A/N: Must. Stop. Editing. This. Chapter... needless to say, it's been through hell with all my editing and rearranging... But I think I finally got it. It's taken time, energy, love, and the psychology of men to get this chapter to where it is now. It's either one of my best, or one of my worst. You tell me... *nervouslaughter*
~Own Worst Enemy~
He barely acknowledged that it had already become dark out.
Only half a moon shined brightly onto the clearing where Killian was pacing endlessly on his too-still ship. His mind pushing and pulling like a storm on the sea. He stopped long enough to acknowledge that this wasn't helping him as much as it usually did. He leaned into the railing, realizing he really had to get her back out onto the water, regardless of his intent to take her out or not. That would be no easy feat. He may even need to enlist Regina's services.
He scratched behind his ear in an attempt to release some of that pent-up energy. This whole mess was befouling his mind.
He mentally went over the last week. Their swordplay, the ball, the reveal of her identity, both times he had carried her to her room, the day he first laid eyes on her...
Surely his thoughts were his own when he first met Emma. Seeing a beautiful woman in distress would absolutely cause him to help her… as well as want her. That wasn't the unusual bit, no, that was saved for his near obsession with her. Obsession was not love, he knew, it was infatuation. Or a spell. It could have been the kiss. That would explain things.
He growled in frustration. He didn't believe she'd have intentionally bewitched him. She was far too gone to do anything intentionally. It could have been the fates. But that kiss had happened so soon after their meeting, he couldn't be sure what was true. Love, spell, or otherwise. It was entirely possible he really was obsessed, only feeling it was unusual because he'd never felt this before.
He turned, yelling in sync with the movement of swinging a punch around, directly into the wood of the ship. He breathed out, long and slow, trying to calm himself. This entire situation had him angry. He needed to do something, anything, to get his mind off things.
To get his mind off of Emma.
His mind took a turn he could not have anticipated.
Who was he, really? It was a basic question. He knew he was more than a pirate. More than a man. More than his years of vengeance, or his years of evading Pan.
Captain Hook. Killian Jones. Fierce villain. Man who'd suffered much.
He peered into his past, looking for any answer to that basic question.
He barely remembered life before living on a ship. He was sure there was a time he had lived on land, though those memories were scant. He was once a boy, trouble his middle name. Anything to gain the attention of his father after his mother's death. A mother he could barely remember. Those memories were all but gone, taken by time. He could remember growing up on the sea, becoming a young man who couldn't hold his liquor, had everything to prove, a nasty temper, a gambling habit, a lover of the ladies.
His brother worked with him endlessly to straighten young Killian out, up until he became a leftenent in the Royal Navy when he finally felt he deserved his brother's faith in him. Following in his brother's footsteps was an easy choice, then. That look of pride Liam had given him... And then, Liam was gone, and Killian Jones went rogue. Rebelled, instantly becoming a pirate. That was the first choice he had made as an individual. Had he made the choice purely because of his grief, or had it been a darker desire that had always been there?
He did enjoy the life of a Pirate. The fact that his name preceded him, and that those who knew of him dare not cross him, was a bragging right. All it took was a glance at his hook, and people would scatter. Everyone except for Emma.
He attempted to shake her from his mind.
Piracy made him feel alive. The rush of victory after every battle, every day he survived against all odds, every treasure he had hunted down. It was an adventurous life, one that provided him with his cocky confidence, skills needed for survival, and wealth beyond any he or Liam had ever thought possible.
He chuckled. He really could buy the Charming's out of their Castle and land.
He realized he had lost his train of thought, again.
His first love would always be the Sea. He had never anticipated making a decision that would take him away from her curious blue waves. He knew Milah loved it just as much, and never would have asked to dock for longer than needed for supplies, let alone to set roots. Emma was made of roots. He didn't know what she would want-
Bloody Hell!
He breathed again, calming himself. Surely he could capsize her from his thoughts for an hour? Half an hour? A minute?
It took him a moment to regain his thoughts.
Am I more than my past choices? My actions? Who am I without them?
A drunken womanizer, perhaps.
He pushed that thought out of his head as soon as it entered. He did love his rum, but he found himself drinking less and less since he left Neverland and ran into, a surprisingly older, Bae. Even before that, he had learned to hold his liquor.
Women seemed to appeal to him less than they used to as well. It was as he told Regina. In the span of a decade, things had changed for him. Then he laid eyes on her. In some ways, he knew she spoiled all other women for him.
He began pacing again, aggravated at himself. This night was not an ideal example of how well he had learned to calm his temper as he changed tactics, angrily stomping his way to the Captain's quarters.
He stood in the doorway, taking a minute to survey the room as if he'd never stepped foot here before. It wasn't large by any means. Comfortable. Mermaids engraved in the wood.
A bed in the left corner, enough room for three on his more adventurous nights. He smirked at the memory, allowing his anger to seep out. To the right of the bed was a desk built into the ship. Above the desk and all across the back wall were thick sea-faring windows, so he could see the weather as it changed. Beneath those windows were secret panels one could open. One would find a variety of ammunition, clothing, books, or useless trinkets that he had seized or otherwise found. The far wall held weapons of various sizes and types, hanging as another might have hung artwork. Most were from exotic men who had died on his deck. Trophies of his victories.
In the middle of the room stood a small table used at the captain's discretion. Mapping, charting, dining, interrogations, the occasional beheading. Not his proudest moment.
He forced himself past the grizzly memory, turning to survey the last wall, the one directly to his right, where shelves were built in above more secret panels. Books filled those shelves. When Liam had passed, the space between books had been wide. During his own Captainage, he had filled these shelves almost to capacity. Anything he could get his hands on, though his favorites were historical or mythological. He found many a buried treasure from the books that had been left behind.
It was the shelves that interested him most. Could he define himself here? He moved over, allowing his fingers to drift along the spines as he crossed the room. After everything he, and all his monikers, had been or had done, this collection was a point of pride, even if he only admitted it to himself. He didn't even need to look, he knew the title by the feel of the spine.
Stories. He wanted his own. To be the hero of some tale, people in all realms hearing of his victories -
He stopped dead in his tracks, his hand lingering on the spine of an old book.
Hero?
This was a surprising notion. Though, how could he dare to venture into the realm of heroism? Villainous Captain Hook, saves the village from a dragon? Oh, how wanted it. He craved it. Now that the seed had been planted, he knew it was there to stay. The deepest, darkest, hidden parts of Killian Jones wanted to be a hero of tales worth telling, and retelling.
He focused on the spine his fingers had landed on. He knew this book as intimately as he did a lover. It was a history of Misthaven, ironically enough. A centuries old book, one of the first he had ever collected. He wondered momentarily if another copy had survived as long as this one. Had it ever been rewritten? Altered? Or had it been forgotten completely?
He pulled the book, turning it over in his hand, smiling at the rugged cover. It was worn, though not as much as it should, being as old as he… What was he forgetting? He realized it had been ages since he'd opened it's cover. It began to pang within him the desire to discover the forgotten pages. How could he have forgotten something from these worn pages?
He could just feel it's importance as he moved to the desk, carefully flipping through as hastily as possible while also considering the age of the book.
Thank you for reading!