Author's Note: In which things go from bad to worse. Sadly, I think that's going to be a trend in this story. Then again, I don't suppose those of you who are reading are reading this in hopes of light, merry fluff starring Hook. I'll go ahead and apologize for my occasional use of British vulgarities (hopefully I'm using them correctly), but let's face it, this is Hook we're talking about, and as much as I try to avoid language, it just ain't going to happen. I appreciate hearing the good, the bad and the ugly, so please review.

Now when Killian followed Peter, he walked with a purpose. His strides were long and quick and he kept glancing back to see how close Liam and the others were, but he couldn't quite manage to create distance. Some hours in, he finally gave up, fuming.

The day passed on with few breaks for water and by the time the sun neared the horizon, all the men were bent and weary, sweat dripping from their eyes like tears. A fire was kindled, and once again all ate and drank, but not Killian. Liam had sat next to him, eyes round and sad as he tried to coax his little brother to tell the raw story of that one fierce fight, tried to get him to reveal the hurt and fear that the lieutenant no doubt felt. It was all Killian could do to find a more loving and fraternal version of, "Sod off," for a reply. As a peace offering, he finally allowed Liam to 'make' him a piece of bread, a little meat, and a few of the island's vibrant fruits, but took no persuading to refuse the strong drink, choosing water instead. He saw his brother's cautious nod of approval at that, and fought his rising ire.

In fact, it was probably fortunate that all assumed his dour mood was continued remorse for his actions that morning. True, when his mind did flicker to those first waking moments, he'd wince and try to brush the memory away, fully ashamed of his actions, but then his anger would stoke hotter and his bright blue eyes would settle on the leader of these marooned boys.

As the evening trailed on and many boys and men stumbled off to their blankets, Liam among them, Killian remained alert. Peter had his back turned on him, not too far away. The few others who remained were situated so they could see little, if anything. His hand slipped to the dagger he kept in his belt. He hesitated briefly, considering the fact that Pan was no more than a boy, and one who, despite his ruthless threats, had hardly struck the first blow, but then he remembered the boy's feet dangling above the ground as they'd talked and the ice-cold threat against Liam, and Killian found his feet, dagger firmly in hand.

He stepped forward silently once, then the other foot moved forward.

"You're too loud by half, Killian," the boy said without turning his head. "You're nothing more than a great old oaf in these forests to those who've learned to hunt in them."

Killian froze, waiting for more, but none came. Peter just returned to his previous conversation without sparing him so much as a glance. The insolence burned his pride, but he sheathed the dagger and sat back down, trying furiously to figure out some other way of ensuring his crew's and his brother's safety. Sound, sight, and prying eyes were all issues he had to contend with. His eyes slithered to where one of the boys had their bow and quiver propped against a stump. Perhaps with that, he could defeat all those issues. He spent perhaps the next thirty minutes or so gradually scooting, stretching and shifting toward the bow, covering the distance mere centimeters at a time to avoid detection, and it worked. Ere long, he was leaning against the stump, the bow tapping against his elbow. From there, he just sat and watched.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed. It took a great effort to keep his eyes open as the night droned on. All the men were weary and he'd had the worst of it, not having slept well the night before and having had his nerves constantly on edge throughout the day. With steely stoicism; however, and more than a handful of soldiers' tricks, he clung to wakefulness. Finally, he was rewarded.

Pan stood and clapped his second on the shoulder before walking off into the woods, perhaps to check on sentries. The Lieutenant waited a breath, two, then stood up wordlessly and followed, bow and quiver squirreled away with talent he hadn't even known he'd had until he was sheltered in the brush. Then he slid the quiver over his shoulder and held the bow in-hand. He hadn't shot a bow much in his life, but he was a fair shot with a pistol and he prayed a true aim and vague memory would be all he needed.

As he moved from the fire, he slowed and strained his eyes to make out shapes in the filtered moonlight. Motion was what ultimately betrayed Pan. A shift in the trees, a little more substantial than a costal breeze, and Killian knocked an arrow. There was more draw on the bow than he'd expected of children. Again, he checked himself. What was he doing? Stalking through the woods, hunting a boy. It grated at his sense of honor, made his stomach twist in angry knots, but he stamped his qualms down until they disappeared.

Now, through the trees, he could see Pan fully. The faint light was enough to show his yellow hair, the sword at his hip, and his particular swaggering gait. Killian drew, took aim, let out half a breath, and loosed. The shot flew straight, but Pan spun suddenly and waived a hand and the arrow dove sharply to the left.

A cry split the night air.

Killian swallowed hard, feeling a weight settle on his shoulders, but a moment later he was off, racing through the forest toward the sound as if nothing mattered. Skittering to a stop in the loose leaves, he knelt down and placed a hand on the shoulder of one of his men. One who now sported a feathered shaft in his leg. Cursing, Killian eyed the man apologetically. "Hold still," he said, and tugged the arrow loose.

He could barely see in that dim light, but he still easily identified the dark liquid that began to boil out. In an instant, his coat was off and his sleeve was torn off. Bunching the fabric into the wound, he held it down with all his strength. He mercilessly threw his knee into the wound then, he tore his other sleeve and, twisting it, tied the bandage on as tight as he could. When he was done, he rocked back on his heels, staring at the man with a face that sought to explain what words could not. Slowly, he reached over, and started to pull his coat over the man's shaking form.

It hadn't settled yet when shouts came up and arms tugged Killian back and away. "What have you done this time, Killian!?" Liam's voice thundered as he came to stand between the lieutenant and the seaman.

"The blackguard-" Killian's voice broke as he noticed Peter standing behind his brother, right hand suspiciously blocked from view and that jagged grin spread wide across his face. "He... I... it was an accident," he finally lied and hated himself for it.

"It happened again, didn't it?" Liam asked with grave concern.

"Did what happen?"

"You had another dream. Killian, I'm sorry, but you're a danger to yourself and others right now."

"Wha-"

"Disarm him, bind his hands, and take turns watching him through the night," Liam ordered the seamen in a defeated tone. "And for pity's sake, if he's having nightmares, wake him." Then he leaned down, unshed tears glistening in his eyes and put a heavy hand on Killian's shoulder. "This is just for the night. In the morning, we'll talk. We'll get through this together."

"Liam, you can't leave me like this. Unarmed? Bound?" His eyes shifted to were Peter stood, hands on hips, watching the whole scene. "We don't know what sort of foul creatures may wander in these woods. Don't leave me defenseless."

"That's what the guard's for, right Cooper?" he asked, looking to the seaman who seemed to have won first watch.

"Aye, Sir. No harm'll come to you, I swear it."

Killian was under the impression that Pan was a match for Cooper and then some, having seen the inexplicable things he'd just witnessed, but there was no hope for it and every moment spent resisting just cut his brother deeper. "Thank you," he allowed at last.

Cooper did as he'd been ordered and the lieutenant didn't resist, but in the end Liam needed his help to move their wounded man toward the fire, and in their brief absence, Pan drew near. Steely glint in his eyes, he nevertheless mimicked Liam's actions, bending down, looking him in the eye, placing a hand on his shoulder with more than a little force. "Don't ever test my rules or my resolve again," the boy cooed. Then he stood up and walked into the night.