A/N: Not really sure what this is, but it's been milling about in my head for a while and I wanted to get it out because I've got serious siren-sea-music cravings at the moment. And so to satiate this ridiculous craving, I seem to have developed this story. It's a bit different to my other aus, which all seem to be modern, but all opinions welcome.
Siren!Emma AU – somewhat inspired by Peaky Blinders (BBC)
.
Swan Song
.
1. One foot in sea and one on shore – {Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare}
.
It was a decision made in desperation more than anything else.
Whether or not it was a wise decision was certainly up for debate, but she owed him a favour, one he was about to claim (heart leaping in his throat permitting). Liam would have a thing or two to say it about it, that's for sure, and even though he was certain that the pay off would be worth the risk, his nerves were still abundant, kicking him insistently in the chest.
Not that he showed it, his face as steely as their city's industrial reputation.
He swallowed them, scowling away the tension, until the nerves were no more than muted musings in the back of his head; whispering worries.
(Still, he wished they would shut up entirely.)
It was a wonder at all that he had managed to talk himself into this.
The streets were particularly dirty that morning, and the air – that smoggy, filthy thing they were forced to breathe – seemed to grip to the walls of the houses and the streets with a malaise, caring not if it choked the people that lived there. It had made the decision to hang, thick and low, making it more than a little difficult to see beyond the edges of the market stalls that littered the road beside him (dark and faded bunting, coarse and weathered wood).
The Black Country, they called it, simply for the sole reason that iron mines were abundant in the countryside, and there were steel or iron works and dozens of smithies in every town in the county – no building within a mile of any of the factories was safe from the thick, black soot that soaked its brickwork; dirt between the dirt.
The industry should have made them rich. The craftsmanship of the men and (far more notably) the women, was revered across kingdoms, and yet they saw little of its profit – as in all things, the capital went to the capital. It made the city a strange place: the decrepit poor, the filth, and yet the elaborate wrought iron works they were famous for decorated every building, every home, every stable.
The horse beneath him would clearly have liked to have her input into his decision. If she could have spoken, Killian imagined she'd berate him in much the same manner Liam was going to. Instead, the horse let the occasional snort of air from its nose do the talking. It held itself as confidently as the man upon it, moving with an easy, consistent step – although the near constant flickering of her ears told Killian that she was more than a little agitated.
('Aye, you and me both, lass,' he thought.)
But they needed this.
The grey cobbled road beneath them seemed only able to repeat the sounds of the horses hooves and nothing else, and as he turned down the dead-end street, Killian watched as the children, the mothers, and the rest of the city scattered into their grey houses, or behind carts and crates. (The city was so bloody grey). They scrambled silently, the fog dulling their sounds, and the tiny urchins the only ones daring to peak behind sheets of canvas as he rode the horse at a slow trot, the hook on his left arm where a hand should be yielding the reins.
But, he wasn't worried – their fear did not impact him in any way. Killian had long since grown used to the alarm that his simple presence could instil. He was never entirely sure whether it was his heartless reputation, the people he chose to associate with, or the hook-hand itself. In reality, it was probably a combination of all of the above.
(And he tried to not let the latter, the fear of his extremity, get to him.)
More often than not, that fear proved beneficial to him - it was, after all, why he was here now, clopping through the cold morning in search of nefarious deals.
The fear, for example, had been useful in manipulating the king's men. Half of them, as a result, were safely tucked into his back pocket, but the other half often came looking for trouble, looking to fight him for perceived wrong doings; looking to gain credibility of their own through him (none of them managing to succeed). Even in the second instance, when his intimidation did not lessen their determination, it weakened them; made them tremor, giving Killian the upper hand.
Most in the city had the common sense to cower at the thought of a man turned dark by war and who wore the brunt of his losses so poignantly on his sleeve.
(His left sleeve to be precise.)
Killian hated it here – it was far too far from the sea. The ocean in his own veins was evaporating, running thin, running dry from the absence, and the dirty murky canal - similarly blackened by smog - wasn't even worthy of being called water. But it was also the only city in the kingdom corrupt enough that the enforcement wouldn't (couldn't) touch men who abandoned their post in favour of rebelry.
