A/N: My CS secret santa present for swans-hooks-and-books over on tumblr :3
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A CS Mulan AU. ( 1 / 2 )
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Out Of Her Depth
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There is no noise underwater.
Or maybe there is, but she's plunged in too far into the deep to hear anything but the static-like pressure of water in her ears. Just that noise, thrumming and thumping as the sinking feeling grows worse and worse. Her toes reaching towards nothing but darkness. Even with her eyes open all she can see is the deep blue.
Emma can barely hear her own thoughts with the dreaded leaden feeling in her stomach - it's the only thing she can focus on. That and the rising panic in her lungs.
Air. She needs air.
But she can't tell one direction from the other, everything is just dark, and the salt water stings her eyes. If she swims one way it might only take her further from the surface, and her head is spinning, her heart is racing.
There is no noise underwater.
Until there is.
The shot of a cannonball above her reverberates through the sea she swims in, the low boom of it echoing again, and again, and Emma's head shoots up, hair floating aimlessly around her.
How could she not have noticed this before.
There is fire dancing upon the water. Planks of splintered wood burning with pitch till they cinder, and there are bodies floating lifelessly on its surface, their limbs splayed like starfish. They are on fire too. She tries not to think about it.
At least now she knows which way is up.
It's not the first time Emma has been in the water, but down this deep she finds it hard to propel herself through. Each kick, each scramble with her arms doesn't get her very far. Another cannon goes off and she pushes harder, that sting in her lungs telling her she doesn't have a choice but to kick, to kick, to pull. There's another boom, there's more wood landing on the water and –
The air stings Emma's lungs when she breaks the surface, hair awkwardly covering half her face. She draws oxygen in too quickly, gasping and coughing as the salt and heavy smoke stings the back of her throat.
It's a mess out of the deep, pitch and fire and assorted flotsam burning thickly around her, the waves doing very little to douse any of it.
She takes another large breath of smoky air.
"Ki-" Her shout is pointless, water rushes straight back in, a wave spluttering into her mouth and swallowing her words.
She tries again.
"Killian!"
–
Emma's first thought as she steps over and on to the gangplank, is that she's never even been on a boat before.
Her second is that maybe this was a terrible idea.
It's blaringly obvious once she steps on board, people rushing about everywhere, who are the conscripts and who are the volunteers. The conscripts look about ten time more nervous than anyone else, as though any particularly loud squawk from any of the gulls above might make them scamper about deck. But every one on deck that is a new recruit has the same look on their face – innocence.
None of them look like they know that they've really signed up for.
(Emma has no idea what she's signed up for.)
She is glad she isn't the only novice here, there are just many people gaping at the height of the Crow's Nest, just as many people wondering why there are so many ropes and which do what. It's not an overly hot day, but Emma can already feel the way the sun soaks into the skin at the back of her neck and the deceptive way the sea breeze makes it feel as though the sun isn't really all that hot.
At the moment there's a deceptive pleasantness to the day. As though none of them have just signed up for war.
That's when she hears the whistle.
There's no mistaking it for a sailing signal, no way it could be misconstrued for a sailor's tune – it's a cat call, pure and simple. Emma doesn't even try to restrain the eye roll. She's not the only woman on deck but the noise comes from right behind her and –
Sure enough, as Emma spins around, there's a man not too far behind with biceps as big as his head and an ego smirking into place that, if possible, is even larger than his head. He's leering at her from head to toe. Or more accurately, from toe to waist, his gaze surveying a little higher as she turns. His teeth are as white as their regulation uniform.
"You know, I think they were both right and wrong about that old superstition. You know the one, darling, women on board a ship. They are most certainly a distraction, but I'm not sure that's a bad thing."
He punctuates the damn thing with a wink, one that is far more slimy than anything else.
Emma can't even really find it in herself to be angry, it's more exhausting, and suddenly she is already dreading the idea of having to spend months on this ship with this man (and the others no doubt just like him).
The point of Emma being here is to find something, the point of Emma being here is to prove something, the point of Emma being here is not to –
"Really?" She takes a deep breathe. "Listen, Fabio, I'm not interested. I doubt anyone on this ship is interested. I'd hate to have to punch you and ruin what I'm sure you think is the symmetry of your face."
"Ooh, I love a girl with a bit of bite," he doesn't say it, his much shorter, much less attractive crony on the side mutters it. It's far too early in the morning for Emma for this.
"You've got to be kidding me…"
It's a reflex – the raise of her hand, the curl of her fingers. She's not entirely sure what she means to do with it once it's up, it's a gesture of frustration more than anything else but she can feel the heat in her palm, the itch to do something when -
"All hands on deck!"
Everyone around her freezes momentarily.
Freezes and then scampers.
