Author's Note: I thought I'd let you guys preview a couple of my most popular fics here on FFN! You should know that I will not be posting more than a handful of chapters of this fic here, as I am not willing to violate FFN's guidelines regarding MA-rated work, but if you like it and aren't offended by adult content (which, in this case, includes brief but graphic depictions of violence, peripheral character death, and smut), you can read this fic in it's entirety on AO3 or on my Tumblr. The Long Way Home, in total, will be 11 chapters (~70+k) of romance and adventure. I hope you enjoy.
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"Captain! Captain!"
The sound of pounding feet approaching the door to his quarters causes the gentleman in question to lift a heavy, dark eyebrow, even as his gaze remains on the leather-bound inventory log he's hunched over with the ship's quartermaster. The Jolly Roger is preparing to pull into port at Vicarstown, and he always prefers to finalize the list of supplies they need to acquire at a stop prior to docking. It would go better without interruption.
"Captain!"
He gives a long-suffering sigh and drops his head resignedly, his weight pressed forward on his right hand. "Yes, Mr. Smee?" he drones.
Having been waiting for permission to enter, his slightly pudgy first mate flings the door open, the bearded man's features twisted into an anxious grimace. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but a ship's been spotted in port."
He looks up sharply. "Who?"
Smee swallows and licks his lips nervously. "Blackbeard."
A muscle twitches in the Captain's jaw as he considers this information. It's not welcome news, to be sure, but there are worse things. Prominent pirate crews like his and Blackbeard's do not always do well in close quarters, but while their last encounter just under a year ago was tense, no one died. There's no outstanding beef between himself and the other captain (that he's aware of), and frankly, the Jolly sorely needs this stop to resupply and to refill her coffers with the sale of their most recent spoils.
"Do we continue in, Captain?"
The Captain's steely blue return stare is resolute, his expression bordering on a scowl as he straightens. "The Jolly does not turn tail for anyone, Mr. Smee," he snaps. "Particularly not for that lout. But inform the men to remain on guard, and assign extra hands to stay behind on watch. No strangers are to be allowed anywhere near the ship, understood?"
His confidence seems to reassure his first mate, who accepts the orders with a hasty bob of his head. "Yes, Captain."
As Smee pulls the door shut behind him, the Captain turns and retrieves a sharpening steel from the drawer of the small desk in the corner, running it in practiced strokes along the tip of the polished metal hook that sits where his left hand once was. He signals the wiry quartermaster to resume their discussion with a curt nod and hums acknowledgement now and then as the other man talks, even while his thoughts remain elsewhere. A less experienced captain might view the presence of the other ship as an opportunity to poach her best crewmen or plunder her loot, but he knows there's truly little to be gained by starting a feud with a loose cannon like Blackbeard. The more prudent course is to simply remain alert and hope, for once, for an uneventful visit to port.
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Maggie, a plump woman with graying red hair, plasters on a smile as a large group of bawdy customers pours into her tavern – pirates, by the look of them. Her suspicions are confirmed when their leader, a tall man with a curly black mane, matching beard, and a tricorn hat brings up the rear. Maggie winces inwardly at the sight of him. She doesn't turn paying customers away unless they get out of hand, but it's nearly happened with Blackbeard and his crew on more than one occasion. Pirates, on the whole, tend to be an unruly lot, but Blackbeard and the men he generally chooses to sail with are some of the worst of the bunch; it's no feat to think of half a dozen other crews she'd rather have at her tables.
Maggie urgently seeks out her newest serving girl in order to shoot her a look of warning. She took the young blonde in only six weeks ago, and unless the poor thing is even unluckier than they already know her to be, it's doubtful she has any experience dealing with Blackbeard or his crew. Not that the girl would recall such an encounter, having mysteriously appeared in the middle of their little port town with no knowledge of her own name, much less any other details of her life. Dubbed "Swan" by one of the tavern regulars as much for her prickliness when harassed as for her enviable beauty, the girl's entire past is one enormous blank to her, and it's anyone's guess why.
Their eyes meet across the tavern, and Maggie watches Swan survey the new crowd with appropriate apprehension before the girl nods back her understanding. One thing that's been fairly clear from the start is that Swan has good instincts that make her quick to read a situation and adept at dealing with aggressive drunks who want her services to include something other than bringing them food and libations. Maggie prays those instincts serve her well tonight, because between Swan's physical charms and Blackbeard's reputation for causing trouble, things could get ugly very quickly.
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It seems a small miracle when the first hour passes without too much fuss. The pirates arrive famished and sober and more focused on addressing both those maladies than stirring up trouble. Though most of them openly leer and make the usual assortment of lewd comments, no one does more than pat or pinch Swan's ass, offenses that she does her best to ignore.
