Swan returns quickly from the talking phone with a muted smile, not meeting his eyes, walking briskly past the other ships docked in the harbor. Killian quirks a brow in question as she carefully climbs aboard, smothering the smile before meeting his eyes. A private part of him, the part that remains a lost boy no matter the centuries that have passed since that fateful day, hopes for the best. He wants to see the lost girl unite with her family. Hook has ample experience crushing that feeling, squashing it down, something he does once more.
"Any problems, Swan?" Hook asks, more in regard to their surroundings. Surroundings Swan knows far better than he.
"None, Captain." Swan answers brightly as they weigh anchor. The morning sun sparkles on the surface of Boston Harbor. Cool air rushes in from the sea, smelling of salt. That smell is one that never fails to invigorate him, enliven him.
Something Killian should remember distinctly from all his years at sea, the weather can turn in an instant. The stars may be unknown in foreign realms. The land may change, but the sea, the sea remains the same. In the sense that she's unknowable, ever-changing, dangerous. She could change from calm to a tempest in an instant.
Growing waves roll beneath their feet, pitching the deck of the Jolly Roger. Her prow cuts clean through the calm, blue water. The chaotic, massive village of Boston becomes a gray smudge on the horizon behind them, cut with small spikes that are truly massive buildings. It is a strange realm indeed. Killian feels he's seen enough of it to draw that conclusion.
"One notch to starboard, Swan," Killian says, noting a correction in their course. As she does, her eyes flick across the P and S, and the scratch across them. Remorse churns in his gut at the memory and as he hears the echo of Bae's words. "You hated my father so much, you didn't even realize that you're just like him!" Swan seems to know enough not to question further, and for that he is appreciative. Her trust remains a precious thing, a bloody miracle as far as he is concerned. One he recognizes he does not deserve. Allowing her to know how he betrayed Baelfire would only shatter whatever faith she has placed in him.
Perhaps that is reason enough that she should not trust me at all.
He allows the letters and the scratch through them to remain matter-of-fact and unremarked upon, figuring it is for the best.
He watches her at the helm, cataloging the injuries he can observe. A narrow cut surrounded by dark bruising on her cheek, suggesting someone struck her, likely wearing some kind of ring. A small gash on her temple that he somehow failed to notice the day before. When asked, he knows what her answers will be. For someone with an almost superhuman ability to detect lies, she is downright dreadful at telling them herself. To save herself from this obvious handicap, she frequently evades, keeping answers short as possible. Short and evasive but just honest enough to avoid lying. Killian should know. He would do the same to Liam as a lad. Killian heaves a frustrated sigh at the thought of just how strongly the young princess reminds him of his younger self. May the gods help the King and Queen should the pattern continue.
Killian finds himself all but impressed. Swan stands proudly at the helm, having taken to sailing like a duck to water. All of this while injured… Simply the memory of the sight of her back causes the blood in Killian's veins to boil. It was scored with welts, bruises and deep slashes, weeping crimson blood down to the seat of her trousers and painting her still-healing ribs. There was not one patch of skin on her back unmarred. Deep welts and slashes still seeping blood, bruises already darkening to a mix of black, blue and purple. He is all too familiar with the pain of being on the receiving end of a lash. Silver's beatings almost looked kind in comparison. In the few days that they had her, they tortured her. The retribution he inflicted in the form of their lives fails to alter that fact.
The waves beneath them grow larger, nearly rocking Swan from her feet. Killian keeps an eye on her, but isn't about to coddle her. The wind grows fiercer, towing them forward. Swan frowns slightly as she holds tighter to the helm. Hand a bit firmer on the spokes of the wheel, she course-corrects easily at his instruction. A modest glow of pride tugs a smile at the corner of his mouth and warms inside his chest. As I said, she'd make a hell of a pirate. Above their heads, they watch the wispy clouds pass quickly overhead in the wind. The wind itself starts changing, from a mild breeze moving east, growing stronger as it shifts south. The temperature plummets with it. His breath catches, recognizing the signs of a coming storm.
"Captain?" she asks uneasily, wary of looking away from the helm.
"We'll be fine, lass. Just do as I say, aye?" Swan nods. A small grin tugs at her lips. He cocks an eyebrow in question at the expression, causing the grin to spread to a broad smile.
"David said the same, you know."
"He'd never say such a thing while I could hear him." Killian winks.
Her smile only grows. "Yeah, that's what's so funny."
He chuckles, tousling her hair, causing an annoyed scowl that he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss. Her green eyes sparkle with good humor, belying the scowl. "Well, your father's right, lass."
His eyes turn back to the horizon, the wind in their faces. "Prepare to come about, Swan."
"Aye aye, Captain."
She has a tiny, little smile lighting her face when he looks at her over his shoulder.
As Killian moves to trim the sails and the rigging, he smiles to himself as Swan begins lightly tacking against the wind. The Jolly continues moving back and forth to head north, always gaining the wind in the sails. Lass is a bloody natural. The frigid wind grows harsher, pulling at the two of them. Killian glances northward, spyglass in hand, searching for any sign of the storm he can feel shifting in his bones. He discovers nothing on the horizon.
Perhaps we can manage to outrun it. Hook can almost hear himself scoff at the optimism. Must be time spent around heroes rubbing off on him, causing him to regard the growing storm with hope instead of practicality.
With all of his years, he realizes something coming on this suddenly, he may be incapable of outrunning. They may be forced to weather this one. His blood starts to race with anticipation of the coming storm. Dread starts weighing in his gut as he looks to Swan at the helm. Were he by himself, Killian would weather the storm without fear. But he's not by himself. And as natural a sailor as she may be, she's still a novice. Swan's never weathered a storm on the sea.
Attempting to outrun the storm by catching the mightiest winds announcing its arrival, he leaves the sails unfurled. If they can catch this wind, they may manage to outrun the storm he feels coming.
The sky darkens to slate gray. Freezing wind buffets them all around. Were the Jolly's hold not full, they'd be in far more danger. It was a precaution he adopted while traveling through portals, and he simply never emptied her after landing in Storybrooke. With any luck, her hold is full enough the weight should help. Waves hitting from either side knock them about. They crest a giant wave, only to crash down to the trough, knocking them about.
For a moment, he notes the slight flicker of fear in Swan's eyes as she glances at him. If he's candid with himself, he feels a flicker of that fear himself, not that he'll ever let on. Salty spray from the sea kicks up, dousing them both in freezing water and slicking the deck.
The darkened sky splits, the floodgates opening. The opening salvo of the tempest is the light pitter-patter of rain hitting the deck, swiftly growing to a steady rain, drenching them both. Within minutes, the freezing rain is falling in sheets. Massive and growing waves continue tossing them about as Killian joins Swan at the helm, keeping hold of it, trying to keep them steady. His muscles strain and burn with the required effort. He can barely imagine how difficult it must be for Swan as the scrawny lass practically wrestles the wheel.
"Hard to starboard, Swan." He hollers above the growing downpour hitting the deck and the distant growl and groan of thunder. Hand over hand, she hauls the spokes of the wheel towards herself as Killian passes it over. Freezing rain water pouring down his face, darkness surrounding them, he can barely see Swan where she stands two feet away from him. Simply by the glow of her pale hair in the darkness, being plastered to her head by the pouring rain.
Swan encounters his eyes quickly, her face splitting in a quick, toothy smile before she turns back to the storm around them. Her eyes sparkle with the challenge. Killian jerks his head to clear his face of rainwater.
Lightning splits the inky darkness before them in a sudden crack. One, two, three, four, five, CRASH! He counts under his breath until he hears the crash and boom of thunder. Five miles out.
Killian sighs, swiping his hand down his face to wipe away the rivulets of cold water. There's no outrunning it anymore. The storm is upon them, and the best they can hope for is to weather it.
"Are you mad?! What kind of captain sails into a hurricane?!" Liam's appalled shout from long ago rings in his ears. His brother's words from so long ago often ring in his ears before sailing through storms. It was Killian's fault they both nearly died in that storm. He dislodges the thought quickly along with the accompanying guilt. Both will only distract him and further endanger the both of them.
