Emma woke up on a large, soft bed in a beautiful, wood-paneled room, hands tied in front of her, still wearing her dress, and with a splitting headache. The stranger was sitting, one leg propped up on the other knee, in a chair at a desk off to the side, watching her with calculating eyes. He smiled when he saw she'd woken up.
"Let's be honest," he said cheerfully, "you knew this was coming."
"Chloroform?" she croaked, struggling to sit up and failing badly. "Really?"
"The classics are such for a reason," he replied with a shrug. "The headache will fade soon; I didn't give you much of a dose."
That meant she hadn't been out long. Small favors. "Gee. Thanks," she deadpanned, and he laughed a bit, standing and leaning against the wall again, moving as if filled with nervous energy.
"I'll admit, I like you," he said appreciatively, still smiling and looking disturbingly (and kind of adorably) happy. "I fully expected you to fairly suffocate me with guards after the unmasking, and yet you didn't, despite having guessed my intentions rather… disquietingly quickly, I must say."
"I can't be held accountable for any stupid decision I make after three glasses of wine," she grumbled, making a more successful attempt to sit up, and leaning against the headboard. Was that mahogany?
What would a man wealthy enough to afford mahogany furniture need with ransom money?
He laughed again. "I wondered. Admit it," he said quietly, smirking and teasing and goading, "you were hoping I'd kidnap you."
(A bit.)
"I was kind of hoping to thwart you before the kidnapping," she muttered darkly, feeling for the knife under her bodice; it was still there, as well as the one on her thigh. That was odd. She would have expected him to check her for weapons.
The reasoning became clear immediately, as his eyes flicked down to the movement of her arm and he walked over, pulling her up to her feet and running his hand right over where she had been focusing, smiling wider when he found the knife. "Good form, love," he said quietly, unlacing the bodice — but, surprisingly, not much — and slipping his hand in to retrieve it. "But not quite good enough."
"You were waiting for me to start looking for a concealed weapon," she inferred, trying to focus on anything except the feel of his hand against her side, only the thin fabric of her dress between their skin; unfortunately, with how close he was, that left her little other option than his face.
"And to wake up," he replied, slipping the knife out of her bodice and — again, surprisingly — re-lacing what he'd undone. It was oddly… chivalrous. Maybe that was why he hadn't found the knife on her thigh: he was unwilling to make a woman feel violated, even if it was for a practical reason.
Strange. Maybe he didn't do this kidnapping thing much; he didn't seem particularly good at it. But that would mean he had done it for some third party, a thought that was beginning to make more and more sense.
And there was only one third party she could think of who would be seriously interested in her.
"Doesn't seem like a really smart idea," she said evenly as he examined her knife with a raised eyebrow.
"Risky, don't you think," he murmured, running a hand lightly over the edge, "to keep a weapon this sharp so close to so many vital organs?"
"It's easier for me to get to," she answered coldly, "and I'd rather keep dangerous things close. Keeps my posture right, too," she added, with slightly venomous cheer. "After all, if I slouch, I puncture a lung."
He laughed again at that, and in the same bright way, like he was honestly amused with her. "I'll concede the point," he said, stepping slightly away from her, but then the smile faded although the amusement in his eyes didn't. "Now, I'd be willing to bet quite a lot of gold this wasn't your only weapon, was it?"
"Do you see this dress?" she replied, raising an eyebrow and turning up the sarcasm to dissuade him. It didn't work.
"Oh, yes," he said, with relish and a glance over it, "but I also see you, and I somehow doubt that you're the sort of woman who would only bring one knife with her. After all," he said quietly, "you felt confident enough to confront me twice and neglect to tell your doting parents. One small throwing knife does not that sort of fortitude grant."
"I have a hell of a right hook," she answered acidically, and he smirked.
"I don't doubt you do," he purred, hand lingering on her waist. "The smart places to hide a knife would be the hip or the thigh, both of which are somewhat… intimate places to search," he said, leaning in a bit. "Now, I could encroach upon your personal space," he started, and she barked out a laugh that he ignored, "or you could simply remove them and give them to me."