Men such as him and his brother.
As much as he embraced the terror of his own reputation, there was a strange sense of nobility – to him at least – in being the ones to essentially run the city, keeping it as much out of the hands of the king as they could possibly manage. And the strange waifs timidly peering out at him only made him angrier, witnessing and reminding him what power in the wrong hands could do.
At the far end of the street, a door swung open, the creaking sound thundering as a tall women, clad in breeches and a maroon leather vest strode out, confidently as you like, dark black hair tied above the crown of her head, and cascading behind her. She had a look of anger rather than of fear (not that he was surprised, they had something of a tempestuous relationship), and walked with her chin held high, ignoring the simpering breathing of the bowler-hatted man who had followed her out.
"Ah, the girl who grants wishes."
The women didn't blink an eye, completely unaffected by the sing-song lingering of his threat. Perhaps, it was less of a threat, and more of an order. Nevertheless, she clearly resented being so summoned by him to do his bidding, eyeing him in a way that suggested pure disdain (for no doubt a whole manner of things, starting with inconvenience and ending in gang warfare).
"And tell me, Hook, why should I?"
Her own voice returned to him as confidently as his own, but with a far more obnoxious tone, echoing just as loudly off the brick walls around them.
"Mulan – my lady – I thought we had an accord?"
She didn't like his answer, hesitating and slowing a little in her stride at his thinly veiled threat. Without a further word, she changed her sights from the mobster before her in his high collared shirt (an unidentifiable remnant of his navy days), and made instead for the deep black horse he was riding. Underneath him, Killian felt the horse instantly calm, taking deeper breaths with every step nearer she took. Mulan held the horses jaw in her hand, nattering and beginning to whisper in a language Killian was unfamiliar with, so quietly that it was unintelligible to all in the lane – to the bricks, to the mothers, to the children.
But not to the horse, the horse seemed to understand, closing its eyes peacefully as Mulan stretched out her hand to the shaking man beside her. He couldn't keep his eyes off Killian, and his sole purpose in this seemed to be to simply stand there shaking in the fog, and holding a small red pouch. At Mulan's voiceless behest, the pouch transferred from his hand to hers. She poured dust – grey, simple and almost translucent; lost in their environs - from the bag and into her palm while Killian peered over the horses neck, watching intently as she continued to mutter into the colourless dirt.
And then she blew into it, with barely any air compared to the gusto the grains were carried on, and as the tiny particles became airborne, their colour changed drastically, swirling gently into the horses face with a vibrant red - a carnation red which illuminated nothing in the air but the dust.
The horse did not like it, not even a skerrick, moving her head (but not her body) away from the tiny gust, curly tail and mane whipping in mirrored and irritated movements, shaking Killian with her.
Then she stopped abruptly, the silence in the lane returning.
The horse had stopped her thrashing, replacing it with heavy breathing. Killian tried to mollify her with a gentle hand to stroke her neck, but it didn't seem to work - all he could feel was the blood in her veins, thrumming palpably with magic.
"I've done what you asked, are we done here?"
She was curt, again, dismissing all pleasantries – she had done her job, reluctantly, but she had done it.
"Pleasure doing business with you, as always."
She simply glared at the wicked smirk and the smarmy wink he gave her, and each of them turned away simultaneously – she to the door she had come from, he back down the street. As he did so, he noticed the turning and the whispering of the children, hissing at one another about what they had seen, and his smile grew with a deep satisfaction that, in part, his plan had already succeeded.
"Best keep this to yourselves," he shouted at them, knowing full well that that was exactly what they weren't going to do.
.
.
"How could you be so damned foolish!"
If he was being entirely honest, he was more surprised that his brother hadn't found out sooner – gossip of this sort, or of any sort for that matter, tended to travel through the city like you wouldn't believe.
"You got Mulan mixed up in this damned vengeance of yours?"
"It's not vengeance, brother, it's simply a solution to our business problems."
Liam merely scoffed.