Killian turns to Emma, still at the helm, trying to remain on course while keeping away from the land. The storm could kill them, but so could being run aground in an effort to avoid it. Swan's pale face is scrunched up in concentration, mouth pressed in a thin line. Pale hair whips around her in the wind. She passes the spokes of the wheel, left hand to right, reaching her left hand as far across the wheel as she can.
Cresting a wave rocks Swan until she stumbles, fists clenched and white-knuckled on the wheel. Crashing to the trough of the wave knocks her to her knees. The wheel spins wildly away from her as she hauls herself back to her feet. Hand to hand, she passes the wheel to force them back on course, throwing her full weight behind each pass.
Under foot, the deck's rocking nearly knocks him off his feet along the way. If he can barely remain on his feet, with centuries of practice, then this is a bloody necessity. Waves crash over the gunwale, slicking the deck with cold seawater. He takes hold of the wheel himself, guiding them back on course.
Once they're steady, he turns to Swan. Arm around her shoulders, he is forced to yell close to her ear over the storm. "Lass, if I told you to go below deck, would you listen?" Her silence is answer enough, without the denial on her face and clear displeasure in her eyes. He knows it's brutal to weather a storm on deck, but even worse below, where everything is unknown. Killian sighs and nods, accepting the answer. "That's what I bloody thought. Here, hold still."
As gently as he can, mindful of her injuries, he loops the rope a few times around her waist as the waves jostle them both. Wet and slick, he struggles tying it off securely at her back, tugging on the end of the line with his teeth. For the millionth time, he curses his lack of hand. "You alright, love?" Lightning splits the darkness again, cutting across the downpour.
"Yes, sir. I'm fine," she shouts back to report over the roar of the gale and pounding rain slapping against the deck. He quirks a brow in questioning disbelief at the words, knowing what they suggest coming from Emma Swan. She huffs a bit, breath misting in the chill, but nods her head. The sound gets lost under the crash of thunder.
"This'll keep you from going overboard, lass." A man overboard is a dead man.
"What about you?" Swan shouts over the rumble of thunder.
"I'm an old sea dog, Swan. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine." He smirks and attempts to wink, though constant blinking against the sheets of downpouring rain ruins the effect.
Killian shifts his focus then back to the storm raging around them.
"My brother, Liam, is a true hero! A better man and a better sailor than I could ever wish to be! I would gladly trust him with my life, and if he says that there's a chance that we can be saved, then he will save us! But we have to trust him! Are you with me?"
His impassioned plea from so long ago rings in his ears. For a moment, the storm around him appears as that storm did. Killian's memories surface, clear as day, of sailing directly into a hurricane for the Eye of the Storm.
Killian forces the memories away as he shakes the water from his hair like a dog. He can scarcely afford to lose concentration now. If they're to make it out of this alive, he needs to be exclusively focused on the Jolly and Emma.
A creaking sound sends a jolt of fear through his blood. His breath catches at the sight. His eyes turn to the masts, the sails he left unfurled to catch the winds of this tempest in the folly of an attempt to outrun it. The winds currently battering them around, knocking them to crash from side to side, will take down the masts if he leaves them as is. He has to reef the sails. Calling out the order poses too much risk. This, he must do himself.
"Swan, stay here. Hold this course as best you can." He hollers over the crashing of the waves, the drumming and slapping of sheets of rain hitting the deck and the rumble of thunder. Her affirmative response is barely audible above the howl of the gale. He's knocked off his feet, striking his knees while clinging to a line. Killian grabs hold of the nearest line he can reach, the rope abrasive and coarse under his hand. Freezing water sloshes over the gunwale, soaking his legs and drenching his socks inside his boots, promptly numbing his feet from the cold. Killian hauls himself to his feet, staggering along the deck. Waves continue crashing over the gunwale, slicking the deck and sending him stumbling a few steps before regaining his footing.
Slowly, he manages to reach the ratlines and secures his hook around the slick, freezing rope. His grip is poor on the surface of the lines. He hauls himself up the rigging, moving as quickly as he safely can. Swiveling his head to look over his shoulder, he can barely make out tousled pale blond hair through the sheets of frigid rain. So long as he can spot her, he knows she's on board. She's about as safe as they can be, bobbing around in this storm.
Lightning splits the sky, jagged forks stabbing the angry, churning waves. For just that moment, the darkness around them is illuminated. Thunder booms, not a second after, echoing like cannon fire in the heat of battle surrounding him.
Killian turns back to the ratlines in front of him, climbing up to the yards and hauling the sails. His muscles strain against the weight of the soaked canvas and the draw of the tempest winds. His panting breaths fog around him. Killian grits his teeth and hauls, holding fast as the ship crests a massive wave, nearly staggering as they crash. Freezing, slick lines begin to slip through his fingers. His fingers themselves begin turning numb.
Fear begins gripping his heart. This is no time for his grip to falter.
Clinging to the yard with all he has, he turns back to Swan for just a moment. He catches a glimpse of her pale hair again through the sheets of rain. He ties off the lines, securing half of one sail before staggering along the yard to the other to replicate the process. Haul, heave, tie off.
His breath mists in the wintry air as he returns to the ratlines to climb again. Water pours down his upturned face as he climbs. He blinks against the pouring rain, struggling to see. Winds whip around him, trying to wrench him away from the lines and pitch him to the churning oblivion of the sea many feet below. Killian secures his hook arm around the lines before glancing over his shoulder, blinking against the freezing rain pounding the deck. He can distinguish Swan's tousled blond hair whipping like a flag in the gale. Her pale hands grip the wheel, attempting to maintain the course.
Killian returns quickly to the ratlines, hauling himself up, hook over hand. He ignores the protest of his arms, the fatigue of his body. The Jolly crests another massive wave. He braces himself to crash to the trough, but still staggers, losing his footing. His numb feet and soaked boots slip. His heart stutters somewhere in his throat.
"JONES!" A terrified scream slices through the sounds of the storm. A spike of bone-deep terror lances through the hum of the Jolly. The feeling slices through him like a knife in an instant.
Killian instantly looks over his shoulder, searching for the girl in the storm. What happened to her? What caused her to cry out in fear? All he can identify in the rain is a pale face, upturned in the downpour, staring at him in stark terror. Even in the darkness of the storm, the whites of her eyes are visible.
Killian hangs from his hand and hook holding fast to the slick ropes, buffeted by the winds, tossed around by the waves. He grunts with the effort of hauling himself back up to the ratlines. On cresting the next wave, he heaves his body close to the lines, clinging with all he has. Linking his arm around the line itself in a way he feels he may end up regretting, he holds tight.
A new feeling courses through his fingers, halting him in his tracks. It's slight, dim, just a muted feeling almost lost under the chaos of the storm. But it's comfort, safety, the peace he expects they could find in the eye of the storm. Warmth for his frozen digits. Comfort for his aching and weary muscles. For a moment, he hesitates to accept the feeling, almost as if it's too good to be true.
One key fact gradually dawns on Killian. The waves are no longer pitching them about, rather simply swaying them gently, like sailing through peaceful waters. He freezes in confusion, holding tight to the lines, lest the reprieve only be temporary.
Did I lose my grip and hit the deck? Have I gone overboard? Am I dead? Are these images simply the comforts afforded to my dying mind before I'm cast into a well-deserved fiery damnation?
Whatever becomes of me, is Swan safe? Has she been harmed?
Freezing rain running in rivulets down his body shocks him from his questioning. His pounding heart, thundering against his chest, and gasping breaths remind him that he is very much alive. He's alive and must remain present in this moment, lest that fact change in an instant.
The seas around them are peaceful, no longer knocking Killian around in the rigging, despite the storm continuing to rage around them. Wind whips against him, but the glow and the accompanying feeling warm him to his bones.