"Now you're gonna be a gentleman?" she asked incredulously, annoyed and curious at the same time.
"I'm always a gentleman," he replied, and raised an eyebrow, stepping barely farther away from her. She decided to take the chance.
Emma pulled her dress up enough to reach the knife and unsheathed it, lashing out at him in the same motion; unfortunately — although not really unexpectedly — he was prepared for it and caught her wrist, twisting it and disarming her in one expert move that made her cry out in pain and anger — and more so because it twisted her other wrist and gave her rope burn at the same time.
"Sweetheart, did you honestly think I would've made that offer without expecting that response?" he asked disbelievingly. "Honestly? Here I thought we were getting to know each other."
"Not really," she gasped, trying to tug her hands away from him, "but, hey, it was worth a shot. I was gonna lose the knife one way or another, might as well make it count."
He grinned, picking the knife up from where it had landed on the bed and glancing over it like he had the other. "And that is why I like you."
"Because I'd stab you in the face if I could?"
"I doubt that greatly," he murmured, and went on without explaining exactly why he thought his prisoner wouldn't attack him to get to freedom. "You take serious risks without fear, and you aren't afraid of me. Even though you should be."
"You're not gonna hurt me," she snapped. "Either you're after ransom money from my parents or you're passing me off to Regina, and either way, you need me alive and unharmed."
He looked surprised at this. "You are quick on the uptake, aren't you?" he said, which confirmed that it was the second — ransom was the first, most obvious reason he would've kidnapped her. That made things a bit more… desperate: Regina wanted Emma's mother to suffer eternally, and killing her child was a good way to do just that.
Luckily, she was beginning to form a plan, based on the kidnapper's repeated assurances that he liked her.
"Not going to ask what the Evil Queen wants with you?" he asked in an ambiguous tone; maybe he wanted to know if she was aware of what was going on, or maybe he didn't know himself.
"Nope," she replied simply. "I already know. She only wants one thing."
"Your throne?" he guessed.
"My mother's endless pain," she countered, and let him put those pieces together himself. She had hoped for some sudden horror or dismay, but his expression didn't change.
"Ah, she means to kill you," he said, releasing her and walking toward the door. "Pity."
"That's it?" she asked incredulously, and a little hurt. "'Pity'? That's all?"
He shrugged, hand on the knob. "I like you, true, but I've no stake in your life or death beyond my deal with the queen."
"My hero," she said coldly, and he laughed without much cheer.
"A hero, my dear, is one thing I've never claimed to be," he confided with something barely on this side of self-loathing, and left the room, locking it behind him as he did.
.
In retrospect, she figured, as she worked at the knots with her teeth, she should have asked about that deal with the queen he'd referred to — who knew, maybe she could offer him whatever Regina was, or something better — or at least she should have definitely brought another knife with her because son of a bitch he could tie a damn knot.
She'd never seen one like this before. It must have been made up of at least three different pieces of rope and some kind of black sorcery because Emma — who had a lot (a lot) of experience un-knotting thin, delicate necklaces that had been tossed into drawers and forgotten for months — couldn't even tell which part to tug on. It seemed like every time she tried to do anything, the ropes just got tighter.
And worse, the knots, coupled with the vague swaying motion that she had, up until now, attributed to the lingering effects of the chloroform, as well as the generally ocean-y smell of the air, were beginning to make her worry deeply that the stranger wasn't, in fact, some random mercenary Regina had picked up out of some Thieves' Forest somewhere.
Naturally. There went plans B through F.
"Okay, this isn't working," she muttered, glaring at the angry rope burns on her wrists and casting about the room for a new plan.
The room she was in (the captain's, presumably) was pretty sparse and utilitarian — there was a bed, a desk, a chair, and a wardrobe, all made out of ornately-carved mahogany and all completely clean of anything that might be useful in cutting rope. She had spent some time rummaging through the wardrobe in the hopes of finding a particularly sharp belt buckle or a knife or a doorway to another world or something, but all he had in there were clothes.
