Her feet are already weary when the muddy curve of a boot knocks against her instep. Emma winces, opens her mouth to protest, and promptly shuts it.

The last thing she needs at the moment is to cause a scene.

An ache follows the contact, settling itself into her soles and gnawing its way to her toes, stirring at muscles already sore from a day spent traveling. A slurred apology drifts with the slurred-step man out the tavern door, leaving Emma to roll her eyes at his shadow. Even hunched over in the corner-most table of the tavern, it seems impossible to stay out of the way.

Yet better here than out in the open.

Nursing a glass of ale, Emma keeps her face swallowed by a billowing hood and her eyes scanning the dense clamor of the tavern.

Enjoy it, Princess. She'd wanted this, once, after all.

She takes another sip, checking herself after a short swallow. This isn't one of her parents' balls, she's not drinking champaign, and it matters a hell of a lot more than it ever used to if she slips into carelessness.

Her fingers knot. Raucous laughter, roaring pirates, giggling bar wenches – she'd always assumed that, if she ever managed to get so far away from the confines of the palace, it would come as a relief to rules and composure.

Granted, she'd never assumed her escape would come as an eviction; that guards would pursue her with weapons ready rather than amused instruction to see her home. That it would be the Evil Queen's guards rather than her parents'. She certainly hadn't foreseen that the Evil Queen would ever succeed in regaining enough power to lock her parents away among the darkness of her dungeons.

That her parents would manage to make sure she escaped that fate, however… A heavy gulp of ale sinks down her throat before caution can thwart it. That isn't surprising at all. Self-sacrifice is practically in their family motto.

Her glass shudders down against the stains of the tabletop.

Not the time.

A dark figure clomps over the threshold, carrying his ridiculous helmet in his hands. It doesn't matter; the black armor distinguishes him easily enough. Tension slinks through Emma's body, from shoulders to kneecaps. One of the Queen's knights.

Really not the time.


Breathe. Just breathe. Yet even when he sits down to a formidable mug of ale, Emma doesn't dare move. Particularly not when a darted look through a grime-clad window reveals several of his friends resting out in the village. Stolen peasant garb might allow her to blend in, but it's hardly a true disguise. And solitude might be a comfort at the moment, but a lone woman brooding to herself among an otherwise uproarious crowd does stand out.

Her eyes flicker to the women perched about the tavern – their curved lips and loosened corsets. They drape themselves on pot-bellied laps, and no one thinks to wonder when they take their company to more secluded corners.

Emma's eyes narrow. She could stay here, and hope the black knight doesn't think to notice her. She could slip away and hope his friends aren't any sharper. She slants a glance to a table of gambling men. Or perhaps…

Before she can stop herself, her fingers have begun working at the laces of her corset. In an even quicker motion, she pulls down her hood. Standing poses a more difficult task than anticipated, but she manages. As for remembering to saunter past the black knight without a trace of trepidation – well, the adrenaline takes care of that, just as it propels her to lean across the nearest tabletop with a wide grin.

Her smile nearly falters when her eyes fall upon the man sitting before her. She stretches her lips further. It's not the time to dwell on the past, and it's certainly not the time to lose herself over a pretty face.

"What are you boys playing?"

His gaze locks upon her, and her grin grows genuine. She has him.


The pirate certainly isn't pot-bellied, she'll give him that. His red vest hints at a physique at least as fine as any of her family's knights, and his face – is it even possible for eyes to be that blue — leaves no question as to why she's earned herself a chorus of envious glares since stealing his company.

A throaty laugh rises from her chest as he leans closer to her.

More importantly, he's both drunk and attracted enough to her that he'll likely make a scene should the black knight to the left of them – still there, damn him – finally take note of her.

For the mean time, however…

Her fingers curl around the hook glinting from his wrist in place of a hand, stroking the silver in a slow dance. She's always longed for an adventure on par with the ones of her parents' past. She'd just never imagined it would involve one of the realm's most infamous pirates.

Captain freaking Hook. And he's smirking at her. "It's not many a woman who shows such appreciation for that particular appendage, love." Hook's eyes dart down, the corners of his mouth stretching. "Another, however…"

She flashes him another grin, hovering closer until barely a breath's space remains between them. "Maybe I'm not many a woman."

"That," laughter grounds against his voice as he pours her another glass of rum, splashing a bit across the table in a spasm. "I don't doubt."

"Can't blame a girl for being curious." She lifts her shoulders, fingers still curled around his hook. "You hear so many stories…"

That earns her a raised eyebrow and a complete diminishment of personal space. His breath reeks of rum and his words of its influence. Enough rum that he should have grown repulsive by now. (Her heart hammers as he comes closer, and she doesn't bother pretending he's become any such thing). "So you know who I am, and you haven't even told me your name."

