Emma stares at him in shock as he backs away, his thumb rubbing absently against his bottom lip as he watches her. If she wasn't so confused about the entire experience, she might feel more for him, might acknowledge just how vulnerable he's made himself in the last two minutes. There's something in his eyes, something hopeful and tentative, that makes a part of her want to close the space between them, kiss him back this time, feel.
But Emma is terrified, and Emma is running on instinct alone.
"What ever happened to never touching a woman against her will?" She hurls the words at him, an accusation to protect herself from feeling anything for him. The words are the only weapon she has, and she's going to use what little advantage she has. It doesn't matter that it snuffs out the light in his eyes as soon a she says it – it doesn't matter that for a split second, she can see she's wounded him – deeply.
It's the only way she can protect herself.
"Poor form, Swan." It's only seconds before he plasters the smug grin right back into place. "Lying does not suit you."
"I didn't kiss you back."
"You didn't push me away."
"I was in shock!"
"Suit yourself, love." He touches his lips again, almost subconsciously. "Let us retire the matter for the evening. Magic requires strength and strength requires sleep."
"I'm not getting in that bed with you."
He sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. His frustration shows then, tight jaw and tense shoulders, all the more obvious by his lack of shirt. Emma banishes the memory of what it felt like to be pressed to him, strong arms encircling her waist, the softness of his lips in spite of the hardness of his personality.
"Swan, I apologize. We've discussed why it is that we will both sleep in this chamber. That hasn't changed. Our return to the queen's town will not be a popular one, and the crew must remain under my command. I will not be sleeping on the floor and neither shall you."
"The floor is fine."
He mutters under his breath, and though she only catches every third word, it's nothing too flattering. "I am tired, lass. My bloody side hurts. You test a man's patience more than is wise. Go to sleep, Swan."
The candles flicker as she struggles to control her temper, the frustration and rage warring for control against the certain knowledge that she still needs his help. Reluctantly, she kicks off her boots, turning toward the bed and steadfastly ignoring him as she moves as close as she can toward the wall.
She can feel his eyes on her, can feel the longing and the frustration and the uncertainty coming off him in waves. It takes everything in her not to tell him to stop but she might as well tell the ocean to stop moving – she knows she can't dictate anyone's feelings (she can't even dictate her own).
It's impossible not to hear every step he takes, blowing out candles and taking off his boots, hanging up his coat and soaked shirt and vest. Perhaps he's trying to give her time, or perhaps he's stalling because whatever this is between them, the gentleness of his kiss tells her more than he perhaps would like.
A kiss like that isn't about lust – it isn't about impulse and want and need. It's filled with affection, and promise, and emotion and no one has ever kissed Emma like that before – not even Neal.
Thinking of Neal just knots her emotions into a tighter tangle, and she sighs, punching her pillow and struggling to get comfortable. The sudden flurry of motion catches his attention, and she can feel his eyes on her again.
She struggles to still herself, to make herself small, but it's cold. The quilt is still sitting on the chair she previously occupied, but she refuses to admit to being awake, to get out of bed and chance another awkward conversation.
She doesn't count on him noticing the missing quilt, on him gathering it up and bringing it back to the bed with him. "I know you're awake, Swan," he says quietly, shaking the quilt out over her and carefully pulling it over her bare feet.
"No, I'm not," she mumbles stubbornly, curling tighter against the pillow.
"Emma." She jumps at the touch of his hand on her shoulder, his weight on the mattress frustratingly comforting. But that's not the worst of – it's the way he says her name, her actual name, like a caress from a lover.
"I can't, Hook." She says it to the wall, unwilling to turn and face him. This is an impossible situation. Her body craves his, but her mind rejects the idea entirely. She needs to focus on getting her son out of the cursed town, on finding her parents and maybe, finally, having a family.
She does not need to be having a moment in bed with the pirate who kidnapped her from her apartment.
