"You burn so bright, Captain. So full of nasty little secrets. And I think you're enjoying this far too much to leave so soon." Killian Jones/Peter Pan – When does a game become an obsession?
I'm dead. This pairing has killed me. Scatter my ashes. Leave a review.
.
.
sticks and stones may break my bones
.
(but chains and whips excite me)
.
.
We've done business before, Pan tells him, insidiously persuasive. Agate eyes prying out every dark and contemptible thought festering in his mind, exposing the deepest corners of his blackened soul (don't you know, Killian? There are no secrets in Neverland. Not from me.)
It's all the pirate can do to remain in the attitude of careless indifference as the boy (more than a boy) appears closer than before, unnervingly sudden. Neck long and face tilted up to his, full of mirth and knowing.
"You can't fight me forever, Killian. Not even for your precious saviour." Something tightens in that youthful face as Hook involuntarily stiffens at the mention of Emma.
"I wouldn't be so sure of that, mate," he forces through gritted teeth.
"What, she thinks you're a man of honour now?" Pan continues in a whisper, soft and intimate in his ear, pale fingers gripping the aged leather collars of his coat as he leans in close (evoking memories of a past Killian has no wish to revisit). "But we both know better than that. You're no hero. Why keep up this silly pretence when you're only delaying the inevitable?"
Killian looks away, refusing to meet the mockery in those dancing eyes. Forces himself to envision long blonde hair and eyes bright with a stubborn, determined glint. Emma Swan. She tethers him to integrity, like an anchor in a storm. She's stupid and reckless, and so blindly noble – and fool that he is, for her, he'll end up picking the losing side –
Because Pan always wins.
.
i. like we're going to war
.
It all comes back to Pan, from end to beginning, Pan who killed the clear-eyed and earnest Lieutenant Jones the moment he killed Liam by his silence, calmly watching all the while knowing his brother was sailing back to his doom.
It's all Killian can think as he stumbles blindly across the shore, kicking up clouds of sand as the infernal jungle looms ahead. The naval uniform hangs messily from his shoulders, his dark hair loosened from its corded restraint, sticking in perspiring strands to his brow. Tears blur across the horizon as he draws his sword with a shaking hand, prepared to slash his way through the undergrowth when –
"If you wanted to get my attention," an easy, drawling voice observes, "You didn't need to be so dramatic about it."
He whirls round, and yes, there is the boy leaning idly against a tree, arms crossed and a brow raised with mocking concern. Just as insolently casual as he remembers.
"You don't look so well, lieutenant." He frowns. "Or is it captain now?"
The sword hangs slack in the sailor's hand as he stares at the cause of his grief through a haze of blinding anger. Deceptive innocence blended with the cruel symmetry of those features; eyes pale with an opaline sheen, fair hair swept over his brow. The boy's youthful and seemingly ingenuous appearance sets the blood pounding furiously in Killian's head. How can he – how dare he look so innocent when Liam's body even now is in the lower galley of the ship, taking on the sickening grey hues of death?
"You –" he snarls, rage rendering him almost incoherent. "You killed him –"
"Really?" Pan doesn't move from his relaxed position, long legs folded meditatively under him. "It looks to me like I saved him. And I warned you there would be a price. It was you who didn't listen."
Killian doesn't think. In an instant, the sword has left his hand, speeding in a glittering arc towards the boy's heart. But Pan easily anticipates the action, stepping aside with cat-like reflexes as the sword embeds itself harmlessly into the bole of the tree, silver blade quivering with tremors of residual force.
"Now was that really necessary?"
He's shed all his tears for Liam; all that remains is the blood-dimmed rage that masters him. The captain strides forward, unsheathing a dagger from his belt and without hesitation, plunges it into the boy's chest. There's a sickening crack, of steel against bone, and the nauseating give as the poniard slides in to the hilt. Pan's mouth opens in faint surprise as he gazes up at the captain with wide, bewildered eyes.
