5 Years Prior.
Killian crouched down to James' level, observing the older man with an amused, but tired, glare–on his back for the umpteenth time that evening quite literally painting the floorboards in his blood. He was sure that the staff would appreciate the new interior, nonetheless. It added a more vibrant charm and character compared to its darker shades and limited light.
James seemed to agree vehemently.
"Suffice to say Mate, but I do really think you should yield."
"Nonsense!" Again, he was to his feet, bracing his hands into fists and rearing on the man that had already piled all of his winnings into a chest, their chest, to be exact; they'd won its entirety several hours ago now, and truth be told, had nothing else to bet. A month's earnings that they'd nearly had to skin a crocodile for.
What hadn't been spent on booze, anyhow.
"I am wearing him out! Look at him, he's tiring!"
He was not. Not only was James' good eye swollen shut, but he was rearing his fists in the wrong direction. The vagabond was taller, with a clear steady diet of meat. Expensive meat. Meat that they could only ever dream of on their steady diet of fish and table scraps from the island; and more probably, very ignorant pirates.
Naturally, James had to choose an opponent that looked as if he walked straight out of a war zone with the scars and ability to prove such… It's what had urged Killian to stay off to the side, merrily drinking his swill, and watch the tomfoolery unveil on its own.
Their 'esteemed' captain would learn by trial and error, he was sure.
They'd run broke as was, and James would be tortured with a headache for the duration of a week. Killian had moved to offer his own advice only after a big thump had roused a huge crack in the poor man's spine and the impact had shattered the bar, and the stool he found himself perched in.
Along with a nicely added paint job to a painting of Davy Jones.
"He's at least a ton larger than you and rather advantageous with your current state."
"Ha!" James spat, a glob of red saliva adding a vibrant mustache to the painting, amazingly in the perfect position directly below his nose with a vague curl to either side. He was anything if not artistic. "That just gives me less of a chance to miss! I'd call that rather 'advantageous', wouldn't you?" He cackled. "You can knock the foolishness out of me when I am sober!"
"I'd wager if I did that Captain, there would be nothing less!" Regardless, he was not able to stop James' advance, the determination with which he exhibited when charging at a man twice his size rather admirable had he not been teetering on the verge of a drunken collapse and swinging with his non-dominant hand. The crew, encouraging they were, only raised their tankards and hollered–one final hurrah. Their tab would require a rich noble's wealth, no doubt.
Killian sighed at the sorry display, the secondhand embarrassment pricking at his neck like a hangman's rope. If only it would if just to save himself from associating with a group of fools–a group of feared and esteemed pirates, but fools when the devil's drink poisoned their systems.
He smiled. A smooth sea never made a skilled pirate, and through his adventures thus far, at the rate he was going, he'd be more renowned than Davy Jones himself well before he turned thirty!
"Captain–" He started as the man landed at his feet with a harsh oof. The sharp intake of breath and the pained expression on his face offered the possibility of a draw, had he been given another moment to speak before his companion was yanked back into the fray. With a sigh, and no other choice he convinced himself, he rounded the barroom floor until he'd swept up by his mentor's side.
One hand braced Hook's arm and drew him to his feet. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.
"It's about bloody time!" James scoffed.
"About bloody time, indeed!" Killian quipped. "You are a mess of intentions."
"Reading poetry again, are you Jones?" He shot back. "London, no doubt?"
Killian ducked a blow just in time for it to smack into his partner's face, glancing just in time to watch him crumple. He smirked. His blood did add a nice color to an otherwise dull interior. "Sicily, actually."
With the confidence that Hook would not get up to try again–he would be a damn fool to anyhow–he rounded on the gargantuan mountain of a man with more favor, bowing with a practiced grace not taught to him by the common rascal. "I must thank you for shutting him up. I will say, his voice does leave a rather impetuous ringing in the ear."
"I would say you could split that prize between the two of you, lad." The man squared his shoulders, tilting his chin up in a show of pride that would have made Killian laugh had he not expected the man to bust his lights out if he so tried. "But I did think you to be a bit smarter than your drunken fool."
"You are aware that you are speaking of Captain James Hook?"
