A/U Hola again! I just wanted to say: EMMA SWAN KISSED KILLIAN JONES IN A COMPLETELY CANONICAL SENSE AND IT WAS PERFECT! That is all – enjoy this chapter.

Chapter Twelve: Heartbeat

She walked quickly down the hall and had just reached his door when a sharp, nearly inaudible hiss broke the quiet. Emma frowned, pulling to a stop in front of the open doorway. Vaguely, she felt a part of herself chastise the blatant disregard for social convention, forgetting to knock as she moved into the room. But his door was open and it wasn't like he was going to protest her entry.

It was nearly exactly the same as the last time she'd been in there, when they'd hastened back to Storybrooke from New York with a dying Dark One in tow. But somehow, as her eyes landed on his figure across the room, she found the picture complete.

He was standing in front of his desk, his dark leather vest in a small pool on the ground beside him. His back was turned and she heard him hiss again as he turned to the side, his profile now visible to her. His thin black tunic was plastered to his chest and parts of his arm left, clearly damp as he pulled some of the fabric delicately from his chest and groaned.

"You're hurt," Emma said, the words leaving her mouth without her permission as she eyed his fingers, blanching ever so slightly when they came back tinged red. He glanced up from his spot across the room, a sarcastic expression gracing the elegant features of his face.

"Good observation, love – but you should probably know its social custom to knock before entering," he looked up again but held her stare this time, a smirk on his lips and a glint in his cerulean eyes, "I could have been indecent." The way the last word rolled off his tongue was obscene, his eyes locking onto hers and, despite the distance separating them, Emma felt suddenly much too close for comfort.

Schooling her features into an unamused expression, she swallowed the unfamiliar feelings welling inside of her and stepped closer, jerking to the doorframe as she did, "Your door was open."

For some reason, his smirk only broadened, "I'll remember that for next time."

Emma continued to walk forward, her eyes focused solely on the fabric-concealed wounds littering his chest and arms. He too looked back down to them, his good hand reaching to his crippled upper arm to pull lightly at the fabric there. She winced at almost the exact same time he did and didn't stop walking until she was standing a mere metre in front of him, watching carefully as he assessed his wounds.

"Why didn't you come straight down here when we got on deck?" Emma asked, risking a glance at his face which was still focused entirely on his upper torso. He sighed and dropped his hand, turning around and rifling through his desk drawers.

"Because I believed I should steer us on course first – ah, bloody…" a litany of creative curses left his lips in a hiss as he stilled, his hand reaching up to grab the other arm for a moment before he continued, "I assumed you would want to return home as soon as possible… though now it seems a bit obsolete." He turned around, holding a small box in his good hand. He placed it on the edge of the desk and Emma saw that it contained a bottle of amber liquid, string, a needle, bandages and some other cloth.

She watched silently as he pulled up his sleeve and she gasped softly at the torn skin of his upper arm, the red lines clearly deep and, judging by the look of concentration on his face, very painful, "Jesus, Hook – did the Eboli do that?"

He nodded, folding over the sleeve and turning back to the items on his desk, selecting the bottle and uncorking the lid with his teeth. As he spat it out he looked up at her, "Aye, a nasty creature isn't it?"

Hook manoeuvred his hand so he was holding the cloth over the bottle and she watched as he deftly coated the small patch with the liquid. As he pulled it away from the bottle, his eyes locked onto the wounds on his arm, and Emma shook her head and took a step closer.

She snatched the fabric out of his hands before he could protest, "Let me help," she sighed.

Almost immediately he reached for it, "No, you don't have to lass."

But Emma held it out of reach and gave him a stern look until his lips tilted up in a smirk. He pursed his lips and pulled back, leaning against the desk as she stepped closer to his arm. She positioned herself at his side and took in the sight of his arm and the gashes striped across it. Holding the alcohol-covered cloth, Emma used her other hand to grasp his elbow and then softly began dabbing at the red tinged skin.

"You know, if you were that desperate to touch me, all you had to do was a – ah," he hissed, squinting his eyes shut and biting down on his cheek to stop himself from groaning loudly.

