3

A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.

Delila blinked. She craned her neck, peering around the brig through the bars of her cage. How long had she fallen asleep for? A second? A minute? Already the discomfort was too much: she had to move again.

Slowly, stiffly, she propped herself up on one elbow and began the process of turning over. She couldn't kneel on all fours in the cage; the ceiling was too low even for that. Instead she had to slide her bent, cramped legs underneath her, one after the other, until her body was facing the other way. When she lay at a diagonal she had the most space, with the crown of her head pressed against one corner and her knees squashed into another. The bars were too close together to stick her legs through. She wasn't sure how long it had been since she'd last stretched them. A day and a night, at least. Her throat was parched, her belly sore with hunger, her eyes itching for want of sleep. On top of that, the bars beneath her dug into her body no matter how she lay. She felt bruised all over.

A hatch opened above, and footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs. She knew it was him; she'd watched many a crew mate scurry past on their way to collect something or other, and none of them had his distinct, confident gait. It was the walk of a man in charge.

"How are we holding up, sweetheart?"

Delila didn't bother to look up as he came to a halt in front of the cage. His clothes rustled, letting her know he'd dropped into a couch, but still she ignored him.

The next sound, however, made her head jerk about so fast that she pulled a muscle.

"I thought so," Hook smirked, and sloshed the water around the cup again. "Did you want a drink?"

Knowing better than to answer, Delila propped herself up as best she could, watching him steadily. He had taken her cloak before forcing her into the prison, and her fingers and toes were turning a delicate purple. She shivered a little in the dank air.

The captain's expression softened. Gently he raised the cup and pressed it against the bars.

"Drink," he urged softly.

She held herself back a moment longer, regarding him with mistrust. Finally she edged towards the cup, straining to reach it with her dry mouth.

Hook snatched the water away just as the rim touched her lips. "But first," he said, "tell me what you know."

Shooting him a venomous look, she simply made a disgusted noise and turned away.

"Don't make it hard for yourself. Just tell me, and this can all be over in a heartbeat."

"I can't leave without the egg," she muttered sullenly. "I've come too far."

"You went too far, and look where it got you. This is just the beginning, love. You should have known better than to mess with pirates."

"If you're not going to give me water, then leave me alone."

Laughing, he shifted to a more comfortable position, boots scraping the floor. "Ordering me about on my own ship! Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?"

Silence.

"Keep pushing me, lass, and I'll be forced to raise my game. You don't want that."

Silence.

"Fine," he sighed. "We'll have another little chat in a few hours. I'm sure you'll be much more compliant by then."

There was a clink as he kicked the cup over. Then at last his footsteps receded, and the hatched banged closed.

Delila wiped an angry tear from her cheek, and began the long, painful move onto her other side again.

Hook closed the hatch, and stood looking down at it for a long moment.

She was holding up well. Too well. He'd hoped a day in the cage would sway her; she was only a delicate little thing, after all.

Unfortunately for them both, it seemed her will was made of much stronger stuff. He had neither the patience nor the pity to simply wait for her spirit to break.

"Mister Smee," he called across the fo'c'sle.

His first mate rolled out of a hammock and shambled over, looking rather groggy. It was still early in the morning, and most of the crew were asleep. "Captain?"

"The girl isn't responding well to our treatment."

"I see."

"I want every man to arm himself with a needle or knife. Anything small and sharp. It's time to sweat the wench." As Smee clapped his hands and bowed, Hook raised a warning finger. "No cutlasses, no swords. I want her in pain, not bleeding to death. If I find any deep cuts, it'll be on your head."

"Yes Captain, of course Captain."

"And don't go near her face," he added as an afterthought. He didn't give a reason for it, and Smee didn't ask for one. "Tell her whenever she wants it to stop, she can ask for me, and we'll have another chat."

"You won't be there, Captain?"

"No. I have other matters to attend."

The first mate bowed low and shuffled off to rouse the others. Satisfied, Hook made his way above board and took a quick turn about the decks, ensuring everything was in order. He didn't listen out for the crew's movements, though he sensed them, as a spider senses vibrations in its web. Finally, with nothing else to occupy him, he returned to his own quarters.

The place was still a mess. He probably ought to tidy it, but there was a sort of charm to the chaos that he couldn't quite shake. She'd searched the cabin thoroughly, unearthing some things even he had forgotten about over the years.

Without quite realising where his feet were taking him, he found himself standing over the glove box. He bent down, moving a glove aside, and picked up the picture of Milah. This hadn't been forgotten-merely hidden. It had once taken pride of place at the centre of his desk, and in the months after her death, he'd kept it on his person night and day. Eventually, as the years and then decades passed in Neverland, he'd looked at it less and less, and every time he did he wished he hadn't.

He wondered what he used to feel when he looked at it. Sometimes he thought he could remember: a kind of purity, a sort of gladness, even through the haze of grief. It had brought him comfort, knowing that their love still lived despite her death. Now when he traced the familiar lines, trying to summon up that sensation, all that came to him was a hollowness in his gut and a bitter taste in his mouth.

He knew she had been important. He knew they had been happy. But the only thing he truly felt was rage, and the only desire he had was revenge.

Now he stood in pensive silence, his eyes running over the image again and again. She had been beautiful, in her own way: fierce, striking, mature. There were plenty of other women who were prettier, and he'd had a lot of them, but only she had possessed that startling mixture of qualities he found so attractive. Independence, callousness, wanderlust… and an insatiable, desperate thirst for love.

This new girl was an enigma. Her motives seemed obvious-from a pirate's point of view, anyway-but he sensed she was keeping something back. More than her information about the Crocodile. He'd seen that look before: the look of someone who thought a lot and spoke little.

Where were her parents? Who had been the cause of her family's ruin? What had the old wizard told her that she wasn't giving away?

If there even is a wizard. He grunted dismissively, and put Milah's image back into the glove box, along with the gloves. Slowly, grudgingly, he went about the task of restoring his cabin to its former state.

He pointedly ignored the voice at the back of his mind that asked him why he wasn't in the brig, overseeing the girl's punishment.