Not going to happen, buddy. Even before her name carried a death sentence, she can't imagine she'd have thrown it about in a tavern to a pirate's ears. She pours him another drink, lest he notice her hesitation. "What fun would that be?"

Luckily, he seems to like that answer. "We're just two ships passing in the night then?"

She bites back a snort in favor of a coy smile. Figures a pirate would opt for a nautical metaphor. "Passing closely, I hope."

Not for the first time, his gaze racks her body. He drinks in her face as though helping himself to another long gulp of rum, and Emma's legs lock.

Propositioning a pirate. Even in a ruse, especially in a ruse — it's idiotic.

"Speaking of ships, what do you say we leave this place, and I show you mine?"

It's exhilarating.

An evasion leaps to her tongue, then falters. The Queen's men are still here, and who can tell if they'd recognize her if the pirate abandons her for an easier conquest, never mind if she tried to leave on her own. If she were nothing more than a bar wench leaving a tavern with a pirate, however… A gulp claims her throat. Well, that wouldn't be remarkable at all. Unless she wants to wait the knights out – and God knows how long that will take – there's no better time or manner presenting itself for an escape.

It's stupid. It's her best bet.

"Lead the way, captain."


She wants to dance. She wants to sing. The knights granted them nary a glance on their way out, not bothering to look past her makeshift shield of a billowing hood and the protection of the pirate's form. (Nor does said pirate seem to hold any qualms whatsoever over allowing her to cling to his side.)

Now all that's left is to maneuver her escape from him.

She tangles her feet together upon reaching the dock in a forced bout of clumsiness. "I think I should rest for a moment…"

Yet her attempt to stall only manages to plant her directly in his arms. He hoists her up with a laugh. "No need. I've carried rum barrels heavier than you."

Emma forces a smile. What a gentleman.

She's always thought gentlemen make things unnecessarily tedious. A few moments later, she's on her feet in his cabin, and near certain that pirate gentlemen are the worst sort of all.

He hovers against her. "Gods, you're beautiful…"

He's drunk. He's a pirate. She's nothing more than a conquest. (And he's the first person to ever call her beautiful without knowing her title; the first man to ever breathe the words like a prayer into her ear).

Hook brings his good hand up to brush her face. "Not having second thoughts, are you?"

Pirate or not, he might be gentleman to let her go if she says yes.

Emma catches his lips with hers.

Or he might not be.

Rum clangs against her tongue as their lips grope one another's. His hand moves greedily from her face down the span of her body, stopping to curve around her hip. He plunders her mouth, and it takes her a moment to realize she's taken to plundering his in turn.

It's not her first kiss. She's a princess, not a fairy, and nearly nineteen-years-old at that. She's known sloppy attempts with childhood friends. She's had chaste pecks from neighboring princes.

This is a different breed altogether. He doesn't rip his mouth from hers until they lose breath, and even then he brushes her lips with whispers of how bloody gorgeous she is and other coarser comments no one else has ever dared murmur to her. Emma swallows them all.

She's stalling. A moan (it takes her moment to register it as her own) fills the cabin. Still stalling. Emma tightens her fingers in his hair, allowing him to push her back into his desk. She's not sure how to tear herself away from stalling.

Skirt suddenly pushed up to her waist, she sobers enough to realize that she won't have the chance to stall much longer if things progress further.

Emma kisses him harder, inhaling him, allowing him to inhale her. He hardly notices when she slides a hand away from his head, down his arm, and to his desktop. She gropes across its surface.

Papers…

His mouth moves to her jaw then trails down to her collarbone, molding his teeth to its curve.

A moan breaks free from her lips. More papers…

His hand moves down to stroke her leg, edging up further and further, and she doesn't want him to stop.

That, of course, is when her hand manages to curl around something heavier than paper.

In a jerk, Emma slams the makeshift weapon – a telescope, as it turns out – against his head.

His hand falls from her thigh, his mouth from her chest, and his body down to the floor of his cabin in a thud.

She cringes. That would be her queue to run. Breathless and cold, Emma stares down at him for a moment.

A choked laugh tempts its way from her lips.

A pirate's cabin. A pirate. A loosened corset and a hiked-up skirt.

This is insanity.

Setting the telescope back down upon the desk, her eyes land on a leather pouch half-covered by an open map. And still all too exhilarating.

Feeling every bit the bandit her mother claims to have once been, Emma grabs the pouch and shoves her hand about its interior to discover a small collection of gold. Stealing from a pirate – perhaps she'll tell her parents that story when she and their remaining allies finally manage to break them free from Regina's castle.

