A/N: Here is my first multi-chapter fic. I'm not sure how long it will be as of right now, but I'm just along for the ride. This was loosely based off a dream I had a couple of weeks back (I sound like a real Stephanie Meyer, don't I?).
She can't feel her toes.
That's the first thing she thinks when she's jolted awake from what is seemingly a dreamless sleep. Her toes are like ice and to the point where if she tried to move them she feels nothing. Movements of her other limbs are much easier, if not tiring, and it feels as if there's a cinderblock weight sitting atop her chest. Her eyes are bleary and her mouth feels raw and like cotton, almost as if something was stuffed in there not too long ago. She looks up and around, trying to focus on her surroundings at all, but all she sees is a shining brightness from the low hanging dome light directly above her. Everything else is darkness.
Getting her bearings, she pushes up on the balls of her thumbs, hissing when a sudden pain pulls her from her reverie. Looking down she notices that her hands are severely bruised and scraped, the skin torn and bloody, bits of muscle tissue peeking through; however looking even further down, she notices what looks to be a flimsy blue hospital gown draped across her body but everything else is bare. No underwear, no pants, no shoes. What the fuck? Throwing her legs over the side of the concrete slab she's been so conveniently placed on, and moving the light above her to get a better vantage, she sees what looks like large industrial shipping containers surrounding her on all sides; from boats and cargo holds.
"Where the hell am I?," she mutters to herself, so confused. What the fuck is going on?
Jumping down, she surprisingly lands on both of her feet, albeit with a bit of dizziness and a rush of blood to the head. The light flickers overhead just as she hears a loud bang of a door shutting. Looking around to detect where it's coming from, a gap between the containers is visible, with a faint light farther back in the recess. Moving slowly as to not draw any unwanted attention (Who knows if people can be hiding close by, keeping an eye on me…but for what?!), she creeps up on the small open hallway. Noticing that the length of the hall is only one container deep makes it easy for her to pass through and out to the other side, close to the loading dock door that's been cracked enough for her to slip right under. Aha! Did they not think I'd try to escape once I woke up? Amateurs.
Sneaking up to it, she gets down on her knees and ducks down to peep under the door, careful to keep herself out of the light so as to not be seen. Immediately blinded by the sunlight, she quickly draws her head back and blinks rapidly to get used to it, where she deduces that it's about midday judging from the sun resting in the middle of the sky and that she was right; she's been taken to some kind of docking station judging from the water straight ahead littered with stationed cargo ships. Suddenly she hears footsteps from outside, walking up the side ramp, and her heart starts beating a rapid staccato in her chest. The feet stop at the door, turning to face the ocean. Upon closer inspection she sees they are men's boots resting slightly under some rather snug leather pants. Shaking her head, she looks around for anything she could use to protect herself. To the immediate right of the door she sees a pile of crowbars and 2x4's and quietly searches through them to find one that looks like it would deliver the best blow to the head if need be.
Picking up a crowbar with a nice and sharp pronged edge gives her just enough leverage to take care of herself if she were to suddenly be entrapped again. Keeping it close to her side so she can react with it quickly but otherwise keep it hidden, she turns around and gets ready to duck under the opening of the door and sprint full speed out of there when she's suddenly with an eyeful of deep, dark chest hair and a close shaven scruff. Tightening her grip on the makeshift weapon, she slowly looks up to see a crooked smirk, the regal looking nose, and half-lidded bright blue eyes (The brightest blue) akin to the ocean just right outside. She doesn't think she's ever seen eyes quite like his before and taken such a liking to them so quickly; it unnerves her.
"Well, hello there, love," he says with a distinct English lilt. Oh, of course, she thinks, internally rolling her eyes. He's looking down at her with a mixture of amusement, smugness, and a hint of flirtation.
It takes her a moment to think of a reply. "I'm not your love," Emma grits out bitterly. Raising the crowbar out to her side, she sees his eyes widen comically and he backs up a bit. "Where the hell am I?"
