never seen (although she's heard about it from me ad nauseam so she knows the plot) and making some great suggestions.
Thank you of course to @resident-of-storybrooke for not challenging me to a duel or something when this Christmas present took almost 4 years to deliver. Hope you enjoy!!
AND THANK EVERYONE WHO EVER COMMENTED/REBLOGGED, when I got discouraged by my own brain, every comment I got reminded me that even if I've likely lost some readers to time and fandom drift, there are still people who want to know the ending.
Further ado etc etc ENJOY
Fic summary: Captain Hook wakes up in a strange bed, next to a woman he does not remember. He finds nothing particularly unusual about this situation. But the woman seems to know him very well.
In Storybrooke, there’s only one surefire way to get back a lost memory. And it’s not going to work until he loves her.
Chapter summary: The moment you've been waiting for! It's CHRISTMAS!
AKA, Yes, I've actually finished this fic :O
With the squid ink at his disposal, Hook had all he needed. By the time the next day dawned, he had made his plan.. Once he’d trapped the Crocodile, he could use the imp’s shiny new weaknesses to have him at his mercy. At long last, vengeance would be his. Now all he needed to do was avoid drawing suspicion to himself. The only obstacle remaining was his bet—if he hurt anyone in town, he forfeited the Jolly Roger. Of course, he had made the wager without knowing who was included among the townspeople, but he doubted that would stop the Queen from trying to collect on his debt. Well, of course, that could not be allowed. Unexpectedly, though, he felt inclined to let her live.
Somehow, he was finding it difficult to work up a proper murderous rage. Something about this bloody town, with its children laughing in the snow, and the glowing decorations that seemed to be multiplying by the day. And its houses with trees on the inside, full of grinning adolescents and sparkling-eyed women. There was some sort of magic making it impossible to think straight.
No doubt the Dark One was behind it. He must have seen the threat his nemesis presented, and cooked up some dirty trick to avert his own inevitable demise. Well, it wouldn’t help him now. Nothing would.
However, he was not, after all, willing to give up his ship to Regina. So, after losing his bet—no, not losing. Captain Hook never lost a wager. But no pirate is above a bit of cheating. So, after breaking the terms of his bet, if he wanted to keep the Jolly, he would have to abscond with her. It was for the best, at any rate. There would be a reckoning, he knew, for killing one of the Sheriff’s citizens. A reckoning he would prefer to simply avoid.
He wasn’t sure what she would do to him when she found out what he’d done. Clap him in irons? Toss him out of the house? Cry? He shuddered. Luckily, he wouldn’t be here to find out.
Tonight, then, while the town slept, he would enact his revenge. Until then, it was imperative that he behave precisely as expected, to throw off any traces of suspicion.
And apparently, that meant going to Snow White’s Christmas party, on the arm of his wife. The day passed in a blur — everyone around him was celebrating, reveling in the joy of the holiday and their anticipation of tonight’s festivities. Hook’s own, more subdued, anticipation would have a rather different culmination. At least half his focus had to be spent on maintaining his outward appearances, which was an unwelcome distraction. Finally, the evening came.
Hook finished doing up his shirt. He had acquired the knack for fastening buttons one-handed over many long years, although it still took him rather more effort than it had before his amputation. He had been intrigued to discover, however, that the wardrobe he seemed to have acquired in the time he did not remember had an entirely different sort of fastener. One simply snapped two metal halves together with one’s finger and thumb. Rather an ingenious invention, actually. If he hadn’t been so lost in thought, he’d have likely been done in a trice.
He wondered if he could take some of this apparel with him when he left. Likely not, he decided with perhaps more melancholy than it deserved. While he had grown more comfortable in the initially strange garb, it wouldn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. And of course, if he left the house with too many of his possessions, she might notice…
As if his errant thought had been a summoning, he heard a voice from the direction of the stairs. “Babe?” Footsteps moving toward the door. “You about ready?”
Killian took one last glance in a large mirror. (He had never seen a mirror so large. If it was real silver, it must have cost a fortune. Was Emma rich? Was he rich?) The style of the clothes Emma had laid out for him was unfamiliar—a white shirt of a soft material with which he was unfamiliar, with the snapping fasteners (he wondered if every man’s shirt had the fasteners, or if they were a specialty for him—Emma’s clothing had more conventional buttons that he vividly recalled working with her to undo). He wore a jacket much shorter and lighter than his accustomed one, in precisely the same dark red as his trousers. It didn’t seem likely to protect him from the elements, but he had noticed that the residence’s interior was significantly warmer than the outside air, despite the lack of a fire in the fireplace. Despite the foreignness of the attire, he did look rather dashing to his own eyes. Taking a breath, he opened the door to greet his wife, perhaps for the last time.
He had been prepared for her to see him—to judge whether he passed muster. He had forgotten to prepare to see her. Up until now, he had seen her mostly in her tight blue trousers, and he had certainly not been immune to the appeal. He had also seen her naked, which was a sight he would not soon forget—or at least, not forget again. Surely the sight of her in a dress should have had no effect on him after that.
She was wearing a dress of about the same red color as his own suit. Similar enough that they might have been made to match. But on her, the contrast with her rosy skin, her golden hair, her emerald eyes, made the effect rather more… heartstopping. And if he’d thought his own outfit offered little barrier from the chill, hers… He tried to take the measure of her exposed skin and lost his train of thought. Her arms were bare nearly to her shoulders, and the top of the dress was… well, he’d seen necklines that were far lower, but none more enticing. Her hair was pulled back, leaving her long neck exposed. The hem of the dress was barely below her knees. And this was what she was wearing to a party thrown by her parents? In the middle of the winter?
His eyes, having reached the notably high heels of her shoes, traveled slowly back up to her face. If she had been at all impressed by his own appearance, he had likely missed the evidence in the intervening time. Now, her eyes were dancing with amusement and… something more. He realized he had opened his mouth at the same time as the door, and seemed to have forgotten to close it again.
“You look…” he began, and then found he had no idea how to finish the sentence. He’d meant to say something glib, but the words wouldn’t come.
She gave him a smile that irresistibly drew his own. “You, too.” She reached her hand up to his hair and did something that was probably just setting it to order, but felt rather more lingering than could be strictly necessary. “Finishing touch?” she asked, raising a thin piece of dark green material.
At his raised eyebrow, she grinned, raising her arms to wrap the cloth around his neck. The trail of her hands down his shoulders afterwards had to be intentional. He barely restrained a shiver, and was distracted enough to not notice what she was doing until she had the cloth set in place and tied in a knot. Ahh, he realized belatedly. A necktie.
