My gift to killians-dimples. Happy belated birthday!
The first time they take to the open water, Henry is only partially himself. His head is filled with false memories and unanswered questions, like who his father was and how he could feel more connected to a man he—to his knowledge—never knew. He trails behind Killian by a pace or two, letting the strange man dressed all in leather guide them to their borrowed vessel for the day's activities.
It takes a few tries for Killian to get acclimated to the modernized boat (it's nothing compared to outrunning a curse, he thinks) but soon they're headed for a neighboring coast, a considerable distance from the small fishing town.
He chances a glance at Henry, who's seated the right beside the rudder with his elbow on his knee and chin pressed into his palm. It's not boredom that plagues him, but rather a sense of uselessness that Killian understands all too well. For as excited he is to be back in his domain, he imagines the boy to be quite out of his element.
"What would you say to being my first mate?" he shouts from underneath the mainsail. Henry instantly perks up, then schools his face into a disaffected facade.
"I'm your only mate," he says under his breath, but he practically skips to join the one-handed man.
"Aye," Killian laughs, not in the least deterred to in his goal to bond with him. "But the title holds no less prestige." He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a book: a guide to knot-tying and other nautical trades, one gifted to him by the librarian as a gesture of gratitude. It's a dull-looking thing (far too many illustrations in Killian's opinion), but Henry accepts it enthusiastically all the same. "Read up, lad. You've much to learn."
Henry, as it turns out, is a quick study. He's a bright boy—though he's getting closer and closer to becoming a young man with every passing day—and takes to the ocean far quicker than even Killian had at his age.
They depart on Leroy's boat (this time with his permission per Emma's insistence). There's an unnatural chill in the air, no doubt a side effect to the recently erected and impenetrable ice wave that surrounds the town. Still, they've the whole day planned, unwilling to waste away the precious quiet moment they've been afforded.
Henry runs back and forth, from bow to stern, following Killian's commands to the letter. He swells with pride as he watches him, his movements imprecise but eager. They anchor the boat not far from shore, and lean against the hull with their packed lunches courtesy of Granny.
They spend hours sitting side by side, listening to the melody of the lapping waves and the screeching of the seagulls overhead. Henry addresses the elephant in the room almost immediately: that his mom really seems to like Killian, and asks whether they're planning on going on a second date. "That's up to your mother," he replies cooly, but sincerely. "I certainly do hope so."
A contented silence falls upon them, occasionally interrupted with playful fights over over this fry and that. Killian smirks at Henry when they're down to the last one. "I'll play you for it."
"With your rigged dice? No way," Henry scolds, his pitch elevating in such a way that it's like he's back to a more childlike version of himself; one Killian sorely wishes he had seen more of. "Rock, paper, scissors," he suggests as an alternative, but Killian only gawks at him as though he had two heads.
Henry patiently demonstrates the rules of the game, and then they're shaking their curled fists to the count of three. Killian's rock beats Henry's scissors, and his whines of defeat are drowned out by Killian's triumphant cackling. He doesn't take his prize, however, pretending to ignore the last bit of food in favor of stretching his legs (he does manage to catch Henry devouring the greasy fry as he turns his back, more pleased by the lad's pirate tendencies than he probably should be).
"Come on, first mate," Killian teases. Henry rolls his eyes as he makes to stand, wide grin plastered on his face that remains until well into the late afternoon.
Henry's all ruffled hair and lanky limbs now, with six weeks of steady growth in the rare (but welcome) calm that has befallen Storybrooke. It's an even rarer sight to see Henry without his head buried in the magical storybook, magnifying glass and worn notebook in his clutches. But Killian knows the compulsion intimately: that insatiable need to learn all one can about their current obsession. For Henry, it is a much nobler cause than his own. Early mornings and late nights spent at the library in the hopes of correcting the wrong he was complicit in, whereas Henry simply wants bring some joy into his lovelorn mother's life.
It's a much needed break, their trip, one that Emma had practically pushed them out the door to go on. "The fresh air will do you some good," she had said, to both of them.
The dark clouds just beyond the horizon signal an oncoming storm that even Captain Hook would be weary of, and so they settle for walking along the beach. They reach a section that is littered with tiny, smooth pebbles, a muted crunching sound following their every step.
