Disclaimer: Don't own and have no power over, so...long live fanfiction.

Chapter 1:

The Definition of a Friend

"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." – Groucho Marx

~0~

Storybrooke

Present...

Killian Jones and his motley crew had been back from Neverland for three weeks, and Emma Swan already had him locked up in her wannabe dungeon for some ridiculous crime that only this repressed and uptight land would have, something called 'drunk and disorderly conduct.' Bloody idiotic. He had told Swan so, but she had only rolled her eyes and continued to go through the pointless ritual of 'booking him.'

That was gratitude for you. You'd think after being the Big Damn Heroes together, rescuing Henry, and escaping the sadistic clutches of Pan would have meant something. Apparently not.

No, now he had to spend a night on this abysmal cot, wiling away the hours trying not to think how everyone got their happy ending but him.

'His mate' David managed to survive his Dreamshade scratch and Snow's wrath for not telling her. Their daughter even began calling them 'mom' and 'dad' every other third reference.

Swan not only got her son back, but was now reconnected with Baelfire. Milah's son had returned with the knight that Cora had once impersonated via some magical ritual that an old wizard acquaintance of his had used once. The details escaped him. The bottom line however was that Emma, Neal, and Henry were all a happy little family. Even Regina seemed to be content with the end result – something called 'shared custody' with rotating weekends and 'dinner dates' with Henry.

He did not begrudge any of them of that. No, what he did begrudge was the fact that the price he had to pay for the crumbs of affection that Swan tossed him was to watch the Crocodile get his happy ending too.

He would not lie. His rotten heart had warmed when he had heard that Rumplestilskin was fated to die on that hell-hole of an island and that he would get to watch.

But as with all Seer prophecies, things are not what they seem. And the Crocodile's "undoing" was simply him losing his Dark powers and becoming mortal again. And because he did so willingly, both Baelfire and that useless lass Belle thought him a hero.

It was enough to drive anyone to drink excessively…and provoke the biggest dumbest drunkest bloke and his mates into a bar brawl.

Before he could descend too much further into his pity-party, Swan returned...and with a guest.

She was slightly taller than the good sheriff, wider at the hip, and dressed in all black – tight black pants, black knee-high boots, and a black halter top that highlighted her creamy skin. She had two-toned shoulder-length blond hair, dark blond at the roots and pale gold at the ends, and it was swept back and slightly poufy on top. She had diamond-shaped dangly earrings that accented her long neck.

She captured his attention because she was something new, and he was bored. And well, what could he say? He was a pirate, and the lass was something shiny.

Swan finished her booking ritual and placed her guest in the cell next to his without a word. Not even an introduction. How rude.

He went to remedy this, being the gentleman he was, extending his hand through the cell bars, saying, "Hello, lass, I'm – "

But he never got further than that, because when she turned to face him, he saw her. Past the highlighted hair, the heavy black eyeliner, and the rouge was the sweet, feisty lass he once knew, hazel brown eyes and all.

~ E * N * C * H * A * N * T * E * D ~ F * O * R * E * S * T ~

~ Some time ago ~

Hook hated the Forest. He hated its sappy dusty smell. He hated its murky fog. He hated its ever-greenness. Most of all he hated that he couldn't see his horizon. He felt trapped. He felt like a bloody fish-out-of-water.

But according to Sir Gisborne's surly but chatty squire, at the heart of this forest is the Queen's castle and locked up in this fortress is the former slave of the Dark One. And to his way of thinking, this damsel-in-distress would be the best person to tell him the location of The Dagger and would do so gratefully in return for his assistance in her escape. If he was lucky, in more ways than one.

He was pondering the logistics of scouting out the castle and getting his men in the area without alerting the Queen to his intentions, when he heard the clamor of a struggle.

"Get off me!"

"Be still, Goldie!"

"Ouch! The bitch bit me!"

"Ooh! She must like it rough then…"

Over the rise and past the burnt tree, he saw three men bulky with fur pelt cloaks pinning a girl down. An unwilling girl by the looks and sound of it – squirming against their hold, biting and gnashing her teeth, kicking and bucking, hissing and cursing – all futilely of course – but nevertheless resistant to the last inch.

A large part of him did not want to get involved. This was not his problem, and he did not want to be delayed from his vengeance, especially not after waiting centuries in that pubescent's hell-hole of a playpen. However…

"I say, mates, three strapping men such as yourself against one lass is rather bad form."

Three disgruntled and peevish (to put it mildly) glares fixated on him. He resisted the urge to grip the hilt of his sword or to brandish his hook, and instead bowed with a flourish, "Captain Hook, gentleman buccaneer."