He hangs immobilized, struck by awe he can scarcely describe, watching as the light recedes, leaving only a faint glimmer behind, only for the full force to return, stronger. He knows magic when he perceives it, as he recognized this land by the lack of it in the air. Presently, he senses that wild, untamed energy pulsing through his ship and crackling through the air. Killian follows that beacon to its source, and hardly finds himself surprised.
Amid the lashing of the rain against he deck and the freezing howl of the gale, a warmth begins to seep into his veins. It cuts through the chill of the rain into the chill of his very soul. In the darkness black as pitch, he spies a golden glow like that of a lantern emanating from the helm, slowly encompassing the ship in its aura. More specifically, the lass' hands gripping the wheel for dear life, struggling to maintain the course he set. Her clenched fists glow the brightest, illuminating her determined, upturned face.
For a moment, he's struck dumb and he stares in awe at the raw power emanating from the girl. That glow gradually extends outward. It follows the grain of the wood and the fiber of the ropes, through each stitch of the sails until his ship glows like the morning star. It travels along the lines, up to the topsails, and recedes gently like waves lapping against the shore. The hum of the Jolly's enchantment has never felt mightier, never felt prouder. A power complimenting her own begins to knit the two together. And at the center of it all stands Emma Swan. The light overtaking the Jolly Roger begins and ends with her, ebbing and flowing like the tides.
Surrounding them, the storm continues to rage. Lightning stabs the churning waves, briefly illuminating the darkness. Booming thunder crashes. Howling winds whip themselves into a frenzy. However, none of it touches them in the glow emanating from the Jolly Roger. The chill itself is warded off.
Killian carefully descends from the slick rigging. His boots touch down on the deck. He glances down at the waves still churning beneath them. Cold seawater strikes his face as he leans over the side. Upon closer inspection, he sees they're floating roughly five yards above the crests of the crashing waves. With every give and take of that glowing warmth, they seem to progressively rise at a gentle, almost unnoticeable incline.
A grin splits his face and a chuckle escapes him.
In the sound of the storm around him, he can almost heed Liam's command to deploy the Pegasus. The crashes of the waves beneath him can almost be mistaken for cannon shot splashing behind the Jewel as she rose. Once again, he can feel the slight incline as the ship rises in the air, the lightness and excitement glowing within his chest.
"Legend has it that horse could fly."
"Indeed. So can we. Hang on!"
A truly fantastical sail, sparkling gold in the sunlight deployed, followed by the laughs and cheers of a crew of the King's Navy. They were heading on a course bound for Neverland and disaster. Killian hears the echoes of his brother's laughter in the howling of the storm. The ghost of his brother's hand claps him on the shoulder once more. Despite the results of that journey, the memory has remained a favorable one.
He carefully crosses the rain-slick deck, finally approaching Emma. "Swan, you are bloody brilliant. Amazing."
She turns, almost surprised but wholly relieved to discover him standing beside her. Emma appears almost locked in a trance. Her knuckles are white, gripping the spokes of the wheel. Her knees are slightly bent, bracing for the growing incline. His hand on her shoulder seems to jar her from her concentration, leveling them off about fifty feet above the crests of the waves.
Swan shakes her head, pale hair sticking to her wet face, pale and rosy from the cold.
"Emma, this is…" Killian trails off, at a loss for words.
"You're okay. You're safe," he overhears her mutter in simple relief, eyes darting between him and the sea past the bow of the ship. The words take a moment to process in his mind, but when they connect, he's stunned. Her fear wasn't of the storm. Nothing had harmed her. Her terrified shout earlier was for him.
Something old, gnarled and knotted within his chest loosens.
Killian huffs a breath, shaking off the feeling, returning his focus to the ship.
"You were right. The Jolly Roger is amazing." Her voice sounds unguarded, distracted.
His brow furrows in confusion at her words. "Swan, this isn't the Jolly's doing."
Emma turns to him, appearing as confused as he is, head cocked to the side in question. Her eyes are clear from their trance. Their incline falters, shaking in the air. Surrounding them, the aura of warmth and light begins to flicker. It is only further confirmation of what he knows.
Her head whips back to face the bow of the ship, wide-eyed in panic, currently aiming towards the churning, rising waves. They both grip the helm tight, sharply adjusting the angle to return to their ascent. Slightly dimmer than before, the glow returns.
"What do you mean, Captain?"
For a moment, he's confused. Even for that split second, she seemed to instinctively know that it was her lapse in concentration causing their altitude to falter. However, even then it didn't connect that she was responsible for propulsion?
Killian sighs. He doesn't understand the cognitive dissonance, but this is hardly the time to address it. This is a conversation likely best had on terra firma, where it won't send them back to the raging seas below. "I'll explain when we're back in Storybrooke, Swan. For now, keep doing what you're doing, aye?" She nods her head in answer, accepting his non-answer for the time being, however regarding him with confusion. "Three notches to port, Swan." In the air, without the gale knocking them about, he no longer fears running aground.
Moments later, rain falling on them, he turns to Emma with a proud grin. "Not bad for your first time, eh, lass?" She returns his grin with a beaming smile. Killian chuckles as Emma begins to swell with well-earned pride.
"Now, let's get back to Storybrooke. What say you, Swan?"
"Aye aye, Captain," she answers with a toothy grin. He chuckles, ruffling her hair.
He stands at her shoulder as the incline plateaus at about fifty yards above the crests of the waves. Golden light continues to ebb and flow from Swan's hands where they grip the spokes of the wheel. Making even better time by air than they would by sea, they fly north, back to Storybrooke.
Slowly, the chill begins to seep back in, through the glowing aura. The golden light remains strong, despite the cold rain lashing against them and freezing gale chilling them to the bone. Emma's arms begin shaking under the strain, sweat beading her soaked brow. As a precaution, Killian winds an arm around her back, supporting her. Their altitude falters slightly, dropping about five feet like a stone before they level out again.
"Swan, we're beyond the worst of the storm. We're safe, lass." Emma nods, expression fatigued, shaking like a leaf. Still shaking, she grits her teeth and turns back to the storm around them, then to the helm. Her expression hardens in an instant, the light growing brighter.
Concern tugs at him. "Swan," he repeats gently. "We're safe, lass." She nods again, the ebb and flow of the glowing, golden light barely flickering for a moment. Killian sighs as he secures his grip on Emma's shoulder. Stubborn lass.
For a moment, he wonders if she doesn't know she's responsible for their flight. How could she not know? How the bloody hell would she not realize she's the one flying the ship? Clearly, it's exhausting her, so she must know. Is she purposely denying what is plain as day in front of her face? For what purpose would she deny her own use of magic?
Roughly, he shakes off the ponderings, deciding to reconcile them on dry land. They'll have time that he can ask her a few questions and, if nothing else, she'll at least think through the possibility.
Around them, the worst of the storm fades. Below them, the waves begin to calm. Lightning ceases to split the sky. Thunder is reduced to quiet grumbling in the distance until it too falls silent. Rain still falls rather heavily, but no longer in sheets. A cold, salty breeze still blows them north, but no longer whips against them with the bite of a lash. Daylight from the noon-day sun lightens the sky behind the rain from midnight black to gunmetal gray.
Collectively, they release a sigh of relief. The worst is behind them.
Emma is shaking but stubbornly gripping the spokes of the ship's wheel as the stone wall of Storybrooke harbor is illuminated in the golden aura of light. Dropping like a stone, a few feet at a time to stop at a jolt, they unsteadily descend. A few foot drop, coming to a complete stop, repeated until they splash down. As best he can, he braces for impact with each jolting landing, managing to steady Emma on her feet.
Their erratic landing ends with a splash as they touch down in the slight waves of Storybrooke Harbor. Flickering like a candle in the wind before finally snuffing out, the golden glow surrounding the ship disappears. With it, it seems Emma's flagging energy disappears as well. She stumbles against him, eyes darting around herself, confused and weary.
"It's alright, love. We're back in Storybrooke," he assures her gently. Internally, her confusion is beginning to concern him. Once again, he notes the dark bruise on her temple, and worries whether her confusion may be caused by something more than simple fatigue.
