Make a man out of him
Summary: Emma Swan makes plans for an adventure, but as plans so often do, hers goes awry. Falls to pieces. Sends her hurtling, disguised as a boy right onto a pirate ship captained by Killian Jones, pirate extraordinaire (his words, not hers).
It's going to be a long month on this adventure. Emma is prepared to make the most of it, but she isn't prepared for him.
The plan had been to run away. For a month or so, long enough that she can have a proper adventure, but not so long that her parents start scouring the Enchanted Forest and beyond to find her.
That would be a waste of needed resources. Her mother will surely be proud to hear Emma remembers some of her lessons. Never let it be said that Emma doesn't care about her people - she cares more than enough, thank you very much.
Anyway, a month long adventure. That had been the plan - and it was going fairly well just up until a half an hour ago. Before the three bar patrons saw through her disguise and turned from happy drunkards into prospective kidnappers.
Their blood still drips from her thin dueling saber. Emma wipes it on one of the dead men's pants and doesn't regret it. Another lesson her mother would be proud to hear stuck. Her father, too.
"I don't ever want to kill anyone," she'd told her mother, perched on the window bench of the royal study, sundress clinging to her knees from the rush of the wind through that open window.
Her mother had reached over and brushed Emma's hair behind her ears. Her smile was gentle, but her words were tempered with firmness when she cupped Emma's face in her hands and said, "You may not have a choice."
Her father had agreed without words but outside in the dueling yard, with the sweep of his blade before her face and the insistence that she use that momentum to turn his deadly arc against him.
It had taken Emma three months to master the move; her father a year.
She's a fast learner.
That skill comes in handy now when she makes her escape from the alley the men thought they'd cornered her in. They thought she'd weep and come along without a fight because she wore her hair long, in the knotted and braided ponytail of a royal, and the cleavage of her bodice rose with every breath she'd taken while contemplating how best to take them down. "Princess," and "Little lass," they'd called her, thinking she'd answer to their call.
Obviously, they'd thought wrong, but still she needs to adjust her plans now. Outfit's style aside, it had been useful in getting her here. It would have to be useful in getting her out.
When she turns the corner towards the horse stalls, laughter filters out from the bar's open windows. It's still packed and the lamps still flicker in invitation. Conceivably, she can go back in and buy a room there for the night.
Conceivably, that's probably the worst move she can make. As stealthily as she'd made her way out the bar, it won't be stealthy enough when people notice the dead men in the alley and remember the girl who'd disappeared at the word, "Princess."
"Little lass," she curses in a gruff voice. It isn't nice to mock the dead, but attempted kidnapping isn't nice either.
It's quiet when she enters the barn. The man supposed to be watching the patrons' horses is asleep in his chair. Emma's glad she kept her satchel with her. Even gladder that she'd kept it out of harm's way when she'd taken on the three men. Explaining her sweat streaked face is one thing. A blood soaked bag is a situation she doesn't want to ever need to talk her way out of.
She opens the gate for her horse, a young mare strong enough to carry her, but without the breeding of the royal horses. One of her smarter choices – an idea she'd lifted straight from her guidebook, tucked within her satchel. Emma leads it outside and a little ways away before she pauses to gather herself. Her horse whinnies lightly as she throws her satchel over its flank and heaves herself onto it.
Emma starts on a trot down the cobbled road only to realize that she has no idea where she's going. Not exactly a first for her the past few days but it's cold now and she needs someplace to rest for the evening. Getting out of town and camping in the forest at night without any actual camping supplies isn't her idea of a good time, nor is finding another tavern full of money hungry potential criminals.
She settles on a happy medium, meaning a medium priced Lady's Inn on the opposite side of town. Dirty and sweaty as she is, her gold is what sways the overbearing matron to allow her to stay the night.
If she'd known the kind of lady that Emma actually is, she wouldn't snub her nose so much at Emma's state.
The thought reverbs in her head. In actuality, she probably would. Her mother had done so enough when Emma came traipsing in after her day long excursions outside the Castle covered in dirt and muck, an utter mess that a gentle born lady shouldn't have to endure.
Emma never could quite explain that it wasn't a hardship for her, the way her mother made it out to be. They'd never see eye to eye on that. Snow White had been forced to survive running around in forests and travelling the land in secret, never staying in one place. Emma only chose to do so.
The Lady's Inn isn't as refined as Emma is accustomed to, but she's also been worse places. The room has a door that locks, a chair to place in front of it for added security, a bed and a wash basin so that is all that really matters to Emma when she strips herself of her clothes and washes her face of dirt.
