A/N: Small AU fic I wrote for Tumblr. Might become a collection of Captain Swan and Captain Jones pieces if my muse agrees.
If you were to observe him on this day, one of the strange things you might note about Captain Killian Jones is that upon the sound of rapid scrambling, stomping of feet and the metallic scrape of unsheathed swords drifting through the wood and into his cabin, he does nothing.
That is, nothing to stop what is clearly an invasion of his ship from another, most likely another crowd of pirates. Instead, he simply swirls his rum around the tumbler, the ghost of a smirk etched upon his lips.
This mightn't seem to strange – for it should; a captain effectively forfeiting his ship – if you had caught on to the shift of his eyesight to the small window of his cabin where dozens of ships bearing crimson sails and flags with a crest that looks oddly like a swan can be seen gracing the otherwise calm waters.
Why this should make a difference is another matter entirely. If anything, knowing that it's her – a fearsome pirate who makes up in fleet size what she lacks in mercy – would make his actions all the more absurd.
And yet, Killian does little to get out of his chair – quite content where he is, in fact – and simply reaches over to the other end of the table to grab another tumbler. He is just screwing back the cap onto the bottle, having poured two fingers of rum into the glass, when he feels more than hears a presence at the doorframe behind him.
His smirk widens as he takes a sip of his drink. "You always did like to make an entrance, Swan."
He doesn't turn around – only hears the quiet steps of leather boots against the rich wooden floor of his cabin – and yet doesn't even flinch when he feels the cold metal of a dagger slide along his throat from behind. She applies the barest of pressure, an action that would reduce others to tears, but with him he only smiles wider.
"That's Captain Swan."
Her breath is hot against his ear, blonde hair falling onto his shoulder and he suppresses a groan because she's wearing it down.
"Of course." He says in a near purr, tapping his fingers against the wooded arm of the chair. "Care for a drink, Captain Swan? Or did you invade my ship to actually take it?"
Her dagger presses just that little bit harder into his neck – not enough to draw blood, but enough to dent the skin – and once again he feels her voice, smooth and lilting. "What makes you think I won't do just that?"
His chuckle is rich as the memory swims before his vision – clashing swords and barred teeth and soft lips and tangled sheets – and in one swift and practiced movement he twists away from the dagger, turning around to kneel in the chair and in the same graceful manoeuvre he grabs her by the font of her bodice, tugging her forward so her dagger clatters to the ground and their foreheads touch.
"Because I remember what happened when you did try." His eyes rake her form and god he'd forgotten. Forgotten those tight brown leather breeches that she wears, the lace up boots that match, the black bodice and blouse she wears and that long crimson coat. He'd forgotten the bandana she wears in the same deep red, the one that wraps round the front of her head with her tresses of long blonde hair falling out of the sides in a windswept chaos of gold. He'd forgotten the feel of her sharp green eyes boring into him.
Her lips hover above his for a second – always the bloody tease – before she pulls out of his grasp, sauntering over to the other chair. "You do, do you?" She says, picking up the rum he poured for her and swirling it about. "Because it seems to have slipped my mind."
He narrows his eyes. "Are you suggesting I'm not memorable?"
She's the one chuckling this time, putting her feet up on the table, but then he's there, moving his chair forward slightly to bring her feet down into his lap. Their eyes lock as he undoes the laces with calloused fingers, pulling each boot of in turn. "Because, darling…" He continues "…If you need reminding…it could be arranged."
He works into her bare feet with his thumbs – knowing where the knots would be, knowing the toll charging round a ship can have on one's feet – and he smiles as she groans softly, her eyes slipping shut, her head falling against the back of the chair.
"God, Emma." He murmurs. "Three months is too bloody long."
She brings her glass to lips, humming in something that borders on approval. "Oh – I'm sure you've bed many a bar wrench in my absence."
He raises an eyebrow – a small voice inside his head, his twisted and darkened head, going as if – and she cracks open a surprised eye. "No?"
He continues to massage her feet – maintaining this newly found eye contact – thinking deftly back to the many occasions in which he could have, very easily in fact, but in which he didn't, his focus always drifting to long legs and wild hair and those dark moments before dawn. "You?" He counters, his lack of a response serving as the only answer he knows she'll need.
She shrugs, eyes closing again. "Been busy."
He feels the knot in his stomach loosen slightly – pictures of her with other men fading , replaced by other ones, ones of her in fierce duel with a hard, blazing look upon her face, hair flying, eyes sparked with determination, spinning about, skilled footwork –
"I noticed." He says, nodding to the window. "Quite the fleet you have at your command, lass." The impressed tone of his voice makes the corners of her lips tilt up in a smile and – knowing that she's faced with many a compliment from begging victims and appeasing crewmen, and that his is the one that sticks – he smiles too.
"Mm…In fact…" Her smile stretches into a smirk "…if I'm not quite mistaken, yours is one of the few still in these parts that I am yet to conquer."
"I seem to recall me reminding you earlier…" His hand moves from the base of her foot, sliding up to her ankle and edging up the leather, "…that confrontations of that sort, always end in a certain way…" He peers at her from under his eyelashes, running his tongue along his bottom lip, eyes flickering to hers and it's been three months since he's last seen her, kissed her and god –
She pulls her legs off his lap and he watches her so intently it's almost comical – lips parted, heart racing – as she plants her feet firmly on the ground, downing the rest of her drink before walking over to him.
He almost can't believe she'd asked if he'd been with anyone else – did she honestly not know? Could she honestly not see?
The thought slips his mind as she straddles him because all of a sudden her lips are on his and it's been three months – three months waiting like a sap for the pesky pirate captain who holds his heart – and he's forgotten how it feels – how she feels – her lips moving against his – grazing, nipping, sucking, tugging – taking the air from his lungs and filling him with the all-consuming and intoxicating being of her.
His hands slide up to her waist, pulling her closer, and with one last searing press of her lips to his, she pulls away. "I see you haven't changed." She near pants.
"How so?"
She brings her hands up to his neck, raking them though his hair and making him groan as she touches her forehead to his, noses bumping, lips ghosting."Still completely unable to handle it."
Catching her off guard – and relishing in her sharp intake of breath – he tightens his grip on her thighs, lifting her up and pushing her over to the large bed on the other side of the quarters. "If I recall correctly…" He moves his lips to her neck "…you couldn't handle it either."
He pushes her coat of her shoulders, chucking it to the floor and she mimics his actions, red and black leathers falling on top of each other, both completely – and possibly intentionally – oblivious to the fact that their crews are hardly making merry above deck; too consumed with falling into the bed in a mixture of tangled limbs and entwined hands and three months of separation they both pretend they didn't feel with every fibre of their existences because, see, every criminal has a weakness.
And the reality is that they're each other's.