This is dedicated to mryddinwilt on the occasion of her birthday!
It was hot. It was humid. It was raining just slightly enough to be annoying. The corset was too tight, the roads were too muddy, and Princess Emma of Misthaven was too done.
Why couldn't I just have gotten a job at the mall this summer, like everyone else?
She knew why. "Its tradition, Emma!" her mother always insisted. And who was she to go against the decree of Queen Mary Margaret?
Her mother's family had ran the Storybrooke Medieval Faire every summer for years, and as such, held titles of royalty within its perimeters.
When she was a little girl, she loved the spectacle of it: the jousts, the performers, the food, the stalls of goods, and dressing up. She couldn't wait for when she was old enough to actually work there, and while she was more than happy to assume her "princess" duties, she secretly pined for something else.
Now that she's spent in the royal role, she wasn't sure it was all it was cracked up to be. Teaching princess lessons was fun, don't get her wrong—if only to see all the adorable little girls (and occasional tiny prince) practicing their curtsies and best manners.
No, it was the thrice-daily parades, having to ride in a carriage with her parents and sit up stock straight, followed by "knights" jousting for her "favour" at the end of the day that had her rethinking her family ties.
And, as she was just about to be reminded in today's midday parade, the pirates. She had childhood dreams of joining their ranks, but now? They were the most frustrating.
"There she is! Finest lass in the kingdom."
Correction: it was one pirate she was annoyed by.
"Pray tell, Your Highness: what does a man have to do to captain his vessel into your most beautiful port?"
Killian Jones—or as he was best known around the fair, Captain Hook—had been a thorn in her side since he started working as a performer a few years ago. And with his incredible good looks, scoundrel attitude, and that weirdly sexy hook on his left hand that he never took off, he'd quickly become a favorite with the ladies.
But no matter how much he flirted and flitted from woman to woman, Emma was always the main object of his apparent admiration. Every time the royal procession made its way past the pirate village (which was really just a couple of storefronts and a dock-slash-stage on the edge of a pond, with a decorated barge for a ship), he always had a kiss for her hand, or an errant handkerchief of hers, or some quip to send her way. Most of the time, he simply proclaimed her "the most fair in the land," or something equally cheesy and storybook; but lately, he'd grown bold, and today was no exception.
It wasn't uncommon to overhear the asshole visitors who tried to be funny with their lewd remarks, but this—this was something else.
She had to put a hand up to calm her father, King David, who had reached for his (prop) sword instinctively. I got this, she told him with a glance. (Her mother found their banter infinitely hilarious and had never made any motion to dissuade it.)
"Now Captain, is that any way to speak to a member of the Crown?"
"I'm a pirate, Princess; I answer to no crown."
"Then is that how you speak to a lady?" She was glad that princess classes had taught her how to speak like a royal, even if this was all pretend anyway.
He left the dock to approach the stilled carriage. "No, it is not. But am I actually addressing a lady?" His tongue danced across his upper lip as he leered at her.
The crowd ooohed, and Emma flushed. If he was thinking of last weekend's after-hours staff party, when she drunkenly slurred Spice Girls songs at the top of her lungs into a beer-bottle microphone, then no, she probably didn't qualify.
She didn't have a chance to come up with a response before he was jumping into the chaise, right in front of her. Mischief shined from his kohl-rimmed eyes. "However, if she is a lady, then surely there'll be a hefty ransom for her safe return."
"Ransom?" The words were hardly out of her mouth before he dove to grab her around the waist and lifted her—hoop skirt and all—from her seat, then deftly dashed from the carriage and started running to the "ship."
"The princess is ours until we've received an amount of gold, jewels, and rum that we see fit. Until then: Captain's quarters!" His proclamation on the ship's deck was met with both celebratory cheers and scandalized gasps, but she couldn't hear it for long because he swiftly carried her down to the hull.
Of course, this "ship" being little more than a stage set, there were no captain's quarters; below deck was empty save for a few crates, one of which she was gently sat on.
"Seriously, Jones?" she scolded once she was right-side up. "What's gotten into you?"
"Oh, come now. You can't tell me you weren't bored stiff in that carriage. You're an open book, love, and I can tell when a damsel's in distress."
