A/N: It has been a long time since I've had the time or inclination to write fanfic. A lot of the 'ships I once favored have either fallen by the wayside or the show has taken a new direction and I've been disinclined to keep up. But recently I started watching Once Upon a Time, and I found myself drawn in by the Hook/Emma interaction, even before I started reading the fics.
This is my first stab at Captain Swan, and it's mostly an extended drabble at that. I had a plot bunny in my head that would not leave me alone, and this is what resulted. I'm still figuring out how I want the characters to sound and look in my head, so this is certainly a pairing-in-progress for me. Nevertheless, I hope that you enjoy. :)
He finds many things about this new realm strange—even finds some of them alarming. But one of the oddest concepts to him is this idea of a vacation. He's never even heard of such an idea before. In the Enchanted Forest (and every other realm he's been to), the wealthy lived lives of leisure, and everyone else who wanted to eat that day worked. When your day's work was done, you might very well head down to the village pub to toss back a few rounds with your mates or gamble at the dice or cards, but that was about all the leisure ordinary people expected to get. He had certainly never heard of anyone being paid to go larking about for a week or two in exotic locations with strange names. And yet, apparently in this world that was considered normal—expected, even. He can't fathom it.
He is, in fact, so intrigued by the idea that, when he's in New York trying desperately to persuade Emma to take the potion and retrieve her memories so she can rescue her family from yet another curse, he finds himself hanging around travel agencies looking at their brochures. There's nothing else to do, he reasons with himself. She's taking her sweet time going over to Neal's old apartment (he knows, he's been keeping watch on her place with his handy spyglass), and in the meantime, he has to find some way to keep himself occupied. He knows she's at work right now, and the soonest she'll consider going over to Neal's place is several hours from now, on her lunch break. So he might as well be entertained while he waits.
He wanders in and out of several travel agencies and places that advertise cruises (whatever that means) before he lights upon one that catches his interest. It's small, but clean and well-lit, and the sign in the window states that this place specializes in tropical getaways. He's not sure what counts for "tropical" in this realm, but the pictures tacked up on the walls suggest that it involves lots of sun and very white sandy beaches. The ocean features prominently as well. He figures that, of all the locations he's glanced over thus far, this is probably the one most likely to feel like home to a semi-retired pirate.
Rejecting an offer of assistance from a far-too-friendly sales associate, he strides around the place, glancing over brochures and trying to understand the mode of travel preferred by the average American vacationer. Something known as a "jet plane" seems to be a popular choice, although most of what he knows about planes comes from Emma talking about her trip with Gold and their difficulties at the airport. What interest him most, though, are the pictures of couples sunbathing on the beaches, clad in only the barest of garments and slicked down with some sort of glistening oil. He motions to the hovering assistant and politely inquires as the location of this particular tropical locale.
"Oh, that's one of our most popular destinations, sir," she chirps enthusiastically. "An all-expenses paid trip to the Virgin Islands. One flat fee, and you've got airfare, meals, drinks, and island activity packages all included. It's a great bargain. Although," and here he begins to see a gleam of salacious curiosity in her eyes, "it's usually considered a couples' package. Were you just looking for yourself, sir? Because I'd be more than happy to—"
"Oh, no, no," he says hastily, anxious to ward off whatever she was about to offer him next, "it's very much a couples' package I'm looking for. Just wanting a little jaunt for me and my lady, to tell you the truth."
He's lying through his teeth, but all of a sudden he can picture it, clear and bright in his mind—him and Emma, lying on one of those brightly-colored beach towels spread over the blinding sand, drinking tall glasses of cold spirits with the little paper umbrellas in them and letting the island sun soak into their skins until they are warm and pliant with the laziness of it all. He of course has no intention of wearing the ridiculous things he's learned are called swim trunks—no self-respecting man would ever let himself be caught in such garments—but he has absolutely no objection to Emma putting on a bikini while he's about. (He's of the firm conviction that bikini is simply a fancy name for female undergarments, but then again, he wouldn't mind seeing her in those either.) And the idea of doing such a thing out-of-doors, on a public beach, is mind-numbingly sensual.
She's covered with tanning oil from head to toe and wearing a bright red bikini, the two scraps of fabric barely covering that lovely body, and he's torn between appreciating the view and wanting to rip the throats out of the men who ogle her as they pass by. His attention turns back to her as she sighs and stretches, back arching and muscles straining. He can't see her eyes behind the enormous sunglasses she's wearing, but he can tell from the set of her mouth that she's happy…content, even. She rolls over onto her stomach, languidly, and then goes completely limp. He smiles a bit to himself and props himself up on one elbow, leaning over to brush his hand teasingly along the small of her back.
"Mmmmm," she murmurs into her crossed forearms. His smile deepens into a smirk.
"Would you care for a back massage, love?" he enquires, sweetly. When she nods, he shifts to his knees and starts at her shoulders, working out the kinks and knots left by years of worry and hard work. She moans, the sound making his stomach tighten and his eyes darken as he slowly works his way downward. Unaware, she moans again, a little louder this time, and then melts like butter in his hands.
"That feels…incredible," she says, low and breathy, and god, but it's causing nerves to tighten in places he wasn't even sure existed. She sounds like she's just been pleasured within an inch of her sanity, he thinks a little desperately, and he wants her so badly he can barely breathe. It occurs to him in a moment of clarity that perhaps those loose-fitting swim trunks would have been an excellent idea, because the dark blue jeans he settled on as a compromise are beginning to display exactly what kind of effect she has on him. It's…well, it's embarrassing as all hell.