When she was done snickering at the amount of leather he owned, she had ransacked his desk in the hopes of finding a pen or a drawing compass or anything with a pointy edge, but only found maps and a few old letters in a woman's hand, written in some kind of gibberish that must have been a code.
She had been forced to accept that either he was the most boring man in existence, or he had specifically hidden or removed anything that she might possibly be able to attack him with, unless she could come up with a way to weaponize paper cuts or break a leg off a mahogany chair.
(Or else kick him where it hurt, but if she was, in fact, on a ship, kicking the captain of said ship in the family jewels would be a really terrific way to become shark food.)
All of which left her a bit… lacking in options, besides sitting around and waiting for him to return so she could attempt to use her feminine wiles (assuming she could find them) to convince him to let her go.
But Emma simply could not just sit and wait for something to happen to her. It wasn't in her blood, to be so passive.
She tried it for about three minutes before she was once again looking around the room. Her eyes fell on the door and she peered at it contemplatively.
If she could pick the lock, she might be able to find a little powder monkey or someone that she could bat her eyelashes at and/or threaten into cutting the ropes, and then — well, she wouldn't exactly be able to make a break for freedom, but she could at least gather enough information to start outlining a real escape from either the captain or, failing that, Regina.
It was better than nothing.
.
The knots may have defeated her, the wardrobe may have been a waste of her time, and the desk may have disappointed her, but — after a bit less than an hour or so of frustrated cursing — she conquered the damn door and walked out onto the deck, blinking in the clear sunrise. There were all kinds of men milling about on deck, doing what looked to Emma like nothing more than busy work, as the ship seemed to be sailing at a good clip just fine on its own.
It only took a moment for someone to notice her, and she (not for the first time, probably not for the last) internally cursed Red for giving her this dress.
"Oi!" a scruffy, older man called, coming closer and practically oozing scumbag. "Wot's this then? Cap'n di'nt say the cargo was so…" he paused, raking his eyes over her in a way that made her skin crawl, "appetizin'."
Well, he was gross, but Emma wasn't one for letting an opportunity slip by.
"I guess he probably thought he could keep me to himself," she replied, tone just on this side of flirtatious, less out of intent and more out of that being the closest she could get to actual flirting with this man. "But I just don't like being locked up like that, you know?"
"Do I," he sleazed, stepping closer and grinning, and she wondered, distantly, what exactly he saw when he looked in the mirror, to actually think she would be interested in him. "Lovely thing like you? Selfish of 'im, you ask me."
"It really is," she sighed, surreptitiously glancing around. No one else was paying them much attention. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or an incredibly awful thing. "You wanna get him back for it?" she asked slyly, raising an eyebrow and hoping that the cut of her dress outweighed his fear of the captain.
He watched her warily for a moment, so (with deep displeasure) she went for it, stepping closer and placing her hands on his chest in the closest approximation of a caress she could manage, and leaned up to his ear. "I'm good with my hands," she whispered, and caught herself before actually telling him he should cut the ropes — she was already treading on the thin line between 'potentially sincere' and 'obviously manipulative.' "And you just know he wants the first taste. Serves him right, yeah?"
It worked. She took back her curse at Red.
"Don't see 'ow that's breakin' no rules," he muttered, and out came the knife. The moment the ropes fell off her wrists, she twisted the knife out of his hand and decked him straight in the temple, relying on her always-trusty right hook to take him down. It would only buy her a few minutes, so she had to make them count.
Emma inspected the knife — not great quality, but sharp as hell, so a net win — and briefly considered taking his sword, but then, she had long since accepted that whenever she picked up a sword, she tended to make things worse for herself.
Right as she was standing and stepping over the man's prone form (resisting the urge to kick him, just on principle), a shadow fell over her, and she winced in anticipation.
