A/N: I have been asked if there will be flashbacks in this fic. Not a whole lot and I doubt I'll do any of the ones the show does as my focus is on the present-time plot. Again, I do not own the show. Thank you to all who have reviewed!
He establishes a pattern, grabbing hold of a creaky vine, finding footing, unleashing a few huffs of exertion. Only the slow movement of the sun gives any clues to how long they've been at this, two or three hours being his estimate. The air doesn't thin out around the beanstalk, a blessing. Really, up in the clear sky, blood rushing through his shoulders and legs, it truly is like climbing the rigging of the ship. There may not be as much salt in the air or the varying textures of the waves below them...anything from a thick, rolling blue blanket to a polished-tin surface meant to reflect the sunlight...but it's energizing rather than draining.
He checks back on Emma, a couple of steps behind him, lips tight in and tucked into her mouth, brow furrowed in concentration. Stopping, he stretches one leg out, then the other, waiting for her, thankful he hasn't cramped up. A quick glance up gives him an idea they're only a little over halfway. Could be a full day's journey, he thinks, laughing off such a distasteful notion, imagining his arms falling off after such a feat, one last thwack of his hook into the vines before the entire arm plummets to the ground.
It might be a good time to propose a rest, but he hates to break whatever she's doing at the moment. Her arms locked out, she stares down towards the base with a smile made of adrenaline, not enough to call giddy, but that is delight he sees. In the Land Without Magic, maybe there is no way to do something like this since she looks like she can't believe it herself. He wishes he could read every thought just now, maybe find one considering waving down to the others just to see if her mother could see far enough to wave back.
It crosses his mind after about another half hour that she could be purposely staying behind him, feeling safer that way, since apparently throwing her down to her death is advantageous to him, in her mind. He hasn't heard anything out of her apart from a few shallow breaths here and there and some humming, songs he doesn't know. Standing straight out again so he can stretch his legs, he waits.
"First beanstalk?" he asks. She squints up, startled at the break of the quiet. "Well, you never forget your first." Nothing. "You know, most men would take your silence as off-putting, but I love a challenge."
"I'm concentrating," she says, inhaling and catching up to him so they're side by side. Ironic someone who can detect lies is such a terrible liar herself.
"No, you're afraid. Afraid to talk, to reveal yourself. Trust me. Things'll be a lot smoother if you do." He can't imagine how quickly the time would have gone by had they chatted this entire time. Not about anything significant or life-altering, but some conversation would have been nice.
"You should be used to people not trusting you."
"Ah, the pirate thing." Shots fired! And right across his bow, too. Best return fire. "Well, I don't need you to share. You're something of an open book."
"Am I?" she tests him, stopping, fuming, offended.
"Quite," he says. "Let's see...you volunteered to come up here because you were the most motivated. You need to get back to a child."
"That's not perception. That's eavesdropping."
"Ah, but you don't want to abandon him the way you were abandoned." It's out of his mouth before he can digest it. It all makes sense, the fearless and yet fearful way she takes everything in, the loving but still-unnatural way she is with her mother... It hits her, shuts her down for a brief second.
She whispers, a nigh-inaudible, incoherent phrase in hopes of making him second-guess himself. Unfortunately for her, that just reaffirms it.
"Like I said, open book."
"How would you know that?" The anger transfers from him to herself, for displaying some sort of tell like in cards.
"I spent many years in Neverland—home of the Lost Boys. They all share the same look in their eyes...the look you get when you've been left alone."
"Yeah, well, my world ain't Neverland," she says, turning away from him, eyes on the rest of the beanstalk above them. But he's not ready to resume the climb yet.
"An orphan's an orphan," he says. This sends her lurching upward, climbing at a much faster speed than she was before. He should let it go. It's ungentlemanly to pry, but...
"Love's been all too rare in your life, hasn't it?" She stops and looks right at him with a twinge of fear. "Have you ever even been in love?"
"No," she huffs. "I have never been in love."
Horrible liar.
He pivots so his heels balance on a vine. If he lets his head fall back just like this, he can pretend he's resting. His upper body rests as best it can as the muscles still have to be tightly pressed against the beanstalk so as not to fall. There can't be much left, but he broke a sweat ages ago and must catch his breath. It might have been for the best they hadn't talked much on the way up—more expelled energy that way, rendering them that much more winded. And yet he wants to know more about Storybrooke, more about her, in spite of the fact he crossed the line earlier with the inquiries into her past.
"Smaller beanstalks in your land, I take it?" he tries after she's succeeded in mirroring his "resting" stance.