Killian had deliberately hidden himself in their small private room at the Jolly Roger, slouching himself against the leather seat of the booth, rings gently tinkling on the outside edge of his glass. (He had been expecting this talk, but he was tired and aching, desperate to just drink too much and sleep too long beneath the covers of his bed). The room was musty with the faint smell of spilt beer and the tobacco smoke that seemed to seep in from the outside tavern. His brother stared (perhaps scowled would have been a better description) as he stood in the doorway, a sour expression on his face, before slamming the door as he walked out the way he came.
The sound of the raucous crowd outside became muffled, muted once more with the clunk of the door, and yet somehow it - the echo of the crowd - rang in his ears, pounding with his thoughts; with his blood. (He definitely had a headache). He watched through the tinted glass window panes as several regulars waltzed into the place, heading straight for the bar with their usual level of seediness.
Killian both hated and loved this place.
The Jolly Roger was the home away from their actual home, and the family's pub. Family was a loose term, more like a rag tag group of ruffians connected by hatred, and anger; their loyalty held together by more than just blood. It was a pub, a home, a tavern (sometime whorehouse), a place of anything but propriety, because, really, there were a strange concoction of people who visited it. There were your every day scum, bottom-of-the-barrel type, who drank as soon as they were allowed, often kicked out in little under an hour; there were the middle class echelons, either hoping to gain something by being a part of their family's exploits or to revel in a few debauched hours; then there were friends, and gang members, and more often than not, their wives, their consorts, and their children (in varying forms of legitimacy).
He loved it. It could get rough, and was as rough around the edges as the hems of his own being and his own mind, but there was a sad sort of beauty in it. The high ceiling were peculiar for such an establishment, the tinted glass tiles behind the bar would often add a bit of class or a bit of crass depending on the time of day and the crowd.
Then, of course, the iron wrought around the bar, the booths, the tables, betwixt wooden panelling and tile (and at least, inside, there was no soot).
But he hated it because it was a poor substitution for the real thing, the real Jolly Roger; it never rocked, it never swayed and creaked with the tides; it never moved anywhere – it was as idle as a painted ship. As rough and ragged as it was, it was never as tempestuous as the seas. If he closed his eyes long enough, the shrieking noises of those outside, combined with the aftertaste of rum on his palette, Killian could almost let himself pretend he was simply on shore for a brief visit in some dockside tavern.
(And he did this more often than he cared to admit.)
Killian had unknowingly actually closed his eyes (the longing was worse today, his heart more cumbersome with the concern for his gamble), and hadn't realised his vision had gone dark beneath his lids - until he heard the slamming of the door again, knowing full well it was Liam marching back in.
"Damned foolish, Killian. Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
Nor did he need to open his eyes to know that he'd slammed a bottle of rum on the table with similar force.
Killian opened his eyes reluctantly, lazily, watching as his brother unscrewed the lid and poured liberal quantities into each of their glasses. Killian muttered - somewhere between a sigh and a forced exhalation of tension - the fact that had he told him in advance, he would have tried to stop him.
("Of course, I would have - it was an absolutely idiotic idea and it has painted a giant target on our backs!" "They can do their worst." "Don't be so naïve, brother.")
The rum was cool and still it scorched as it slid down his throat, doing a little extra calming of his nerves, to add to the rum he'd already scoffed. It seemed to do the same for Liam, who was slumped in his own side of the booth, easing into both the liquor and the cushion.
"You can't just make these decisions without me, I'm the head of this family, Killian, don't you dare go behind my back."
For all that his brother's words were harsh, they carried little punch. If the spitting way he was speaking to him sounded harsh in the room, it was completely countered by the soft and companionable way he replenished Killian's drink for him, and the genial concern in his eyes. Liam, had never been the one with the temper – that reputation had always belonged to Killian.
"It was a bloody brilliant idea," Liam's words, not his, and they were suddenly softer.
If the two of them shared a conspiratorial smile, no one else was there to witness it. He may have been the head of the 'family', as Liam so frequently insisted upon calling it, but neither one of them were about to forget that they were actually the only real family either of them had left.
(He had expected a bigger fight, as well, but knowing Liam it wouldn't come all at once - his irritation would come and go with the flippancy of his opinion.)
That was when they heard it.
(Or felt it, Killian didn't know how to tell which came first, only knowing that the feeling and the hearing came all at once.)
