There's snow in the air and some in her hair, the delicate flakes settling between the twists and snarls of her weathered curls. She pulls her hood tighter around her face, trying to keep the sting of the wind off her cheeks and eyes.
She feels like a fool for not bringing her gloves, left behind with all their fur-lined glory on the dresser in her bedchamber. She's sure now that her fingers have turned blue and purple, rebelling so ardently against the cold.
Her teeth chatter and she releases an exhale of relief when she spots the tavern a few paces ahead, the yellowed glow of the lantern obscured and dimmed by the strong winds and white motes of frozen dew that swirl in the chilled air.
Winter in the Enchanted Forest is not a particularly pleasant time, the snowfall seemingly never ending, the wind fierce and biting, the cold more abrasive than one could ever dream.
And yet, she holds a certain fondness for the season. For the way the snow clings so heavily to the green firs, weighing the branches down in all their iced glory. For the way humanity huddles together, leaning on one another for help, sharing space and heat, memories and warm drinks.
She finds that even the most bitterly cold winters can hold a magical kind of warmth - something unreplicable in the sweat-filled summer months.
Emma pushes the door open to the tavern with as much force as her chilled hands can muster, shutting the heavy wood behind her, the echoing bang deafening in the quiet tavern.
A few heads turn her way, but their gazes redirect back toward their respective drinks when they find nothing particularly interesting to gawk at - just a small figure bundled tightly in brown wool and little splendor.
If only they knew Emma thinks as she makes her way to the bar, her booted feet echoing across the dark wood floors.
There's a man in the corner playing some sort of stringed instrument, the subtle pluckings making for good background noise, something that replaces the sound (or lack thereof) of lingering silence from the other patrons. It's a curious thing, the absence of rowdy men and jeering shouts, dice games and lewd displays of bravado.
Though Emma supposes, it's not so odd in hindsight. This particular tavern is owned and run by an older woman whom everyone simply refers to as Granny. She's strict and maybe a tad judgemental (or so Emma hears since this is her first time actually gracing the establishment with her patronage) and she's not fond of people making a mess of her tavern. She puts up with far less than other taverns do, especially in this area. The docks are a nasty place most of the time, filled with petty crime and rampant thievery, not to mention pirates.
All of this may account for the lack of bodies in the space, but Emma knows truly why the tavern is devoid of its usual patrons, and it's exactly why she picked this day to come: Christmas, that is.
It's not sad, she argues to herself, her coming to a small tavern near the sea on such a night. A night in which many find themselves within the arms of their family members, or curled in their beds, toes cold but hearts warm.
She just - well she needs a break. She needs a little time off every once and awhile, and tonight's one of the only nights that she can find herself left to her own devices. You could call it a gift for herself, for her own sanity and happiness. She needs this, and she knows that, but this is the first year that she's done something about that need.
Emma pulls the hood back from her head, the heavy fabric falling down and exposing her wind-swept (wind-tangled) curls. She brushes the blonde strands back, tucking as much as she can behind her ears and focusing on the pretty barmaid in front of her.
"What can I get for you, hun?" the woman asks, flipping one side of her long brown hair over her shoulder as she leans forward against the counter, casting Emma an appreciative look.
Usually, Emma would rankle a bit at being sized up so blatantly, but she's just glad she hasn't been recognized yet. She'll put up with the barmaid's wandering eyes, as long as she gets a drink and a quiet corner to herself out of it.
"Rum."
"Whole bottle?"
Emma nods, digging in the pockets of her coat for the coins she'll need, adding a generous amount in tip, hoping to buy the girl's silence should an unwanted situation arrive.
Emma grabs the bottle and the tumbler that the woman gives to her, turning and scanning the space for an empty table.
She finds one in the opposite corner, but on the same wall as the musician, an empty round table blessedly out of talking distance from the other patrons.
Emma makes her way over, her skirts swishing around her legs and her steps loud. She wishes there was a bit more noise, something to drown out any that she may be making, to divert any need for attention being drawn to her. But it seems the musician has stopped playing for the night, no soft pluckings to be heard.
When she finally settles herself in her seat, pouring a generous helping of rum into the glass before her, she looks up to find the other patrons once again involved in their own separate affairs. All except one.
The musician. He's staring at her, not blatantly so, but Emma can feel the way his eyes turn her way every few minutes. Irritation bubbles under her skin, a desperate desire to tell him to fuck right off and leave her alone, but she's not wanting to cause a scene, especially in her current predicament
"Any requests, love?" his voice breaks out over the small tavern, thickly accented and deep. It sends a shiver down her spine.
Emma looks up from her glass to glare at the man, and she can't say she isn't surprised by what she sees.
He's handsome. Very handsome.
A mop of dark hair adorns his head, styled in a way that makes it look messy but put-together all at once. His attire is comprised completely of black leather, from the long coat that she sees resting on the empty chair beside him, to the pointed black boots he wears on his feet. Most notorious of all, though, is the lack of his left hand, his arm simply ending and his sleeve rolled up. He's not wearing any sort of brace or false hand, and he's holding his instrument lazily in his right one.
She lets the shock wash over her quickly, before narrowing her eyes at him once more. Emma is not the kind of girl to be swayed by pretty looks and flattering words. She's a substance kind of girl, and so far she's not found anyone who measures up.
"Love?"
Her glare deepens, "First of all, I'm not your love." He grins at her words, his bright teeth flashing under the low lights of the tavern. "And I do have a request actually," he seems to perk up a bit, his shoulders straightening and his grin widening.
"Silence."
"Pardon?"
"I'm requesting silence. And perhaps an end to this conversation as well," she says with an air of nonchalance, turning away from his gaze and back toward her drink.
He's quiet for a beat, and Emma feels like she can breathe a sigh of relief, glad that her intimidation tactics worked and he's backing off. But then he lets out a laugh, a booming thing, loud and slightly obnoxious. The other patrons in the bar turn to him, glares on their faces as well as her own.
