a/n: for Leah (bisexual-killian-jones) who asked for "you just had to ask: I would have followed you anywhere." I only started watching Once around 3b so getting their voices down for this wasn't the easiest, but I will always plow through for a jungle make out session.
The jungle heat creeps across his skin, leaving a scorching trail in its wake. But Killian can't feel it. What he can feel is a sense of absence, and that leaves every part of him cold, bare, and aching. Emma avoids his eyes, avoids all of him entirely in fact, which is a bloody nightmare considering it's only the two of them in this specific patch of the island.
A part of him silently curses the Prince for sending him off with Emma to replenish their freshwater supply. This is what he gets for getting under the good graces of royalty.
Killian should be making the best of this situation, should be poking and prodding and perhaps asking to her to explain what else his Land Without Magic counterpart does not share with him. But Emma hasn't said a single significant word to him since their kiss, and he doesn't know if her thoughts on the matter match his.
(His thoughts in this case are more of a feeling; as though someone has brushed off the cobwebs surrounding his heart and pumped it back to life.)
(What a bloody time to be poetic.)
Still, this may be a good as time as any to close the distance that's beginning to form; he never has been one to give up without a good fight.
"By your pace, one would wonder if you were the expert on this island and not me." It's a sad attempt at conversation but it does get her to falter a little in her steps.
"Well, it isn't like I don't know where the spring is," she counters. He can't see her with her back to him but he imagines the frown on her face, the determined set of her eyes. Killian imagines his lips on hers and it's a wonder he doesn't walk straight into a tree.
"Aye," he agrees, "but I'd advise you tread carefully, love. Who knows what kind of game Pan may have up his sleeve."
Emma grunts, "I know, I can handle this on my own."
He pushes aside the self-depreciation that bubbles up, and instead makes a grab for frustration. "Why, Swan, you only have to ask, I would follow you anywhere," he drawls sarcastically, lifting his eyebrow and pursing his lips in flirtatious punctuation even though she can't see.
She scoffs, her boots seemingly pressing even harder against the ground. "You're doing pretty great without me even asking," Emma mutters. Annoyed. She is most definitely annoyed.
He lets himself simmer for a second after she plunges back into silence, and then shakes his head with an exhale. He quickens his pace so he's walking beside her, and he counts it as a victory when she doesn't move away from him.
It only takes a few more steps for him to break their silence once more, quickly growing tired of the rustling of leaves being the only sound to surround them. "Swan, have I done something to upset you?" He says it cautiously, as though treading on thin ice, keeping his words light as to not let this tentative kinship between them crack.
"No." It comes too quickly for his liking, leaves a sting in his chest that could rival a Lost Boy's arrow.
"A terrible liar you are, darling," he mumbles.
"Look, the faster we do this, the faster we can figure out a plan to get out of here, and the faster we can get to Henry," she huffs, her tone leaving no space for argument. She still doesn't look his way but that doesn't stop him from letting his eyes flit across her profile for a brief moment before he nods his assent.
He isn't too sure where this leaves him (them - them, what a foreign concept and yet far too easy to believe in) besides back to the point where they were when they first arrived here. He likes to think they have had an understanding between them, the kind of link that only lost souls can share. The kiss they shared, well,he understands that it meant something, that she might be beginning to see him for the man he truly is, but Emma refuses to acknowledge it even happened. And with that last thought reverberating in his head, the stinging sensation returns - so much so that he has to bring up his hand to press against it in hopes that it'll seize.
Killian hasn't felt this way in centuries, hasn't believed that he was even capable of feeling this way anymore. And yet-
Emma sighs and runs the back of her arm over her forehead. He shouldn't be staring but he simply can't help it, his gaze has become accustomed to being drawn back to her.
In a vain attempt to distract himself (or perhaps, actually focus), he keeps his eyes on the path ahead and his attention solely on the task at hand. Neverland is generally quiet - no crickets or the like to keep them company, no, that would be far too kind of Pan to do. His years here left him longing for a sound of nature that wasn't the cries of orphans or the snickering of a psychotic demon child. It seems longing is all this island makes him capable of doing.
