Emma's phone dies with her only picture of Henry on it; Hook has an idea.
He blinks and taps his hook against the wheel, watching a dark figure emerge from the crew's cabin. He frowns. He doesn't trust anyone else at the helm of the Jolly, which of course means he hasn't slept properly in days, having to keep his eyes on the water and the winds in the deadly night and rising before daybreak to continue circling the island.
The figure crosses the deck and deflates somewhat dramatically onto an old cargo box, blonde hair flying around her as she does so. Bloody woman, he thinks to himself, and after a moment's hesitation, descends the stairwell of the helm. The anchor is still dropped, so he can afford to leave the wheel for a spell.
Hunched and cradling a small black box of some sort, Emma sits with a far-away but no-less gloomy look on her face—and damn if it doesn't bother him.
"You're up early. Why so sullen, Swan?" He asks lightly, standing over her.
Her eyes snap up to his, a grimace already in place. Then, instead of replying, she shuts them tightly, as if concentrating.
"What are you doing now?" He asks after a few moments, an amused expression etched into his face.
Emma's eyes fly open, thinly disguising a surprisingly mischievous look. "I've used magic before. I'm trying to will you away. But it doesn't seem to be working."
He raises an eyebrow. "Don't hurt yourself, love," he almost laughs, taking a seat next to her. His eyes flick from the small object she's clutching back to Emma's frowning face, waiting for her to say something. When she doesn't, he prods on, "You can talk to me. What's wrong?"
She sighs heavily, as if weighing her options, whether or not she should open up. "My phone died."
He pauses. "My deepest condolences, Emma," he says softly.
She arches her neck over her shoulder, throwing him a dubious look. "Do you even know what a phone is?"
"Not the slightest. Your dog, perhaps?"
She laughs at that, and he can't help but note how much he likes the sound. He realizes he's never heard it before, but now that he has, he wants to hear it again. Emma holds up the black object she was clutching and gives it a flourishing shake. "This is a phone," she explains. "It had a picture of Henry on it. My only picture. I wasn't carrying my wallet when…when things went down."
He licks his lips, uncomfortable to see Emma so dejected. "What about the queen? Might she have a picture?"
Emma rolls her eyes. "If Regina did, do you really think she'd share it with me?"
Hook smiles tightly, conceding. "True right," he admits. Then, he abruptly stands, so quickly he almost knocks over the box he had been sitting on. Emma looks from the crate to him, raising an eyebrow.
"Wait here," he says, and turns on his heel.
"Okay…" she says slowly, watching him disappear below deck. He returns a moment later, carrying two books, some scraps of yellowed parchment, and—pencils? "No way," she says to his approaching form.
He only grins, taking his seat back next to Emma and passing her half the materials.
"Hook…" Emma trails off, staring down at the paper as if it may attack. "I'm a shitty artist. I nearly failed every art class I took."
"I'm sure you're fine," he says dismissively, his head already bowed down, beginning to sketch.
"What, you're going to do it too? Don't you have…I dunno, a boat to sail, or something?"
He puts down his pencil, glaring at her pointedly. "Swan, I've been bloody sailing my ship—not boat—for three days straight now, without a moment's rest, while listening to the five of you bicker this way and that over nothing and bloody everything. I'm going to take a brief leave to collect myself, or I may end up steering us into Skull Rock just to get you all to shut up." He blinks. "Savvy?"
Emma grunts in a reluctant agreement, and the two of them turn their heads down to the papers, pencils at work. Every once in a while, he glances over at her and stifles a smile when he feels her doing the same.
The sun breaks across the horizon, flooding the deck with yellowing light. Below, voices and movements echo up, signaling that others are beginning to wake. Feeling like his alone time with Emma has reached its end, he reaches forward and snatches the pencil from her. "Alright, let's see it, lass," he says, reaching for the drawing too.
She covers the paper up defensively, even going so far as to hold it up against her chest. Mockingly, he does the same. He raises an eyebrow, and she raises hers right back.
"It's bad," she warns.
"Nothing you do is bad, darling," he coos, to which she rolls her eyes.
"You can't laugh."
"On my honor."
Emma looks as though she wants to make a crack at that, but holds herself back. She steals one last worried glance at her paper before turning it around to face him.
He can't help himself—he barks out a sharp laugh before sealing his lips tightly together, suppressing a smile.
Affronted, Emma whips the drawing back around. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"
"You didn't tell me that Henry has three eyes," he snorts, trying to grab the drawing back.
Holding it arms' length, Emma spares it another look, cringing. "That's his nose." She then smirks, as if a thought has come to her. "Well, let's see yours."
"No, I don't think that's a good idea, love," he says slowly, in an unreadable voice. Suddenly feeling smug, Emma only swivels to face him and holds out her hand.
"Swan, you're not going to like it," he warns, to which Emma only flourishes her expectant hand. With a dramatically reluctant sigh, he passes over this drawing, his face breaking into a grin when she gasps.
"The hell, Hook," she says softly, turning it sideways. "This looks just like him." To which he only shrugs, trying to keep the indifference off his face and hide the fact that her compliment has him glowing. Emma flicks her eyes between him and the paper. "You only saw Henry for ten minutes, max."
He shrugs impassively. "Was paying attention."
"Where'd you learn to draw like this?"
Hook stiffens as if he's had ice water thrown over him, turning his eyes to the sky. He's silent for a long while. "Milah taught me. She was a brilliant artist," he says finally, in an unreadable voice, "always drawing. I used to have hundreds of her sketches tacked to our cabin, even when she told me not to."
Emma swallows, hoping it'll quell the uncomfortable knot that has just formed in her stomach. "Used to?" She asks, but she already knows the answer.
"I burned them," he admits quietly after a beat, unwilling—or unable—to meet her eyes. He stands then, stretching. Emma hands him back the drawing, but he shakes his head. "Keep it."
"No, it's yours, and you should—"
"Emma," he snaps, but his eyes are soft, "I drew it for you."
She nods, almost imperceptibly, and hugs the drawing close. "Thank you," she allows, confused. He opens his mouth to say something, but abruptly shuts it as his eyes flit over to the stairwell. Mary Margret and David have ascended from below deck, stretching and waving to Emma.
With one last glance down at her, he turns on his heel and marches back towards the helm. Her mother trots up to her, watching Hook's departing form with a distinctly curious expression. "What was that about?" She asks lightly, but carefully.
Emma waves a hand dismissively. "Nothing," she says, standing.
Mary Margret's eyes dart downwards, to the piece of paper clutched in Emma's grip. "Well, what's that?"
"Um, my phone died with my only picture of Henry on it, so…Hook drew me a new one."
Surprise overtakes her mother's face, and Emma looks away, not knowing why it makes her so uncomfortable. It's as if she's sixteen and been caught sneaking out. But when she glances back, Mary Margret is smiling softly, but in a way that makes Emma somehow more uncomfortable.
"Oh," she says knowingly, "that was nice of him."
Emma frowns to cover up her embarrassment. She turns her neck over her shoulder, where Hook stands at the helm, his eyes glazed over, staring out at sea. Then, as if sensing her eyes on him, his gaze flicks back to hers. Hesitantly, she smiles, which he returns with just as much trepidation.
"Yeah," Emma breathes, eyes still on Hook, "it was."