"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."
- Shannon L. Alder

"Where are we?" she had asked, leaning over his shoulder, blonde hair falling around them like a golden curtain.

"We are here now, Princess," he pricked his hook into the map, leaving another small pinprick in the already well marred paper. "The Revenge went down here," he slid the metal appendage slowly eastward.

She had hummed and turned the map towards herself without asking. Her behaviour continued to amuse him - which in itself was surprisingly. No one touched these items except him, and here she was, a slip of a woman moving his room around to suit her needs.

It didn't help that she was wearing more of Milah's clothing. The dress he had ordered laundered was serviceable, but impractical and the faint smell of vile clung to it still, no matter how many times they had boiled it in the Chinese orange blossom extract soap.

He had opened the drawer and told her to find something to fit her. She had given him a questioning look, but had kept silent and once he had returned from the helm, new orders issued, she was comfortable with a pair of leather riding breeches and a loose fitting linen shirt.

They had been at this for hours, and no matter what he asked her, she had an intelligent response to it. She had been well taught - though she was no sailor - in the ways of charting, navigation and tracking. From what little he knew of Princesses, and granted it wasn't truly a lot, this was not commonplace.

"As far as I am aware, my ship was taken here," she tapped a section of sea outside of the Misthaven Naval controlled waters. "Give or take," she added with a raise of her brow.

He had unrolled several nautical charts and maps onto the small desk, and they had been each been pouring over them for hours, she working through which ports her kingdom did business with, along with any notable foes or trading disputes. While he noted well known - but mostly less known - hideouts within a fortnight journey of where her ship had been commandeered 'a lovely term for stolen'.

Emma had said that Blackbeard had intended, as far as she had been aware, of keeping her in the brig for at least that long. It stood to reason that Blackbeard would have his men take her someone out of the way and relatively unknown. Since he had taken her ship for his own, her ransom would have interfered with his plans. No, Killian mused as he calculated the distance to a series of small islands to the deep south of Agrabah, he would have planned on keeping her until an opportunity presented itself.

Which took him back to the less traveled port towns and hideaways. Somewhere a princess would not be noticed. Somewhere they could have kept her locked away until they either had no more need of the Snow and could ransom her, or she had worn out her entertainment value. His stomach rolled at the last thought.

"We might be assuming a few too many things," she said as she stood and stretched from her position on her small bunk, the door to the tiny adjoining cabin had been latched open, and when she had run out of surfaces in his cabin to lay out the various maps and charts she needed, she brought them into her small room as well.

Her hair was a mess, she had braided small twists into it as she poured over the maps, fingers kept purposefully busy.

Killian sighed. He already knew they had, but he also hadn't expected her to come to the same conclusion.

"With the storm you mean."

"Well, yes."

"We're assuming that he was running from you when he entered the storm," she came back out into the main cabin and the sight of her dressed more as a pirate and less than bedraggled royalty lit something in his blood. She was beautiful, to be sure. But dressed in black leather pants that hugged her as if they had been made for her, and a shirt with no corset, she was a sinful sight.

She stood expectantly, looking at him as he was lost in his perusal of her. He felt a blush crawl up his neck and he turned back to his charts to hide it. "Aye."

"But what if they were leading you away from something?"

Oh hell. He hadn't thought of that.

The sun was setting and the sea stretched out before them like it was on fire. Reds, pink and blood orange flared across the sky.

Emma was on deck, as no one had explicitly told her she had to stay below, and leaning against the rail on the bow. The kindly faced man, John Cowley at your service, ma'am, smiled at her and came to stand a few feet away, mirroring her pose and inhaling the scent of salt in the air.

"Red sky," he nodded, more to himself it seemed than to her. "Tomorrow will be a great day at sea, milady."

Emma smiled back, confusion twisting her mouth softly to the side. "And why is that, Mr. Cowley?"

"Just Cowley, ma'am, if you please," he shifted uncomfortably for a moment and she felt a wave of guilt come upon her. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Don't fret, lass. A story for another day perhaps, though it's not a happy one."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment longer before he cleared his throat, "there's a saying, as old as the world itself," he winked at her and she felt the tension lift from her shoulders. "Red sky at night sailors delight; red sky in the mornin' sailors take warnin'."

