The remainder of the meal passes in silence, the occasional roar of thunder rumbling over the creaking wood and churning ocean. Emma finishes her stew, surprised to find her stomach settling somewhat with the food, in spite of the choppy water.
She expects the madman pirate, actual name still unknown, to needle her further, but he simply waits until she's finished eating before getting to his feet. Without a glance or word, he gathers the empty bowls himself and heads for the door.
"Should you require anything further for the evening, you will find me with the crew. Good night, my lady." The sudden formality throws her, and in spite of herself, she stops him as his hand hits the door.
"You're just leaving?" It's a sudden shift from earlier, when he refused to be thrown out of his own quarters, as he so smugly told her. She's not exactly complaining, but it's odd.
Life has taught Emma to question odd.
His lips curve into a sensuous smile, his tongue slowly licking his bottom lip in a nearly obscene manner. "Would you prefer I stay?"
"No!" Emma snaps back the response, struggling for control. She really doesn't want him around. She needs time to think, to figure out what the hell she's gotten herself into this time.
And how she's going to get out of it.
"Where am I supposed to sleep?"
Killian stares back in silence for a long moment, devilish comments dancing across the tip of his tongue. Reminding himself to have some manners, he forces his expression into one of the utmost civility. "Why, in the bed would be my suggestion," he says without a hint of a leer.
"But..." She bit her lip, her eyes darting to the rather large bed tucked away in the far corner of the room. Killian follows her gaze, wishing with all his might that he would be slumbering the night away upon that featherbed instead of a crewman's hammock, but he knows he's pushed her to her limits.
She's got fire, this Emma Swan, that scares the evil queen enough to make a bargain with a pirate, but she's also just a girl. A girl he's ripped from her home on her bloody birthday no less. He remembers the sadness in her eyes in her quarters, the way the flame of the tiny candle danced in her eyes, and he doesn't have it in him to tease her any further.
When she doesn't say anything, he allows himself only a quiet laugh. "I've told you, I've got my honor. I have no chamber for you, lass, so by day we shall have to share. The bed is yours. I sleep with the crew for the duration of your stay aboard the Jolly Roger."
Her mouth gapes open at the unexpected words and soft tone, but before she can whisper her thanks or say anything further, the infuriating man is gone.
Emma stares at the closed door for several long seconds before slamming her jaw shut. The unexpected softness in him, in the oddest moments, it doesn't make much sense.
None of this makes any sense.
At least she's finally alone. She turns her attention to the far wall where several small windows look out. The roll of the ship feels real enough, but they can't actually be out to sea.
Outside the glass, black waves roil, white foam spitting up into the lashing torrents of rain. Water surrounds her, the rain and sea battling with lightning for a spectator. A shiver of fear runs through her at the sight – the storm only seems to be getting worse.
It's real, all right.
The contents of the cabin are no help in solving the riddle. She finds nothing out of character; maps, charts and weapons abound. More personal touches are scattered throughout, but a fair number of items are beyond her recognition. Even the trunks fall victim to her search, though they contain nothing more interesting than men's clothing and an impressive quantity of rum. It's all arranged with surprising neatness, and the fabrics are soft under her inquisitive fingertips.
It doesn't escape her notice that the shirt against her own skin matches the ones folded so neatly, or that the same faint smell of salt and liquor cling to the garments she wears.
In frustration, she slams the trunk shut, leaning back against the wall to keep her balance. It's as if she's grabbed hold of a stray piece of yarn, and with each tug, more and more of the sweater unravels. Instead of finding answers upon the threads, Emma begins to wonder if she's losing her mind.
Helplessness and frustration threatening to overwhelm her, she finally gives in to the press of fatigue. The bed, in spite of being his, looks far too tempting to resist. It has been a long day, and the emotions of it all weigh on her. If there has ever been a time she wants to simply let the urge to cry consume her, this is it.
But Emma prides herself on being made of sterner stuff. She is not a woman given to hysterics, and she's been through worse.
Besides, for all she knows, this is a bad dream. She'll go to sleep in this ridiculous bed, and she'll wake up in her own, hungover and twenty-eight and alone.
The bed is soft and warm, and the rocking of the ship becomes a comfort instead of a menace, lulling her into a restless sleep. But her dreams are dark, twisted things that wake her with a start mere hours later.
It's with great dismay she realizes she's still trapped in this nightmare.
The lamps have burned out, leaving the room faintly lit by weak moonlight filtering through the window. Moonlight! Emma breathes a shaky sigh of relief that the storm seems to have passed. The seas are calmer, the ship's movements less violent as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.
She pauses, listening for sounds of movement. The dreams left her heart pounding and her mind frantic. The cabin feels suffocating, and she doesn't care anymore, doesn't care about what strange world she's stumbled into or Hook's threats, whoever he really is.
She has to get out of this room.
The sky is pitch-black overhead, clouds still hanging low. None of the crew seem to be about, a quietness settling over the night. Emma is grateful for the solitude as she finally finds her way to the top, her lungs greedily sucking in the fresh air.
She's much less pleased to see nothing but water in every direction.
Taking advantage of the solitude on deck, she goes to the rail. It's no help – there's only a horizon that's endlessly filled with black ocean.
"You shouldn't be out here."
Emma nearly jumps out of her skin at the unexpected sound of his voice. She didn't see him in the darkness, blending in as he is with his dark hair and long coat.
Killian is behind her, lounging against the ship's wheel. He's been watching since she came above decks, the tentative way she came on deck and her purposeful stride to the rail.
"I couldn't sleep."
