Author's Notes: Hello, hello, hello! How are we all today? Good? Good. I'm swell.
Finals are over, if you're wondering what's contributing to my delirium.
Summer is officially here, and you know what that means? Writing. Yay! Between you and me, I haven't had a chance to work on this story in months, but fear not, I've got 30-odd chapters written. Updates will be steady and predictable, I promise. :)
Anyhoo, let's catch back up with our favorite pirates, shall we?
Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. In any way. At all. Like, not even a little bit.
Chapter 7
Emma was the first to wake up, and as you might have expected, it only took her two seconds to panic. She had gone to sleep with the firm thought of remaining on her back, preserving that precious inch of space between her and Killian, but somehow she'd managed to wrap herself around him like a monkey to a tree. Her head steadily rose and fell on his chest, and her legs were tangled in his, but perhaps the most telling of all was the way her hand gently rested over his stitched wound. She gently traced the wound with her fingers, telling herself that she was feeling for a torn stitch and nothing more.
I think my heart stopped for a moment.
Emma traced the wound again. He'd been distracted because of her. He'd been worried. He'd been . . . scared. For her. And she could almost feel it in the way he held her to him, one hand holding hers over his wound and the other on the curve of her waist.
I actually quite fancy you from time to time, when you're not yelling at me.
Secretly, in the quietest places in her heart, Emma admitted that she quite fancied him, too. The realization brought a healthy dose of fear that would typically be enough for her to get up and go. To run. And she wanted to run.
But she also wanted to stay, and wasn't that just the damnedest thing?
Killian shifted then, jolting her out of her thoughts. She froze, barely daring to breathe, as he turned just slightly. Emma felt his stitches pull slightly under her fingers, and he huffed sleepily into her hair before nuzzling even closer, purring like a damn cat. Her lips twitched.
It was . . . well, it was kind of cute.
Faint light began to pour through the windows. She should be getting up. On any other day she would have already been up in the crow's nest, and the thought caused her to nearly ache with the need to climb up to her spot to put some distance between herself and Killian. Of course, that would require moving.
And she just knew that Killian was a light sleeper.
He would wake up as soon as she moved, and then she'd have to face him. She didn't want to do that. She didn't know how to do this. She hadn't woken up with a man since Neal. It had been years. What was the procedure, here?
God, they hadn't even had sex, and she was stressing over the morning after.
Emma tentatively lifted her head. He looked young in sleep, far younger than she knew him to be. His hair hung in his eyes like a rebellious teenager, and the scar on his cheek looked like a badge of honor a child would proudly wear after jumping from a tree to see if he could fly.
All sense of innocence faded as her gaze inevitably drifted down.
He was a gorgeous man, not that she ever had any intention of telling him that, and although she let her eyes travel over his broad shoulders and toned stomach with feminine appreciation, her gaze didn't linger. Her eyes settled here and there on lines of puckered skin, some pink and fresh, others pale and old. Scars. She imagined most to be from swords much like his latest addition.
There were two on his abdomen. The one tucked underneath his ribcage was mottled and angry but old. It reminded her of a burn. The other was closer to his hip on the opposite side. It was thin and pink, maybe a two inches long, and Emma thought it might disappear with time. Her eyes fell on his newest addition. That scar wouldn't ever fade. It would always be there, and in a strange way, so would she, since he'd gotten it because of her.
The room was brighter now, the light coming through the window pale yellow instead of grey. She should really get up. More importantly, he should be up. He was always up before her, always on deck when she climbed up to her retreat, her little castle on a cloud, and what would it mean for one of the crew to venture onto deck and not find his captain?
If they smell blood in the water, they'll circle like sharks.
"Killian," she whispered.
She shifted until she'd balanced her weight on her elbow. Gently, she placed her hand on his shoulder and shook him. His eyes were open barely a second later, their blue color foggy with sleep. He stared at her and blinked slowly, "You're still here." He sounded surprised, pleasantly so, and a grin began to form. "I would've thought you'd be high up in your little nest by now."
Emma flushed. "It's late," she said, avoiding his observation. Killian didn't smile, but his eyes glowed with humor as he continued to stare at her. "You're usually on deck by now, and I didn't know what would happen if one of the crew came up and didn't see you."
Killian did smile then, softly. His hand on her waist gently stroked her spine. She'd forgotten about that hand entirely, and the tender caress spoke of an intimacy that scared her, particularly since there was an innate feeling of rightness. As if it was all natural.
