With a smirk curving her lips and a bounce in her step, Emma strides down the street. She projects careless confidence that she doesn't really feel outward. Despite that, she is a bit giddy with nervous excitement. Not at the absurd thought of magic, curses, families, or anything else Jones described. She's not crazy enough to buy into any of that crap. But the thought of grabbing a car and getting the hell out of Dodge, that's got her excited. She has a destination in mind, a goal to accomplish, rather than aimless wandering. It's bizarre how different it feels. It feels meaningful, though. Excitement, rather than frantic panic, is fueling her. She experiences an urgent need to reach a destination rather than a desperate need to flee. Jones follows cautiously, suspicious eyes darting around warily. "Leave it to you, lass?" She scoffs over her shoulder, almost skipping. There's a certain buzz to the plan she has in mind.
"We've gotta make a stop first." She precedes him a few blocks down the street to the public library. Brilliant light shines in through the large windows making up the front wall. Through a labyrinth of wooden bookshelves, they reach the computers. Emma hums a song from the radio under her breath as she waits for it to boot up. "I don't know how to get to Beaumont from here other than roughly south, and depending on the road, that isn't going to cut it. So, we're getting directions, then we start my plan." Jones nods distractedly, unable to focus on one thing. His ocean blue eyes are casting around the room, drinking in the sight. It is a nice library, Emma concedes. "You ever seen one of these?"
"I've seen a great many libraries, Swan. Many far larger than this." His voice is gruff.
"Then what about this one has you gaping around like you're seeing it for the first time?"
"These demon boxes." He spits out between his teeth and contemptuously gestures with his hook and a grimace. Emma frowns but follows where he's pointing. She giggles again, drumming her fingers on the counter and waiting impatiently for the Internet to come up. "Does it always sound like that? The shrieking?" She nods slowly. "Is it supposed to? Don't you think you ought to stand back?" Emma looks at him over her shoulder incredulously. She watches him withdraw many hurried steps backward, moving to duck behind a shelf with a wary look in his eyes. She giggles again and he scowls, again silencing the sound.
"Well, the big scary demon box is our way of getting directions. They call it the Internet." She pats the computer monitor kindly before moving to the printer that is uttering a different set of peculiar noises. Printing off her directions, she flourishes the pages with a satisfied smirk. "See, now we know how to get there." He nods slowly. Behind those too-blue eyes, Emma can grasp the wheels turning in his bewildered mind. Those wheels careen off the tracks when he doesn't quite connect the dots between the computer, the printer, and the pages in her hand. But it's clear he's not going to ask. Asking would admit weakness. His unease might lend credibility to his claims of being from a different world or could easily lend itself to her theory of his insanity. "We have our directions. Now for transportation."
With the same jaunty stride and a new canine smile, Emma exits the library. Jones follows just as warily. Having already staked out the potential cars, she pulls Jones back into an alley, standing on the wall opposite. Gnawing her lip and tapping her foot with nervous energy, she watches an old gray station wagon. No one, nothing, looks like the coast is clear. Her eyes dart back and forth on the road ahead of them, behind them, the other alleys. No windows looking down here. Uniform layer of dust lies settled on the car.
Seizing the cuff of Jones' big leather pirate duster, she hustles him along behind her. "Keep watch, would you? Please? But like, don't be obvious." He chuckles a bit at that as she sets to work jimmying the lock. "Got it," she whispers. Sliding smoothly into the driver's seat, she leans across to unlock the passenger side door. She shuts her own then reaches into her bag. Hesitating for a split second, an instinct screams to investigate the back seat. God, what the hell would she do if he showed up here, now? She lets out an audible sigh of relief when it's vacant. As she removes a screwdriver and a rock from her bag, she notes Jones' questioning glance but offers no answer.
A solid layer of dust means it hasn't been moved in a while. Maybe the engine won't turn over. What if the battery's dead? What if… Emma silences her worried thoughts by lining the screwdriver up with the ignition and hammering it in with the rock. Twisting it, she hears the engine sputter then purr to life and grins with satisfaction. She turns and leaves the alleyway slightly jerkily, but well enough. Jones, nevertheless, seems to find the 'oh shit' handle above his door and clings to it.
"Swan, have you done this before?" Jones' voice comes out strained and tense.
"Which part?" Emma asks casually.
"All of it. Stealing a car, driving, all of it."
She nods. "Yeah. I mean, I told you about Nelson's. That wasn't the first time."
"When was that?" Emma shoots a cursory glance. Jones looks almost curious like he could be interested in her story, her past. If he is, he only wants something to use against you. He has released the 'oh shit' handle though, so that's a good sign. She hastily returns her focus to where it needs to be, the road. "You learned somewhere, correct?"
"Why so interested?"
Jones slightly chuckles as he answers, though Emma can't appreciate the humor. "Well, lass, we've," he glances down at the directions in his hand, "twenty-four hours, bloody hell! Twenty-four bloody hours of driving!" He balks and Emma snorts.
"Going from basically the northern border to the southern border. What'd you expect?"
He nods his concession to the point. "The point being, it's a long drive. Twenty-four bloody hours," he whispers. She smirks and shrugs. Jones sighs, then turns with a charming smile firmly in place. "And we've a bit of an alliance ahead of us. It'd be substantially less unpleasant if we talk." Emma shrugs.
"Why so curious about my experience driving?"