"I had never even seen a beanstalk until today." She looks down and grimaces. "We left in too much of a hurry. Would have made sense to bring the water with us. You okay?" She brings her hand up to swat some hair out of her face, exposing a little flower tattoo on the inside of her wrist along with some scars. A six-petaled thing, no color—intriguing in its simplicity. Just when he'd pegged her as not a flowery woman in the least.
"I asked if you were okay," she says, loudly.
"Marvelous, love. Shall we continue? You could hum again all the way to the top if you want. There's not much more and I won't object to a little background noise."
The last fifteen or so minutes sucks him dry in the way of energy. Perhaps the air is finally thinning. Perhaps he has a literal threshold of strain tolerance. The notches between the vines have diminished, making it harder to securely wedge his feet in anywhere. The bloody giant had better be asleep for he doesn't believe he can control his breathing any time soon, and from the sounds of it, Emma is in the same condition.
A bit dazed, he steps onto brick, actual brick, and hoists himself up onto a flat surface. Flexing his fingers, it's as if he's forgotten what having them in a relaxed position feels like. Emma grunts and snatches her hand out of a few vines before leaping off of the thing as well. Neither of them move anything except their eyes, finding themselves centered in a bricked courtyard of some sort, rubble and smashed stone all around.
"What happened here?" she asks after a few breaths.
"It's where the final battle was." Oh, yes the bloody giant had damned better be asleep. His eyes wander, scanning, fearing something will pop out and step on them...but then he notices her hand, a deep gash right at the base of her palm. No wonder she'd pulled her hand back from the vines like they'd been a boiling cauldron. "Give me your hand."
"What?"
"Your hand—it's cut. Let me help you."
"No, no, it's fine..." she trails off, flailing her hand anywhere but where his is. The joke is on her, however, since his hook reaches her without any trouble.
"No, it's not," he says, and if he sounds a little triumphant while doing so, then so be it.
"So now you're going to be a gentleman?"
"Giants can smell blood," he whispers, leaning in. That's the rumor anyway. "And I'm always a gentleman."
She rolls her eyes, but in a resigned manner while he uncorks his flask with his mouth. He'd been tempted more than a few times during the climb to use it to hydrate, but one can't help but feel that ransacking a giant's lair is a task best done sober. Besides, then there would be nothing to clean her cut with, which he knew from multiple cuts and scrapes on his own body would be a stinging experience. So without drawing things out, he pours the rum right over her hand.
"What the hell is that?" she screeches.
"It's rum, bloody waste of it," he mumbles, looking at the gash. Longer than he anticipated, it's going to need covering up. She holds still long enough for him to reach around and remove his scarf. He can feel her eyes on him, sizing him up once again as he begins wrapping it around her hand, slowly since he only has one hand to work with. Her stare burns too much right now, so he keeps his eyes on his work.
"Now here's the plan..." Although it's more a way to focus on something else. "We wait for the giant to fall asleep. And when he does, we'll sneak past him into his cave. It's where the treasures are." He'll have to knot it off with his mouth. With a will of their own, his eyes dart up to look at her...oh, gods, what a mistake. "Where the compass lies," he adds, noticing she hasn't blinked. He doesn't even want to blink himself. She's transfixed on him, what he's doing, and, bloody hell, if that's not a mesmerizing sight all on its own.
"And then?" she asks, her voice lower, so he must match it.
"And then we run like hell."
"I don't have time for a giant to fall asleep." She says it like she's just waking up. "The powder Mulan gave us—we need to use it. Got to knock him out."
Ah, poppy powder. That's what's in the bag. But...
"Well, that's riskier."
"Than waiting for a giant to fall asleep when we need him to?" she counters. Now everything he knows about giants begins to sound like conjecture. Had he read somewhere they sleep at night? If not, what if they are nocturnal? Assume another being's schedule matches your own seems awfully bigoted now that he thinks about it. And a poppy-induced sleep would be much deeper than a natural one, especially if giants are light sleepers...
Emma's waiting for a response.
"Point taken. Ooh, you're a tough lass." And they'll succeed thanks to her. Maybe the few drops of rum left in the flask will serve as a toast on the climb down. Yes, there is no doubt she's an orphan, or has been an orphan, the way her eyelashes flutter when she's complimented, a dismissive shrug and eye roll following. He reaches into the satchel for the bag, the secret weapon. "You'd make one hell of a pirate."
"Who's Milah? On the tattoo?"
Shit. Milah. Oh shit. He casts his eyes down at the ground. How long has it been since he gave her any thought? A day? Milah, whose pillow he sleeps on, whose sketchbooks he still has in his desk? Fun, mate? Avenging her death is fun now? Seven years of happiness and being loved now forgotten? Summoning up an image of her, he makes his way toward the lair.
"Someone from long ago."
"Where is she?"