"Were you worried about me, Swan?" he teased.
She scowled and abruptly sat up. His hand fell away. Her back immediately felt cool, and her entire body was suddenly vividly aware of the lack of his warmth. She gritted her teeth. "You're an idiot," she said, repeating herself from the night before.
"And a fucking pain in your pretty, little arse," Killian added, "or something to that effect, I believe."
Emma stood from the bed and spun around to glare at him. The arrogant man hadn't moved once since he'd opened his eyes. He was still stretched on the bed, head on the pillow, chest bare, and a stupid cocky smirk on his face. "I could get used to this, you know," he continued. "I quite like waking up to this."
You went unsaid, but by no means did she not hear it.
And that took the wind out of her sails like nothing else.
From his place on the bed, Killian watched her still. Her eyes widened in a familiar, panicked look and her fists clenched as if she was ready to physically fight his words. His smirk softened into something gentle, and he slowly pulled himself upright, his hand reaching for his tender wound. He hissed as he stood, wincing as the wound stretched and the stitches pulled.
"Bloody hell," he muttered.
He looked up to find Emma still staring at him, though her gaze was lowered, her eyes square on his chest. He looked down, as if there could be a surprise there he should know about, but saw nothing but his dark chest hair. Emma didn't notice his playful gesture, and when he looked up to still see her staring, he had to tease, "Oi, this isn't a free show, Swan. But," he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them, "if the lady insists . . ."
"She doesn't," Emma snapped. Her eyes flicked up to glare into his but his grin didn't falter for a second. "Now put on a damn shirt."
"Yes, love."
"And get on deck. Man the helm, or whatever."
"Of course, darling."
"Would you shut up?"
"Whatever you say, beautiful."
Emma marched over to his wardrobe, grabbed a fresh shirt, and threw it at him. Killian caught it with one hand. "Thank you, love," he said, only to have her fume in irritation and nearly growl at him. She stalked toward him, hand raised—whether to slap him or just shove him, he wasn't sure—but he gently caught her wrist, his thumb stroking her pulse point. "Thank you," he repeated, "for waking me. You were wise to do so."
When she pulled away from his hold, perhaps a touch too sharply, he let her go. But he kept staring at her with smitten, soft eyes, and so she huffed. "You still irritate me," she said bluntly.
He smiled. "Aye, love. I know."
And he loved it.
Emma's irritation faded as soon as she stepped on deck. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, the sea was calm. It was picturesque in a way she hadn't noticed before. Too perfect. Like a postcard.
And suddenly she remembered. She remembered.
She remembered the blood and the cries and the fighting and how in the hell had she managed to forget?
Emma wasn't sure what she had expected when she stepped on deck, but she certainly hadn't expected this. She hadn't expected it to look like any other day. There were no bodies. She didn't see even a drop of blood. Around her was nothing but the sea. No sinking, burning ship. No lifeboats. No . . . nothing.
It was like nothing had happened. It was like the previous night had been nothing but a dream. The thought made Emma—who had yet to experience a second of sea sickness—want to retch.
People had died. She had killed someone. And there was no evidence, not even a grave. Her eyes drifted to the water. For the first time she thought the sea looked like a quiet monster, patiently waiting to devour her.
She didn't go to her spot. She went to the helm.
Killian cocked an eyebrow as she strode up to him, but the hint of a smile on his lips faded as he realized she was unhappy. No, she was angry. Not entirely unusual, certainly, but his eyes narrowed when he caught the slight tremble in her chin and the sheen in her eyes. "What happened?" she asked.
She kept her voice low, for which he was grateful. He cast an eye toward the deck. Only half the crew had recovered enough from last night's drunken, celebratory revels to work. A few curious eyes turned his way. Emma rarely ventured to the wheel. He glared at them until they focused on their tasks. "Killian." Emma's voice was hard yet brittle. "What happened last night, after?"
"You won't like that answer, love."
"I need to know."
He sighed. "After we took what we desired, we burned the ship."
Emma's jaw tightened. "And the crew?"
"The few that remained I allowed to take a skiff with three days of supplies."
"What? We're in the middle of nowhere. They'll die."
"On the contrary, if there's even one decent sailor among them, they'll know that there is a small port due west. It can be reached, even in the small vessel I granted them."
Emma swallowed but met his gaze evenly. "And the bodies?"
"All received their due, Swan. I'm a pirate, not a beast."