Her gaze brushes down once more to the pirate sprawled about the floor (she only feels the smallest bit of guilt over hiding the pouch away into her cloak).

She'll… abridge the story of how that theft came about.

Blush still warming her face, skin still cool from the loss of his against it, she runs.


Killian Jones wakes with a sharp pain piercing his head, the floor of his cabin pressed into his cheek, and a vision of blonde hair tangling through his mind.

He rolls over on the floor. "Bloody hell…" His brow creases. He can usually hold his rum well enough to avoid passing out drunk before even managing to reach his sodding bed.

Head throbbing, Hook foists a hand on his desk and pulls himself upright. The cabin spins around him in an aching blur — before settling on a figment of a blonde bar wench writhing against him.

Even the memory of her feels real, far too real to have been born out of a dream.

He collapses into his chair, drawing his fingers across the sore lines of his forehead.

Another memory follows – the shock of a sudden blow to his temple. Jaw clenched, his eyes settle on the telescope lying askew on his desk.

Oh, yes, she was most definitely real.

A harsh laugh spills from his mouth in spite of himself. "Bloody minx." Bringing him back to his own cabin to take advantage of him – far more often his prerogative. Though at least he's gentleman enough to give a lady exactly what he promises.

The sensation of soft skin and a desperate mouth ghosts around him.

That wench cheated him wholly. A far more pleasant waking, he reckons he would have had, with her curled beside him.

Of course, that begs the question of what exactly the lass's ulterior motives were if not to take advantages of his devilishly good looks…

It only takes a few moments more for him to take note of the pouch missing from his desk.

A sharp grin pierces his face.

(He tells himself that he only plans to chase her to retrieve the gold she stole from him; there couldn't be any other reason for the exhilaration crawling through his muscles).


The forest curls around her when she lies down to rest the next night, all greenery, dirt, and distance from the cabin at which she's supposed to meet any ally whose managed to evade the queen.

If anyone else has managed to evade the queen.

Emma clenches her fists through the dirt, biting down hard on her lower lip. She cried enough upon first fleeing the palace when her parents had entrusted her to a knight and begged her to run.

"We'll handle Regina."

She'd protested. The hilt of a sword had found its way to her head. She'd woken up miles away, with only that knight, his horse, and promises of a resistance to keep her company.

The knight had died for her. His horse too. She clings to the ghosts of his promises now as she once had to her baby blanket. She holds them tight, lying still as a log among the grass – and, hours later, still very much awake.

Sometimes she wonders how her mother managed it for so long. Not the roughness of banditry or even the constant moving, but the loss. Emma's jaw clenches. She hasn't lost her family just yet. She just has to find them. (She just has to stop feeling as though she'll never see them again, as though they abandoned her, as though she's an orphan.)

The stars glint down at her, their light tempting her further away from sleep. A groan pulls past her lips.

Plotting it is, then.

She still has several days' more journeying ahead of her. Several days more of working her feet down to blisters and bones, of evading the Queen's men, of wondering if Red or the dwarves or anyone even managed to make it to the meeting place.

Of course, it could be several days less if she had a ship.

The pirate's gold seems to grow heavier at her side. (She won't let herself think about his ship, nor the way she'd left him unconscious upon its floor – particularly not about anything that had happened in the moments prior.)

Using a pirate's treasure to gain passage aboard another pirate's ship – the corners of her lips slant. It's safe to say she won't encounter the Queen's men aboard a pirate vessel nor riding through the waves around it.

Emma curls into herself, scrunching into a ball beneath the heavy blue cloth of her cloak. Another tavern, a few nights at sea, and she'll be that much closer to getting her home back.


"How much longer will we stay at port, Captain?" His red hat pulled about his bulbous face, Smee's voice grates against the wind bustling about the Jolly Roger.

"For as long as your captain wishes, Mister Smee." Stare hard, jaw clenched, and eyebrows raised, Hook edges closer to him. "Will that be a problem?"

"No, Captain. Of course not, Captain, I just—"

"Good. Such a sad fate, the punishment for insubordination, wouldn't you say?"

Hook strides away from the Jolly Roger, leaving Smee sputtering in his wake. He waits until he's out of sight to roll his eyes. Useful man he's proven, but an utter nuisance otherwise, and not the slightest bit worth his time at present.

A cold smirk kicks at his lips. Not when he has a bar wench to find and a large pocket's worth of gold to reclaim.