"You're a tough lass. I like that." He throws a wink her way and Emma scoffs, loud enough for him to hear as she rolls her eyes and goes back to ignoring him.
He remains quiet for a while longer, that stupid musician, but some ten minutes later he begins plucking at his strings again-this time with a bit more direction.
The melody sweeps over the tavern comfortably, like a warm blanket settling over a worn-out body.
Emma relaxes into it, feels like she's melting along with the soft notes. It's a simple tune, nothing too complex, but she's still in awe of the talent that the man possesses, especially when he lacks the benefit of dual appendages.
He plays for some time, the soft melody repeating itself over and over, lulling the patrons and herself into a sort of trance-like state, one that makes her forget about all her woes, about every time she's felt trapped, like her wings had been clipped and her cage locked.
When he stops playing, Emma looks up at him with a protest on her lips, but her voice stutters to a stop as she watches him walk toward her, jacket on his shoulders, instrument cradled in his left arm, and a chair being lifted and brought over, toward her and her table, with his right.
"Did you like it?" he asks when he settles himself across the table from her.
She's voiceless for a brief period, admiring the details of his appearance now that he is so much closer.
He's not just handsome, she thinks, he's beautiful. His eyes of pristine blue, the most remarkable she's ever seen in real life. A layer of scruff adorns his jawline, giving him a more roguish sort of handsome, rather than the clean-cut beauty of a prince.
"I'm sorry?" she asks, shaking her head slightly and refocusing her gaze, finding him smirking as heat rushes to her cheeks.
"The song. Did you like it?"
Emma shrugs, running her finger along the rim of her glass, wishing for all the world that she hadn't come out tonight because this musician's eyes seem to bore into her own, seem to read every line of her mind and file the information away, perhaps to use against her when the time comes.
"What's your name, love?"
"Why?" The words are biting and harsh. She's no interest in this game. She wants a drink and some alone time, not some stranger (as handsome as he may be) trying to dredge up as much information about her as he can.
He chuckles, "You're a tough lass." he repeats, admiration in his voice.
Emma scoffs once more, her breath fogging up the rim of her glass. She's surprised, though, by the way that he speaks, that he seems to compliment her. She's been told all her life that she's pretty. Beautiful, delicate, lyrical, but never has she been complimented on her strength with such fervent admiration. Especially not by a man.
She finds that she likes it.
"You don't have to tell me your name, lass. But I'd like to share a bottle with you," he gestures to her small one, half empty by now. "Perhaps we order another and spend a lonely person's Christmas together?
"I'm not lonely." It's the wrong thing to say because he just smiles a sad smile at her, the kind that calls out her bullshit. Sure, she's lonely, from time to time, but that's not why she came out tonight. She just needed to forget, needed to take a break for once.
"You're an open book, love. One I'd very much like to read." He winks at her lasciviously and that's what does her in. It's so cheesy, such a stupid line and she bursts out laughing before she can stop herself.
He doesn't seem too offended, chuckling along with her.
"Fine. One drink," she says after she's calmed herself down, and his answering smile could be dubbed a Christmas miracle all on its own.
One drink turns into two. Two into three. And before she knows it, Emma is sharing another bottle of rum with the handsome musician before her.
She doesn't feel drunk. They're so caught up in conversation, about everything and nothing, that they're barely drinking.
Still, she's pleasantly buzzed - off both the liquor and the company.
She thinks he must be a sailor of some sort, though he doesn't confirm her suspicion, and she doesn't ask. But he entertains her with stories of faraway lands. About magic carpets and secret passageways. About enormous sea monsters and beautiful princesses.
She hopes he doesn't see how she fidgets at the mention of royalty.
He looks like he's in awe of her every time she talks. A big smile on his face and kindness in his eyes.
She tells him about the time she beamed a stable boy in the head with an apple when he told her she couldn't ride the horses because she was just a girl.
And he laughs so loud he brings the bartender over with a scolding.
She thinks she hasn't smiled this much in a long time.
By the time they finish the bottle, Emma looks up to find the tavern empty. Even the pretty bartender from before is nowhere to be seen.
"Oh god, it's late!" She rises from her chair with urgency, flattening her skirts and pushing her hair back from her face. "I should go. I've been gone too long."
He arches an eyebrow at her, still splayed back lazily in his seat. "You've a curfew? I'd think I woman such as yourself wouldn't abide to the constraints of time."
She rolls her eyes at his words. No, she doesn't have a curfew, but she should be back before sunrise, and she's quite sure now that it's well past midnight, the sun already starting its trek toward greeting the world.
"I'll be going now." She says, but she doesn't move, she hesitates, and that's all he needs apparently.
He's in front of her in a beat, his eyes wide and a myriad of emotions swimming in the depths of them that she can't name. But she can name one, can pinpoint it perfectly. Desperation. He's desperate.
"Tell me your name, love." he urges, as he takes one of her trembling hands in his own. She cannot decipher the effect that this man has on her. All she knows is that she does not want to leave his presence. She feels like she knows him so well, even though they've only met mere hours ago.
"I - I can't."
He takes a step closer and all she can feel is the rolling heat coming off of him. The waves of desire. "Give me something. Anything. Something to hold onto."
"Swan." she blurts it out before she can stop herself. It's the nickname her father called her when she was younger, not the 25-year-old woman she is now.
He tilts his head at her, a small smile gracing his lips. She has a sudden urge to kiss it. To feel his smile against her own. To know what his mouth tastes like. Rum and lust.
"Swan," he says, the name rolling off his tongue like a treasure, like a sweet treat. "A pleasure," her breath hitches as he bends to kiss her knuckles, an innocent enough gesture, but it's the slight feeling of his tongue on her skin as he pulls away that makes her hiccup out a gasping breath.
"And you?" she asks, as he gazes at her with his too-blue, too-knowing eyes.
"Pardon?"
"What should I call you?"
"Ahh," he hums, nodding at her request. He takes his time thinking of a response, and when he finally answers it's decidedly not what she was expecting.
