#I went looking for references of maritime naval uniforms for them as well but nothing in particular stood out to me :P A shame

[sysig]

Only the cutest prettiest sparkliest aliens (Patreon)

Bonus comparison | 2023 | 2021

Oh no he’s been yasssified

[ohmightydevviepuu]

happy birthday!

for my twin separated by a time-slip, my very favorite sexy librarian @shireness-says

please enjoy this lieutenant duckling-flavored persuasion drabble as a sign of my affection.   i hope your day is full of friends and wine and macaroni and cheese as you embark on the next quarter-century!

(also the amazing @profdanglaisstuff chiming in with emma’s side of the story)

no two hearts AO3

Coming here was a mistake.

Killian Jones--Captain Killian Jones--knew it the moment he found himself staring into an extraordinary world anchored only by the green emeralds that were her eyes. His breathing hitched; his posture faltered. He forgot everything: Where he was, who he was.

When he was.

He had never believed in destiny until that moment, the moment when Killian Jones--Cadet Killian Jones--stumbled upon her.

Or, perhaps, the moment she stumbled upon him. It had been much the same, the desire to run his fingers through his hair, wondering if he had somehow hit his head. Her eyes widened and he had forgotten everything until she’d just as quickly looked away, her lips parted slightly--

Her hand was on his arm; she jerked it away as soon as she realised, giving him a small shove as she did so. And yet something inside of him prevented him from stepping back, from moving as she so clearly wanted him to; as if he had waited his entire life for exactly this.

“Your hand is cut,” he’d said. “Let me help you.”

And, without waiting for an answer, he’d lifted her hand in his, pulling his handkerchief from his uniform pocket.

“It’s fine,” she’d said, but he was already wrapping the cloth around her palm, memorising the feel of her skin and the lines that marked her hand. “There’s no need for you to--”

“I am a gentleman,” he’d said, but he’d stepped toward her as he said it and her eyes responded to whatever she saw in his face. “A gentleman would never leave a lady in distress.”

“Who says that I’m a lady?”

He still held her hand in his, could still feel the warmth of it and the quickness of her breathing.

“So who are you, then?”

And she’d smiled; a smile that felt brighter than the sun. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He’d bowed, brushing his lips just against her knuckles. “Perhaps I would.”

And she’d curtsied as she’d said, “Emma. Emma Swan.”

In the intervening eight years--when he had allowed himself to think of her--he saw her as the girl he had known. In his mind, only his life had carried forward since the day he’d left, broken pieces of his heart in his hands as he carried them off to sea. He couldn’t allow himself to imagine the life she might be living--without him--when she’d taken the ring he’d offered her and then changed her mind.

He hadn’t known her at all; that was now obvious.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

Unfortunately, a captain of the Royal Navy was not in a position to say no to royalty when summoned. He owed his career to their grace and good fortune--and, though it pained him to admit it, to her.

If he had stayed--no matter.

Killian Jones, Captain, had no choice but to obey the commands of the king and queen he served; to accept the honor of this audience with them, and with their daughter, the crown princess. King David and Queen Snow, the sovereign rulers of the corner of Misthaven referred to by its residents as the “Enchanted Forest”.

(“My grandmother used to say there’s always a bit of magic in these parts,” she had said, and though Killian had spent the better part of the last decade denying it, he still remembered the amusement in her tone and the sparkle in her eyes as she had said it.)

The trumpets faded; Killian could only remark to himself how drastically they understated the importance of the evening.

He hadn’t known she would be here.

How could he?

He hadn’t known that Emma Swan was Princess Emma, not until this moment, standing upright from his formal bow and recovering from the world he saw in her eyes. The small wedding she’d claimed to have wanted. Perhaps, someday, children. He had never known he wanted those things before her, and he had spent eight years and a half convincing himself he had never wanted them at all; it was a world of regrets and might-have-beens and a career that never would have happened if he had stayed.

Killian had not been born in this realm, but had found himself left shipboard--at a very young age under circumstances best left forgotten--in Misthaven. And the Enchanted Forest spilled out into largest port not controlled by the maritime kingdoms. Better, the laws of indenture were less severe in this portion of Misthaven than in some of the neighbouring realms, and he had been granted the opportunity to better himself by means of a naval position.

(That had been her reason, her plea to him. “This is your best chance,” she had whispered through her tears. “Let me give you your best chance to live the life you deserve, that you’ve fought for. Go to the sea, Killian, and maybe someday--” She hadn’t finished. She hadn’t needed to. He knew her, knew her in all the ways that mattered. “Come back to me,” she wanted to say, but he wouldn’t let her, couldn’t let her.)

Killian had once believed that in all of the realms, there were no two hearts so open as theirs; no feelings so much alike. He had been lost until he met her, and he had never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal.

A bow, a curtsy passed--he heard her voice.

“Captain Jones,” she said.

“Your Highness,” he said.

Now they were strangers; worse than strangers, and they could never become acquainted. Emma Swan had deserted and disappointed him, and Killian Jones had not forgiven her; Princess Emma could never lower herself to consort with a mere naval captain, no matter the secrets of their personal history, the tears on her side and the anger on his. He was nothing more than an inferior officer.

Somewhat belatedly, Killian realized that the King was speaking to him. Words, words, words; words that he had fought and sweat and bled for, in service to king and queen and realm against the Dark One, and now he was to be rewarded with their favour. When Killian and Emma met, he had nothing, but was confident he would soon be rich. Fortune had already favoured Killian Jones and he meant to make something of himself; he was full of life and energy and he knew that he would have a ship.

All of his expectations--all of his confidence--proved justified, and The Jewel of the Realm was now returned to port, and he to her.