To the untrained ear, the noises in the rest of the tavern would not have struck a strange chord - it was simply the drunken singing that happened all around the kingdom after more than one too many pints of ale – but in the entire time that Killian and Liam had owned this place they had never once heard singing. Not once, not an airy whistle from a beer stained paillard, or the sweet humming from any of the girls.
This - this wasn't even just the small howling of a drunkard, it was the chorused crooning of every single person in the building.
Liam was the first up and out of his chair, curiosity pulling him out, pushing the door wide open, and the room suddenly flooding with sound. It hit Killian even more forcefully then, as the volume was suddenly louder – but the more it struck him, the more he grew uneasy. He could still spy Liam, as he had not wandered far, and it was the peaceful and joyous expression that overtook him that made Killian get up.
The entire place, and Killian meant the entire place, had their attention in one direction - arms slung round neighbours and strangers, others with their eyes shut, lost in the moment – every scoundrel in the place, every whore, every beggar, every middle class deviant, were suddenly one as they sung some upbeat shanty about travellers and lasses, red hair and flowers.
The sound of it absolutely filling throughout the Jolly Roger.
And despite the fact that any and all were welcome within the Jolly Roger's ale-soaked doors, she, this blonde, high-cheeked thing, definitely did not belong.
For starters, she was far too beautiful. Killian had never seen her before in his life, of that he was certain – he would have remembered her face; her hair – the almost golden shade of it, pulled back loosely from her face, rogue curls everywhere; and the almost tender and cruel and severe curve of her cheeks. This woman, whoever she was, was standing on the top surface of a chair, hands brazenly placed on her hips as she lead the choir of misfits, golden smile upon her face. He spotted a ratty towel tucked into the waist of her dress, the one that usually lived behind the counter of the bar and Killian supposed she was the new barmaid.
If she was new, then she was making a hell of an impression on her first day.
(Good or bad impression, he hadn't decided yet.)
It was not surprising to him that she had convinced everyone else in there to sing along. There was a croaky kind of cadence to her melody, and each waver of her voice seemed to physically grasp him, musical notes curling around his organs effortlessly and manipulating them in ways that only music only ever really seems to know how to do.
In sum, her voice was as stunning as she was.
Killian could see how rapt the room was, and every inch of him wanted to join them. But, there was a deep melancholic sitting within him calling all the shots, and the happy tune was almost grating to his ears (though in total conflict with the musical yearning in his heart). It was difficult to explain - how it overwhelmed him, how he hated it -
How he wanted it.
But Killian did not have fond memories of singing. The whole thing reminded him of things he'd rather not recall, things which up until a few minutes ago, everyone else in the place had been aware of.
He moved forward a little to stand beside Liam, but it drew attention to him, knocking into the shoulders of one man, swaying and shouting, who turned to face him, and in recognition of who he was gawked in deep apology. Killian paid him no heed, eyes still trained on the woman at the head of it all, still beaming in an almost painfully appealing way.
But her smile did not last, in fact it faltered a little bit, trepidation flashing in her eyes at seeing him stand there. But the entire grin faded into a staunchness where it had been spritely, fading completely as each voice accompanying hers stopped abruptly as they became of aware of Killian standing next to them.
They watched as Killian and Liam (who still looked peaceful, though he had not begun to sing along with them), stood at the back not saying anything at all.
She continued to sing.
A fierceness in the way she held herself, a fierceness that immediately intrigued Killian - a fierceness that told him she was not about to be bullied out of finishing her song. He noticed (and felt) with a twang the way her melody changed to a minor chord, her disapproval at whatever it was she thought he was doing, translating into her song. And she did finish it, with a line about something or someone being bonnie, staring straight at Killian as she did (along with everyone else in the room).
And the room didn't dare to speak – not the people, not the wooden floors.
Killian almost lamented when she'd stopped (though again his face did not reveal it), the hold that the sweetness of her voice had had on him disappearing until all he felt was his previous level of grief. It had almost been as though he'd forgotten that his head was pounding, now suddenly remembering with the last bitter note.
Mr Smee – a mouse of a man, that refused to ever remove his brightly tattered red cap – barman and overseer of the Jolly and an old war comrade, spoke nervously to Killian across the room from behind the bar, voice spattering in the quiet.
