"I'm asking you if we need to add a flying twelve year old to our list of enemies."
"Hook," Emma says suddenly, hands on the railing. Neverland gleams before them, luminescent greens and faintly twinkling yellow lights blinking through the mist that encapsulates the island.
He looks up from his namesake, the good hand cradling it gently. "Yes, love?" He steps forward, joining her.
"If Gold—I mean, Rumplestitlskin cut off your hand, and he's the crocodile—"
Hook inserts a sigh, indicating he'd like her to get to her point. As strange as he'd been the past few days, fighting alongside her and her family, he still doesn't seem ready to discuss anything that brushed the topic of Rumpelstiltskin.
She shoots him a look, but she can't blame him. "In the story I know, Peter Pan cut off your hand. I've heard you mention Lost Boys and crocodiles, but no Peter."
"What are you asking me?" Hook says carefully after a beat. He's thankful her eyes are still out on the island, scanning the skies.
"I'm asking you if we need to add a flying twelve year old to our list of enemies," Emma replies, throwing him a sarcastic smirk. Our enemies, he thinks, liking the way she refers to them as a "we". It's been so long since he's had a "we."
He laughs shortly, rolling his eyes up to the sky. "No, I daresay Peter Pan won't be harming a hair on your head, lass. Ridiculous name, though," he adds after a moment, "certainly not one fit for a pirate."
She eyes him dubiously, as if that was obvious. "Well yeah, he's a kid, not a pirate." When he doesn't say anything, she shrugs her shoulders and digs her hands into her pockets, the night air biting at her cheeks. "So can we expect him to make an appearance?" She asks, hoping her voice staved off the excitement behind the thought.
He laughs again, to which Emma frowns. Why does he keep laughing? Is he mocking her? Then again, he always mocks her. So she shouldn't be surprised. But this feels different—he won't maintain eye contact with her, tell tale sign of a liar. But she also knows he's not lying. He's just avoiding the full truth.
"In a manner of speaking, yes," he says, flashing her a grin.
She pivots towards him, narrowing her eyes. "What's so funny?"
Hook throws her a condescending smirk, but his eyebrows have knotted up slightly. "Who said it was funny? The tale is a little more gruesome than you might expect."
"No, that's what you said about the beanstalk," she shoots back, but gears have started rolling in her head.
"Indeed I did. If you recall, I also told you that whatever tale you think you know, you most certainly do not," he replies, his voice dropping an octave.
She arches her neck back, blatantly rolling her eyes at him. She'd forgotten how dramatic he is. "Right, so you're going to tell me that—the boy who would never grow up…grew up? Trust me, I read the story, and I think I'd remember that plot twist."
"I didn't say that; you did, darling."
"You didn't tell me he didn't."
"I certainly didn't not tell you." His tone has picked up again, a mischevious spark in his eyes visible even under the moonlight.
"Stop playing…" Emma trails off abruptly, eyes widening. Her voice drops to a whisper, "…games." Oh hell no, she thinks, suddenly wracking her brain for anything on the Peter Pan story.
The corners of his lips twitch, perhaps with a secret, or perhaps with a hidden kiss. He leans in, his breath tickling her ear, hot on her skin. In a voice that could only be described as childish, he grins and whispers, "Oh, the cleverness of me."