Big beefy bloke grunted in sneering disdain. Tall wiry chap rasped, "What's it to you, mate?" But the stunted scraggy fellow tried to be sneaky and reach for his crossbow at his feet or his knife secreted in his boot.

Hook did not give him a chance for either. Out came one of his own knives, hurtling through the air to lodge in the brute's hand.

At his scream, his companions charged him, long knives and clubs raised. But these thugs had no finesse, as used to common bar brawling as they were, and with a few well-placed swish and flicks he had them disarmed and incapacitated.

Collecting his knives and wiping his blades clean, he inquired not unkindly, "Lass, are you in good health?"

"Y-ye-yes" was her hesitant reply, as she slowly rose from her crouch at the base of the oak tree. "Thank you."

While she carefully took stock of herself and straightened her disheveled appearance, he gave her a cursory glance to verify her answer.

She was a maid perhaps of recent marriageable age, of average height, and of a trim figure, if a bit more curvaceous at the hip, dressed in rather worn, threadbare, and now torn attire – skirt, blouse, walking boots, and cloak. Her tangled curls were a pirate's favorite bright golden-hue, and her eyes were an odd mixture of hazel brown with flecks of amber and a ring of green and had the haunted look of the abandoned.

He did not see injuries beyond the blood at the corner of her mouth, which he surmised she had gotten from a backhanded slap, and the bruises on her arms from where the louts had grabbed her. So his quota of good-deed of the century had not been wasted. Excellent.

Giving her a perfunctory nod, he declared blithely, "Well, then, I bid you a good day." He'd had his fill of being entangled with the lives of lost souls, and this was not the damsel-in-distress he was seeking. So without further ado, he went on his bloodthirsty way.

Or so he attempted.

Not forty paces later, he was hailed with a hasty and desperate, "Wait!"

"I haven't got the time."

The wench was not to be brushed off. She foolishly swung herself in front of him, nearly getting reflexively impaled upon his rather pointy attachment and declaring audaciously, "I'd like to strike a bargain with you, Captain."

Up went his eyebrow, "And what can you possibly offer me? I have no need or desire for an inexperienced bed warmer."

Her heart-shaped face flamed with maiden embarrassment and her eyes flashed blazing amber with indignation, as she bit out, "I am not propositioning you. I'm bargaining with you." With a steadying breath, she continued briskly, "In exchange for lessons in swordplay and fisticuffs, I will help you infiltrate the Queen's castle."

Now she truly had his attention.

"And why do you think I wish to do that?" he asked coldly. His irritation that his intentions were so well known that this waif was aware of them marred the bored casualness that he was aiming for. A fact, which she picked up on, as evidenced by her knowing smirk.

"Oh well, people talk and I listen," she shrugged with nonchalance. "And a man with your menacing demeanor and unhealthy interest in the Dark One gets noticed."

At his ever-glowering countenance, she hastened to reassure, "But your intentions towards the Queen's unwilling guest has not been broadcasted. I only surmised it was so because I happened to overhear Gisborne's squire quietly question his visiting brother-in-law, who works as a guard at the castle, about the girl's location. Not long before that another party at the tavern had been making morbid predictions about your fate. A conversation the brother-in-law guard had not been present to overhear as well."

He relaxed. The idiot squire may be dumb but he was not stupid enough to bandy about his part in Hook's Crocodile-skinning quest. No sane person would…so why was this bird getting involved?

Crossing his arms, he leaned casually back against the tree trunk behind him before skeptically challenging, "And I suppose you would have me believe that you cleverly placed two-and-two together and then came up with a plan – opportunistically, all so that you could receive dueling lessons from a rotten sea dog?"

For all the talk of his 'menacing demeanor,' this chit was not overly put off by him. With brazen confidence, she asserted, "Yes and no. Yes, I am that clever. Furthermore, there is one thing you need to know about any large household, a city mayor's or queen's – the maids know everything. I can go in and get hired, and then I can learn all the guards' rotations, shifts, habits, secrets, and so forth; information that you will need to gain access to and abscond with this Belle girl unnoticed."

"And I, obviously," she gestured to her bruises and torn clothes, "need to learn how to defend myself. Who better than a 'rotten sea dog,' with an equally obvious penchant for survival, to teach me?"

It was very hard to argue with such beguiling logic.

Holding out his hand, he declared amicably, "As a rule, I like to know the name of the individual I deal with, miss…?"

The lass eyed his hand like it was a snake and bit her swollen lip in uncertainty. Lovely, his new partner was a lost girl with trust issues and insane meddlesome tendencies.