Simple fatigue, it may not be. However, magic as massive as flying the Jolly Roger is no small feat. It's entirely possible that she's completely drained from her efforts and lack of experience with magic.
"We survived. We're not dead." Emma whispers with a tired grin that lifts his spirits.
"Aye, Swan, I should hope so. Captaining this ship would be a mite difficult, were I deceased." Killian shoots her a wink and a smirk while guiding the Jolly back to the docks. She smirks and rolls her eyes with a quiet huff. In the distance, illuminated by the lights of the boathouse and cannery, he spies a few shadows standing and watching. "Seems we have a welcoming party here to greet us, lass."
Even as exhausted as she clearly is, he feels Emma tense up against him.
In practiced movements, he docks the Jolly Roger. Swan stumbles off the ship with him, aiding him in tying off the lines at the fore of the Jolly. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as Emma struggles to disguise her yawns, once or twice fumbling with the lines before he takes over. At the aft, their welcoming party greets them. Men he knows, men of his crew, staring between Killian and the Jolly with awestruck and gobsmacked expressions.
For a moment, Killian hesitates. These men are the crew he left behind to confront the Dark Curse on their own. He had left with hardly a warning,merely accepting one task after another. Upon returning from Wonderland, with a not-as-dead-as-she-appeared Cora in tow, it had occurred to him to warn them. It is one thing to know of a possible storm brewing, and quite another to see it on the horizon. Ultimately, he decided against it, as warning would do no one any good. Presently, encountering them, he wonders–not in any way he would let on–if they think any less of him for it.
Fitz stands at the front of the group, hair plastered to his head in the rain. "Captain? Captain Hook?" Murphy and Curtis stand at his shoulders. Gunn brings up the rear, eyes on the reefed sails of the Jolly Roger.
In an instant, he's stunned. Killian pauses, awaiting further confirmation whether or not they truly remember. He'd be lying if he said he didn't miss them. He'd be lying if he said it wasn't unnerving, seeing men he knew while being aware they didn't recognize him. They had suffered for years through Neverland. These men standing before him were on board the last time the ship had flown as the Jewel of the Realm. Around the docks and in the town, he could see their faces, but the camaraderie forged over centuries was gone. More than once, he's feared that it's gone and can never be gotten back due to his own actions. Forged over centuries of piracy and the survival of Neverland, only to be destroyed at his own hand.
"Mr. Fitz?" Killian asks.
"The Jolly Roger, Captain, how did she…?" In answer to Fitz's awestruck question, Killian slings an arm around Emma's shoulders. He nudges her forward, filled with pride, a grin splitting his face. Every man nods in understanding, Murphy smiling knowingly. Carefully, Killian notes each reaction. Swan freezes, stiff as a board, eyes darting around for an escape, arms crossing across her chest. Instantly, he releases her shoulders, leaving her free to slip away. She freezes in place, standing her ground rather than retreat, but it's clear that she'd like nothing more than to be out of this situation.
"Swan?" he asks privately, uncertain as to the cause of her fear, but beginning to suspect. The last thing he ever wanted was to remind her of that son of a bitch. Well, if it's an escape she wants, it's an escape she'll get. Turning to her completely, he suggests, "Why don't you go get dried off? We'll head to the inn, get some food, let Dave know I'm not holding you hostage." Killian winks, seeing the corner of her mouth pull up in a reluctant smile. She nods, turning quickly, and shuffling back up the gangplank.
His suspicions as to the cause of her wariness in mind, he turns back to his men. His gentle smile falls into the freezing glare of his pirating days. He pulls on the cold, unquestioned command like an old coat. "Gentlemen, allow me to make one thing perfectly clear. If any of you so much as look at that girl the wrong way, I'll keelhaul you myself. Am I understood?"
Killian knows these men. He has for centuries. They are honorable men. All of them had served in the Royal Navy, sailing under the command of his brother, and followed him into piracy. None of them would lay a finger on her. The threats are scarcely necessary, but, Swan. The protective streak the lass has managed to resurrect from the ashes within him. He will take no risk. Not anymore.
For that reason, he waits for the 'aye, Captain's, the 'yes, sir's, and the 'understood's, scrutinizing each man in turn. Murphy presses against his chest, grinding the heel of his hand down on his sternum in a way he recognizes from the sheriff. His eyes catch on the gesture.
"Murphy, Regina had your heart," he states more than asks. In the back of his mind, he examines his every previous interaction with Murphy for the years before the curse. He finds himself ashamed at the oversight and failure on his end to detect the difference.
"Yes, sir," Murphy answers without emotion and in a manner that suggests he wants this to be the end of the topic. Questions fly through his mind, ones he'll ask at a later date. "It's thanks to the girl I have it back."
"Captain, how did you escape the curse?" Fitz asks.
He resists the urge to scratch behind his ear. No matter the discomfort and unease he may feel, having made the decision he did, he will not allow that to be on display. "My task from the Evil Queen brought me to Cora, the Queen of Hearts in Wonderland. For a time, my plan aligned with her own. It was thanks to her I was spared." His voice remains level, almost awaiting the challenge that never arises.
"What's it like now, sir? The Enchanted Forest," Fitz asks.
Killian sighs, the truth of the answer weighing on his soul in a way it hasn't until now. "Ravaged to the point of being virtually unrecognizable. Overrun by ogres. Frozen in time much like this land."
"There were others left behind, sir?" Curtis asks.
"Aye."
"Captain, we're not the only ones drawn by the girl's spectacle," Gunn remarks, nodding his chin in the direction of the boathouse. In the distance, Killian can distinguish a shadow as it limps away leaning on a cane. His eyes center on the Crocodile's retreat, rage burning within him. His jaw pops as he clenches it.
That rage dissipates almost instantly at the sound of light footsteps coming down the gangplank. "Hi," he hears her yawn, far more cheerful than frightened. Swan tugs a gray knit cap over her tangled, blond hair, smiling brightly. Killian grins in return.
"Well, Swan, you already know Fitz. Here's Curtis, Gunn, and Murphy. Fine gentlemen, all of them." Almost in a second chance at a first impression, she waves as each man nods when acknowledged.
"Hey, Fitz."
"Hey there, Sunshine. Where'd you ever learn to do that?" Fitz asks lightly.
"Do what?" she questions. The four of them exchange questioning frowns, as if wondering if she could be serious. Swan cocks her head in sincere question.
"Fly, Sunshine. Where'd you learn to fly?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about. That wasn't me." Her tone brooks no question, seemingly a bit agitated with the idea. Her words confirm his suspicions, while leaving him questioning how best to burst the bubble of her denial. She turns to Murphy, head canted in question. "I'm really sorry, but you look familiar."
Hand to his chest, Murphy mock-sighs. "Lass, you don't recognize me? I'm hurt, truly," he laughs. It's a moment before the rest join him, Emma chuckling and Killian rolling his eyes at the return of Murphy's dramatic tendencies. As his laughter fades, Murphy softens towards the girl. "I owe you more than I could ever repay," he ends sincerely.
"You owe me nothing." Emma instantly replies. "But, if you don't mind me asking," she turns to Fitz, "how do you remember who you are? The curse isn't broken, is it?" Swan turns back to Killian in question.
"Not quite, unfortunately. It was seeing the Jolly fly again, seeing that magic again triggered our memories, I suppose." All of them are careful to not explicitly mention that it was her magic that did the trick.
"Well, come on, love." He wraps an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the diner. They take a seat in a booth, Killian facing the door. Murphy, Curtis, Fitz and Gunn take the booth behind them, catching up and reminiscing, discussing their own standings here in Storybrooke.
Swan fidgets in her seat, shifting one way or another. It's a split second before he realizes the intent of relieving the pressure from her healing back. Under his breath, he suggests a few possibilities that seem to help.