Killian stumbles away, choking with horror, sickness rising in his gorge. He's killed men before in the line of duty, but always under the command of battle or settling the debt of a duel, always with honour –
He feels an intense disgust at himself, a dizzying faintness rising up inside him that he can do this, that he's capable of such brutality –
He starts forward, a hand outstretched, grief and remorse shaped on his lips – forgive me –
Before he can take a step further, he sees slender fingers curl around the blade. Slowly, Pan pulls the knife from his chest and throws it aside, letting it fall carelessly onto the sand. There isn't so much as a graze on him, only torn fabric on the front of his tunic to show where the blade had embedded itself into flesh. Then he looks up at the captain, amusement and utter fascination in his face.
Killian's mouth is completely dry.
He is no stranger to sights of magic; he's travelled to unchartered realms under the flag of king and country, but this something far, far beyond his experience. Something twisted and unnatural.
"But you're just a boy," he rasps, "Just a boy –"
Pan's full lips curl up at the edges, like burning leaves. "I'm older than I look."
Only then does it dawn on him with startling, blinding clarity. He was a fool not to realise this is no mere boy he is dealing with. He should have listened, he should have known… the effortless confidence the youth exuded, the disdain in his tone even when two grown men had been pointing swords at him, so utterly without fear –
We don't have any kings in Neverland. Just me.
It was there, right in front of him, all along, expressed in those cryptic truths that seem to be Pan's mastery. Sickness thuds heavily in his chest, a bitterness that no regret or remorse can wash away. His own folly played a part in this, as much as the creature standing before him and the lies whispered by a dishonourable king.
The fight in him dies. Killian sinks onto the sand, nihilistic despair overwhelming him.
"Just kill me and have done with it," he whispers in a voice that sounds wholly unfamiliar. The Jewel of the Realm sits nestled in the sparkling turquoise waters of the bay, within eyesight, but even now he doesn't flee. He won't have it said that Killian Jones died a coward.
Pan looks genuinely bemused. "I don't want you dead, Captain. Where's the fun in that?"
Killian looks up at the boy, blue eyes half-blinded by the glare of sunlight on the sand. He feels his consciousness receding far away, into a distant place beyond pain. Beyond understanding.
"Then why –?" he asks hoarsely.
He starts as Pan appears mere inches from him. His touch is soft on Killian's upturned face. There is something terrible hidden in sly curve of his mouth.
"You're too full of righteous anger to be much fun to me now. But in time –" he pauses, watching the captain carefully as though coming to terms with something. Eyes wide with a childish wonder that hides the thirst for blood lurking beneath. For all he's an ageless demon, he doesn't look a day over eighteen.
He wonders if this is just another trick, some means of luring him into a false sense of security before he meets a cruel end, just like his brother (better that, he thinks wearily. Better that we die together –)
Anything is better than this.
He looks up through the dark fringe of his hair, feeling as helpless and condemned as a prisoner awaiting sentence. Forces the words past his dry lips.
"What are you going to do?"
"Do?" echoes Pan, looking delighted at the tortured appeal. "Why, let you go, of course."
What?
"Cheer up, Captain. This will help get you on your feet."
Killian stares blankly at the clouded bottle that has suddenly materialised in the youth's hand. His past life seems to emerge like a hazily-remembered dream, recollections of shoulders back and stern orders barked at his men (drunkenness leads to bad form). So he shakes his head (still wanting to believe that at his core, he's a good man, a noble man, a man of honour).
"I don't drink."
Pan simply looks amused. "You will."
.
.
He's too young and naïve to see Pan's act of mercy – his sole act of mercy – for what it really is (centuries will come and go before he learns the hard way). But Killian, raw with grief and anguished disillusions, is still shrewd enough to see that life is a worse punishment than death. But the flame of anger burns too hot and bright in his heart to allow him to admit defeat just yet. There are only two courses marked before him – annihilation, or vengeance.
He chooses vengeance.
Pan is out of his reach, but another, more attainable form of revenge glimmers on the dark horizon. The once golden and glorious name of the king has to be brought down, dragged through the dust. I'll see your name blackened beyond repair, your highness. You'll be dragged through the mire, your kingdom and ambitions and dreams crushed to ash, same as mine.
Fealty to a crown is hollow and meaningless; the only allegiance worth a damn in this corrupt world is the loyalty of a crew – coarse and hearty and true – men who have braved the terror of the high seas and will follow him to ends of earth. Men who will plunder and pillage and kill to strike out against a heartless king, should their captain command it.
And so Killian Jones turns his sail away from Neverland and sets course for a new phase of his existence.
