Author's Notes: I'll just skip to the chapter since everyone railed at me for the "I hate you" line I teased. ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. I do, however, own an Alaskan malamute who enjoys a good cuddle.

Chapter 14

Killian stood at the wheel. It was an unusually bright night, the stars high, the sky cloudless. Perfect sailing conditions. Under any other circumstance, he would have been wonderfully content. He'd spent many a night at the wheel for the simple pleasure that the waves, the moon, and the silence brought him.

That was not at all the case tonight.

Tonight, he was at the wheel because he was fairly certain that Emma would not welcome him to bed. Even if she would, he had no desire to experience the level of awkwardness that would undoubtedly fall between them. He now understood an old piece of advice perfectly: Never go to bed angry.

Killian had simply chosen not to go to bed at all.

It was his own fault, he knew. Emma had every right to demand honesty from him, and she was right to think that there was more to his reluctance to expose her to his darkness. It was about more than a desire to protect her from himself. Already, his influence had changed her, this pirate life that he had so willingly, selfishly brought up on her.

The guilt he felt at the confused, uncertain look in her eyes as she told him about drawing her dagger to threaten Bellamy would forever be a part of him. He was changing her, and it was obvious that even Emma wasn't sure if that was good thing or not. She'd scared herself. She was questioning herself.

And that was his fault.

It didn't help matters that had Emma not been present, had he never met her, the confrontation with Bellamy would have gone differently. Mere threatening words would not have been enough, even if he hadn't heard what the sailor had said. Just knowing it was disrespectful would have given Killian more than enough cause to sink the very dagger Emma had drawn into Bellamy's gut. He would have thrown the man overboard without a care, spat at Smee to clean up the blood from his beloved ship, and sailed on.

That man was still beneath his skin, still part of him. He just . . . he didn't notice it as much when Emma was with him. She made those darker urges easier to push aside. Because he wanted to be better for her, worthy of her. He didn't want her to be scared of him.

He didn't want her to run.

Killian took out Jack's compass, refusing to admire the craftsmanship as he flipped it open. It was a strange thing, to look at a compass that did not point north, yet he followed the arrow all the same . . . except for the fact that it was currently pointed right behind him and a little to the right.

Where he'd already figured out was exactly where his bed (Emma's bed) rested.

This wasn't the first time it had happened.

"Godsdammit," he mumbled before giving the compass a good shake as he thought of his desire to find the heart of Davy Jones to save Emma. The compass appropriately spun, pointing toward his previous course with only a slight adjustment that Killian easily corrected.

He spotted Jack emerging from the crew's quarters and hoped that the captain would leave him be. Naturally, as if the universe heard Killian's plea, Jack turned and headed straight for the helm. The man was without his brown coat and hat, although he wisely kept his sword and pistol in his belt. The necklaces around his neck swung as he casually ascended the steps to the helm.

He pointed at Killian. "You need to find yourself a girl, mate," he said before turning to look behind him, as if he expected Emma to be there. "Or, perhaps it's that you've already found a girl, but are incapable of wooing said strumpet."

Killian drew his sword. "Emma's no common whore."

"I stand corrected," Jack said, hands raised to his chest comically. When Killian did not lower his sword, Jack rolled his eyes. "Put it away, mate. It's not worth getting beat."

Killian scoffed, though he did lower his sword. "Whenever you wish to test that theory, be sure to let me know."

"Agreed." Casting one last glance at the sword, Jack ambled forward until he stood on the other side of the wheel. He looked down at his compass in Killian's hand with a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Bit spotty, that old thing," he said. "Needs a clear mind to work properly."

Killian's eyes narrowed. "My business with Emma is no concern of yours."

"It is when your business effects my business, which sort of makes it our business, really." Jack leaned forward and grabbed the wheel. "So just why is that you're after your good grandad's heart?"

"Why are you?"

"Let's just say it's a matter of leverage."

They sailed in silence for a long while. Jack sat on the rail with the impeccable sense of balance gained from a lifetime at sea. He held a flask of rum in his hands as he silently appraised the younger captain. Jack had heard the stories. Captain Jones of the Jolly Roger. Ruthless, clever, yet lived by a code. Jack liked that. The best pirates had a code.

You learned a lot about a man with a code.