“Come back to me,” she had very nearly said, and now he had. He searched her countenance for a hint of recognition and saw nothing but the barest flash of relief, well-hidden in the depths of her irises; Killian did not know how he knew, but she had been, somehow, expecting him--waiting for him, and for this moment. Her hand went absent-mindedly to her neck and Killian felt his fingers twitch as he remembered the feel of the skin there, following the movement of her hand with his eyes.

A necklace.

Queen Snow stepped forward, a gentle smile on her face. Slight lines at her eyes and mouth suggested it was a habitual expression for her, and she looked kindly between Killian and her daughter.

Killian did not hear a single word that she said.

It was a necklace, and it should not have drawn his attention; it had nothing to do with him, for he had left her with only memories. The piece was small and unassuming, and nothing like the quality of jewels worn by Queen Snow, for it bore the patina of constant use.

“Captain Jones?” The princess’ voice was cool and polished, polite and full of ceremonious grace as she held her arm out to him.

He bowed again as he slipped his hand under hers, grateful for the gloves they both wore, and for the second time that night, he faltered.

The figure she wore on a chain around her neck was a swan.

---

Being here was a mistake.

She should have found some excuse to give her parents—illness, cramps, maybe thrown herself down the stairs, anything to get out of this, to postpone this awful moment she knew was coming. What she’d always known was coming. It was too late now, though, far too late for escape and… oh, gods she’d forgotten how blue his eyes were. Or no, not forgotten, just that her memories could never be more than a pale reflection of the reality of him.

She’d been raised on tales of true love, but even as the fabled child born of it had never quite believed the tales were real. Until that long-ago day, that young cadet, the gentle touch of his hands on hers and the warmth in his gorgeous eyes as he’d tied his handkerchief around her hand. Warmth for her, for Emma, not for the royal princess, heir to the throne of her kingdom. The shortness in her breath and the pounding of her heart as she’d exchanged with him those fateful words.

“So who are you, then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would.”

She’d thought of him since, oh yes, every day of eight interminable years. Every storm that rolled in from the sea was agony to her, her greatest fear that he would be lost in the waves and that she might never know… for who would report the death of a simple naval captain to the Princess of Misthaven?

And now that he was here, whole and safe and in her throne room, she realised that her greatest fear was for him to look at her as he was doing, with cold indifference in those blue eyes that had once shone bright with love. Until the day she broke her promise, returned his ring to him and sent him on his way.

They should never have met, this she knew, and she almost wished they never had. Perhaps then she could have been content with the weedy princes and dukes her parents tried to foist on her—but once a woman has known the touch of Killian Jones, she doesn’t go back.

He’d never said this to her, she thought, though it was something he would say, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow to make her laugh. No one had ever made her laugh as he did, teasing the lighthearted girl out of the over-serious princess, by simple virtue of not knowing that she was the princess.

Well, now he knew. And though his face was blank, his posture straight as was befitting his rank and station, Emma fancied she could see the betrayal she knew he must be feeling in those eyes.

It wasn’t because of who you are, or who I am, she wanted to cry, wanted to take his hand in hers and beg him to understand. It was for you. To give you your best chance at success. What would you have been if you had stayed with me? What could you have been, if I denied you your destiny?

She’d allowed herself the indulgence of fantasy, of the simple life they had built together in their minds. The intimate wedding, the cottage by the sea. The children, she thought with a piercing ache; the little blue-eyed girl that she could see so clearly in her mind. She’d allowed herself to think that maybe, maybe such happiness might be possible for her.

She’d been foolish, and she’d paid a bitter price.

And now, watching him bow formally to her parents and then to her, she felt the pain of that price as sharp as it had ever been. Once she had believed that in all the realms there were no two hearts so open as theirs; no feelings so much alike. She’d been so lonely until she met him, the lonely princess adored by all but loved by none.

He bowed to her, and her voice was breathy as she acknowledged it.

“Captain Jones,” she said.

His was gruff, and deeper than she remembered. “Your Highness.”

Now they were as good as strangers except far worse. Emma knew that she had wronged him and he had not forgiven her. Strangers could become friends but the chance of that for them had long since passed. Princess Emma could not have friends of his station, and Emma Swan he now knew to be a lie.

Her father began to speak and Emma sighed in relief as Killian’s eyes moved to rest respectfully upon his King. Hers were free now to feast on him, to enumerate and catalogue each change the years had wrought upon the boy she once knew. He was no taller but he stood straighter and with his shoulders squared; the proud stance of a man accustomed to command. His jaw looked sharp, the beard upon it thicker, and his hair was short and tidy in the military fashion; Emma’s fingers itched to muss it up as she had so freely done before.

Come back to me, she’d nearly said, that awful day when she had sent him away, away from her but to the life he deserved, the fortune and riches that Blue’s prophecy foretold would come to him. Come back to me… and now he had.

Her fingers were restless, unconsciously they reached up to caress her one memento of him, that foolish indulgence she’d not been able to resist. They toyed with it where it hung around her neck then froze when she realised he had seen them.

Her mother drew his attention away again and Emma fought to calm her racing breaths. Her necklace was small and unassuming, easily lost among the finely wrought metals and glittering stones of the royal jewellery. Surely there was no way it would catch his notice.

Queen Snow nodded at her and Emma, with her mask now firmly back in place, stepped forward to perform her royal duties.

“Captain Jones,” she said again, pleased that her voice this time was cool and polished, with all the polite and ceremonious grace the occasion required of her. He bowed again and then his hand slipped under hers, setting her heart racing and making her for once grateful for the stiflingly hot gloves that were an indispensable part of Misthaven’s formal attire.

They had barely moved a step when she felt him falter, heard his sharply indrawn breath, and realised far too late that in her earlier confusion she had not tucked the pendant on her necklace into the bodice of her dress, as was her custom, but left it out for all to see.

For him to see—the only other soul alive who would understand precisely what it meant.