He gave himself a critical look in the enormous mirror. “The color choice is… interesting,” he said cautiously. He didn’t think he’d have chosen this particular shade of green over a dark red suit.
Emma raised herself slightly to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s Christmas,” she said, as if this explained everything. She turned her head slightly so that he could see the band holding her hair back, in a similar shade of green.
Looking over at their reflections side by side, he decided the effect was rather striking.
“Ready to go?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said, and she grinned at him and led the way out.
He hesitated a moment longer, taking a last look around the room and walking slowly down the hallway. Everything he needed to leave was already aboard the Jolly. He wouldn’t be coming back here. He wondered if she would notice the engraved hook case missing, and when. It wasn’t as if she’d be needing it. He had asked about it the other night, as he put his hook away before bed. It had felt almost natural to remove it in front of her, as he lay down beside her. Evidently she’d had it made for him for a previous year—there was a rather talented woodworker in town, it seemed. Apparently, that was what one did on Christmas.
It was a celebration one spent with one’s friends and family. The people one loved. In her long overdue explanation of the holiday this morning, Emma had told him it used to be her least favorite time of the year. She’d been constantly reminded that she had no family to speak of, and no real friends. “But now,” she’d said, her face lighting up. “Now, I see the appeal.” She’d been looking at him as she said it.
Now, he suddenly realized he’d paused in front of the picture he so loathed. Her, in a white dress. An image of himself doing what could only be described as “gazing.”
If he left tonight—when he left tonight—would the holiday be ruined for her once again? Would Christmas become the day she lost her husband? His stomach twisted at the thought.
Perhaps he could wait just… one more day. All at once, he had an uncomfortable vision of himself tomorrow, deciding upon “just one more day.” And one more, and one more, and next thing you knew, he’d never be free. No, it simply wasn’t feasible. He needed to be decisive. If he didn’t leave tonight, he shuddered to think what would become of him.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he almost bumped into Emma on her way back up.
“There you are!” she said, smiling. Always smiling. He tried to muster up an answering smile. She seemed about to question him, but the lad chose that moment to come downstairs. Emma was quickly distracted making sure he had his coat and scarf.
“Nice, tie, Dad,” Henry said, grinning. Rather bad form, Hook thought, mocking a man’s sartorial decisions. Not that he’d made the decision, exactly. But despite his initial reticence, Emma’s rather fetching hairband had somewhat changed his opinion of the thing.
“Well, I quite like it,” he said defiantly.
Rather than looking appropriately chastened, Henry seemed quite pleased. “Good! Because a little birdie told me you’re getting another one this year.” He made an endearing attempt at a wink.
“Not so fast, kid!” Emma said. She’d reappeared holding a knitted hat.
“Aww, come on, Mom! I just got my hair looking like I wanted, and it’s not even that cold!”
Their banter faded into the background of his mind. It hadn’t been until he’d heard Henry call Emma “Mom” that he’d fully processed what the lad had called him.
Somehow, he hadn’t considered that the boy might be… hurt? Well, displeased, at any rate... if he—when he—
It wasn’t as if he was the lad’s father. Emma had told him so, and she’d hardly lie. Anyway, he was the spitting image of Baelfire. Except far, far happier. Even now, having evidently lost the argument about the hat, he had a general good cheer about him that somehow made Killian’s heart ache.
Hook had been the last person to abandon Baelfire, but far from the first. Emma had told him that Bae had hardly gotten the chance to know his own son before he’d left Henry for the last time. Now…
His reverie was interrupted by the sensation of a coat being placed over his shoulders.
“Hey, handsome,” murmured his wife from behind him, her face quite close to his all of a sudden. “We’re gonna be late if we don’t head out now.” She kissed his cheek and, with a pat on his arm, headed around him to the door. She’d put a long coat over her rather scandalous dress, although it still left inches of bare leg above her shoes. He hoped the trip wouldn’t be long enough for her to catch a chill.
She looked back at him, raising an eyebrow when he didn’t immediately move and reaching back for his hand. She was so comfortable with him. Hook had her completely fooled.
He needed a drink. Perhaps this party would have some.
With one last, surreptitious glance around the house, he took her hand and followed her.
The party, it seemed, was in a large hall in the center of town. It looked big enough to hold everyone he’d seen since he’d woken up in Storybrooke, and it seemed to be making an attempt to do just that. A crowded area in the middle of the room was full of people dancing to strange, loud music, but he couldn’t see anyone playing or singing.
The brunette from the diner was wearing a dress even shorter than Emma’s, although not nearly as fetching. She was dancing rather absurdly, arms in the air and swaying side to side. She was dancing with a shorter woman in a longer dress, moving a bit less exaggeratedly and laughing at something her partner had said. His eyes found Smee standing by a table of food and drink, pouring some liquid from a large bowl into a cup. He saw the man with the overexcitable dog, sans dog this time, dancing with a woman who looked oddly familiar. Perhaps she simply reminded him of Tinkerbell, from his Neverland days—but with shorter hair. Actually, she quite reminded him of—
“Coats over here,” Emma said, directing his attention to a coat rack off to the side. And indeed, with the press of people in the room, it was already uncomfortably warm in his coat. Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about Emma freezing in the crimson dress she’d once again revealed.
In fact, the whole room was decorated in red and green, with colorful baubles haphazardly placed, and the odd piece of greenery hanging from the ceiling. An incongruous tree sat in the corner of the room, covered in lights, with shining boxes at its foot.
Henry abandoned his hat along with his coat and scarf, and tried and failed to set his hair to rights before scampering off in the direction of the young people. When he was waylaid by the Evil Queen, rather than expressing the displeasure one would expect, he bestowed upon her a bright smile and an embrace. The lad even tolerated it when she fussed over his hair, finally making him presentable again. Finally, Henry escaped to the corner with the rest of his demographic, towing a dark-haired boy half his size.
It was, to say the least, not Hook’s usual kind of party.
While some of the beverages appeared, to Hook's experienced eyes, to be alcoholic, no one seemed inclined toward brawling, nor toward anything much more scandalous than an especially friendly greeting. Of course, the night was young.
Too young, he supposed—it would be some time before he could slip out without raising alarms of some kind. Emma had walked off to check on some of the brightly-colored boxes that had been artfully placed under the small fir tree at the side of the room. Some of them, he recognized from the closet where the presents had been hidden. While he was still trying to decide what to do with himself, she made her way back with a couple of glasses of a thick white liquid.