He emerges the other side as Captain Hook.
.
.
It was folly to believe he could return to the island undiscovered. If he hadn't been such a desperate soul, Killian would have indeed agreed that he had lost his mind. But he's filled with drive and ferocity, mind set on his prize with burning intensity.
Dreamshade. The root of all evil.
Not for anything less would he have returned to this place. Nothing he's come across on his many voyages has had the power to defeat the Dark One. This is his last hope – his only hope. And he'll do anything to attain it. Full of black emotions, Hook hacks his way through the dense vegetation of the jungle, deriving some cathartic pleasure from destroying the plant life that took Liam from him (dim and distant history, but sharply awakened now he's returned to this cursed land) –
There's a rustling in the canopy overhead, a wheeling and wheedling of leaves that makes the dark hairs on the pirate's neck stand on end. He suddenly regrets leaving his crew at the shore (better this way, he had thought at the time, fewer men, less chance of discovery, and they'll have the ship prepared if a speedy departure is needed –) His all-consuming desire for dreamshade – for revenge – has clouded his judgement. Were this any normal mission, he would have sent his men out to scout the terrain, not merely blundered onto the shore, careless and desperate, to plunge himself into an unknown land (like some bloody amateur).
Sharp blue eyes narrowed, the captain's gaze remains fixed on the trees, his sense of unease growing when he sees blurring forms of green and brown detangling themselves from the foliage, and he realises at once that he's surrounded.
Hook has never been one to let fear master him (and indeed, his taste for blood has awoken with disturbing fervour since his encounter with his crocodile), so he holds his hook aloft as a warning, the sharply-honed edge catching the rays of the sun. Ever cocky and audacious, he flashes a devil-may-care grin while pivoting slowly on his feet to take in all the shadowed figures lurking in the trees, wondering which of them he's to address.
"There's no honour in ambush," he calls aloud, "Come on out and give a fellow a fair fight, why don't you?"
To his surprise, his demand is complied with. He hears a low whistle – a signal, he realises – and the figures start descending from the trees, all rippling forward, hooded and cloaked, to form a tight circle around the pirate captain. Up close, he realises, startled, how young they all are. Killian's first instinct is simply to laugh, but something about those wary, battle-hardened faces, and the fact he's outnumbered twenty to one warn him this might not be the best course of action. For once, wisely, he holds his tongue.
"What brings you to Neverland?"
The speaker is a tall youth with dirty blond locks framing his long face. Had the lad been a few years older, Hook would have cut him down without hesitation, but he's not so far fallen in his own estimation yet. For all he's a pirate, Killian still prides himself on the fact that he has his manners, and he won't go looking for a fight unless one finds him first.
"I mean no harm to you or your fellows," he says, holding up a hand in a placating gesture. "There's something on this island I seek. When I obtain it, I'll leave this place without further ado; you have my word." As a man of honour, he almost adds, but something tells him there is little honour to be found amongst this band of savages.
"Nobody is allowed in Neverland without his permission."
"Aye?" Hook bites out, annoyance beginning to override his spurned efforts of courtesy. "And who might he be?"
"You're arrogant," says the boy, stepping forward. Malevolence gleams from his eyes as he gives a razor-sharp smile; a disturbing contrast to his dull, emotionless voice. "He doesn't like arrogance."
"It's alright, Felix." The confident boy's voice that carries across the trees is all-too-familiar; the very sound of sends the blood rushing hotly to Hook's head, every one of his senses honed and suddenly alive, tingling with the thirst for violence (but even then, he should have guessed it was something more). "Killian and I go back a long way. Don't we?"
He emerges with long-limbed ease through the densely-packed trees, the leaves parting smoothly to allow him entrance. A monster masquerading as a god. It's been years and he hasn't aged a day.
Hook, on the other hand, is well aware of how much he must have changed since the last time he set foot on this island; a fresh young officer with dreams in his eyes and brimming with so much honour.
"What do you want?" he growls, his lust for vengeance momentarily overcoming any fear he might have had. Without realising it, he's already started forward, but the youth called Felix clamps down on his arms, his grip so hard he breaks the skin. Killian grits his teeth, the only outward indication of any pain he allows to escape him (he refuses to be bested by a group of children).