"Been a long time since we've had singing in here, Capt'n."
"Aye, Mr Smee, and why do you suppose that is?"
The rest of the bar seemed to accept that the entertainment was now over, the low rumbling of their resumed conversations taking over in a dull hush. But she, she glared at him from the table she was still standing upon, chest heaving somewhat in her corset to catch her post-singing breath, glaring as though analysing him.
But he wandered back into their private room, dismissing her entirely.
(And trying to forget the strange suspicious feeling in his heart.)
.
.
She was gone. The bloody horse was gone.
He and Liam were at least half a bottle deep - losing track of how many glasses that meant - when Will, with the least panicked voice his body seemed to be able to muster, came barging in and shouting loud enough for the entire tavern to hear – "She's scarpered! That or somebody has nicked our bloody horse!"
The three of them had spent the better part of an hour swearing and shouting in panic as they searched the horse's stable from tack to hay, and twice more for good measure. Will was determined to see the whole thing as some spiritual magical retribution ("Vanished without a trace, she has. Seen curses like this twice, can't take them back." "Shut up, Scarlet, we have not been cursed." "Magic is the only thing that could have done this!" "For the last time, shut up and keep your thoughts to yourself").
Four hours he searched for the damned thing. He, Will, and Liam traced the city streets, from the stall to the town square, weaving through every stinking crevice of the south side of the city, interrogating half the people cowering in the shadows if they'd seen anything.
They all denied knowing anything, and Killian got the distinct feeling that they were all lying through what few teeth they had; they were all scared out of their wits about something. Liam had the notion that they'd talk one of the she-dogs into tracking her, sniff out a scent – but the words were barely out of his mouth when it began to pour.
The rain had often been an element of relief for him, the physical contact with water like a strange addiction, feeling it enter his bloodstream as though his skin was made of sponge. Tonight, however, all it did was obscure traces and tracks and scents, and he felt no companionship with the storm like he usually did, this time only feeling as though it were conspiring with his enemies. Really, the only advantage of the rain tonight was that it eased the air of the city, making it lighter - but any trace of his horse was long gone.
Killian was furious (and scared), an unsettled rage beating through him – but more than anything else he felt dejected. His punt had bitten him back before he could benefit from it, and though Liam had suggested the thief was another gang in town, and Will continued to natter on about magical intervention (regardless of how many times Killian threatened him to shut up, Liam ignoring their bickering), Killian suspected he knew exactly who had taken her.
And he was determined that they would not have her for long.
In the mean time, he needed another drink.
(He needed several.)
She was still in there, wiping the remnants of the nights debauchery from the tables and the bar top, and had definitely heard him come in, the door clanging loudly in the quiet (briefly letting in the pounding hiss of the rain at the same time). She didn't bother to turn until he made it half way across the room, the frustrated and yet unfazed look on her face - before she'd even fully caught sight of him - suggested she knew it was him anyway.
He'd never met a woman who hated him quite so much on sight before, without him even having had a chance to rub her the wrong way. Perhaps, it was merely his reputation proceeding him.
"Mr Smee told me that I'm not allowed to sing anymore, I suppose that's your doing?"
Okay, so maybe he had been able to rub her the wrong way already. She spat the words at him wryly, ignoring with blatant disregard that he was her employer – but Killian found this merely intrigued him, made him cock a one sided smirk as he walked past her towards the bar.
It also made him wonder what it was that this woman, in her shabby dress and her contrastingly clean, golden hair, had endured to make her quite so bold. Bold and confident though she was, there was a sweetness about her that she seemed torn about whether to reveal or not. It flickered in the way she moved her eyes around, but was not at all present in the way she spoke, and even her walk from one table to another was with a somewhat heavy footed clack.
Her eyes follow him as he rummaged around under the bar for something, and he returned her scrupulous look with a smile, an unapologetic, toothy grin – one he knew carried the cad stereotype he was trying to perpetuate.
If she was going to abandon cordiality for conflict, he would going to play along.
"Singing isn't welcome round these parts," he managed to make the words sound as though they were a threat, regardless of his sly, flirtatious inflection.