Killian is surprised at her answer, an honest one lacking sarcasm. He's already grown used to their barbed exchanges, but he finds the melancholy in her voice too strong to ignore. It makes him think of her eyes and that tiny candle, and that's not going to help him bag a crocodile. "You should get back into bed, lass. Sleep will come. Long days ahead."
"My name is Emma. Not lass. Not love. Not my lady. Emma."
"Aye, so it is."
"But you already knew that."
"Indeed I did."
"Why?"
"Oh, let's not start that again," he replies wryly, coming to stand beside her at the rail. Together, they watch the waves in silence, Killian unwilling to needle her any further, and Emma not knowing what to say next.
In the end, he's the first to speak. "Killian Jones," he says quietly, eyes still on the ocean. "It's the name my mother gave me, though I've been called many a thing in my days."
"I'm sure you deserved many names in your days."
"Aye, I suppose I have." The silence grows between them again, but it isn't the stiff silence in which their meal was consumed. Killian sways with the motion of the ship beside her, and Emma finds there's something oddly peaceful about the quiet night and quieter man beside her. She has no business feeling the way she does, captive aboard a ship bound for unknown waters with a madman at the helm, but her breath comes a fraction easier with Killian beside her.
The wind picks up again, tossing her snarled hair over her shoulder and sending a shiver through her. Killian is standing so close they're nearly touching and notices immediately. "You'll catch cold out here, barefoot and all. Best be getting back inside."
"What about you?"
"Ah, this is where I belong. The Jolly Roger is my home, the sea my mistress."
"You sound sad."
"A man would be a fool to not be sad he's to be robbed of your fine company."
Emma keeps quiet, choosing instead to scan his face. The words never quite seem to match up with his eyes, their murky blue depths reflecting the melancholy she knows lives in his words.
"This isn't a joke, is it?"
"Afraid not, love."
"It's not a nightmare?"
"Wrong again."
"Where are you taking me?"
"Our destination and my motivations will remain my own this night. I will have to ask your forgiveness for that, and much more by the end." The words send a shiver down her spine that has nothing to do with the wind.
"Who sent you to take me?"
"As I said, love, some things will remain my own this night."
She leaves him standing at the rail, deep in thought and silent, a sentry to the night. She'll have to get answers another time, another night, because despite her efforts, it seems that she is very much aboard a vessel with a man who fancies himself Captain Hook. If it wasn't so ridiculous, she would probably have room to be a lot more afraid than she is.
It doesn't help that when she closes her eyes, all she sees is the steely gaze of a man who has known deep sorrow.
When morning comes with sunlight filtering in through the windows in the captain's quarters, Emma isn't sure if she's slept or not.
The sound of voices outside is a small comfort. The ship can't be entirely filled with madman – can it? She needs to find a way to gain access to the crew, find a way off the damn ship.
Step one is getting out of bed. Emma starts to slide out from between the covers when the door bangs open. She sits back down on the edge of the bed, tense and watchful for the morning's mystery.
"So the princess won't be sleeping away the day after all," Mr. Smee comments as he marches in with a tray.
"You could have knocked!" she snaps, getting to her feet, still watching him. The man seems fairly harmless, and he's definitely afraid of Hook, Killian, whatever his name is. "And I have a name. Emma."
"If Smee knocks, Smee can't hold this here tray, and if Smee can't hold the tray, he can't knock. Will you be more interested in the knocking or the eating?" He makes no mention at all of the princess comment.
"I'd be most interested in getting off this floating prison."
"Smee wants a barrel of rum for himself." He grins, a mouthful of rotting teeth on display. She doubts the man needs another drop of rum for the rest of his life, but she stays silent. This one will obviously be of no help to her.
"Cap'n says eat," he tells her before leaving. On the table, steam rises from the food invitingly. More interesting, though she hadn't seen him carrying them, a pair of fine leather boots has also appeared by the table, neatly propped up beside the chair she occupied the night before.
The porridge Smee brought is little better than diner oatmeal, but it's hot, and Emma is hungry, in spite of her ordeals. The roll of the ship bothers her less now, in spite of her still shaky balance.
Once she's eaten, she heads for the door, the supple leather boots on her feet. She isn't sure how, but they fit perfectly. It's tempting to leave them, to ignore this strange gift on principle, but she doesn't need feet full of splinters to impede her escape when the opportunity presents itself.
Outside her door, she finds a group of men standing about, all doing a very poor effort of appearing to look busy with one task or another. "You're quite the sensation," Killian drawls out, the sound of his voice enough to send the men scattering instantly. He's leaning against the wall in an overly casual pose, a length of rope looped over his shoulder.
"Is that so? I would imagine your crew would be used to seeing victims of your kidnapping endeavors, since you're the famous Captain Hook and all."
He takes several steps toward her. "Playing with fire onboard a ship is dangerous. If too much burns, your only salvation is drowning. You don't want to drown, do you, Swan?"
The smile fades. He does, indeed, hold all the power. Forgetting it would be dangerous. For now. "No more than you do."
"I'm hardly afraid of getting a little wet." He licks his lip as he does it, the tone of his voice bordering on obscene as his eyes roam over her body. "Are you?"
She doesn't bother answering him, rolling her eyes and pushing past him to the stairs leading above. It's irritating to know she only gets by because he lets her, but the fact that he's let her is a small enough accomplishment for the day.
How excited is everyone for 4b? It's rare that I even slightly miss paying for cable but I sort of wish I had it tonight! All the CS spoilers have made me a happy shipper. Here's to coffee ;)