The voice comes from behind her, from far too close behind her to have not been watching. The owner of the voice eyes Emma a bit as he walks past with his eyebrow raised and an indiscernible look on his face. A warning in his eye, and a captain's bicorn on his head.
Ship shape and Bristol fashion – the phrase means very little to her, but if she had to describe their captain, it would be the first thing that popped into her head. Well, only if the people from Bristol were a little dishevelled.
His clothes are well ironed, starched, straight – seemingly too clean for war. And his somewhat scrappy appearance - he's far from freshly shaven, and his hair is a little long though tied back with a bow – it does not render him unpolished. If anything it just makes him look rougher, sterner somehow as he struts around in front of them, hands clasped tightly behind his back.
Emma follows the others as they scramble about, making themselves into lines up the starboard and down the port sides of the ship. There is no murmuring hush, no one dares to talk at all as their captain walks past each of them, his blue eyes lingering and cataloguing, tidying the jackets and cravats of a few soldiers whose hands probably shook too much to do it properly in the first place.
"You are all here on the Queen's orders, to be trained and taught in the ways of sailing, and in warfare. You will be taught to fight –" His voice is as strong and sure as his walk, even as there's a bit of weariness to it, tiredness. It is as though he has said these words a thousand times, and is doomed to say them a thousand times more. "And those of you who can't fight will be taught different skills. Some of you will no doubt find it a challenge, some of you will probably beg to be sent home, your tail between your legs," he pauses, staring at one of the more nervous looking recruits (conscript) to look at him in the face.
"Cowardice is not an option."
–
They're terrible.
Every last one of them.
No one can seem to quite get the hang of anything. Very few have the strength for the ropes, very few of them have the stomach for the high sails, perennial rope burn quickly becoming a reality none of them considered, and when they first start learning to sword fight, Emma is the only one who doesn't lose the sword from her hand at the first clang of metal.
Over the next few weeks they learn the ropes (literally and figuratively), shuffled around from task to task – cooking, cleaning, carpentry, sewing, and so on.
It seems that there are a great many things involved in this that Emma had never even considered. Scullery she hates, simply because she comes out of it at the end of the day smelling like whatever plain and unimaginative thing they were supposed to be eating; cleaning is exhausting on her back, the water makes her hands wrinkle and the temperature of it combined with the stringent soap makes them crack red and raw; sewing is simple enough, no subtle delicacy involved, just a few needles both straight and curved to pull the threads that holds the sails together.
Carpentry is just not her thing at all.
And sitting in the Crow's Nest - that she loves. (The wind in her hair, the quiet of the task, the sea for miles and miles and miles.)
Oddly enough, it is in these tasks that she makes friends quickest. The old cook who the entire crew has simply dubbed 'Granny' pesters and nags her at her jobs with an impatient style yet a gentle hand, slipping an apple into her apron each and every time. There are still those she doesn't really get along with, but at least now they keep their distance, reading her disdainful glare as the keep away sign it is.
And those jobs are fine, and really they would be the safer option for Emma, but the fighting is much more cathartic. She has no form really, no training or knowledge, however Emma finds she enjoys that part of the most – it blows off steam, it builds her strength for the other tasks.
Getting ready for a fight feels easy (when her life has essentially always been one).
Captain Jones watches her with interest. To be fair, he does with everyone, sharing notes with his lieutenants, assessing everyone's skills to see whereabouts they will end up on board.
But Emma swears he smiles every time she beats someone – elbowing them in the ribs, tripping them over almost accidentally, lunging before they expect it. She even manages to outsmart those bigger and stronger than her. Gaston, the guy who cat-called her on that first day, is strong, his muscles are not simply for show and yet he is slow with a sword, seems to want to punch her every time she climbs on his back to drag him down.
(She shouldn't, there are many reasons she shouldn't want to fight. Like the fact that the vibrations of the swords that clangour up her arms feels an awful lot like magic. Turns into something an awful lot like magic.
The way she walks away shaking each time, struggling to hold it all in.)
But it doesn't seem to matter that Emma can throw a punch, that Aladdin is particularly nimble at climbing up and down the sails - the morale on board is low. Each and every one of them are painfully aware that at some point they will be called into battle, regardless of their abilities, and it hangs above their heads everyday like the main sail that flaps ahead.
Their captain doesn't help.
She can't quite figure him out.
Emma is almost certain that he is not how a captain in His Royal Highness' navy is supposed to behave. He is all straight posture and impatience, soft face and no time of day. She can see the remnants there of the clean cut sailor determined for glory, especially with regards to the way that he gives orders and walks oh-so-importantly across the deck. But there is a little of something else that tinges his behaviour.
It is sadness. Sadness, mixed with something else.
(Perhaps it is easy to recognise because Emma feels it too.)