She groaned. Not only was he right, it was hard to stay angry with his stupid British accent and those ridiculous blue eyes and that dumb, adorable smirk that cut a dimple into his manicured scruff.
Did she mention that, as much as he annoyed her, she also had a huge crush on him?
Or that they'd been playing this game all summer? Those kisses on her hand always sent a shiver down her spine, and her handkerchiefs had not been dropped on accident. Also, she was pretty sure people were taking bets on when they'd finally get together.
She was making a conscious effort to focus on his face and not his wide-open shirt and vest, showing off his strong, hair-covered chest. Or the way his long leather duster swirled around his legs. Or the way she felt like the only girl at the fair when he called her "love," even though he said it to everyone. (But he said it different to her...right?)
"Regardless of whether or not I was bored, we can't go off script like that." Well, script was probably too rigid a term—certain events had to happen each day, and while there was plenty of room for conversational improvisation, the princess still had to be at the jousting pitch each day to watch the knights joust for her favor. As much as she preferred the current option, she couldn't be a waylaid hostage of some rebellious wannabe pirates without getting some sort of reprimand. (And God forbid if Killian got fired...she couldn't aggressively avoid her feelings if he wasn't there, could she?)
"One day's variation won't hurt the damn storyline. Isn't it a refreshing change?"
She just glared back.
"I take it by your silence, that's a yes?"
"Do you ever break character?" she bit back.
"You're implying I'm not in-character to begin with. Perhaps I really am a dashing rapscallion, milady."
"Ugh," she huffed, standing up and brushing the (invisible) dust off her pale green skirts so she didn't have to look at his smug grin. "Or you've just watch Pirates of the Caribbean one too many times."
"There's no such thing." She dared to glance up at him just in time for him to wink at her; okay, I have to get out of here before I do something I regret.
(Like kissing him because dammit how do his eyes look so damn blue down here?)
"So do you really plan on holding me ransom or did you have some other endgame in mind?"
"Honestly, I just wanted to see what happened."
She rolled her eyes; of course he did. "Okay, then: how about you let me trade?"
"Trade what?"
"You decide, but we do it in front of the audience and we do it soon." She didn't know what her parents would do, and she didn't really want to wait too long to find out.
Killian's brow arched greedily. She couldn't decide if the look on his face was good for her or not (and, frankly, she didn't care). "It's a deal." He gestured to the narrow stairs back up to the deck. "After you."
She hiked her skirts and petticoats up as she swished past him and back into daylight; he joined her a moment later, giving her another of his lascivious winks before stepping forward and addressing the audience.
"Fair citizens of this lovely port, I have news. Princess Emma has requested that I allow her to barter for her freedom. What say you?"
A chorus of ayes and nays sounded, but Killian moved on.
"Now, I consider myself an honorable man—a man with a code. So, I'll allow it." He turned and took calculating steps in her direction, right arm gesturing to her. "What have you to offer me, milady?"
Mind working quickly, she pulled out her time period-accurate waterskin. "I have this enchanted pouch—it never empties. Your rum would never run dry."
He mused, placing his hand on his belt buckle and humming. "Thats' tempting, but surely there's something else?"
She gestured to the (faux) diamond necklace around her neck. "I have the Wishing Star of Arendelle. Anyone who is pure of heart can have one wish granted by it."
He shook his head. "No, no, no, Your Highness; for if it's coming from you, I want more than some object. I want something of a rarer value." He tapped his lips in thought. "Perhaps...a kiss?"
Her heart stilled for a moment, and she felt her eyes grow wide in fear. Dammit, Jones; should have known. But two could play this game. She quickly recovered, continuing with, "Oh, Captain, I would if I thought it was something you were capable of handling."
He stepped closer, officially invading her personal space. "I dare say you're the one who would find herself incapable of handling it, Your Highness," he countered.
It was a challenge, she knew. And she could tell from his smirk and his raised brows that he didn't think she'd take it. Well, he's in for a surprise.
Before she could really think further, she grabbed the lapels of his jacket and hauled him into her lips. He was just as hot and sweaty as her, as evidenced by the salt in his kiss, but below that lay the taste of rum (how did he even get that at work?) and the sweet cinnamon cakes from the food stalls—her favorite.