Killian found what he was looking for, a cheapish bottle of rum and two crystal tumblers, before pouring them each a glass with ample quantities of dark brown liquid.
(Though she never took it, not until he was long gone from the building, with her hands still shaking and only then did she down the liquid for courage before swearing under her breath.)
"In my last kingdom, my singing made the men start crying and stop fighting."
Killian chuckled at this remark for two reasons: the first was that he did not believe there was a place so easily swayed as to do that, and secondly, because it made her sound naïve. This woman, whoever she was with her fair appearance, but also with her audacious tone and undaunted mannerisms, was anything but simple and innocent.
Still, he played along with whatever she was trying to achieve by appearing so.
"You're a long way from home, love. Your wide-eyed sentiments will not last - nor work - here."
She clearly resented being told she was behaving naïvely, slamming a chair into its respective table at his words. She maintained her distance, seething at him from across the room, the air somehow thick with their conflict (a conflict that somehow seemed disproportionate to them never having spoken before).
"You clearly weren't paying attention tonight."
Killian pulled out a wooden chair nearer his side of the room, sliding into it and feeling every muscle in his body ease, considering her as she considered him.
"And where exactly was your last kingdom Ms -"
"Ms Swan, Emma Swan," but she did not answer the rest of his question.
She looked away instead, averting her eyes and in doing so averting the thoughts behind them – averting everything. Emma did it deliberately, letting him know she had no intention of answering him and giving anything away. Instead, she continued to bump a few more chairs out of aisles and into tables, and definitely with more force than was necessary.
"Not that it matters, love, I'm not after a reference. No doubt you'll defuse any bar brawls with the flip of your hair and the swing of your right hook."
"Not my left hook?"
She nearly smiled at her own joke, lips tempted to tilt into a sneer.
Oh yes, he thought, definitely going enjoy riling her up.
The almost-smile didn't last, and she turned away from him to continue cleaning.
Killian didn't mind, as amusing as she was, his head was throbbing - tired, and running through the millions of possibilities that the missing horse meant (to both his head, and his heart). Did it mean he was in town? Did it mean he had eyes in town? Had Mulan betrayed him - again? Each thought seemed to weigh him further, each fear something he would need to swallow, not only to calm his nerves, but to calm his brother's.
He used the opportunity of her cleaning to down another large swig of rum to douse his own thoughts.
(Still, he was worried about what they might have done to her, whether they'd tried to undo to the horse what had been done.)
(He winced at the thought.)
A cool bead of what was either sweat or the rain from his hair fell down the outside edge of his face, drawing him from his thoughts, making him more aware of the sound of the rain outside. It battered against the panes of the windows, demanding entrance and attention, echoing across the room, and he'd been so lost in his thoughts he'd almost forgotten where he was, and who was - now, quite suddenly closer - standing in front of him.
She had not forgotten, she was eyeing him with a curiosity, ringing a cloth between her hands, looking for all her scorn like she wanted to ask him what was wrong. There was that soft edge again, staring at him as though she couldn't quite make head nor tail.
Perhaps that was why he asked, drawn by their mutual curiosity and the confusingly mad and yet wary look upon her face. Killian couldn't tell if he was continuing to provoke her by asking or trying to soothe her, but he shook himself out of his self-absorption, gesturing at her with his free hand to give her centre stage.
"Alright then, Swan, show me how your singing would stop this tawdry lot – consider this your audition."
She did not move immediately, establishing how genuine the gesture – but she obviously saw it, moving a few more paces away from him to stand on a chair. Emma did appear legitimately pleased to have convinced him, a small smile on her face as she threw the washcloth in her hands on the surface of the nearest table.
"Happy or sad?"
Her voice was suddenly a lot softer, still betraying a little prickliness, but softer all the same, as though the singing and the song meant as much to her as she was letting on.
"Sad."
"Fine, but I warn you, it'll break your heart."
"Already broken, love."
The words were out of his mouth before he could think of what he was doing. It was too vulnerable, too bitter and pathetic, and as the rum seemed to weigh him down a little more about his face, the sadness simply seeped in.
She ignored it after a moment, for that he was grateful, choosing instead to smooth her palms over her skirts – and then without warning she began to sing.