Emma looked up at him briefly through her lashes, a reluctant smirk playing at her own lips, "Payback's a bitch," she said quietly, reminded oddly of the beanstalk when he'd tended to the wound on her hand. He looked down at her with amusement and shook his head.

"At least try to be gentle," he remarked.

"I make no promises," she acknowledged before she began dabbing at the skin. A comfortable quiet passed over them, the only sound the occasional gasp as the alcohol touched his ravaged skin and the soft wet sound of the cloth touching his cuts. When it was finally cleaned, Emma studied it momentarily and, deciding it didn't need stitches, leaned across him to grab the bandages.

She could feel him looking at her as she moved, her shoulder brushing his as she did. He smirked gently, a strange tenderness in the expression that took her momentarily off guard. Thankfully, she was able to keep her expression neutral, unfurling the white cloth and wrapping it around his arm.

Now clear of blood, Emma found herself able to appreciate the lean muscle that was so well-hidden under his large coat and tunic. She'd known he was toned – had felt it in the Giant's lair when they'd embraced – so it wasn't surprising, but it would be a lie to claim she wasn't impressed by what she saw. As she finished wrapping up his arm, securing the bandage in place, Emma stepped back and surveyed his chest.

The black tunic was a dark maroon colour now and she could see the tears in the fabric and the shredded skin beneath. Some of it had started to congeal and Emma chewed her bottom lip as she stared at it.

Evidently, Hook mistook her expression for something else, "See something you like, love?"

She met his gaze with an unamused stare, her lip thinning into a line briefly before she sighed and put the white bandages down.

"You're going to have to take your shirt off," she said exasperatedly, knowing he would pounce on the opportunity to lather innuendoes. And she certainly wasn't mistaken in her assumption. A Cheshire cat grin spread across his face and he raised an eyebrow.

"That eager to get my clothes off, Swan?" he whispered, his tongue swiping across his lips in a gesture that should have been illegal. Emma rolled her eyes and placed her hands on the hem of his shirt, watching as he pulled his arms up and winced when the movement flexed the muscles in his hurt arm. She tugged the black tunic up and over his head, grimacing at the sound it made as it was forced to part with the skin on his chest. She heard his intake of breath too and made quick work of throwing it down next to his vest.

Three deep gashes stretched out across his muscled torso and Emma bit her lip, silently hoping he didn't see past the concern in her eyes to the sudden appreciation she felt as she scrutinised his figure. Even half covered in scars and blood, he looked good – the kind of good that came from gladiators in movies as they stepped, bloodied and beaten, out of the arena.

She swallowed, stepping forward and grabbing the cloth again. Coating it in the alcohol, Emma moved closer and, not letting herself overanalyse the situation, started to dab gently at the cuts on his chest. The blood cleared, the red that covered his chest absorbed into the cloth so it was tinged pink, and she made sure to wipe at the expanse of his torso since the blood had spread via the fabric of his shirt. When his skin was clean, she surveyed the damage, the broken skin already bruising around the edges.

"They'll probably need stitches," Emma said, her gaze flitting up from his muscled chest to meet his eyes. He exhaled heavily and a consternated look crossed his face for a moment.

"Perhaps not… the floor board at the end of my bed is loose – there should be a small bottle of white-ish gel under it," Hook explained, pointing to the wooden floorboards at the foot of his bed. She gave him a strange look before she turned around and knelt there, feeling around until there was a squeak. Emma pulled up the floorboard and was surprised to see a small compartment filled with a multitude of strange and seemingly useless knick-knacks.

She spied the bottle quickly and extracted it, moving the floorboard back into place and approaching him once again.

"Thank you," he said, taking the small transparent bottle from her hand and uncorking the lid with his teeth. He placed it on his desk and used his good hand to take a large dollop of the strange, thick white-ish substance. Without warning, Hook started to spread the stuff across his open wounds and groaned when it made contact.

"What the hell is that?" Emma asked, watching as he rubbed the stuff into his skin, her eyes widening when the deep gashes seemed to shallow before her eyes until they were long cuts, still deep, but definitely not requiring stitches.

"Pixie dust mixed with a special pollen and nymph-tree sap – all of which have healing properties, especially when mixed together," he replied distractedly, wiping the last of the salve into his chest. He used a clean cloth from the small box on the desk to wipe his hand on and dropped it back onto the wooden surface as he looked up at her.

