Neverland is everything Emma Swan hates.
Even if she ignored the reason they were here, hell-bent on saving her kidnapped son from Peter fucking Pan, the island itself isn't to Emma's taste. She's always been a city girl, hopping from Boston to New York to Tallahassee and back again, and the constant threat of walking into a vine or being scratched by an errant thorn, poisonous or not, is just another item on the list of Reasons Emma Will Never, Ever, Ever Come Back To Neverland.
The worst of it is the temperatures. During the day, the air is thick with humidity, her tank top sticking under her arms with the near-suffocating warmth surrounding them in the jungle. It wasn't so bad on the beach, but they had only been there for a few moments before starting their trek to the heart of the island, looking for any sign of Henry.
The nights, however, are the opposite; once the sun dips into the horizon, the temperature falls with it, and though it's by no means freezing, Emma's grey tank offers little protection from the breezes which slip through the leaves. They've put the fire out, wary of attracting the attention of any Lost Boys, and any lingering warmth from the embers has long since blown away as the group rests for the night. Emma wonders if she's the only one affected; Mary Margaret and David are wrapped in each other's arms, and Regina seems content with her blazer placed over her torso like a blanket. Hook, meanwhile, has been traipsing around in the sticky daytime heat in his thick leather duster, so he probably isn't the best gauge of temperature.
The thin dusting of leaves Emma's using as a very poor imitation of a mattress rustle beneath her as she shifts, rolling onto her side and staring across the small clearing. As far as sleeping situations go, she's been in worse; her time as a runaway was certainly less comfortable, and at least she can stretch out fully on the ground. The back seat of the bug was cold and cramped, even if she could use her trusty red jacket as a shield from Boston's icy winters.
The company is definitely better at least; her long-lost parents, the Evil Queen, and a fairytale pirate with an apparent crush on her are definitely on her top five most interesting companions list (although they were so far tied with Mulan, Sleeping Beauty, and said long-lost mother and pirate. Emma's life is weird).
She is, however, missing her large, soft bed back in Storybrooke, with the loft's air-con, central heating, and generally normal temperatures seeming like a fantasy in Neverland's extremes. Emma plans on not leaving the safety of her comforter and duck feather pillows for at least a week when they get back home.
A rustle of wind caresses Emma's bare arms, and a trail of goosebumps rise all the way to her shoulders. She glares at them, just visible in the crisp darkness of Neverland's midnight, and she folds her arms almost petulantly against the cold.
Emma allows herself two minutes before she gives up on sleep. She knows she'd be struggling anyway; her thoughts trail back to Henry constantly, wondering if he's okay, hoping he knows they're coming, desperate to stop him from feeling even a hundredth of the loneliness Emma has seen in the Lost Boys' eyes (a feeling she knows, has seen in her own reflection, one she would never want Henry to feel). Rolling onto her back, Emma pushes herself up onto her elbows, and instantly Hook's eyes are on her.
It's his turn to keep watch, the five of them taking shifts throughout the night. She knows he's probably just responding to the noise of her movement (he's been on edge since they stepped off the Jolly Roger, and while he may be fooling everyone else with his confidence and quips, Emma knows the discomforting feeling of returning to a place you felt lost in), but then again, he always seems to be looking at her.
Emma presses a hand against the back of her neck, trying to rub the soreness from resting on nothing but dirt and leaves away, but only succeeds in pressing granules of dirt further into her already dishevelled hair. When she glances over at Hook, he's unashamedly staring, and it's a new feeling for Emma to be so blatantly at the centre of someone's attention.
She'd usually turn and leave – after all, she probably shouldn't encourage whatever this is between them – but there's nowhere she can go safely alone. Besides, her head is filled with thoughts of her son, lost and alone and scared and with Peter goddamn Pan; a distraction is probably the best thing she can ask for right now, and Hook is currently the only person who's awake and unlikely to immediately talk about Henry.
Careful not to make too much noise, Emma clambers to her feet and tiptoes over to the log Hook has stationed himself on. Gently placing herself beside him, putting enough distance to seem respectable should David wake up, Emma looks straight ahead at the jungle, coated in shadows and still feeling Hook's gaze on her.
"I couldn't sleep," she whispers into the night, shrugging as she wraps her hands around her forearms. "Figured I can take over if you want to catch some shut eye."
Hook exhales next to her, and Emma lets herself look over at him. She can see the raised eyebrow even in the darkness, can make out the smirk he saves just for her, and there's a comfort in the actions which Emma doesn't let herself think about.
"You know you don't have to make up excuses to spend time with me, Swan," he says quietly. "Your company is always a pleasure." He lingers on the final word, and Emma can't help but roll her eyes, knowing exactly what kind of pleasure he'd offer if she gave him the chance (and if they weren't stuck in some hellish jungle with her son to rescue and her parents behind them, that chance would be oh so tempting right now).
"Get some sleep, Hook," she says, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at their sleeping companions. She's only half-surprised when he shakes his head.
"And deprive you of my company? As if I would do something so heinous."