"I'm given to understand there are inherent dangers in operating one of these vessels. I'd like to know you've some experience and competence manning the helm." It's a reasonable enough answer, so Emma nods. Jones releases an audible breath of relief and Emma snorts at the display. "Why deflect?" She scowls over at him quickly before returning her focus to the road.
She shakes her head and doesn't answer. Jones hit the nail on the head about her deflection, but she definitely doesn't want to talk about it. Learning how to drive didn't come from good memories. Learning to steal a car didn't come from good memories. Hell, the last time she stole a car brought about insanely painful memories. She doesn't want to delve into any of these with Jones. Beyond Jones issuing the occasional direction as the need arises, they don't speak.
"You know, most men would take your silence as off-putting." He states pleasantly out of the blue. "But I love a challenge." That Irish brogue comes out thick with his last words and he grins at her.
"I'm concentrating," Emma mutters while her frown focuses on MN-11 in front of her.
"No, you're afraid." Her eyes flick over to meet his, even as she tries to disguise it for checking the rearview mirror. "Afraid to talk, to reveal yourself, to trust me. Things'll be a lot smoother if you do."
"Must be used to people not trusting you."
"Ah, the pirate thing," he answers promptly.
"No, I was actually going for the nut-job thing, but sure," she mutters under her breath. "Besides," she continues, voice bolder, "it's like you said. Inherent dangers in operating one of these vessels." She poorly attempts to mimic his accent with a smirk. He rolls his eyes. "Hence, concentrating." Jones lets a few beats pass in silence again.
"Well, I don't need you to share. You're something of an open book." Her fierce glare leaves the road for a split second, almost jerking the steering wheel with her as she whips to face Jones and his broad grin.
"The open book you said you didn't read," she snarls through her teeth.
"Touchy about your past, eh Swan?" God, she's tempted to crash the car into any one of the numerous trees they're passing right now. Wrapping the car around a tree going sixty-five miles an hour is an insanely tempting thought right now. His annoyingly smug grin, knowing he got under her skin, makes her want to wipe it off, by any means necessary. Even if it costs them both their lives. Emma's half-tempted to threaten the smug bastard with it, if only to shut him up.
"And you're not?" Emma shoots back. Surveying the road in front of her, she doesn't see the defenses rise behind his eyes or the tension in his grin. She thinks for a moment, then continues with a sly smirk. "Just like you're not touchy about the fact that everything in the modern world seems foreign to you. Our food, our means of transportation, our technology, everything. Clothes are apparently something you never even attempted. Like you're not sensitive about the fact that you prodded pancakes for a solid five minutes, looking at them like they were gonna eat you? Or that you thought the computer was gonna blow up in our faces because of the dial tone? The demon box?" His stern glare advising caution meets her when she flicks her gaze away from the windshield.
"Point taken," he concedes gruffly.
"Look, let's just not, okay? Let's just not prod at each other's old open wounds."
"I haven't dug at any of yours, while you've laid bare the deepest of mine."
Emma raises an eyebrow. "You produced an entire binder filled to the brim with mine."
"One I assure you I did not read." He sounds almost offended at the implied accusation.
The truth in his words allows her to release some tension from her shoulders and let out a sigh. He didn't know. He was checking for experience driving because he's placing his life in your hands and had no idea what he was poking at. Much more calm than she was, she responds. "Poking and prodding about the driving thing is deep enough. Let's just say that underage and unlicensed is safer than drunk, and that's how I learned. And the stealing-a-car thing would be prodding at the deepest of mine. So, we're square, just drop it. I know how to drive. I haven't killed us yet. Just leave it at that." Jones nods at that.
He wouldn't feel the need to check if he didn't know about your disaster last time driving. Emma sighs. For some reason, the need to reassure the man riding shotgun compels her to continue. "The only reason I crashed is that I'd been through hell, then drove seventeen hours straight in a constant state of panic, trying to flee. I know how to drive. I've been doing it for a while now. Nothing about those questions prompts us anywhere that either one of us will want to discuss. I'll leave your old wounds alone, you leave mine alone." They return to their silence, broken only by Jones reading the directions or Emma barking comments at other drivers to vent.
"Turn left onto the I-29 south ramp to US-81 south, Grand Forks, then merge onto I-29 south." He quotes with pauses between some of the words like he's not altogether certain of what he's referring to. In her peripheral vision, she spots his furrowed brow and how he keeps tilting the page back and forth while holding it at arm's length. She finishes cursing her way through merging onto the interstate. Once he peels himself off the door he's been pressed against, clinging to anything he could for dear life, blue eyes blown wide, he asks, slightly breathlessly. "Swan, what does any of this mean?"
Emma's voice is far too composed as she replies. "Well, I-29 is Interstate 29, US-81 is United States Route 81. Not really sure what the big difference between those is. Maybe who forks over the money to maintain it?" She shrugs uncertainly. "Grand Forks is a place in North Dakota. I think we're either close or going to pass close by. But the huge road systems that stretch across the country are labeled by number." Despite her explanation, he looks more bewildered.
"A king's road, then?" Emma glances over.
"We don't have kings here. Quite proud of that fact, actually." He seems oddly thrilled with the idea of no kings here. Naturally, the wanna-be pirate doesn't like kings. "We elect our leaders. Or at least, adults do, because they can vote and stuff." As Emma flicks her eyes over from the road, he still has that quizzical look about him.