Hook saunters through the portside village, half-hoping to see his thief miraculously appear before him, and near certain she'll do nothing of the certain. She's smart, he'll grant her – smart enough to seduce him at the very least, so he'd wager she has enough wit to refrain from dallying around this village or its tavern any longer than need be. No, he'll have a far better chance trying the tavern of some neighboring village – assuming he picks the right one.

Asking after her would pose the easiest means of pursuit – yet that would require surmounting the slight obstacle of her insistence on remaining an absolute sodding mystery.

Blonde hair. Green eyes. A bloody temptress. Fifty men could claim they'd encountered the very same woman, and point him in fifty different directions towards wenches with eyes the wrong shade, hair the wrong length, and nothing to do with his plundered pouch – with nothing whatsoever to interest him.

Perhaps asking after a blonde siren would prove more helpful.

Resting at his side, his hook glints in the sunlight. A challenging pursuit, no doubt, but he'll manage. Theft and head ache aside, he nearly welcomes the diversion. Centuries spent in Neverland, and still he's no closer to avenging his Milah. The Crocodile and his dagger remain as untouchable as ever.

His golden haired attacker resurfaces in his mind, knocking his tongue into the curve of his teeth. Oh, she'll prove touchable indeed.

(He sees the poster then and becomes sure of it.)


"Seriously?"

A groan deflates through Emma's body. Damn it.

Her own face, remade in ink and paper, glares down at her from the far wall of the tavern. Wanted: Princess Emma. She slumps in her seat. What she wants is to pull at the image, tear at the words, crumple its charges into the sweat of her palm, and then tighten her fist around it once more for good measure. All she can do is adjust the hood around her face.

Emma doesn't bother to check the series of curses that follows from her lips.

She knows it was only a matter of time until Regina got around to pasting her face throughout the kingdom; if anything, it's a surprise that it took her so long to reach these seaside villages. But that doesn't mean it can't irritate the hell out of her.

The desire to allow her head to spill down against the table bites at her. So much for finding a captain to grant her safe passage here – there's as good a chance she'll find herself in chains upon arrival as there is that she'll come upon a subject still sympathetic to her parents' cause.

"And I here I thought princesses possessed more refined tongues."

Emma whirls around to find a horribly familiar face looming a pixie's stride from her. "Hook."

"Aye." He raises an eyebrow at her. "Did you miss me?"

His hook latches itself to the seat across from hers, dragging it to her side. "I—" She should have cajoled him into drinking a few more glasses of rum the other night. She should have pretended to have no idea who he was a minute ago. As things are, she clenches her jaw. Too late to play at flirtation or cluelessness now. "What do you want?"

He's close enough that she can feel his breath on her ear and curse the lack of rum staining it. The pirate would be a hell of a lot easier to talk out of recognizing her if he were drunk. "To start, I'd have my gold back."

Careful to keep her gaze from wavering down to her cloak and the pouch currently burdening its folds, Emma twines her arms across her chest and keeps her voice level. Speak slowly, keep eye contact, don't hesitate. She was taught better than to show fear to princes and courtiers; she knows better than to grant it to a pirate captain. "And how do I know you won't turn me over to the queen as soon as you have it?"

"You don't." He cocks his head. "Yet I can assure you things won't fare so pleasantly for you if you deny me property." Leaning even closer, he grins at her. "Pirate, love. We're a possessive kind."

Emma rolls her eyes. "How about I return your gold, you let me walk out of here."

His own stare catches them mid-roll. "You return my gold, I don't alert the entire bloody tavern as to the pretty price they'd fetch for your pretty head."

She hates herself for surrendering, even as her hand jerks to throw the pouch at his chest. "How did you even find me?"

Opening his pouch to examine the reclaimed loot, he chuckles. "Funny tale, that. As it turns out, a woman becomes far easier to track when you have a poster of her face to use as reference." Her glare smothers him, then the wanted poster he pushes across the table. "Astounding, isn't it?"

"And you went to all that trouble for a few pieces of gold."

"As I told you, lass, pirates aren't known for sharing."

Yet he has his gold back safe in his grasp, and his eyes have only spent a moment on it. They're on her again – locked on her face as though there's a map etched into its lines. "And you, princess?"

She grits her response through her teeth. "And I what?"

"Do you have a bit of pirate in you?" As if connected to his mouth by string, Hook's eyebrows dart with his words. "Most princesses don't run about as bandits by night."

"All you need to know about me is that I'm leaving."

His hand darts out to curl around her wrist. "Not quite yet. Besides," he tongue darts out against his lower lip, "I'd say I know a mite more about you than that."

Emma works to fight off the blush encroaching her cheeks. "What do you want?" The inflection barely makes its way onto the last word, leaving it more statement than question.