Both Killian and Emma eat, then resolve to wait until Dave enters. To pass the time, he pulls out a pair of dice from a pocket in his coat with a grin and a spark of mischief in his eye. Briefly, he explains the rules of Liar's Dice before passing Swan the dice with a flourish and a "Lady's first."
She rolls a fair hand before he rolls an even better one. They barter with a plate of fries, the thin slices of fried potatoes that he's come to enjoy from this land, between them. After three hands, Swan inspects his hand carefully, brow furrowed. As he hands off the dice, taking more fries from the pot, she rolls the dice around the palm of her hand with a thoughtful expression on her face. Without releasing the dice to the table, she continues rolling them in her hand.
"These are loaded, aren't they?" she ultimately asks, eyebrows raised in challenge.
Killian mock-gasps. "Why, Swan, I would never."
She stares at him, unimpressed. "That's cheating," she states bluntly.
"Only if you get caught," Killian remarks, leaning back and taking a sip of coffee.
"Yeah, and you just did. Meaning your winnings are forfeit." She reaches over, taking hold of his pile of winnings. He overhears Fitz chuckling and Murphy whistling at the show.
"Oi!" Killian objects, barely containing his laughter as she pops a handful of fries in her mouth with a smug grin, only slightly ruined by her chipmunk cheeks. He chuckles, shaking his head at her antics. "Very becoming of a lady, Princess."
She rolls her eyes, scowling as she always does at the title. "So, Captain, we're using the same dice." Swan swipes a fry through the cream of her hot chocolate, much to his befuddlement. Far too sweet, he has no bloody clue how she stomachs it. "How are they rolling snake-eyes for you, and squat for me?"
He grins. "Well, lass, I could explain, in exchange for my winnings back." She purses her lips, considering for a moment, before sliding the plate back to him. Holding up the dice between his thumb and forefinger, his grin shifts to a smirk. "Here's what you have to do." Killian explains briefly before turning the dice over to Swan to practice.
The door opens, the bell chiming and announcing the arrival of the sheriff. The man shakes his shaggy hair like a dog in the doorway before entering. He's drenched. Narrowed eyes search the booths and tables before they land on Killian's. The sheriff strides forward, stopping at Swan's shoulder with a hand on the booth behind her.
"Good to see you two back. David's been driving me insane."
"It's only been a few days," Swan mutters, shifting in her seat. "So, is everything going alright? Do you need some help? 'Cause I can totally-" Emma moves to rise to her feet, almost exiting the booth, before a hand on her shoulder stops her.
"Not quite, but that is what I wanted to talk to you about." Swan cocks her head in question. "Before you come back to work, standard procedure, there's a mandatory medical and psych eval. I can set up the appointments for you." His words slowly connect with Killian. But Swan's reaction, one would have thought he demanded she cut off a limb. The sheriff turns to Killian. "I may not know what the deal with the two of you is, but she seems to listen to you."
"And she totally loves being spoken about as if she's not sitting right here," Swan mutters, arms crossing across her chest.
"Apologies. But Captain, if you wouldn't mind making sure she goes?"
"Aye, mate." Killian nods. As the sheriff nods in thanks then turns and leaves, Swan turns her big, green eyes on him. Perhaps that look turns him soft as a blanket on other issues, but not this. "Swan, try all you like. I'm not your escape route." Immediately, she composes her expression, almost appearing guilty. "Swan, it's for the best. You don't order a sailor into battle when he's not sufficiently recovered from the last encounter. That's asking for disaster. Both for that man himself and for the entire crew."
"Yeah, I get having to go back to Whale. But why do I have to go to Hopper?"
"Lasting consequences of shell-shock can come forth at the most inopportune moments."
She sighs, poking at the fries in front of her to avoid his eyes. "I guess you're right. But, I'm gonna have to, y'know, talk about stuff. Do I have to?"
"It's for the best, Swan. Possibly, it's a step towards healing. I wouldn't know." She cants her head in question without voicing it, so he elaborates. "Rather than grieve, I threw myself headfirst into revenge."
"Can I do that? Instead of having to talk about it?" Killian sighs at her question.
"I hope you never have to know how much of yourself you lose walking that path."
A beat passes in silence as his words seem to settle in her mind.
He clears his throat, breaking the silence and lifting the feeling that settled. "As far as a physical recovery, that seems primarily dependent on the medication from the apothecary." Something he doesn't comprehend catches in Swan's expression, freezing for a moment before becoming far too casual to be natural. Hook narrows his eyes at the reaction. "What is it, Swan?"
"Nothing," she shrugs with a forced grin.
"Emma, you gave me your word you'd tell me the truth."
She squirms. "So, I don't actually have the medication anymore. But it's no biggie."
Feeling his finite patience beginning to slip, Killian sighs. Pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing carefully, he maintains his calm composure. "Swan, what happened?"
"It's-" she begins before he cuts her off.
"Don't minimize it. Tell me the facts and I'll decide if it's a matter of concern."
She sighs before complying. "So, Fletcher, the lady running the foster home, she…" Swan draws her arms tighter around herself, staring at the table. At her posture and composure, Killian feels his blood begin to boil. "She seemed to think I was spreading my legs for the pain meds, and the antibiotics were, y'know, to deal with the consequences. That's why she broke out the belt, for 'bringing that sin into her home' or whatever." Swan spits the words out as quickly as possible.
For a moment, the idea is too absurd to him. The accusations are beyond preposterous. It takes a moment to connect in his mind. Swan is a child, and yet the adults meant to care for her in her life put this absolute, utter shit on her.
"Swan," Killian begins, knowing he should say something for her benefit, but unable to find the words. She shrugs, merely handing him the dice. He hesitates for a moment before she clearly indicates she'd like nothing more than to move on. As he still has no words, he acquiesces.
The bell chimes, directing both of their focus to the door. Dave enters, arm in arm with his ladylove. He freezes for a moment, looking Killian in the eye before easing at the sight of his daughter. Emma grins, before biting it back, rolling the dice in her hand, attempting to appear nonchalant and unconcerned. Snow White hesitates in the doorway, her entire focus on Swan, a stunned mask on her face.
The moment between parents and child is broken by the ring of the bell, two dockworkers entering around the couple. They're shaken from their reverie and approach their daughter. Snow's eyes are misty, watching the girl as if she's the first light in years of darkness. David runs his hand up and down his wife's back.
Killian questions for a moment. Last he heard, Mary Margaret Blanchard was avoiding Dave like the plague. The lovely schoolteacher seemed to want nothing to do with her former husband. Dave was keeping a safe enough distance to avoid arousing the Evil Queen's suspicions that something may be amiss. Something must have seriously changed in the time they were away. He has a slight suspicion of what that something could be, one all too easy to test.
"Teaching her how to cheat at gambling?" David asks disapprovingly.
Killian shrugs with a smirk. "She was bound to learn at some point, mate, if the tales of her mother are to be believed." Both ladies look at him, Swan in question and her mother in a hardening glare.
"Captain," Snow White bites through her teeth. Killian grins at the woman a bit smugly, proud of having been correct. Her glare only darkens, now filled with contempt. "We need a word. In private." Acquiescing, Killian drops some worthless green paper on the table to pay for the meal, following the royals from the diner with Emma looking between the three in question.
Hands tucked in her pockets, Swan glances between the three adults as they follow her parents up to Dave's room in the inn.
"Wait," Swan whispers, eyes darting to her mother. "You're…"
The Queen's face splits in a beaming smile, her forest-green eyes misting with tears. Killian looks away, trying to grant them some privacy in the moment. He glances up at the sound of Swan shifting backward, scooting back. Being given what she's always wanted, but having been burned too many times and unable to believe that this time, it's true.
In an instant, he sees the tentative, hopeful expression from Snow White and David collapse. Both attempt to hide their disappointment quickly. Hook leans against the doorframe, taking in the scene. Their Highnesses eagerly take in the sight of their confused, stoic child. They're aware of the curse. They remember who they are. What remains uncertain is what that means going forward. How does this impact his plan?