"Is there any significance to the shield?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure the Interstate system was designed with national defense in mind. Like quick mobilization in the event we ever got attacked, different specifications for the size of the roads and bridges based on transporting weapons, that sort of thing." He nods along, absorbing the information. This doesn't seem to leave him with more questions than answers, at least. There's something in those curious blue eyes of his that she enjoys seeing. "Y'know, for a guy who doesn't understand the roads, you do a pretty decent job co-piloting." He smiles gently and nods his thanks.
He scratches behind his ear as he asks, "Swan, is it necessary to curse a blue streak when merging on a roadway?" He lets out a soft chuckle. "I don't think I've even heard my crew swear like you just did, lass."
She scowls. "It's stressful! And scary! Get it wrong and we both get flattened like pancakes. You wanna take a turn at the wheel?" He's silent. "Yeah, didn't think so." They return to their routine of only speaking when Jones needs to give directions. Which won't be for a bit, he explains, mentioning the extensive stretch of the interstate before them.
"Could look and see if this person had any decent CDs," Emma suggests with a shrug. Jones shoots her a questioning glance that she barely catches, which suggests he's once again got no clue what she's talking about. "CDs, tapes, that sort of thing. Music," she ultimately says. Really taking this fish-out-of-water thing to the extreme, huh?
"A conversation doesn't sound so bad now does it?" She scoffs under her breath. He chuckles. "Fine love. But I don't accept your aversion to innocent conversation." She cocks an eyebrow without looking away from the road. "Perhaps just to pass the time?" He offers with a small grin she spots in her peripheral vision.
Something in his smile or his tone makes her hackles rise. She's not even sure what or why. The prodding causes her defenses to flare up and her internal alarm sirens to scream. Her shoulders tense up at her sides. Her hands clench around the steering wheel. "What are you playing at?" Her voice comes out even harder than she intends and the smile falls off his face.
"I'm not playing, Swan." She discerns the sincerity in his voice clearly enough that she doesn't have to scrutinize his face for it. His too-blue eyes are contemplating her, with that same intense sincerity burning into her.
"Okay," she whispers. Jones' mouth quirks up beneath the stubble. Tentatively, she continues. "Can I ask, then, about the necklaces? The charms and stuff? Any stories there?" Without prodding at old wounds, she adds mentally. He smiles this time and nods.
"Protection charms, against the many menaces of the high seas." She glances over with a questioning eyebrow and he chuckles. "Aye, it's protection. One I required to remain with me at all times."
"Menaces of the high seas, huh? Like pirates?" He chuckles a bit while shaking his head.
"No, I take care of those just fine by meself. I was referring to mermaids." Uh-huh. Naturally, you meant mermaids. "Bloody terrible creatures, mermaids. They sing with such seductive voices that they lure sailors to their deaths if you don't secure the proper protection. I've witnessed men throw themselves on the rocks, dashing their ships against the shore, all at the call of a mermaid's song. Nearly happened to me and me crew once." Emma quirks a brow while minding her eyes on the road. "I also meant tempests. Storms are," he pauses, the humor leaving his voice. "Storms on the high seas are vicious. Deadly. They can spring up from nowhere and decimate entire fleets. When you are one bobbing object in the middle of a vast ocean, and the waves tower over the tops of the mast, when rain falls in sheets that fierce wind blows horizontal, lightning stabs into the waves around you. Storms are far from a joking matter on the high seas. Mother Nature on the high seas is a ferocious queen." He sighs, sounding sadly nostalgic. "I'm a survivor, and these are why." Emma notes he's holding onto one in particular, clenched in his fist so she can't distinguish which one. But the depth of pain she spots behind his blue eyes prevents her from asking.
"Surviving's good. Living might be better," Emma whispers, more to herself. I've been surviving, but it's not really living. She clears her throat and brushes her hair behind her shoulder quickly to eliminate the aimless line of thinking. "You said you're from there? The Enchanted Forest?" Jones nods in her periphery. "What's it like there?"
"You don't believe me," he states quickly. Emma shrugs in acknowledgment. "Will telling you about it convince you?" Emma shrugs again. I'm trying to trip you up in a lie or two, genius. Or determine exactly how extensive this delusion of yours is. "Very well. It's quite a magical place, or at least it was. The curse ravaged it. At one time, it was, as the name would suggest, enchanting." He goes on to describe a fantastical land, the people, the culture, some of the history, all of it. Jones speaks of Ogre Wars like Emma would expect to hear of world wars. He describes royalty, something she considered to be relegated to history books and fairy tales, not a real-world that seems to actually exist. Jones ultimately explains his passage into this world, climbing a beanstalk to find a magic bean, then revitalizing it in an enchanted lake.
"Magic beans?" Emma asks skeptically.
"Of everything I've declared thus far, it's the magic beans you take issue with, Swan?" He shakes his head at her selectively-voiced skepticism. "Aye, they create portals. Extremely difficult to come by. Hell, I discovered the last one." He brags.
"The beans in the story got tossed out a window, landed, and created the beanstalk."
"Swan, it's as I said. Tales get butchered as they're retold." She shrugs her acknowledgment. "Believe you me, I know portals. I've been sailing through them for far longer than you've been alive."
"How much longer? How old are you, anyway?"
"I admit, I lost count over the years. I've been frozen at thirty-two for an incredibly long time. I spent three centuries in Neverland. I left about two years before the curse hit, so I've been in my thirties for quite some time." It takes all her effort and concentration to not swerve the car or tear her focus from the road. His voice is so matter-of-fact as he mentions it. Jones isn't lying either. He's being honest, and answering like being three-hundred years old is no big deal.