And it translates into the way he treats the recruits. That sadness is almost pity and frustration, as though he cares too much and he's not supposed to. He's impatient with their mistakes and their faults, and it makes him unpopular with the already anxious crew.
He startles them all the day he decides to train them himself, previously having been content to judge silently from afar.
And Emma watches with a roll of her eyes the way he intimidates them on purpose, swinging off his jacket, and then his sword from its sheath, waltzing about almost excitedly. It is deadly silent on deck, until -
"Swan."
Every head turns in Emma's direction, confusion and curiosity and fear in their eyes. Despite her initial luck with the sword, she is not their best fighter, not by a long shot - that title would go to Mulan, one of the few other girls on board. Mulan's uncanny ability of unarming others with an almost hungry smile on her face made her strangely likeable to the rest of the crew. Or maybe it had something to do with her being one of their best chances at not dying.
Every other eye may be on her, but Captain Jones barely looks at Emma.
Morale is apparently so low that no one dares speak, everyone cautiously expectant about his sudden involvement, and the test he's called Emma to step forward for, that the only sounds that can be heard are the gentle crashes of the water against the creaking ship.
That and the ever present seagulls cawing above them.
His sword at the ready is the only other invitation she gets for his challenge, before the silence ticks and she unsheathes her own tarnished sword.
Emma surges forward first. An element of determination, immediacy, has always been her go to, but he's watched her pull that move too many times apparently, because he steps aside with ease. Turning to face him once more, reaffirming the grip on her sword it's clear he's done this – the fight with Emma - on purpose, to enjoy himself, because he's smirking, smiling and taunting.
"Come now, surely you didn't think that was going to work?"
There's a chuckle from around them, not an unkind one, but clearly the spectacle is starting to entertain rather than scare the others.
It sparks her competitiveness, the unnecessary goading, and she huffs at a stray lock of hair that has fallen into her face.
He's stronger than her, much stronger, and as she throws clumsy but forceful strikes against him he parries easily, barely blinking an eye. In fact, he's almost teasing her further, swinging elaborately, prancing about and showing off his skill. With every heavy push of their swords the adrenalin begins to burn through her in that unique way the magic always does - hungry, and brisk and white hot. At one point he even spins, making it difficult to see how he's going to hit her, but she blocks with blind backbone, feeling the reverberations burn through her.
(It's a wonder her hands don't start sparking in time with the shing of their swords.)
A kick to his stomach to push him away does anything but deter him, and his grin simply widens.
The grin – the smirk – is strange to her suddenly. It is not cruel, he's well aware that he is her superior but he's not acting as though he is. He is like an antagonistic teenager either looking for a fight or a play-fight. Emma can't tell which.
Jones' next blow comes at a very sharp angle, hitting her sword so that she nearly loses it and when she doesn't he twists, and twists his wrist, clattering their swords together. Emma drops it then, fumbling with it, but she kicks him away again.
That's her biggest mistake – she's only really a three trick pony when it comes to this, and then she's out – because he catches her ankle and Emma lands flat on her back, with an 'oooh' from the crowd standing around them.
The pain stings in her back against the wood, an ache blooming beneath her.
"Good form," the tip of his sword threatens idly at her throat as he smirks down at her. "But not good enough."
He's about to say something else to her, panting a little, when Emma swings a leg beneath him, catching his legs just enough that he lands on his back beside her with a thud and an 'oof'. The crew goes quiet again, but Emma pays their anticipation no heed, scrambling up on her feet with his dropped sword in her hand and doing just what he did to her. Emma leans over him, the edge of his own sword shiny and poking at his neck.
"And why would you say that when I'm winning?"
His low chuckle is echoed by the crew, and he's a surprisingly gracious loser. It makes Emma smile as she offers him her hand to haul him back up again.
He takes it, pulling back up to his feet before whispering – "You're a tough lass, Emma Swan."
–
Emma doesn't knock.
She doesn't dawdle in front of his cabin door, nor does she fret about the consequences of her actions. Her heart is pounding in her chest, hands drawn into fists at her sides; her magic is roaring into life, prickling in her from the inside out.
It's disobedience, it's dissension within their ranks, but Emma is far from caring and as she bursts into his cabin to find him bent over his table, one hand in his hair, one hand on a map, the anger bursting fortunately not from her hands but her mouth.
"Are you insane?"
He doesn't even bother to look up, as though his eyes are not yet finished calculating something, but he does sigh, deeply and shakily.
"Miss Swan, do come in."
She's already in, stalking towards him, her boots clunky on the floor.
"Look, I don't know what the hell happened to you before we got here, or why the hell you think it's so important that we all know how useless we all are –"
"You are too attached to the boy," Jones doesn't even shout back, he almost whispers distractedly, apparently unable to tear his eyes from where he's charting distance with metal dividers on the map.