Well, while he was here, he supposed he might as well try to… enjoy the festivities.
The drink was significantly sweeter than he’d been prepared for, the instantly-recognizable rum spiced with hints of nutmeg and a taste that reminded him of Emma’s lips. He took a longer drink, trying to remember what he’d associated the flavor with previously, and belatedly identified it as cinnamon. He wondered if he’d ever be able to taste the spice again without thinking of her.
He threw back the rest of his drink, although he doubted there was enough alcohol in it to take the edge off of his mood.
Emma laughed. “That’s one way to drink eggnog!” she said as he recovered. Indeed, the creamy beverage had not exactly gone down like a shot.
Her hand gently rubbing his back as he spluttered was a comfort. Until he noticed himself being comforted. Then he needed another drink. Emma must have noticed him looking longingly at her own cup of… eggnog? She smiled and offered it to him, saying, “Here, have a few sips. Maybe a little slower?” Hook tried to glare at her for speaking to him like he was a child, but nothing about her little grin or the hand still moving over his back was allowing him to work up his customary rage, so he was afraid he just looked baleful. Giving up, he obediently took a few sips, but the drink tasted different now, and he couldn’t find much satisfaction in it. It did soothe the last of his coughing, at least.
He returned her drink to her, and she took a long draught, closing her eyes in pleasure. His eyes were riveted to her face. When she lowered her glass, a drop remained on her lip. Without conscious thought, he leaned his head to her face and kissed it away. It was a gentle kiss. Ephemeral. He wondered if it would be their last. The thought filled him with such an ache that he began to lean in again, just to make it not true.
“Hey you kids, save it for the mistletoe!” called an older woman who he’d gleaned was the proprietress of Granny’s. Her customary scowl was notably absent, and her cup was notably empty. Although not, he noted, for long.
He shot an inquiring look toward Emma. “Save what for the what?”
Emma’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. “That,” she said, pointing at the ceiling on the other side of the room—where, he now noted, there was a green plant hanging on a string from the ceiling. He couldn’t positively identify it from afar, but it appeared that it might be actual mistletoe, as you’d find on the side of an unlucky tree.
At his raised eyebrow, Emma seemed to realize that his question hadn’t been answered to his satisfaction.
“So the idea is, at Christmastime, you hang some mistletoe, and if you’re under it, you’re asking to be… kissed.”
Instantly, a vision filled his mind of Emma standing under the plant, blushing as she was now. Hook cursed himself. What sort of foolishness was his imagination getting up to? He’d just kissed her moments before with no greenery in sight. He didn’t need a bloody parasitic plant to give him permission to kiss his own wife.
Anyway, of course, he’d be gone after tonight.
Treacherously, his mind continued. When was the mistletoe taken down? What if it was still there after he was gone? And what if she stood under it, asking to be kissed, and he wasn’t there to do the kissing? Would someone—
“Hey, you OK?” came Emma’s voice, interrupting his reverie. Enough!
He pasted on his most charming grin. “Of course,” he said. She frowned, and started to say something that might have been a contradiction, when his smile vanished, impossible to maintain.
Well, this threw a wrench into his plans. Somehow, he hadn’t considered that the creature he’d been intending to slip away to end might be… a guest at the party. But there he was, with his little wife, holding her tiny son.
Emma followed his line of sight. “Ah,” she said, as though the mere sight of him explained Hook’s mood. It surely would have, if he’d spotted him sooner. She took a deep breath. “Okay, so… Christmas parties? Violence-free zones, right? He wouldn’t dare ruin Gideon’s first Christmas party—he was so small last year. Caught a little sniffle and Belle panicked, so they all stayed in. So I’m sure he’ll avoid you if you avoid him.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Deal?”
Well, at least she was requesting avoidance rather than some sort of misguided chumminess. Hook turned to glare in the Crocodile’s direction, half-expecting to find him glaring back.
The imp wasn’t even looking this way. He was holding a bauble far above the head of the baby, who was staring wide-eyed from the arms of his mother, grasping for the toy with his stubby fingers. Hook saw an expression on his ancient foe’s face whose like he’d never seen nor imagined. A smile that seemed somehow… completely devoid of malice. The child couldn’t quite reach the shiny toy until his mother raised him just a bit higher, and his father brought the treasure just a bit lower, meeting his tiny hand in the middle. The baby gave a triumphant shriek audible from their side of the crowd, and his parents’ eyes met, the wife grinning, the husband’s smile something softer.
The eggnog roiled in Hook’s stomach.
“We can say hi to Belle and Gideon later,” Emma said softly.
Hook nodded without really hearing her. He looked so bloody happy with his replacement wife and his replacement son. He wondered how Baelfire would feel had he lived to see himself so thoroughly forgotten by his father. Hook had a feeling he knew all too well. Would he kill the Ccrocodile in Milah’s name? Or in Bae’s? Surely either would celebrate the Crocodile’s demise. Likely the whole town would.
With just a few potential exceptions. Like the woman who was looking at the monster with adoration in her eyes. Hook wasn’t sure what had gone wrong inside Belle’s mind, but she evidently had no concept of whom it was safe to trust. Sharing her heart with the consummate traitor. Handing her baby without thought to its father’s worst enemy, as if there were no danger whatsoever that he’d take the opportunity for revenge. As if he couldn’t have skewered the child with his hook. Why, it had been more difficult to not hurt her precious Gideon than it would have been to end him. And surely he would have, had it crossed his mind at the time. Come to think of it, why hadn’t he done exactly that?
Hook had seen enough violence in his long life that the images that now filled his head were vivid, as usual, but oddly, his mind was focused on the child’s small face, with its chubby cheeks. The child who seemed to think he was a friend, confused and in pain. The woman who trusted him with her most precious possession—her shock turning to horror, and then wails of lamentation.
The satisfaction that usually accompanied his more graphic revenge fantasies felt a lot like that blasted eggnog attempting to come back up.
“Oh, sweetheart,” said a sympathetic voice from his left.
Swallowing hard, Killian turned back to his wife, who was looking oddly blurry. He rubbed his eyes. That eggnog must have had more rum in it than he’d thought.
“Hey,” Emma said, wiping his cheek with her thumb, for some reason. It came away wet. She ran her fingers through his hair as he tried to get his face in some semblance of order. “What is it, Killian?”