Blinking far too rapidly and maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, Emma stares out the windshield. She isn't convinced if he's delusional or not anymore. Every question of hers has been handled with a straightforward, thorough answer. And he hasn't lied once to her. No delusion is that thorough, having a well-thought-out answer for everything. "You look good for your age, then, you old dinosaur," she breathes out with a nervous chuckle. Three hundred freaking years! He laughs warmly.
"Much obliged, milady." He winks in her periphery. When she glances over, he's itching behind his ear. "Now, love, may I ask you something?" Her defenses are on stand-by to flare up at a moment's notice. Emma bites her lip and considers. He's allowed her to ask all the questions, passing the past few hours this way. Fair's fair. She nods and hums her agreement. "In these stories, what was I like? Other than a villain. Handsome, I gather?"
She scoffs a bit. Vain bastard. "If waxed mustaches and perms are your thing."
"I take it by your tone, perms are bad." Jones almost sounds offended. Emma shrugs as they exit the Interstate to get gas. Glancing at the directions, it seems they've made decent time to Kansas City. Tank filled and a CD playing punk rock, they pull back onto the road, Emma's cursing prompting Jones to grip the 'oh shit' handle once again. She shoots a glare to silence Jones' comment, and from the mirth in his eyes, she can tell he's smothering laughter. They continue, Jones reading directions more frequently now, and any lulls in their conversation covered by the Ramones.
"Keep right at the fork, then keep left to stay on US-71 south for the next few miles." Emma nods, drumming her hands lightly on the steering wheel. "Then take exit 53 for MO-171 north towards Webb City. Swan, MO?"
"Missouri. The state we're in now." She answers between humming along. They continue like that, headlights approaching from the opposite direction. Taillights glow red around them. Street lamps and city lights shine from off the road. Emma's moved to several different places, all over the country. But this may be the first time she's seen parts of it. It's nice, she thinks to herself. They make a few more stops for gas along the way, one of which includes a snack run. Jones stocks up on jerky and casts a disparaging look at the pop-tarts. Bottled water, however, seems to be a marvel. As she keeps driving, he continues his role as co-pilot.
"Arkansas," he mutters, brow furrowed. Are-can-sas. "Strange names."
Emma's brow furrows as well before the realization dawns. "You mean Arkansas?" He turns his frown on her. "Are-can-saw. Yeah, I know," she shrugs. "That's how I thought it was pronounced as well."
"Who the bloody hell came up with that?" She shrugs, humming out 'I don't know' in answer. "Take the I-40 west exit towards Van Buren/Fort Smith." Emma nods. "Bloody strange names. Strange land." Still drumming her hands on the steering wheel, she ponders for a moment.
"It's gotta be rough, being a stranger in a strange land." He shrugs.
"I've traveled to many a strange land in my years, Swan. This is one of the more bizarre, I will admit. All the other realms possessed magic. No other realm seemed to believe they were the only one in existence, that all others were mere fantasy. They've all had their quirks, but none quite like this."
"Could you tell me about some of them?" She asks with a hopeful look. Emma doesn't know why she asks. Okay, he has a very nice voice to listen to, when he's not spitting out threats. He's been mostly pleasant the entire drive though. And it's better to listen to him and his stories than the CD playing quietly in the background. Besides, he seems to like telling stories. He's certainly good at it.
Jones obliges. He weaves fantastic tales of swashbuckling adventure through Neverland. He describes a failed assassination attempt ending in a pseudo-alliance with the Queen of Hearts in Wonderland. He narrates tales of piracy on the high seas of the Enchanted Forest, daring prison escapes from Agrabah, and even a few appearances in the lost city of Atlantis. His description of El Dorado might be his most vivid. She can visualize the streets paved with gold, the sun glinting off it was almost blinding, how the air even smelled of that intoxicating, amazing smell of gold. Jones is animated as he recounts his stories, voice rising and falling, face contorting to different expressions.
"I thought Neverland was supposed to be a good place. Y'know, children visit in their dreams, you never grow up, no adults. That kind of thing." She finds herself almost disappointed to hear the reality that Neverland actually sucks. All those times she read Peter Pan over the years, hoping to be swept off to Neverland. Though she has to admit. In all of her wildest imaginings, it didn't quite involve a cross-country road trip in a stolen car with Captain Hook riding shotgun to retrieve his ship docked in Beaumont, Texas. Somehow, that possibility never crossed her younger self's mind. I wonder why.
"It appears to be a paradise at first glance, Swan," Jones concedes. "However, I assure you, it is a place that everyone would be well advised to fear." He continues telling tales and Emma is surprised to find that, somewhere along the way, she believes him. She's no longer parsing his every word for a lie. Yes, she can hear many of the exaggerations. Maybe instead of twenty guards he escaped in Agrabah, it was only a handful, or instead of an entire fleet, it was just a ship or two. But he's not spinning lies or delusions. He truly lived these. Both are happy when they reach Texas. The sun is edging over the horizon in the east as the directions lead them through Carthage, then farther south to Evadale and Vidor. Emma actually lets out a small laugh when she begins seeing signs for Beaumont and they abandon the car a few blocks away from the port.