Emma is silent for a moment, stunned and confused by what he's saying. She must show it, her mouth ajar, her brow wrinkled.
"Do you even hear yourself right now?"
The whispering cadence that he speaks with makes no sense. Five minutes earlier he had stood on deck, shouting at one of the youngest members of their crew (conscript) for almost dropping a lit match onto a pile of gunpowder. The reprimand was warranted, that she will concede, but the manner in which he did it was far too heartless for Emma's liking.
And for weeks on end he's walked this strange line of good form and intolerance, playfulness and distance. And as Jones had walked back towards his quarters, Emma had watched the boy's hands shake uncontrollably with the matchbox he still held, and something inside her had sparked; an ire, and that magical fire.
"What do you suppose happens when we're called to the front, and young Gus stumbles and lights the entire ship on fire? Do you think Megara's fear of heights will do her any good in a fight? Or Aurora who still cannot receive a blow from a sword without dropping her own?"
"This is ridiculous, not everyone is built for this sort of stuff. You can't expect people to be magically good at things they've never done before."
He looks up at her at last, dropping his charting tools to the table and with a piece of paper still in his clutches, he walks around his desk towards her.
"And how do you explain yourself, Emma?"
There is a sinking, terrifying moment where Emma hears herself saying the word magic, it repeating in her head, and she sees the way he now questions her with his own beaten expression. He can't possibly know, she's been so careful, it's just an expression, it's just an expression.
He doesn't stop when he gets closer to her, but Emma remains still, arms straight and staunch at her sides. He truly does look tired, and not in a sleepless nights kind of way, but as though the days weigh too heavily across his shoulders.
(Across his shoulders, down his back, through his mind.)
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Why are you here, Swan?"
The test fire of a cannon goes off below them, the booming sound pounding throughout the room. The books on his shelf jiggle, the little window panes jump in their setting. They both listen to it ring and both wait for it to fade, and still Emma has not spoken. Her silence is just as deafening as the cannonball.
"You're seriously going to question me about this when it's crystal clear to everyone on board you'd rather be anywhere else?" She cannot look away from his eyes, she cannot back down, but her eyelashes flicker a little with the strain.
He glances briefly down towards her lips, before he continues, his tongue tracing thoughts into the backs of his teeth.
"You volunteered into serving for your Queen, you clearly have no regard for order or rank, particularly with how you marched in here to yell at me. No discernable blood lust, no death wish, no previous training. You have a fire and a spark, and an undeniable ability to get others to do what you will, but that is about all that makes sense. You do not belong on this ship.
You're running from something."
Emma's tongue is caught in her mouth, heavy and suddenly mute; totally unsure of what to say or how to move. She's on the back-foot once again, and she hates it, but she can't seem to pull away, he's far too close and she feels a strange sort of pull to him at this distance; a hum echoes in her fingertips. Another test cannon goes off, and it shakes through the room with just as much noise as the previous one did.
The air thickens as they listen, as they wait, as his blue eyes remain locked with hers.
"Look," she's not sure when she started whispering with him, but even though she has matched him whisper to whisper, hush to hush, an anger still drips from her words. "It doesn't matter why any of us are here, but none of us are going to get anywhere unless we work together. This is your ship, and like it or not we are your crew, and for some stupid reason the rest of them need to see that. So either shape up, or ship us out."
Something changes in the depth of his eyes, a tiny, little un-nameable thing, but before Emma can find a word for it he blinks away, focus moved towards the parchment in his hand. Her gaze follows his.
She almost starts when his empty hand reaches for one of hers.
His hands are rough, but gentle as they unfurl one of her still-clenched hands with his own, and in the next moment he hands over the parchment to her. (She wonders if he can feel the way she flinched, the tiny way her skin burns with magic).
The action makes Emma's eyes move back towards his face to see him scowling, and sad, and sombre. That tension that hangs and stills between them seems all that much worse, his face seems so much younger.
And his voice? His voice is far too truthful.
"It may already be too late for that."
He leaves his quarters without another word, ripping Emma from the tension she couldn't seem to, allowing her to breathe deeply once more.
She almost forgets the paper.
But as she unfurls it and reads it, suddenly it all makes a little more sense.
Captain Killian Jones,
The Jewel of the Realm has been summoned to join the immediate fight. You and your crew must accompany the Delphin Fleet at the earliest convenience…
–
Suddenly getting ready for a fight doesn't seem so easy.
When Captain Jones makes the announcement to the whole crew, what progress they had made suddenly feels insignificant. The weeks grow shorter, the weather turns an unpleasant sort of brisk, their change of course that takes them further and further from home seems to take forever.
Home.
The others use the word constantly – to refer to people, to places, to things and houses – and yet Emma still isn't sure the word doesn't seem false falling from her lips. Especially now that they are headed into battle, they speak of home more and the loved ones left behind, whispering between hammocks in the middle of the night.