You also learned a lot just by watching, and no one was better at observation than Captain Jack Sparrow. He knew everything that he needed to know about Killian Jones, and he'd only been on the Jolly for one day. His first clue was the schedule. Jones ran his ship with the precision of a military man. Ex-Navy, then. Honorable. Moral. Pragmatic.

His second clue was the crew. A captain's crew told wonders. Every crew, whether pirate or not, was held together by one of two things: fear and respect. Rarely did the two go hand in hand. It was always one or the other.

Not so on the Jolly, though in the most curious way.

It had been made abundantly clear to Jack earlier that afternoon that whether anyone knew it or not, there were actually three captains aboard this ship. Jones and himself, of course, but then there was Emma Swan. Swan. He still wasn't sure what he made of that coincidence.

Nonetheless, she held the same fire like another Swann he knew.

He'd been surprised (and terribly impressed) when she had grabbed that sailor and tossed him into the rail. Yet it hadn't been the troublesome sailor's reaction—appropriately nervous, as it were—it had been the reaction of some of the crew that had drawn Jack's attention. Those closest to Emma had made a move for their weapons, yet not in their crewmate's defense, but in hers. They'd closed ranks around her like she was royalty, though he doubted that the lass had noticed.

Jones had. It's what had prompted him to intervene. Particularly since there were still a few sailors who looked a bit too opportunistic as they watched the confrontation.

Two things held together a crew, fear and respect.

Emma Swan commanded the respect; Killian Jones commanded the fear.

Curious thing, that. Quite the team.

Which was what made Jack hop off the rail and saunter toward the decidedly troubled captain. "So what have you done to upset your bonnie lass?" he asked.

Killian sighed. "I should just kill you now."

"I really wouldn't. You might still need my help."

"Debatable."

"You wouldn't really leave Miss Swan's fate to chance, now would you?" Killian's eyes sharpened, and Jack smiled smugly. "Ah, I thought so. You're not after the heart for you own sake, are you? You're after it to save her."

Killian closed his eyes briefly. "What of it?" he said, his tone clipped. "Our goals are still aligned."

"Aye, they are," Jack agreed simply. "Now," he took a sip of rum, "just why is that you're out here instead of cozying up to your girl?"

Killian gritted his teeth. "I suspect my presence is not wanted."

"Well, I think that's rather obvious, mate. Perhaps I could be of some help."

"What could you possibly know about it?"

"I've upset a fair amount of women in my time. One lass, in particular. She reminds me of your Swan, actually. Dangerous lot, those lasses."

"And what exactly makes them dangerous?" Killian asked, his voice dry yet the slightest bit curious.

"You see, these ladies, lovely and charming though they are, are, in fact, quite mad." Killian cocked an eyebrow, and Jack raised a finger to elaborate. "Because," he said, "quite often they know exactly what they want, but are too afraid to want it, and so they go about wanting to not want what they want because they're scared of actually getting what they want."

Killian blinked. "That . . . strangely makes sense."

"I do that quite a lot, actually. Yet everyone always seems so surprised."

"You hide cleverness behind quick words and misdirection. It's hardly a new tactic."

Jack just gave a small, sneaky smile in response before he said, "So, what is it that dear Miss Swan is afraid of wanting? Mind you, I have a guess." When Killian didn't answer, he shrugged. "I'm going to out on a limb, mate, and say it's you."

"Hardly an original idea."

"Quite right," Jack agreed simply, before falling into silence once again, only this time Killian was not fooled. He just waited. "I've heard the stories, you know."

Killian cocked an eyebrow. "Stories?"

"You have yourself quite the reputation, a rather vicious one," Jack explained lightly, though there was an undeniably serious glint in his eye as he continued, "All the stories paint the same picture. Good man. Charming. Fair. Has a code. But," he held up a hand as he took a few steps forward, "turn on him, insult him, challenge him . . . and the last sound you hear is your greasy insides hitting the deck."

Jack tilted his head appraisingly yet mockingly as he said, "Somehow I doubt you'd like your Swan to see you in such a light. And perhaps she got a glimpse earlier today, during that little," he made a shooing motion with his hand behind him, "confrontation."

"I didn't do anything."

"Aye, but you wanted to. Certainly you would have, had the lass not been there. Don't want to show her the side of you that's not so dashing?"

"Sparrow—"

"Bit of advice, mate," Jack interrupted lightly, "show her."

Killian's anger abruptly faded in surprise. "What?"

