"Get some rest, Swan."
Emma just stubbornly glared into the woods, Arms folded and resting atop her knees, her back to the low-burning campfire Hook had been hesitant to build (ultimately, the need for warmth had one out, particularly given that he'd noticed Emma shivering in her still-soaked clothes). So he sighed and pulled up a piece of dirt to her left. Emma tried to resist an impulse to shift away—a defensive instinct. Don't let people get too close. Closeness is dangerous. What was she doing, cozying up to Captain Hook of all people?
"Swan." He paused when she didn't respond. "Emma."
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and he knew she was listening.
"You've had a long day, Emma. I'll keep the watch for a few hours. You should sleep."
"I don't want to sleep."
"I don't doubt it, love. But that doesn't mean you need it any less."
"Hook. Just…." What did she want to say? Leave her alone? She wanted to be left alone, for certain, but at the same time she didn't want him to go.
Killian looked at her. He'd known he was fond of this woman for a while now. He'd had plenty of time to stew over her betrayal that day on the beanstalk, but the fact remained that he kept coming back to her. At the end of the day, he just kept coming back to her. And today, nearly losing her when jumped overboard on his ship. It had sent of jolt of realization through him. How was he supposed to tell her he'd physically ceased to breathe for a few terrible moments? How did he explain what it had done to him to see her lay lifeless in the arms of her parents, himself helpless to do anything, thinking for one awful, gut-wrenching, nausea-inducing moment that he'd lost her forever? For a moment he thought he'd never see that exasperated expression on her face when he flirted with her. She'd never surprise him with her ingenuity and strength. She'd never inspire him with her devotion to her family, her son. She'd never look at him like he was…like he was a man, Killian Jones instead of Hook, and like she expected better from him. At the very thought, he shifted where he sat, trying to shake off a feeling of anxiety, like he'd really lost her.
But she was there, that was the important thing. She hadn't drowned. They had brought her back and he still had a chance. A chance for what, Jones? he asked himself. To prove himself, he supposed. He wanted to prove himself to her…and maybe to him as well. He'd like to earn her approval, win her smiles, her praise, even. He wanted to live up to her expectations. He wasn't used to this feeling, this need to win someone over, perhaps hadn't felt it since the day Baelfire turned his back. But it was possible that the fact that her approval wasn't so easily given, well…that was what made it worth the earning.
He reached over and gently toyed with a strand of her hair, twisting it around his finger. He saw her breathing change, but she didn't move away, so he ignored it and continued the action. "How do you think the others are doing?" she asked, and her sudden speech surprised him.
He thought his answer through. In truth? He suspected that the moment their merry little band had split up to cover more ground, Regina and the Charmings had probably been after each other's throats. But Charming had insisted she come with them, undoubtedly to keep an eye on her. And Emma clearly hadn't had the strength to argue. He also supposed, shrewdly, that the Charmings didn't want to leave Hook and Regina alone together, as they were more likely to get up to trouble, having slightly less…scruples than Emma and her parents. "I'm sure they're fine. They're probably sleeping," he hinted heavily, smirking at her.
Emma lifted an eyebrow at him. He wanted to make her smile. He hadn't seen that smile of hers in a while.
"Have I ever told you, Emma, that you're quite beautiful when you're exhausted?"
It worked. She tried to stifle it, but he caught the upturned corner of her mouth before she turned away. "You never give it a rest, do you, Hook?" she asked, knowing that it wasn't true. Except his nonsensical comment about "fancying" her earlier that day, he had practically been behaving himself around her lately.
In reply he just grinned stupidly into the dark forest around them. But anxiety was still tugging at him. Her hair was still damp and her skin was still cool from seawater. "Anything you'd like to share, love?"
She looked at him questioningly. 'Like what?"
"Like why you dove off my ship earlier today. I saw you. You didn't fall overboard, whatever dear old mum and dad may think. You deliberately dove into the sea. Got a death wish, Swan?"