There's a smattering of someone else's blood on the back of her neck. Good fortune that the matron didn't notice it. The moment she cleans it off, watching her own green eyed, wet-faced reflection in the recently gleamed mirror feels like the 'what the hell am I doing?' stage of a tale, something straight out of a book of legends.
One suchlike her self-titled guidebook.
She dries her face off on one of the complementary towels and sits down on her bed. It's lumpy but tolerable. Grabbing her pack, she ignores the bundled sleeping clothes and digs for the book instead.
It isn't much of a book. More fittingly, it is a journal, the stories within handwritten in looping curves that sometimes dissolved into rushed lines Emma has memorized over the many rereads that kept her up at nights. That is, before they sent her into dreams of far off lands and wildly different worlds filled with magic, good and bad, and people and creatures of all shapes, sizes, and stories unimaginable.
However, this night, she is too tired to stay awake reading the guidebook, especially with Day Three – fitting for the three men she'd defeated – of her own adventure looming ahead of her.
She opens the book to a random page and begins to read the story detailed there, but her eyes shudder with every line read, and her whole body begins to droop on the bed. She gives up less than a page in.
Tomorrow she'll trade on her good fortune while it lasts and get the hell out of this seaside town before her adventure can finish before it even truly begins.
Tales of an Adventurer still open on the start of "The Little Mermaid", Emma clutches the book to her chest and falls into a fitful sleep.
There is nothing like sleeping on scratchy sheets and tasting the sourness of ale on your tongue to put the grump in your morning.
Emma's just about had it with herself when combing through the tangled knots nearly makes her weep. Last night had felt like a daydream. In the bright light of an actual day, it seems more like a nightmare.
There is still blood on her saber when she pulls it out of its scabbard. A vigorous scrubbing washes it off, but she can still imagine the blood when she slips it back on.
And her hair – the hair that got her into trouble is insisting on keeping her in it.
When frustration overtakes her and she yanks so hard that the comb breaks, Emma stumbles back, knees hitting the edge of the bed. She goes with it.
"The hell!" she curses.
Stabbing painfully into her back is her book. Her guide.
Her guide.
Smart ideas can hit you when you least expect them. Or where you least want them to. Her back pain is proof of that. And if anyone tells you that cutting your hair off with a blade is easy, they're lying and deserve to be shot for telling tales. (Not really, but Emma's nicked fingers don't help with her crankiness.) She doesn't make quick work of chopping off her normally perfectly coiffed locks, but at least it is semi-neat work.
She studies herself in the small mirror above the water basin. The short cut doesn't draw away from her femininity, not when her breasts are still outlined in embroidery, but it's a start.
Parting with her outfit is going to be far more painful than the cuts healing on her fingers, but let it not be said that Emma isn't great at making do with any situation life throws at her.
She has enough gold left to buy an outfit more appropriate – and much more gold than that, but no one will know unless they strip search her, which isn't going to be happening. The sword on her waist and her determination will stop that in its tracks.
Her good fortune from the evening before leads her down to the busy market and a vendor who not only doesn't overcharge her, but doesn't look too much at her purchases of the two pairs of loose fitting pants and the three raggedy oversized shirts. She adds the blue bandana on a whim – and the flat brassiere is a stroke of genius.
Emma is a fast learner.
When she returns to her room and changes, she looks enough like a boy to pass muster. She looks enough like a boy to definitely not be a princess.
She winces at the thought. Her embroidered shirt will have to be sold. It's too valuable to carry around without putting it to use. Same goes for her tight fitting riding pants. She can't have someone recognizing the curves of a lady.
It'll ruin the look.
What she can keep are her gloves and belted vest. The vest adds the extra layer she needs to hide her breasts completely and the gloves are easy to stuff within her satchel. They make a clever hideaway for the only jewel she brought with her on her journey: her silver swan necklace, given to her by her father when she was young.
One of the men had tried to rip it off her neck when she'd jumped out of the way of his grabbing hands. He'd lost a finger when she gifted her blade instead.
She shakes her head. If she starts thinking so much about that she's going to hate herself for saving her own life. Hate herself for leaving the castle and putting them in the position in which her life seemed valuable enough to risk theirs.
Hate them for seeing what they assumed to be vulnerability and trying to take advantage.
"No use looking back," she says aloud while looking back upon the room to make sure she hasn't left anything behind.
The humor in it eases the tightness in her chest that last night's darkness had formed.
The cleaning girl stares with wild eyes when Emma leaves the room, so Emma is certain that she looks the part she's trying to play – and she rushes to tip a gold coin in the girl's hands before she flees the Inn.
Pretending to be a boy isn't going to be easy if she's seen leaving a Lady's Inn, but blending into the crowd proves easier than that worried flight made it seem.