Well, her short run of good luck had to give out at some point. She had hoped it would last a little longer than ten minutes, though.
"Honestly?" the captain deadpanned from right behind her, and she turned to look at him. He didn't look angry, which was something, but he also didn't look amused or impressed, which was an entirely different kind of something.
She gave him her best shit-eating grin. It wasn't like she could play innocent, anyway. "Yep. Took me forever to get the door open."
He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again thoughtfully. "What did you use to pick the lock?" he asked, sounding unwillingly curious.
"Pulled one of the bents out of my dress," she replied matter-of-factly, gesturing to her side, where she'd pried at the fabric until she'd managed to make a tear. "That's actually what took so long. The lock itself wasn't that bad."
He covered his face with his hand, either praying for patience or trying not to laugh. "Inventive, I'll grant you that," he said approvingly. "But what was the plan now, love? You may have noticed," he went on, as though confiding a great secret, "it's a bit of a swim to shore."
She shrugged, because, well… she was kind of making this up as she went along. "Didn't really have one. I mean, I know I'm stuck here, but I figured, if I'm stuck here, I'd rather be armed and not tied up like a hog to the slaughter," she explained, leveling him a glare. His eyes flicked down to her raw wrists, but failed to take on any apology.
"You think you'll need a weapon on my ship?" he challenged, crossing his arms.
"You tell me," she countered. He smirked.
"Well, I suppose that depends," he replied easily, "on your conduct around the crew. Who, I might add, you do not appear to be particularly endearing yourself to," he said, glancing down to where Sleazy was beginning to stir.
"What happened to being a gentleman?" she asked, fists on her hips. "You'd leave the poor, helpless little princess to your crew's tender mercies?"
He laughed outright at that. "Were you a poor, helpless little princess, I might consider doting upon you," he said, vaguely mocking. "However, I somehow doubt you'll need my help."
She couldn't decide if that was encouraging or terrifying.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she said cheerfully, and even she wasn't quite sure if it was sarcasm or not. "Can I ask where on the big blue sea we are?"
"What good does knowing where you are do you?" he asked condescendingly, like he was lording the power information gave him over her.
"I'm curious," she answered honestly, shrugging again. "I mean, it's only just now sunrise, so we can't be that far from home, and Regina's castle should still be pretty far away. It isn't close to the coast anyhow."
"Concerned about the ever-dwindling time you have remaining until your meeting with the queen?" His expression and tone were unreadable, which made her uncomfortable and took her a bit off-guard. She'd never met someone so… casually callous before, especially someone who claimed to like her so much.
Because of that, the truth fell out of her mouth before she could hide it and keep up the game. "Yes," she said softly, and something in his eyes flickered.
"You waltz around my ship as though you own it," he said, slowly and incredulously, pausing to glare behind her at where Sleazy was undoubtedly awake now and plotting his revenge; she was proved right when the man slunk away, giving her a dirty look that she ignored. "You openly defy me without hesitation and incite my crew members to turn on me… you're brave enough to seduce a dyed-in-the-wool pirate into removing your restraints," he added in a lower voice, almost as an afterthought. "And yet you fear Regina? Have you ever met the woman? She's little more than a melodramatic harpy," he sneered disdainfully.
She couldn't quite look at him; she hated the fear that rose up in her when she thought about Regina, and she hated showing it more. But he and Emma had met two entirely different Reginas, apparently.
"Those things kill people, you know," she whispered, and then shook herself, beginning to get angry, although exactly who she was mad at, she wasn't sure. "You're her ally, at least for this deal you've got," she went on, louder, by way of excusing her distress. "She wants to cut my heart out and send it to my mother as a gift."
The man raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't react, and the rising anger took on a poisonous bent.
"Not that it matters a bit to you," she said caustically. "You're safe, you're getting everything you want, what do you care how I'm gonna die?" But if her words stung him at all, he didn't show it, except for a slight narrowing of the eyes.