“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly. He was not going to fall apart in public, especially over this.
She gave him a searching look, but he forced a smile. “Later,” he said, knowing that there wouldn’t be a later. Not for them. This bill would never come due.
“Okay, if you’re sure.” She smiled back, although he didn’t think she was fooled. “Enough gloomy thoughts. It’s Christmas, we’re here to celebrate.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Come on, babe. Let’s dance.”
He allowed himself to notice the music again. He couldn’t see where it was coming from, nor who was singing. It seemed to be punctuated with bells such as one might hear as a sleigh passed by, and lyrics informing him of a sentimental feeling he was supposed to get when he heard voices singing some particular words with which he was unfamiliar.
People all around him were jumping and spinning on a cleared area of the floor with what appeared to be a complete lack of any real coordination. They certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves, though.
“I don’t think I… know this dance,” he admitted.
“I’ll teach you,” Emma said, grinning at him in a way that made him feel like he might be missing a joke. “I’m sure you’ll be a natural.”
Just as they reached the designated dancing area, the music changed, slowing down, the instruments replaced by plucked strings.
The wild hopping stopped, and the makeup of the dancers changed, the younger ones shuffling off, and more coming in pairs.
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” a man crooned from nowhere.
Emma’s grin softened into a gentle smile. “Now this one, I know you can do. It’s called slow dancing. Ready for your lesson?”
Hook nodded determinedly. He’d always been a fast learner.
“Here, hold my hand with yours, and put your other arm on my waist.” As she said the words, she moved him into place, positioning his hook so that the point didn’t touch her as if it was second nature. He allowed it, memorizing the instructions, and the feel of her in his arms. He attempted to leave an appropriate distance between them, as she was clearly respected in this town. But she closed the gap with no apparent concern, pressing herself against him without a trace of shame.
He looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and was stunned to find that each pair of dancers was standing almost equally close to one another, preparing for the dance.
“Now… now what?” he asked, his voice sounding breathier to his own ears than he’d anticipated.
“Now, we sway a little,” she said, suiting the action to the word. She rested her head against his, and he felt his eyes drift closed. He opened them quickly as soon as he noticed, trying to prepare for the steps to begin.
He cleared his throat. “And then?” he prompted.
She laughed softly. “This is it. We’re slow dancing. How do you like it?”
He couldn’t resist it. He held her closer. “It’s… unlike any dance I’ve learned before.” His mind told him to make a bawdy joke here—to waggle his eyebrows and say something like “except one.” It would make this quiet moment of holding each other into something with which he had considerably more experience. But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
They rocked back and forth together for a moment, listening to the music, something about love light gleaming on Christmas Eve. It should have sounded foolish, but somehow, it didn’t.
“You know,” Emma murmured, giving his hand a squeeze, “you taught me to dance once.”
He pulled his head from hers just far enough to look into her eyes, whose lovely green was set off by the red of her dress. “Aye?” he said, his voice hardly above a whisper.
“My first dance, at my first royal ball. And…” she blushed, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. “Pretty close to my first taste of… romance.” She broke eye contact with him, as if she couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud. He was certain the words had been sincere, but she laughed at herself a little, hiding her face in his shoulder.
He ran the arm that was around her waist up and down her back comfortingly, and she finally looked back at him.
“I’m not sure when, exactly, I fell in love with you,” she said, her voice pitched low for only his ears. “Long before I admitted it, even to myself. Even before I told you, I was kicking myself for waiting so long.”
“I don’t know when I fell in love with you, either,” Killian said. He froze, realizing what he’d implied. “That is,” he corrected, “I don’t… remember.” He swallowed. “But… I know that I must have.” He grimaced, trying to fix it. “Because you told me, of course.” Bloody idiot.
Emma seemed to take this in stride, starting them rocking again. But the song was slowing even further. Killian wasn’t sure how long he’d been lost in her eyes, but somehow the song was still playing, so it could hardly have been hours or years.
He tore his eyes away and looked, arbitrarily, upwards. That bloody plant hung just above them. Looking away from it before he could be further tempted, his eyes were drawn inexorably back to hers.
I’ll be home for Christmas… If only… In my dreams.
The song drew to what could only be its closing notes, and they had stopped their swaying. Still, he didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
In the blink of an eye, two futures flashed before him, side by side. On the one hand, vengeance. On the other, her. He saw himself murdering the Crocodile, the one dream that had kept him on track for centuries, across the unending days. And he saw things he had never dared to dream of, even in happier days. A home. A family. The woman in his arms. Left hand — fulfilling his vow. Right hand— keeping promises he didn’t remember making. Making those promises all over again, this time of his own will. Cold satisfaction. Warm acceptance. On the left side of his mind, he watched himself sail away, his life’s mission complete. Leaving her grieving. Sailing away from her. Towards… what? Nothing. Nothing, ever again. On the right, Emma, Henry, a house full of their smiles, their laughter. Of love.
And with a sudden certainty, the answer came to him.
He could live without his left hand.
As the last chords of the music, impossibly, faded — had he truly chosen so quickly? — he drew his right hand — his only hand — from her shoulder. Pointed up at the mistletoe. A smile spread across her face, and her cheeks turned that bewitching pink once again.
Another song had started, but he paid it no mind. He heard nothing but her intake of breath, then her sigh as his lips pressed against hers.
Everything was sensation. Everything was color and warmth. It was a brief kiss, but so sweet. Nothing like their first kiss, desperate and frenzied and possible to mistake for a one-time thing. This kiss had been so sweet that it took him a moment to register that the music had stopped, that the sound around him was… applause? Had something happened? He had afterimages in his eyes as if there’d just been a bright flash of light, but he’d been aware of nothing outside of their kiss. He couldn’t find it within himself to care about anything but her, and the flood of memories that had returned to him when he looked at her face.
Emma. His Emma. His beautiful Swan. Smiling at him with wide, shining eyes. She’d felt it too, he knew she had. His own eyes were stinging as he realized what he’d almost lost. What he’d regained.
Unable to form words, Killian leaned in to kiss her again. As the applause began to fade and voices began to return, some raised in a song that sounded lovelier than it normally might have with the press of her lips against his. Emma pulled away for a breath and looked into his eyes for a moment. Whatever she saw there made her take his hand, press it briefly to her lips, and lead him out of the crowd, past the tree—a Christmas tree, of which, he suddenly recalled, he’d seen many—and into an empty hallway.