Emma nodded towards the red marks on his torso, "Okay, well we still need to dress those."

He raised an eyebrow, "We?"

"Shut up and stand there," she said with a roll of her eyes, pushing him away from the desk so she could get a clear path around his entire torso, "Arms up." She grabbed the bandages behind him as he smirked and lifted his arms slightly.

"I feel like your manhandling me should be offensive but I quite like a woman who takes charge," he commented as she began to pull the white cloth around his upper body, wrapping it around and around, her arms brushing his sides with each new dressing.

"Seriously?" she said with a raised eyebrow, "And here I thought the innuendo spouting pirate had toned it down in my absence."

He shook his head and smiled, leaning in ever so slightly, "Why ever would you think that?"

Emma pulled the last section of the bandage around and fastened it, patting his chest lightly and taking a step back, "Done." She found her eyes inadvertently roaming over his chest again and she blinked, clearing the haze and focusing on the desk behind him, "Now put your shirt back on," she ordered.

He chuckled but started to move towards his chest of drawers on the other side of the room.

"Uncomfortable, Swan?" he challenged with a glance over his shoulder.

"No," she answered quickly – too quickly – as he opened a drawer and pulled out another black tunic, shrugging it on and walking back towards her.

"Oh, good. I was worried you might be flustered," he said, amusement clear in his tone as he swaggered forward.

Emma scoffed, trying desperately to cover the note of breathlessness in her voice, "Because that's likely." She folded her arms across her chest and watched him stop in front of her, his eyes drifting thoughtfully over her face as he seemed to search her for something. Always searching. She let her eyes drop and shuffled uncomfortably for a short moment.

"So what's the plan once we get to Calcava Port?" she inquired awkwardly, trying and failing to subtly change the subject.

He smirked, the look oddly reminiscent of the same one he'd given her in the giant's lair after they'd embraced, and looked over her shoulder in thought, "I'll get into contact with my friend and we'll find out if this Gwen is in Neverland."

She frowned, "You're not going alone?"

He met her eyes and raised his eyebrows, his expression denoting a feeling of insult, "I went alone the first time, darling, and I think I can handle myself." With the last word he walked around her to his desk and began placing the medical items in the wooden box, depositing it in the desk and turning around to sit on the surface edge. Emma simply stared at him and, after a long pause, shook her head.

"You are not going alone," she repeated, this time the words a statement rather than question.

He cocked his head to the side and studied her, "And, pray tell, why not?"

She opened her mouth to retort but clamped it shut, thinking rapidly about the natural response that had just threatened to escape her mouth: 'that's too dangerous.' He was a pirate, he could handle himself, had done so for the past three centuries, but still. In the space of a second, she had her features controlled and morphed into one of minor distaste. Her defensive instincts kicked in, the ones she'd honed over twenty-eight years, the ones that pushed everyone out without remorse. Her walls re-erected, she stood slightly taller and raised an eyebrow.

"How do I know you're not working an ulterior motive?"

Regret washed over her almost immediately as the words were cast out into the room, cutting the air like knives.

The knee-jerk reaction to go on the defensive was a hard habit to break. A nasty habit as it were.

And just like that, his expression transformed – the amusement evaporating as his face hardened and he let out a mirthless bark of laughter.

"Point taken," he said, pushing off the desk and stepping quickly into her personal space. He leaned forward until his face was an inch from hers, "Feel free to join me," he bit out harshly, nearly baring his teeth as he did. She held her ground, watching as he pulled back and walked around her and left the room.

Idiot, she hissed internally, unsure whether she was angry at him or herself. She was pretty sure it was the latter.

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Strangely enough, the wind had worked in their favour and they reached Calcava Port late that evening, in fact Emma wouldn't have been surprised if it was close to the morning of the next day. The night air was brisk and she pulled her jacket tighter around her as she stood above deck, listening to Hook debrief David on the Jolly Roger. She fidgeted impatiently, and found herself wondering precisely when her father had started to trust the pirate enough to allow him to make unaccompanied expeditions.

And since when did Hook trust anyone with his ship?

She had missed a lot.

