A/N: I love me some Captain Swan ANGST. I also love long pauses and then FEELINGS. This is my first fanfic ever of all time. So that's something. Be kind!
Hook was in jail again. This is where he stayed whenever Mr. Gold attended a town function. Emma would always stay at the office with him, sitting at her desk and pretending to finish important paperwork. He knew she was pretending. He watched closely as she stared holes through the documents with a faraway look in her eyes, and none of the usual back and forth action that facilitates reading. After a while she'd snap back to reality and shuffle the papers around. Sometimes she'd sign one to make it seem very official. Sometimes she'd drop the pretense and just read a book.
When Hook first arrived in Storybrooke, he had vowed to the Charming family that he would keep his revenge focused and clean and restricted to Rumplestiltskin, the man they now called Gold. But after what he did to Belle, Snow and Charming had refused to take him at his word. So much the better. Whenever Gold was going to make a noteworthy public appearance, they'd send their beautiful, able-bodied daughter out to find him. He still had an invisible ship, so he kept an eye on the Storybrooke social calendar, making it a point to be rabble-rousing around town whenever he thought she might be out looking for him.
In a matter of weeks Hook had learned the majority of Emma's moves and could read most of her moods at a glance. He amused himself by obsessively finding new, more clever ways to push her buttons. Occasionally if he heard she was on the hunt, he'd go out and get very drunk. Then he'd sing sea shanties to her, merrily, as she shuttled him to jail in the back of her very official police cruiser. He hadn't done that lately, though, due to a nagging feeling that he was somehow revealing too much of himself as he babbled incoherently to sleep on the narrow jailhouse cot.
Emma had most recently picked Hook up at the laundromat, where she found him sitting atop a washing machine, serenely. He hopped off to politely offer her his seat, pointing out that it was nearing the final rinse, which everyone agreed was the best part. Emma barely lifted her frown into a straight line, gesturing for him to follow her with only a nod of the head. He followed dutifully.
Once safely enclosed in his cell, Hook noted how weary Emma seemed. He caught himself just before making a titillating remark, and decided it would be best to drop his usual act and try something new.
"What's the matter, love? You look tired." Hook leaned his forearms on the horizontal bar that encircled his cage, with a look of honest concern.
"I am tired." Emma sighed, not looking up from the book she had open on her desk.
"I could see that. That's why I didn't run today. Wanted to give you a bit of a break."
Emma grimaced, wrinkling her nose at him, then looked back down at the book on her desk. He tried to engage her, again.
"Tell me what's making you so tired. New boyfriend?" His voice was low, but still hinted with the usual sarcasm.
An indignant little burst of air shot out of Emma's nose before she could compose herself. Too late, her cards were shown.
"Yes that's it, exactly," she sighed sarcastically. "I'm tired because I've been off having amazing sex every night with my new boyfriend." She smiled wistfully. If only.
"Aw. I know how you feel, love. I have also had a bit of a dry spell as of late." He tapped his hook lazily against one of the bars of his cell, to the haphazard rhythm of sexual frustration.
This made Emma snort. Hook had been the talk of the town ever since he had arrived. It seemed that every woman between 18 and 80 made a point of mentioning to Emma how ruggedly beautiful the pirate was. They seized the slightest lull in conversation as an opportunity to bring him up- his sea-grey eyes, his leather pants, his handsome chin, always accompanied by a mysterious scruff that never seemed to grow, or be shaved clean. She didn't want to imagine how wanton and sex-crazed a pirate must be to refer to the warm welcome shown by the women of Storybrooke as a "dry spell."
"You don't believe me." Hook was stating a fact after hearing her unceremonious grunt.
"I can't imagine you've had any problems finding a woman."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment. You are correct. I have had no problems finding a woman. She went so far as to find me, in fact. But bedding her - well that's been problematic."
Emma felt Hook's eyes boring into her, and her cheeks became hot. He hadn't gotten her to blush like this in a long time. As Hook's arrests progressed, she had learned to masterfully ignore his constant stream of innuendo, and was a bit calloused towards it now. But he'd tricked her tonight with a new form of subtlety, leaving the weight of illicit suggestion in his unflinching gaze. She lifted her head and braved eye contact. His face was eerily somber, as if he were looking through her.
"So what's the big deal? There are other fish in the sea."
"I suppose there are. But I can't have all those other fish swimming about, running their mouths about my remarkable night-time prowess in front of my swan, can I? I'm fairly certain it would decimate my chances. And they would have plenty to talk about, believe me."
My swan. Emma's stomach flipped, and her cheeks grew hotter. She was running on fumes, which was known to affect her judgement, especially when it came to men. She looked at her watch. It was 10:30 PM. The party at Granny's was likely over, and Gold was likely back in his home or shop or wherever he went to conjure the time away now that Belle had forgotten him. She frowned a little at the thought of Belle, fragile and confused after the incident. Her psychological recovery had been slow, and she was only now beginning to work with Archie on integrating back into the mad, half-magic culture of Storybrooke. Emma closed her book with a snap and picked up her bag and scarf. Hook watched curiously. She didn't usually leave him so abruptly. Most nights he would drift to sleep under her watchful eye. It was something he'd begun to look forward to.
"Going to interview the fishies, love? They'll have nothing to say. What have I told you about trust? It would save us some valuable time if you'd listen."
Emma walked up to the door of his cell, wearing her coat and ready to leave. She didn't stop advancing until she was close to the bars, nearly brushing against them with her chest. A split-second later Hook was hit with her intoxicating aroma- a mixture of shampoo, leather jacket and apple pie.
"What exactly am I supposed to be trusting?" She was alert now, shaken out of the fog that lack-of-sleep had brought on, earlier. Her directness was unsettling to Hook. He was not prepared to spell out his admittedly thin metaphor, and he could hardly remember to breath as her scent made his mouth begin to water. But her eyes were sharp and expecting and they quickly pulled words out of his gut that he didn't recognize as his own.
"You need to trust that you're the only one I want, and the only thing I'm after."
Emma gritted her teeth, flexing her jaw. She breathed in sharply, inhaling his words and letting them melt her insides. If he could torment her with his grin, leave goose bumps in the wake of every accidental brush against her skin - if he could muddle her thoughts by just whispering her name, then she could at least have these words. She blinked, storing the moment away in the back of her mind. She was calm again, but she couldn't just leave him there to smugly think he'd made her flustered.
"Well it's too bad I can't push you across the town line and erase all of your memories. Then everyone's problems would be solved."
With that she turned on her heel and walked to the door. She didn't realize Hook was still reeling from the confession that her physical nearness had seemingly sucked out of him. He finished processing her snide retort just as she reached the door.
"Except yours, love." She heard him call after her quietly, just before the door clicked shut behind her. She was safe, for now, her cheeks enjoying the soothing chill of the cool night air.