“Swan,” he managed, his voice unsteady, once they were alone. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but it didn’t matter. She interrupted him by crushing her lips over his. He kissed her back desperately, against the far wall of the dark hallway. He’d almost lost her. He’d almost left her. On Christmas.
So desperate was he for her kisses, that he didn’t even notice that he was being led away from the festivities until a door had closed behind them. His Swan had led him to a room which doubtless had many interesting features if one bothered to turn on the lights. The only feature that interested him now was that the door locked, and that once it had, he couldn’t hear the music, nor even the raucous caroling of the dwarves’ drunken septet that had followed them a ways into the hall.
Another interesting feature was a desk with nothing on it—nothing that couldn’t be quickly removed, at least, with the sweep of a hand (or three).
Her dress no longer seemed indecently short—not short enough, in fact—but he was as gentle as he could be as he pulled it up to her waist, making sure to use his hand and not his hook, however much it might have speeded the process. It was quite a nice dress (and, the part of him that could still think coherently reminded him, a nice party that she might wish to return to with her apparel intact).
When he lowered a hand to her, he found she needed no more warming up—a fact she made perfectly clear by being considerably less careful with the button at his waist than he had been with her dress. It was lucky her own hands weren’t sharpened, and equally lucky his trousers snapped closed. If she’d sent a button flying, he would’ve had an interesting rest of his night. They wasted no time undressing any further.
He’d missed her. He’d had her in his arms, but gods how he’d missed her. And his poor love must have missed him, too, if the vehemence of her repetition of his name was any indication. He whispered his love over and over, breathing his assurances that he’d never leave her again until she came apart, near sobbing in his arms. He was not far behind.
As he slowly returned to himself, he became aware that he was half-standing, half-lying on the desk, with Emma leaning, still half atop him. In the darkness, they shared a breathless laugh. Emma gave him one more lingering kiss and pulled away. He watched her shadowy form cross the room, without realizing what she was doing until the lights turned on. He squinted in the sudden illumination, missing her approach until suddenly she was back in his arms.
Her elegantly coiffed hair from the beginning of the night was falling half out of its green band, and her bright red lipstick was all but gone. He rather suspected he was wearing some of it. The effects of his stubble were visible around the neckline of her dress. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Gazing into her eyes, Killian wondered if he would ever tell her what he had almost done tonight. That he had almost lost her for good, and she him. He said a silent prayer of thanks for the mistletoe. He could still remember what the world had looked like through the eyes of the man he’d been this morning. His disdain for what he had become—what love had made him. Had there ever been a bigger imbecile than that man who’d mistaken happiness for weakness?
“What are you thinking?” Emma asked, interrupting his reverie.
“That I’ve been a right prat,” he answered without hesitation.
She laughed, nuzzling closer to him.
He kissed the top of her head. “Merry Christmas, love,” he said softly.
Emma pulled away suddenly. “Oh!” she said. “That reminds me!” She bit her lip. “I guess I can give you your Christmas present now… I grabbed it from under the tree on the way out.” Frowning, she searched the floor. “I put it under the tree for show, but I was never actually going to make you open it in front of everyone.”
The edge of her purse finally caught her eye, half-buried under a pile of papers that appeared to have recently fallen off the desk somehow. A bit embarrassed, Killian reached down to try to set the paper to some sort of rights. It seemed to be a request for funding for road construction. Getting it back in order looked hopeless, so he settled for squaring the edges.
Avoiding Emma’s eyes as he tried to guess where on the desk this paperweight belonged, Killian sighed. “I have a bit of a confession, love.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her freeze. “Oh?” she said, her voice carefully neutral.
He grimaced. “The pirate who’s been living in your house this past week… may not have been as trustworthy as your husband.”
Emma raised her eyebrows inquiringly, but he thought she really did look a bit worried, so he finished his admission quickly.
“I peeked,” he said, smiling sheepishly.
Her eyes widened. “So…” she said slowly. “You know. What… your present is.”
Somehow, his next confession was even more embarrassing. “Actually… the funny thing is, I thought when I got my memories back, I’d have enough context to figure it out. But truth be told, love, I’m still not sure what that little device was.”
She laughed suddenly, a choked sound he hadn’t been expecting.
“You know, somehow I hadn’t thought of that. I didn’t go for the digital readout, and I guess… I never actually showed you any of the negative ones. It didn’t really occur to me that you wouldn’t even know what they looked like.”
The negative ones. That stirred a memory.
Emma, coming out of the bathroom, a forced smile on her face that was more of a grimace. “Negative,” she’d said. “I’m sorry, I really thought… I guess I just forgot how irregular I used to be before the pill.”
“Well,” he’d said, injecting levity into his voice. The last thing she needed was to see her own disappointment mirrored on his face. He hoped his grin looked as rakish as usual. “It’s a good thing the efforts are so enjoyable, aye? Why don’t we keep our thoughts on that and let the chips fall where they may?”
And fall, they had, it seemed. He looked into her eyes,searching, wanting to make sure he’d understood correctly. “Do you mean…”
She gave him an adorable little shrug and nodded, her hand moving to her stomach. A rush of emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Joy, relief, fear, excitement, hope.
Gods, how long had she known? Long enough that the gift had been wrapped on the shelf with the others. He could just see her placing it up there with a secret smile, envisioning his face as he opened it today. And then he’d had to go and lose his memory.
His memory, he thought, with dawning horror. He’d been about to—this very night, he’d been going to—
Emma must’ve seen something on his face, because she suddenly looked dismayed. “Killian, I—this is good news, isn’t it? We… we wanted this?”
As an answer, he pulled her abruptly back into his arms. “Aye, love. It’s the best Christmas present you could’ve given me,” he whispered. “And I almost—” Unable to finish his confession, he buried his face in her hair.
She put her arms around him and squeezed. “It’s okay, babe,” she said softly. “You’re back to me now.”
Although she couldn’t see him shaking his head, she must’ve been able to feel it. “You don’t understand, Swan, I was going to—”
She pulled away from him, just far enough to look searchingly into his eyes, but didn’t remove her arms. Not yet. She just waited.
He couldn’t bear to look at her. At what he’d almost walked away from. “I was going to leave,” he murmured, eyes closed.
“What?”
Killian took a breath. “Tonight. I was going to kill him, and I was going to leave.”
She didn’t have to ask who him was. She glanced at the door, toward the party, where Gold was perhaps at this very moment dancing with his wife and child, and not thinking of Hook at all. Or his other wife, nor his other child. He could still feel the remnants of the hate from earlier this very evening. And from the last two or three bloody centuries.