"Hook." he finally says, his tongue peeking out through his lips as he takes her in. Flushed cheeks and rapid heartbeat.
"Hook?"
"Aye. Simple moniker."
"But why-"
"Ah, ah, ah," he hushes her, a playful smile on his lips. "Save the secrets for next time."
"I don't remember anything about a next time." she shoots back, a smile blooming on her face that she just cannot find the energy to suppress.
He winks at her, "Next year, Swan, same time, same place." he's playing at humor, but there's an urgency to his voice, an underlying plea that pulls at her heart.
She shouldn't agree. She can't really, but this man - he calls to her. To her mind and to her heart, and she's not sure what they share yet, what to name this tenuous thing between them, but she is sure that it is of great importance. Perhaps fate has aligned their paths, and who is she to resist such a call?
"Okay," she whispers back, no playfulness to her voice, just a sure thing being breathed into the air between them. She watches him relax, his smile blooming wide and she wants to trace its trajectory, with her thumb, with her lips, with her tongue.
She needs to leave.
Emma pulls back from his grasp and walks toward the exit before she feels the grip of his hand on her wrist once more.
"One year." It's a statement, not a question, and she knows she could refuse him if she truly wanted to. But that's the thing, she doesn't want to.
So instead she meets his gaze head on, watches as his eyes roam her face like he's memorizing every line, every freckle, every dimple, and detail.
"One year." She affirms, and then she's gone. Out the door and back toward her real life, her responsibilities.
She ignores the ache in her chest, and she settles back into her routine.
She realizes soon enough, though, that just because you ignore something, doesn't mean it goes away.
She's 26 the following year. Dodging marriage proposals and elaborate balls. She feels like she's constantly being bombarded with invitations and council meetings, dress fittings and decorating tasks.
She hates it. All of it.
Her father takes her out horseback riding every once in awhile, and her mother still teaches her archery every week to distract her from her duties, but it's not enough to forget about all the royal drivel.
She thinks she'd like to lead, but she hates the bureaucracy of it all. Hates the games she has to play. It's not so much leading as negotiating, holding your nose and praying that whatever scummy deal you just made with the Count of SomeLand doesn't come back to bite you, or your people, in the ass.
She spends Christmas Eve and Christmas day entertaining scores of royal guests. Carving the turkey, making her speeches. She watches as her little brother, now one Christmas closer to being a man, a man of age to rule, excitedly talks about his gifts. Her parents smile fondly at him, and Emma wishes for the hundredth time that she had not been born the oldest. She's no desire for this life, but her brother would do well in her place.
She's exhausted by the time all the festivities are over, and she retires early, claiming a headache. It's not a complete lie, she does have a headache, blooming right behind her left temple, but she can't worry about that now.
She's debated over the past few months on whether or not she should go back to the tavern.
Go back and what? She wonders, Wait for some guy to show up and sweep me off my feet?
No, she'll not be so easily taken. She can't come to rely on the presence of a man who may only let her down, and so in her decision to return to the tavern, she's also decided not to get her hopes up. To go and sit down at the same table as before, and if he shows up, great, if not - well it's for the best anyway.
She sneaks out after the sun has set, bringing her gloves with her this time, the chilled air outside still just as unforgiving as the year prior, and she's thankful for the warm fur when she's walking back toward the tavern, her steps brisk and her heart pounding (for what reason she doesn't know).
She finds the tavern not nearly as empty as it was the year before. Actually, it's practically bursting with patrons, men and women alike.
They must be pirates, Emma thinks, watching them curse and guffaw, drinking rum like water as they pull pretty barmaids in by the waist. The air smells decidedly like seawater, and Emma thinks of leaving for a brief moment, sure that her musician would not want to be found in such a rowdy place.
Even so, she can't get herself to leave quite yet, her eyes scanning over the small room, hoping to catch a glimpse of dark hair and blue eyes, but she is met with a loss. He's not here, and she wishes her heart did not plummet so at such a fate.
She feels like a fool, and all she wants to do is turn around and leave, but she really needs a drink now.
The girl at the bar is the same as the year prior, her long brown hair still just a beautiful, and her smile just as wolfish.
"Well, well, well, it's been quite a while since I've seen you darken our doorway, Blondie."
"Just rum, please." She's not interested in playing this game tonight. She wants her alcohol, not banter.
"I'd hold off on the rum for right now." the barmaid says, a look of mischief alight on her face.
"Excuse me?" Emma hisses, half anger, half incredulity, but before she can decide whether she wants to scream or cry in her frustration, she hears a voice behind her.
"Swan?"
Emma freezes, her body tensing as the barmaid in front of her simply smirks, her hand circling as she dries a glass.
"Told you so." the woman says, before turning around to attend to another patron.
Emma follows suit, turning slowly until her green eyes meet blue and she lets out an exhale of relief that she hopes he doesn't notice (he does).
"Hook?" Emma asks, still not sure if she wants to believe this. If she wants to fall prey to what must certainly be a trick.
His answering smile is wide and beautiful, the best thing she's seen all year and she can't help but to smile back.
"Did you miss me, darling?" he raises a brow, all bravado, and smirk.
Emma scoffs, "You wish. Now where's the rum?"
His smile softens as he holds up a bottle, and she reaches to take it, but he holds it out of her grasp.
"What the hell?"
He chuckles, "Patience, darling, I've a surprise. How'd you like to get out of here? Bit too much, aye?" he nods at the surrounding crowd, all of which are laughing and singing so loudly Emma's surprised she can even hear herself think. There's no way they'd be able to hold a conversation in this mess.
"Sure," Emma finally decides, turning back to her companion and away from the crowd. She reaches up and snatches the bottle of rum out of his hand, and his smile of approval sends butterflies through her stomach. "Where to?"
"How have you been, lass?" he asks as they're walking along the docks. She's not sure why they're here. He didn't give her any clues as to where they're going, but Emma trusts him. More than she cares to admit.
She shrugs, "Same as always, I guess."