David nodded at the appropriate intervals as Hook spoke, pointing out important ropes and instructing him how to pull them and manoeuvre them. When he finished speaking, the pirate turned to face her. His eyes scanned her figure indifferently and he met her gaze, the coldness obvious in the way he regarded her.

Emma kept her expression neutral and raised an eyebrow, trying to appear unaffected by his disdain. Her earlier comment had clearly had a greater effect than she'd intended.

"What?" she asked with a shrug when he shook his head and began walking to the hatch. David levelled her with a confused look and they both followed him down into the ship.

"What's wrong?" her father asked as Hook walked into one of the rooms and headed straight for a cupboard at his left. The pirate didn't answer, instead grabbing out something long and soft and handing it to the blonde, dropping it in her arms and giving her a stern look.

"Wear that," he instructed, pointing at the item that she had now identified as a deep burgundy coloured cloak. At David's raised eyebrows, Hook sighed, "Calcava Port isn't the sort of place you want your daughter to be seen, mate." The undercurrent of this comment hit them both hard and Emma swallowed, her father's face finally drawing into one of reluctance.

She'd already dealt with Neal's opinion on the matter. In fact, she could quite vividly recall his spiel about how 'she shouldn't be going to a place like that with someone like Hook.' With her temper already quite short, she was in no mood to console her father's worries.

David turned to look at his daughter, "I'm not sure you should do this – Hook will be alright by himself."

The pirate snorted, "Your daughter begs to disagree."

Emma glared at Hook, but directed her comment at David, "I'll befine."

She felt a hand brush her elbow and dropped Hook's gaze to stare at her father. He tilted his head to the side in a motion that was almost silently pleading, "Are you sure?"

Hook watched the exchange silently and, though he would never admit it, hoped David could talk some sense into her. He hated that she couldn't trust him, but trumping all of that was the fear he felt in his gut at the idea of taking her into the brothel that was Calcava Port. He'd seen many a heinous act in his time in Neverland and, while he'd never ceased to interfere whenever he could, sometimes mass outweighed wit and one could only try to prevent further damage.

Emma gave David a firm, reassuring look, her voice drawing Hook from his reverie, "Yes."

There was an edge of finality in her voice and David nodded, accepting her affirmation and letting go of her elbow. He put his hands on his hips and looked back to Hook. His lips thinning into a line, the pirate nodded and moved past them both to enter the main deck once again, Emma following closely behind.

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Despite the lateness of the hour, Calcava Port was thriving with life when they arrived, the sound of drunken carolling and clinking glasses echoing throughout the cobblestone streets as Emma followed Hook. The burgundy robe hung heavy over her, the hood obscuring her face but not so much that she couldn't see.

Every so often as they walked, he would look over his shoulder at her, wordlessly ensuring she was still following closely behind. They hadn't spoken on the short trip from the ship to the derelict docks, and it was still silent between them. She eyed his back, the black cloak he had picked for himself making him resemble the grim reaper as he strode through the streets, creating a path through the night for them both.

And suddenly she found herself wondering just how many lives he had taken in his time as a pirate. The treacherous thought fuelled the untrustworthy side of her, the side that wouldn't let him in no matter the costs. He save your life a part of her whispered fervently, but was subdued by another more sinister whisper, he'll betray you eventually, they always do.

She tried to quieten the internal war by focusing on her footing, childishly trying to make sure her steps always landed on the bricks and not the cracks.

Step on a crack, break your mothers back.

Funny how during her angst-filled adolescent years she had always purposefully stomped on the breaks in the pavement, a strange feeling of satisfaction washing over her when she thought of the person who abandoned her feeling pain. Looking back, she cringed, especially with the hindsight of her parent's true reasoning.

Just because they had a good reason, doesn't mean it didn't hurt, she felt herself affirm.

When Hook eventually looked over his shoulder again, she still had her head down, her feet moving lithely from brick to brick in a strange sort of pattern. He raised an eyebrow but didn't question her; he didn't honestly feel like talking to her yet. Anger still simmered beneath the surface, her distrust wearing on him like sandpaper, slowly scraping away the mask of indifference until only his most raw emotions remained.