This ship, in a strange sort of way, feels just as much like home as anywhere else Emma has ever lived. It is clear from the snippets of conversation she catches that the others do not feel the same way (no where near it, actually). To Emma, home has always been an intangible concept, a thing that needed to be seen to be believed.
And yet…
It's a strange sort of torture. The more she feels comfortable with the rocking of the ship all day and all night, the more she regrets joining up in the first place. Because the others are right, this boat isn't their home, but if she hadn't left, if she hadn't run before she knew…
Emma begins to miss somewhere else, somewhere in the depth of her heart, in a way (in a sick, yearning kind of way) that she never dared hope to feel.
She almost feels homesick.
–
Emma has never really been one for family holidays.
The truth is, she's never really had them. And it's depressingly obvious to her now, sitting in the mess hall staring at a mostly blank piece of paper with a quill in her hand – she is still, in many ways, alone.
(Self-imposed or otherwise.)
Even though their small dining quarter is a cacophony of noise.
Wintertide.
Nobody in this realm really even remembers what it's about anymore, its traditions handed down with forgetful hands to gullible ones from somewhere no one call recall.
All that remains are three main traditions.
Emma's always been a fan of number one: mulled wine.
Some say it was originally about the sleeping harvest, the way the grapes rested and hid beneath the snow in the Winter and people honoured it in their absence; remembrance for the magic that burns warmth under the skin of non-magical folk. (Emma always liked the symmetry in that, to the symmetry in her). Some people say it was more about the spices; cloves and cinnamon, aniseed, orange – they were supposed to mean something, a gift from a lord to a lady, a gift from a lord to a sleeping babe.
It all got a bit lost in translation.
However, it always seemed like a load of nonsense to Emma, most likely something made up by alcoholics and innkeepers to excuse the more than average consumption. (And almost certainly an excuse to ensure the day after was also a holiday to rest their weary heads and livers.)
It's certainly a tradition that they eagerly drink up (pun intended) out here on the open sea. It was one of the first rules Captain Jones put down – no drinking on deck, no drinking below deck. When on board, they were at work, they needed their wits about them, they needed to maintain good form in everything they did.
It kept them alert.
(It kept them alive.)
He made one exception, one day to allow for tradition – and the crew were taking full advantage.
The second tradition was also readily performed by her fellow sailors, particularly with the first one well under way, and it was also one that Emma found she could easily stomach: carolling.
Almost every man (almost) and woman on board was either drinking, singing or laughing (or doing tradition number three) and very few of them could actually hold a key. The news of their joining the action seemed to have been forgotten for one night, tucked away beneath songs of flying deer. The theory was, en masse, if you couldn't hold a tune, most likely the person next to you was louder and better than you were and you could pretend their voice in your ear was your own.
It was ridiculous. Each song about something strange, about magic, about elves, about plants that poisoned your inhibitions and that if you got too close to you were forced to kiss the nearest person. Nothing about the holiday made any sense.
And yet, it was Emma's favourite holiday. She loved the songs, the laughter, the way small firelights were draped and hung on every house. The laurels of the orange plant leaves, dried from the Summer and whatever else was actually in bloom, hung in every door way.
(She loved the way it is the only time of year magic was ever spoken of without disdain and a bitter tongue, with wonder and curiosity.)
Only, Emma had never really had a chance to properly celebrate, because the most important part of the holiday was what it symbolised and what the third tradition was all about: family.
Those who aren't singing or laughing sit scattered about the dark wood room franticly writing to their loved ones, scribbles and scrawls, loops and scratches scatter parchment upon parchment.
Except the one sitting in front of Emma.
The longer she stares at those four words – the only four words she has managed to write at all – the more she feels her magic bubble beneath her fingertips, the more she regrets coming out here on this boat at all. Almost like she's squandered the first chance she got at a home and all because she was too scared, too untrusting. She feels sick.
It churns like stubborn butter in the pit of her stomach. It does no go well with mulled wine.
What should be easy joy – because for once she has someone to write to, for one her fellow sailors have a smile on their face - makes her uneasy, unsettling her in a guilty sort of way, and before she knows it, she is running, leaving paper and pen down below deck in favour of fresh air.
It's a little too cold, the nip and sting in the air as it wisps through her untied hair should make her shiver, but she's too hot, she can feel that buzz crawling up her neck and whirling into her cheeks, flushing her with that silent spark. Leaning against the railing along the port side does little to help, but at least she can grip it, grasp it and attempt to grasp control of herself at the same time.
The cold air feels amazing, but it is not enough.
"Not one for the festivities, Swan?"
His voice startles her a bit, but it doesn't phase her.