Almost as if she's read his mind, Snow turns her piercing green eyes on him. "Captain, what exactly are your intentions in bringing Emma here?" Swan sits on the foot of the bed, legs criss-crossed.
"That the Curse be broken, milady." Hook answers simply.
"What do you stand to gain when the Curse is broken?" Snow presses. "There's no reward we can offer you for it. Certainly not a pardon," she suggests.
Hook bites back a scoff. "Your Highness, with all due respect, if you issue me a royal pardon, I will burn it the second it leaves your hand." Her eyes widen in surprise at his vehemence. David reaches towards his hip as if he'll find a sword there, and comes up irked when he finds nothing. Emma is the only one who doesn't question his answer. "I found your daughter because she is the only one able to break the curse." Naturally, given that Emma is her child, Snow White hardly allows that to be the end of it. The conversation continues along those same lines, Killian never giving the one answer she seeks.
Something inside of him is conflicted. He refrains from telling Snow White and her Prince Charming the full truth of his intentions, knowing they'll stand in his way. The truth of his intentions may end with putting their daughter in the line of fire between himself and the Dark One. There is a part of him that almost wants this reaction from Snow White and Prince Charming, however. He knows his actions are hardly in Swan's best interests. His own actions could place the girl in danger, if he fails to issue a killing blow.
"What else are you teaching her?" Snow White finally changes course to ask.
"How to sail. How to sharpen a blade and clean a gun. Navigation and the math involved. Some Greek and Latin." Emma ticks off, answering before he has the chance to answer. Killian feels his eyebrows climb, almost impressed with how easily Swan rattles off the truth. "He's not as bad of an influence as you think. But, uh, Jones, why did you say I'd learn how to cheat at gambling from my mom?"
Before Killian opens his mouth to answer, Snow White explains. "I was a bandit, while I was on the run from Regina." Swan's eyes light up. For the first time since Dave and Snow White entered the diner, she seems to breathe, loosening the tension in her shoulders. Of course, hearing the tales of the bandit Snow White put her at ease. She's more like her mother than she realized. "I did what I had to, just to survive, honey."
"Oh," Emma answers simply.
"What happened back in Boston?" David asks. Killian clenches his jaw, gritting back an answer. David narrows his eyes, noting the reaction.
"I told you, I got held up getting out of the foster home. Took me until yesterday, almost last night, to meet Jones at the docks." Killian quirks a brow at just how much Swan omitted from her tale. The Charmings catch the omission as well. But it seems they're unwilling to rock the boat with things so tentative with Emma. So they opt not to push her further than she's willing to go.
Swan excuses herself to use the facilities, leaving David to repeat his question of the events in Boston. Killian explains the full truth, as he understands it, to the Charmings' horror. David's fist clenches and unclenches as he attempts to console his silently sobbing wife.
As they leave, Hook hesitates at the door, overhearing the Charmings.
"David, our daughter's right there. She's right there! She, she looked right through me." Snow cries into her husband's chest. "I might as well be a stranger to my own daughter! She doesn't want to know me."
"No, Snow, it's not that. She's just overwhelmed." David hushes her.
"But Charming, she's our little girl."
"Snow, we just have to be patient. Give her time. Let her come to you. She will if you let her." David quietly reassures her. "She's a girl who needs her mother. But she's been put through a lot. She's been shuffled around too many times to simply reach out. She's been rejected too many times to take that risk again."
Hook knows he's eavesdropping on a private conversation, that it's bad form. He simply doesn't care. "She did it with Hook. David, he's a pirate! A pirate has a better relationship with our daughter than we do!"
"I know. I don't like this either. But Snow, if we push this, if we try to separate them, she'll choose him and we'll lose her. I can tolerate him if it means not alienating Emma." David's words turn over in his mind as he walks back to the docks.
Swan seems to be turning over thoughts in her own mind as well. Once or twice, she looks over at him, head cocked to the side as she considers. It occurs to him that she likely overheard her parents as well. He wants to make clear to her that he'll never put her to that test, but thinks better of voicing it. All that would do is alienate her from her parents, which is the last thing he wants.
The remains of the day pass easily. Killian thoroughly inspects the Jolly for any damage incurred in the storm. He's amazed to find none. Perhaps Swan's magic had a greater impact than he realized. Following his inspection, he nudges Swan to sleep, knowing she's hardly had a wink. The poor lass is dead on her feet.
After the hellish storm, the Jolly rocks peacefully in her berth at the harbor under the night sky. She seems fully settled, at peace but on alert. Once again, he is back in the same town as the bloody Crocodile.
Cursing in place of familiar snoring wakes Killian from his rest.
"What the fuck, what the fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Swan's voice rises in pitch with each successive curse. Killian sighs in exasperation under his breath, sitting up and scrubbing his hand down his face. The possibilities of what could be the problem are endless. The young princess curses worse than many sailors he's known. Overhearing her curses as she attempted to brush her hair being the most recent example. There were words he'd never heard before. He found himself slightly impressed. Attempting to be helpful, he suggested cutting some of it off. The look he received for that, a distrustful glare from underneath her arms gripping her head protectively, one would think he suggested setting her head aflame.
"Fuck, fucking son of a motherfucker, what the hell is…oh shit." By now, the panic in her voice is growing increasingly evident. Warily, he rises to his feet, still debating internally whether or not to respond.
"Swan, what the bloody hell are you doing awake?" He mutters as he reaches for his sword as a precaution, smothering a yawn. A moment later, he begins to register the alarm bells echoing through the enchanted wood, alerting him to something being amiss aboard the Jolly Roger.
"Who the hell are you?" Swan's voice bites out in challenge, all panic gone.
The fatigue instantly leaves Killian. How the bloody hell is someone on board my ship without me knowing? What the bloody hell are they doing in there with her? I bloody promised her I would keep her safe. Sword in hand, he storms out of his cabin, shouldering his way through Swan's door.
Upon opening the door, his blood runs cold. Within his chest, his heart stutters in fear. Swan stands in her typical nightclothes of holey, gray cotton trousers and a too-large flannel shirt, her hair falling out of a braid that droops over her shoulder. She stands with her arms crossed across her chest, glaring at the mirror. In which is not a reflection of the dark cabin, but a woman who he thought left behind.
"Cora," Killian exhales. Without hesitation, he reaches for Swan's shoulder with his hook, tugging her back behind him, brandishing his sword. Fear leaves his heart racing, beating past his sternum. How the bloody hell is this possible? Mirror magic doesn't work across realms! He's careful not to reveal any more of the panic he feels internally, knowing Cora will sense it like a shark scents blood in the water. He stands stiff, still. Everything in him demands that he take action, but taking action now may prove fatal. Caution stays his hand.
"Hello, Hook," the witch reflected in the mirror replies calmly. One who didn't know Cora may even mistake her tone for pleasant. Emma attempts to poke her head out from behind him, curious about the exchange and the obvious recognition on his face. Killian stands as a wall between the stubborn, foolish girl and mortal danger. Gods, if Cora can reach across realms like this, who knows what else she's bloody capable of? Can she curse them through the mirror? What the bleeding fuck can she do? "My dear Captain, it seems you've been on quite an adventure."
"Yes, that," Killian stalls, nudging Swan further behind him and attempting to shuffle the stubborn girl towards the door, all the while gritting his teeth in frustration. Swan's eyes dart between his face, the mirror, and the door, forehead lined with a confused frown. Internally, he begs that she'll be able to perceive the danger and know to make herself scarce. "Well," he smirks, struggling to sound nonchalant and keep his mounting frustration out of his voice, "the details of the affair are a bit of a bore."
Cora appears unimpressed. Emma crinkles her nose in tired, increasing confusion. He huffs in frustration. Killian attempts again to shuffle Swan out the door. Doesn't the stubborn, infuriating girl realize the amount of danger Cora's presence places her in? Dammit, Swan, I'm trying to get you the bloody hell out of danger! Don't make this more difficult!