"Come on, love. You trust me enough to enter this hazardous pact, but your name is too much?"

Her eyes flashed and she challenged, "And I'm to believe that your natural born family name is truly 'Hook'?"

He bit out a short laugh, "Aye, touché." Extending his hand yet again, he supplied, "The name's Killian Jones."

Her eyes briefly widened in surprise, before she released a determined sigh and straightened her shoulders. Grasping his hand, she began, "The name's…" There was yet another brief pause before she smirked and tossed her golden curls over shoulder, "Tawny. Or Miss Tawny, if you ever prefer to be more formal."

~ S * T * O * R * Y * B * R * O * O * K * E ~

~Present ~

"T– ?"

"Yeah, I know. You're Hook, the guy who shot the librarian, Gold's girl." She cut him off accusingly. Her voice was dripping with derision – either in abhorrence at his moral depravity or contempt for his stupidity at going after something of the Crocodile's, he could not tell. However, he was quick to pick up on the fact that she did not want him to say her name.

His suspicions were confirmed, when she immediately switched course. She dropped the hostile act to uncross her arms and cheerily grasped his still outstretched hand, saying, "I'm Gwen, Gwen McKinley."

"Hello- " Her grip tightened and her eyes narrowed threateningly in warning, "Gwen. Call me, Killian. Or Captain Jones, if you prefer the formal."

She let his remaining hand go. Her mercurial hazel eyes flashing with gratitude, as she nodded down to his other limb, "I suppose, I will have to as the reason for your more infamous moniker seems to be missing."

"Yes, that." He waved the be-shortened limb dismissively in their audience's direction. "It seems Miss Swan feels that I will add 'destruction to property' to my crimes…Speaking of which, what offense are you in this landlubber brig for?"

"I'm accused of breaking and entering. But as to whether or not that's true, I plead the fifth."

His eyebrow quirked up questioningly, and she explained with an ever widening and familiar smirk, "That's a handy right this land has guaranteed its citizens – the right against self-incrimination."

At this point, Swan rose up from her chair and began putting on her jacket, saying acerbically, "Alright, I'm going home to my son. You two jailbirds have fun cooing at each other."

As much as he hated for Swan to have the last word, he was far more preoccupied with the blonde in the adjacent cell than with coming up with a suitable rejoinder. And for good reason too, since as soon as the good sheriff exited the building, 'Gwen' was tugging off her boot and pulling out a set of lock picks that had somehow been cleverly concealed within. 'Cleverly' because he knew Swan had checked them when booking the lass.

"How did you…?"

"Do be quiet, Captain Jones. The walls may have ears," she cautioned, just as she jimmied open her cell.

Having heard from Regina of these electronic 'bugs', he did so, watching her curiously as she picked the lock of the metal drawers and began pulling out files. When she had a good dozen or so, she opened up the desk drawer where Swan imprudently stored their personal effects and pulled out the contraption called a 'phone.' From there, she proceeded to go through each file, pausing in her perusal to utilize her tiny box of wonders. There would be a brief flash, and then she would examine the screen. If content with whatever she saw there, she would move on.

This took a few hours; most of which he dozed through as it was not the most stimulating of tableaus. However, during one of his more conscious intervals, he caught her removing a portrait from one of the files and tuck it in her other boot. Intriguing.

Even more so was the fact that after she was done with her little project, she put everything back including herself.

As soon as she got as comfortable as anyone can get on one of these cots, he asked, "And the point of that exercise was what, love?"

She rolled over to face him. After taking a moment to eye him thoughtfully, she whispered, "Captain Jones, gentleman buccaneer, would you be interested in entering a hazardous pact?"

"I'd need a little more details than that, Gwen."

"Not here. But when you get out of here, come find me."

Her audacity knew no bounds. The chit had far more serious charges laid against her than he. "What makes you think that you'll be out of here first?" He challenged.

"Why, Captain, because of the general principle of any community – be it Storybrooke, Maine, or … the Forest – the maids know everything," was her taunting and arch reply.

~0~

In the morning, he was awoken by Swan letting his fellow 'jailbird' go free.

"What the hell, Emma?"

"I'm just as confused as you, Killian," was her disgruntled reply. Her annoyance with Gwen must have far exceeded hers with him, because she divulged without prompting, "The witnesses to the break-in recanted their story."

The chit never said a word to him, not until she was in the doorway, and then she turned around and smirked.

"Damn, mate, that was… diverting."

A/N: Thoughts? Questions? Comments?