The fighting was even louder than the thunder; of course, Jones would attack during the storm, use the chaos to his advantage. It was smart. It was risky. It was suitably dramatic.
But somehow, the reality of it couldn't penetrate her skin. Emma felt detached from the whole thing, the anger hovering so close to the surface that it had desensitized her, blurred her vision and clouded up her mind.
It wouldn't stop with Jones. Blackbeard would just pick up and follow them again and attack them again or ambush them on the way to Regina's castle, and around and around she'd be passed, from one of them to the other and back, until one of them got the package to Regina first.
Her fingers twisted convulsively in the skirt, and her eyes fell on the lantern.
.
Emma had, at least, had the presence of mind to pick the lock first and wait until she was sure Jones's men were all or at least mostly aboard the ship before throwing the nearly-full kerosene lantern right into Blackbeard's fancy wardrobe. She stayed behind for a long moment to make sure it caught — maybe the storm would keep it from disabling or blowing up the ship, but it would definitely make Blackbeard (and Jones, at that) think twice about locking her up like an animal again — and to commit the sight to memory.
She slipped out the door, taking care to close it firmly behind her so the fire would do as much damage as possible before it hit the rain, and almost ran straight into a two-man skirmish. Without bothering to think about it, still running on the brutally-calm, numb rage, she untied the scarf and threw it around the neck of Blackbeard's crewman, pulling him backwards, startling him, and giving Jones's man the opportunity to go in for the kill.
"Well, ain't this a boon," Jones's man said cheerfully, holding out a hand to her. "Quick'n easy as you like. Cap'll be pleased."
"Will he," she replied coldly, looting the body and coming back with a decently-sized dagger. The man's expression faded into reservation; clearly, her deadly mood was showing. "And just where is Jones, I wonder?"
"Not sure," the pirate answered, indicating to the storm and the fighting — she could barely see four feet in front of her. "Wherever Blackbeard is, I'd wager." He hesitated, watching her warily as she tapped the knife against her palm, and suddenly twitched, sniffing. "D'you smell that?" he asked, in growing horror.
Emma smiled.
"You might want to get the captain's attention," she said softly, watching with relish as the man paled. "You have what you came for. It's time to retreat."
The look on his face almost made everything worth it. "Might be a bit difficult," he said, in a slightly higher-pitched voice, "what with the noise."
She stepped closer, glaring straight into his eyes. "Then shout really loud," she hissed, and left him behind, skidding across the deck toward the ropes or the gangplank, to get off this ship before the fire spread too far, and potentially got to the powder kegs.
It was even worse than the last time she'd been in the middle of a pirate raid (was that really only yesterday?) — storms at sea were vicious things, attacking with water from every direction and rocking the ship to the point that even the most hardened fighters were tripping and sliding halfway across the deck. It was the only fight she'd been in or heard of where splinters had become a serious issue.
She maybe hadn't thought this all the way through.
She definitely didn't give a damn.
Because of the chaos, the short run to the edge of the ship was more of a gauntlet; three steps removed from the captain's quarters, she slipped and crashed into a heavy-set pirate who could have, frankly, been anyone from anywhere.
Emma had transcended such mundane things as "alliances" and "avoiding friendly fire" and lashed out at the man with her dagger, aiming for the gut. She missed, although it was less from skill than it was him slipping on deck as well and crashing down on his back, legs kicking out and knocking her down with him.
"Oi!" he bellowed indignantly, struggling to get up and failing several times; she would be amused except she wasn't doing any better. "What the bloody hell d'you think you're playin' at?"
Oh. One of Jones's.
"Sorry," she replied insincerely, scrabbling to get to her feet and finally succeeding, albeit with help from the back of the nearest pirate's shirt.
In retrospect, that probably wasn't one of her best ideas: this one let out a yell and arched backward, whirling around to attack her sword-first, but she didn't let go of his shirt and stumbled around with him in a horribly awkward dance. She caught a glimpse of Heavy gaping at her and finally rising to his feet, coming in for the assist.
She didn't bother to wait around and see what happened to him.
There was enough rigging from where she'd landed that she could more or less ferry herself to the edge of the ship, assuming she could cling to the thick, tough, waterlogged rope with her feet trying to take her in every direction while somehow not making herself a massive target.
The odds weren't great, but what the hell.
She gripped the rope in one hand and held her dagger in the other, and ignored the massive rope burn in her left palm as she slid more than walked to the guardrail, not far from one of the ropes Jones's crew had used to board. Just as she was throwing one leg over the railing and reaching for the rope, one of Blackbeard's men spotted her and shouted, motioning to her as he ran forward.