As Emma walks back to the market, she considers what to call herself now that she is no longer and Emma. Emma Swan had been the name she chose to go by for this journey. Emmet Swan is an easy enough change to remember.
She sells her clothes to a different vendor than the one she purchased her outfit from. This vendor looks her over with interest, but Emma's cold glare makes his curious questions die on his tongue.
The silver coins she gets in return for her shirt and pants jingle on her waist. Emma supposes this is where her good fortune runs afoul of the real world.
She doesn't notice the cutpurse at first, but she feels the weight of her lost coins the moment they leave her side.
"Hey! Hey!" she shouts roughly and pushes through the crowd. "Get back here!"
The fleeing thief makes a run down in the direction of the docks many buildings and alleyways. If she lets him get that far, she'll never see her money again.
Cursing vigorously and colorfully (her day adventures had included many trips to seaside taverns), she breaks into a sprint, but the man is still far faster than her. She isn't going to make it.
And she doesn't. But the man that steps away from the wall of one of the ship suppliers does. It isn't pretty, watching him lay out the thief with his own momentum.
Emma isn't worried about that however. Her hand goes to her sword as her seeming savior's hand goes to the thief's side.
He straightens. Dark hair falls across his sun kissed skin. He doesn't have the deep tan of a man of the sea, but he holds himself like one – and his eyes seem as turbulent as the ocean when he locks them with hers.
In his long black coat, deep v'ed red vest, and with the daggered earring and the skull and bones necklace, he looks like the very description of a pirate from her guidebook…and every other pirate tale she'd read.
Emma always wanted to meet a pirate.
She doesn't voice that stupidly childish thought. Control of herself is something she's well-practiced at – even if she has only put it to use when holding court, a task she often snuck away from to play at being someone other than a princess.
"That's mine," she says when he holds her purse in his hands, jingling it like an instrument.
"Don't worry, lad. I was only trying to help."
"Well-" I could've caught him myself is a lie not worth being told. "I am grateful for it. If you'd hand me my purse?"
She reaches out a hand.
Stupid ideas can hit you when you least expect them. Or when you most need them. Without a real path besides 'get out of this town,' Emma needs one.
"You're a pirate?" she says when his hand touches her and she notices the brand between his forefinger and thumb, the 'P' of the Dust Kingdom's captured pirates. She draws back quickly with her purse before his fingers can linger, the brief touch disconcerting enough to draw that statement from her mouth.
He chokes and Emma's eyes fly wide until she realizes that its laughter struggling to break free.
"Come with me."
As her father would say, out of the stampede and off the cliff.
(He may be a king now and for all of Emma's 20 years of life, but he is still a shepherd at heart.)
Bad ideas always follow stupid ones, just as Emma now follows the pirate down to the sea and to the last ship docked at the harbor.
Men shout welcomes and toast with empty hands to the Pirate that Emma follows across the wooden gangplank and onto the ship. The ship itself is a sight to behold – huge and built for speed. She can tell that from the shape. Emma has read quite a few sailing books and seen many more ships.
With a flourish, the man turns before her and shouts to his crew, "The lad wants to know if I'm a pirate. Why don't you answer him for me…Am I a pirate, gents?"
The chorusing echo of "Aye" and "Aye Captain" answers Emma's question of his position. He grips the lapels of his shirt, shaking out his shoulders, and she can see that the Captain's smirking smile of authority is supposed to make her feel intimidated.
Emma's faced off against Princes and Kings. A Pirate she can handle with ease.
As she studies him, she remembers The Plan. The Plan to have an adventure, to follow the Tales of an Adventurer to new lands and new people. Well, the Little Mermaid did start on a pirate ship.
Emma juts her chin out, and addresses the Captain in the most mannish of voices she can manage – easy work for she'd been practicing for years, affecting both her father's pitch and mannerisms out of an eagerness to be like him and to make him laugh when he should probably reprimand.
"Well, Captain, are you looking for a new member of your crew?"
"Am I?" He throws the question back at her.
Emma is more than up for meeting his challenge. "You are. I'm Emmet Swan, and I'll be joining your crew."
"Well, Swan, I, Captain Killian Jones, am happy to welcome you aboard the Jolly Roger."
His blue eyes pour over her face, reading her as if she is a book. Emma isn't used to someone so ready to meet her eyes, not counting said princes trying to woo her or said kings trying to woo her for their sons. More, she isn't used wanting them to do so. It always felt weird having subjects and lording over them, but she'd learned it was more uncomfortable when they became more than that – when they were friends too scared of her seeming power to do more than bow to her every demand, believe her every lie, or follow her everywhere she led.