"If she wants you, she'll take the good and the bad, light and the dark."

"She shouldn't have to."

"Ah, but life is full of things we shouldn't do. Doesn't necessarily make them wrong now, ay?"

"What do you care?"

"Oh, that's simple," Jack said quickly with a shrug. "Much better sail if Mum and Dad are getting along."

The next few days aboard the Jolly Roger felt like walking in a glass house. Perfect on the outside, pristine and bright. Yet inside? One step away from shattering.

Emma felt each fragile step as she worked the deck as if nothing was wrong. The crew watched her warily out of the corner of their eyes. They were always quick to greet her, yet hesitant to say anything more. It was the sort of unfailing politeness that a mother forced on her child whenever they went out in public.

And it got on Emma's nerves.

She didn't want to be treated differently. After all, she wasn't different. She wasn't.

Yet on the morning of the fourth day, she threw in the towel. She gave up the pretense of pretending that everything was normal, as if she was content to listen to Vincent ramble or Bee sing or Ace tell a story. As if she still went to bed with Killian and woke up pleasantly trapped in his arms. As if they still understood each other.

Because right now, Emma did not understand him.

And it was driving her nuts.

She needed that understanding between them. It made things easier. It eliminated the need to talk, to really dig for answers, and Emma had always found that incredibly comforting. Digging for answers was often dirty work, and sometimes not at all worth the effort, especially when you got an answer you didn't want.

So on day four of her self-imposed, Killian avoidance campaign, she retreated to her nest.

No one dared to follow her.

Except Vincent.

He plopped himself down to sit beside her like he'd done dozens of times before, slung his arms forward to rest on his knobby knees, and then cocked his head toward her in that way of his that caused those stray blond hairs from his ponytail to fall in his eyes. "So," he said. "What ails your mind today, my friend?"

Emma shook her head.

"Oh, dear. It's the Captain, isn't it? Ours, mind you. Not Sparrow."

She sighed.

"Bloody hell, that bad? What did he do?"

Emma huffed. "Nothing," she said.

Vincent's brows furrowed. "I don't follow. If he hasn't done anything, why are you angry with him?"

"I'm not angry," she snapped. "I'm . . . frustrated."

"If you want my help, lass, you're going to have to give me a bit more than that."

"Why do you want to help?"

"Because it's a goddamn shit show down on deck. The lot of us feel like we're walking on thin ice."

Emma winced. "Sorry. I just . . ."

He smiled gently, encouraging. "Just what, lass?"

"Do you think I'm different?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean it like I said it. Have I changed?"

"Well, of course you have. That's not—ah, I see." He nodded to himself. "You're talking about the other day, aren't you? With Bellamy?" Emma looked away, and Vincent shook his head. "No, no, no. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Be dramatic."

Emma stared incredulously. "I'm not being dramatic. I'm being serious."

"Emma, what you did the other day was completely appropriate."

"I pulled a dagger on someone, and I didn't even think about it."

"That's what pirates do."

"I'm not a pirate."

"Perhaps not like the rest of us," Vincent allowed. "You're better than us, yes—"

"I'm not—"

"Your denial only makes it that much more true," he said quickly. "Now, listen to me, lass. Please, listen." He reached out and took her hand. "You've spent months on a pirate ship. You're adapting to this life. Of course, you're going to change. That change isn't necessarily for the worst. It's like with the Naval officer, yeah?"

Emma flinched slightly at the reminder of the man she'd killed. That act, too, had been one of instinct. "You're defending yourself, Emma," he said. "You're surviving."

"Bellamy wasn't the one with the knife."

"Yet he was in that moment the most dangerous man on this ship," Vincent said firmly before smiling wryly. "For a lass who claims to trust no one, you have a remarkable habit of trusting them anyway." Emma frowned and Vincent explained, "The men on this ship, myself included, we . . . we get on fairly well, the majority of us. Friends, even. But it's all a matter of circumstance. That goes for the Captain. We may like him, we may think he's great sailor, we may share a drink with him, but that doesn't mean we're loyal to him, that we're bound by a common code or set of morals. We have none."

While Emma listened intently, a deep furrow in her brow, she couldn't stop the small smile from turning her lips. "I don't think that applies to all of you," she said. "You'd never turn on Killian."