He was just as fantastic a kisser as she imagined he'd be, and what she'd intended to be a chaste kiss was bordering on heated. Just as she started to lose herself in it, the crowd's shouts of approval broke her reverie and she pulled back; to her private delight, he tried to follow.
"That was…" he breathed.
"...A solitary event," she replied, still in character. Taking another step back, she asked, "Am I free to go?"
His fingers were brushing his lips as he gazed toward her with a look she could only describe as fuckstruck. "As you wish, Princess." Bowing, he continued, "Until we meet again."
She gave a brief nod and curtsey before heading down the gangplank, across the dock, and through the parting crowd to return to her parents, wherever they'd ended up.
(And if she did it quickly, so no one could attribute the way her chest was heaving and cheeks were blushing to the kiss instead of exertion? She'd like to say she planned it that way, but it was more instinctive than anything.
Because there was no way she could let him know that it was the best kiss of her life.)
She was so lost in her own thoughts that she hardly noticed anyone in her path until she collided with an armor-plated chest; she would have stumbled had the man not grabbed her.
"Woah there—wait, how'd you get out, Emma?"
She stepped back to see who her wannabe savior was, only to groan. "Why are you here, Sir Neal?"
"Your parents sent me to save you."
Which meant her father sent him; her mom knew better than to send the ex that she wanted nothing to do with. "No one saves me but me, milord." Extra emphasis was added on the last word not just to remind him that they were at work, but to draw an extra barrier between them.
That was a sober reminder as to why she hadn't made a move on Killian, despite their obvious attraction. Because stupid Neal here had to go and break her heart, getting caught making out with a stable girl after closing one night. She refused to date any coworkers—or anyone, really—after that.
He made a call of protest as she stormed off, but she ignored it. Just when she thought her day was brightening, of course he had to show up and put a damper on it.
She slipped back into character as she physically made her way toward the backstage area for her afternoon break, and mentally moved past the blemish that was his interruption. She politely greeted all who she came across as she traveled, but one thing dominated her thoughts:
I JUST SNOGGED KILLIAN JONES.
The rest of the day suddenly didn't seem so bad. Princess lessons flew by, the last parade (through a different part of the fairgrounds) was bearable, and the sun even came out just before the jousting matches.
During her mid-afternoon break at the mermaid lagoon with her best friends Ruby, Elsa, and Ariel, they grilled her about the rumors that had quickly flown through the staff. She coyly neither confirmed nor denied it, which sent Ruby diving into the pool in a maelstrom of red fins and hysteria.
Even better, Neal was knocked out in the first round of the four-person tournament. He was easily the best jouster there, which was annoying when she had to bestow her "favor" on the winner each day. That usually meant a kiss of some kind, so she'd taken to keeping ribbons on hand for him. But she was more than happy to kiss today's champion (and Killian's best friend) Robin chastely on the cheek.
She was just starting to fantasize about it being Killian instead—even though it would likely never happen—when she saw Neal sulking out of the paddock as he led his horse to the stables. She felt a bit cocky seeing him beat down...until she saw who was waiting in his horse's stall: Tamara.
Oh. Right. THAT. She watched as he warmly greeted his new girl with a kiss that made Emma both angry and heartsick at their sweetness. Just like that, her own personal raincloud was back, even if the weather was still clear.
Morosely, she undressed in the locker room, never happier to put her leggings and red leather jacket back on. She probably lost more than a few bobby pins from her princess updo as she angrily threw them in her locker, but oh well—they're cheap. She was looking forward to just heading home and relaxing with some hot chocolate with cinnamon, worn out from the day's emotional whiplash, as she stumbled out to the parking lot.
"You alright there, love?" She was nearly to her car when, of course, Killian's voice stopped her. She closed her eyes and threw her head back in silent exasperation; ugh, I don't want to deal with this now.
"I take it your silence speaks for you again." She opened her eyes and turned in the direction of his voice. He looked just as sinful out of costume as in, with his black leather jacket and skinny jeans. He hadn't bothered to take off the hook yet, or his eyeliner, which only highlighted the concern in his eyes even in the dim parking lot lights.