"You'll have to give me more than that, lass." He says on a laugh, looking down at her with kind eyes,
She's silent for a beat, unsure of what to say. She wonders if she should tell him. Just come right out and say it. Hey, by the way, I'm a princess. But she doesn't know how he'll react. What if he thinks she lied to him, what if he's mad she kept such a huge part of her identity from him?
She decides against it.
"Mundane is all I mean. It's just been excruciatingly boring."
He tilts his head at that, an odd look on his face that makes her think he doesn't really believe her, but it's gone before she can examine it further.
"Well, hopefully I can bring a bit of excitement to your life, hm?" He leers at her, licking his lips and she can't help but laugh. He's such an ass, but she loves it, loves how he teases.
She bumps his shoulder with her own, making him stumble a bit as they walk over the icy cobblestones that lead to the dockyard.
"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?" she gestures out at the docked ships, bobbing slightly on the cold water. There's a lingering fog in the air and the lanterns down here are dimmed to a modest glow.
"Aye, we're just arriving now, lass." he gestures up at a large ship, adorned in shades of yellow, red, and blue. "Behold, the Jolly Roger!"
Emma stumbles back a few steps, away from him and the ship. "The Jolly Roger?" she mumbles, incredulous, her eyes wide.
"Ah," he scratches behind his ear, ducking his head low, "so you've heard of me?" his voice is sheepish and he won't meet her eyes and really she doesn't care because how the fuck could she have been so stupid?
"Captain Hook, oh my god, you're Captain Hook!" she practically screeches it at him, and he takes a step toward her, to placate her she's sure, but she's not in the mood.
Captain Hook. A pirate. Wanted in practically every kingdom. Wanted in her kingdom. How could she not have guessed that a year ago? For fuck's sake, he practically spelled it out for her.
Hook, he had said, simple moniker.
What. The. Fuck.
"Why didn't you tell me?!" she yells, pointing toward his braceless and certainly hookless arm, "And why aren't you wearing your hook in the first place? Don't you have a reputation to uphold?"
"I was going to tell you, lass," Emma scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest because suddenly she's chilled, and also because she's afraid if they don't stay crossed she's going to punch him in his pretty face. "I didn't want to keep it from you, and yes I'm bloody Captain Hook, but I'm not here to pillage and plunder your kingdom and I'm certainly not here to hurt you."
Emma's shocked by the emotion in his voice, by the sense of need that he has for her to understand. She's not sure she buys it quite yet, but she's also not sure that she doesn't.
"Then why are you here?"
"I don't bloody know!" he shouts it back at her, and now they're both standing across from one another, hands clenched and chests heaving.
They're silent for a moment, but then he seems to deflate, his hand rising to rub against his face. He looks exhausted suddenly, and Emma has an urge to just fold him in her arms, to hold him close.
She throws that thought far, far away.
"I can't stay away from you, lass. I know I should. I've spent the whole bloody year arguing with myself about whether or not I should return here tonight. And I know I should have stayed away but I couldn't do it." He takes a few urgent steps toward her, invading her space, "I can't seem to shake you, love. You've bewitched me."
She's about to tell him off, because she certainly didn't mean to have such an effect on him (even if she's secretly flattered by the confession) when her memory catches onto his previous words.
"Why did you say my kingdom?"
"Pardon?"
"Earlier," she takes a step forward, and he's the one to retreat this time, one step back, "You said you weren't here to, how did you say it - Pillage and plunder my kingdom? Why the specification?"
He scratches behind his ear once more, and a sudden thrill shoots through her at the thought of knowing his nervous tics. She may be angry with him, but she can't shake the image of the man she met a year ago. The swaggering musician with the cunning smile. The one that was kind to her, that cared what she had to say, that wanted to understand her, to understand the real her.
"Did you know?" she asks, because he's still silent and now she has to know, has to know if he knows.
"Aye, I know you're the princess."
Emma grits her teeth, "How?"
"You're beautiful, Swan," she tries to interrupt but he barrels on, "I've seen the portraits and they don't do you justice." he chuckles, "Even so, you're a recognizable individual. I knew the moment you walked through that tavern a year ago that you were the princess of Misthaven."
Emma feels her body deflate. She thought she was being so clever with her minimalist disguise, but now she looks back and just feels silly for even trying.
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Because I thought if I did you would run, and there was something about you that made me want you to stay."
Emma rolls her eyes, her own defense mechanism for fending off such compliments. "You're quite good at this flattery thing."
He smiles, "Not flattery, Princess, only truth."
She doesn't have a response to that, so she simply keeps her mouth shut, fidgeting with her hands because she doesn't know where to go from here. Can she trust him? She barely knows him, and he's Captain Hook for fuck's sake.
But still, there's something instinctive inside her that pulls her to trust him. To put her faith in him.
"Will you let me explain? I've some food on my ship, and I sent my crew out for the evening, so we shan't be bothered" His blue eyes bore into her own, and there's a hidden plea there, a clasping of hands and a prostrating of limbs, begging for her to stay, to understand. "Please, Swan."
And that's it, that's what gets her. He knows her name, knows she's Princess Emma of Misthaven, and yet he doesn't call her that, doesn't mutter her real name, because she hadn't given it to him. Instead, he calls her by the name she gave to him one year ago, a silly nickname, and yet he caresses it so, makes something as ordinary as a name sound like a song coming off his lips.
"Okay," she says for the second time since they've met, and she finds that his answering smile is just as wide as it was the first time.
She doesn't think she's ever had a better Christmas, and it's all because of him: Captain Hook.
After she agreed to stay he led her onto his ship, and down below deck to his cabin. She tried to hide her blush at the sight of the bed in the corner, her mind instantly straying to more pleasurable activities and the thought of his body against hers, his skin smooth and his palms calloused.
If he could sense the heat coming off her he didn't mention it, instead he sat her down at the little table in the middle of the cabin, poured her a glass of rum, and told her a story. The story of him.
The story of how his mother died on Christmas day when he was just a boy, of how his brother always tried to rekindle the magic of the holiday but could never quite do it after their mother's passing.