Emma gently unclenched his fist, lacing her fingers through his. “You’d made plans?” she asked quietly.
Instantly back in the present, with his own family, Killian could feel his face threatening to crumple. He nodded, trying a few times to speak before he managed it. “I didn’t even know about our baby. And I didn’t understand about—about you. I was starting to feel the beginnings of it, and I was so afraid.” His voice cracked embarrassingly, and he cleared his throat. “I found the squid ink, on my ship —”
“The bottle we hid under the floorboards?”
“The very same. But I assumed I had been hiding it from you. It never crossed my mind that we’d have decided together that my warded ship would be the safest place for a dangerous magical object —” He was rambling. He stopped himself.
She didn’t seem angry, at least. She seemed oddly calm, as if he hadn’t been about to ruin her life along with his own. As if she hadn’t almost been abandoned, pregnant, for a second time. He tried to pull his hand away to cover his face, but she wouldn’t let it go, doing the honors with her lips instead. So gently.
“Killian,” she said. The hand that wasn’t holding his, she used to cradle his face. “Let’s think this through. What would’ve happened after you left?”
His tears started in earnest now. “I’d never have known. You’d have been all alone, and I’d have been off gods-know-where, never knowing that somewhere I was a father, never comprehending how much you missed me, never fully realizing what I’d given up. I’d have always—”
“Killian,” she repeated, interrupting his babbling. When she saw she had his attention, she raised her eyebrows.
“You remember me now, right?” she asked.
“I—yes. Yes, of course! I’m back now, love, I’m yours, I’m—”
“Good. You know me. Now, take a breath and think about it. What would have happened?”
Obediently, he took a deep breath. And thought. And knew. “You would have come after me,” he said wonderingly. She nodded, with a smile. “And,” he finished, “you would have found me.”
“Always,” she said, and Killian finally felt his heart rate slow. Of course she would. “After all,” she added, “I know how you kiss.”
For a moment, she gave him the opportunity to demonstrate. When they paused, they rested their foreheads against each other’s, breathing each other’s air.
“What exactly,” Killian asked softly, “would you have done when you found me, do you think? Hauled me back in irons?” He couldn’t help but grin.
His Emma considered for a moment. “I guess I’d have tried asking you nicely first.” She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe tried a bit of… convincing.”
“It would’ve worked,” he said without further hesitation.
Now Emma raised both her eyebrows. “You’re so sure?”
Killian smirked. “How long do you think it takes any version of a Captain Hook to be a goner for Emma Swan?”
“I don’t know, how long?” she said, as if he’d asked her a riddle.
Killian mimed looking at the watch he seemed to have forgotten to put on that morning. “Considerably less than a week.”
She kissed him again, so heart-achingly near. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, now that he’d come back to her. Nor their lips.
After a time, Emma pulled away just far enough to whisper. “Do you think we’ve been missed?”
Killian laughed. “After our little light show, I don’t think anyone’s wondering where we’ve gone.”
“Should we go back to the party?”
“I suppose...”
Eventually, they did.
————————————————
They entered the main room where the party was held, Emma holding his crooked arm in a way more common to his world than to hers. They were greeted with a rather unnecessary wolf-whistle from Ruby’s direction, but other than a few good-natured grins, the rest of the townspeople kept their thoughts mostly to themselves.
Killian had a silent moment of gratitude for Emma’s magic putting their apparel back in order before they’d left their seclusion—not to mention fixing the mess they’d made of each other’s hair. Her ponytail shined as it had when (he could now admit) the sight of her had nearly knocked him off his feet earlier in the evening. She’d reapplied the lipstick she’d so carefully applied hours before, and removed the lipstick she’d accidentally applied more recently to his face. And any other areas that might be visible.
As the two of them reentered the crowd, their movement was arrested by a figure in their way. An alarm went off in Hook’s mind, as a part of him shouted, It’s the Queen! Be on your guard! This part of his mind had a brief battle with another, recently recovered part, attempting to label her as Regina. Ally.
Evil, said half of him, and Emma’s friend, said the other, more firmly.
The first half made one more attempt, shouting weakly, betrayer! But his newly recovered memories quashed it. Family, it said, with finality.
It was going to take some getting used to, he realized, combining his memories somehow. Although… his most recent memories certainly weren’t helping. She had been so certain he would give in to his basest impulses. She’d bet against him.
He cleared his throat, a bit uncertain. “Hello, Regina.”
“So,” Regina said, raising an eyebrow. “Did you kill anyone? I mean, in the last week or so.”
Killian grimaced. Well, he hadn’t lost the Jolly, at least. But the idea of humbling Regina had lost its appeal. The thought of his demand now rather embarrassed him. “I managed to refrain. But don’t worry, love. I have no intention of collecting on our bet.”
Regina laughed, and it wasn’t the malicious cackle he’d have predicted if you’d asked him earlier in the day. She seemed genuinely amused, and not entirely at his expense. “Oh, no,” she said. “I insist.”
She swept him an elegant bow, with a courtly flourish. Even in a dress much simpler and sleeker than those she’d worn in the old days, somehow she made even bowing look like an action befitting a queen. She came up from the bow grinning, and with Emma’s gurgle of laughter beside him, he couldn’t fail to return it, even if his own smile was a bit rueful.
“Real relief, too,” Regina said. “I don’t even know what I would have done with a boat.”
“A ship,” he said. The correction was automatic, but he couldn’t help but bristle a bit on the Jolly’s behalf. “And why did you ask for her, then?”
“Just wanted to keep you motivated,” she said, shrugging. “I was really banking on losing that one. Thanks for the easy stakes, by the way.”
Killian’s mind reeled. “You thought I’d win? But you seemed so bitter about it.”
Regina snorted. “I figured you’d be more likely to stay on the straight and narrow out of spite than because I asked you nicely. And if I’d let on that what you’d asked for wouldn’t impact my life in any way, you’d have asked for more.” She said all of this so matter-of-factly, as if it should have been obvious. And perhaps it would have, had he remembered her more recent behavior.
“Good to know I’m so predictable,” Killian said, mock-scowling. He had to give her credit, she’d had his past-self pegged.
“Oh, you’re full of surprises. I mean, falling in love with Emma? Again? Who saw that coming?”
Unable to keep his face straight, Killian glanced at his wife, who was biting her lip trying not to laugh. He gave her hand a squeeze. She really was unfairly lovely.