"Yeah? What do you think your brother would think about this?"
Killian froze. He was shocked, at first. He had no memory of mentioning Liam until that very second. Hazy visions of rum and Emma's steady hands on his side filtered through his mind as his shock steadily morphed into anger. How dare she mention Liam.
"Let me be clear, Swan," his voice was low and clipped, dangerously calm, "while I hold the utmost affection for you, those feelings do not give you the right to use my brother against me in an attempt to soften your own guilt over your actions. My brother is not blackmail. He's my family. Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand."
The regret didn't come immediately. He felt, for a sweet moment, blinding satisfaction when Emma's eyes widened in shocked hurt. Her green eyes glistened, and he relished it, the knowledge that he'd hurt her as she had hurt him, for one beautiful, sweet second. Then he felt like a gutted fish as horror, shame, and regret battled for dominance when he heard her breath hitch.
And he knew, he knew that he had just put them on a path where there was absolutely no return, a path where she would leave him because he'd hurt her like the rest of the world, like she'd quietly expected him to all this time. He saw it in her eyes, the shock, but he then he saw the disappointment.
And he cursed vehemently in his mind.
Because it hit him then, with startling clarity, that she had harbored a small bit of hope that he would prove different from the rest.
"Emma—"
Her face twisted into a harsh grimace as she tried to mask her pain with anger. "Don't," she growled.
She went up to her nest and stayed there the rest of the day.
Emma watched the sunset blankly. She didn't see the reds and the oranges and the pinks playing along the top of the water. She didn't see the storm clouds on the horizon. She simply stared as her mind drifted.
Well, drift was hardly the word. Looped, was far more appropriate.
Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand.
Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand.
Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand.
Perhaps . . .
Yes. Perhaps she would understand, then.
Let me be clear, Swan . . . while I hold the utmost affection for you . . . in an attempt to soften your own guilt over your actions . . .
She had expected nightmares. She had expected to fall asleep only to see her sword in that man's stomach. She didn't even know his name. He was just a nameless man, a nameless man that perhaps had a family, and she'd killed him.
Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand.
But she hadn't experienced a single nightmare. She hadn't even dreamed. She had only fallen into the deepest sleep she could ever remember to a feeling of warmth and safety. Emma scowled. She refused to believe it had anything to do with Killian Jones.
Because she was not that kind of girl.
Night fell completely, but Emma did not move. The air turned cold, the breeze in the nest changing from refreshing to harsh. Emma's hair whipped about her face, but she did not bother to take the tie from her wrist to secure it. She kept her arms wrapped around her knees.
She should go below. The storm clouds were closer now. Lightening flashed in the clouds and thunder shook the ship. The air grew heavy and thick with moisture, and she watched the waves steadily grow larger, hitting the Jolly with increasing violence.
Emma still didn't move. She held her knees tighter to her chest and stared sightlessly at the darkening clouds as she continued to try to understand the world she'd stumbled blindly into. The day had passed like any other. By midday the crew had managed to climb onto deck. The few that she might have considered friends, or potential friends at least, called up to her in greeting that she did not return.
Bee tried to talk to her as he manned the rigging but she ignored him. Old Ace didn't speak to her but he did try to catch her eye, which she pointedly avoided. It was only Vincent who actually climbed into the nest with her and tried to talk.
He looked so incredibly young as he sat next to her, his dirty blonde hair falling out of its ponytail and his grey eyes murky with lack of sleep. He looked like a teenager who had just climbed out of bed. "You're awfully quiet," he said. "Something the matter, lass?"
"No."
"I may be a simple pirate, but I like to think I know when a friend is upset."
"Friend?"
"Aye. What else would you be?" Vincent smiled. "You saved me life, you know." He held up his arm, which she noticed for the first time was in a hastily-fashioned sling. "Got me arm sliced right and proper. Bloody officer might've killed me if you hadn't come up when you did."
Emma looked away. "I'm glad you're okay."
"Bee stitched me up," he said. "Not the nicest way to spend an evening, I'll tell you."
"No," she agreed knowingly. "Definitely not."
They'd fallen into a thick silence then. Emma had hoped that Vincent would get the message and leave, but the blond simply sat, seemingly content to survey the sky until he said, "The first time I killed anyone, I was thirteen. I've been on the water all me life, you see, and I started out as a cabin boy. You've got your good ships and your bad ships, and I got one of the bad ones."