Jones' behaviour had changed drastically since she tore through his door to shout at him ("So you're not going to punish me for, I don't know, insubordination, mutiny, whatever you want to call it?" "With you, Emma, I would if I thought it would do anything."). While he seemed to prefer his distance, to remain on the outskirts and observe, he was a little kinder in his training exercises, in the way he interacted with others.
It seemed to suit him more, Emma thought, the way he attempted to help Mulan with her blocks, the way he showed Ursula to steer the ship with a little more power.
"You're one to talk."
Killian chuckles at her response
"Aye, perhaps," his boots scuff on the deck as he makes his way towards her before leaning, mirroring the way she leans over on her forearms. "But if I recall, you were the one so intent on bonding exercises."
He may not have been downstairs with the others, but it certainly sounds like he's been indulging a little in tradition number one efficiently enough on his own.
And yet, she's not surprised.
The word bonding sounds… well, indecent, and she turns to glower at him to show him that she thinks so, but her glare is met with a surprisingly cheerful smile. It looks too genuine, too devoid of that boy looking for a fight.
She lets it pass uncommented on with anything but a cringe at the innuendo.
(And really she lets it go because there's a twist somewhere in between her chest and her stomach.)
"And I'm glad you took my advice on that one," her relaxed smile meets his own. "I just needed a moment."
He hums beside in her response.
There's a loud crash of glass somewhere below followed by an uproar of 'heeey!' from the entire crew that makes Killian smile again, something fond and disapproving at the same time.
Jones reaches inside his coat pocket, the dark blue of it nearly black in the night, to pull out a little leather flask ("Captain's stash."), unscrew the cap and take a swig. She's never seen him drink alcohol before, but it's an easy swing, slowly back and down the throat like he's savouring the smoothness of whatever it is he's drinking. Jones dangles it in front of her almost in supplication of something, an offering, a peace meal.
She may shake her head at him, but Emma takes it willingly, drinking it as casually as he did.
(Rum. The taste is sweet as it mixes with the mulled wine sitting on the back of her tongue. She almost teases him for the cliché, of a sailor with his rum.)
"What about you, Captain Jones," Emma can never quite make his title sound formal, every time it falls from her lips it sounds like she's undermining him, it sounds like she's teasing him (and here under the moon, it suddenly sounds like she's flirting with him and she doesn't know why – they're just words). But she turns to face him, one arm still leaning on the wood, the other returning his flask. "Why aren't you socialising with your scurvy crew tonight?"
"You can call me Killian, you know."
"They already think you're playing favourites with me."
"Let them," his voice is husky in the dark, mumbling and soft.
"You think I don't know deflection when I see it?"
He huffs a little smile and Emma's not sure when he got this close, only seems to notice how few hair's breadths between them there really are when he tears his eyes from hers.
Jones' fingers grab a lock or two of her hair, swinging it over her shoulder and she's about to tease him for the shameless flirting, for the way he avoids her question more and more.
"Not everyone has family to write to, Swan."
He speaks with a look in his eyes that is altogether too serious, sparkling white and blue and clouded in the dark. The words sink to her stomach, the puzzle that clicks into place, the aching way he's looking at her like he knows that she knows how it feels.
Her instinct is telling her to back away, that once again he's becoming too intimate with her and she's somehow falling into it too easily, even as she claws and hauls herself back out again each time.
Instinct is telling her that flight is the same thing as putting up a fight.
Instinct is also, somehow, what makes her next words tumble out of her mouth.
"I know how you feel."
His flask is still in her hand, and his fingers tentatively find hers still clasped around it. The touch should mean nothing, the simple action of someone taking back what is theirs is nothing worth noting – but that doesn't stop the shiver that runs down her neck at the gesture, logic will not tell her pulse not to run.
"Is that so?"
She doesn't know what he's talking about anymore – about home, about the holiday, about the tingling feeling that is only partly magic that lingers in her spine. His fingers have yet to fully take back his flask, and they graze her own idly. Whatever he is talking about it sends warning signals to Emma's instinct.
Flea, fly, fight.
"Not everyone always has family to write to, Killian."
She fleas.
–
Emma curses that night lying in her hammock, with the only slightly spoilt parchment in her lap, that she left him standing on that deck, his heart on his sleeve (her heart in her throat).
She feels guilty.
The truth is, she really does know how he feels. The only reason she is out here, listening to Gaston's drunken snores echo around her, is because of her family.
Well there are two reasons she's out here.
She ran.
Being reunited after twenty-five years of nothing will do that to an orphan. Emma spent so many years of her youth begging to find a home, trying to do anything she could to prove herself worthy of the homes that would not keep her. She could be good, she could be smart and pretty and just right.
It's an uncomfortable truth, the twenty-five years of her life she spent parentless, siblingless. Home-less.
It's an even more uncomfortable truth that when her family found her, when they'd hired a shadow hunter from one of the Eastern Islands to find her, she couldn't shake the scared and untrusting orphan that seemed to govern all of her life decisions.
