Okay, so this has been a head cannon of mine for a long time, even before Colin was quoted saying (and I'm paraphrasing here) 'maybe he'll have fun with Regina while he's waiting for Emma.'
Either way, this drabble is pretty much based on that notion and jealous!Emma.
Lastly, reviews are appreciated, as are follows on tumblr – my url is colinosaurus :)
Okaaay, read away!
Emma doesn't consider herself to be a terribly jealous person. It just isn't in her nature to be. On the other hand, though –
Stubborn? Yes. Tough from having to be independent and self-reliant her whole life? Oh yes. Even a bit resentful at times? Yeah, you might say so.
But jealous? Hardly.
All that being said, it's not like she's never experienced the feeling before:
When she was in foster care she felt it once or twice as the unfortunate by-product of watching yet another child leave with a new family; wondering, just like all the other left-over kids, whether she'd ever get to say the words 'mum' and 'dad.'
Then later in life, after serving Neal's time in jail, she felt it again when she saw couples in the street holding hands. By that stage though, her walls had been built so high that the feeling lasted only a second before being replaced by anger at what that stupid puppy-faced prick had done to her.
And more recently, she'd reluctantly admitted to her jealousy after seeing Graham and Regina together – even if, for him, it had been purely to feel something, anything, and was not in the slightest bit triggered by a romantic impulse.
So when Emma sees Hook and Regina standing inches apart late at night in the confines of his room aboard the Jolly Rodger, about to kiss, it takes her a moment to identify the overwhelming feeling surging through her as that hateful thing they call jealousy. It sets her nerve endings on fire, rooting her to the spot, and she can feel blood rushing to her cheeks. She opens and closes her mouth like an idiot, words escaping her in a moment of pure embarrassment at intruding on such intimacy. Inexplicably, Emma feels like punching Regina in her smug face. And she hates herself for it because, what – did she think she and Hook shared some kind of connection?
Stupid, stupid Emma, she chastises. Even stupider, if it's possible, that she didn't knock and now the door is wide open, and he's staring at her like…. Like she doesn't even know what. Like she doesn't even wait to find out because, suddenly, she's backing away from them and sprinting out the room as if her backside just caught on fire and all she can think about is getting as far away from there as possible and saving whatever small shred of dignity remains. Briefly, she contemplates jumping overboard to quench the flames and rid herself of the humiliation, but the thought is overridden, quite literally, by the sound of footsteps running after her.
The hope that it was just her imagination is shattered when her name is called out, somewhat desperately, and through the whirlwind that is her thoughts, she's vaguely aware that the voice is accented. Vaguely? An inner part of her scoffs. Don't lie to yourself, Emma, it taunts. You'd recognise that voice anywhere.
"EMMA!" he shouts once again, this time sounding more impatient.
She stops abruptly, her body reacting instinctively to him against her wishes. No longer able to avoid the confrontation, she turns around slowly, determined not to betray any hint of what she was feeling seconds before. Arms folded, legs slightly apart in a defensive stance –
"What?" she asks calmly, as if she didn't just catch him about to stick his tongue down Regina's throat.
He is taken aback for a moment – likely by both the casual way in which she asked, and the fact that she turned around at all. His face changes, displaying an emotion she doesn't usually see him wear, and for a second she can appreciate that it's because of her. He looks uncomfortable, like he doesn't know how to form sentences, and worried. Worried?
Yes, she realises. Worried.
"I – " he starts, looking down at his feet for something to say, which is another first for Killian Jones. After a few moments he looks up and all traces of discomfort have been erased from his eyes. He is now surprisingly serious.
"Was there something you wanted, love?" he asks, pretending to be equally as ignorant.
"Yes," she states immediately and then hesitates, words and reasons escaping her. Think, Emma! Think!
After almost too long a pause (and in full awareness of how lame it probably sounds given the circumstances), she says "I just wanted to know how long you think it'll be till we reach land."
She internally applauds herself because her voice comes out a lot stronger than she could've hoped for. And in all fairness, it's a legitimate question. Neverland, it seems, is much like a puzzle; albeit an infuriating one. For a week they've been heading towards land, and every morning she wakes up only to find that they are no closer to shore than the previous day. Hook tells them that it's the water. That it doesn't like intruders – as if it was alive or something and actively preventing them from finding her son.