She noticed the reversion to her surname but didn't remark on it. "You four were going to sink that ship. I took a chance that trying to bring me back would stop the arguing. If it didn't…well," she shrugged, "I had a better chance of getting to Henry by swimming at that rate."
Of course. He felt a slight tension in his stomach ease. "Gave everyone quite the scare there, lass."
"Don't worry, I'm not trying to drown myself. Especially not when Henry needs me." She gave a bitter laugh. "In spite of everything, there's only been one time in my life that I really wanted to die."
He studied her carefully. "And what was that, love?"
She closed her eyes and when she spoke again, her voice was strained. "Eleven years ago. When I went into labor with Henry." She took a shuddering breath. "It hurt so much. I remember all I wanted was for it to kill me. For it to be over. He could live as long as I could stop hurting."
He couldn't help it. He reached down and covered her hand with his. To his surprise, she turned her hand over and held his, cracks and callouses and rings and all. He squeezed it gently and lifted it. "Well, Emma Swan, I, for one, am excessively relieved that you lived," he kissed the tops of her fingers, "Eleven years ago and today."
Her eyes opened when she felt his lips touch her hand. It was a tiny gesture, something he probably could do a thousand times over without really thinking about it, but to her it was such an intimate touch. She searched his eyes. Here was the man who never missed an opportunity to flirt, all suggestive comments and bedroom eyes, but there was nothing sexual in this gesture, no seduction. It was genuine. And more than anything else he had said or done, the realization that he was in earnest, that he truly cared whether she lived or died, forced her to recognize that she cared for him, too.
"Emma," he said, lowering their hands, "you're blushing."
Mortified, she broke her gaze and turned away from him.
He smirked, leaning over and lightly turning her face back to meet him with his hook. Emma felt her heart pounding in her chest. He was so close. Her eyes darted to his mouth, watching his lips move. "Now, love, I thought you weren't going to take your eyes off of me," he teased, throwing her own words back at her, and she couldn't help the shaky laugh that bubbled to the surface, in spite of all her anger and distress and anxiety, he could make her blush and smile and laugh. How did he do that? Her forehead creased a little as she looked back at him, though.
"You should know…" she started, but hesitated. What did she want to say? "I think…I'm glad that you're starting to let go of your vendetta against Gold. I think we both know it was always going to end with you—" she swallowed hard "—with you dying. And…and I'm glad you're alive, too. Killian." She added his name at the last second, his real name. Because that was who she was glad was alive: not the fictional villain from a fairy tale story, but the man who was helping her rescue her son.
And a mask slipped. For the one and only time since she had known him, Emma actually saw Hook's bravado fail him, an unreadable expression settling on his face at her words. She saw him open his mouth and close it again, apparently unable to respond. Now he knew how she felt, she almost laughed at the thought.
Instead, she reached out, hesitantly, slowly, and cupped his face in her hand. "Thanks for being glad that I'm alive," she whispered. "Not that long ago, no one would have cared."
That was really too much for him. Without waiting for further invitation he closed the small distance between them and kissed her, softly at first, moving his lips gently against hers before pulling back a fraction. She gasped for breath at the same moment that he released a shaky exhalation, and this time they met in the middle, like they were magnetized. And now the kiss was harsh, almost frantic as he moved closer and her arms wrapped around him to pull him in. His arm slid around her waist, drawing her body into him, and his hand slid behind her neck and buried itself in her hair. She inhaled sharply and he sucked on her bottom lip, tugging at it with his teeth as he laid her back. A faint glow from the fire lit her features and he swallowed tightly as he gazed down at her, searching for a sign of reluctance, regret. Instead he found eyes darkened with desire, gazing at his mouth beneath thick lashes. She tugged him back to her and he slipped his tongue into her mouth this time, long, languid strokes caressing hers as he shifted his wait and straddled her leg.