It's just nice to look into the eyes of someone not scared of her power or even knowledgeable of it. A secret for her alone, that she can hide in a smile.
It's that smile she offers him now.
"Thank you for allowing me this opportunity."
He huffs out a short breath. Mouth quirking up in a grin, he leans back on his heels and says, "Such a polite sailor! Maybe you can teach a thing or two to these unmannered louts."
A chorus of laughter follows his words. He nods his head, reveling in it. The over-dramatics must be a character trait.
Emma rolls her eyes. "Does that include you?"
Her breath hitches for a moment. She forces herself not to swallow, nor break his gaze even though she feels the mistake of sassing the Captain heavy on her tongue.
Well, no longer on her tongue. Let loose because she couldn't still it. Loose lips sink ships, or so the saying goes. This one hasn't even set sail yet.
The easy smile slips away. Replacing it is a calculating look. Where he'd been leaning back, now he leans forward, into her space. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his first mate step towards them.
"I'm already a gentleman, young Swan. I don't need your lessons."
From how close he is to her – she can feel his breath, warmer than the sunlight peeking through the clouds, and measure the length of the thin scar on his cheek – well, Emma is oh so tempted to say that he can certainly use them.
Her lessons.
She shakes her head, ducking to the side to hide her creeping smile. She hadn't planned to come onto his ship as a teacher. Granted, she hadn't planned to come on his ship at all. It was…less than happy accident but – a sailor, a crewman, a fellow lout is what Emma wants to be. Damn her manners to hell, she'll blend in if it kills her.
"Well, Emmet Swan, you'll start off on swabbing duty."
His mouth almost brushes her ear when he says it. She freezes again, tension in her fisted hands, but he's already stepping back by the time she turns around to look at him.
"Smee, get him settled. Show him the ropes, and by gods, don't forget to prep him for the sirens."
Sirens? Emma starts to ask the Captain but the portly man in the red hat – Smee – grabs her by the arm and pulls her towards the portside of the deck.
"That's the Captain's way of dismissing you," Smee says to the question Emma doesn't ask. She glances back. Captain Killian Jones has a name fitting for a gentlemen, pirate or not. He's already barking orders at the rest of his crew.
"Don't take it to heart. You're young – and rather skinny. As long as you pull your weight, he'll have no reason to ignore you, or send you walking the plank."
"I can pull my weight and then some," Emma says with a firm nod of her head, facing him again.
Smee's cheeks instantly redden when he laughs. He looks like a younger Saint Nick. Neither would probably appreciate the comparison.
"I'm stronger than I look," she protests.
"We'll see. Come along. You have duties to attend to, and I'd like to finish this tour quickly. Do you even know the lay of a ship?"
Emma's answer is nothing short of sly. Her court skills are coming in handy as much as her courtly attire had. "I have traveled on a few transport ships with simple cargo of food and cloth. Is the Jolly Roger much different?"
"This isn't just a simple transport ship. This is a war vessel. More importantly, this is the Jolly Roger. The Captain wouldn't hear of you calling it any less."
Emma rolls her eyes only in her head. She restrains herself from doing so to his face. "So is the layout different?"
Smee's chastising look disappears. "Not much, no."
Emma does not restrain herself from the smirk. How can she? She's only human, princess or not, courtly upbringing be damned.
(She apologizes to her mother and father in her head which, it isn't like they can hear her words but it's the thought that counts, right?
Wrong her mother answers, frustrated hands flying up in Emma's face – "If you had any thought, you'd have remained home!"
The phantom Snow White is a harbinger of things to come. Emma can feel it in her bones.)
The ship lurches as it pushes away from the docks. Her mind instantly throws her the question: If you'd known they were setting sail right at this moment would you have made the same decision? She can't answer it.
Emma keeps her balance from practice, and wants to wring the approving smile from Smee's face. She's not a landlubber doing well, she's a sailor, dammit.
Emma turns her sights on the people around her. Men busy themselves, prepping the ships sails and gathering around to settle the ship, and in them, Emma sees her father shouting orders, a smile on his face as he waves her to the wheel.
A glance back towards the Jolly's wheel reveals Captain Jones instead. His smile is nothing like her father's. Pirates don't have the look of Kings.
They have a look though – and this one's directing his right at her. It was her luck that the Captain chose that moment to look up and her luck that the ship lurches again, making her the first one to break their stare.
It feels like losing. Emma hates losing.
"Come along, Emmet," Smee says.
She follows Smee, but can't help glancing back one more time. The wheel is spinning in his hands and if she looks right, it seems to be spinning up. If she looks left, it spins down. It feels like Fortuna's shouting at her, "Your move, Emma!"
Emma closes her eyes and follows Smee across the ship.