I'm not quite sure how to describe this. It's basically a collection of drabbles, but they form one story. Fragments of a longer story.
It was inspired by a few quotes from the Disney Peter Pan movie, the movie made in 2003 and the 1991 "Hook". A few quotes from those movies are used in this story. They are sometimes taken out of context and spoken by different characters.
Also, it contains spoiler for 3x05, if you haven't heard or seen that scene yet.
Cold
Crimson and bare as I stand
Yours completely, yours as we go over
Sing for the lion and lamb
Their hearts are haunting
Still hearts hold ever and ever...ever
Cold, Aqualung
The jungle around them grew thicker and thicker with each tentative step they took, mindful now of everything, every small sound promising danger and darkness.
His heart beat a little faster than usual, sharp memories keeping him on edge, the lives he had seen lost to the traps of this island laughing at him wickedly from afar. Like the lost boys' cries, the far off voices of the men he had lost would not leave him be.
Not even the scarce rays of light that broke through the bar-like canopy of tress could drown their echoes, a prison of the mind, and all he could do was run in circles, caught like a bird in a snare.
He needed to silence them, for the guilt and dull ache in his chest to dissolve, even for a minute, or he feared they might swallow him whole.
His eyes found focus on the long river of blonde hair in front of him, and he remembered all too vividly how soft the strands had felt between his fingers. One time thing. So far, she had been true to her words, and he had not pressed the matter. Too overwhelmed was he by the sudden pain the sight of her caused inside of him. She had taken something the moment their lips had parted. Something he had thought lost for centuries.
Do tell me Swan, he spoke loud enough for her to hear, yet quiet also, not keen on sharing their conversation with everyone else. That story about Pan and Neverland, and me, of course. How does it end? The fact that he was a character in a story had been running through his mind ever since he found out, a certain fascination mingling with the disappointment of how wrong his own story seemed to have been told. How could the ending be anything worth hearing? Still, it broke the silence, and the promise of her voice replacing the shrieks in his mind seemed enough. Do I sail off into the sunset with a beautiful princess by my side?
She turned her had merely far enough for him to see the suppressed grin on her lips, his reference not lost on her. You're the villain, Hook. He had not spoken about what had happened between them, had gone one pretending it had never happened. Not a word, not a mention, not a small derivation from his usual behavior. He had rescued the woman he loved. He had taken in her son. He had returned. He had swallowed the thirst for revenge that had fueled him for centuries. He had sworn to help a boy he did not know. He had saved their lives. Was a broken heart truly what made one a villain? They don't usually get happy endings like that.
He recalled Regina's worries aboard the Jolly Roger. What if she had been right? If there was any truth to this, had he wasted his life in pursuit of a vengeance he never got to fulfill and a heart never mended? So, how does my story end in your world?
You... There was a hitch in her voice, a falter in her breath, almost like she recalled something that had not dawned on her yet, something obvious she should have considered. The sigh that escaped her seemed full of tension, as if she rather would have continued in silence. Because silence was what drove them apart, what set in stone the rule she had declared. A one time thing. You die. The crocodile gets you in the end.
He should have known. What a shame.
.
She reached out her hand to warm by the fire, her legs outstretched. The soles of her feet were hurting, every nerve ending in her body protesting, desperately needing rest and relief. Henry.
Turning away from the dancing flames, Emma met Hook's glance. Ever since the kiss, he had eyed her with so much caution, as if he was afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing.
The deal you made with Pan. What was it? Emma was surprised by her own words. She had wondered about this, but now seemed a strange moment to ask. She noted how Hook's eyes quickly flickered towards Tinkerbell. Her face was the most difficult to read, and Emma quickly turned her attention back to Hook.
Nothing I would want to bother you with, love.
There was a tone to his voice, an edge that she did not recognize. It awoke a curiosity inside of her that she despised. There was nothing more dangerous. A tempest.
I want to know.
He sighed, avoiding her gaze. Instead, his blue eyes reflected the orange glow of the fire, his good hand trailing the shining metal of his hook. Let's say I sacrificed something that I had no right to do so.
He was a book with seven locks to her. Her childhood vision of a villain mingling with the man she knew wore a broken heart beneath a mask of marble.
Emma realized she knew nothing concrete. That he was a riddle, one she was unsure she wanted to solve.
.
Darkness.
It was all that was left.
He fell to his knees, blood coating his hand, but he never saw. Instead, he reached out, red palm cupping a cold, pale,lifeless cheek. No more flush tinting it.