The story of how he lost his brother and lost his hand and lost his love, and though he didn't get into the gory details he told her still of how he came to be who he is, the fearsome Captain Hook.
The story of how he never feels quite whole during the holidays, especially on this day. About how he's taken to going to small taverns by himself on Christmas night, bringing along the instrument his mother taught him to play when he was a boy, plucking notes in her memory.
He tells her all of this and she finds herself enraptured by his voice, by the way his lips move, by how his expression changes and his tone shifts. But mostly she finds herself entranced by him, by this man with a good heart and a bad reputation. This pirate with the spirit of a good man.
And in turn, she tells him about her life, the life of a princess who hates being a princess. The spirit of a girl who just wants to see the world, wants to travel and explore and help people.
By the end of the night, she's exhausted, stumbling a bit as she gets up from her chair. He catches her by the elbow and the heat of his touch burns through her dress, makes her feel like her skin is alight.
She looks up and catches his gaze and there's a fire behind them, a kind of heat that can only be doused one way, but she doesn't have time for that kind of fun, she has to get home, has to be back before the guards switch duties.
"Next year, Swan? Same time, same place?" he whispers it even though they're alone because it feels like a fragile thing, this connection between them, and if she says no now, if she hesitates, she's afraid it may snap.
So instead she nods, and he releases his grip on her, following her up the ladders and off his ship.
She stands before him, shivering in her coat and watches as he takes one, two, three steps toward her. He's so close she can smell the rum on his skin, and she wants nothing more than to lick it off, lick every inch of him and claim him for her own, but she can't, can't, can't, the words repeating like a mantra in her head.
"Until next year, Swan." he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, and her breath hitches as the contact, at the feeling of his soft, warm lips against her chilled skin. Suddenly she wants very much to not be the only one dreaming of tasting the other tonight, and by the look on his face when he pulls back, she's not alone in her desire.
She leaves without looking back, too scared of what such a gesture would mean, but by the time she's home, curled in her bed and replaying the events of the night, she finds she's never regretted anything more.
At 27 it's getting harder to escape the rampant increase of proposals from neighboring kingdom's princes and dukes. But she's resilient, undeterred by their offerings of gold and jewels, silk and precious treasures. She's not giving into just any kind of love, she wants the real thing, not some silly infatuation.
By the time Christmas comes around her castle is filled to the brim with potential suitors and she's about ready to burst with anger and annoyance and just all around exhaustion.
But she's been giddy for weeks (months) about what tonight might hold. She's finally going to see him again, Captain Hook, the man who's haunted her dreams and every waking thought since last year.
Not to mention the onslaught of much more...lascivious dreams.
She's woken up drenched in sweat with an ache between her legs more times than she can count. She's woken up with a need for skin against skin and lips against lips, a need that can only be satisfied by one man. She hasn't even kissed him yet and still she can imagine how he would move over her and under her, how he would kiss her, how he would make her come alive with his touch, simply because she knows him. She's watched the way he moves, the way he speaks, the words he uses, and the way he looks at her, both like she's something delicious and precious all packed together.
She's not throwing away her chance for more tonight.
By the time she gets to the tavern she's practically vibrating with excitement, and thankfully, she doesn't have to wait long to see him.
He's standing outside the bar, leaning against the door post, legs crossed and arms followed suit, and she thinks her heart might beat out of her chest any minute now.
She tries not to pick up her speed, really she does, but she can't help herself, and he sees her coming anyway, his body growing closer and closer until he's standing right in front of her, only a few inches away.
"Swan," he breathes, his voice a mere whisper and there's so much emotion packed into that one monosyllabic word she's stricken silent for a moment.
"Hook," she responds eventually, her hands twitching at her sides with the desire to touch him, to feel him and just how real he is under her hands.
The tension between them is palpable, she could bend it and twist it and cut it in half if she so desired, but all she really wants to do is follow it until it leads her back to his ship and into his arms.
He seems to sense her desires, holding his hand out for her to take and she shows no hesitation, grabbing it and letting the warmth of his skin seep into her own, into her bloodstream, until it reaches her heart, making it pump faster, and faster, and faster.
"How have you been, love?" he asks as they walk down to the harbor, it's a short walk and yet they're still walking at a pace much too face to appear normal.
"Fine," she says, even though what she really wants to say is that she's better now. Better now that she's finally back in her presence, but she can't do that because it's too much, it sounds too much like real feelings and she can't have real feelings for this man. She can't.
He's a pirate and she's a princess and they're star-crossed everything.
He says nothing, gleaning from her response that she's much too eager to get to his ship, and not so eager for the common niceties.
They remain silent until they reach his ship, and even as he helps her down the ladder to his cabin, there are still no words to be said.
The urgency between them is obvious and yet when they finally stand alone, face to face, with a bed just mere feet away, Emma feels suddenly nervous.
They stare at one another for what feels like hours before he makes his way toward her, his hand rising up to cup her face and he's actually wearing his hook this year, the metal staying far away from her body.
His thumb traces the apple of her cheek and he's staring at her, the blue of his eyes meeting the green of her own and there's so much emotion in those blue depths that she feels like she's drowning in it.
"Hook," she whispers, for what reason she does not know. She had no words planned after his name but it felt like the right approach to the silence.
He shakes his head before the name has even fully left her mouth, his thumb sliding over her bottom lip and she's shivering, shaking and he must notice but he doesn't comment.
"Killian."
"What?" she's not even sure she's heard him right, too preoccupied with the feeling of his fingers in her hair, his skin touching hers.
He smiles, soft and gentle, "My name. It's Killian Jones, call me Killian." It's a plea if she's ever heard one, undeniable emotion weaved throughout every syllable of his request.
So she heeds it.
"Killian," she whispers, her eyes moving down to his lips and back to his eyes over and over again, and she doesn't wait any longer, rising up on her tiptoes and bringing his lips down to her own.