Henry takes to picking up any rock within reach and chucking it into the water, while Killian selects his more carefully, watchful for ones with the right amount of surface area and width. He skips his stones instead, making sure stay within Henry's eye line.
"Whoa," he breaths, dropping his pebbles onto the ground and haphazardly wiping his damp hand against his jeans. "I've always wanted to know how to do that. Could you teach me?"
"Certainly, lad," Killian says, handing over the contents of his leather jacket pocket. He stands directly behind him, taking the boy's wrist in his own hand and mimicking the necessary flicking motion until he's sure Henry's perfected it. "Now, bend your knees, and—"
He throws the stone and it skips twice before submerging. It's far less than what Killian had demonstrated, but Henry is thrilled nonetheless. They carry on in this way for while, his technique and reach improving with every attempt while Killian paces at his side, his mind becoming muddled with thoughts of magic hats and missing fairies. Of stolen hearts and a banished crocodile…
"Killian?"
He snaps his head at the sound of Henry's voice, taking in his imploring look before reorientating himself into the present. "I'm sorry, my boy, you were saying?"
"How's the research going," he repeats. "With grandm—I mean, Belle."
His instinct is to play it off; to not burden him with the troubles of a 300-year-old pirate. But Henry is his mother's son, ever perceptive to the goings on of his mind. "Not as well as I'd hoped," he admits, looking down at his sea-sprayed boots and scratching behind his ear.
"It's kind of like me and Operation Mongoose," Henry offers on a heavy sigh, and Killian hums sympathetically.
"It's not quite the same I'm afraid," he mutters, scraping the tip of his hook against his fingertips. "And you've the purest of intentions. I'm sure a sharp fellow like you will find what he's looking for."
Henry smiles at that, turning on his heel to face Killian as he walks backwards. "And you will, too." His faith is infectious, which, Killian supposes, is to be expected of the boy with the heart of the truest believer. But his last comment before dashing off down the beach leaves him stunned: "Even heroes make mistakes."
It's the best Killian's felt in days.
Killian's eyes are sore and red-rimmed, the results of a lack of sleep and the relentless tears he hadn't the wherewithal to hold back.
Visions of lighting and gusting wind play over and over in his mind, the force of it against his form still imbedded in his muscles. He can see her clear as day, standing in the middle of the street with the Dark One's dagger firmly in hand, screaming apologies and proclamations of love before vanishing into thin air. It's a sight that will haunt him for the rest of his days, he's sure, and one he is determined to fuel in his search for Emma. "I'll come for you", he had promised, and he intends to make good on it if it's the last thing he does.
As he makes his way above deck, he hears hears a second set of footsteps creaking the wood of the Jolly Roger. Without pausing in his movements, Henry calls from over his shoulder. "I'm coming with you."
Killian scrubs at his face, taking in the view of Henry inspecting the rigging, then the lines and ropes secured to the mast. There's a finesse to his actions, as though he's been sailing the seas forever, and were Killian not so consumed with the ache of loss, he'd be overcome with joy by Henry's skill.
"No, you're not," he says back, marching over to him and halting him in his task. "I'll not put you in danger." Henry ignores him, huffing out a rebellious scoff as he places his backpack down and starts unloading it's contents. "Henry, if your mother was here she'd never allow it—"
"But she's not here." His voice shakes slightly but he remains resolute in his decision to join the search for his mother. "I know she's out there, just like you do. I can feel it." He looks to Killian, hoping to spot a glimmer of understanding, for any sign that he too can sense Emma's presence. Killian nods faintly in agreement but hesitation still mars his features. "Please, let me help. I can be your first mate."
Killian chuckles loudly at that, the first genuine moment of levity he's had since his heart was ripped in two. He pats on the boy on the arm (Henry is practically as tall as Killian is now), knowing full well he'll not be dissuaded.
"You'll be my only mate."
"No, he won't." They both turn in unison, watching as David boards the ship, Snow and Regina right behind him on the gangplank. Without another word of explanation, they all get to work, trying to remember the captain's instructions from nights spent on the waters of Neverland.
"Lead the way," says Snow, as she untangles a set of rope. "Let's go find Emma."
And even with his expanded crew (and the warmth that floods his veins at the feeling of family and being a part of something), it still feels as though it's just him and Henry sailing off together; just him and his first mate.
/