"Emma, darling," he purrs, trying to ignore the fact that his usual throaty seductive-voice is a little strained, "I think that quite well covers all the muscles in your back. Any other places feeling a bit…tight?"
He can feel her senses returning to her, the lassitude disappearing into cat-like awareness. She picks her head up from her arms and smiles, sliding her sunglasses halfway down her nose until he can see the laughter and the lasciviousness lighting up her eyes.
"You know, Killian," she grins at him, "even in the Caribbean, there are some things that aren't legal on a public beach."
He falls back on his elbow again and does his dead-level best to look nonchalant, never mind the fact that he's ready to make love to her right here in front of God and everybody on this bloody island, damn the consequences to hell and back. The want for her is in his blood, his bones, his very breath, and he's crushed under the weight of it. And if the damned woman doesn't give him so much as a second of relief, he's not sure what he'll do.
She leans closer, conspiratorially. "Fortunately for you," she pauses, and he thinks very seriously about strangling her, "we have a lovely hotel room not five hundred feet away, that way." She points, and he takes one glance at the cocky look on her face and makes his decision. Without ceremony, he stands, picks her up with a dramatic flourish, and begins to stride over the sand in the direction of the hotel, leaving towels, beach umbrella, and cocktail glasses behind.
"Hook!" she gasps. "What in God's name are you doing?"
"Taking you up on your offer, love," he says grimly, because he's dying and he's not sure he's going to make it all the way up to the hotel room without ravishing her someplace completely undesirable, like the marble countertop in the lobby. He just has to focus on taking one step, and then another, and not thinking about what's going to happen in that goddamned room as soon as he can get her there.
He's not sure whether she'll be amused or annoyed—it's always a little hard to tell with Emma—but he's relieved when she starts laughing, tilting her head back and pushing her sunglasses up till they cover her dancing eyes.
"You are unbelievable," she tells him, slinging her arms around his neck, and she brushes a chaste kiss across the stubble on his cheek. He growls a little, the sound reverberating through his chest, and tells her without even a hint of humor, "If you keep doing that, love, we are going to do this in a location other than that hotel room. And I'm not making any promises as to where."
She stops kissing him, but her mouth is still trembling with suppressed laughter as he carries her through the cavernous cool depths of the lobby (trailing sand all the way), into the elevator, and through the seemingly interminable wait until they reach the seventh floor. She's still chuckling when he somehow manages to fish the key card out of his back pocket without dropping her and opens the door, but the minute he sets her down on the bed and leans over her, she suddenly becomes serious.
"You really do want me, don't you?" she says softly, and her hand comes up to cup his cheek, her thumb toying with the edge of his mouth. He shakes his head at her, baffled by the inability of the woman to believe what he's been telling her (and hell, showing her) for far too long.
"Do you doubt it?" he questions her back, and the look in her eyes tells him no, she doesn't. She trusts him, wants him, and she'll take him just as he is. As she is. He can ask no more.
"Let me, Emma," he whispers, the sound a plea even in his own ears. "Let me prove it to you."
And he does, until long after his jeans and her bikini land on the floor and the sand on their feet brushes off onto the clean white sheets, until her head is on his chest and he cradles her against him with his good hand, their breath coming fast and their hearts still hammering. This is what he wanted, not just the lust and the fire, but the sweetness that comes after, the rest, the peace.
"I will always want you," he whispers into her hair, and he feels rather than sees the way she closes her eyes, savoring the words. "Always."
When he comes back to his senses again, the shop clerk is staring at him, alarm written over her face, and he's uncomfortably aware that he's been staring at the travel brochure in his hand for far too long and that his leather britches are completely failing to conceal the direction his thoughts have been taking. He clears his throat loudly, sticks the brochure in one of his innumerable pockets, and pulls the coat around his front in one swift motion, and then makes an immediate line for the door.
"Thanks very much love that was excellent we'll be back for more information any day now just as soon as I break the news to her that we're going," he says in one breath as the clerk flutters after him, clearly torn between concern at his recent behavior and disappointment that the attractive man with the strange costume was getting away. He doesn't give her the chance to decide, swinging open the door and getting out into the street and away as quickly as possible. God, but this was getting bad. Really bad. If he ends up having a near-cockstand in a bloody travel agency while daydreaming about her, he doesn't even want to think about what will happen when he actually sees her again. Probably something illegal. Or immoral. Or both.
She's made it very clear that she a) doesn't remember him, and b) doesn't feel anything for him, so he thinks it would be less than wise to try to find her feeling the way he does at the moment. Mostly out of self-preservation, he decides to take a turn round Central Park before heading to their meeting place. It won't do her any harm to wait for him for a few moments, he thinks as he saunters, willing the thoughts of her in his bed—in his arms—to subside. And maybe, just maybe, he can manage to get himself under control sufficiently to remember the mission and not lose himself in the entirely frustrating and delightful enigma that is Emma.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Later, when he's sitting in the barbaric hole they call a jail cell in this place, he begins fishing idly through the contents of his coat pockets, because really, what else is there to do? He reaches into a side pocket, and there it is—the brochure from this morning, the one with the Virgin Islands on the front. He pulls it out and fingers it slowly, eyes drifting over the paragraphs describing the island attractions as he goes back over the scene that played out in his head earlier today.
He has no idea what's going to happen—if Emma will stop being stubborn (it's unlikely) and drink the potion and finally, finally remember who she really is, and what will happen when she eventually does, and how she's going to lift the new curse that's been laid on everyone, and how the bloody hell she's supposed to be the savior when no one even knows what they need saving from. But, as he studies the brochure and thinks of how she'd look in that flame-red bikini, he does realize one thing.
Someday, he's going to take Emma Swan on vacation.