A/N:I'm not a fan of Captain Swan or of Hook in general, so read at your own risk. I don't own anything.
If you were the average man from this world, from this century, you would stop for a second, would hesitate before you did what you are about to do.
Luckily for her, you are not from this century and definitely not from this world—all the better to rock hers —and you don't pause, don't think, as you rap three times against the door, the secret knock you had seen her teaching Henry once.
She doesn't answer right away, and it doesn't surprise or deter you; she's home. You know she's home, she has to be home; it's too damn late for her to be out, and she's probably still recovering from earlier.
Plus, you know, there's the fact that you're here, secret-knocking at her door past midnight. You've been at her beck-and-call all this time, and it's time she returned the favor now that you two got together. You're a perfect gentleman, of course; but a man's got an itch and she needs to take care of it.
The fourth time you've knocked on the door, she answers, all tangled blonde hair and flannel pajama pants and drooping eyes.
Eyes that spring open in surprise when they see you leaning against her doorway, smarmy grin already fixed in place.
"Hey, beautiful."
(You wonder why she's not wearing that pretty little slip she was wearing in your dreams.)
"Hook."
(You pretend you don't notice the cold tone or the way her hand hasn't left the door knob or the way the fingers of her other hand are twitching around.)
"Swan," you say, deep and husky, trying to lean a little closer to her. "Listen, I know we just started this," you say, the crooked finger of your good hand gesturing to the space between the two of you, "but I need a nice, full dose of Emma Swan. I got an itch I can't quite scratch and I was thinking maybe you—"
"Let me stop you right there. We need to talk, Hook—"
"Later," you say, and you push away from the doorframe and you go to grab her and kiss her and—
And then her hands are on your chest and then you're on the floor, looking up into her eyes.
"No. Not later, now.
"I know you probably think what happened at Granny's was me finally giving into you and your charm and your innuendos. But it wasn't; it was a fluke. I was—am—tired and grieving and a whole slew of emotions, and I wanted to do something. To have control of something, it didn't matter what. I know I used you, and I'm sorry, but there isn't an us. There can't be an us—"
"But why the hell not? I love you a whole fuckin' lot, Swan. And that's not easy for me to admit. Give me one good reason."
"I'll give you three. One, you may lust after me, but you don't know the first thing about me, so there's no way you actually like me. Two, I just said that I'm dealing with a lot of shit right now," a finger flicking up with each number, blue eyes hard in the pale light spilling from the apartment, "and the most important point, I don't even like you, so I definitely don't love you."
"That's not what it felt like at Granny's."
"God, have you even been listening to me at all? I was sad and lonely and I was using you. I'm not ready for anything, and even if I was, I wouldn't be with you. You're a douchebag, you were obsessed with revenge—"
"But I got over that, for you! And I could change, for you. C'mon Swan, don't be like this!"
"Be like what? Honest? Let me spell this out for you, Hook. I don't like you. At. All. I already had a Gwen Stacey to my Peter Parker. Now get out of my building before I kick you out."
"What?"
"Get. Out."
You're stand up, your retort dying in your mouth as she slams the door in your face. It's not until your outside, staring at a window to (what you think is) her apartment.
"This is far from over, Swan!"
A light flicks on in a window two down from the hers, and the shadow there flips you off.
Asshole.
Two weeks go by. Every other night you walk to her apartment. You don't knock—apparently your lady love needs some time to cool off—right up until tonight.
Tonight, you need to see her.
You are just a little bit drunk, just barely drunk enough to forget the past two weeks of hell, just drunk enough to think that kiss happened mere hours ago.
It's only ten thirty this time, but you figure she's home because her car is in her parking spot, she got off her shift two hours ago, she doesn't have Henry this week, and she has a fairly early shift tomorrow, so she wouldn't stay out too late.
What can you say? You know Emma Swan. You love Emma Swan.
(You ignore the little voice in the back of your head telling you that this is just you thinking with your dick.)
You aren't surprised when you are standing outside her apartment door and you hear the murmur of voices. Probably the Charmings or Regina, you think to yourself. This almost makes you pause, almost, but remember: you are not a normal man. You are Hook, the most feared pirate in all the land.
(Well, this land.)
You are surprised, however, when a defined-but-always-scruffy man answers the door.
"You aren't Henry." He says, and you're pretty sure your jaw drops because what in hell is going on?
But you're Hook, and that means something, dammit. It means swagger and charm and half-smirks and smudged eyeliner. You bite back the customary what-the-fuck-I-thought-you-were-dead, and respond with the patented lazy half smirk and—
And nothing.
You've got nothing.
Killian Jones, the Captain Hook, has absolutely nothing to say. You're just standing there with your mouth hanging open, staring at this person in front of you.
"Neal? Who's at the—oh." And there's Swan, her arm wrapped around Neal Cassidy's waist.
Her eyes narrow as she takes you in, appreciating your assets.
"Oh? Swan, is that all you've got? Just a measly oh? Oh, it's no big deal, the dead come back every single day and no one bothered to tell Hook about it. Oh, it's—" Emma's eyes are slits, and Neal's got arm wrapped around her waist, holding her from reaching out to you.
Your arm is supposed to be doing that.
You take in her mussed hair and his unbuttoned jeans, and you snap.
"And you!" You refocus your gaze onto Neal, gesturing wildly, "You just think you can swoop in here and snatch her back up because you're not dead? Well, I've got news for you mate—"
Their arms drop and Emma steps forward and she is pale and her eyes are hard and she is ready for a fight.
You are so caught up in wondering if her eyes are ever soft, you don't even realize that she punched you until you are on the floor, clutching your bleeding nose.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," you mutter to the floor.
Suddenly, there are wide, warm hands on the back of your jacket, and you are being dragged down steps, and then there is nothing but you and the cool, cool air.
"Get the fuck out of here. Get out of Storybrooke. Don't come back. I don't care what you do, so long as I never have to see you again." Alcohol and a broken and bloody nose aren't exactly clarifying, but you see (think) that it's Emma whose talking, a few feet away from the man who dragged you down here.
"Or you'll what?"
And she opens her mouth to speak, but the deeper voice from before cuts her off.
"I'll turn every single powerful person in this town against you. It shouldn't be hard, considering that basically all of them care about us, or owe us, and none of them really even like you that much."
Emma looks at the other person, smiles at them with soft eyes before she refocuses on you.
(The softness is gone so fast you wonder if your inebriated brain imagined it.)
"You don't want that, trust me. Because we will get the Dark One to go after you. We will get Regina to go after you. And you can be damn certain that if they don't destroy you, I will."
(You don't bother to say that she might destroy you either way.)
They turn around and leave you on the sidewalk.
Two weeks after that last encounter, and four weeks after the first, you and Tink are taking the Jolly Roger for a cruise when Tink sends you a smile that almost makes you feel things.
"But Tink," you say, "I could change for you. I love you."
"No, you don't," she says, and she's smiling sadly. "You don't, and that's okay. Because I don't love you. And that's okay too."
Nothing ever seems to work out for you.
You assume there's nothing left for you to do but what you do best: get revenge.