The bottle was passed between them silently, no words needing to be said, everything hanging heavily in the air, left unspoken, all the weight of their individual pasts amassing in that one moment as their hands connected in the passing of the flask of rum.
Wounds had been healed, but they didn't look at each other as the bloodied cloths were tossed away, the torn clothing discarded and ignored, what little magic Tink could still manage helping to ease the pain from the cuts and bruises, the lashes and marks, where the alcohol didn't, where the drink failed to succeed in making either of them forget the last week in the camp, in the caves.
Sea waves rock the Jolly Roger peacefully, the soothing movement of the ship all that Hook wants to focus on at the time, save drowning himself away in the rum—but he can't, because he promised Tink—and a promise is a promise, a word of honor, even now.
"At least we made it out…" she said quietly, filling the silence with speech for the first time in what had to be almost an hour, the time only ticking by quietly, only the sounds of their breath and the rolling seas outside, the night life, breaking through.
"Yeah," he responded, voice low, as he came closer to her, eyes gazing over her form for just a moment; eyes taking in the sight of damage that had been done in the camp—damage wrought because there had been too many, too quickly, and Pan was too fast—
"at least it's over."