Hook recalls telling Emma she'd make one hell of a pirate, and seems to still think she would.
"Swan, would come up here for a moment?"
Her parents exchange cautious looks, but Emma waves them off dismissively. "It's fine," she insists, following his voice up to the helm of the Jolly Roger. He looks exhausted; circles under his eyes that seem more than just smudged eyeliner, his weight caving against the wheel, his hair a mess—well, actually, his hair was often a mess, but Emma could admit he didn't look himself.
"What's up, Hook?" Emma asks, in what she hopes is a nonchalant tone. Did he find something out about Henry? Does he know anything? She rocks on her heels, feeling two pairs of worried eyes on her. Emma throws her parents an annoyed glance. Caught, they shuffle around awkwardly and make themselves scarce.
"I need you to be my first mate," he sighs begrudgingly.
Emma snorts with laughter, about to compliment him on his joke, but then she realizes he's serious. "Wait—what? No, Hook, I—"
"Swan," he hisses firmly, "I have been awake for nearly thrice days time, and we're not far from Mermaid Lagoon. I will bloody fall asleep at the wheel and steer us straight into their den."
Emma looks down at that, suddenly feeling shameful for not acknowledging how much he's done since leaving for Neverland, how much he's done for her, for her family, for Henry. He's kept his distance from Rumple and resolutely circled the island without complaint, quip, or even sass.
But still, as much as she's appreciated his self-inflicted dedication, she doesn't know why he's asking her. "Why me?"
The ghost of a smile graces his lips. "The crocodile shan't step foot on this part of the ship if I can damn help it, and I don't trust the queen—"
"What about my parents?" Emma interrupts. She doesn't know why she feels so stubborn about this; she's even flattered he'd ask her, but for some reason, the thought of manning the wheel also terrifies her.
"Your father and I aren't exactly on good terms, love."
Emma snorts. "You're going have to talk to each other at some point."
He flashes her a knowing, condescending grin. "And why's that, Swan?"
"Save it," Emma huffs. "Well, what about Mar—my mom?"
Hook runs his tongue over his teeth, glancing away from Emma. His tone is careful. "Your mother…I may have said a few choice things to her last time we met, I don't think—"
"You hit on my mom?" Emma hisses, her voice dropping an octave, suddenly feeling nauseous. "Okay, that's it, I've heard enough."
"Swan. Swan." She turns to go, and he grabs her wrist with his hook, whipping her back around, a ridiculously serious expression etched into his features. "Emma. That's not what I said."
She sneers at him, wriggling her wrist from his grip. "Then what did you say?"
To his credit, he actually looks guilty. "That's not important," he says quickly, to which Emma throws him a look which plainly says she doesn't believe him. "What is important is that if we're to find your lad, we have to work as a team. I seem to recall us making quite a fine one back in the Enchanted Forest."
She sighs, annoyed that he has a point. He always seems to, and it never fails to ruffle her. He then gives her an oddly fond smile. "I also recall telling you that you'd make one hell of a pirate. Given the fact that you've commandeered my ship once before, I feel quite confident in that evaluation. Contrary to what you may believe, darling, I want you at the wheel, and not by process of elimination."
She flushes, looking away to hide the blush tickling her cheeks. She can handle him when he's being sleazy, when he's being sarcastic—when he is being anything but complimentary. "Okay, fine," she agrees after a beat. "Teach me how to do it."
Hook laughs. "It?" He echoes dubiously.
"You know what I mean. Sail it."
His expression shifts back into the absurdly serious one he'd had a moment before. "Emma, before we proceed, I must preface by saying that I never again want to hear you refer to my ship as an 'it'. The Jolly Roger is a loyal lady and I won't hear a word against her."
Emma suppresses a snort of laughter. She has a hard time always taking him seriously, particularly when he gives dramatically flowery speeches that sound like an excerpt from some period romance she read in high school. She presses her lips together, shaking the smile from her face.
"Okay, sorry, yeesh. Sail her."
"Better," Hook glowers, stepping aside and gesturing Emma to the wheel. He comes up behind her, placing her hands in the appropriate spots. She shivers, and tells herself it's just the wind. "Now, think of the wheel as an extension of yourself. It's a bit like wielding a sword—actually, that may not help you understand it, given our…entanglement back at the lake."
"Excuse you, buddy," she snaps, arching her neck back to get a look at him, "I beat you in that swordfight."
"Mm-hm," he murmurs dismissively, the corners of his lips twitching. His fingers graze over the top of her hand, his breath tickling her hair. "As I was saying, darling, when you steer the wheel, you're speaking to the ship. You listen to the wind and follow its lead."
He leans over her shoulder, and, after a moment's hesitation, uses his hook to dig a P and an S into the wood, next to a previously scratched out version.
"P is port," he says, his voice now just above a whisper, "and S is starboard. Turn her two knots to starboard." The breath caught in her throat, Emma does so. The ship lurches quietly, but almost indistinctly.
"Easy as pie," she says, hoping her voice doesn't carry the nerves or even pride running through her veins.
He steps away from her, and she actually misses the warmth. Hook gives her a funny look. "Indeed it is," he muses, his eyes glazing over in thought. The exhaustion returns to his face as he slowly runs a hand through his hair.
Emma watches the motion as if transfixed, shaking herself only out of it when his eyes snap back to hers. "Steering is intuitive. We'll be passing through Mermaid Lagoon soon, which we must do as silently and carefully as possible if we don't want them to attack. I'm going to rest for a few hours, but you wake me if anything happens."
He turns to go, and Emma knows she should feel terrified at being left alone at the wheel, but…instead she feels thrilled, excited, and inexplicably proud. He pauses on the stairwell, looking over his shoulder with that oddly fond look again. "She looks good on you," he says finally, softly. "The Jolly."
"Maybe I'm more than just a first mate," she smirks dismissively, trying to laugh away the compliment. He needs to stop doing that, she thinks, because she still doesn't know how to respond.
But he doesn't laugh. His eyes burn into hers, an intensely serious look turning over his face, like a mixture of realization and something else, something indescribable yet strangely familiar.
"Perhaps you are, Captain Swan."