Killian Jones was beyond exhausted with this New York City, and so his temperament with her citizens had fallen short of favorable.
He was used to bustling ports and lewd taverns, so certainly the rush of the city was of no concern. In fact, he gave as good as he got, cutting through crowds with thrown elbows and steadfast shoulders and paid no mind to heels backing over his toes. He had gathered from his time back in Storybrooke that the seventeenth hour was the release of the working class, knew that he had chosen possibly the worst moment to continue his quest. But he also assumed that it increased his chances.
So far he had been proven wrong and that hope was quickly dwindling.
No, it was not the misconduct and insistence of bad form by nearly every person he had stalked by that really set his teeth on edge (though, honestly, an excuse me would suffice; truly not a hard concept, manners), but it was the traffic and the looming buildings with glowing posters that shimmered and shifted to create new images and the honking. It was the vendors on the sides of the road trying to sell him something offensive-looking wrapped in bread—something disgustingly titled a hot dog (which apparently contained not a bit of pup but consisted of the grizzly bits of swine (bits that he never would've considered edible, never mind a delicacy), the clerk rushed to assure him on pain of death). It was the images of hardly dressed women and grainy photos of people brawling and headlines such as LONE WOLF KILLED HIS WIFE AND UNBORNCHILD with promises of a worthwhile story all crowded into one place.
Buildings slithered up into the grey of the sky, like black thorns pushing out of the earth. Windows stacked upon windows, lit from within by electricity and kept cool by way of central air and AC units. Not a speck of sunlight and yet Killian could hardly resist stripping himself of his leather duster from the heat brought by the press of anxious bodies that all paused to cast wary, amused eyes upon him.
He had been in New York for just under a week now and he was beginning to truly feel it. That yearning for open waters, open sky. Nothing but the sounds of men tending to beloved wood beams, swabbing and swearing. He ached to ride the winds. He despaired for the control of being an officer. But...
But what's one week of suffering in the name of Emma Swan?
What is such a small sacrifice in the face of—he wouldn't lie to himself, all he had was a small thread of possibility, but he had tangled his fingers so tightly in the line of her smile that it mattered not.
Even if he never found her…
He had to try.
Killian held up the address Regina had given him and compared it to the street sign. Finally. It wasn't much but at least he need not scour the city for a damn street.
He had stopped to ask directions only once but when the boy, barely a man, had threatened to alert the law (he hadn't even motioned with his hook, let alone made any threatens, seven hells) he figured he would fare better on his own. (He was probably wrong, should've just attached his wooden hand and asked for some bloody directions, but every day he had awoken with one thought—it'll be today—and so it never seemed necessary).
(And in such an unfamiliar place, surrounded by such unfamiliar faces, with only the hollow burn left by his Swan… he couldn't bear to part with any piece of himself)
(It'll be today)
He pushed himself along the sidewalk and alternated his attention between the brick houses and the crinkled slip of paper. The pirate cut through the evening crowd. Watched the numbers tip up, two at a time. Bloody well said excuse me when he knocked a lady. Looked at her address and then…
Seven hells.
If True Love's Kiss didn't work, Hook would have a hell of a lot of damage control to perform or Emma would certainly never take the potion. And if a kiss didn't save his Swan then there would be no option for the boy. If the kiss didn't work…
He had to believe in them. He had to believe that he loved her enough to make up for her doubts.
She… she had been encouraging his affections, hadn't she? He didn't imagine her pointed look, the touch of bittersweet affection, when…
She had said—it was not the first time that perfect word had crossed her lips. And if she meant what he thought she did, well then she had to love him, even a little bit, in some way.
In the year without her, he had tried not to dwell too much on what had transpired between them. He had to direct his full and prompt attention to finding the Jolly Roger if he was to even begin to hope he'd find her. And to maintain his standing as the most dastardly pirate to ever sail, he had to devote himself to reverting every effort he'd made to be a better man. There was scarcely a moment he could spare to remember her breathless in his arms, his hand pressing her's down into a swirl of silk sheets, good slipping into the air between their lips…
Killian knocked soundly, her address crumpled in his fist.
Gods above, this was his last hope. How could he ever find her, if not in this moment? How would he even begin to pick up the pieces and carry on?
And then the door swung open and there she stood, sharp green eyes turned suspiciously on him, and while that hurt some part of him…
"Swan," he breathed. "At last."
His eyes moved to trail her body because bloody hell he hadn't seen her in a year and he just couldn't help himself from drinking in every bit of her and—and—
And there, squirming in her arms, sat a babe with eyes like the sea and hair as dark as a raven. The girl suckled her socked foot and stared openly up at him.
Emma's brows furrowed. "Can I help you?"
Seven hells.
Honestly, it's been ages since I've written anything at all ever and I've never written Captain Swan at all ever, so put those together and here's what you get: a cliché. But whatever.
And really, FF is a test-run kinda place. Tell me where my writing is clunky. Tell me what I should draw out. Seriously, I want constructive criticism (make sure you read and understand that because while I've never gotten a flame before, I don't want to start now).
I adore this pairing so please feel free to send in prompts for similar drabbles.
And I don't own Once and blah, blah, blah.