"Well, darling, it looks that you're, well…hmm…you're in a warehouse," he chuckles lightly at himself. She notices that the slight smile brings a dimple to his cheek that isn't entirely unappealing.
"Ha, very funny. Aren't you a real Sherlock Holmes? Now really, where am I? And, frankly, why did I wake up back there with barely anything on?" She points backwards, alluding to the concrete slab, with an expectant and bemused look on her face. "And trust me, I'm not afraid to use this thing, so start talking!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down," putting his hands up in surrender. He reaches up to grasp her tight fist, bringing it back down to her side. She jerks away immediately, and he huffs out a sharp breath. "Okay, okay. Listen, you've been here for a bit, okay? About two or three days, completely knocked out. I've no idea what for, I'm almost as confused as you are. You've been lying there ever since."
She's seething, gritting her teeth. And he didn't think to, I don't know, do anything about that? Perfect, just perfect.
"Okay, great. But that doesn't tell me shit. Who…what…" she shakes her head, trying to un-jumble her thoughts, "who are these people you're talking about? And who are you?"
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs. "Are you sure you want to know, lass? Because from what I've seen so far, you don't necessarily have the best reaction to news of any kind."
Her eyes are scrunched from the weight of her glare.
"Fine. These people are, well, you know, I'm not entirely sure who they are. All I know is they brought you here. I'm not exactly someone they go to for intel, understand? I just follow orders."
She goes to open her mouth to say something—or maybe even punch him, because boy did she want to punch him right now—when she hears chatter coming from around the corner and the sounds of boots clacking along the floor. They both turn their heads towards the noise, not seeing anything yet hearing the maniacal cackle and a deep voice…and her name. She starts sweating and nervously twitching because she's no idea what is happening, but it doesn't matter anyways because one minute they're just standing there, both of their legs spread wide and ready to fight and the next he's grabbing her hand and pulling her back through the maze of shipping containers and she's fighting to keep up because even though she hardly knows him (I mean, she was ready to bash his head in with a crowbar), right now she seems to trust him more than she trusts the faceless men she has yet to even come in contact with.
Plus, it's not so bad when the guy taking you hostage from being taken hostage (is that even how it works?) happens to have a rather nice backside and a soothing voice, even when he's obviously nervous as well, right?
Silver lining, Emma. Think of the silver lining.
This is all too weird. Last she could remember, she was chasing a perp down the busy sidewalk of downtown Boston, having just been elbowed in the ribs, dropped a drink on (again) and almost breaking her ankle in her sky high heels, panting and sweating her makeup away, but she was safe. Now? Now she has no fucking idea where she is or what she's feeling, but she knows it's definitely not good.
They bound around the corner to another hallway that she hadn't seen before, and she sees a door and her heart his fluttering with madness and adrenaline and fear—where could he possibly be taking her?—and his grip tightens borderline painfully. She doesn't care, she just wants to get out of here. She just wants to wake up from what she hopes is a very horrid nightmare.
Digging her heels in just as he reaches for the door knob, she grabs the hem of his jacket to turn him around. "Wait…wait. I don't even know your name." If she's going to have to try and trust him, she needs to know his name. Does she really want to know, though? Preparing her lie detector, good for any situation, she braces for the worst.
Raising a thick brow, and swiping the corner of his bottom lip with his tongue (oh hell), "I'm Killian, love. Killian Jones. And I'm saving your ass."
She feels nothing, no inner alarms buzzing with what she hopes was an obvious lie—maybe not the name, but the declaration, oh that; the sincerity burns through her and down to her toes and makes her eyelashes flutter, regardless of the crudeness.
Maybe this detector is broken, she thinks fruitlessly. But no, he's telling the truth.
And it scares her. And she realizes, with the mixture of fear and excitement boiling low in her belly as he starts dragging her away, that this is no longer a dream.
A/N: Reviews? Thoughts? Constructive criticism? Throw it my way!