He wasn't sure what this meant to her. Was it comfort in the midst of all the loss she had experienced? He knew it was probable, if not certain. But he didn't care. He would gladly comfort her to his dying day, more than happily spend every waking moment making her feel wanted and needed and letting her know that someone would always be grateful that she was alive.
Her hands ran down his chest and began making nimble work of his clothes, shoving his jacket off his shoulders until he shook it off and discarded it, then going to work on the buttons of his vest. He bit her lip lightly in admonishment before dragging his lips over to her ear. "What's the rush, lass?" he asked, and she shuddered at the huskiness in his voice.
She dropped her head back, trying to steady her breath. What was the rush? Hell if she knew. "We're both alive, aren't we?" she asked.
Yes. They were both alive. In spite of everything, both of them had lived to share this moment, and he found that he would willingly live another 300 lonely years if he could only make this last a little longer. He brushed his lips along her throat before gently biting her collar bone. She tasted like saltwater. The thought chilled him and he ran his hand up her side, bracing himself on his hook arm so he didn't crush her while he explored her body. Her hips bucked and he closed his eyes, burying his face in her neck. How was it possible that she existed? What had he ever done to deserve this?
Nothing, the word echoed in his mind, sharp and cruel. And it was with that thought that he slowly stripped the remainder of their clothes, pushing her shirt over her head, tearing his own over his head, article by article until they was nothing but skin, soft, beautiful skin that he couldn't stop tasting. He kissed a path down her chest and paused in the valley of her breasts for a long moment until Emma realized that he was actually feeling her heartbeat beneath him. It was too much. She dragged him back up to her and pulling his lips to hers, she bucked her hips up to meet him, encouraging him to enter her.
Do it, she pleaded with him mentally. Please just do it. She dropped her head back and cried out, her eyes shut in a mixture of ecstasy and discomfort when he suddenly thrust into her.
There was something wild in their coming together, impulsive and feverish and desperate, but the tone was something altogether different. Emma couldn't ignore the unexpected tenderness, the softness. It was…almost like making love. She clutched his shoulders and his face buried in her neck again and she frantically pressed against him as he fucked her, groaning when he reached between them to toy with her clit. "Damn you," she moaned and he gave a strained laugh, knowing she'd never meant it less. She felt tears prick at the corner of her eyes as she drew closer and closer to the edge, and with one final flick of his calloused fingers she came, body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. She felt his body shudder as he kept thrusting into her only to come barely a moment after her.
"Emma," he murmured, rolling them over so that she lay on his chest. He peppered kisses along her shoulder and stroked her hair tenderly. "Promise me something."
She looked down at him, giving him that half-hearted smile of hers, the one she'd worn the day he woke up in that blasted hospital bed with her watching over him. The one that meant she cared, but would never in a million years admit to it. Yet. "What?"
"If you're going to die, make sure you let me go first. I don't like the idea of a world—any world—without you in it. It would be incredibly dull."
The smile wavered, and he gave her his best winning grin, trying to make the words sound light and flirtatious because she wasn't ready to know how much he meant it. She kissed him on the cheek. "Sure," she agreed. "You first."
He gave her a very serious, appraising look for one moment. "I swear, Emma, I'm going to help you get your son back."
Her heart stammered at the promise and she tried to shake off the way it made her feel that that was what he chose to tell her in this moment, of all the things he could have said. She forced a light, unnatural laugh. "Even if it kills us?" she asked.
He looked grim. "It won't. We're both going to live to see another adventure. I guarantee it. Now get some sleep, Swan," he instructed, pushing her hair back over her shoulder before dragging his jacket over to them and throwing it over her shoulders to serve as a blanket.
She rolled her eyes. "Aye, aye, Captain," she grumbled, nevertheless cozying into his side slightly. For the first time since nightfall, she suspected she actually might be able to sleep. After all, she needed to rest. She was no good to Henry exhausted and fatigued.