"Really? Stealing my protection spell and climbing the beanstalk without me might seem like a bore to you. But to me, it's a betrayal." Cora's voice hides a threat, like a knife lurking beneath silk. "And in your time away, I realize you may have forgotten how I respond to betrayal. Shall I remind you?"
Once again, he feels the ghost of her hand plunging through his chest. Mercilessly, the ghost of her hand rips through flesh and bone alike. Shooting pain lances through him at the memory of the penetration. He feels her clenched fist gripping his heart, just tight enough to limit his blood flow. His limbs went cold, feeling numb. Every breath was a ragged gasp of pain.
Gritting his teeth in a suddenly dry mouth, Killian grounds himself within this moment, focusing on the gentle creaking as the Jolly rocks and the dim light of the cabin. Slowly, the ghost pain fades.
In his frustration, Killian abandons the charming sarcasm in favor of revealing his anger. "Our agreement no longer remains. I found a better deal, a simpler plan. One that doesn't involve waiting, nor does it involve you."
Cora's smile stretches across her blood-red painted lips, though fails to warm her calculating eyes. Eyes that now turn to Emma, attempting to nudge her way past his restrictive arm without cutting herself on his hook.
"I'm surprised, Hook. You chose watching over a reckless and foolhardy princess rather than waiting a few more years. I suppose a pirate's adventures in babysitting are somehow more expedient to you. Especially one that follows your commands so well," she answers with disdain. Killian cautions himself again to avoid rising to the bait. Low-hanging fruit that it is.
"I'm not a dog, lady." Swan mutters behind him, glaring at the mirror with contempt.
He draws a smirk he doesn't feel to his lips in response. "Far more effective than leaving the curse breaking to chance."
"You remain locked in a holding pattern all the same."
"Yes, but I'm far closer to my goal than you."
Cora's eyes flick to Swan as she once again slips around his shoulder. Killian smothers a curse under his breath, though he supposes keeping Cora away from Emma may be a lost cause, as she was in the mirror before he entered. "Yes, I see. And with an asset in hand. Come closer, girl."
Swan stands stock-still, shaking her head. Her hair glows silver as it flops on either shoulder. "Yeah, I'm not gonna do that." Finally, something makes the obstinate wench stay away from Cora. Perhaps I should have known that the only surefire way to get the girl out of the line of fire is to push her directly into Cora's spotlight. "Who the hell are you?"
"My name is Cora."
"Yeah, I got that. Doesn't really answer my question," Emma deadpans.
"Cora, I don't know how the bloody hell you're doing this, but disconnect the magic."
Confused eyes flick between him and the mirror, quickly putting two and two together.
"How are you doing this?" Emma points in the direction of the mirror. "It's…it's impossible. How…?" she breathes, eyes darting in confusion. Killian draws her backward with a warning hand on her shoulder. The vision of the Crocodile with his scaly fist in her chest shifts to Cora. Rather than maniacal giggling from the demon, he sees the unaffected, sociopathic visage of the Queen of Hearts as she seizes her purest, strongest, brightest trophy yet. The vision chills him to the bone. A visceral feeling crystallizes into a single word. No! He has no bloody clue if Cora is able to execute that through the mirror, because she shouldn't be able to peer through the mirror in the first place!
"Magic…it shouldn't be able to…how the hell are you speaking through a mirror?"
Cora smirks slightly at the rambling. The rest of her face remains impassive. Suspicions begin to creep into Killian's mind and gnaw at his gut. Something seems amiss. "You have much to learn about magic, girl." Her smirk grows to an unnerving smile. Those cold, dead eyes remain just the same. For once, Emma heeds his warning. "If you should choose to learn just a touch, I could teach you."
"I'm alright." Emma's voice shakes slightly as her arm tenses under his hand.
Cora chuckles, shaking her head. The sound sets his teeth on edge. "Don't let Hook be the one to scare you away from reaching your full potential. Dear girl, men like him tend to find me-" a circle of candles appears in a flash of red smoke, sparking to life one by one, "threatening." Cora concludes as both Killian and Emma rock back a few steps from the desk.
His worst fears of this situation have been confirmed. Her magic can reach across the distance of realms between them. She can harm them. Potentially, the next shot will be a much larger fireball, able to burn his ship to ashes.
"Yeah, he's right to," Emma murmurs distractedly, eyeing the flickering candles that appeared from thin air. "How the hell is this possible? Here? How is this possible here?" she whispers. Her eyes meet his in question, searching for answers that he doesn't know how to provide. Minutely, he shakes his head in answer, unwilling to put his unease and lack of understanding on display for their distant audience.
"Dear, sweet, summer child. It starts with a respect for the power itself, and then the belief that you deserve such power." Swan's face remains blank in incomprehension. The suspicions only continue to strengthen in Killian's mind. It would explain quite a bit. But why would she be in such denial?
She's not denying the existence of magic itself. That much she acknowledged back in Texas and has consistently acknowledged since. She sees the magic all around her, in the Jolly Roger, in the curse breaking, even in her father waking from a coma. Swan knows magic exists, so what's the problem? That she herself possesses it, perhaps. But why deny facts that are plain as day?
"You have no understanding of magic. You lack control. You aren't even aware of what you're doing." In the dim light, he sees Emma's eyes widen and her face pale. Her fear begins to leak into the enchantment of the Jolly Roger. Quickly, she composes her expression, concealing her fear, appearing stoic but nothing stops the warning of the Jolly's enchantment responding to her.
Every factor combining, the warning bells surrounding him and Cora's presence, put Killian on edge. He glares at Cora, illuminated by the bloody candles she lit on his ship from a completely different fucking realm. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" Killian snarls.
"It means, my dear Captain, that I am not the one who reached across realms. I am not the one responsible for my appearance here." Here, Cora pauses. Likely for the dramatic effect. Gods, both her and Regina, drama queens, the both of them. That apple didn't fall far from the tree.
"I am not the one able to use mirror magic across realms, though I am flattered you think me capable of such things." Cora states airily, seemingly almost unconcerned. Those tiny suspicions in his mind only grow.
"If not you, then who?" Swan challenges, arms crossed across her chest.
"Why, you, my dear girl." The obvious interest is clear in Cora's voice. Swan then presents a valuable asset. Potentially, a protege she can train to be exactly like her. Cold, heartless, evil. And with the raw power on display, Swan would be a powerful threat.
Swan scoffs in answer, tossing the loose braid over her shoulder. "Yeah, okay, lady. Sure. I just pulled some stranger into a mirror in the middle of the night for the hell of it. Hey, who needs sleep, right?" Killian grips her shoulder in warning against further taunting Cora. It may have been Emma's magic that made the connection, but Cora's could easily exploit the opening. She already has. The candles were a warning shot. The next shot could be far less demonstrative.
"Oh, I remember Regina's accidental magic. She showed such promise. Such an emotional time. So destructive, but so powerful." If he didn't know her, Killian might actually think Cora was nostalgic for the days of her daughter's youth. Accidental magic, however, the phrase catches in his mind, turning over before ultimately being set aside to be dealt with later.
"Tell me something. The tossing and turning, what were you seeing?" Cora asks, unbothered by the girl's sarcasm. For a split second, Swan hesitates, seemingly caught off guard by the information revealed. Quickly, she recovers.
"So, not only did you appear in a mirror, but you were using it to watch me sleep? Do you have any idea how creepy that is, lady?" She huffs in frustration, rolling her shoulders and clenching and unclenching her fists in front of her. "Okay, if I brought you here, how do I get rid of you?" she whispers to herself, beginning to pace.
Gnawing on her bottom lip, she turns to face the mirror head-on, places a hand on the surface, and repeatedly murmurs, "go away, go away." To both of their surprise, the orange candlelight snuffs out. When she opens her eyes and draws away, it is from an empty mirror, reflecting nothing more than the darkened cabin.
With wide eyes catching the dim light from the porthole window, she turns to him. "Captain, I have no idea how that happened." It's abundantly clear she's being sincere. She's frightened while attempting to conceal it. Magic is more or less unknown to her.
