This morning, he woke up with a shooting pain behind the head and an aching heart. He was still laying on the cold wooden floor of his cabin, collecting his thoughts, the ship gently rocking below him. Last night was a blur, messy bunch of pictures - he remembered the tavern, he surely remembered the rum. That was pretty much the only thing he could remember, drinking. Which was a great explanation of why he had slept on the floor instead of his bunk, which was a few steps away. But still, something was off. Something was missing below the scrambled memories, and he couldn't put his finger on it.
It was when he least expected it that the memory flashed behind his eyes - the wild, sun-kissed blond hair, the bright green eyes, the porcelain pale skin. He remembered the heat, the way her body was pressed against his. He remembered gently, slowly touching her. He remembered the kiss, her mouth impatiently crashing against his, his fingers playing with the long, wavy strands of hair. He remembered her grin, her fierce gaze.
She knew what she was doing, she wasn't afraid of him, wasn't afraid of the stories she had heard. She knew who he was, the fearsome, bloodthirsty pirate but she wasn't scared to approach him. The weirdest thing was the familiarity, the intimacy, as if they had known each other for a long time. She was sweet but yet impatient, almost desperately yanking him by the lapel of his coat as if she has done it before. Why was she so gentle? Giggling and smiling, pressing her body against his.
She was a vision of perfection and for a moment, he wondered if she was just a dream.
(What are you boys playing?)
His head was hurting and he couldn't shake the memories out of his mind. As if he had unlocked the whole puzzle, and the pieces were coming together, retracing his evening with the blonde bar wench. She was sitting close to him at the tavern table, yellow and orange lights dancing on her skin, soft curls falling over the bare skin exposed by the cleavage of her dress. Soon he had forgotten about the other lasses, about the rest of his crew, captivated by her. Her sparkling eyes, her confidence. And gods, everything in her was so tantalizing. The nearly finished bottle of rum was standing between them and he just couldn't stop looking at her. Her hand wrapped around his hook, her fingers running on the cool metal, her burning and seducing gaze meeting his. The fire in him started out gently, but quickly his whole soul was burning - he wanted her, god, he wanted her.
(Passing closely, I hope)
He was a pirate, goddamnit. He wasn't supposed to be obsessed by some unknown bar wench, he wasn't supposed to be that wrecked and lost and confused. But she had left him unsatisfied, desperately wanting her and he didn't even know her name.
She haunted him. He remembered small details - the sound of her chuckle; the scar on her chest, next to her heart; her confident smirk; the way her silky hair was tickling his skin; her smooth touch. She haunted him and he hated himself for it. He, Captain Hook, couldn't forget a woman he saw for no more than a few hours.
He would have gone after her.
If only he had known something about her. But he didn't. Nobody did. She was like a ghost, and she had disappeared into oblivion. It was like no one had seen her, as if his blonde bar wench had never existed. For a little while, he chased after her but it was useless. Killian Jones was really good at finding things - or in this case, people. He could find rare and unusual objects, hidden and buried treasures, gold and jewels. But he couldn't find her.
And yeah, he hated himself. It was distracting him. Distracting him from Milah, from the loss, the pain, the bitterness, from the anger. From getting his revenge. But the death of his first love was a deep injury, a wound that wouldn't heal. He was wasting time. Wasting time obsessing over that bloody bar wench. He had his quest. He had to find a way to kill the Dark One. He had to avenge her. And, as time went by, he forgot the damn bar wench.
Or at least, he thought so.
/
He was tied up a tree and she was holding a knife to his throat. Her sea green eyes were wary, her expression was guarded. She looked fierce and menacing and he swore he knew her.
He was walking behind her after they had detached him, heading for the beanstalk. His gaze roamed over her, practically analyzing her. Her walk was steady and confident. Thick curls were falling over her back, golden locks against the dark red leather. It reminded him something, but he didn't know what. She felt like an old memory, buried somewhere in his brain, impossible to remember because he has lived an awfully long life.
She talked to him, reserved and definitely not afraid of him. She had heard stories, she knew who he was, tales about the hook and the piracy - but she wasn't scared.
He couldn't know her - she was from another realm - but it still felt as he did.
He quickly forgot about it. He had to find the compass, to get to Storybrooke, to skin his Crocodile.
/
The Neverland jungle is hot, the air is humid and he hates this place. He hates it but he's back. Back after years and years and years of trying to leave this island. He's back and he has given up on his revenge. He's helping Emma and her family, they're trying to save her little lad. He's still unsure of why he has done it but he wants to be a better man. A man of honor.
Maybe it was for himself.
Maybe it was for her.
Somehow he ends up saving David. The Prince is stubborn and annoying but there's no way he could have let him die. And for once, Emma is thanking him. He feels good, actually feels worthy of somebody's interest and he flirts a bit a bit, like he is used to.
Oh, that's all your father life is worth to you?
He doesn't expect her to kiss him. But, before he even understands it, she's gripping on his coat and her lips are pressed against his. She's kissing him like there's no tomorrow, pulling at his lapel and he feels the hunger, the passion, a burning flame waking inside him. His forehead rests against hers, their noses bumps, he feels her hot breath against his mouth.
He has a feeling of déjà-vu but he doesn't think too much about it. He brings his hand to his mouth, fingers brushing against his lips - they're still burning from the kiss. He's screwed.
He can't stop thinking about her. It's like he's always been hers.
This time, he doesn't forget her.