"And there's truth in that?" Emma asked, looking back out over the flaming sea.

"Oh, aye. I've been sailing my share of years - more than most folk," he smirked at her, and he nodded, yes , she had heard the ridiculous stories of a pirate crew who hailed from a land where you never grow old. Captain Hook and his crew here on the Jolly Roger might be fearsome and legendary - but they were men, not 200 year old legends. "And a red sky brings both prosperity and ruination, depending on the side of the moon. Much like a woman, I suppose," he was teasing her now, and she smiled. No one but her family dared to, and it was heartening to feel a part of something so far from home.

She stood a while longer, Cowley bowing to her slightly to carry on with his duties, and watched the sun finally settling in to watery horizon. One by one, lanterns sprang to life across the ship, crewmen flitting around, paying her little more than curious attention, securing the ship for the evening. She felt him before he heard him, a tall imposing presence behind her.

"Come, it's time to retire," it was a command masked as a request, but she wasn't foolish enough to deny him - nor did she have reason to, apart from loving to watch the stars start to wake in the sky above her. But there would be time enough for that.

He led her with a hand pressed into the small of her back, until they arrived at the door to his cabin. He opened the door for her, but did not step in after her. She looked back at him, confused. Was she to be locked in here now?

"I will be having dinner in the officer's lounge," he explained, trying to ease her worried expression. "I thought, perhaps, you would like a bath, and to have dinner in peace." He nodded then to the large brass tub which sat steaming in the corner of the room. She hadn't noticed it until now and her fingers suddenly itched to touch it. There was a small stool pulled to the side of the large basin, certainly large enough for her to fully submerge into, and on it sat a thick towel and what looked like a pat of soap and a fresh sponge.

The table which had held their day's work of maps and charts had been cleared off, and on it now sat a tray with meats, breads, dried fruits and cheeses. Her mouth watered and she considered bringing the tray with her to the bath.

"I trust everything will be to your satisfaction. Please don't rush, I will not be returning for much of the night."

"Thank you, this is very kind," she whispered. He simply smiled and bowed to her, closing the door behind him.

Emma stripped quickly, chilled now in the quiet room. Along with the small bar of fine exotic soap, he had left several small vials of oils. She stepped into the tub, water boarding on too hot, and slowly sank into the heat.

She twisted the corks out of each bottle, inhaling the scent and letting herself appreciate each one. She settled for the orange blossom vial, a scent she had only smelled once before as a child. A dignitary from a far off land called China had come to meet with her parents. During the formal welcome parade, the man had bowed and presented both her and Leo with a beautiful orange fruit. It smelled of a far off place and she was loath to throw out the peel, even after she had enjoyed the fruit itself. Granny had taken the peelings and dried them for her. He still had that small satchel of dried curls. It sat on her dresser and though the smell had indeed faded over time, the memory of that day and Granny, still clung to it.

She tipped a few splashes into the water and the steam rising from the heat brought with it the fresh cleanness of the oil. She closed her eyes, tears suddenly shimmering on the surface, threatening to spill down her face. This was a kindness she had not anticipated. Her circumstances on this ship were unclear and tenuous. Though the Captain and crew appeared to mean her no harm - crewman in the galley this morning aside, of course - this was not her ship. She was worth a fair amount of gold, and no pirate she had ever heard of would willing part with a treasure like that. So while Captain Hook - Jones, he had said - had welcomed her onto his ship, she was still a commodity.

Wasn't she?

Was this how a man who saw her as loot would treat her?

She scrunched the sponge under the water and pulled it up to her shoulder. The soap was light and slightly floral, another unexpected surprise. She had expected a course hand curbed varietal, but this one was feminine and lovely.

She dunked her head and scrubbed the soap through her long tresses lastly under the still warm water. Emma stayed in the bath as long as she could, hesitant to leave the one feeling of warm and clean she had experienced in several days, finally standing and wrapping herself in the proffered towel before stepping carefully onto the cool floor.