So, yes, the question is 'fair', but it is made less so by the fact that he's already told her once, twice, maybe three times before that there is no way to know how long; that their best bet is to wait until the waters become more obliging. Once again, she scoffs.
He cocks his head slightly, the ghost of a smile returning and, for a terrifying moment, she thinks he's going to call her out on her jealousy; embarrass her.
Mercifully, he doesn't, and Emma exhales in relief.
"The water seems to be tiring in its efforts against us," he says slowly, gesturing out to sea with his namesake but keeping his eyes locked on her, still regarding her curiously, confusedly, "So perhaps only another day or two."
"Right" Emma replies awkwardly, shifting her eyes away from his intense gaze, caught between wanting to leave and feeling unable to.
This isn't like either of them, she thinks. Tip-toeing around the obvious; blatantly ignoring the elephant in the room. But the alternative is much, much worse – to the point where even one of his typically inappropriate innuendos would be welcome right now; perhaps something about the silence owing to her internal struggle to resist him (on a side note, it doesn't escape her that this is actually not so far from the truth.) She'd return with an eye roll, of course, and a sarcastic comment deflecting his advances. The banter would continue on naturally, until such a point where she could leave under the pretence of tiredness. She could handle that. She needed that; needed anything right now to ease the thick tension hanging in the air between them, which was slowly but surely stealing her composure.
"Swan" is all he says, and it's enough to send an involuntary shiver racing down her spine. Everyone has gone below for the night and so they are alone on deck, standing a mere few metres away from each other.
She can feel his eyes on her, demanding her attention like a magnetic pull that refuses to lose touch. It's with reluctance that she meets his gaze, all too aware of what's coming next. It's as if it's already been played out in her head, and the only thing missing in the interaction is her answer. And maybe it's her overactive, sensitive mind, but, as if in slow mode, a sudden breeze trespasses aboard the Jolly Rodger, ruffling Hook's hair dramatically at precisely the moment he says -
"Why were you really there?"
His tone changes almost imperceptibly with the spoken words, and Emma can't help but feel as though he's just crossed some invisible line. Even as she said the lie before, some part of her knew that he would have known it wasn't the truth. He's always seen them for what they truly were in the past, so why should now be any different? Alas, as she's beginning to understand, she never thinks straight when her feelings are involved, and that is exactly what he's has picked up on; the running away, the lie – it was all to avoid, to tamp down, that feeling of being irrepressibly and undeniably drawn to him.
And with that frightening realisation, another certainty dawns on her; if she replies truthfully, it means she will have to lower her guard. It means she will be left vulnerable.
But she'll be damned if she allows him to get under her skin that way.
He already has, though, hasn't he? The small voice chimes in again, this time so quietly she almost thinks she imagined it. As it is, she barely suppresses a groan, a hairsbreadth away from giving in and telling the truth. The back and forth, the second-guessing herself – always and only when she's around Hook becoming almost too much to handle.
"I told you" she pauses, "I wanted to know about the time."
Again, he surprises her. She imagines his response to be one of exasperation as he explodes with "Dammit, Swan!", but instead, he gives her a placating look; his head slightly tilted, and his eyes locked on hers from beneath heavy lids.
"We both know that's a lie, love", he replies. There's a definite hint of frustration there (Emma doesn't want to think about that), but what catches her attention is the undercurrent of condescension also present; the subtext of the line that hangs in the air between them – 'when are you going to learn that I can always tell when you're lying?'.
She scoffs. "I don't know what you want me to say, Hook. I went to your room because I wanted to know how close we were to reaching Henry – nothing more."
"Then why," he begins, taking a step closer, and then another and another until he's standing in front of her, before continuing, "did you run away?"
She swallows, shivers, but maintains her stance unflinchingly and stares straight back at him.
"I guess I just don't consider myself to be much of a voyeur."
His placating half-smile returns. "Are you sure that's all it is? If I didn't know any better, Swan, I'd say you were almost – " He trails off for a second.
"Almost what?" she challenges immediately, cutting short his train of thought, knowing precisely what he thought she was – is.