Pan's gaze runs over him with undisguised interest; the dark leather contrasting with pale skin, the glimmer of a silver hoop in his ear, the coal-lined eyes flashing equal parts defiance and despair. Scorching with fervour and corruption and heart-aching loneliness.
"The new look suits you, Captain Jones –" Hook starts slightly; he hasn't heard that name in a long, long time –
"It's Hook now," he says, because it is – the very name is the sound of a cutting laugh, the slap of leather, the promise of retribution – it's everything that makes him what he is.
Pan's eyes fall on the gleaming appendage at his wrist, and something – anger? envy? – flashes across his face. It passes before Killian has time to decipher it. "Shame about the hand, though. And the girl, of course... Milah, was it?"
"Don't say her name," snarls Killian as the boy's careless words rend open that wound, still fresh and red and raw. The dense foliage blurs into green scales and glazed eyes as his nemesis – his crocodile – mocks him, even from worlds away. That ghost of old pain pulses through his severed arm as he remembers a vow sworn before his entire crew through the red mist of grief and rage that set him down this damnable path – even demons can be killed. I will find a way.
"And here I was about to make you an offer you can't refuse."
"Not interested," says Hook at once. He makes a contemptuous show of turning away, as much as the constricting pressure on his arms will allow. I'll not be fooled again, lad.
"So, you don't want to know how to kill the Dark One?"
Curiosity (and revenge, mostly revenge) make him pause. Instinct whispers at him to walk away, to not pay any heed to the boy's words that will inevitably have some cruel twist, some price he hasn't bargained for. But when a man's lost everything, paying the ultimate price seems like a fair trade if it brings him closer to his goal.
But, pirate as he is, appearances must be maintained, so for form's sake, Killian raises a mocking brow, newly acquired cynicism mastered to perfection as he toys idly with the ball in his ear.
"And what would a boy know about killing the Dark One?"
"Oh, come now, Killian." Pan smiles confidentially (the captain cringes at the implied intimacy in his tone, as though they share something), "We both know that I'm no mere boy."
There's no arguing that. It's evident that Pan is old – impossibly old – a demon masquerading as a mere teen. For whatever unfathomable reason, he chooses to remain a boy on the verge of adulthood, nearly complete (always and eternally, nearly complete).
"I can get you what you want," he continues, the easy confidence in his tone staggering, and it gives Hook pause. He's still cautious – he doesn't trust the youth for second – but he's prepared to listen. Perhaps he can scavenge a deal out of this. He's a pirate, after all, and pirates can't afford to be choosy when it comes to picking allies. Not if this ally can get me closer to the Dark One.
"What did you have in mind?"
"I've been looking for someone to be in my employ for a while now. Don't get me wrong, my boys are good at carrying out orders, but I want someone a little more…" Pan pauses, as though searching for the right word – "experienced. I could use a man like you."
Hook's mouth pulls into a leer as he raises a black brow (acting as though this is all some careless diversion, like his existence doesn't hang by a thread). "A dashing rapscallion with a sense of adventure?"
"Someone who is willing to kill to get what he wants. Who can do my dirty work when I ask. Think of it as a business deal, Killian. A few harmless jobs in exchange for your crocodile. I'm sure we can both come to a mutually beneficial… arrangement."
A glimmer of interest lights Hook's ice-blue eyes. A peaceable compromise was not something he had anticipated, but the enemy of an enemy makes an alliance the natural solution. Killian is a shrewd fellow, pragmatic, but above all, he is desperate.
Yet, sensing Pan's intent gaze on him, he feigns disinterest a little longer, feeling a sting of spiteful satisfaction at keeping the boy waiting. "Is that so? And why would you help me?"
"Let's just say I'm inclined to be generous."
Killian scoffs. "No offence, but I find that somewhat hard to believe."
The boy pauses, something dark and unreadable in his young face that speaks of age-old feuds and wars between gods. A seething hatred that Killian can't touch; a thirst for vengeance that runs even deeper than his own. "And I have my own reasons for wanting the Dark One out of the way. You can be of use to me."
"I don't like being used, mate," Hook warns him, low and dangerous, but Pan only laughs away the threat, having already discerned the acquiescence in the captain's eyes.
"Oh, Killian," he says, with a smile full of secrets and promises, "I think we're going to get along splendidly."