He looked up and quickly caught sight of the broken wooden sign for 'The Inn.' Pulling himself up to stand slightly taller, Hook turned and waited for Emma to sidle up to him. Reluctance and anxiety swept over him in soft waves as he glanced between the blonde and the bar; he had thought her father could talk her out of it. Even so, he shouldn't have let her accompany him – he should have left without her knowledge. She looked up when she notice his slower pace.

"What's wrong?" she asked, giving him a confused look.

"Nothing," he responded quickly, abruptly aware that his deliberations must have been broadcasted on his face. Emma raised an eyebrow and narrowed her eyes.

"Remember that little skill I have?"

He rolled his eyes and stopped at the door to the tavern, turning around to face her before they could enter. Her own gaze ascended to the sign before drifting along the dirtied green glass windows and muddy walls, her mouth pulling slightly into a scowl of disgust. A greenish glow spilled from the windows and onto the road, casting squares of light into the dark street and illuminating her face ever-so-slightly when she looked at it.

When she dropped her eyes back to him she shrugged, "I've been to worse."

He shook his head exasperatedly and fixed her with a stern look, "As soon as we enter, keep your head down and don't speak."

Her expression became unamused, "I think I can handle myself."

However, when she moved to step past him and open the large wooden door, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. His purchase on her was relentless and she looked up to his eyes, ready to admonish him, when the tinge of concern there struck her silent. Hook maintained her gaze and reiterated his warning, "Keep your head down and don't let them see you're a woman."

The meaning laced into his words made her swallow against her will, a sudden feeling of worry creeping up on her. She'd dealt with the kind of men he was describing before but, for some reason, the fact that it had him worried disconcerted her a great deal. And the look in his eyes – more than just fear or worry, but something deeper and more telling – had her rooted to the spot.

Emma nodded once, schooling her features and pulling the burgundy hood further down her face. His hand dropped from where it had gripped her arm and snaked out towards the door knob.

The putrid smell of sweat and alcohol mixed together bombarded her senses like a physical ailment as the large wooden door swung open, the sounds of drunken laughter and glasses clinking growing louder. She kept her head down as she followed Hook through the bar, careful to step between the bulbous men scattered around the place. She felt Hook's hand as it came back to grasp her wrist gently as he led her towards the left. When they stopped, she tilted her head up just enough to see they were in the corner of the establishment where a small empty booth sat unoccupied.

"Wait here, I'll only be a moment," he said, pointing to the cubicle and waiting until she was seated, giving her a small nod, before walking through to the bar.

Emma used the opportunity to glance at her surroundings, the clumps of men and women sporadically placed in the dimly lit room. They all wore clothing that looked as though they'd stepped straight out of a 'Pirates of the Caribbean' movie; the busts overflowing, the vest buttons straining.

She shook her head and looked down, Hook's wary instructions playing like a mantra in her mind.

Keep your head down, keep your head down, keep your head down.

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Killian smiled tightly when he saw the familiar black and silver pony tail, a part of him still not entirely comfortable with Emma being even remotely near 'The Inn,' let alone in a booth at the back while he tried to get information. He pulled up a chair beside Blackbeard who instantly turned when he felt the other man's presence.

He grinned and slapped Killian on the back, "Ah, you're back! How'd it go?"

The younger man patted Blackbeard's arm in greeting, "It was a success, but that's not why I'm here."

Blackbeard took a sip from the mug of ale in his hand, slamming it down on the table and ordering another before turning to Killian again, "I'm starting to think I should feel hurt by your always using me." He chuckled lightly, pounding his chest when he began to cough and splutter and, when he'd regained his composure, continued, "What do you need, my boy?"

"Pixie dust."

Blackbeard frowned, "But I just gave you a bunch!"

Killian gave him an unamused look, "Which I used when retrieving the girl's soul."

The older pirate's eyes narrowed fractionally for half a second and there was a slightly knowing edge to the way he regarded the younger man sitting beside him. Blackbeard cocked his head to the side and stroked his beard thoughtfully, "How is she?"

Killian felt suddenly exposed under his former captain's scrutiny and shrugged indifferently, an apathetic façade slipping into place over his already present pirate's mask, "She's readjusting but she hasn't changed much at all. She's still tough as mermaid scales."