Letting out a groan as she stretches her limbs and arches her back, Emma shoulders her bag, presses the binder to her chest and sighs. Jones is shaking his own stiff limbs out while reaching around the car for his satchel. He takes her arm and leads her down the road towards the port. Saltier air hits their noses, and she watches Jones visibly relax. The tension leaves his shoulders and he smirks over at her. Swaggering down the docks a bit like a peacock, he leads her to the end. The ship makes her jaw drop. A magnificent ship from an era long gone. The paint on her sides is brilliant blue and yellow, looking fresh and without flaw. Two towering masts, with massive sails, ropes snapping in the gentle breeze. He grins at her obvious appreciation and leads her up the gangplank after undoing the mooring lines.
"Welcome aboard the Jolly Roger, my dear." Jones calls out commands that Emma barely understands but at least tries to move to follow before his hand on her shoulder gently stops her. "Just watch, love." The anchor is raised simply by his command. The lines and sails snap into place upon his command. In moments, they're sailing. Her jaw practically hits the deck as he chuckles.
"She's a marvel, isn't she?" Jones' voice is filled with obvious pride and joy.
"She's...wow," her words cut off as they seem to fail her. Her inability to string together anything more intelligent only seems to make him puff up more with pride. Emma nods, still gaping as the lines snap into place on their own, sails are hoisted on their own and they set out from the port. Well, if I didn't believe in magic before, this right here is freaking tangible proof.
I guess he wasn't completely nuts after all. Look, here's proof of magic. Nothing he's said thus far has been a lie. That means the curse is real too. Emma feels the certainty of her realization but stomps the thoughts down before they can head down the logical trail that follows, that being her parents. Still not prepared to confront the mountain of emotional baggage that end inevitably contains, she chooses instead to avoid it. The curse is real, and Captain Hook is taking me to Maine to break it. That is all.
The sparkling waves roll merrily under their feet. Gentle, steady rhythm of rising and falling. Jones steps confidently up to the quarterdeck, standing at the helm. Emma makes much smaller, less certain steps, clinging precariously to anything she can find. It's apparently too much to ask that Jones not see it, because of course he does. He slightly grins, gives an encouraging nod. "You'll get your sea legs soon enough, lass." Emma nods with a slight smile. Taste of my own medicine, for calling him out about the car. She tries hiding her limping, though.
Something feels alive within the boards of the ship. There's buzzing underneath her feet. A tingling feeling comes when she holds onto the rail. The energy blazes from her fingertips up her arm. Under her jacket, she can feel the goosebumps being triggered. She frowns. It isn't the rolling of the waves beneath them. Maybe it's a lack of sleep, but that doesn't seem like it either. "Sir? Can I ask you something?" Jones meets her gaze with a reassuring smile and a nod. "What's buzzing?"
He quirks a brow. "Pardon?"
"Something, in the ship, it feels," she says each word slowly, pausing in her anxious uncertainty. Emma frowns and bites her lip, not sure how to explain it. She watches the toe of her sneaker as it scuffs around to avoid seeing Jones' expression. "It feels like a live wire moving through the ship. Like energy crackling. Like something's alive. It's, it's powerful, and it feels like, well, buzzing." She shrugs, feeling almost ridiculous and a bit embarrassed as she rambles. Her cheeks tinge pink and she stares at the mast to escape Jones' judgment. Risking a glance, she encounters nothing of the sort. His eyes widen with understanding for a moment before his brow furrows.
"That would be the enchantment on the Jolly Roger, lass. What you're detecting is magic. She's enchanted. That's what allows me to sail her without a crew. Thank the bloody gods it carried over into this realm." He studies her closely, brow still furrowed. "Most can't feel the enchantment, though," he continues in a low voice. His blue eyes seem to stare straight through her. He levels his intent gaze and stares resolutely into her soul, searching for answers she's not sure he finds. After a few beats that seem to stretch for an eternity, he shakes his head and promptly loses the unnerving intensity.
"Why don't I show you around? The grand tour, so to speak?" Jones gestures with a confident grin. Emma nods her agreement and follows. He swaggers as he leads, carefully explaining a bit above deck, labeling the masts and the sails. As he explains, the orders to the ship from earlier slowly begin to make sense. He thoroughly speaks about the distinct parts and their functions to his rapt audience. Emma sporadically, quietly, pauses his explanation with a question or two, something about steering the ship. Stupid, stupid, what the hell are you interrupting for? Just let the man talk! Don't piss him off again, because God help you if you do! She bites her lip, shoulders tensed and hunched in, arms wrapped around herself, ducking her head as Jones turns back. She knows she's bracing herself. After a moment, Emma glances up from the boards beneath her feet to find that same encouraging smile and nod as he answers. Hell, he almost seems delighted with the first question. Which instills in her slightly more confidence in asking more about how the rigging works, how you pull this line to hoist that sail, about the process that goes into replacing the sails. The pride and joy in his ship is even more obvious now than it was as he explains with that same encouraging smile. The grand tour subsequently goes below.
Jones leads through a narrow hallway, showing her where to find the galley, pointing out the crew quarters, nodding his head slightly to different passages. Some are hidden and some are not. He then leads her past the door to his quarters to a slightly smaller cabin. It's furnished with a bed, a wooden desk and chair. The few shelves built into the wall are lined with books that look like they haven't been moved in quite a while. The cabin has that feeling too, like it hasn't had an occupant for quite some time. Small windows on the far wall let in the bright morning sunlight and give a view of the sparkling waters of the Atlantic. "This is usually the first mate's, but for the duration, it's yours." She manages to suppress the slight shock at his words.