He'd caught his captain's attention.
Blackbeard's face contorted in a way that suggested he was shouting a string of expletives and made it about two steps in her direction before all activity on the ship rippled to a terrified halt.
And with that, Emma discovered how to end a fight between two bitterly-hostile pirate ships in the space of a moment: set something on fire.
The scene was actually quite pretty: smoke had begun billowing out from under the quarterdeck into the stormy night, winds picking up and fanning the flames as rain sizzled on them in a futile attempt to put them out, an entire ship blanketed with two crews' worth of men frozen, all under a flickering chiaroscuro of white lightning and red fire. She couldn't help but cackle.
It seemed like fully half of Blackbeard's crew was suddenly willing to be captured by Jones's, while the other half scrambled to put out the fire with some of the water flooding the deck; Jones's crew was moving almost as one to the edge of the ship, joining her in the rush to the Jolly Roger (where, she noted, the first man she'd run into had already long-since gone). For a moment, Emma paused at the edge of the Roger and looked back, and finally caught sight of Jones, gaping, furious and incredulous and maybe a little horrified.
She grinned.
.
In general, Emma preferred to be practical rather than dramatic — she favored simple strikes with knives or swords over showy twirling and dancing footwork, simple dresses and hairstyles over elaborate outfits and anything involving feathers, and a blunt threat or accusation over a conversation full of veiled comments — but sometimes, drama was not only necessary, but satisfying as all hell.
She was sitting in the chair, in the exact same way Jones had been when she'd woken up here (because it was the little things), waiting. Her vicious rage had simmered down into something a lot colder, and, coupled with her complete and utter inability to care about anything whatsoever at the moment, quite a bit more dangerous.
He'd managed to do a pretty thorough clean-up of his room in the day she'd been absent: if she hadn't known that it had been a disaster zone twenty-four hours before, she would've thought nothing was wrong. It was impressive, and maybe a bit odd.
Jones had been chasing Blackbeard down to recapture his bounty, in a storm, on a ship full of men who probably had no desire whatsoever to face the Revenge again, and he had… cleaned his room?
When did he sleep?
Did he sleep? Ever?
She got her answer (probably) when he stormed into the room and slammed the door behind him, glaring — judging from the state of his clothes and hair and the color of his face, he had not, in fact, slept in at least thirty-six hours.
"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?" he snapped, visibly shaking with anger. Emma raised an eyebrow.
"Getting off the Revenge," she replied blandly, shrugging. "Really, I was doing you a favor."
"A favor?" he cried. "You could've gotten us all killed! If that fire had reached the powder kegs, both of our ships would've been destroyed!"
"I would be sorry except I really don't care," she said coldly, clearly surprising him. "Oh, come on," she sneered, with an acidic smile. "It's not like I'm getting out of this alive, am I? If I'm gonna die, well, why don't I make it on my terms?"
"And take two entire ships full of sailors with you?"
"If you're gonna go, go all out," she replied, shrugging again. "Besides, I can swim. Maybe I couldn't make it all the way to shore, but hey, my chances were better than nothing, so what have I got to lose?"
This seemed to catch him off-guard: he blinked several times in rapid succession, reaching out as though to strangle her in frustration, and finally closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and clenching his jaw, apparently praying for patience and receiving no reply.
"Then why come back at all?" he asked slowly, in a (relatively) calm voice. "Your chances of surviving were better if you tried to swim to shore than if you came back here, and yet here you are."
She grinned like a shark. "Because you and me, we're gonna make a deal."
"Are we?" he said flatly, still seething.
"Oh yeah," she answered, crossing her arms. "I have a few things you might want, some information, a few skills, the kind of power you can't scare people into appreciating. I can help you."
"If I do what?" he asked, eyebrow raised and (at least openly, she hoped) disinterested. "Take you back to your parents?"
"Well, obviously," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Trust me, I'm worth more to you alive than in Regina's hands."
"In what way?" he asked softly, like a silk-wrapped knife. "What is this information, this power you claim you have?"
She had thought about this at length, and what she'd come up with was, admittedly, a little pathetic, but Emma knew her own limits and she knew when to defer to higher powers than herself. "I know where the Dark One is, for example," she said like it was a secret — which, she sometimes forgot, it was, as only the royal family and those closest to them knew. She had struck gold: he tilted his head, perking up like a cat. "I hear he and Regina aren't great friends, I'd be willing to bet he'd play along."