Emma Swan had been burnt too many times.
So she ran, and in doing so ran towards something that she hoped would prove herself to her parents, would apologise for running in the first place. She was testing herself, waiting for that feeling, waiting to miss something and know what homesick felt like.
Emma just didn't know what to say to them.
She wanted to tell them she was sorry, she wanted to say that she missed them, and not in that way that she missed them without knowing who they were for all of her life.
But when it came to actually writing it down, she was stuck on just four words.
Dear Mum and Dad
–
Emma's been looking forward to this for weeks.
To stripping off her sweaty uniform, sliding into (unfortunately) their regulation bathing clothes. She'd gripe and complain more that she can't just fling off every stitch she's wearing, but it's pretty loose fitting, the white tunic that tapers above her knees and the small shorts she has on underneath are pretty comfortable.
They'd been promised clean water.
It's a naval hotspot apparently, but they are the only ones there and only a few days sail from their destination. It's a bit like Wintertide – everyone is pretending it's not as daunting as it seems, pretending the anxiousness doesn't sit inside their breastbones.
Emma doesn't hesitate, doesn't test out the temperature of the water, simply walks straight in, eyes barely watching where she's going. Everyone is already in the lagoon; floating, splashing, gossiping. It's no different to back on the ship, really, the way the crew behave around one another.
Except that there is no salt here.
The water is clean and cool, washing away what she's sure is layers of the ocean from her hair, her limbs, her face. In up to her shoulders, Emma paddles a little away from the rest, around some reed and some large rocks, seeking peace and quiet with the peace the water brings.
She almost swims into him.
"Why am I not surprised to find you on your own?"
Emma is quiet at first, ducking her head beneath the surface a few times, scrubbing and rinsing the salt from everywhere she possibly can. It should probably be awkward, but he's busy doing the same thing. Only, he's wearing fewer layers than she is, simply his shorts and no shirt. Emma almost wishes he weren't here so she could take off the tunic, take off the shorts, scrub every last inch of herself free from salt water.
But now that she has him alone again, there's something she's been meaning to ask him.
"Do you really think we're all going to die?"
Killian seems stunned by her question, running a hand through his fringe to tame it. He doesn't want to her answer her she can tell, the trepidation evident on his tongue. Swimming closer towards him is an intentional move, one that Emma hopes will get him to open up.
Fear aside, she's desperate to know what their chances really are. He's obviously far more experienced than the rest of them, and has seen more fight and bloodshed. She's hoping he will tell her that the adrenalin and basic human instinct will kick in, she's desperately wishing that over the past few months the things that they've learnt will actually prove useful.
He doesn't look the kind of optimistic she was wanting to see.
"I hope not."
For some reason he's struggling to meet her eyes, even though he is usually the first to try and read her that way. But she doesn't need to be staring at him to read him now – the gulping of his throat, the way he watches his hand skimming the surface of the lagoon.
"You can train for years, fight every sort of battle known to man, prove yourself time and time again, and still all it takes is one second to fall," his voice is so quiet, as though he dares not hear himself speak. "When my brother died, it was not from a lack of training, from falling from the ropes. He died from the same foe we now travel to meet, and he died at the hands of a sorcerer."
Emma's breath is caught in her lungs, tight, and screaming – but she dare not let it go. She's learning far more than she thought she would, far more than she bargained for.
(And fear, and sympathy, and sadness sting in her chest like her breath.)
"And yet, some will always have luck on their hands, Emma, and will survive anything. But it is hard to fight magic without magic," finally he looks up from the water to meet her eyes, and Emma wonders if he can read her thoughts, can follow her head as it chases her nerves around and around. "All we can do is make the best of what we have."
She's more touched than she knows how to say that he's told her – albeit briefly – about his brother. It all makes sense now, the way he almost fears how unprepared his crew is, and the way he used to snap at them in turn. She can see now, that for once, all of his walls are down, washed away with the salt from their skin.
But more than that, his last words ring in her ears, and once again Emma isn't quite sure what he's referring to anymore. She'd think it was just the upcoming fight if it weren't for the way his eyes seem to trace her face, flickering from her lips to the wet hair that clings.
There are many reasons why she shouldn't.
He's her superior officer, they are both half naked. But the real reason she shouldn't is that needle in the haystack of her heart, that tiny little thing that's wheedled in there is terrifying. It's so small it snuck past and every time he speaks to her, every time his eyes look at her just like they are now, she feels the tremors along the length of that needle.
She's let him in too much to be able to pass it off as something else.
The needle is bent, like the one they use on the sails – it has hooked and curled.
She shouldn't because it's terrifying.