"Not all captains are like Captain Jones," Vincent said. "We pirates are a dishonorable lot by nature, I suppose, but the Captain's a fair man and he knows the value of having lines he's not willing to cross."
Emma frowned but didn't reply, unsure where the story was going, and Vincent smiled half-heartedly. "The ship I was on before this one was a nasty one. The crew were mindless brutes, the Captain even worse. Blackbeard."
"Blackbeard?"
"Ah, I see you've heard of him. He wasn't the problem, actually. Made me life hell, but I managed. It was the first mate who kept looking at me funny, and of course, you hear stories about, well . . . the extent of a cabin boy's duties."
Emma tensed as her head snapped back toward him, her mind suddenly filled with dark memories of a foster home when she was eleven and the man who always peeked into her room at odd hours of the night and just stared. She'd run away after she caught him staring at her in the bath.
"What happened?" she asked quietly.
Vincent kept his eyes on the sea. "He grabbed me one night, tried to, well, use me. It was luck, really, that the cook hadn't come for his dinner plate yet. The knife was just within my reach." He looked at her then. "Stabbed him right here," he said, pointing at his jugular. "It was a bloody mess."
"Didn't even think about it, really," he said, almost absently, as if he hadn't thought about it this deeply in years. Perhaps he hadn't. "I just reacted." Then Vincent looked at her with a gentle, understanding smile. "And that doesn't make it right, but it certainly doesn't make me wrong."
"You're the brightest spot of light on this ship, Emma," he said. "And I think we crew nearly adore you as much as the Captain." Emma scoffed and looked away, uncomfortable with his observation. The idea that anyone adored her was just . . . ridiculous. Vincent chuckled and continued, "You really earned our respect last night, comin' up and fighting like you did. You're one of us, now."
"I'm no pirate."
"Perhaps not," he'd allowed with a grin that said he didn't believe her. "But, alas, I fear our Captain isn't at all happy with our quality time," he said, glancing at the helm where Killian was glaring at him. "Best be getting back to work, then."
Vincent had left her with a lot to think about. Was he right? He'd killed a man to defend himself, exactly as she had. And that doesn't make it right, but it certainly doesn't make me wrong. Emma didn't like that. She wanted clear answers. She wanted black and white, good and evil. It made it simpler.
But really, what in her life had ever been so simple? No, she knew better than most that the world, that people's actions, could not be so evenly split between right and wrong. Her rationale didn't make her feel better, however. It only made her head hurt.
Because what was she going to do? If she chose to leave the next time the Jolly docked in port, how would she live? She'd already considered those choices before coming aboard. Not a single one was favorable. She supposed she could get a horse and however much supplies she could carry and go searching for clues about the pen, but what did she know of the Enchanted Forest?
And, of course, if she left, she would be alone.
It was different, here. She wasn't in Florida. She couldn't get in her Bug and drive to a new city. It wasn't as simple as finding an apartment, signing a lease, and then searching for the best coffee shop. This was the Enchanted Forest. There were new rules, different rules, and suddenly being alone meant something very different. Emma sighed as the Jolly shook with yet another clap of thunder.
What would become of her if she stayed?
Killian had attempted to give her space.
He'd watched her with solemn, self-flagellating eyes as she climbed up into her nest. He hadn't stopped her. He hadn't attempted to talk to her. He'd known that she wouldn't speak to him.
But no, she'd talked to Vincent. Vincent was worthy of her attention.
He'd noticed the boy's affection for Emma. He'd noticed their budding friendship. He'd watched over the past weeks as they spent increasing amounts of time together under the pretense of knot-tying and the occasional session of swordplay. Killian hadn't thought anything of it. Not really.
But he did now.
Now, he wondered.
Just what was the extent of their relationship, anyway?
Other members of the crew tried to engage her. He'd nearly snapped at Bee for attempting to get her attention. It was "Fair weather we're having, m'lady" and then "Care to help with the rigging, m'lady" and again with the "It's awful lonely without you on deck, m'lady" . . . honestly, there was politeness and then there was simple arse-kissing.
And Killian didn't like the thought of anyone kissing Emma's arse. Figurative sense or not.
As the day waned and Emma showed no signs of leaving her nest, Killian grew anxious. She was coming down, wasn't she? She had to at some point. It was only logical. She had to sleep.
Yet by the time he locked the wheel as night fell, Emma still showed no signs of moving. He thought about going to her. He needed to speak with her, to tell her how sorry he was, that he was just a stupid, stupid pirate. He knew that. He owed her that.