He backs off, the coldness of her response enough to discourage any further attempt at conversation. They pass a restless night together, each awake and knowing full well the other is, but not speaking. She listens to him breathe, hears the catch when he moves and irritates his stitches.
She feels his warmth curling around her beneath the shared quilt, the scent of him – salty and sweaty and a hint of alcohol – it's harder and harder as the night goes on to not turn to him, to not let him wrap her in his arms and maybe just forget about her impossible situation for a few minutes.
But none of that is an option – it's never going to be an option.
He slides from bed just before dawn, leaving Emma to her silence as he tugs on his boots and fishes out a fresh shirt. She hears him hesitate at the door, the pause in the rhythm of his breath that tells her he's going to say something, something she doesn't want to hear – but damn him if he doesn't somehow know that and slip out the door without another word.
Emma sighs with frustration, flipping onto her back and punching the mattress. Her hand grazes over his side of the bed, the sheets still warm. She slides over, telling herself she's just taking advantage of the extra room, but it's a lie as she falls asleep with her nose pressed into his pillow, breathing him in.
When she wakes, the sun is streaming in through the windows. The voices of the crew drift through the floorboards above her head, muted, but the soundtrack of life at sea.
She hates that she can pick out his laugh from the rest with ease.
Breakfast is waiting for her on the table, oatmeal long gone cold. She frowns at it, poking the spoon into the mush with a shudder of distaste. It's a surprise she slept through it being brought, but if they're really heading back to land, she supposes skipping this meal won't hurt.
Going hungry beats forcing it down.
She takes her time putting her boots back on, struggling to comb her hair with her fingers and twist it back from her face. A shower – that's the first thing she's looking for once she gets off this god forsaken boat. A shower and some coffee.
She would kill a man for a decent cup of coffee right now.
There's not much to occupy her in the cabin, try as she might to avoid going above. The air is stuffy, and she feels trapped down here. Resolving to ignore Hook, she shrugs on her heavy coat and goes above.
His expression shifts at her appearance, eyes hardening and jaw tightening. "Morning to you, Swan." The words are smooth, the perfect picture of politeness, but she knows him well enough now to know this is the mask talking.
She knows better than anyone what it is to wear a mask.
"Morning." It's all she can give him, mirrored politeness. The sunshine is deceptive – they must be heading north again, because the faint breeze has a bite to it. It sparks her curiosity as she crosses the deck to stand beside him, the crew members scattering instantly. "Where are we going?" she asks more quietly, wishing she had a scarf to ward against the chill. It feels good to be in the fresh air, but it will be cold before long.
Not that it seems to bother him. He's the picture of indifference behind the wheel, shirt open as usual.
He casts a glance at her from the side of his eyes before returning his attention to the ocean ahead. "We've discussed this, Swan. To fetch your lad."
"Yeah, but where? He's not in Boston."
"Storybrooke. It's in a place called Maine."
"Maine." Emma shivers, wondering if it's snowed there yet. By her guess, Halloween is just a few days away, though it's hard to keep track of the dates out at sea. Has she been out here three nights or two? Four? The days blur together.
"You know the place?"
"Know of it. I went to Portland, once. On a case."
"A case?"
She squints at him in the sunlight, his genuinely baffled expression. She doesn't know how she keeps forgetting he's not of this world – it should be enough just to look at him to know it. "My job. I…" She stops, trying to think how to explain in terms he'll understand. "It was my job to find people who didn't wish to be found."
He smirks, releasing his grip on the wheel to slide an arm around her waist. He's taking advantage of the watchful eyes of the crew, and she knows it, but there's little she can do about it as he leans close. "We're not so different, Swan," he murmurs in her ear, his lips close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath. "You've already admitted as much."
"I'm nothing like you." It's practically a growl, the quietness of the words doing little to hide their venom. "Take your hand off me or you'll have another hook shortly."
He scowls at her, but he removes his hand from her hip, returning it to rest lightly upon the wheel. "You should practice your magic, love. We should be in Storybrooke by midday tomorrow if the weather holds." He shoots her a pointed glance. "That includes you controlling that temper, darling."