Regina rolled her eyes, but there was no bite to it. Before excusing herself, she gave him a brief pat on the arm. “Good to have you back, Hook. The old version was worse.” And with that, she returned to a drowsy Roland, sitting with his father. When Killian made eye contact, Robin smiled at him, raising his eggnog in their general direction.
Killian returned the wave, but a thought struck him, and he turned back to Emma, frowning. “You were drinking the eggnog,” he said slowly. “Was that not spiced with rum?” He looked at her stomach with concern.
Emma laughed. “Not the nog from the kids’ table. You didn’t notice mine tasted different from yours?”
In retrospect, he had.
“Oh hey,” Emma said suddenly. “Speaking of the kids’ table…”
Killian turned eagerly, with an idea of who he’d see. He couldn’t believe he’d mistaken the lad for Bae that first morning. Except… Except, looking at him with, in a way, two sets of eyes, he saw afresh just how much Henry had grown to resemble his birth father. Seeing him every day, one didn’t always think about it. His vision blurred. Although they’d been living in the same house, a part of him had missed the lad far more than his other self would have believed.
“You’re back, right?” Henry said excitedly. “That was the big…” he made a motion with his hands that Killian thought was meant to mimic an explosion. “Right??”
“I am, lad,” Killian said thickly. “I’m back. To stay.”
Henry just laughed, as if he’d never questioned that his stepfather would stay. “You’d better be!” The two of them shared a hug that lasted about as long as a teenage boy who had too much to say would permit, and when Henry pulled away, Emma took Killian’s arm and leaned against him. “Well,” Henry said. “While you two vanished off the face of the earth, the rest of us opened presents. The kids went first, because they were getting kind of tired. But everyone’s done by now.”
Killian didn’t miss that Henry referred to “the kids” as a group excluding himself. At fourteen, he had already begun to class himself as a man. The thought of Henry’s age brought a recent memory to mind. “What did Santa bring you, I wonder? A car?”
With his missing context, he realized Henry had been exaggerating about the age at which a young person might even begin to expect such things. Also, he knew exactly what they’d gotten him.
“Better!” Henry grinned, just as his parents had hoped. “An out of print Marvel Classics!” It’s been read before, but it’s got every page! I checked!”
“Do you think maybe Santa had an idea,” Emma said thoughtfully, “that if he got you a mint condition copy, that you might worry too much about being careful and psych yourself out of actually reading it?”
Henry beamed. “Wow, this Santa guy knows me too well. Thank him for me, will you?” He did everything short of outright winking to signal that he was mature enough to know who’d bought him his presents, but he kept up the spirit. Killian watched him run off, recalling now that Christmas hadn’t really been celebrated in Storybrooke until Emma broke the curse. After all, it was not the particular day that had been repeated for twenty-eight years. It was nice to give him this missed piece of his childhood.
Killian had just turned to Emma to share some of his thoughts, but Henry was back, with boxes. He distributed them to the two of them. “Me to you, me to you, and I think this little one is Dad’s for you, Mom, but I couldn’t find yours for him.”
Henry’s mom and dad (would his heart ever stop near-bursting when Henry used that title? Perhaps not — Emma said hers still did) shared a tender look. “Emma already gave me mine,” Killian said softly.
Henry scrunched up his face and said “Gross.”
“What?” Kilian said. His eyes widened. “No, that’s not what—”
“Anyway,” Henry went on hurriedly, before Killian could correct his evident misinterpretation. What would he say anyway? No no, my present is a sibling for you! Oops, I guess your mother probably wanted to tell you later. Ahh, well. Hopefully he’d understand when he did find out. “Open them!!”
Inside of Killian’s, there was a new tie. This one had an image of a treasure map, with a meandering dotted-line path leading to an X to mark the spot. Killian grinned, recalling now where the green tie he was currently wearing had come from.
“Always looking out for your fashion needs,” Henry said proudly.
For Emma, he’d written a short story about the day they met. “It includes the parts I haven’t told you, like the guy I talked to on the bus. Just remember when you read it that it turned out fine, okay?”
“Oh god, he wasn’t a weirdo or something was he?”
“Are you kidding? I’m pretty sure he thought I was a weirdo. I was this little kid traveling alone who rambled about The Curse for like an hour and a half. I think he was considering calling the authorities, but he ended up just making sure I made it there safe. He… may have scared away some other people I didn’t know enough to be scared of.” Emma’s eyes widened. “Hey, stop asking for spoilers! It’s all in the story. And it’s not like it didn’t turn out fine, right?”
His presents done with, Henry retreated to a corner to examine his loot. Killian noticed a large pile of empty boxes scattered about him. Killian quite liked to think of Henry enjoying the benefits of his occasionally-overwhelming amount of family. This was, admittedly, not unmixed with pride that the present currently taking most of his attention was from the two of them.
Finally, it was Emma’s turn to open the gift from her husband. She took a moment to examine the small envelope in her hand before opening it. Killian had noticed that she tended to take her time in opening presents. Considering how few she’d gotten in her first twenty-eight years, he supposed it was no surprise. He smiled encouragingly, but didn’t rush her.
Slowly, carefully, she opened the envelope, and gently drew out the single sheet of paper inside.
She looked at it for a long moment, and although he couldn’t see it from his angle, he clearly remembered drawing it—several iterations, in fact. So he knew that he was looking at a small image of a swan, its neck curved into a graceful arch that resembled a hook. Killian’s sudden nervousness made her silence seem to stretch out, before she brought the picture to her heart.
“It’s us,” Emma whispered.
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Aye,” he said softly.
“Thank you, Killian. It’s beautiful. Where should we put it?” He could almost see her sizing up the wallspace in their home.
He chuckled. “Well, with your approval, I was thinking… here?” He tapped a spot on his arm. Although it was covered at the moment by his suit jacket, the two of them both knew it was currently empty.
Gently, she traced the spot, sending shivers down his spine. She tried to say something, but she apparently couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, she brought his hand to her lips, and then his hook. He’d have sworn he could feel both kisses equally. “It wasn’t the original impetus for the idea,” Killian mused, “but with this reminder on my skin, nothing can make me forget how important you are.”
They stood for a moment, savoring his being back by her side, where he belonged. His eyes must have been straying to her lips, because he noticed right away when she bit them. He looked at her inquiringly.
“What if,” she said tentatively, “it went somewhere else, too?”