"I'd like to think I wouldn't," Vincent said honestly. "I owe him a debt I'll never repay, yet ultimately, I want to survive, Emma. There's no room for nobility in piracy." His eyes drifted to the helm. "And for those who possess it, oftentimes it's a heavy burden."

Emma looked down at the deck. Her gaze found Bellamy, who was laughing with another sailor while they worked the lines. "You think he would have tried something?" she asked. "A mutiny?"

"Aye, in a heartbeat," Vincent said quickly. "It's a dangerous thing the Captain's done, bringin' another captain aboard, especially one like Jack Sparrow. The man's nearly a legend, a member of the Brethren Court. And giving him the wheel like the Captain did the other day? That was just inviting trouble, lass."

"Any one of the crew could have thought they'd found better waters," he continued. "If he had enough men on his side, we could have easily mutinied, particularly if Captain Sparrow went along, which at that point, he really wouldn't have had a choice . . . otherwise he's walking the plank along with Captain Jones."

"Not me?"

Vincent hesitated. "Depends on who's taken over. The majority of us are quite fond of you, Emma, but there are a few who would . . . find you a new place aboard the ship."

Killian's voice echoed in her ears. A ship functions best when the crew follows their Captain . . . because a good sailor knows his place.

Emma shuddered. "That's why Killian was so harsh, wasn't it? He'd already thought that through before he even left the helm."

"It's exactly why he left," Vincent agreed. "Captain Jones knows mutiny. Led one himself once, so I hear. We don't follow him out of respect or loyalty. We follow him out of fear, and Bellamy needed to be reminded of that."

"I just . . ." she sighed heavily, frustrated. "It just startled me, seeing him like that. And it wasn't even that big a deal, you know? He didn't do anything crazy. He nearly killed a man not a day after we met."

"Ah, I'd wondered where Hawkins went." Emma gave him a look, and he smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

She shook her head. "Killian just sounded so . . . dark. I mean, he's a pirate, and I know that. I know that there's darkness in him. I saw it the moment I met him, but I just . . ."

"Look past it?" Vincent offered with a soft smile. "Perhaps that's because there's much more to see."

"I know there is," she admitted quietly, nearly shy. "But I don't like him hiding from me, and I don't like that he's putting me on this pedestal. I'm just Emma."

"Oh, lass. You're not just anything."

"Not you, too."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Not really, no." He patted her leg. "Now, come on. We've wasted enough time."

Emma followed him wordlessly down to the deck but when she went to follow him to the lines, he paused and frowned. "Just where do you think you're going?" he asked before pointedly looking at the helm.

Emma pursed her lips. "I hate you."

"I know."

She felt unusually cautious, and therefore increasingly irritated as she climbed the steps to the quarterdeck—because honestly, since when did she get so worked up?—and the fact that she felt Killian's eyes on her did not help matters. At all. It made her feel like a bug beneath a microscope, and she found herself questioning her avoidance of him.

But no. Vincent wasn't entirely right. She wasn't being dramatic.

She was being cautious, and there was nothing wrong with that. He was keeping something from her, hiding from her, and years of continual disappointment had led Emma to immediately retreat behind her walls whenever anyone she . . . grew attached to . . . began to withdraw.

She thought that maybe it hurt so much with Killian because he'd always been unbelievably honest and upfront with her. An open book. Now he was keeping something from her, a whole part of himself, and that, well, that hurt.

Killian was at the wheel while Jack stood near with a spyglass, and Emma felt a flash of irritation as she realized that there was no way to talk to Killian with the other captain present. But maybe, maybe she didn't need to talk. Maybe, for now, she just needed to let him know that she missed him.

So she took the open compass from him, meaning to hold it so that she could take his hand and lace their fingers together like he seemed so fond of doing, only to have the needle immediately spin to point right to him. She blushed hotly.

But Killian's surprised, relieved little smile was worth it.

See? Nothing to fear, my doves.

But I couldn't resist ruffling some feathers.

Okay . . . abandoning the bird pun . . . now . . . also, couldn't resist that one.

How's that, though? Killian and Emma still have some talking to do, but at least there's some light at the end of the tunnel, right? We've had a bit too much of the sweet Killian we all know and love, but that's not all that he is. Always good to have a reminder.

Oh, and writing one of Jack's epic tongue twister lines was so fucking fun. And disturbingly easy.

Quote time! Let's see . . . Jack? Yes, Jack. - "The good Commodore is rather like a dog with a bone."

See you Friday!

AC