"She's gone." Lessons learned—there is a reason people recoil when others pry into their pasts, and, he should only have to tell himself this once, and he will, Emma Swan is an accomplice at best, a distraction at the worst.
"Gold," she mutters. "Rumpelstiltskin." That name on her lips stops him. This Storybrooke will remain a mystery to him for now, he decides. He can't stomach the idea that the Land Without Magic consists of everyone hearing the Dark One's words and not his own. "He took more than your hand from you, didn't he? That's why you want to kill him."
There is no condemnation in her tone, no judgment of any kind, but there is most definitely a reason people recoil when others pry into their pasts...so he will do it one more time to her.
"For someone who's never been in love, you're quite perceptive, aren't you?"
No, he refuses to believe he's hurt her. It was meant to quiet her, nothing more, and yet her eyes look a little glassier than they've been before, willing tears to not fall. He shakes his head slightly. It's not him; it's some memory she's watching play out all over again with someone who has indeed hurt her. Thinking of Milah pains him sometimes, the pointless arguments, the things they never did, but if ever given the opportunity to deny her...laughable, and yet she had denied it only a few minutes ago. You have been alone too long, haven't you, Emma Swan?
"Maybe I was. Once," she says, looking small for the first time. Truce then, he promises her in his mind.
"All right. You want to knock him out. I'll create a diversion somehow..." he trails off, wondering. This seems to snap her out of it, her mind back in the present.
"So how tall are these guys?" she asks, turning around and taking a few steps back to take a good look at the gigantic opening that must serve as a doorway. There are a few statues right beside it...she groans at the same time he sees it. "Yay, more climbing."
The statue has a rough texture, the nubs here and there meant to be beading on the uniform make it easier than the beanstalk. Holding up his arms, hoping he won't have to catch her if she slips, he still searches for he's not sure what. A long strip of white catches his eye, a bone. It could be a thigh bone, he supposes, judging by the shape, but it comes up above his waist like a staff. A thigh bone of what?
"What is that from?" she calls down, strained.
"No idea."
She climbs the statue's back side, perching on its shoulder in a crouched position. He can barely see her, just her hair, but it doesn't matter how visible she is, does it? Not if she throws the powder at the right time?
"You ready?" he shouts up to her, still hoping the giant is already asleep.
"Yeah!"
Tightening his grip on the bone, he runs over to a shield, a giant's shield, and bangs the bone into it over and over again. His ears ring at the sound, but he continues. Nothing, nothing but an eerie calm, as if the silence had grown even quieter. He considers telling Emma to go ahead and come down, that they can take their chances and count their blessings this giant is an early-to-bed type. If they're quiet, he might blame whatever racket pulled him from his sleep on mice.
A thunderous rumbling nearly has him thudding to the ground. Emma's hair jerks around in such a way he knows she was close to falling. More of her comes into view, her boots and jacket...she's shuffled to the front of the statue just to hold on. The giant will be sure to see her. His footsteps boom ever closer.
He's...well, he's bigger than Killian expected. Bloody hell, he'd had to duck his head under the entrance just to step out here. Emma's not even high enough up to reach his neck. And if the giant keeps peering the way he is in search for the source of the ruckus...
"Hey! You big git!" A gained compass or stomped into pirate mash...at least it will be a quick way to go. The giant glares at him, terrifying just from the size of it, his snorts and grunts piercing. "Yeah, you! You want to kill a human? Huh, you want to kill a human?" He side-steps away from the shield, in her direction. The giant should hunch just a little to be able to keep track of him. He increases his stride. "Well, I'm the worst human around! Come on! Come on then! Come on then!" That's right...get good and angry, he wills him. Being crushed will be much quicker than picked up and boiled in a stew. Inhaling, he runs across the giant's shoe.
Darting to the base of the statue, he clenches his teeth and closes his eyes, feeling the giant's face lowering. His footsteps continue...but more erratically. Years and years of helping drunken sailors back to their bunks tells him it's the staggering dance. Breaking into a sprint, he braces himself against the wall just as the giant slumps to the ground. It's the most violent rumble yet.
He approaches in spite of the thud still echoing in his ears. Picking the bone up one more time, he pokes the enormous cheek, sprinkled in grayish-white powder.
"Hook? Hook?" he hears. He backs up and sees her standing alongside the statue's head.
"He's out cold," is all he can say, looking up at her. This is happening. It's been, well, a long streak indeed of not catching any breaks and yet this is happening. "I don't mean to upset you, Emma, but I think we make quite the team."
Emma rolls her eyes. A crooked smile burgeons across her face. It's the first time he's said her name aloud, his accomplice, and the compass awaits.
"Let's go steal a compass," she says before starting her descent.