Drying as quickly as she could, she wrapped herself in the robe he had given her last night, dressed her injured hand, which was starting to heal nicely, and pulled on a pair of warm woolen socks he had tossed at the this afternoon while she huddled on her small bunk, hands holding her feet in a desperate attempt to warm them. They had struck her on the head and she had looked up at him appalled, a boyish smirk crawling across his face. He had shown her the small wardrobe then full of women's clothing, and told her to make what use of it she could.

She hadn't asked, their truce still new and tentative, but the tattoo on his wrist and the reverence in which he handled the chest all but confirmed her suspicions. These things belonged to someone named Milah, and he had loved her, once.

Killian was distracted.

Dinner had finished over an hour ago, a grim and silent affair. He stood on the night-dark deck, leaning a hip against the rail and watching the Jolly's gunner's cross swords.

It was a nightly occurrence for the most part - especially with the younger lads. Cowley was standing to his left, small knife out again, whittling at a square of driftwood. His first mate had been side-eyeing him all evening, and his patience was at its end.

"What?" he snarled, not taking his eyes from the blades dancing in front of them.

Cowley, shook his head, a tiny movement Killian suspected only those who had known him the entirety of these past 200 years would catch.

"Come off it, you're as coy as a serving maid, what is it?" Killian faced him now, pulling himself up to his full height. He wasn't as large as John Cowley - few were - but this was his ship, and he didn't appreciate the sideways glances he was getting.

Killian swept passed him, and took the stairs to the helm, John following a moment later. He rested his hands lightly on the wheel and asked growled, louder now that they were alone, "what is it, John?"

Cowley replied, but not before tucking the small knife back into the sheath at his belt and sliding the piece of wood into a deep pocket. John hadn't carved in over a century, and the fact that he had started again was a fact that Killian filed away to examine later.

"The lass, Captain. What of the lass?" Cowley's face was carefully blank and his words were low, clipped as if expecting orders to toss her overboard at any moment.

"What of her?" Killian responded flippantly. Cowley was the only member of his crew that knew her circumstances - all of them - and they had agreed the spread of such knowledge amongst the crew was not advisable. To know a member of a royal house was on board would invite too many questions, and far too much trouble. She was causing enough of a stir without adding who she truly was thrown into that equation.

"We cannot keep her here," John's voice was getting harsher. "It's not right."

"Need I remind you," Killian turned on him suddenly, his first mate's eyes widening in alarm. "That is my ship, and what happens on it, especially when it comes to the cargo, is my business and mine alone."

John was a smart man, but he was also brave. A true gentleman, and he wasn't backing down.

"She's cargo, now, is she?" John whispered harshly back while adopting a relaxed pose against the rail looking out over the main deck. Several men below were watching them, and any discord almost a ship's leaders could give rise to a challenge of power.

"She's whatever I wish her to be," was the reply, words catching and turning his guts.

"Well, then," John pushed himself off the rail and bowed to him sardonically, "I do wish the cargo had a pleasant bath this evening, Sir, shall I send someone to replenish her wine, or would you care to do that yourself?"

They stood for several heartbeats, neither moving. Killian's left arm tremored, the ever present violent monster which lurked beneath his skin tugging at it's leash; desperate to teach this man a lesson in respect. But John was right - he usually was, damn him - and Killian's eyes flinted before growling, low and dangerous. "Watch it, John."

John didn't blink, continuing to watch his Captain as he backed up two steps to the top of the stairs. "I shall leave you to it, then, Sir." he bowed again and stepped down onto the main deck.

The room was warm and hot, steam clung to the windows from the humidity of her bath. There was a lantern still burning on the desk, beside a propped open book from his small library and her near empty dinner tray. There was wine still in her glass and he reached for it without a thought; draining it in one swallow and feeling the tannins sting his mouth.

The door to the adjoining cabin was still propped open from his morning, and her soft breathing permeated his cabin.

John had been right - though he had not come straight out and said it.

She was a complication, but not necessarily an unwelcome one.