He regards her for an infinite moment before proceeding, his lips wrapping around the word –
"Jealous."
He says it almost tentatively; there is none of his usual enjoyment at being able to make her squirm like she expected, but rather, it is as if he was unsure whether or not to say it to begin with, still unsure now if it was the right thing to say, and unsure of how to deal with the words, her reaction, now that it is said.
Silence stretches on as he watches her intently, gauging her expression. Her heart beats wildly in her chest and thunders in her ears, drowning out her thoughts. So she reacts in the only way she knows how –
"Hook. I am not jealous of Regina. You're allowed to kiss whoever you want." She says it nonchalantly, slowly, emphasising each word. It sounds natural. But the effort it takes to say those first seven words is staggering, and only just comes off as believable because they've been on repeat in her head since she saw them together.
His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow. And then he reacts in the only way he knows how – he invades her personal space; further, if it was possible. She stays perfectly still, feeling once again rooted to the spot as he tucks a stray lock behind her ear in much the same way he did when they were atop the beanstalk.
She gulps down her nerves and prays that it's not obvious how much his proximity is affecting her.
He leans in. His breath is hot against her neck when he whispers –
"Who are you trying to fool, love?"
Goosebumps flood her skin, and her breathing hitches in her throat.
He continues, "Can you honestly say that if I did this" – his lips oh so softly press against the sensitive spot below her ear, igniting her skin at the touch and exciting a warm fluttery sensation in her stomach –
"… This" – he begins trailing warm kisses down her neck and his hands (or hand and hook, rather) snake around her waist, pulling her closer, finding no resistance –
"… And this" – his hand is suddenly cradling her neck and then slowly, so slowly, he kisses the skin in the small gully above her collarbone. Emma's eyelids flutter closed and she arches her neck back instinctively, a barely suppressed sigh escaping her lips, never having felt something so –
"To Regina," – her eyes snap open, and the warm shivers racing through her veins become instantly, unbearably cold, paralysing her for an entirely different reason now – "that you would feel nothing?"
She snaps back to reality, roughly shoving him away, breathing heavily. He stumbles back, his breathing also laboured and his arms frozen in the position they held just a moment ago. He closes his eyes and his mouth forms a grim line under the palpable weight of anger. He relaxes his arms, the moment over.
Her eyes are wide and alight with a mixture of incredulity and rage. Still having trouble digesting what just happened, she starts shifting on her feet, looking down and then up at him as though she wants to say something, but then down again, words failing her.
Hook doesn't speak, doesn't look away from her pacing body once, knowing instinctively that now is not the time.
Her head is a jumble of angry thoughts, a million voices, every one of them shouting out orders to her, and none of them – not fucking one – making any sense. The only thing her entire body, mind included, is agreeing on is an overwhelming feeling of disgust for her actions. Because, if she's honest with herself, it's not really Hook that she's mad at for what just happened. Sure, he shouldn't have invaded her personal space, but he always does that and she certainly didn't seem to have a problem with it when his lips were pressed against her neck.
No – what really gets her is the fact that she allowed her feelings to get in the way of what was, and what always has been, important… Henry. Never mind that he – Killian goddamn Jones – is the first one to come back to her where not even Neal did. Never mind that sometimes she feels closer to him than her parents. Never mind that nothing has ever felt as good and as right as his touch. Never mindthat sometimes, just sometimes, she can't – and doesn't want to – imagine a life without him.
Never mind.
She finally comes to a standstill and looks up at him. Her expression is tired. Sick of everything, sick of this entire night. It's been thirty seconds or so since they broke apart, and he's still staring at her with that infuriating nothingness etched across his features. She doesn't trust herself to say anything, so instead, she fixes him with one last withering glare before turning away.
"Emma – " he says her name again, just like the beginning of this whole crappy conversation, and she thinks why couldn't he just leave it alone?
"What?" she whips back around, her tone deadpan and menacingly so. He flinches. She doesn't even give him a chance.
"What is it you want me to say, Hook?" she forces out, every word sounding angrier, louder, than the last despite her honest intentions to remain calm – "That I was jealous it wasn't me you were about to kiss? That I thought, stupidly, we had some kind of connection?"