"Delightful," Hook mutters, charcoaled eyes rolling skyward.
But for all his outward cynicism, a glimmer of hope sparks to life inside him. It's the promise of something. Blood and vengeance and justice, the taste of adventure as palpable as the tang of rum on the tongue. Besides, if he leaves, what is he left with? Nothing but worthless and bitter memories of a time when he could picture a happy ending. A time when he could feel more than revenge in his heart, more than just cold silver at the end of his arm.
So drowning on hell and woe, Hook puts out his good hand and the devil's bargain is struck.
.
.
The game is on and Pan forces him to come out and play, even when the odds are forever stacked against Killian's favour.
The challenge has been accepted, but nothing could have prepared him for a battle of this magnitude. Blood, muscle and skin unlocked from fatalistic apathy and alight with a burning tension, all cleverly concealed beneath the veneer of cutting sarcasm and audacious indifference. And he welcomes the exhilarating rush – oh, it's been too long since he felt alive like this, like his heart hadn't turned to dust alongside Milah's. A pirate thirsts for adventure, lives and breathes on it, and he has the sharp edge of revenge to whet his bloodlust. He is desperate and dangerous and more than a match for an arrogant boy playing at power –
The first round quickly disabuses Killian of that notion.
Desperate and gasping (his first attack falls woefully short of what his revenge-hardened heart is truly capable of), Hook finds himself bruised and bloodied on the ground, a graceless heap of cuts and dirtied leather. His ribs contract painfully with each breath and he coughs up a mouthful of what looks alarmingly like blood. The sprig of dreamshade he had managed to cut from the branches lies crushed to powder on the grass beside him, all its potent qualities rendered useless.
Pan crouches down beside him, slender arms hanging loosely over his knees. His supple, pointed boots tap an idle rhythm beside Killian's prone form. "You didn't think you could get it that easily, did you? Haven't you realised yet? Cheaters never win."
"Worth a try," returns Hook with a crooked grin. He attempts a shrug, but the lightning bolt of pain that lances through his shoulder halts the effort. He hisses a sharp intake of breath, a sound that causes Pan's eyes to light with sudden, strange hunger. He leans in closer, a cat toying with the prey trapped between its claws.
"I must admit I'm a little disappointed. Is that really the best you can do?"
"Afraid to find out?" demands Hook, and he knows it's foolish, goading the boy like this, but he's always been the same – bold and reckless in the face of danger. He laughs, a dry, harsh cough of sound that catches in the back of his throat and wheezes through his parted lips.
He hears a murmur of disapproval – but not from Pan. Felix has notched an arrow, poised and aimed at Killian's throat, and the pirate manfully holds back a shudder – he's seen first-hand the protracted, agonising death that dreamshade inflicts on its victims. A bitter twist of irony that it seems to be the Lost Boy's preferred form of weapon, no doubt at the diabolical prompting of their leader.
"Shall I finish him off, Peter?"
"Leave him," commands Pan sharply. "He's learned his lesson." A pause. "He won't try to leave without permission again."
It's not a question.
Hook groans, inhaling the metallic tang of blood that stains his clothing. His vision grows green and distorted, the forest receding to a distant haze. Oblivion awns over him like a rolling sea-tide, and he sees no reason to fight it.
Pan takes and wins, and that's the way it will always be.
.
.
The first time he goes to Pan of his own volition, he follows the music.
And it's not the low, rapid pounding of drums that set the ground vibrating at his feet that guides him – no, it's the haunting, eerie sound of pipes playing softly, a sound that seems to pierce him straight to the soul. A deep, yearning chord that pulls at his heartstrings, drawing him irresistibly to where he can see the fire leap in darting sparks over the shelf of plants, where the masked shadows jump and shout and cavort in a dizzying carnival of revelry. Killian stands and watches the boys dance with wild, pagan abandon, the unnatural breeze whipping his long coat around his knees. For a moment, he almost envies them. There must be some sense of relief in that clear-minded obedience, not being beset by seething doubts and irrational fears. Until, with a clench of his jaw, he grimly recalls the sounds of crying children carried through the night, the terror inspired by the Shadow, and, worst of all, Pan's wrath if they even contemplate rebellion.