But he didn't want to hear her say that she wanted to leave.
So he went below to his quarters, knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep until she was with him, and yet without any plans to actually do something about it. He sat at his desk instead, a candle burning for light as he poured over his maps to chart a new course. He had little desire to seize another ship anytime soon. Perhaps a smuggling venture. Port Royal was not terribly far . . .
It wasn't until the ship rocked sharply that Killian realized how much time had passed. The candle on his desk rolled to the edge, the flame scorching the wood and the wax leaving a hot mess in its wake. He growled in annoyance as he snuffed out the flame with his thumb, glaring at the rapidly drying wax marring his desk. The ship shook again and Killian froze.
Emma was still on deck.
The ship rocked, listing dangerously to the side, sending his books sliding out of their shelves.
Killian was already climbing the stairs. The first thing he noticed was the rain. It was pouring in torrents, nearly blinding him, and he couldn't for the life of him understand how in the bloody hell he'd failed to notice the change in weather. He immediately looked up at the crow's nest, but Emma was not there.
"Swan!"
"Here!"
His head snapped to the helm and there she was, his Swan, looking like a sea goddess behind the wheel as lightening cracked. He called the crew on deck, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the waves. The ship rolled as he climbed toward the helm, sending him slamming into the rail. He felt the stitches in his side tear.
Emma clutched the spokes of the wheel in a death grip, her entire body straining with the effort to keep the ship steady. When the ship rocked yet again, her feet slipped, yet instead of falling to the deck, she fell into a chest as Killian caught her. "Bloody hell, Swan," he shouted to be heard over the storm. "Where'd this come from?"
She stared at him incredulously. "How am I supposed to know?! It's like the sky just opened up!"
"It's bloody damnation." Killian grabbed the wheel, groaning with the strain. "Get below! I don't want you swept off the deck!"
"Like hell!" she snapped and he loved and hated the fire in her eyes as she glared at him. "You need all hands on deck, Captain."
And then she turned and ran down toward Bee to help with the rigging. Killian watched her go with a growl of frustration. Infuriating woman!
He tried to keep an eye on her. He truly, honestly did. Yet the storm was an apocalyptic conflagration of wind, rain, and hail. The night was horribly black, only illuminated whenever lightning struck, and so he only glimpsed his crew in brief silvery flashes that made little sense. Thunder boomed in the sky so often that the air was nearly alive and vibrating. It set Killian's teeth on edge as he tried to steer the ship out of the storm.
Yet no matter where he turned the ship, the storm seemed to follow.
It was madness.
The waves continued to grow bigger, crashing over the rails and sweeping the crew off their feet, sending a handful of unfortunate souls too slow to grab on to something sliding across the deck. Emma clung to the rigging next to Bee, who had only one hand on the rigging and the other firmly clasped around her arm. His grip would bruise, but Emma hardly cared as another wave threatened to sweep her across the deck. She floated upward as the water crashed into her, feeling weightless for a horrifying moment, before slamming back onto the deck. Her hands slipped from the rigging, burned and ripped from the rope, but she kept her feet under her.
She couldn't see. Water fell into her eyes too quickly for her to blink away. Her eyes were narrowed into such thin slits that she might as well have her eyes completely closed. Wind stung her face. Her hair slapped against her shoulders, and with each wave she grew more exhausted.
Another rough wave hit the ship and a horrible crack followed. One of the main lines snapped, partially collapsing a sail, and the Jolly pitched viciously. Emma could just hear a voice on the wind that sounded like Killian, but she was only focused on the rigging and Bee, who charged forward to secure the line.
She followed right after him.
She heard the wave before she saw it. It was a loud roar in her ears that sounded like a monster opening its jaws wide. The air stilled briefly, like the world paused to hold its breath, and then the ocean was growling in her ears.
The water slammed into her with the force of a truck. She had no hope of staying on her feet. She tried to turn, to grab hold of anything, even a leg of one of the crew, but there was no one and nothing.
Then she was falling.
Yeah, Emma just can't seem to catch a break.
It's been lovely watching this story's readership grow, so I hope none of you are too upset with me for the cliffhanger! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. You're all awesome. Don't let anyone tell you different.
Okay . . . line from the next chapter . . . the award goes to . . . Killian! - "Don't do this to me, love."
See you Friday!
-AC