Nevertheless, the tension grows as the hours creep by. Some of the men depart after eating, no doubt heading for the brothels, but half a dozen remain behind, including their captain, a man with glittering dark eyes whose lingering gaze abrades her skin worse than the rest. Perhaps it's simply the obvious authority he wields over his men, but there's something far more intimidating about him than the others, and she does her best to avoid eye contact and keep out of his reach. Nevertheless, the rum continues to flow, his stare grows increasingly lustful, and by half past ten, she knows by the lascivious curve of his lip and the increasing harshness of his laugh that it's only a matter of time before he does something one of them is going to regret.
The shoe finally drops a short while later. He calls her over and invites her to share a drink with him. She politely demurs, saying that she has other customers to tend to, but he jovially waves off her excuse and rises partway out of his seat, grabbing her skirts as she moves away and yanking her down on to the bench beside him.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you?" he rumbles gruffly, his kohl-lined eyes slightly glassy. "There's only one answer to an invitation from a pirate captain."
Lips in a thin line, Swan fixes him with a scorching glare that causes some of the men behind him to look nervous. To her utter frustration, the Captain himself seems unfazed as he continues to gaze up and down at her assets. "Still pretty sure it's some version of 'no,'" she retorts, springing off the bench. She gasps when his fingers close around her wrist.
For a drunken fool, he still has decent reflexes, and his coarse laugh is menacing as he rises to his feet, staggering only a little, and hauls her over none-to-gently. One beefy hand clamps tightly around her narrow waist, pinning her shoulder to his chest, and he chuckles lecherously as he buries his face in her neck, his acrid breath surrounding her and the sensation of his tongue on her pulse point tempting her to scream. "Come now, girl," he growls in her ear. "Let me show you a good time. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their pleasure with the legendary pirate Blackbeard."
He moves to paw at her breast, and Swan lets out an angry snarl and tries to wrench out of his grasp. Her free hand flails to his chest to push him away and lands on one of a trio of short knives the Captain wears girded to his torso. With a grunt, she yanks it free, flips it to adjust her grip, and whips the blade up against his neck, nostrils flared and chest heaving. "I'll pass," she hisses through her teeth.
It takes Blackbeard's rum-soaked brain a moment to catch up with this turn of events, but he stills and slowly pulls his face back from her golden curls, eyes rolling sideways to lock warily onto the blade pressed firmly to his skin.
"Perhaps you'd best unhand the lady before she gives you a shave, Blackbeard."
They both look up to see an amused-looking man walking toward them. He's rakishly handsome, young and tall with short dark hair, three days of scruff on his chin, and blue eyes. Clad like a man with money, he wears black leather from head to toe, his long, heavy duster swaying gently as he walks, a heavy silver buckle, clasps, rings, and chains glinting in the firelight. He holds his head high, his swagger and the hand poised casually at his belt helping to camouflage the threatening square of his shoulders and the deadly weapons on his person, and Swan realizes with a small start that the curved silver hook he appears to hold in his left hand is actually a replacement for the hand itself. Whoever he is, Blackbeard's men obviously recognize him and do not attempt to get in his way.
The interloper stops a sword's length from them and smirks. "I'd hate to have to circulate the news that your throat was slit by a tavern girl using your own dagger."
"Hook." Blackbeard sneers, though his eyes remains fixed largely on Swan and the blade. He reluctantly releases his grip on her waist, exhaling when she pulls away and the steel leaves his skin. "It's dangerous to stick your nose where it doesn't belong, boy."
Hook gives a dark chuckle. "Yes, you've demonstrated that quite nicely."
With Blackbeard's attention now occupied elsewhere, Swan silently backs up, her heart drumming furiously against her ribs as she keeps the dagger held at the ready and makes a beeline for safety.
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Out of the corner of his eye, Hook watches the barmaid slip away, quick as a shadow, to the far side of the tavern with Blackbeard's weapon still in hand. She finds refuge behind the counter in seconds, and he satisfies himself that she seems unhurt even as Maggie rushes to fuss over her.
"The girl is lovely, but she seems like more trouble than she's worth," he remarks to Blackbeard. "Best let sirens be."
His rival growls, swiping a hand across his neck resentfully and checking his fingers for blood. "I get what I want, Hook."
"If you want a knife in your belly rather than a roll in the sheets, I'd say she's happy to give it to you," he replies cheerfully, allowing himself an admiring glance toward the bar. "But no sense risking your neck for something easily got elsewhere." He steps closer, arching an appraising eyebrow. "Unless," he drawls with a wicked grin, "you can't afford more willing company?"