He raised his eyebrows to indicate that he was listening, uncertain if she was thinking of wallspace, or a second tattoo—perhaps over his heart?
Blushing slightly, she tapped her own arm, in the same spot.
Killian found himself unable to respond verbally, but after a moment, he managed a nod. If he kissed her, he might not be able to keep himself appropriate for a public place, but he had to at least wrap his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.
“Hey,” Henry said suddenly, looking up from his new book. “Do you think now that Disney’s bought Marvel, some superheroes might start showing up in Storybrooke?”
Emma groaned. “They can do whatever they want, as long as they don’t bring the supervillains.”
____
It wasn’t too long after that that they pled “a long day” and made for home. They weren’t quite the first to leave—most of the children were gone, and some of the adults—but the revelry showed signs of continuing for some time yet.
They’d had the beginning of the evening with Henry, and it had been agreed upon even before Killian’s memory incident that Regina got the rest. They began the drive in a companionable silence, Killian’s mind flitting between the excitement of the night so far, the disaster that had almost occurred, and the treats in store for the both of them once they reached home.
Emma’s “Oh, hey!” startled him out of his reverie. He turned to her, eyebrows raised.
“Now that you’ve got your memories back,” she continued, “do you have any new clues about how it happened?”
Truth be told, he hadn’t really thought back past waking up with no memory since he became able to do so. But… “Aye, now that you mention it, I can identify the culprit.”
The bug came to a rather abrupt stop at a red light. “You what?”
“Aye…” Killian said slowly. “I don’t know a name, but I know a face, and I believe I know the motive.”
Emma’s expectant silence rang through the car. Killian grinned. “Light’s green.”
Groaning, she began to drive again. “Well?”
Killian bit back a smile. “What did your investigation reveal?”
Emma shrugged one shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I found the guy from Gold’s shop, and he was definitely hiding something, but he didn’t have a ton of information. He looked pretty much like Gold described him—late 20s maybe, solid build, dark hair, and pretty chin-ny, I guess. Didn’t get a ton out of him except a name I’m pretty sure was a curse name. Craig, apparently.
“Told me pretty much diddly about his supposed aunt, but I didn’t get the feeling he was the mastermind. Didn’t seem too bright, to be honest. He didn’t really seem like he wanted to be a part of… whatever the hell it was. I was making plans for some kind of plea bargain if he could point a finger—had him halfway to taking it, but he got kind of squirrely on me. I was going to try him again after Christmas, but if you know something…?”
She kept taking her gorgeous eyes off the road to stare at him, and Killian decided to have mercy. “I don’t know anything about a Craig, I’m afraid. The person I believe to be responsible was an older woman—likely the aunt in question. Although she didn’t look likely to have a nephew under 60, if I’m honest. A great aunt, perhaps. She had a rather frightening mien, and her skin was so thin it had a nearly bluish cast.”
Emma, who had been listening intently, suddenly tried to hide a smirk as she pulled into their driveway. “Wow, she must’ve been almost a third of your age.”
Killian took the time to throw her his best “puppy-dog eyes,” as she called them, but when the car pulled to a stop, he knew that now was the time for speed. He needed to leap from the car and race around the front if he was going to open the door for her.
If it had been a competition she’d really wanted to win, he knew he wouldn’t have come close. But she smirked at him through the window as he pulled the handle, affecting nonchalance. He took her hand to help her out of her seat, little though she needed it. It was a little game that amused both of them, and they both took a moment to revel in the fact that he remembered it. He had an image, suddenly, of his beautiful wife in just a few months, when she actually might appreciate some assistance in lifting herself. He pulled her to him for an embrace that made her give a little “oomph” of surprise, and brought his lips to hers.
For a moment, she kissed him back, but then she pulled away—just a few inches—and eyed him suspiciously. “Don’t think you can distract me that—” she interrupted herself to give him one more peck—“easily, buster.”
“Sorry love, you must be freezing,” he said, looking at her half-bare legs for perhaps a little longer than necessary.
Laughing, she unlocked the door and pulled him inside. “Okay,” she said, back to business. “So we have a very… colorful description. But you said she had a motive?”
“Aye, I witnessed something I don’t believe she meant me to.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Like, a crime?”
“Actually, I’m not certain a crime would’ve been my first thought, had it not been for her reaction when she realized she’d been spotted. She threw a vial of something at me, there was a puff of smoke, and…” Here, he paused, scratching his head. “Nothing happened.”
“What do you mean, nothing happened?”
“Well, nothing that I noticed. But I went to bed that night next to my beloved wife, and woke up next to an extremely gorgeous and talented lady of the evening.”
Emma smacked him lightly on the arm. “Okay, I guess that’s pretty suspicious. But come on, babe! What did you witness!”
“Not as much as she likely thought, honestly. All I saw was two people going into an alley, and only one person coming out.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you talking about murder? Kinda buried the lede on that one, Killian!”
He frowned. “No, I don’t think so. She didn’t come out alone, is the thing. Into the alley went two people, and out came one person… and one… llama?”
Killian hadn’t been quite sure what to make of it at the time, but he knew the look on Emma’s face. She had figured something out.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “It’s all coming together.”
-----------------------------------------
And fin!! Yes, I have had that particular culprit in my head the whole time hahaha. There are a couple clues scattered here and there. Hope it was a fun surprise and not a "...really."
My inspiration for the tattoo is this design from JustDuckyHandcrafted on Etsy! I knew generally what I wanted it to look like, but when I went searching and found this, it was the exact vibe I was looking for! (Let me know if you're reading this from a future where the link doesn't work--I should have the picture saved somewhere)
Hope you've enjoyed! I was serious about the epilogue, if there's anything you can think of that's missing. I have a writing group that meets every week now, and I've gotten a lot better about consistency in the last month or two.
listen, sometimes it's more powerful for a fictional relationship to be a friendship precisely because friendship is devalued in comparison to romance. anyone can sacrifice themself for the love of their life. but for a friend? if anything, that kind of devotion can be even more moving than if the relationship is romantic. there's a real dramatic power to prioritising friendship in your narratives sometimes.
I lack sufficient data to be sure of my conclusion, but I believe this feeling correlates closest to what your people call…happiness. Our partnership is at an end, and even as we speak, I feel my consciousness fading away. Before I enter the sleep that calls me to the sword, I wish to relay to you words that I recorded many times over the course of our journey. Many have said them to you thus far, but I now wish to say them for myself…
janainaart
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
izzy806
discoholicmusic
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
