Growing up in foster care, you don't usually get much instruction on what's proper and polite. There's a lot of rules, but very few about keeping your elbows off the table and which fork to use and not to stare at people.
However, despite that, she knew what she was doing was most definitely not proper or polite.
But she couldn't tear her eyes away.
She'd followed him as soon as she'd noticed his absence from the camp; they all knew it was far too dangerous out here to be going off alone, and yet he'd broken his own rule and disappeared at some point when she wasn't watching. He hadn't been subtle, his path away from them marked by broken foliage and hacked-off leaves.
So she follows, and her footsteps are muted on the mossy ground, the path already cleared for her, and that's probably the only reason he doesn't hear her approach.
His bare back is turned to her, body submerged to his waist in a dull blue lake. Even from here she can see the water glistening on his skin, and the pile of clothing next to the shore tells her all she needs to know about what he isn't wearing under the waterline.
She knows damn well she should turn away and stalk back to camp and forget this ever happened, but she's frozen in place as she watches him. His brace is still on his arm, the leather straps crossing his shoulder and dipping under his other arm. Under the leather, his shoulders ripple when he moves and flexes. Twin indents on either side of his spine come and go when he spreads his arms wide and stretches.
Slender scars marr his back, line after line after line that wrap around his shoulders and disappear into the water. She's not an idiot, she's seen her fair share of pirate movies, she knows what they're from. Despite her overall attempt at remaining ambivalent towards him on this little trip, she feels a pang of empathy for him and guilt at watching. She's never been whipped, at least not like that, but there are plenty of her own scars that she'd rather hide from everyone else.
There are other things, like the hint of ink that trails along his side and disappears to circle around to his chest, and a diagonal scar that stretches from his hipbone to his spine, thick and with a hint of texture still lingering.
Abruptly, at least to her, he steps forward and sinks beneath the water, ducking his head down until he's completely submerged. Instead of popping back up like a normal person, he stays under, until Emma feels the need to start counting the seconds. When he finally rises, she lets out the deep breath she was holding, and the sound makes him turn quickly, hook already outstretched in her direction.
Surprise colors his face, but he makes no attempt to hide himself from her. His hair hangs in wet tendrils across his forehead and ears, and he crosses his arms. The heat of the jungle suddenly feels way more oppressive than it had only a moment ago.
"Swan," he says evenly. His eyes sweep over her, searching, though for what she's not sure. "Is there some kind of emergency?"
"Huh?" She shakes her eyes off of the generous smattering of hair on his chest and meets his amused look. "Oh, no. You said we weren't supposed to go off alone." There's an accusing tone in her voice, and she can feel heat on her chest at being caught watching. But he doesn't seem too bothered by that, his characteristic innuendo oddly silent.
"And you decided to come find me," he finishes for her. "Touching, really. But as you can see, I'm quite safe, thank you." He gestures at his hook. "I've got my own personal protection."
She rolls her eyes at his practically trademarked smirk, but for some reason doesn't leave. Well, she knows the reason, but she's not about to admit it. Her eyes flicker back to his bare body as he shifts, arms uncurling from each other. His chest is lean muscle, and she can't help but follow the trail of hair that broadens just before it disappears into the water. He scoops water into his palm and begins to rub at his other arm, only pausing when he notices that she hasn't moved.
"Would you care to help, love?" His voice is husky and the single raised eyebrow does nothing to calm the small thrill his voice sends down her spine. She ignores it, though, in favor of crossing her arms.
"Just wondering why you hadn't told us about this little party spot. It's not like we haven't had a shower lately either."
A look of confusion passes over his face at the unfamiliar concepts, but he holds true.
"I took it upon myself to make sure it was safe and to take care of my own needs. I highly doubted any of you would be amiable to sharing with me. Unless you're here to prove me wrong?" He waggled his eyebrows at her. "I certainly can't say I would mind being wrong in this particular situation."
"In your dreams," she shoots back, but regrets it the instant his eyes sparkle and his lips turn up in a chuckle.
She expects him to wax poetic about her filling his dreams, but he refrains for some mysterious reason. Instead, he continues washing himself as best as he can, running the water over bare skin and following it all with as vigorous a scrubbing as you can get with one bare hand. He doesn't struggle or show any sign of being incapable, but she wonders how long it took him to adjust to bathing one-handed. It sends another unexpected pang of sympathy through her, and she bites her lip.
If this wasn't the situation, if he wasn't him, if he didn't look so good at it already, she might have offered to help.
If she wasn't focused entirely on her son, she probably would have offered to help a long time ago.
But she is, and nothing will sway her, not even a very handsome and very naked pirate practically begging her to join him in the very secluded pool.
"Don't worry, Swan," he says, interrupting her thoughts. "As soon as I finish I will be sure to tell the others of this spot and allow them their own momentary relaxation. I don't need someone to stand guard, but you all will, and it's a purpose I shall serve."
His blue eyes are serious as a heart attack, and his voice is gentle, as though she is a stray animal likely to be spooked.
She might be, but here she is strong. She has to be. For Henry's sake. For all their sakes.
He's waiting for a response, but she has no words to give him, only a curt nod before she turns on her heel.
She's nearly out of sight when she peaks a look over her shoulder, only to find him still standing there, looking at the spot where she had been standing.
Her chest clenches for something she can't explain and doesn't care to, and she shakes her head to clear her thoughts as she approaches the clearing where they had made camp.
All she cares about is finding Henry and getting home.
Everything(everyone) else is extraneous.