"Watch your tongue or lose it." Blackbeard grunts testily and knocks back one last shot of rum before pointedly tossing a small bag of coins on the table. "There's never a day my coffers don't put yours to shame." He barks at his remaining crewmen that the brothels await them and stomps toward the door and out into the night without so much as a look back, his men trailing in his stormy shadow.
Thankfully, the girl is nowhere to be seen as they make their exit. The palpable tension in the tavern eases and the din swells back to normal levels when the heavy oak door shuts behind the last of them. Hook inhales deeply, chin tipped slightly upward, and snags Blackbeard's money before going to the bar to pay his greetings to the tavern-keep.
She meets him with grateful eyes and pushes a full bottle of rum in his direction. "On the house, Captain."
He favors her with a wide grin and tosses her the little satchel. "Think nothing of it, love. My evening will be much better without having to share space with that bloody fool."
Maggie chuckles and goes back to draining a cask of ale into tankards. She cocks her head sideways at him. "You must be in a generous mood tonight to bother talking him into leaving. I hear the two of you never hesitate to cross swords."
He harrumphs. "The bastard's no challenge when he's drunk. Plus I'd hate for you to have to wash blood from your walls when time's better spent making food and ale." He pops the cork on the rum with his thumb and takes a healthy swig, humming appreciatively at the sear of quality liquor down his throat. "With a little luck he'll leave your new girl alone now," he mutters.
Maggie arches an eyebrow, a discerning glint in her eye. "I'm sure Swan'll be glad of it," she replies coyly.
The corner of his mouth quirks upward at the odd moniker. "Swan?"
"That's what we call her. Poor dear appeared in Vicarstown over a month ago without any memories; just woke up in an alley with no idea how she got there. Doesn't even know her own name."
He leans forward, frowning. "Really. Injured?"
"Or cursed." Maggie shakes her red curls with a shrug. "Nary a trace of what did this to her, but she's good help, smart as a whip, and easy on the eyes, as I'm sure you've noticed, so I took her in." She sets another brimming tankard on a tray with five others and wipes her hands on her apron. "Have a seat, Captain. I'll send her along with these presently, and we'll see if she'll indulge your curiosity." She winks.
Hook gives a courtly bow as he backs away with rum in hand. "I do so enjoy your hospitality, Maggie."
True to the older woman's word, several minutes after sitting down with his men at the corner table he favors, Hook spies the girl's golden head coming toward them. To her credit, she no longer looks shaken by earlier events, managing a pleasant, professional smile. It's no mystery why Blackbeard wanted her; she's easily the most enchanting creature he's seen in months, if not years. Lustrous blonde hair spills in loose, thick waves around her shoulders, firelight dances across graceful high cheekbones and a perfect nose, and long, dark lashes frame her big, mossy-green eyes. She's slender with curves in all the right places, and though not dressed as provocatively as many barmaids he's met, she cuts quite the figure in her tight-laced russet bodice and dark blue petticoat, with more than one man at his table regarding her (and the swell of her breasts) with interest.
She navigates her way toward them bearing her tray of drinks and sets it down on the table with a murmured greeting. "Hello. Here you are. Now, would you all like food, more drink, or both?" She listens intently as the men begin ordering, intelligence obvious in those lovely eyes. Then she turns her gaze fully upon him, her expression going solemn. "I should thank you for earlier, Captain."
Something about her sincerity causes him to feel almost shy, but he acknowledges her thanks with a tip of his head. "Yes, well, I'll have you know your quick thinking deprived me of a dashing rescue."
His words cause her to smile – this time a real, gorgeous, self-satisfied smile that reaches her eyes and causes his throat to tighten. She shrugs, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks. "Sorry. The only one who saves me is me, I guess," she says with a slight blush.
He chuckles. "Tough lass." He holds out his hand. "Captain Killian Jones. They call me Hook."
"They call me Swan," she returns. Her palm is soft as it slides into his rough one, but the handshake she gives him is confident and solid.
He turns her hand over and presses a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles before letting go, enjoying the way the color in her face deepens. "So I hear."
The next few hours are something of a blur to him as he spends it eating and drinking and playing dice, all the while trying his best to keep from openly staring at the Swan girl as she goes about her work. She's a delight to watch – graceful, observant, efficient, and savvy when it comes to handling the rougher clientele. Her fierceness doesn't end with her encounter with Blackbeard – a grin tugs at his lips each time she uses a baleful stare or a sharp quip to put a presumptuous man back in his place. She's fascinating, this woman – a bright jewel in a dingy setting – and so he passes the evening stealing glances and keeping one ear open for the sound of her voice.