"What if I can't do it? What if I try, and I can't give you back your hand?"
He doesn't answer right away, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "Swan, I'm a patient man. I've lived a long time. I believe you'll sort it out. And if there's anything I've learned in my time about magic, it's that a little belief goes a long way, so give it a go."
"I don't even know where to start."
"I haven't got magic, love. I'm of little use. Pick something small."
"Witches in movies always light candles."
"Haven't an idea what a movie is, but I'd suggest against toying with fire aboard a wooden ship." He sighs, gesturing to the seas around them. "You've manipulated the weather before. Perhaps see if you can do it again."
"I don't think…"
"That's your bloody problem, Swan. The thinking. Magic is less about thinking and more about just doing."
She glares at him, but she doesn't say anything, because he's probably right. Movies and books have taught her that magic is elemental and natural and can't be forced. Maybe those rules will apply to her present situation.
After all, movies and books were apparently right about Snow White and Prince Charming and Neverland…though some of the details are off.
"I need to be alone." Emma turns away, shivering in the breeze. Her choices are limited, and it's going to be colder perched high above the ship, but it's the only place she's felt a minute's peace since this entire ordeal began.
So she starts climbing.
She can feel his eyes on her as she climbs, but she ignores him. She feels a little ridiculous trying his at all, but it's become impossible to deny that things she's never believed in, things that have always been part of a make believe world, they're real.
Just like her son.
She settles down on the platform again. It has a name, this odd, high place above the ship, and she tells herself she'll ask Hook about it. Why this detail suddenly matters, she doesn't really know.
Her back is to him, her gaze focusing on the horizon. The wind is stronger up here, and she shivers in spite of her heavy coat, burying her hands in her pockets and taking a deep breath.
She doesn't want to cause another storm – that will end badly for all involved. Hook says she's manipulated the weather before, but what's she supposed to do? Call down the lightning like some avenging Valkyrie?
It would be a lot easier to try to light a candle.
She turns her eyes to the sky, the wispy white clouds breaking up the endless stretch of robin's egg blue. Maybe she can get of them, one by one, leave the sky uncluttered and pristine.
She stares at the clouds for a hour before giving up on the idea, her frustration mounting. Obviously, that's the moment she hears him below, the sound of metal clinking on metal as the pendant he wears moves against the buttons as he climbs.
"Though I would pop up and check on you."
"Go away, Hook."
"You've got to relax, love."
"You keep saying that, but you should know you telling me to relax doesn't help one damn bit! I've been up here, staring at one stupid cloud, trying to make it disappear, for an hour! It hasn't moved. Nothing has happened. Nothing. And now you're up here telling me to relax, and I just can't, Hook! I can't do this!"
"Swan."
"Don't Swan me. Don't come up here telling me you believe I can do it and all the other nonsense. I'm not special. I've never been special. I can't be a savior to these people, curse or not. I just want to take my son away from this crazy woman, go back to Boston, and finally get to eat a damn cupcake. And shower. I really want to shower."
"Swan!" His second attempt is sharper, more insistent. She finally shuts up, a flush of embarrassment at her rant staining her cheeks. She hadn't meant to come quite so unglued on him, but now it's out and there's no taking it back.
"What?"
"Look." He points to the sky, Emma's gaze following.
There isn't a single cloud in sight.
He grins, that smug grin that makes his eyes dance with mischief. "Your magic responds well to me."
Emma finds herself once again too stunned to speak, eyes searching the sky for a trace of a cloud and finding none. She turns her hands over in her lap, amazed. "I don't even know how I did that."
"You'll sort it out." He squeezes her hand before beginning to climb back down the ropes. "Don't stay up there too long, Swan. Don't want you to catch cold."
"Sure." It's unlikely he hears her, the quiet whisper of a word falling from her lips as she sits there, completely and utterly baffled.
Writing this after watching last night's episode was basically impossible. Our ship is so happy! Except in this fic. Oops.