"Thank you," she says quietly, suddenly feeling all the time she's spent awake. Emma tries to disguise her yawn. Her eyes feel itchy and dry, eyelids heavy and ready to drag closed. Walking into the cabin slowly, she stumbles and lets out a hiss as she puts weight on her left leg. Cringing, Emma keeps her back to Jones, hoping he didn't notice. But the gentle hand on her back guiding her to sit on the bed tells her that she isn't so lucky.
"That leg still bothering you?" Emma sighs defeated and nods, staring at the wooden planks of the floor. "May I take a look?" She stares for a moment, taken aback by the offer, then nods, pulling her jeans up to her knee. She pulls off her sneaker and sock as well.
Jones lets slip a quiet 'bloody hell' at the sight. "Wait here, lass. Just going to pop next door. That little closet, the surgery," he mentions on the way out the door. He's only gone a moment, but it's long enough for Emma to investigate herself. Her sore ankle is swollen. Her ankle, Achilles tendon, the sides of her foot, and a few of her toes are severely bruised a nasty-looking purple. On her calf is a thick, deep red gash, running about eight inches long. The skin around it is a burning, irritated red. It's not clear which one hurts worse. It's really unclear which one had Jones cursing in expressed sympathy. Why the hell did I insist on running all night on this? God knows I likely only made them both worse. Emma cringes at the uncomfortable thought.
Jones returns, setting down bandages, a mortar, pestle, and some leaves on the desk. He then pulls the chair from the desk over and gathers her foot gently onto his lap. His calloused fingers are soft and gentle. "A sprained ankle is a relatively common injury on a ship," he begins gently, his soothing voice and gentle brogue distracting her as he sets and wraps her ankle. "Over the years, every man on my ship gained experience setting them, including me." She winces as he finishes, but doesn't speak. Her ankle feels better than it has in days. Kindness remains something completely rare and foreign in her life. While her discomfort would typically make her inclined to snark or lash out, she holds back the inclination. Jones is helping her. God only knows why, but he's helping. Snarking or lashing out would make him stop. And Emma doesn't really want him to stop. She wants to know why he's doing this, why he's being kind. But she gets the distinct feeling that if she questions his kindness, it will stop. Some small part of her wants to soak up the kindness that she knows won't last, so at least she'll have a memory of it. So she sits and holds her tongue, eyes on his nimble fingers. "Take it easy for a bit, won't you Swan?" She nods.
He shifts his attention to the gash with a slight grimace in sympathy. Jones hands her the mortar, pestle, and the leaves. The leaves are long, oval-shaped, and olive green. They have a silky texture and an almost oily sheen. "Tear those up, make sure the sap stays in the mortar, then mash them. When they're good and mashed into a paste, pour a dash of rum in as well." Emma nods, plucking the leaves apart carefully, feeling the sticky, thin amber-colored sap coat her fingers and stain them a slight tawny color. It smells like a mix between strong antiseptic and honey, as strange a combination as it is. Her nose slightly crinkles as she inhales it. She grinds them with the pestle down to a paste then turns the mortar over to Jones' inspection. He nods, withdraws a flask from inside his coat, and adds a splash of rum, directing her to mix more. "They're known as honey yellow wood. They're native to the Enchanted Forest, where they grow like weeds quite frankly." He explains off-hand while tucking the flask away.
"You know a lot about botany?" She asks curiously.
"Healing plants, I make it my business to identify. We've had a few decent surgeons on board, but for those times when we haven't, I've made it a point to learn. When you're out at sea and the nearest land is easily weeks away, you are quite literally on your own. It definitely offers a new understanding of self-sufficiency." Emma nods. "Besides, over three centuries, you tend to learn a thing or two," he winks with a small grin. Emma nods again as he continues. "Even though they grow like weeds, they sell for quite a lot in an apothecary." Pharmacy-ish, Emma internally translates. "That's because they're quite valuable medicine. Ordinarily it is combined with water. But I've found rum to be considerably stronger. They can draw out and prevent infection. They draw out anything foreign from the body, so it flushes out the dirt, gravel, anything. It cleans wounds." His voice grows quiet and gentle. When Emma glances back up from the rum-leaf-juice paste, he's eyeing her sympathetically. "Though I warn you, lass. It's quite painful, especially the deeper the infection."
Emma swallows. "Infection's probably worse though, right?" She asks lightly. He nods with a small, sympathetic smile and takes the mortar and pestle back from her. Jones slathers the paste on her leg as Emma clenches her jaw, still cursing a blue streak. Fists white-knuckled on the edge of the cot, she's struggling vainly to not arch away. It burns in the same way ice burns on contact with her heated skin. Pain lances through her, much worse than it had been, sharp and brutal stabbing rather than throbbing. As Jones wraps a bandage around her wounded leg, Emma swipes at the tears in the corner of her eyes.
Breathing unevenly, she meets his gentle blue eyes. "Thank you," Emma whispers weakly. He offers a small smile and a nod.
"Why don't you get some rest, lass? You look as though you could use it." Emma's too tired to snark back and just nods her agreement. "I'll be right up on deck if you need anything." Emma nods her understanding and Jones leaves quietly, shutting the door gently behind him. The binder and her bag are on the desk, her other shoe and sock meet those already off as Emma curls up on top of the bed.