It's just after midnight when the tavern quiets, most of his men having gone off to the brothels or back to the Jolly to sleep off their well-fed, drunken stupor. Even Maggie has retired upstairs to her apartments, leaving Swan behind to see to the stragglers, most of whom are dozing at the tables.
"Are you not joining your men, Captain?" she asks while gathering dirty dishes from a nearby table.
Hook looks up at her from the supply purchase list he's reviewing and smiles. "Why would I do that when the company here is so much more interesting?"
She rolls her eyes, but even in the firelight he can discern another subtle flush in her cheeks. "'Interesting' is hardly the right word. I don't have any stories to tell."
He hums noncomittally, seeing her modest comment for what it really is. "Maggie mentioned that. You've no memories at all?"
Swan appears only half-surprised that he's been told of her situation. There's a split-second before she folds her lips ruefully and shakes her head. "None." With an apologetic smile, she carries the plates back to the kitchen.
Hook stares into the fire crackling in the hearth, all of the nightmarish memories that occasionally still haunt his sleep – memories he's spent decades trying to drown in cheap drink and loose women – coming to mind. "What is that like?" he asks quietly when she returns, running a finger around the lip of his rum bottle absently. "To not have any memories?"
She pauses and turns to survey him, and he gets the sensation that she sees deeper into him than he wants to let her. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked. It feels as though he's just showed his hand. But his unease is replaced with elation when she sighs and sits down at his table.
"It's very strange," she answers, her face honest. "Empty. I don't know who I am or where I come from or how I got here, whether I have a family, what my life was like…" She gives a sardonic laugh. "It's unnerving."
Her sad eyes make his heart twinge, and he studies her thoughtfully. "Well that's not true; we know some things about you, Swan."
"Oh, so you're a pirate and a fortune-teller?" She tosses him a dry look, a delicate eyebrow raised.
Hook grins at her sarcasm and shakes his head. "Just experienced. I've traveled the realms for a long time." He reaches across the table and gestures at one of her hands. "May I?"
She blinks, surprise giving way to dubiousness, and considers him for a long moment before finally acquiescing and gingerly setting one of her hands in his. He tries to ignore the tingle that shimmers down his spine and the uptick in his heart rate that comes from her touch, pointing at her upturned palm with the tip of his hook. "Look. You have a few calluses, but not enough to suggest a life of hard labor. The color of your lovely skin in the heart of this summer suggests that either you came from a northern country or you spent most of your time out of the sun," he continues, thinking aloud. "The way you speak also rules out half a dozen lands I can think of." He smiles back up at her. "See how this works?"
She's leaning forward now, the skepticism in her eyes fading as she swallows and nods. She glances at her hand in his and pulls away, clearing her throat and rubbing her palms together self-consciously with pink in her cheeks. "That's, uh, that's actually pretty clever."
Hook curls his empty fingers. "Well, I didn't get to be a pirate captain on my good looks alone, you know," he quips, flashing a rapscallion's grin for effect.
She laughs and chews on her lip in a way he finds endearing. "Anything else?"
He shrugs. "Well, I think it's obvious that you're not from anywhere near here, or someone would have recognized you by now. No one could forget a face like yours, I assure you." He winks, savoring her recurrent blush, and his finger taps the table as he continues to muse. "Have you tried looking at maps? Perhaps something might look familiar."
Her eyes light at the suggestion. "I hadn't thought of that, but there are maps over at the bookshop. I can make a trip there tomorrow afternoon."
He scratches behind his ear. "You know, I also have a very large assortment of maps on my ship which will cover many more lands than what you'll find at that shop," he volunteers. "Perhaps you'd like to come aboard?" He lifts his eyebrows hopefully.
This earns him an incredulous sideways glance.
"For the maps, Swan," he says, feigning innocence with a boyish grin.
"I'm sure."
His heart falls when she gets to her feet, but his disappointment is tempered by the way her eyes dance.
"I'll try the shop first, thanks. I think there's one thing I can tell you about myself, Captain."
He arcs an eyebrow. "Oh?"
She hums knowingly. "I don't think I'm the kind of girl you're hoping I am."
He chuckles, letting her words sit between them for a moment before rising and pressing a handful of coins into her palm to cover his bill, marveling again at the softness of her skin. "Perhaps," he says softly, dipping his nose so it's inches from hers, "you don't know what kind of girl I'm hoping you are." He savors the nervous flutter of her long lashes and her failure to pull away this time, and he grins, stepping back and giving her a military-style bow. "The Jolly Roger will be in port at least until Friday. I hope to see you again soon, milady."
Swan watches him retreat with wide eyes. She licks her lips and swallows. "Goodnight, Captain."
"Goodnight, Swan."