Blackbeard nodded, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips, but didn't push the conversation any further. He grabbed the newly filled mug in front of him and took a long gulp, wiping his beard and sighing.

"Okay, well I don't have a favour to call in anymore but that friend might be willing to help me out. She's in a good mood of late," he explained. And the smile that appeared on his face when he turned away from Killian, his eyes on the wall behind the bar, was something completely foreign to his usual mirth – almost sinister. It was too bad the young pirate beside him had chosen that exact moment to glance over his shoulder at the burgundy cloaked woman still seated quietly in the booth in the back corner.

Too bad indeed.

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Emma fiddled with her hands as she waited, her thoughts consumed by one individual in particular: Hook. Had she been too harsh when she'd said she didn't trust him to come to this place alone? It had been a natural response to a question that would have otherwise left her exposed. She certainly hadn't meant it – that much she could freely admit. Sure, she didn't trust him completely (she didn't trust anyone completely other than Henry) but that wasn't the reason for her accompanying him.

It was blatantly obvious to her by now that if he hadn't betrayed them yet, he wasn't about to any time soon. Hell, he'd actively participated in her resurrection. But at the same time, he didn't do things for no reason. So why was he here if not working a personal agenda?

She shook her head lightly, forcing herself to control the random train of thought. She'd come to this place because she disliked the idea of sending him in alone, a strange gut feeling telling her it wasn't the sort of place anyone should be alone.

Without fully realising it, Emma had tilted her head up ever so slightly to look at the man in mention. He sat at the bar talking to a larger man with a black and silver beard, his stance relaxed and gestures warm and friendly.

She took the opportunity to study his 'contact,' and raked her eyes down the anonymous man's figure. It was as she looked up to the man's eyes as he said something to Killian that she felt a strange ringing in the back of her head, her lie detector tinkling like a wind-chime in a soft breeze. Whatever the man had just said hadn't been an outright lie but it sure as hell hadn't been the pure white truth.

Emma frowned and began scrutinising the man even further, watching the way his face was seemingly constant in its joviality even when something he said made Killian's face close off.

Something about him was off.

"Now what's a pretty lass like yourself doing alone in a bar like this?"

Shit.

In her inspection of Killian's contact, she hadn't realised that she'd lifted her head just enough to make out her face. Killian was going to kill her for this. She cursed under her breath but dropped her head down, hoping the drunk-sounding man might move along if she didn't respond.

She should have known better.

"Pretty and silent?" he chuckled arrogantly, a croaky sound that made her think of cigarettes and dirt, "I've hit the jackpot." His comment poked unceremoniously at her temper and she felt his grubby hand as it tried to come under the hood of her cloak and flick it back. She gripped his wrist and threw it away, a sharp hiss escaping her mouth, "Come near me and I'll break your face."

She growled when his unfazed laughter reached her ears and she felt his presence at her side, cutting off her exit, "Oh, don't be so rash sweetie." His hand came up again to lift back her hood and Emma slapped it away without hesitation, "I'm sure we could have some fun."

"Piss. Off," she reiterated, the acid in her tone near tangible.

It was silent for a long moment and she felt a mixture of surprise and relief that he'd actually taken the hint and trudged off to find another victim. But, as soon as the thought entered her mind, it disappeared as she felt a sharp edge at her side. Emma looked down to where a small silver blade was pressed threateningly against her waist, a grubby hand gripping the hilt. She followed the arm up to a lanky looking man, his face contorted into something like condescension and misplaced satisfaction.

"I really wouldn't say that to someone with a knife at your side," he sneered.

Emma grit her teeth, her fists clenching in her lap, "Take the knife away or I'll cut your hand off with it." She'd dealt with his kind before, being a bail-bondsperson had afforded her the opportunity to learn a plethora of valuable skills; such as how to disarm a man with a knife (something she'd had to use more times than she could count). Bail jumpers weren't typically very accommodating to her requests.

She was brought back to reality when the man pushed the tip further into her, a small tear forming in the thick cloak.

"I doubt that's going to happen, sweetie," he derided.

"Especially when there's three of us and one of you."