Her exhausted mind turns over one last question before the gentle rocking of the waves and her fatigue lull her to sleep. Why was he so nice? She knows when she wakes, she'll have much more to parse out. But for now, the unexpected and unfamiliar kindness has her undivided attention before she succumbs to sleep.
Emma wakes what must be hours later. The sun is now a bright orange glow sparkling on the water. Same direction, though, she notes. She rises unsteadily from the cot, placing a hand on the wall for support, and hobbles uncertainly up to the deck. Her ankle and her leg feel much better than they were, though. Just a matter of sea-legs, and, you know, not having them. She finds Jones at the helm, eyes critically surveying the horizon, the wind blowing through his dark hair and catching his duster.
"Sleep well, Swan?" He calls out.
"Uh, yes sir. Thanks." She answers.
"Good, because we've arrived." With that answer, Emma jumps. She turns to see pine trees lining a beach and a small town starting to wake up. From this distance, it looks like small-town USA. It doesn't strike her as cursed. Jones carefully docks, waving her off as she moves to at least offer assistance. He lowers the gangplank and offers her a hand down, which she refuses, to her embarrassment. He chuckles quietly as she straightens herself, reacquainting with the ground beneath her feet being weird and steady. "Welcome to Storybrooke, Savior."
"Not a Savior," Emma mutters under her breath, crossing her arms.
Jones chuckles. "Best get used to it, Swan."
"So," Emma nods and looks around awkwardly. "What now?"
Jones furrows his brow, considering for a moment. "Probably best to get things squared away with the harbormaster. When last I was here, no one was in the position. Perhaps we ought to check in town."
They both make their way down a main street lined with simple, cutesy storefronts. A few faces make their way to a diner with tables on the patio, lights strung up and still glowing in the orange light of dawn. A tall woman with long brown hair, wearing a white crop top and a red miniskirt paired with insane heels, places a sign out front reading the day's specials. A bit further down the block, an older gentleman stands on a ladder, fixing a sign on a five-and-dime store. A ginger man with a receding hairline and glasses walks a Dalmation while armed with a black umbrella. Yellow and bright, a school bus drives down the road, loaded full of kids in navy and white uniforms.
God, this town has an almost diabetic level of fluff to it. "Charming little place," Emma mutters under her breath. "Once again, I say, you're sure this place is cursed? 'Cuz it seems like a tourist trap, or like a Norman Rockwell painting." Jones cocks a puzzled brow at that. "Cutesy, wholesome, all that crap." He nods.
"I assure you, this place is indeed as cursed as I described. Perhaps those who were left behind bore the greater brunt of the punishment." He proposes quietly as a gentle hand on her shoulder guides her towards the sheriff's station.
As they enter the quiet building, their footsteps echoing on the linoleum floor, Emma looks around. The computers definitely line up with the theory of being frozen in time, as they look about as old as she is. A man who looks like he's in his thirties, dressed in a button-up, vest and slacks, runs a hand through a flop of brown curls on his forehead. He stands with his back to Emma and Jones. He's saying something about a smile and best behavior to a grumpy-looking man lounging on the cot in a holding cell as he unlocks the door. The hungover man reluctantly gives the sheriff a sarcastic smile that looks more like a grimace under the gruff beard as he leaves.
"What the hell are you lookin' at, sister?" Leroy, she reads on his nametag, barks out.
"Nothin'," Emma answers. Her answer gains the sheriff's attention as Leroy stomps away, impatiently shaking his head and muttering something about kids being a bunch of punks. His grouchiness pulls a smirk to her face.
"Ah, is there something I can help the two of you with?" The sheriff asks, his accent clipping the words. He glances expectantly between the two newcomers. Emma experiences a slight moment of panic about her bloodied appearance as she watches the wheels turning behind the sheriff's dark eyes.
"Aye. I understand the sheriff's office handles the role of harbormaster." Jones' voice holds a slight question, lifting up at the end.
"Small town, not many visitors to speak of, so yes. The role of harbormaster falls under my purview. Let me get the paperwork," the sheriff answers. He digs around in a file cabinet and comes back with forms that he hands off to Jones. Bored and unsure of how to occupy herself, Emma stares awkwardly around the station, tapping her foot, humming slightly, fidgeting. Jones shoots her a look, cocked eyebrow and all, that just screams 'you're behaving like a child'. Emma naturally raises her eyebrows back in response, gesturing down at herself as if to say 'well, I am a child'. She sees him shake his head as he turns back to the proper forms to dock in the harbor. There's a couch sitting against the wall in front of the holding cells, just beneath two windows letting in the sunrise. On the opposite wall are a bulletin board and a dartboard. When Emma glances back, the sheriff is glancing between both her and Jones. Those wheels just keep on turning. They're both spared from the sheriff's scrutiny by a cane tapping against the linoleum in the hall.
"Sheriff, I'd like you to investigate further…" a Scottish voice states as an older man limps in. Jones' shoulders tense where he's bent at one of the desks, his fist clenching white-knuckled around the pen. The dramatic, looping calligraphy Emma spots over his shoulder changes to rigid lines dug far too deeply into the paper. Frowning, she turns to the doorway, to the new townie. He's dressed in a suit and tie and walks with a black cane tipped with a gold handle. His thin face is framed with salt-and-pepper hair that falls to his jaw. The man looks slightly taken aback by the two strangers. This kind of reception, you'd think visitors were a foreign species or something. The sheriff turns to his office and returns with a manila file.