"Oh, I doubt that very much," Jones murmured, but now he was watching her with open interest, all of the anger melting away. "The Dark One hasn't been seen in decades," he went on, running a hand over his lips in contemplation. "You know where he's been hiding?"
"I know where he's been hiding," she said darkly, with a smirk. She was beginning to get an idea, just what it was that he was after: she had gotten it backward, he wouldn't use the Dark One against Regina because he was using Regina against the Dark One. But Regina wouldn't give him the location, probably hadn't even let on that she knew.
"Where?"
"Have we got a deal?"
He paused, staring at her for a long moment like he was trying to read her mind. "If I return you to your parents, what happens to me?" he asked coolly. She shrugged.
"Whatever you like. I'll keep them off your back, tell them that, oh, it was Blackbeard who kidnapped me and you just happened to be passing by your old rival and decided to gallantly — " she rolled her eyes; he quirked an eyebrow " — rescue me and bring me home safe. I can probably get them to make you a hero and everything."
"A hero?" he snorted derisively, but remained deep in thought, idly running his fingers over his lips. "I return you to your parents, safe and sound, and in exchange I have immunity and access to the Dark One, yes?" She nodded. "A good enough deal, but Regina's is still better. She has something I'm far more interested in than information."
Emma smiled sweetly. "Do you really think it's a coincidence that Blackbeard took me off your ship?" she asked softly, and with as much sugary condescension as she could possibly inject into one sentence. Annoyance passed over his face. "Oh, yeah," she said. "She's not gonna give you a damn thing, she's got him all set up to get you out of the way."
"I had wondered," he muttered, voice and face sour. "I still require certain… artifacts that Regina has," he explained, crossing his arms. "Without which finding the Dark One is rather moot."
"Fine, we steal them from her," she suggested with a shrug that hopefully belied how much she did not want to go near Regina's castle.
"A dangerous game to play, with your pretty face. Going into the home of the witch who wants you dead, risk your life and the future of your country, all to help a pirate steal a dagger?"
"Do you want my help or not?" she snapped. What the hell did he want with one of Regina's daggers?
"I'm beginning to believe that making a deal with a firecracker such as yourself is a bit… dangerous," he said slowly, ignoring her question. "D'you have any idea just how many laws of man and rules of the pirate's code you've broken in the last two hours?"
"No," she replied bluntly. "I guess it's a good thing I'm not a pirate."
"Indeed," he smirked, briefly looking like the man she'd met at the party again; it was unexpected, and a little disconcerting. "For all of us involved. I would hate to have to answer to the Pirate Queen Emma."
"I'll take that as a compliment," she said coolly, holding out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"
"What will you do, I wonder, if I refuse?" he asked in a silky, vaguely amused tone. "What if I lock you back up and take you to Regina just as planned? I assure you, I can overpower her if necessary, she'll not keep me from what I want."
"You lock me up one more time," she started slowly, dangerously, standing and getting right up to him, too angry to be afraid, "and you'll find out like Blackbeard did just how much of a firecracker I can really be."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke and he simply watched her, calculating, neither angry at her threat nor afraid of it.
In fact, if anything, he seemed a little impressed.
"My offer is the best thing you'll get," she hissed. "I'll help you get your dagger, I'll take you to the Dark One, I'll get you immunity, all you have to do is take me home. Where is your compromise? What part of that isn't good for you?"
He ruminated on it for another long moment, still looking at her like she was a puzzle he'd just realized was missing half the pieces, and she couldn't figure out why. Her offer was good, and they both knew she was a safer ally than Regina — and, at this precise moment in time, a more dangerous enemy — especially because he was her only way home, unless she could waste enough time for her parents to arrive after her. But even then, it was safest for her, her family, and her country that she handle this personally, without causing a war with the Evil Queen. He would win from every angle with this deal, get everything he wanted just so long as he put her back where she started.
So why was he hesitating? What was there to wonder about?
(Maybe, she thought traitorously, he's concerned about putting you in that much danger.)
"It is a compelling offer," he answered finally. "If you truly think we can retrieve that dagger."
"She'll kill you before she'll give it to you," Emma replied, banking on what she knew about Regina and what she guessed about this weapon, and held out her hand to shake again. "Neither of us have anything to lose."
"No," he murmured, looking from her face to her hand in something related to caution, "I don't suppose we do."
The way he took her hand cemented it as reluctance rather than carefulness, and he held it a bit longer than was really necessary, his thumb running over the back of her palm in a way that made her heart beat faster.
"Good," she said brightly, refusing to show how much his shifting demeanor had thrown her off. "Finally, we're on the same page."