All Emma could do was watch, her numb fingers losing grip of the blade, the metal falling silently onto the soft ground. She paid no attention, her eyes wide open and focused on the desperate man kneeling on the damp ground, clinging to a lifeless body.
The sight burned itself into Emma's mind. The tears that left tracks on his dirty skin. The bloody fingerprints he left all over her pale face. Her eyes, wide open, void of life, dead pools, infinite and terrifying. The crimson stain growing and growing, seeping into more and more of her clothes, the fabric violent and merciless, taking in death like water.
His fingers ran across the deep leash that Pan's dagger had left behind, and Emma looked away, the look of defeat and horror in his eyes, the trembling of his finger, all too much.
Perhaps she should have walked away, pick up her sword and disappear into the thickness of the jungle to leave him be, to suffer in silence and peace. Instead, her feet seemed to have become one with the undergrowth, her legs too tired to move.
She looked away when he leaned so close to her frightfully pale face that Emma thought he might kiss her. This was not a moment she should witness, and instead, her eyes followed the countless flickers of stars against the midnight sky. It was cold, her lips shivering.
Forgive me. His voice was barely audible, a whisper, broken and battered, each syllable trembling so violently Emma wondered how he could articulate them at all. I'm so sorry. So sorry.
Like a mantra he repeated the apology, for what, Emma did not know. She simply did not know what connected him to the dead woman on the ground. Who was she truly? What had he lost the moment Pan's dagger had slit her throat as price for her betrayal? For the help she had offered them.
I do. Believe. Emma squeezed her eyes shut, unable to take in the beauty of the stars. His whispers thickened by tears and heavy breaths, spoken against dead skin and blood coated hair. I do. I do believe in fairies. I do. I do believe in fairies.
He repeated the words, again and again. Hopeless. Emma began to hum quietly, any melody, anything to drown his words. His despair. I do believe in fairies. I do. I do believe.
Eventually, she sank to her knees, too tired to stand. Tears trailing down her own cheeks. Her own lips moving. I do believe in fairies.
No matter how much truth hid behind those words, it was not enough.
.
The night had grown so dark that Emma could not make out the shape of the trees anymore, before she moved again.
No words were spoken when she rested her hand on his back, wrapped the other around his good arm and gently pulled him away from Tinkerbell's bloodless body.
He had stopped muttering, had seized crying hours ago, but only now did she find enough strength in her tired bones to move him away, closer towards where she remembered the trees. The dead body glowed in the moonlight, and Emma made sure to keep walking away, put some distance in between.
They should have gone to find the others straight away. Instead, they had allowed Neverland's utter darkness to swallow them. There was no way to find them now, but she could not leave him there. They needed to move forward.
More hours passed as they sat by a small lake. She had washed his hand clean, had wiped away the blood that coated his face. His own. Hers. She did not know.
Emma felt as if the memory of the kiss they had shared was slowly dissolving in her head, the man back then – strong, passionate, fierce, unnervingly full of himself – disappearing before her eyes. Even though she had known all along about his century-old heartbreak, she had thought his mask to be immune to any pain. To watch it crumble into dust now tore her insides apart. His eyes were red, dark circles lining them, lips pale, arms shivering despite his thick coat.
I'm so sorry. For hours, the words had lingered on her lips. Despite the desperate urge to say something, anything to fill the silence, she had kept them away. They were not enough. There was nothing she could say, nothing to ease his pain. Up until now, she had denied to herself, had made up excuses and lies. Now, she had to admit the truth, that she could still feel his lips against her own, could taste him on her skin. He had branded her. She could not lose him now.
Emma looked at him in surprise when he replied, his voice much stronger than she anticipated. I should never have gotten her involved.
It wasn't your fault.
It was my idea to bring her into this, and I know Pan. Better than anyone here. The spite and agony in which his words seemed to be drenched were painful to listen to. It took all of her courage to look him into the eyes, to reach out and interlace her fingers with his. It was one thing to slay dragons and face an opponent in a fight, a sword's lethal blade only an inch away from oneself.
.
He buried her close to the beach. Too many nights they had spent sitting cross-legged in the sand, listening to the waves. All his life he had been one with the ocean, and only in her presence did he truly understand the beauty, the magnificence, the magic.
The others had wanted to help, Charming oddly perceptive to his pain, clapping his shoulder as if it brought him any comfort. He had refused, had insisted on doing it alone. They had not known her, not at all, and he had lead her to her doom. The least he could do was give her peace at last.