Emma doesn't bother to argue, aware that every word spoken is an opportunity to wake up the others – at least some of them should get some sleep, Emma thinks, although judging by the trio's tossing and turning, none of them will be particularly well rested.
"I'd ask what kept you from your slumber, but I assume you don't want to talk about it," Hook ventures, and Emma raises her eyebrows as he offers her his hip flask.
"You'd assume correctly," she replies, shaking her head. "Does that thing refill itself or something? I swear it's always full."
He lets out a quiet chuckle, retracting the hip flask and taking a swig. Emma's ready to ask if it's really a good idea to be drinking on his shift, but another breeze whispers against them, and she can't fight the shiver that goes through her. Her thoughts turn to what she would give for her sweater collection to be here with her, or her red jacket, hell, even one of Mary Margaret's cardigans-
Emma's thoughts are interrupted by the feeling of something hefty being placed over her shoulders, and her head snaps around to see Hook leaning over to rest his jacket on her. Her hands shoot up to grab its collar, pulling it more firmly around her, the metal buttons cold against her fingers. She can feel Hook smooth the shoulders around her before he moves back, although he's now closer than before.
"I'm used to Neverland temperatures," Hook murmurs, voice low and causing goosebumps of an entirely different kind to run up Emma's arms. "They take some getting used to. And though I do truly enjoy watching you flex those rather spectacular muscles, I'd rather you didn't catch your death of cold while we're out here." He pauses. "Somehow I just know your father would blame me for it."
Emma is ready to push the jacket off, reluctant to show weakness to anyone in this nightmare jungle whether they're on her side or not. But the leather is still warm from Hook's body, and it feels like her red jacket but thicker, and it smells like Hook which should not be a factor but, well, in a place where everything smells like bugs and dirt, the lingering scent of rum is a nice change.
She would, however, throw herself into a bush of nightshade thorns before admitting it.
"Thanks," Emma says, pulling the jacket around herself like a cape. Hook seems surprised, like he expected a fight, but he recovers quickly.
"You're welcome, love. It's a good look on you." Hook winks, and the moment is gone.
Emma snorts; her mussed-up hair, sweat and dirt-stained tank top and pirate jacket combo is hardly runway material. Before she can retort, warmth slowly ebbs back into her, and an image rises, unbidden, into her mind of Henry curled up in his peacoat and scarf, shivering.
"Do you think he's cold?" she blurts out before she can stop herself, clutching the lapels of the jacket around her. At Hook's questioning look, Emma shakes her head. "Henry. He has his jacket, but he's used to central heating and his bed, and I…" She trails off, knowing that Henry being a bit chilly is really the least of their worries when he's surrounded by knife and arrow wielding Lost Boys under the rule of Peter motherfucking Pan. Hook takes a second, his hand hovering just above her shoulder, but he clearly decides against whatever physical comfort he's inclined to give, reverting back to the tried-and-tested safety of their banter.
"Swan, after all the effort Pan put into getting Henry to Neverland, I doubt his big plan is to give your son hypothermia." Emma responds with a glare, and Hook drops his jovial tone immediately. "Pan keeps his camp warm with the magic of Neverland. We know your lad is with the Lost Boys – he'll be warm. He'll be alright."
Emma knows Hook is telling the truth; she doubts he'd dare lie to her about her son, and, somehow, she knows when he's lying even without her superpower in play.
Again, she compartmentalises that little thought into the Deal With This Never part of her brain.
Offering him a smile, she nods. "Thank you."
"We'll get him back," he offers, and Emma has to admit his belief in her – and she knows it's in her, not in the group, because Hook has shown exactly zero interest in anyone else despite David's prodding and Mary Margaret's shifting looks between the pirate and her daughter – is reassuring.
"I know." She says it more for herself than for Hook, but Emma knows that between the five of them – technically six, but who knows where Rumplestiltskin has gone – Henry will get back to Storybrooke, come hell or high water. The grin Hook sends her way is one Emma has started to know as the lead-up to some kind of flirtation, but before he can get the words out a yawn creeps up on her, taking them both by surprise. Emma blinks, trying to shake off the sleepiness that has seeped into her bones with the warmth of Hook's jacket, and Hook's smile softens.
"Now that's a sign for you to get a bit more rest, love," he says. "Get some sleep while you can – Her Majesty will wake you in a few hours anyway." Emma goes to shrug off the coat, but Hook places a hand on the small of her back to stop her. "Keep it for now. If only so I can see your father's face in the morning."
Emma rolls her eyes, standing up as she clutches the jacket to her. "Goodnight, Hook," she says, shaking her head as she goes back to her section of dirt. She knows his eyes are following her, and she refuses to look back as she settles back onto the ground, burrowing under the thick leather and turning onto her side facing away from Hook.
Sleep still doesn't come easily, but eventually it does wash over Emma like a gentle wave. She doesn't remember falling asleep, but when Regina shakes her awake it's like no time has passed between her lying on the ground and Regina's hand on her arm.
Emma's grateful Regina doesn't comment on her newfound blanket, and makes sure to place it carefully next to Hook's sleeping form when she takes her seat on the log.
On the horizon, the sun is beginning to rise, and the chill of the night starts to evaporate.