"You really never take that off, do you?" she deflected, gesturing to the hook.
"Completes the look, wouldn't you say?" His smile cheered her a bit, until she remembered it was something along the lines of forbidden fruit, even if that was a self-imposed rule. "What's vexing you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she threw back, a bit harsher than was probably necessary.
"Perhaps I would." To her surprise, he was being sincere. Suddenly, he turned bashful and glanced down, scratching behind his adorably pointed ears (that almost passed for the fake ones the "fae" there wore). "If it's about what happened earlier, I apologize—"
"No, it's not that," she interrupted. Even if it was, she didn't want to make him think it was his fault. "It's...complicated."
He sighed. "It always is. But you can't let it stop you from going after what you want." She studied him hard at that. Just what was he trying to say? And more, why did she get the feeling that he was talking to her just as much as himself? Damn his ability to read her. "What do you want, Emma?" he finished.
Her instincts wanted her to scream You, you bastard pirate. But it was more than that, and it was the fear that even he couldn't fulfill her desire that held her back. "I want someone who won't break my heart. I want someone who will put me first; who'll fight for me."
"Fight?" His eyebrow quirked in question.
She smiled to herself, thinking of the story she'd grown up with. "You know my dad wasn't always the King, or even the Prince here?" He was silent, so she continued. "He was actually a merchant. He and my grandma sold sheepskin and wool. But every day, he saw the princess in her carriage and fell just a little bit more in love. So, to get her attention, he practiced and entered the swordfight one weekend, and won. He dedicated it to her, and I guess the rest is history."
"I thought you had men fighting for your hand every day."
She scoffed. "That doesn't count. It didn't even count when I was with Neal." While that was how they'd met, and where their initial attraction started, they kept it low-key when they were together and now it was just plain awkward.
She realized Killian had gone uncharacteristically silent; he was staring off in space, lost in thought. He didn't even look up when he finally spoke. "Allow me to propose another barter, then: if I prove that I'll fight for you, will you go on a date with me?"
Emma was stunned (and pretty sure her jaw dropped). Wasn't that what you were just wishing for? But part of her still didn't believe it. "If you can prove yourself, then yes, I'll go on a date with you."
A second later, he was directly in front of her, her hand in his for the umpteenth time. Her eyes met his intense blue gaze, which never left hers as he kissed her knuckles. The familiar tingles that coursed through here were amplified in the evening stillness.
He slowly brought her hand down, and, still staring, assured her, "I don't intend to let you down."
She was frozen in place as he turned on his heel to head to his car, and she dazedly got into her Beetle. A good part of her was still figuring out what just happened, but the other part was really, really hoping he'd prove her fears wrong and his words right.
Things mostly went back to normal after the day of their adventure. There was some lingering buzz around the fair of the kidnapping and subsequent barter for freedom, but it died down after a couple days.
Her friends poked and prodded in an attempt to get her to make a move, but she brushed them off. She hadn't mentioned anything about her and Killian's conversation that night, and she was trying not to get her hopes up.
But Killian...he did seem to be taking their agreement to heart. While he backed down on the brashness of his flirtations (to her father's relief), they seemed to pick up in sincerity. More often than not over the next week or so, there was a wildflower waiting for her. Praises of her beauty went from gentle comparisons to grand overtures, likening her to angels on high.
However, he did boldly declare each day, "I shall win your heart, Your Highness, and it shan't be through any falsehood; it will be solely because you desire me." Each time, she managed to keep her features calm, but her heart raced in excitation.
The odd thing, though, was she actually saw less of him in the following days. Their parking lot encounter hadn't been the first there: they usually left at the same time, her to the apartment over her parents' garage and he to the flat he shared with his brother. They only ever exchanged a few words, perhaps a nod and a wink, but lately, he was nowhere to be seen—yet his old black Mustang was still parked when she left.
She didn't think he was avoiding her, given their interactions during the day, but her insecurities flared nonetheless.
At that weekend's staff party, she nonchalantly kept an eye out for him, wondering if he might make a move on her challenge. He did show up, eventually, looking out of breath, a bit dirty, and clothes askew as if they'd been hastily thrown on. (The eyeliner and hook were as in-place as ever.) By that point, though, she was a few wine coolers in and hardly had the chance to slur "hey" before being dragged back to the new karaoke machine—likely inspired by her shenanigans at the last party—by Ruby.