Emma's voice was a little shaky at first, and it wasn't as though she was nervous, or trying to avoid the intimacy of the one-on-one performance (if anything this particular brand of musical intimacy gave her a power, and strengthened her voice). No, the rough beginning was just as though the particular melody was so far deep in the recesses of her discography, that hauling out the words and the notes was a struggle.
Killian did not know the song itself, but, to be honest, he was barely paying attention to the words. Her voice was lilting and almost dark as it resounded through the room; sure and sound, and though she mentioned something of sailors and seas (no doubt specifically chosen for her audience) it was the feeling in his chest that the song was creating that he was focusing on.
It was different to before. Before, in the midst of the rabble-rousers, Killian had felt a joyous companionship, and easier in his soul, and this time – well she had not lied, the tune so sombre that he felt as though his heart would crack and shatter.
It seemed impossible, the way that the bittersweet melody of her song affected the air around him. The room itself felt darker, the pathetic gas lamps doing half the job they usually did, as though the notes themselves dragged particles of light with them as they bounced and echoed in the room. It seemed darker, and yet everything else seemed lighter – the air crisper, the glass of the bottles behind he bar almost shone with a white light.
His heart, his heart also seemed weightless, even though it broke, being dragged away from him with a verse in a minor key.
The blonde, wrapped in her scarlet - yet tattered - dress seemed even more beautiful like this. It wasn't the words of the tune, or even the way her body seemed to sigh along with her own draws of breath, but it was simply because she looked more in her element; freer. She was clearly taking her audition seriously. There was no denying that she was beautiful (as much as Killian tried not to think on it) but this singing added a glow to her disposition, a freshness to her face that would have been far more desirable to the forlorn visitors of the Jolly than the shape of her.
He tried – and failed – to seem unaffected as a change of key struck a similar change of chord deep within him somewhere, determined that the singing of a woman would only bring about unwanted complications; tried to fight the very appeal he could so objectively see in her. But it was plain and simply beautiful (she was plain and simply beautiful) and the longer she sang, eyes trained on him, the more he felt his veneer slip away.
It was just that though – that veneer, the way the muscles in his jaw relaxed of their own volition – that drew him out of it, suddenly shocked by the effortless way that this woman, had begun to mould him with a simple song.
And he had experienced this before, and it wasn't lust and it wasn't love, and it wasn't quite magic – but something much worse and something all of the above.
Emma noticed the change in his disposition, the way that he seemed to haul his features back into a hardened position, and her words faltered a little at the sight. He noticed how her gaze flittered round his face reading for warning signs or out of curiosity (or both) – he couldn't tell. And her melody petered out as a result, yet somehow still sounding like the crash of waves to a sailor's ears.
There was a certain regret and despair in the pit of his stomach when Emma stopped, the last refrain of the song echoing in the dim, and their eyes completely unable to look at anything else besides each other. Killian was enthralled. He hadn't even had suspicions earlier when the whole tavern of miserable low-lives had burst into merry chorus, but now that he was looking at her properly she was practically gleaming.
In fact, she was gleaming.
Killian tore his eyes away (with incredible willpower as though heaving an anvil from his own heart), with a deep swallow, a lick of his lips and a slo shake of his head, he downed the rest of his drink. This could only mean trouble (and definitely not the good kind). She hopped off the chair, heels of her shoes sounding loudly as he rose to his feet.
"Quite the voice you've got there, love."
She didn't respond, but with a defiant sort of glare looked ready to defend her singing privileges.
"Have you heard the myth of songs sung by those of your kind?" Emma simply continued to stare at him, and if she understood his double meaning it was impossible to tell, determined as she was to give nothing - but she was clearly confused. "Swans, Emma, the songs of swans."
"Hook, I'm not actually a bird, you do know that?"
He chuckled. To him his laugh sounded dark, already sensing the lies forming on her tongue in self-preservation, but she simply maintained this steel that she thought was doing her some lick of good.
Killian met her eyes once more, moving slowly but deliberately towards her, noting with a kind of satisfaction how she did not move an inch, and simply rose her chin to maintain eye contact with each movement of him into her space.