Pan himself is seated in the centre of the circle on an upturned tree stump, his pale face reflecting the strange-coloured fires that burn in the centre of the clearing. A russet-hued scarf is swathed high around his throat as he plays. The swift movement of his white fingers over the instrument is curiously mesmerising. There's a fatal witchery in those sounds that runs deeper and far more dangerous than siren song. Hook can feel it tugging at his bones, luring him to a kind of madness. Before he's aware of it, he finds himself standing (foolishly) in the centre of the clearing, breaking up the tight circle of Lost Boys.
A sudden wind picks up, whistling through the trees, and Killian realises suddenly that the music has stopped. The Lost Boys remain motionless, like puppets with their strings cut. The low, humid atmosphere hangs tense, expectant. Waiting.
Pan lays aside his pipe, his curt nod sending the boys scattering. Felix lingers a moment longer than the others, eyes dark and suspicious beneath the shadow of his hood, before he too slinks away a short distance. Yet still close enough to watch the action unfold, the next move in this eternal game.
Pan remains seated, long legs crossed under him as his fingers toy idly with the cunningly carved instrument designed to lure neglected boys to their doom.
"So, Captain," he begins, eyes sparked into brightness at Hook's unexpected appearance, "How do you like my music? It seems like my boys here aren't the only ones feeling a little lost."
"I want to talk," says Killian slowly. He glances over toward Felix. "Somewhere we won't be overheard."
A faint glimmer of interest lights Pan's eyes, but he hides it beneath a layer of ironic hubris. "Oh, you don't need to worry about Felix. He understands loyalty. He'd die for me if I asked him to." He pauses a moment, gold brows narrowed in mock consideration. "Think anyone would die for you?"
Hook ignores the taunt, pushing down the layers of guilt and regret and self-loathing it pulls at inside his ribs. His heart swells like an old bruise at the memory, but he doesn't need the reminder – it's already carved into his skin. Milah.
"So you've come to seek me out? I'm honoured, Killian."
"I'm not here for you."
He realises at once it's the wrong thing to say. A swift flash of annoyance passes over Pan's face that he quickly masters.
"Is that right? Then what can I do for you, laddie?"
"I'm here on behalf of young Baelfire."
A pause. So long and potent that Killian can almost taste it in the sultry nocturnal air. Even the ceaseless, rustling movement of the forest has momentarily abated in the primordial silence. Finally, Pan uncrosses his legs with a slow, exaggerated movement, and in the blink of an eye is standing in front of the pirate, almost at an eye-level. Head tilted to one side, the light mockery in his tone hiding the threat of something darker beneath. They both know that for Killian to willingly seek him out, he has to be in earnest.
"Now this really is touching. Captain Hook, caring for the Dark One's son, the child of his sworn enemy. It's all so tediously... honourable."
He wants to spit his contempt at Pan and his cruel smiles and callous incapacity to understand anything close to feeling. His betrayal of Baelfire is still a knife's wound between his ribs, those tortured dark eyes another image to add among the many that haunt his dreams. The lad could've been my son, he thinks, a lifetime's worth of misery and regrets crowding his chest. Mine and Milah's. A symbol of the life they could have had.
"He's only a lad. Whatever schemes you're hatching, whatever you're planning, the boy needs no part in it. Let him be."
Pan's brows lift a fraction, as though he's amused – astounded – that someone has dared make a demand of him. As though the very idea is unthinkable. An antithesis to every law of nature and magic that governs this island. Hook braces himself, anticipating anger or mocking dismissal –
And is unnerved when Pan instead looks intrigued, a smile hanging from his lips.
"I think Baelfire's better off with me. Good intentions aside, you've had a bad run of luck with the people you care about lately, haven't you?"
The taunt finds its mark. A sharp retort burns in his throat, but Killian swallows it down, refusing to rise to the provocation (not willing to believe that this boy has gotten under his skin). Careful, careful. Reason still might get him what force will inevitably fail to.
He opens his good hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Consider it one favour. When was the last time I interfered with you or your lads?"
"That's true," agrees Pan musingly. "You do keep out of my way. It's almost disappointing, really."
His words leave something potent and unsaid hanging in the air, an implication that Killian doesn't dare touch.
"Then I have your word? You'll let the boy go?"
"A rather one-sided deal, isn't it? What's in it for me?"