When she wasn't focused on the (blurry) screen reading the lyrics of "Holding Out For A Hero," she noticed him watching her from the small crowd around the makeshift stage. He was either smiling or laughing and she wasn't sure which she preferred; she still hadn't decided by the time the next song ("No Scrubs") came up and he'd disappeared; she wasn't sober enough to notice if his car was still around when Elsa drove her home.
Which, of course, led to quite a hangover the next day; she'd never been more grateful for the greasy food at Ruby's grandma's on-site diner (it didn't necessarily fit the theme, but no one seemed to mind). Her headache had gone by the time the midday parade rolled around, and her stomach was mostly settled—just in time for what had easily become her favorite part of the day, regardless of her self-imposed worries.
Except...Killian wasn't at the pirate cove today. And no one seemed to even acknowledge his absence. The procession continued without its usual pause, and Emma did her best to hide her disappointment and carry on.
Before heading up to the thrones at the jousting pen, she wondered if maybe he was that hungover? No, he could handle his rum. So where the hell is he?
She and her parents took their seats, and Leroy, the grumpy herald, announced what was to happen: a four-person tournament, two rounds, with the winner of each being the first to either destroy three of their opponent's lances or de-horse the other.
Leroy called out the jousters as only he could (how a man so short got lungs so big was anyone's guess).
"First, on the right, in green: Sir Graham of Humbert!" The crowd cheered politely as he rode his horse into the paddock, his green cape streaming behind him as he sat tall in his armor. Emma had always liked Graham—not like-liked, but he was cool.
"Next, on the left, in blue: Sir Robin of Locksley!" More cheers met Robin, including the high-pitched shouts of his son, who could easily pass for a hobbit.
"Back on the right, in gold, our reigning champion: Sir Neal of Cassidy!" Emma politely clapped while the crowd responded with a mix of cheers and boos; in addition to being something of a jerk, he had his moments where he played dirty. Emma was really hoping the champion would be someone else today.
"And a newcomer, on the left, wearing red and in his first tournament ever, Sir Killian of Telmar!"
No; it can't be! The gentleman in the red cape rode out calmly and gracefully, shield held high and grinning at the audience. The armor looked a little large, and he sat a bit odd in the saddle; if that wasn't enough of an answer for her, the hook that held the reins and the copious amount of eyeliner were.
Killian was in the joust—fighting for her.
She was nearly rendered speechless by his act, until a sharp jab from her mother's elbow reminded her when to speak. She stood and delivered her well-rehearsed line on autopilot: "Whosoever of these fine knights wins the tilt shall also receive my favor." Normally, she addressed the audience, but she made no efforts to hide the fact that it was truly aimed at Killian, going so far as to lock eyes with him momentarily.
Regardless of the outcome of the joust, she was pretty confident in knowing who'd won her favor already.
The first match began: Killian versus Graham. Killian rode well enough, even if he didn't look completely comfortable. Will, who usually wore the scarlet cloak but was serving as squire today, handed him his helmet, which Killian deftly donned while not letting go of the reins (why he insisted on his hook even now was beyond her), then Will gave him his lance and helped settle it in place on his right side. Usually, a squire didn't do so much, but she figured Will was helping since Killian was new (and had likely paid him off).
Killian maneuvered his horse to the end of the pitch, lance held upright to match Graham's. Then, like Emma had seen a thousand times before, they lowered their weapons, Leroy waved the flag, and they were off.
She held her breath as they sped toward each other and nearly had a heart attack when they met in an explosion of splintering wood. Both lances were destroyed on impact, but the riders seemed no worse for the wear.
Was this why Killian had been scarce lately? Had he been practicing? The quick way he got back down the pen and had another lance in hand indicated so, and in only a moment, they were off again.
This time, he seemed to lean into it harder, and where she was expecting that same collision of lances was instead a dismount—Killian had knocked Graham off his horse in a glorious splay of limbs. The crowd erupted and she nearly did herself, calling on all her restraint to politely clap (and, thankfully, Graham was fine). As he returned to his end of the tilt yard, Killian raised his lance in celebration, but she could tell he was still focused.