"Oh, a great many things, lass." His gaze rakes over her as it had only two nights prior; she'd relished it then, certain of his inebriation and her control. Now she's certain he's doing it just to see her struggle against the blood rushing to her face. "But for the moment, I'd settle for hearing why exactly the Evil Queen cares so for your capture. Steal from her as well?"

Emma wrenches her wrist from his grasp. "No. I never did anything to her."

A snort follows without a beat. "Forgive me for my skepticism, love."

"It's a…" Emma flounders her a way to explain the vendetta that she's never fully understood herself, "family matter. And none of your business."

"Ah. A blood feud. Now that I understand quite well."

"Oh yeah?" She clenches her arms together in a cinched braid. "What do you know about it?"

His hook rises to her face in answer, brushing against the curve of her cheek. "Still curious about how I lost my hand, princess? Or was that merely a ploy as well."

Emma's eyes fix themselves to the hook in spite of themselves, hands absurdly tempted to curl around it once more as they had in another tavern, on another night. "Well, I assumed a sword was involved."

A sneer spreads across his face, eyes falling to the shadowed silver. "It was taken from me. And, rest assured, I exact vengeance on those that wrong me."

"Is that a threat?"

He slants his sneer at her, allowing a mocking edge to pull at its corners. "Relax, love. You have your safety for now. It's the Dark One who need fear."

"Rumpelstiltskin?" She spits the name out without thought, only regretting it when his entire face tenses.

The response is immediate. Just when she thought they couldn't physically move any closer, he looms further against her. A gulp sinks down Emma's throat. Any trace of the man she'd seduced with rum and coy smiles disappears in favor of a hard face and a darker glare. "And what would a princess like you know of a monster like him?"

Emma pushes her shoulders back, pasting her shoulder blades to the back of her seat in a bid for space. "My-my parents. My parents imprisoned him. He's been in a cell my whole life." Her brow creases. "How old are you?"

If he hears the question, Hook gives no sign. Eyes narrowed, fist clenched, his mouth sets itself in a fixed line. "Tell me you know where the Dark One is." It's a command, one hard and unrelenting enough that Emma almost wants to disagree just for the sake of seeing him falter.

She swallows that particular fit of stubbornness in favor of one that runs in a more productive vein. "Tell me that you won't turn me over to the queen."

"Aye, you have my word, so long as you give me yours." The words rush from his mouth as though in sight of the finish line of a race.

Emma bites her lip. "I do." Albeit not from experience – her father would have had a fit before ever allowing her to make that particular journey, nor had she ever entertained much interest in visiting an imprisoned madman. "Satisfied?"

His entire face, from mouth to eyebrows, seems to lift. It's only his head that passes over nodding for a slight shake. "Not just yet."


"Let me get this straight."

Disconcertingly smug for a man who looked as though he'd gone entirely mad barely a moment prior, Hook prompts her to continue.

"I help you get to Rumpelstiltskin, and you'll hide from the queen."

His responding shrug works a wrinkle into his leathers. "Seems a fair trade."

"And how exactly are you planning to do that?"

"By taking you aboard my ship, of course." A grin stretches his lips, and she can't tell whether it's malicious, excited, or something else she'd rather not consider. "I believe you're acquainted with it."

She chokes on a snort. "And what? I'll just stay locked away in your cabin until the queen forgets about me? Work as a deck hand?"

"Now there's a vision."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Seriously."

"Seriously, lass, I'll allow you passage on my ship to wherever it is you seek refuge. I do assume you weren't set on running forever without a destination."

"No." Emma swallows her lower lip. "I have a destination."

Hook lifts himself to his feet. "Lovely. Now do we have ourselves a deal?"

Hesitation gnaws at her tongue despite the fact that this is what she'd sought a tavern for in the first place. A pouch of gold in exchange for safe passage. This not so different a transaction than the one she'd originally planned on forging.

She stares a moment too long at him – at the sleek triangle of skin exposed by the plunging neckline of his leathers, the coal smeared about his eyes, the impossible blue of his irises. He was striking when she first met him, and it's worse now that she knows the feel of him against her.

She wanted a stranger.

Raising an eyebrow yet again, he prods his hook down against her hair. "If this arrangement doesn't satisfy you, I assure you I can think of one far less generous." He cants his head. "Do you know what I usually do to thieves?"

She doesn't have a stranger.

"Fine."

The corners of his mouth begin to rise. She rushes to trample them. "But don't think I'm taking my eyes off you for a second."

And suddenly his hand is in hers, and she's on her feet, stumbling against his chest. Emma glares at him for the sudden tug, even as he steadies her with a grin (that she utterly failed at squashing). "I would despair if you did."