"What do you want?" Hook regrets the question the moment the words leave his mouth. Pan's face lights up, delight playing around his lips and eyes. Tapping his chin with a forefinger, he appears to contemplate the question deeply.
"Fun," he says at last, softly. "Adventure. Excitement."
"Well you won't get that from me, mate," Killian interposes hastily (his sense of self-preservation too strong to allow himself to become a pawn in Pan's next merciless game). He cracks a weak smile (summoning that sinful charm that can disarm foes in an instant), allowing a low chuckle to escape him. "I'm actually rather a dull fellow, truth be told."
"Yet I've made you so much more interesting already, Killian."
His tone is light but the expression in his eyes is anything but. He's always hated Pan's callous inability to take anything seriously, but the mockery is easier to endure than the something that Killian senses simmers below it, like an undercurrent or rip tide beneath still waters. He has already got more than he bargained for with this proposition. His throat suddenly aches for a drink, sick to death of Pan's deals that inevitably have some way of making Killian worse off.
Don't you ever get tired of playing games you know you'll win?
Even a pirate has some sense of honour, but a demon none. This is Pan, and there's always some devil's price involved.
"Name your price," he says through teeth clenched in anger.
Pan appears to think about it for a moment. Then he looks up and the expression on his face is truly diabolical.
"Beg," he says suddenly.
"What?" snarls Hook roughly, for once completely taken off guard.
"Beg," repeats Pan. "If you really want him back, that is." He shrugs, a careless action that belies the glittering malice in his eyes. "Unless you'd prefer I tell Baelfire that you allowed your pride to stand in the way of saving him."
"Seems that you don't know me very well, mate. Not generally in the habit of asking favours from children."
"You did once before," Pan points out, and they both know what he's referring to – Killian, tear-streaked and blinded by desperation, cradling Liam's dying body and gazing up at the boy from his knees. Can you help me?
He takes a breath, trying to steady his nerves, calm his heated blood. Captain Hook, ever flourishing and arrogant, the once scourge and terror of the high seas, reduced to a pawn by a mere boy. Inwardly, he's burning – seething – with anger, wondering just what act of violence would be enough to banish that arrogant smirk from the youth's face. But he's learned already that there's little use in fighting. Pan always gets his way in the end, and any show of resistance is just that – a show.
It's a humiliating sting to his arrogance, but all things considered, Pan could have asked for something worse. Besides, it's not like his crew are here to witness the debasing sight of their captain prostrating himself before a youth who appears to be half his age. Pale fingers flex and tighten, fisting in the worn leather of his coat. Pray they never bloody find out about this.
"Please," the pirate forces out through clenched teeth, "Return the boy."
"Better," says Pan approvingly. "Only this time with a little more supplication."
.
.
Playing with fire is a dangerous game, every move running the risk of being consumed whole by the flames.
And he should have known better by now. No one can go up against Pan and win. No one else is foolish enough to try.
Burning heat dances along the edge of his skin as Pan holds the brand mere inches from his face, sparks settling on the dusted leather of his coat. The red and gold lights pick out a diabolical gleam in those verdant irises that are narrowed with searing intent, and he doesn't blink, doesn't blink.
"Playing with fire, Captain? You know how much I like fire."
Killian closes his eyes, bites down a curse. His faithful fellows are scattered, some already cut down by Pan's boys. He can only hope they have the sense to return to the ship to regroup and lick their wounds – perhaps he can give them a fighting chance to run while the boy is distracted with him, too preoccupied to turn the forest into an impossible maze against them.
"Staging an all-out rescue… rather gallant for a pirate, isn't it? Young Baelfire must've made more of an impression on you than I thought." The youth frowns slightly, as though the realisation bothers him in a way he doesn't understand.
Seizing the opportunity (it's mad, reckless, but self-preservation has long been a secondary priority where revenge is concerned) Hook lifts a winged dark brow, his condescending drawl at its most provoking (wanting to provoke an emotion, a reaction, something -)
"It was just a game, mate. I'm sure a lad like yourself would understand."
"A game?" echoes Pan. And suddenly, there's a hungry, yearning look on his face that makes the captain shudder with a strange thrill of foreboding. Pan has, if possible, insinuated himself even closer, every line and angle of his lithe body moulded against Killian's in a way that makes the breath dry up in the pirate's lungs. He's suddenly painfully aware of the proximity of lightly muscled arms and shoulders, pale skin flushed with a low excitement. "Then if you're willing to play, maybe it's time to raise the stakes."