The next match was between Neal and Robin. Both were the most experienced jousters at the fair, and their matches usually went until the very last tilt. But today, Neal had an annoyed air around him and went full out in the first run, swiftly dehorsing Robin. (This time, she didn't try to hide her pleased reaction to the crowd's boos.)
So the final would be Killian versus Neal. When did my life become A Knight's Tale? she wondered, but figured it had probably always been that way in some regard. Normally, there was a break between rounds, but both men ignored it in favor of grabbing their lances and readying for the next one.
Neither hesitated on starting the final round. They took off at breakneck speed toward each other, lances leveled, and when they met, both sticks broke apart.
The next tilt saw the same result, with both men aggressively leaning forward harder.
The last tilt would likely decide it. For the first time in ages, Emma was on the edge of her seat at the joust. A light rain had began to fall, but she hardly noticed, nor did the competitors. The crowd was chanting support for both of them, and Emma was wringing her handkerchief (one that Killian had returned to her just last week).
Only pausing a moment to get their new lances, Killian and Neal again took off toward each other. Time seemed to slow as the horses drew nearer and lances lowered; Killian leaned forward just enough that he was almost parallel with the lance, and she feared he might throw himself off balance.
His lance was aimed right at Neal's chest, but Neal's was aimed at his shoulder, and it was the gold lance that made first contact. It squarely struck Killian's left shoulder, sending him flying off his steed and into the increasingly muddy field.
Emma could hardly hear the crowd reaction, too petrified by the fall Killian had just taken; jousters usually got back up pretty quickly, but he wasn't—he was just laying there.
Forgetting composure and her role, she left the royal box and ran down into the pitch, disrgarding the mud that was probably sullying her crimson skirts. Robin and Will were already at his side when she got there and had removed his helmet, but his eyes were shut and brows furrowed.
"Killian! Killian, are you alright?" She was too worried right now to be in character.
His right hand was gripping his left side, and he cracked an eye open. "Hey, beautiful," he wheezed, attempting to smirk.
Robin gently pressed on his side; even with the armor, Killian winced. "I think you broke a few ribs, mate."
"That must be why it hurts when I laugh."
He moved his left arm to brush now-wet hair out of his eyes, but she beat him to the punch, smoothing back the dark wisps. His left arm settled against his chest, and she noticed that, for the first time, he didn't have his hook on anymore.
Actually, he didn't have anything there, until Will brought the hook and brace to him from where it had been dangling in the reins. "So that's why you never take it off," she asked quietly; he nodded slightly in return. She felt like a total ass, but was both touched and impressed that he hadn't let that slight disadvantage deter him, in this or anything. It was lack of experience that lost him the tilt.
A voice cleared behind her. Speaking of total asses. She turned to see Neal standing there awkwardly. "Uh, Ems?"
She groaned, and made no effort to disguise what she thought of his presence. Oh right: he won. She stood, so she could at least be somewhat polite, and offered, "Congratulations, Sir Neal, on your victory. But I regret to inform you that another has won my favor. Good day," she finished, curtseying, and then turning back to Killian before she could see Neal's reaction.
Kneeling at his side again, she asked quietly so only he could hear, "Did you really learn how to joust for me?"
His blue eyes—all the more intense with the rain coming down—bored into hers. "Aye."
As careful as she could, avoiding his injuries, she lowered her lips to his, kissing him far more chastely than she'd like to but hoping he'd catch the meaning anyway. She lingered when his hand found its way to her neck, only breaking off for air—and because the crowd was whooping again.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring back at her with a soft smile. He slipped into character as he asked, loud so all could hear, "Does that mean, Your Highness, that you'll allow me to court you?"
"Aye, Captain. But only if the kind sir promises to not put his life in danger to prove his worth again; he has more than proved himself." Because seriously—any man who was willing to put himself through that for her was definitely someone who would put her first.
"As you wish, milady."
Even though it was hot, even though it was humid, even though it was raining, and her corset was digging into her, and she was knee-deep in mud, she kissed him again, and was pretty sure that was something she never be done with.