(And gods, does he long. For Emma's fingers to card through his hair, for the pull of her lips, the slide of her tongue, the bruising of his skin where she grips too hard in an attempt to keep him close.)
(He needs to focus.)
The only warning he gets is a small grunt, before she's managed to trip over some large protruding tree roots. It's enough, though, to tear him from his thoughts and shoot out his hand to catch her, pulling her backwards and right into him.
Her body bumps into his with such little grace, but he feels the cold leave his skin almost immediately. Almost like magic. He doesn't feel the sweltering pinpricks of heat either, but only a faint kind of warmth that he's convinced is emanating from her. (Emma Swan, like a sun ray in a dark stretch of land.) (There he goes, being poetic again.)
It's only then that she finally looks at him, her whole body stock still but her eyes darting over the planes of his face. He sees the conflict in her features, and he knows he was right to believe she was avoiding him because of her walls. He should say something but her laboured breathing and her stone cold grip on his jacket are only reminders of how much he wants to kiss her.
"I-," she starts, but cuts herself off. Her mouth, though, stays open and he traces the soft pink of her lips with his gaze.
"Pleased I came along, yet?" he teases with a chuckle, trying to ease her so she doesn't push him away. He thinks there could be far more ways to please her- he blinks away that thought before it spirals out of his hand and hook. Focus.
She waits a beat, and he sees a bare hint of the corner of her mouth lift up when she replies. "Whatever."
(The way she kisses is one thing, but the way she smiles is another one altogether. He wishes for those to come easy for him, to see the dents in her cheeks and hear the sound of her laughter so often that he need not even try to memorise any of it.)
"Is that gratitude I hear, Swan?" He's still smiling as he says it and he watches the wrinkles on her forehead fade the longer she spends with his arms around her and not stepping away.
She lets out a shaky breath. "Don't push your luck, Hook."
"I'm a centuries-old pirate, love," he reminds her, his voice dropping to a whisper as he presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, "luck seems to favour me."
He thinks he imagines her inching closer up until her lips drag against his slowly, her teeth scraping and nipping and leaving him shivering. Emma leaves him warm and freezing and puzzled beyond belief. But he does focus now, on the soft moan that escapes from the back of her throat when he pulls her closer and swipes his tongue across her bottom lip.
He focuses on the way her nails scrape his scalp and how the strands of her hair spill between his fingers. And he pays very close attention to the deliberately languid pace she keeps, giving him only just short of enough. It keeps him coming back, diving in again when they part.
It's slower but no more heated than the last, and when it ends, it leaves him dizzy. Because this, this is worse; it leaves him wanting more.
She tugs at his hair and he groans, has to stop himself from pressing her up against a tree right then. He knew their first kiss meant far more than it just being a one time thing, and judging by their current position, Emma knows it, too. Or, at least, he hopes so.
Emma leans closer to press her nose into his cheek, his beard no doubt scratching at her skin if the way she scrunches up her nose is anything to go by. She huffs and it leaves a puff of hot air on his lips. If his body temperature keeps fluctuating like this, he's bound to catch some sort of illness.
She pushes off of him then and sucks in a heavy breath, her shoulders dropping marginally as she releases it. He catches himself before he can reach forward and tuck a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear. Instead, he lets himself revel in the redness of her cheeks.
Carefully, she maneuvers herself over the roots and makes a little noise of triumph. He waits, a little hesitant, wondering if he she'll decide to send him back to the campsite after that.
She turns to him, "What? Change your mind about following me?"
His heart is so loud that he can hear the sodding thing beating in his ears. He wonders if she can hear it, too. He waits for another retort from her but it never comes; Emma Swan continues to surprise him. "Never, darling," he grins.
He thinks there's a gnawing truth in that statement even if he doesn't immediately attest to it.
There's hope sparking in his chest. He quickens his steps to catch up with her and shoots her a smile that he hopes doesn't look as breathless as it feels. What he does know, though, is that she was right; he couldn't handle it.