Her blood itched with an emotion she couldn't name. This was so stupid, so unnecessary, and the worst part was, this was all her own damn fault. Between the drug and the lingering headache and the lack of sleep and the anxiety and the lock-picking and now the captain, she was starting to lose confidence in herself.
But she couldn't do that. Emma was the only thing standing between Emma and Regina, and if she wasn't enough, she really would see her heart ripped out of her chest.
And, strangely, it wasn't fear of the pain or of dying that reanimated her; it was the look that would come over her mother's face if she opened a package containing her daughter's heart.
Snow White was a strong, formidable woman whom Emma loved and admired dearly, but that would kill her.
If Emma failed, it wasn't Emma who would pay the price.
"Everything I want?" he drawled, and it was hard to tell if the insult in his voice was directed at her or at himself. "You truly believe that Regina could give me all that I'm after?"
"I don't know what you're after," she replied, suddenly deeply tired, all the way from her skin down to somewhere beneath her bones. "I don't even know who you are."
He laughed a bit at that, suddenly cheerful again; she noticed that he was, for no apparent reason, massaging his left hand. "Ah, yes. My apologies, I left before the unmasking, didn't I?" he said, sweeping into a short, ironic bow. "Captain Jones, and I'll even be terribly generous — " she rolled her eyes at him " — and allow you to call me by my given appellation, Killian. In the past I've been known by… other names," he added ambiguously, touching his left hand again — what, she wondered, was so special about it? "But nothing a virtuous woman like yourself would recognize."
"Try me," she challenged, bristling at the taunt in the word 'virtuous.'
He leaned forward so he was eye-level with her, and replied, in a firm tone and with something strange on his face that — for the first time — actually frightened her a little: "No."
It wasn't even a warning — but when he said it, she caught a glimpse of something dark behind his eyes, dark like an oubliette or a grave.
…maybe the fact that he had a deal with Regina wasn't the only reason he wasn't afraid of her.
"You look tired," he said, straightening up and abruptly shattering the ominous atmosphere, the abyss in his face suddenly gone.
"I haven't exactly had a restful night," she replied slowly, struggling to adjust to the shift.
He nodded. "Then allow me to propose a deal," he began, holding out a hand. "You give me the knife and your word that you'll not be… disrupting my crew, and I'll forego the restraints and permit you to sleep separate from the rabble."
The veiled threat was obvious: don't agree, and you'll be put in the crew's quarters. Even if she hadn't made a hell of an enemy out of Sleazy, that would be a nightmare and a half.
Her mother's advice rose up in her memory: know when to attack, when to run, and when to compromise. You can't fight everyone who challenges you.
Emma sighed, but handed over the knife without argument. "I'll behave myself," she grumbled.
"My dear," Killian replied, taking the knife and sweeping her right damn back into that stupid damn room, "I do not for one moment believe that. But I'll make a note of it regardless."
"Probably shouldn't lock the door either," she said, taking the last shot in a vague (and failed) attempt to make herself feel better.
"I recognize that doing so would be entirely futile," he assured her, but then smirked a bit cruelly, "much like you attempting to escape were I to do so." He started to shut the door, but paused in the threshold, glancing back at her. "You're welcome to the clothing in the wardrobe, if you'd rather not sleep in such an undoubtedly uncomfortable dress," he said, bizarrely thoughtful; she couldn't get a hold on his mood swings, or even whether they were actual mood swings or just a series of walls and locks.
She glared at him as he walked out — but, true to his word, didn't lock the door behind him this time — and fell face-down onto the bed, trying to come up with something else through the haze of exhaustion and disappointment.
Regina's castle wasn't anywhere near the coast; if she didn't meet them when they docked (and Emma prayed to every god she'd ever heard of that she didn't), that would mean he would be escorting her the two-to-three day journey. And even in a fast ship, it was a week to the country she'd been exiled to.
Plenty of time to convince him to help her, or at least make a break for it and run out the clock with a merry chase until her parents brought the whole army in to find her.
…now she just had to come up with a way to do those things.