He groans against her mouth, his hand snaking down to her waist and pulling her body against his, hard lines meeting soft curves.
His lips are soft but demanding, chasing her if she (unintentionally) pulls even a fraction away from him. He traces the seam of her mouth with his tongue until she grants entrance and then it's all over, there's no going back as their kisses grow in ferocity, grow in need.
It's not enough for her, though, his left arm still hovering over her side but not touching, never touching with his hook. But she doesn't care, she wants him to know she doesn't care.
She grabs for the hook, dragging it to her waist and settling it there. He protests, of course, trying to pull it out of her grasp but she breaks the kiss, and stares at him, brokering no argument.
"Touch me," she says against his lips, red and swollen from her kisses, "Don't hold back,"
And he doesn't.
With a growl, he pulls her back in, nipping and sucking on her lips before trailing his mouth down her neck. She's panting hard and she'd be embarrassed by the noises she's making if it wasn't for him. But it's Killian, it's her Killian and she could never be embarrassed in front of him.
He pushes her gently back toward the bed in the corner, their rum forgotten as she falls against the mattress. She pushes him back briefly and he looks shocked, but she simply sends him a coy smile before she begins to unlace her corset, his eyes widening at the sight.
He helps her disrobe and it's not long before she stands before him, wearing nothing but the skin she was born in.
He's silent, tracing the curves of her breasts with his hand, over and over again, a certain reverence to his touch.
"So bloody beautiful." he whispers, and that's all she needs, a whine escaping her throat as she pulls him closer, her hands traveling to his belt, wanting his clothes off more than she's wanted anything.
"Killian," she whines, "too many clothes, please."
"Aye, my darling, aye."
He pulls his shirt up and over his head, his right-hand fisting in the fabric behind his neck and tugging up, up, up until his chest is exposed.
She makes quick work of his belt, suddenly feeling much too hot to keep this charade up for any longer, she wants him in her, wants to feel what it's like to be so connected to him, to his body.
He removes his hook too, setting the brace to the side and she can't fight the urge to grab his left arm, to press lingering kisses to the scarred skin. He shudders at her touch, his eyes looking at her in awe.
"Swan," he gasps, but she shakes her head, pulling back and meeting his gaze.
"Emma, call me, Emma."
He smiles down at her, leaning forward until his lips are just a breath away from her own, "Emma, my darling, Emma." he kisses her softly and she finds she doesn't mind so much that he uses a possessive with her name, because he's right, no matter how much she might want to deny it: she is his and he is hers.
He's gentle with her as he lays her down on the bed, not rushing any of it, and she can't say she minds. He pays special attention to every inch of her skin, tracing her curves, mouthing at her breasts, and when his mouth finds a spot between her legs she simply can't complain, flying higher and higher and higher until she bursts, his smirk pressed against her navel as she comes down.
When he finally enters her it's slow and careful, his touch gentle and his thrusts nowhere near the range of power she knows he possesses.
He takes her carefully, savoring the moment, but eventually she's too wound up to deal with the excruciatingly slow pace, flipping him over and climbing astride him.
He simply looks at her in wonder, speaking encouragements as she rides him faster, and faster, and faster, chasing her high, chasing their highs.
That's it sweet, take what you need.
Perfect, fuck you're perfect.
Come on, Emma, that's a girl, come for me.
Good - bloody fuck - good girl.
By the time it's over they're both drenched in sweat, tangled together in his narrow bed as he traces the constellations into the skin of her back. She giggles at how it tickles and he smiles against her lips, kissing her until she's breathless and they're both ready for round two.
By the time she has to leave she's sore in so many places she doesn't know where to begin, but the smiles on both their faces make it all worth it.
He walks her up to the docks, his hand resting gently on the small of her back and suddenly she's nervous, beyond so, because now they've given themselves to each other fully, and completely, and now they have to say goodbye for another year.
"Same time next year?" she asks, not even trying to hide her frown.
He nods, a twin grimace on his own face, "Aye, love, next year."
She doesn't walk away for a few minutes, and he pulls her close, enveloping her body in his strong arms and she breathes him in, trying to memorize the scent of him because she simply cannot bear the thought of forgetting.
"Goodbye, Killian." she finally says, pulling away from his grasp and she's trying not to cry, she has to stay strong, but it's a losing battle and she has to get out of here quickly, can't let him see the effect he has on her.
"Goodbye, Emma."
And then she's gone, walking away and letting the tears stream down her face, the biting cold making the trek back home nearly unbearable, especially since she just left the arms of a man that makes her feel warmer than she ever thought possible.
She goes back home, reenters her routine, and doesn't even try to stop thinking about him.
Because god knows she'd fail.
When she's 28 her parents are all but forcing her to accept a marriage proposal. They're not outright about it, never speaking directly to it, but she knows what they want. Knows what they're doing when they won't stop mentioning a certain prince's name, talking about his kingdom, his achievements, his looks.
Like she cares about any of that.
All she cares about is Christmas, is getting to that one holiday and finally being able to see her pirate again, her sweet sailor, her Killian.
It's been torture, the past year, not being able to speak to him. They never talked about seeing one another on a day other than their holiday, and they never talked of exchanging letters. They simply reveled in the feeling of skin on skin, of one another's presence, and now they're suffering for it.
There's a suitor staying at the castle for Christmas, a prince named Walsh and her parents are hinting heavily at the possibility of a proposal, which in turn makes Emma want to vomit every time the subject is even broached.
She can't marry Walsh. She can't marry anyone because then she'd have to stop seeing Killian, and when she thinks of doing that her heart squeezes so painfully she has to sit down.
Walsh is pompous and annoying, and every time she's near him all she can think about is how Killian never made her feel this way, Killian never made her want to run and hide.
So when Christmas day rolls around she's beyond excited, bouncing with the need to see him.
She practically runs to the tavern, slipping once or twice on the fresh snow that's still falling from the sky, fast and hard, and she knows they're supposed to get at least a foot of the stuff, but she doesn't care, because while the world outside freezes, she'll be warm in safe in her lover's arms.