"Your one-handed friend with the drinking problem? I'll be kind, only because you have come bearing gifts." His hand–as large as Killian's face–waved over their box of treasures. "Me and my boys will be sittin' pretty for a while yet."
"I don't suppose I could offer you a trade?"
"A trade?" He laughed, his crew of rowdy men joining him, a chorus of humiliation rising up only further impeded by the fact that he was one man standing. "You're confident of your skills, then?"
"I don't have much to lose." And he was right. The next step was betting off the ship… or the crewman who idly stood by and who he was willing to send them off to their fates with every passing second. Damned traitors, the lot of them. "One round. All or nothing?"
"All or nothing." They didn't shake hands–they weren't gentlemen after all; however much Killian dissuaded that fact. Instead, they stood tall, circled each other with the heavy tension in the room, one vastly more convinced than the other–again, damned traitors they all were–and cheered with another round of drinks. Once again, added to their tab.
Killian couldn't have been given the good fortune of being born a prince, could he?
He backpedaled as the ruffian charged him, throwing out a punch that brushed just past Killian's ear. The brief brush of air against his ear was a clear enough sign that he managed to avoid it where he clumsily scrambled out of the way, landing a punch that barely deterred his opponent.
Godsdamn Hook–
A blow struck him in the eye, stars igniting in his vision with an expected blast of pain that had him teetering back. Momentary confusion struck him as he came back to focus with his surroundings, fists still held in the air, staggering back and tumbling over a bar stool in his efforts to dodge another round. Should he make it out of this mess alive and well, he would be giving an earful to the crew, and then to the captain himself.
Should he meet Davy Jones, well, he always thought they'd have a lot in common.
Killian lashed out, yanking a stool in his way to trip up the other man, landing a kick against his thigh with just enough force to get him to a level where he could lash out at his more sensitive spots. He'd been taught by savages–honorably, but still with the knowledge of where exactly to hit to cause damage. To hurt. Number one code for survival.
And to win a bet should the need ever arise.
The brunt of his knuckles slammed into the brute's nose; a spatter of blood coating his fist and landing unceremoniously into a man's drink–the man thankfully gone from the world and slumped over the woodwork. Killian wouldn't wake him to say.
Best not to interrupt his rest after all.
Inevitably, he found himself meeting the same fate. His opponent barely deterred, hoisting Killian by his collar and throwing him over the bar counter like a common sack. He rolled across, sending a showering of drinks with him. The back wall shuddered from the impact, and Killian threw his arms over his head to protect it from the sudden onslaught of glasses and various wines. He looked up into the eyes of a wary bartender, and only forced an innocent smile in return.
"Add it to our tab?" He asked.
"I don't think so, Mate." The bartender answered.
He didn't figure he would get that lucky.
Killian braced his hands against the edge of the bar and hoisted himself up. In one moment, he was standing, the next a fist sailed directly into his face and threw him into the realm of Davy Jones itself and his bloody mustache.
"In my defense, I was left unsupervised." Hook said as a matter of fact.
Killian looked over where he leaned against the railing of the ship, a cold towel held to his temple, and Gods, his head pounded if the blackening eye was anything to go by. "I have come to the realization that things often don't go in my favor when I accompany you on one of your drinking escapades."
"I wouldn't call it an escapade, more like a…" Hook's hook waved through the air, a puzzling expression taking flight to search for words that Killian had found before he would. "A temporary departure from being a civil man."
"Civil man…" Killian repeated with a scoff. His eyebrows raised, expression flat and unentertained, and his eye twitched at the sudden intrusion of sunlight, the pulsing in his temple not swayed in the slightest at his sorry excuse. Instead, it pounded with a renewed fury with his rising irritation. "An excuse to bet your life away, I think you mean?"
"I haven't killed over yet."
"Choose your words wisely, Captain." Killian scoffed. "They may just be your last."
Oh, how bloody ironic would that be?
"I'd rather die in my world than in someone else's." A tick worked itself in his jaw, eyes sharp and daring, much unlike his. His had earned him the reputation of a force to be reckoned with. When he looked upon someone, clear and unwavering with intentions, men feared, and women shivered to their very cores. "Not like a pirate Jones and a certain Darling lady, at the very least."
He grimaced. "Are you still on about that?"