The new voice came from somewhere behind him and she finally took the chance to look around. The man who had spoken sidled up to his mate; he was beefed up and bald, dirt appearing to be lodged in every crevice of his face and body. To the left of the duo, leaning on the back of the seat opposite her, was another man whose appearance suggested he was related to the second man.

She could handle one, but three?

Shit.

Meeting the first man's muddy brown eyes again, her eyes flickering with the flames of subdued wrath, she bit down the ugly retort she wanted to spit. He leered down at her and flicked his head up twice, motioning for her to stand.

Emma slid slowly from the booth, the blade never leaving her side, and pushed herself up to stand in front of him. He smelt putrid. One of the other men grabbed her left arm as the man before her positioned himself at her right. The third man stood somewhere behind her and she instantaneously calculated her options as they began to drag her along.

Let them take you out and try to escape into the night – but then she risked getting lost and with a wider area she was less likely to actually get the drop on them.

Her second option was to act now, where there were other men and women who would hopefully either intervene or afford her a long enough opportunity to get Hook's attention. Either way, the better option was clearly to evade them now, in the crowded hull of the bar.

Taking a deep breath, Emma shoved her elbow into the gut of the man at her left and, in the same motion, grabbed the hand holding the knife. She twisted roughly, a part of her relishing when the man cried out in pain before dropping the blade. As he pulled his hand back, Emma kicked him in the gut, sending him onto a table, crushing the glasses of beer that had been strewn across it. She hissed as pain shot up through her leg and she tumbled for a second, her leg feeling momentarily numb.

It disappeared quickly though and she turned around when the crack of wood breaking reminded her of the fact two men were still behind her ready to –

Or not.

As she pivoted on her heel, Emma's eyes were drawn quickly to two figures on the ground. She looked up to see Hook, his sword drawn and a fierce look in his eyes that almost made her flinch. He stalked towards her and it gave her a moment to appreciate their surroundings, anxiety seeping into her bones as about ten men stood up and began to approach. Their eyes flitted between the two men on the floor and the pirate and the blonde, anger tinting their dark eyes as they walked forwards. She felt Hook move slightly in front of her, his body shielding hers.

The sound of glass squelching under new weight forced her to turn around she watched as the initial man tried to push himself up, cuts running up and down his arms. He glared at her, a cruel smirk playing around his cracked lips, "You'll regret that."

Before she could respond, Hook shifted in front of her, "Oh, I don't think so," he replied, his voice laced with disgust. And, with one swift movement, he knocked the man down with the hilt of his sword, a loud crack sounding as he did.

It seemed that was all the men behind them needed because suddenly there was a chorus of crowing and yelling and she could hear the tables screeching across the floor as they bustled towards them. Hook sheathed his sword and gripped her wrist, and then they were running through the bar, out the door and onto the street. The night air was fresh on her face, a welcome change to the thick atmosphere within 'The Inn' but she didn't have time to savour it as Hook continued to pull her forward.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder as they ran through the centre of the empty cobblestone path, and saw with dismay that a crowd of men had exited the establishment and were now sprinting after them, their whoops and cries echoing through the street. Hook's grip tightened, if possible, and she looked ahead, keeping pace with him as they pulled a sharp left into an alley and another sharp right and then another left, zig-zagging their way through small back streets and alleys until the men's voices were but a dull roar.

They finally slowed down to catch their breaths and Emma keeled over, putting her hands on her knees to brace herself as she regained her composure. Beside her, Hook leaned against the brick wall for a moment, his eyes trained on her.

"I thought I told you to keep your head down," he eventually said when she stood back up, his tone admonishing.

Emma frowned, immediately defensive, "I did!"

He raised his eyebrow incredulously and motioned in the direction from whence they'd come, a strangely furious glint in his eyes that wasn't exactly directed at her, "Then why did I have to gut a man?"

Emma rolled her eyes, shrugging sarcastically as she retorted, "Because I guess my silhouette isn't masculine enough."

He shook his head and took a step away for a short moment before moving back towards her again, as though undecided where he wanted to be in relation to her, "You're lucky I got the information in time –"

"I don't trust your source."

The words were out before she could stop them and the incredulous expression on his face tickled her temper ever so slightly. He smirked mirthlessly, folding his arms across his chest as he cocked his head to the side thoughtfully.

"Excuse me?"