It was no proper grave, nothing like she deserved, but he rested a few flowers on the fresh earth, anyway, kneeling on the ground.
She was gone, and Baelfire had returned. Their quest seemed so close to completion. He was sure that, within a few days time, they would rescue the boy from Pan.
At what price? And what after?
It had dawned on him many times before how foolish he had been to offer his services. The need for redemption too severe, Emma's words too jagged in his mind. Do what you do best, and be alone. For so long, he had been doing just that. To jump at the first opportunity to change and approach the young man he had once been... It seemed ridiculous now.
Where would he go once the boy had been saved? To Storybrooke?
He drew a T into the earth with the tip of his Hook, mindlessly, barely noticing the movement. The waves hummed a soft tune in the background. Snow had asked him, in her soft voice, like the mother she never got to be, if he had loved her. He had not. No. But she had been his friend, perhaps his only friend, in too long a time.
Hook? The voice was still unfamiliar, odd. Never had he thought of seeing this boy again. Sometimes he still wondered if they could have been a family, the two of them, like father and son. It was forfeit, a useless thought, a waste of time and energy, but he could not help it. Milah's smile seemed restored whenever he looked into his face. He had almost forgotten the look of it. The ease. The joy. We need to move on. Find shelter. It's not safe here.
He spoke hesitantly, the weight of their past too heavy to put aside, even now. Why did they send you, Baelfire?
It's Neal. And... I wanted to be the one to get you. I knew her, too. Don't forget that.
He did not move, still kneeling in front of her poor excuse of a grave. There should be more flowers. Lights. She was quite fond of you.
Yeah. A long moment of silence, nothing but the increasing noise of the jungle and the rushing of the waves interrupting it. What are you doing here?
Their eyes met then, truly, for the first time in so long. Helping.
That's not like you. Perhaps he had a right to judge him, to blame him for everything that went wrong in his life. Any other time, he might have remained quiet and let the boy – this man – use him as a scapegoat. Now was not this time, as he stood, dropping a last flower on Tinkerbell's grave.
Yes, because you always knew me so well.
Maybe you are not as vile as I thought you were. But you don't fool me entirely. There was a darkness in Neal's eyes he did not recognize, still it felt familiar. What's your deal with my son?
He is not my son. But I am prepared to fight dearly for him. He had made the promise. Had offered his services. No matter what was to come after, what else was there to do now? What was left?
Why?
.
When he saw Emma take Neal's hand, he made his choice.
.
Here we are, Captain. After all this time.
His back was pressed against a tree, the gash across his cheek warm and pounding in time with his heart. All he could see was Pan's wicked grin and the reflection of his own eyes in the dagger that he held against his throat.
He could feel the blade beginning to tear skin, not enough to do harm, but enough to have his blood pumping furiously. Around them, everything had turned quiet. There was o one here to bear witness. A fight long due. A duel to the death.
It was enough knowing that Henry was safe in Emma's arms, that they had escaped the camp in time. They probably had not noticed that he had not followed them until it was too late to return in time. Pan looked determined now to end their feud, and Killian was no less determined. If he was to never leave Neverland, nor would Pan, he would make sure of that.
Strike, Peter Pan. He grinned, ignoring the pain it caused as his nerves send shock waves to his brain. Strike true.
A wicked laugh, too childish, almost turning the demon back into a child. The lines were too blurry, and Killian had never fully understood how much boy there was left in Peter Pan. But where is the fun in that? Everything was a game to Pan.
Every good game needed a winner.
Making use of Pan's momentarily distraction, Killian ducked away, jumping to the side onto the clearing, where there was nowhere to hide and nowhere to go. His hook was raised, the sword in his good hand steady. For a second, Pan simply stood still, smiling at him cruelly.
Then he jumped, and everything else turned into a blur of colors. Killian thought of nothing but the clinging of swords and the clever movement of his feet. Many times before had they faced each other. Killian knew exactly when Pan would move, when he would duck away or what the devilish grin on his lips meant. Still, Pan knew him just as well, knew his weaknesses and his strengths. They were equal.
Good form. Pan chuckled as Killian's sword missed his arm by a mere breath, the fabric of his shirt parting.
Killian moved closer to the trees when Pan's dagger barely missed his throat. Even if there had been a way out, he would not take it. The time had come to end this. This was his revenge. The one he had sought for so long.