All of those thoughts flee his mind as his eyes return to the mirror. Cora's voice echoes in his ears. The ghost of her hand clenches around his heart once more, choking him. His nerves are shot. Anger begins to heat the frozen blood racing through his veins. This sort of incident cannot happen again. This time, Cora chose to simply display the fact her magic could hit them if she wanted. It only angers him further that they're only safe at Cora's whims. If this is allowed to happen again, her magic will kill them. Swan's magic is a weapon that she has no bloody clue how to wield properly, and is far more dangerous than a slipshod sailor whipping around a blade he has no clue how to use.
"Magic is a part of you, Swan. You need to stop bloody denying what is right in front of you and bloody figure it out," Hook clenches through his teeth in the same cold, commanding tone his crew knew well but he swore not to use with Swan.
You bloody bastard. The instant the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. Swan stands with her hands held in front of her, fists clenching and unclenching, watching them carefully as if they'll spark a fire if she isn't careful. She appears small, as if she's attempting to shrink on the spot, arms pulled in tight to her sides, bottom lip being mauled by her teeth. You utter fucking wanker. Good bloody show, mate. He opens his mouth, attempting to make amends, but there are no words he can say. Killian turns to leave before he forces himself to witness the hurt he caused. He closes the cabin door behind him, hanging his head and sighing. Eyes closed, he feels the anger fueled by anxiety overflooded by guilt.
In that moment, Killian resolves to spend the rest of the restless night poring over every book or scroll he managed to get ahold of in his hunt for knowledge to defeat the Dark One. Killian's night of research is punctuated by the creaking of boards in the cabin next to his as Swan paces. With each sound of the floorboards, he feels his guilt churn his gut once more.
She does need to learn to control her powers. They are a part of her. Denying it does her no good. Swan needs to understand the world she comes from, not the one she was raised in. But that is part of the problem. This world considers magic a fairytale. Imaginary. There's likely no way she ever considered the existence of magic before he burst into her life, let alone the possibility of having it herself.
What she's done thus far, it has been entirely unconscious. The sheriff described the process of restoring the hearts from Regina's vault. Emma felt the impact of restoring every heart, almost as if she was being punched in the chest herself as the organs slipped back into place. She must have felt the power of commanding each heart to her. Swan herself described the rush of memories she saw of each life. She felt the power as she flew the Jolly Roger, something which still leaves him awestruck. It's certain she experienced the power, but she clearly never thought about it.
Even the fire she sparked in the galley, one of her first mornings on board. She stood fifteen feet away from where it sparked, whipping around to stare at him with wide, terrified eyes as he entered the galley. When the fire burst to life, she was terrified and miserable, rambling apologies as they both worked quickly to extinguish it. In hindsight, he wonders if the apologies were more the instinct of an abused child than actual understanding that she was, not through any fault, responsible for the fire.
Unfortunately, his research was geared in the direction of the Dark One. He has ideas of the Dark One's origins, most historians agreeing on Camelot in the days of Merlin, not long before his disappearance. He has legends about the dagger, some speculating that it could have been forged from the Holy Grail itself. Killian casts through these quickly, as they are far from relevant and far from helpful. No matter the fact he practically sold his soul to gain this knowledge. Now, it is of little use to him.
Quietly, the demons whispering in the back of his mind use this to prompt him. His focus in this town should be the Crocodile. Hook's initial plan was to leave the girl largely to her own devices, allowing her to fulfill her destiny, restoring the memories of his enemy before taking his revenge. Care for the girl was never part of the plan. This warmth for the Savior is pulling him away from his vengeance.
Frustrated with himself, Killian shoves his chair away from his desk. Agitated, he begins to pace the cabin, pulling at his hair. From under his research, he sees the drawing of Milah. The woman he loves, the woman he swore he would avenge if it was the last thing he ever did. His only purpose in this bloody, gods-forsaken town should be the Crocodile's demise.
Killian sighs, shaking his head. He already bloody accepted that he cared for the lass back in the hospital. Despite the hell her life has thrown at her, she's simply, stubbornly determined to do right by this world. That alone is a strength he never had and can't help but respect.
The Crocodile isn't going anywhere. He will have his revenge. But that will come after the curse breaks. In the meantime, he will endeavor to aid the Savior, in any way he can. In part to speed along the time until he can take his revenge. In part because he simply cares for the lass and wants to see her succeed.
If he's to see her succeed, he'll find what he can to assist her here. Killian continues flipping through weathered, leather-bound books on the Dark One. None of the information here mentions accidental magic. Not even how the Dark One learns magic, simply that the Darkness acts as a teacher and guide itself.
Continuing creaking from the floorboards next door spikes the guilt in his gut anew.
"I'll speak to her in the morning." Hopefully, that will be after the lass has gotten a bit of rest. In the morning, he can approach the topic with a level head. Barking the order at her clearly didn't do either of them a bit of good.
As the caws of seagulls begin to echo and golden-orange light begins to shine through the window, he finds the first line of any benefit. 'Instinctive magic is guided by base emotions. Anger, lust, fear, each guide and strengthen this magic, drawing from roots deep within.'
Killian performs his rounds, his mind distracted with preparing for a talk with Swan. He knows he must approach it delicately, or at least more so than he did last night. This talk will go better over pancakes. Some food in her belly, at least in his experience, tends to smooth situations over with Swan. He emerges to find her pitching cleaning water over the side of the ship.
"Swan, love, can we talk?" Killian states quietly.
She jumps slightly, turning to him with a guilty look on her face and dark circles beneath her eyes. It's clear to him she got about as much sleep as he did. The signs of her distress cause his guilt to flare once more. He sighs, guiding her towards the gangplank. "Swan, what I said last night was out of line. I apologize."
Instantly, she shakes her head. "It's nothing." She refuses to look at him.
Gently, he takes her shoulder, waiting to continue until she meets his eyes. "It's not nothing, Swan. I didn't mean to upset you. I apologize."
"It's no big deal. It's not like you were wrong." Killian sighs. This won't be an easy discussion. Whatever patience he possesses, he must bear in mind. At the end of the gangplank, Swan's steps falter, stumbling forward into him as Killian catches her.
"Are you alright, love?"
"Yeah, sorry, I'm fine." Swan nods, stepping out of his path, separating them quickly. Her eyes are cast to the ground, focused on her shuffling feet. Killian is reminded of her behavior when they first met. "Just not used to the ground being all solid and steady." Finally, she meets his eyes with a forced, tight-lipped smile.
In that instant, the ground beneath their feet quakes. They both stagger forward, Killian reaching for Swan's arm, gripping her quickly before she's knocked off the dock into the cold water of the harbor.
"What the hell was that?" Swan demands as both of them regain their footing. A cacophony echoes in the sounds ricocheting around the docks. Alarms blare. Chaos seems to ensue from the angered shouts of Storybrooke's citizens. Crashes of metal against metal and stone rip violently through the rest of the noise.
Wide eyes meet his own in a panic. Killian notes the moment that the realization begins to set in. Instantly, she draws back away from him, stumbling in the direction of land. "Was that," she whispers over the sound of chaos sparked by the earthquake, "was that me? Was that my fault?" Her eyes are like sea glass and appear just as fragile.
Killian has no wish to rehash his harsh words from the night before. But he refuses to lie to her. "Aye, love, it was," he answers soberly.
"No." Swan answers. All of the blood drains from her face. She shakes her head, retreating farther away from him, repeating that same word. Shaking her head, she stares down at her hands, clutched close to her chest.
"Swan, it's alright, lass," Killian states just as quietly, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. This proves to be the wrong move, as she shoots backward like a shot, panicking eyes darting between her hands and his own, then looking to their surroundings.
"No, no, it wasn't me. No," she practically sobs before turning on her heel and darting away.
"Swan!" He chases after her, only to be knocked to the ground by another, more violent tremor rocking the earth. Rising back to his feet, he continues chasing after the girl, already off like a shot. He follows her down the labyrinth of alleyways before losing sight of her. "Swan! SWAN!"