In the face of his derisive tone, Emma pulled herself up taller, reaffirming her statement more confidently as she lifted her chin up, "I don't like him."

Hook scoffed, "You don't like me either."

Emma narrowed her eyes and tried to ignore the marginal tightening in her chest when he made the comment, "I don't trust him."

"Yet another thing he and I have in common – wait…" His voice drifted off and he put a hand up, motioning for her to stay silent and Emma held her breath. The sounds of the men were getting closer again and she groaned under her breath as Hook hissed an expletive before signalling for her to follow him, "Damn it, quickly, this way."

He led them further into the alley, forcibly opening a small wooden door in the brick wall to their left and flourishing his arm for her to go first. She rolled her eyes but entered the dark room, turning when she heard the door squeak closed.

Hay covered the ground and it looked to be a blacksmith's workshop, tools and blades strewn everywhere. Hook moved further into the black room, the only light available peeping in through a window on the far wall.

Emma watched him walk towards the light and eventually whispered, "I just think you should be careful about him."

He didn't turn and she could hear the disdain in his hushed voice, "Would you mind giving me a warning when you establish the difference between he and I because I am yet to hear one."

Anger began to sweep through her and she walked quickly so she stood behind him, "Seriously?"

Hook turned around to face her and his facial expression was reminiscent of the pirate who'd abandoned her in Rumplestiltskin's cell, mirthless and fed up. And she found a part of herself quietly admitting that she deserved his anger.

"What? You've inferred as much, what with your penchant for doubting me –"

"You're still cut about the beanstalk?" Emma cut him off before she could restrain herself, her usual filter evidently out of service for the evening – or perhaps it was just his presence that made her speak every thought that came to mind. Either way, it wouldn't have changed his reaction as he stalked forward, invading her personal space as he forced her to take a step back, his face tilted down so they were eye-to-eye.

"No, love, not just the beanstalk – you doubting my allegiance to you at every sodding turn regardless of what my actions allude to."

And with his icy blue eyes piercing into her, she found all of her sympathy evaporate; a desire to fight, to hurt, to burn, lighting her nerves like little matches being set alight. Emma glared at him, pushing him back harshly – reservations be damned, "That's because your allegiances are based on whoever best suits your agenda."

He raised his eyebrows and spread his arms, "Oh yeah? Well, enlighten me Swan, what agenda am I working now?" His accusing stare penetrated her, forcing her to confront the obvious truth even as her defensive instincts demanded she shut this down. Schooling her features into a mask of sharp indifference, Emma stepped around him and made for the window.

"Now is not the time for this," she remarked firmly, taking two steps before she heard him shuffle behind her. And then she was being spun around, his hand grasped firmly around her upper arm.

He stared down at her with stifling intensity, a mixture of anger and need that took her entirely by surprise, "No, now is the perfect time for this. No interruptions, let's hear it. Why is it so difficult for you to trust me?" He bit out the words like acid and bile, spitting them into the air so she felt like wincing on each syllable.

Emma shook her head, "Let it go, Hook."

She couldn't do this right now. She didn't want to go through this right now.

But he was relentless, "Is it because I'm a pirate?"

Emma glared at him, "Hook."

"No, that's not it. It's because every time you let yourself trust you get burned. Should have been obvious enough on the beanstalk when you wouldn't even let yourself admit you loved Neal – he must have done a bloody number on you –"

There was a sharp slap as she brought her hand fast across his face, a red mark blossoming on his cheek, his head turned to the side from the force with which she'd struck him. He closed his mouth and turned back to her, some of the anger dissipating though there was still resentment there, burning low like charcoal after an inferno.

"You're a bastard," she hissed out, her voice shaking against her will as she tried to control the emotions whirling around inside of her. He maintained her gaze steadily and it finally occurred to them both that the men were no longer near, the silence near-deafening now.

"Very true," he said bitterly, the self-loathing tangible in his tenor. Hook turned around; walking over to the door and cracking it open to look outside. He didn't look over his shoulder as he said, "The coast is clear. We should be able to make it back to the ship now."

Emma walked forward, maintaining a distance of two metres between them even as he led them out into the street and began retracing their steps to the docks. And, just like their original trip, neither spoke a word.

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