Killian was well-versed in the art of intimidation – it was coercion for dummies: leave them with nowhere to run.
That was why her fortitude continued to amuse him – he had bullied many an innocent in his time, and while some of them fought back the same way she was now (pretending not to be intimidated), they had all whimpered and shaken with fear, or clambered for an escape.
But here she stood, calm and daring him with everything she had.
(Perhaps it was because she was no innocent.)
And Emma Swan was not backing down. At this distance, he was even more enthralled by her and the light freckling on her nose – but he was far more distrustful of her now. The strangely drawing scent of her that reminded him of the ocean, held no appeal (well, he fought the appeal), and her beauty was no longer simply distracting, it was dangerous.
"Tell me," using his hook to loop part of her hair from behind her shoulder, grazing her neck with his hook as he did, he settled the strands in an almost playful (almost threatening) manner around her front. There was an element of insecurity in the way she pushed him, not physically (she did not touch him at all, and in fact, despite their limited distance there was a clear border between them), but emotionally, her walls were obdurate iron, could see it in her shoulders; in her glare. "Are you here to predict my end, love? One, final, swan song for the devilish Captain Hook?"
He had meant it as a roguish comment, the coincidence in her name and her singing too good to pass up, but she tried a little too hard to meet his enquiring stare with her own that he saw the crack in her own veneer and became suspicious.
Tucking it away for further contemplation, Killian decided to prod her with the far more pressing issue.
"Who else knows?" He whispered the words, even knowing they were entirely alone and inches apart, he whispered them all the same watching her unsteady breathing, knowing all too well that magic had a way of revealing secrets and that ears often heard when they could not see.
Emma said nothing.
Emma said nothing, but the hardness of her gaze inches from his own, as they tried to shutter all emotion out, said far more. He almost pitied her in that moment, because for all her defences and confidences, her refusal to share even the slightest thing gave her away the most.
(Killian found himself hating being this close to her, it felt like a battle between his mind and his body.)
"Who else knows what you are?"
He could see the way her resolve began to shatter in her eyes instantly to something much more frightened – she looked far younger with a vulnerability in her eyes. Yet, she was keen still to play dumb, and that shadow of doubt was just that – a shadow, gone in a moment. Killian smiled, enjoying not only having a clear read on her, but enjoying how she fought back in spite of it.
"And what exactly is it you think I'm supposed to be?"
"Look down."
She did as suggested, only to find herself falling back a step with a muted gasp and a heavy breath, looking down to her hands, incredulously, to find them glowing full bore with a luminous white yellow.
Emma shook them, ignoring for a moment all pretence of courage, scared of what she saw there; panic fully-fledged on her face, and Killian watched with vested interest the way that she shook her hands as though to fling the light off – only that's precisely what she did, and slowly the magical remnants slunk visibly through the air and back into the gas lamps from which they'd come.
"It's- it's not meant to do that."
She had definitely startled herself, letting forth a mumble of words unintentionally, and still shaking her hands, eyelashes flittering with her nerves. But it didn't last long, in fact she shut it down the moment he spoke to her again.
"Best keep it that way, love."
("What, and I'm supposed to believe you won't rat me out?" "Does that surprise you?")
This whole day was one complication after another, and Killian had officially had enough, deciding to again attempt burying himself in the blankets of his bed, leaving each and every problem for future Killian to deal with. Because this - this woman, this creature, this complication - was one he did not have the energy to fight tonight. If she ran scared, it would not be his problem anyway. He moved away from her (missing as he turned the way pure panic lit her face once more, blinking madly in an attempt to control herself) heading for the exit and picking up the bottle of rum for the road, gripping the neck of it between terse and tired fingers.
He did not turn around when she spoke to him, was not entirely surprised that she did though - he had just overturned undoubtedly her biggest secret, and now she would want (need) to gain a bit of ground and rattle him.
(And Will hadn't exactly been subtle shouting down the place.)
"You've seen me, Hook, so tell me – what's so special about a horse?" Her voice, was once again hardy and bitter.
Unfortunately for her, Killian still held the winning card, and he threw it at her as he left.
"Tell me, Emma Swan, what's a siren doing so far from water?"