Amidst her seething, some rational part of her – probably her future self who'll have to deal with the fallout of this moment – knows she should stop, knows she's already said too much and that she should have just ignored him when he called her back. Another part of her – some angrier, pissed off part that says 'screw being the better person' – wants to yell at him, wants to make him uncomfortable, wants to break down his defences just as he broke down hers. For once, she forgets about should, and just lets go.
"Is that what you want to hear, Hook?" she continues, spite rising like hot acid in her throat, burning on the way out. "Because I am all out of answers for you! So just tell me what you want me to say, and I'll say it", she huffs, palms facing forwards in something like resignation, a gesture echoing the last line.
"Emma, I – "
"Save it", she spits out rashly, becoming aware a second later that he was attempting to do just what she asked, even if the invitation was plainly rhetorical. "You know what? You don't owe me an explanation. I guess I was just wrong to think you had nothing more on your mind than helping us find Henry."
She can hear herself sounding like an irrational, petulant child, but right now, it seems entirely inconsequential. For the third time this night, she feels paralysed by anger. She doesn't even realise she's looked away and closed her eyes until he says,
"You're right, Emma – you were wrong to think that about me."
Her forehead creases as she looks back at him, a little shocked more than anything that he knowingly chose to confirm what could only make her feel worse. She raises her chin defiantly as if to appear unaffected, daring him to continue.
"Because I have a lot more on my mind than just helping you find your boy."
The words are said carefully, meaningfully, and they reverberate through her, immediately, impossibly, greying every black thought she just had about him. She tries, she really tries after how vulnerable he's made her feel, to hold onto her rapidly depleting anger, to not read into the subtext of his words; to not allow herself even the slightest bit of hope that perhaps her feelings aren't unrequited. But she knows that it's a lost cause even as she attempts it, because the sincerity in his expression and the seriousness of his steady gaze has already made her stay, and now she's standing there waiting for him to continue when she should be walking away.
"And as for Regina," a small smile creeps onto his face as her eyes widen and she opens her mouth in an attempt to stop him. He anticipates her reaction, and cuts her off by taking a step toward her, his expression shifting instantly with the proximity.
" – I was only with her because the person I really want, I can't have."
The person I really want, I can't have. The words don't seem real as they tumble from his lips, but her racing heart definitely suggests otherwise. Shock, is what she feels; is what her face displays. And goddamn it, when he smiles in the next moment – a small smile just for her – she wants nothing more than to contradict him.
"Can't you?" her voice is quiet, breathless.
He focusses on her fully now, no more smiling eyes from beneath heavy lids.
"I don't know," he pauses, searching her expression for any traces that he may have a chance, before continuing tentatively, "Can I?"
She almost laughs. Because in a matter of seconds, the tables have turned and the game has changed – only, in reality, it's not a game anymore. This whole time, she thought she was the idiot whose feelings had escalated beyond the point of returning; thought hers was the only mask slipping, while he found it so easy to continue masquerading. But with that one question, all of his actions since he returned to them in Storybrooke have shifted into a new light. And it turns out… it turns out there's more than just this kindred spirit thing between them that has existed since day one. It turns out he's just as affected by her as she is by him.
She looks out to sea and faces the breeze, closing her eyes for a second to savour the moment. He's waiting for an answer, but she's not going to give him one – not tonight. It's not because she wants to play games with him, but she is Emma Swan with trust issues the size of the Empire State building after all, and while this night has been all kinds of enlightening, one conversation can't erase the past ten years. With all of that, and the knowledge that she doesn't want to lose whatever it is that's happening between them, she turns back and instead replies with, "It's late, Hook."
She keeps her gaze locked on his before adding, "You should get some rest", backing away as she does so, still reeling from how different she feels now, leaving the deck, compared to when she first entered. He watches her intently, his eyes never once leaving her retreating form, and she counts on it.
Because just as she's about to turn around completely, her face relaxes and the smile she's been holding back since he said those two words spreads across her face. It's a smile with a promise; a real, genuine smile, the kind which says more than words ever could, the kind which makes Killian Jones's lips involuntarily part and his heart rate quicken.
And it's enough for him to know:
Know that, for her, he will wait as long as it takes.