Killian! The voice that called him from the line of trees across the clearing was sharp and filled with fear. For a mere second his eyes flickered towards the source, and Emma's terrified face was the last thing he saw before he felt Pan's dagger deep inside his stomach.
His breath escaped in a rush, a low groan mingled with the heavy exhale, and he tore his eyes away from Emma's shocked features to seek out Pan, the expression of victory shining in the merciless pools.
The game is over, Captain.
Pain spread from the spot where the dagger had hit him all the way through his body, pulsing heavily with every breath he took. If this was to be the end, it would not be his alone.
Pan was distracted by his apparent victory, staring down into Killian's eyes like the demon he was, and it took his last debris of strength to stab the hook into Pan's side.
Not in any of their many fights would this have caused damage. Now, with the Dark One's power, with the poison and dark magic, Pan's eyes shot open wide. For a second, nothing happened, before he began to sink onto his knees. Killian followed, dropping his sword to grab onto Pan's shoulder. He could still see Emma standing by the trees, her hands raised helplessly as her eyes followed what was happening.
It is over, Pan. Killian barely recognized his own voice, raspy. Dying. Just like him. You die alone. And unloved. His lips curled into a bitter, almost wicked smile as he watched the boy in his arms die. Life, magic and cruelty quickly leaving him. Just like me.
.
He could hear her determined steps against wooden planks as she followed him below deck.
What do you mean, you're not coming with us?
I don't think it's that hard to understand, sweetheart. His good hand curled around the knob on the door that lead to his cabin, but he remained immobile as she continued to speak.
But we can't just leave you here.
When he turned, Killian realized that she stood much closer than he had assumed, her hands folded in front of her, both defiantly and protectively. I know this island, I have lived here for a very long time. I wouldn't worry about me if I were you. He winked at her. It was all he could do. Keeping up the charade as he watched her slip away.
The expression of frustration on her face crumbled for a moment, and he thought – hoped – that it was sadness he saw flickering in her eyes. No.
Where would I go, love? To Storybrooke? He took a step closer towards her, waving his hook-less arm uselessly in the air. He could not wear it, not anymore. To sit alone aboard my ship in the harbor day after day? I'm a pirate, Swan. His stride stopped when he was face to face with her, so close he could feel her warm breath fanning across his skin. So close. As close as only once before, a memory now painful, the image of her standing besides Baelfire – he would always be Bae to him, no matter what – burning in Killian's mind. It's a pirate's life for me.
You say so, but I think it's your biggest pretend.
Her words stung like a punch in the face. It was all he had left. Being Captain Hook. Captain Jones. Who else was he? I had dreams. But I put them away. It gets harder and harder to forget them. She understood him, always had done that, from the moment they met she had seen past his mask. Now he doubted that he knew himself. Even more so than the ones that were taken from me.
It was Emma who took a step forward now, a small one, her hands coming to rest upon his shoulder. Then stop forgetting them. Make news dreams.
He wanted to shout at her, wanted to escape her grip. Wanted to tell her to end her game, one she did not even realize she was playing. Like what?
I heard what you said to Pan. And it's not true. The memories were blurry, lost in the swirl of pain and blood loss, yet he remembered the moment bright and clear, the moment Peter Pan had perished. You are not alone. You are not unloved. His eyes met hers, and he tried hard to decipher what she was saying. Why are you really doing this?
I wouldn't want to disturb the family reunion. He had caused Baelfire enough pain. Had robbed him off his mother, had offered him up to Pan. Had proven to be the villain everyone saw in him. The last thing Killian wanted to do was get in their way now. Not when Baelfire had returned to his family.
Emma looked exasperated, her grip on his shoulders tightening, almost shaking him. You saved my son. You almost died doing it. How strange the ways of fate seemed to be. Killian remembered how Emma had fallen down next to him, had pried Pan's dead body away from his, had pressed her nimble hands against the wound, had whispered and begged and shouted at him not to die.
Her face had been the last thing he saw before the darkness took over. And when he awoke aboard his ship, wound healed and strength returned, she had been keeping her distance.
Only days ago she had told him about the demise of Captain Hook in her version of his story. It seemed an evil twist that, in the end, the Crocodile had been the one to save him.
What are you saying, darling?
I... For a moment her gaze drifted towards the ground, where their feet stood oddly entwined. She took a deep breath as their eyes met once more, and before he understood what was happening, she bested him once more, her lips brushing softly against his. I'm grateful.