He's waiting for her at the entrance to the tavern and she does run this time, straight into his arms.
He catches her and spins her around, both of them laughing until their mouths are preoccupied with one another's, their bodies pressed so close together she forgets about the cold, about the snow, about suitors and royal obligations.
When they pull back she stares up at her sailor, her hand rising up to trace the scar on his cheek, "Hi, Killian."
"Emma," he breathes, diving back in for another kiss, practically bending her back with the force of it. "I missed you, love."
Her heart stops at that because they've never been so open about their feelings for each other beside the obvious physicality of their relationship. He's hinted at deeper feelings, but he's never outright said anything about it.
She has a suspicion that's going to change tonight.
But instead of worrying about something that may or may not happen, Emma grabs his hand and tugs him toward the docks, eager to get him naked and in her arms once more.
He chuckles, "Eager, darling?"
She simply nods her head, looking over her shoulder to smile at him.
They reach his ship in record time and the moment the hatch to his cabin is closed
their clothes are being removed, the want between them at feverish levels.
They fall into bed together without any more words, just harsh breaths and loud groans and the sound of skin sliding against skin.
It's fast and needy, and it's everything Emma's thought of for months, twelve long months.
When it's over they lay tangled in the sheets, her head resting on his chest and her leg thrown over his hips.
"My beautiful princess," he says against her lips, his fingers running through her hair, playing with the strands.
Her heart plummets at the emotion in his voice, in his words. It's too much because this won't work. He's a pirate and she's a princess and she should have thought this through.
But it's only one night, she reminds herself, one night where she can pretend that nothing can keep them apart, that the possibility of one day waking up in the arms of the man she's possibly (definitely) falling in love with might come true.
But the night goes by too fast, their fantasies of the future slipping from her hands as every minute ticks away on the clock. Their lovemaking grows more desperate, their kisses lingering more and more.
It's an hour or so before she absolutely must leave that everything goes downhill.
"I wish I could stay," she whispers against his chest, her fingers running through the hair that grows there.
At her words he tightens his arm around her, pulling her closer into the heat of his body.
"Then stay."
Emma scoffs, "It's not that simple."
He pulls back an inch or so to look at her, his eyes full of an emotion she can't (won't) name. "It can be."
"No, it can't be." she pulls back the rest of the way, starting to rise out of his bed and begin dressing once more. She has so many layers it'll take at least a half hour to get bundled up again.
Before she can get out of the bed, though, his fingers wrap around her wrist, halting her retreat. "Emma, I love you."
It's whispered into the air, his declaration, and she thinks for a second that she may have misheard him, that maybe he didn't say anything at all and her mind is simply making it up, but the look on his face tells her otherwise, full of apprehension and fear.
"What?"
He sighs, sitting up and letting the sheets pool indecently at his waist. She blushes at the sight, which is ridiculous really, considering how well acquainted she is with his body. "I know I shouldn't do it like this. I know it's not proper but, gods above, Emma, I love you. I love you so bloody much and I can't do another year apart from you, I cannot bear it."
"You must."
"Why?" he grabs her hand in his own and Emma wants nothing more than to pull away, knowing if she doesn't then her resolve will crumble faster than she's prepared for. "I know you hate your crown, Emma, you've told me time and again that you don't want this power. You want to see the world, you want adventure and freedom? You can have it all, just stay with me, my love, please."
She rips her hand from his grasp, red-hot fury boiling in her veins, "You want me to abandon my people? Abandon my crown simply so I can live out my foolish fantasies?"
"They're not foolish!"
"Yes they are!" she's breathing heavily now, standing away from him in his cabin, arms spread wide and hands shaking. "Seeing the world, chasing a dream, it's all foolish. It's nothing more than a distraction!"
Silence hangs in the air around them as he stares at her with narrowed eyes, his jaw clenched tight. "Ah, I get it now."
"Get what?" she growls.
"I'm nothing more than a distraction." He spits the word back at her, his face contorted into a mixture of rage and deep pain.
Her heart plummets at his words, falling to her feet as her mind scrambles for something to say to fix this. "That's not what I meant-"
He interrupts her, standing up to pull his pants on, his movements rough and jerking. "Aye, it is. I'm simply a distraction, a way for you to rid yourself of all your - foolish desires."
"Killian, I -"
"Forget it, Princess. You've a castle to return to."
They say nothing more as she dresses. Their backs to one another and the silence all encompassing. Emma feels like she's falling without a ledge to grab onto, because there's no fixing this. If she leaves without at least trying to make amends then she'll lose him, and she doesn't think she can bear losing him.
But pride is a tricky thing.
He takes her up to the dock when she's ready, his jaw still clenched tight and his body angled away from her own.
They don't make plans for next year, same time, same place. Instead, they simply stare at one another, until Emma ducks her head, and makes her way back home.
Home. She never thought that word could feel so hollow.
She's 29 and she wishes she'd never went to that tavern all those Christmases ago.
She feels like she's breaking in half every time she thinks of his smile, of the way he kissed her, of the gentle feeling of his arms surrounding her.
She's broken herself and she should have seen this coming.
Her parents have stopped trying to marry her off, and she knows that she's disappointing them but she can't find it in herself to care. The prospect of being queen looms larger and larger over her head and she feels like she's suffocating under the weight of it.
Her little brother is growing up to be a fine young man, 20 now and he's strong and brave, and everything a king should be.
She wishes she could tell her parents to give the kingdom to him, to give him the chance to rule because it's obvious he wants it, whereas they have to force her to go to council meetings and every bureaucratic affair. But she can't do that. She has nowhere else to go, nothing else to do.
The only task she's ever excited about is traveling through the countryside and meeting her subjects, feeding the poor and clothing the needy. She feels like she could rule if it meant only that, but she knows the job is 90% politics and ass-kissing, and the other 10% is actually meeting and greeting her subjects.