Pan leans forward; knees bracketed either side of his legs. The torch moves closer, burns hotter. A slow trickle of perspiration slides down the captain's brow, but he won't give Pan the satisfaction of watching him recoil. Not even when the boy's fingers skate along his throat, delving past faded crimson velvet and coming to rest on his hammering pulse. His heart is beating a rhythm fast enough to break out of his chest because (of pale fingers more searing on his skin than the ferocious lick of the torch, the soft brush of forest-green fabric moving against his flesh like a whispered promise) he can't die, not like this, not before his revenge is fulfilled –
(but something tells him that maybe, just maybe, death isn't what Pan has in store for him)
"I'm not going to lie. I was impressed, Captain. You gave Felix quite the scar. Though he's not quite as amused by it as I am."
"Tell him there's more where that came from," returns Hook with a flash of teeth and a cutting sneer. His dislike of Pan's right-hand man is no secret – the cruel, arrogant youth has long denied himself the chance of the captain showing him any mercy.
The boy pauses, studying Killian's face with an expression strangely at variance to the diabolical playfulness he habitually wears. He looks pensive, puzzled almost. "Are you really prepared to do this, Killian? To declare war?"
"Don't think you can handle it?" Hook returns, swift and challenging.
Pearly white teeth flash in a smile. Then suddenly, the torch falls to the ground, where it goes out with a faint hiss and long fingers wind around the silver skull pendant at Killian's throat, yanking the pirate's head down sharply. He finds his gaze unnervingly level with glassy orbs drawing him in deep like some mariner's madness. Far deadlier than the luring glare of a mermaid, the look in those eyes sends the careless witticisms burning on Hook's tongue curling away to ash.
"Oh, I'm just getting started," Pan whispers. That pouting mouth hovers a breath away from his own (promising the impossible, the mad, the unthinkable –)
Some instinct warns Killian he's gone too far at last, too deep, an instinct that has his leathern boots digging into the damp earth to try and get a hold (brace himself) against –
Pan's face is too close, too real, drowning out the surrounding forest, the trees, even his own fears. Nothing but the roar of blood in his ears, the rush of heat beneath his skin. Against his will, Killian closes his eyes, and –
Feels nothing but the cool caress of a nocturnal wind against his face.
Slowly, every nerve strained to an unbearable tension, he opens his eyes.
Pan is standing a good foot away, the torch flickering brightly in his hand once more, only the amused gleam in his eyes indicating that anything amiss has just taken place.
Hook realises he's panting. He's galled to find himself shaking, the sweat cooling to ice on the back of his neck, and –
What the bloody hell just happened?
Beneath the intricate layering of leather and laces and buckles, his chest is straining with exertion, as though he's been running for miles. He feels cold all over. And Pan all the while smiling like some beautiful fiend.
He did something, Killian thinks darkly. Some cursed magic, something to make me think –
"Oh," Pan says carelessly. "You're bleeding."
"Here," he continues, touching Hook lightly on his chest, at the low parting of his collars. Then higher, lingering on the curving line of his jaw, his thumb tracing the rough shadow of stubble. "And here." His fingers come away, dipped in blood black as tar beneath the moon.
And Killian can only stare in a kind of revolted fascination as Pan brings his fingers to his lips, tasting his blood with a slow, lingering satisfaction. Gazing at the captain over his fingers, dark and blatant. Daring him to resist. There's something provoking, obscene in the action that fills Hook with fury and a nameless fear.
"Which of them did it?" the boy asks quietly.
The captain shrugs, his blue gaze searing and defiant through the coal smudged around the edges of his eyes. "Hardly matters, does it? It was still on your orders."
"I wouldn't have ordered them to do this."
"Concerned about my good looks?" quips Hook, his voice heavy with sarcasm (refusing to acknowledge the hoarseness that lies just beneath the surface).
Pan smiles. (Hook looks away, unable to meet those eyes, or the sharp white teeth, the red, red lips).
"If anyone is going to make you bleed, Captain," he whispers in low and deadly earnest, all pretence of mockery stripped away, "It'll be me."
.