She shouldn't…
But his hair is wet, rogue strands of it dangling back into his face, and the slight ripple of the water softly against his chest is incredibly distracting. She can feel herself flustering, blinking her eyes as her feet become restless on the sandy bed beneath them. And it's not just that she's attracted to him, it's that they seem to understand one another. And he's far too close, his expression much too genuine.
And the needle is too bent.
He's waiting for her though, pushing only as far as he thinks she will let him; an open invitation, take it or leave it.
(Take it.)
If she was running on instinct, Emma would have crashed into him, to kiss him before he knew what hit him, like ripping off a bandage. However, Killian's not wearing anything, and there is no shirt, no jacket, no vest for Emma to grip on to, to haul him to her. Instead, her hand meets his skin tentatively and suddenly it's more gentle than she means for it to be.
And yet she is unable to touch him any other way.
The moment her hand reaches his shoulder, he pulls her to him, the slip of watery fingers finding where her tunic has floated up around the bare of the skin at her waist. She really shouldn't kiss him – but (there are so many buts).
Killian's forehead falls to hers, mouth parted the smallest of breadths, waiting, wondering.
(Wishing.)
Her fingertips trace his collarbone instead of a collar, fingertips crawling the length of his neck, fingertips tracing wet trails through his hair. It trickles little droplets back down his neck, but Emma's eyes can barely see it, she is far too focused on how close his face is.
He doesn't quite shiver as the cool water drips down his shoulder, as her fingers creep to the back of his hair, but his breath hitches against her lips and her resolve plummets; the pounding of her heart is louder than the reprimanding voice in her head.
She kisses him.
There is little difference, it would seem, between lunging at him and gently edging towards him. The world stops anyway, slows and quickens and contradicts, wind and water and the sand beneath their feet halts to see what happens regardless of how quickly they get there.
What happens is a spark.
Killian's lips are wet, damp with the water they're swimming in, and they slide against hers easily, and gently pull with just as much eagerness. He's tentative at first, following the sway of her body as Emma wades closer, the tilt of her head, before kissing with a little more bite. Before becoming a little reckless, a little deeper.
A little more terrifying.
The spark happens somewhere deep in her chest, crackling against a heart that seems unsure whether it's holding its breath or chasing it. The kiss is still soft even though the pressure of his mouth against hers isn't always. It is still imbued with so much (too much) emotion, but it scratches something pleasant at her like his stubble does, burning something in her that flames and fires and tries to burst.
(She is out of her depth.)
Emma's on her toes, sinking and losing her balance in the sand, but Killian's hands are on her hips, his thumbs are tracing places underneath the water where they can't see. The hands keep her steady, keep her tightly against him, the ripples of his muscles tangible through the thin material of her tunic, and are far more important to her now than the ripples of the water were around them only moments before.
But she's still burning, the water is cool, splashing a little around them as they move, and she's still overheating. Emma is her own worst enemy – the hotter she gets the harder she kisses him, as though that will quench the flame.
As though the way his nose bumps her cheek will trace away the heat.
(Even though she seems to be chasing it.)
Killian is kissing her as though they'll never get this chance again and it's almost unbearable, and she's helpless but to kiss him with just as much as he's giving.
Then suddenly, she knows why her body is on fire, why the scorch tickles through every vein, up her arms and into her hands.
It's almost abrupt, the way she stops kissing him, his teeth gently catching her bottom lip as she pulls about an inch away.
The night is too dark out here with only the sky to light anything, and his face is too close to hers, his eyes shut and all Emma can really see through the night black is the way his nose settles against her cheek - but she can tell he's burning just like she is, can feel it match her heat ember for ember. His hands are lingering, one hand on each jaw, holding her to stop her floating away (almost begging her not to).
Well, maybe he isn't burning quite in the same way she is.
Emma's arms are resting over Killian's shoulders, her hands far behind his head where he cannot see, little white sparks glittering the ends of her fingers.
(There were so many reasons why she shouldn't have kissed him.)
Her voice is anything but composed, it is made up of far too many pants and gasps of breath that whisper out around them for that. She wishes it was composed.
"I think this counts as favouritism."
The jest is an attempt at running.
"It's not favouritism."
And her heart aches at the way he plays along and lets her.
"No?"
"I kiss everyone on my crew. Smee has terrible breath."
Emma can't help but laugh a little, checking her fingers discretely before pulling away slowly (almost reluctantly), and trying not to notice how the little lines of his smile watch her laugh.
They are quiet for a moment, the splashing and chatter beyond the reeds too dull, too distant from their bubble to properly hear. And they can't seem to stop staring, though Killian never dares to breach the gap Emma has put between them.
When he talks again, his voice is still raspy, mellifluous and broken at the same time.
"It's definitely favouritism."
He suddenly looks resigned and sad, like he knows what she's about to say long before she says it.
"Goodnight, Killian."