She's especially moody during the Christmas season. Her parents asking her what's wrong, but Emma doesn't have an answer. She can't tell them that she thinks she lost the best thing that's ever happened to her, the only person who's ever understood her.
On Christmas day she claims an illness. Lies in bed all day and replays every moment she ever spent with him. Every time he touched her skin, kissed her lips, and whispered her name.
It's midnight when she decides she needs some fresh air. She's not going to the tavern, no, no way, she's just going for a walk.
It's a record cold outside. She feels like her blood may be freezing as she walks along the snow covered streets. She forgot her gloves at home and her hands are bright red, her fingertips throbbing from the pain of it all.
She's sniffling and her teeth are chattering by the time she reaches the harbor. She didn't mean to end up here, and she certainly didn't mean to end up anywhere near the tavern, their tavern. But here she is anyway.
It's cold, and she needs to get inside, needs to get out of this weather and even though she really doesn't want to go back to the tavern, doesn't want to see empty chairs with no pirate musicians she knows she can't stay outside for much longer.
She heads toward the bar, her head bent low to keep the wind and the stinging flakes out of her eyes, and maybe that's why she doesn't see him, doesn't sense him because by the time she collides with his body it's too late to run.
"Emma?" his voice is clouded in disbelief, and his hand grips her arm tight. "Emma you're freezing! Where are your gloves?" He grips her small hands between his large one, bringing them against his chest, but it's the worry, the concern in his voice that gets her, gets the tears to start falling
She falls into his chest and his arms come around her immediately, no hesitation to his grasp. He said he loved her a year ago and she can feel it in his touch.
The only difference now is that she isn't afraid to say it back.
But not right now, it's not the right time. Right now she just wants to feel him, to let him hold her and to revel in the feeling of his skin rubbing against her own, of his beard catching in the silken strands of her hair as he settles his chin atop her head.
"Shh, darling, it's alright," he soothes her, his hooked arm running the length of her back.
They stand there for awhile, Emma clinging to the fabric of his shirt, her arms encircled in the leather of his jacket. She doesn't want to move from this spot no matter how cold it is, because she's afraid if she shifts even an inch she'll wake up from this dream, from the reality of her Killian holding her once again.
"Let's get you inside, love." he starts to pull her toward the tavern but she grips tighter to his shirt, shaking her head no against his chest. "My ship?" he asks, nudging her forward in the direction of the harbor and she lets herself be led, nodding silently as he pulls her closer and takes her to the safety of The Jolly Roger.
Once inside the safety of his cabin he leads her to the large, comfy chair in the corner, settling her beneath a blanket and promising to be right back as he goes to fetch her a cup of tea.
With his absence, she has time to think, though it seems silly that she would need more time to think at all. She's been thinking of little else but their last meeting for the entirety of a year, but now that she's with him in the flesh, all her carefully planned words and explanations have flown out the window.
He comes back rather quickly, a sheepish look on his face and mug of something steaming in his hand.
"Here you are, lass. Drink up, yeah? Don't want you getting a fever."
"I love you."
"What?"
It wasn't the best moment to tell him, yes, but she couldn't hold it in any longer. He was being too nice to her, especially after how she treated him when they were last together. He deserves to know, and she had to get it out. The words have been burning on her tongue since the moment he confessed the same feeling.
"I said I love you." she rises from her chair to stand in front of him. He's frozen still, his eyes wide and unbelieving, his body shocked rigid. "And I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."
He still hasn't said anything, so she raises her hand to cup his jaw, tracing the laugh lines on his face before rising on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, next to his nose and right under his eye.
That's all he needs apparently, his arms coming around her to crush her against his body, his chest heaving with the effort to breath. She's laughing at his reaction, but she can't stop the few tears that leak out because she finally feels like she can breathe again.
"My love, my love," he says against her lips, kissing her breathless over and over again, her giggles intermixed with his soft chucklings.
When he pulls back his smile is disappearing, and there's a seriousness to his eyes that makes her nervous, "Emma, I need to apologize to you."
"For what?!" she asks in disbelief. If anyone should be apologizing it should be her.
"The last time we were together I - I'm afraid I acted in poor form."
"Killian -"
"Shh, let me get this out darling, please?" he traces her lips with his thumb, a soft smile settling on his lips and she feels herself relax, nodding once to let him know he can continue.
"It was wrong of me to ask you to give up your kingdom, to throw your deepest desires and thoughts back at you like ammunition, when you'd confided in me. I wanted you to stay, but the moment you left I knew I'd gone about it all wrong." he takes a stuttering breath, preparing himself for his next words no doubt, "I love you, Emma, more than I could ever put into words, and I still want you to stay, but if you cannot then I will resign myself to this one day a year for as long as you'll have me."
Emma's silent in her reply, rising up on her tiptoes to press a gentle, barely-there kiss to his lips, "How about forever?"
"What?" he tilts his head in confusion, his brow adorably wrinkled, and she'd like to tease him for it, but she needs to get this out, needs him to know.
"I want to stay with you. I knew I made a mistake by leaving you last time, and I never expected you to come back, to wait for me. I want to spend my days with you, all of them."
"But what about your parents? Your kingdom? I cannot ask you to give that up Emma!"
She shakes her head, "You're not asking me to do anything. This is my decision. You were right, Leo is far better suited to be king. My parents will be fine, and I will not be gone forever. I'll visit, and I'll write them letters, but I cannot live like this for any longer. I'm afraid if I do my sadness will eat me up, and I will be just a shell of what I once was."
"So you're saying..." he trails off, waiting for her reply, not wanting to fool himself once more.
"Let's sail away, shall we?"
His smile is beaming, his laugh contagious, as he picks her up in his arms, spinning
her around the small cabin.
They fall into bed just before sunrise, loving one another and feeling one another. It's everything she's wanted for a year now (for over a year now) and it's finally hers. Killian is finally hers, for real this time, forever.
She falls asleep with his heartbeat in her ear and his arms around her waist, and she thinks this just might be what forever feels like.
As steady as the tides and as natural as the current.
And as beautiful as the seaside.