"Have you been hearing yourself, Mate?" Hook's nose wrinkled, disgust, sweeping one incredulous stare over Killian's form hunched over the railing. The Captain of the Jolly Roger looked as hung over as Killian felt–and he hadn't even had more than one drink–hadn't for the simple fact that at least one of them should be sober when they returned to the ship lest they crash it into the dock attempting to set sail. Again.
One quick gander around the remainder of their crew had told him that he had been the only one that had taken such a thing into consideration. It couldn't have been a disinterest in partaking.
No, definitely not that.
Killian breathed out a sigh, rubbing his eyes with four fingers before his head turned back to the sea. He looked into his wavering reflection, the hard lines in his face and his exasperated expression-a look meant for men much older and most definitely not one of only eighteen. "Well, you'll have to excuse my imbecility for looking beyond the reaches of a pirate." He mused aloud.
"I would call it more than imbecility."
"If your interests didn't rely strictly on drinking like a fish, I'll wager that you might even entertain the idea yourself." Killian went on, his voice cutting through the loud cacophony of their crew, loud and clear-cut, but not holding the hard timber that his Captain's did, rather something equally sarcastic.
Hook didn't laugh, the small grumblings of a laugh starting in his throat but drowned out in his current state. "It brings memories of only good times and I'd rather let myself dwell in that than think." Drowsy eyes harboring some bemusement followed Killian's out to sea. "You should try it. It's my vice and I intend to make a virtue of it."
"A virtuous use of your time indeed."
"If you spent as much time practicing your sword techniques as you do entertaining all of your erratic ideas, I'll assume that you could beat even me."
"And I'll be so bold to say if your captain skills were anything like your drinking, we'd be sitting pretty for the rest of our lives after only one trip."
"A rather bold assumption for a child."
"Bold to assume me a child."
A smile pulled at Hook's lips, subtle but infuriatingly apparent, nonetheless. Cocky simply in the way of knowing. "You do have a strong heart, Jones. I'll give you that, but it won't be enough I'm afraid. Love is far more dangerous and pervasive than even the strongest magic."
"Pervasive?" He echoed.
"Aye." Hook sighed. "It brings nothing but wasted years and endless torment. Your heart's content, Jones. I promise that's all I want you to have, but it isn't in Wendy Darling."
"I never said that I wanted anything from Wendy Darling." And he didn't. She was a fleeting little distraction, a pretty one at that, but he didn't imagine much beyond the way of a casual relationship. Not when her heart was in the clutches of Peter Pan of all the bloody demons. "She is a convenience. Nothing more."
Hook hummed. "Be that as it may. There is nothing more fragile than the human heart, and that makes it that much easier to break."
"Don't settle me so low, James. I am not going to get my heart broken by any regular Lass."
However unconvinced Hook may have been, he only nodded. His hook clapped on his shoulder and gave it a harsh shake. "Well spoken, then. Come. Let us go count our spoils."
Killian laughed incredulously. Of all the ridiculous things he'd heard that evening! "Spoils? Our drowning debt, you mean?"
"We did just go on an excursion, did we not?" With a knowing smile, one more mischievous and dangerous than every Neverland boy combined, he turned away, the small of his back pressed against the side before shoving away. The balance followed his step in one fluid movement despite the grogginess in his stride. "I will teach you a lesson, Jones–if you want to hide your treasure where no one will find it, leave it to a pirate."
"You stole it?"
"I call it spoils of war." Again, with that dismissive hand wave, tucking a hand and a hook into the pockets of a long coat meant for a man as extravagant and powerful as he, however foolish at times. "I may have taken the initiative when you were getting hurdled over the bar."
"You watched me get beaten?" He gaped, turning away from the railing. His boots spit up dust at the sudden movement.
"You may be fond of a lass, but I am not that fond of you." He chuckled, jerking his head in the direction of the cabin before his body followed suit. "Let us count our earnings and be going. We will need to be much further from here if we are to avoid trouble."
Killian watched his retreat utterly speechless, looking over his shoulder only once in the direction of the sea, rolling with no special care toward the island, as if beckoning. A sea of rum couldn't compare to the levels of intoxication.
Dangerous and pervasive, as his Captain had said.