"Well, Mr. Gold, as of yet, I've checked the security footage, but it seems to be completely blank. The fingerprints haven't turned up any matches in any databases. And as you failed to provide any kind of itemized list of what was stolen," the sheriff cuts off with a shrug. "I'm afraid insurance can't help you, nor can I really be on the lookout." The sheriff then turns back to Emma and Jones. Mr. Gold sneers a bit as the sheriff's attention turns from the break-in to the newcomers.
"Did you say you were staying on your ship or living on land?"
"On the ship," Jones answers curtly.
"Alright, then I'll need your names." Emma quirks an eyebrow in question. The sheriff shrugs his shoulders. "It's primarily paperwork. The mayor claims it's for the security of the town. Really, it's just so I can check a box, if you two don't mind."
"Captain Killian Jones," Jones states proudly while handing off the filled-in form.
"Emma Swan," Emma states, less confidently. The sheriff records both with a nod. Mr. Gold, who had been turning to leave, stops in his tracks with his back to the room. At the sight, Jones secures a hold of her shoulder, gripping tight. Mr. Gold, the guy Jones wants to kill. Binder-guy who's spent the last little-shy-of fourteen years stalking you. That's this creep.
"Emma," he whispers out. His accent oozes around the word. Something about the sound makes her skin crawl and her spine stiffen. Gold turns back with a peculiar look in his brown eyes. He produces a slight smile on his face that looks out of place. "What a lovely name."
"Thanks," Emma answers uncomfortably. Jones hauls her backwards, behind him, planting himself between Emma and Gold with a look that could kill directed at the old man. The sheriff stiffens, assessing the situation with a frown. The smile on Gold's face seems forced and frozen. Hatred comes in palpable waves from Jones.
Something flashes in Gold's brown eyes as he stares at Jones. Hatred and fear seem at war, but there's a calculating edge concealing them both. Emma cocks her head, considering, even as the tension in the room has her heart hammering. Jones' strong arm wrenching her behind him has her on edge. Gold's eyes turn to her then, sending ice through her veins. Before he can mask it, Gold looks confused and angry for a moment.
"You enjoy your stay, Emma," Mr. Gold says as he turns once more to leave. Again, the way he pronounces her name and the emphasis he places on it feel strange and unnerving.
"Mr. Gold, don't you want-?" the sheriff calls.
"Oh no, dearie. The stolen property no longer matters. I have what I came for." He holds up the file in his hand as he walks. Something about his concluding words has her nerves on edge and based on the look on Jones' face, she isn't the only one.
"Well, he seems pleasant," Emma mutters flippantly, shattering the tension that Gold left in his wake. The sheriff's mouth quirks under the scruff as he shakes his head. Jones visibly releases the tension in his muscles, letting go of her.
"That's him in a good mood," the sheriff states.
"Is this sufficient?" Jones asks the sheriff.
"Oh, you're squared away. Just be sure to keep a copy of this," the sheriff hands Jones a form. They both nod, and Emma waves to the sheriff as she follows Jones out of the station. A crowd of townspeople is assembled, standing in front of what looks to be a boarded-up library. All of their eyes are cast upward, to a clocktower. The minute hand clicks forward a notch, met with gawking.
"Guess those rusty innards finally straightened themselves out," a man's voice says in the crowd.
"Wow, and I thought I was easily entertained," Emma mutters.
Jones shakes his head and taps one of the crowd on the shoulder, a man with a red knit hat. "Excuse me, would you mind telling me why everyone seems to be so interested in the clock tower?"
"Well, it, um, it hasn't moved, since well." The man frowns into the distance, as though he's searching for the answer, then shakes his head. "Well, not for as long as I remember. No one, well, no one really remembers the clock ever moving. Been broken, I guess. But uh, now," he points over his shoulder, "it's ticking again."
"Time's been frozen, as I said," Jones mutters under his breath.
Emma rolls her eyes where he can't see. "Couldn't possibly be some dedicated civil servant miraculously using taxpayer dollars efficiently for once," Emma quips loudly enough that the crowd overhears her. Leroy and an older lady bark out laughter as they walk towards the diner. The man in the red hat ducks his head, but Emma watches his shoulders shake as he moves down the street towards an alley. A woman with short, dark hair covers her mouth with her hand as her shoulders shake around the notebooks clutched to her chest. Emma's eyes narrow as she follows the woman. Something about this utter stranger looks familiar. She's wearing what Emma would deem 'teacher clothes', a cardigan over a plain dress that falls to just above her knees and flats.
"I take it the pitfalls and failings of local government represent comedy here as well."
"Yeah, and we don't even get killed for making jokes," Emma answers with a grin.
"This ought to be a grand adventure."
Jones recommends she start performing reconnaissance around town, learn the ins and outs. It would help in dismantling the curse, she supposes. Or it would be good to simply learn her way around a town she'll be in for the foreseeable future. She takes a walk before meandering her way back to Main Street. The town is laid out fairly well. It's straightforward to navigate. The streets with shops are the closest to the center, flanking out from Main street, while those with homes are on the periphery. Three-quarters of the town is surrounded by woods, and the remaining quarter by the beach and the harbor. In the woods close to town is a nice park with a large pond. The town seems nicely planned out. It could be the work of a curse, or it could be the work of city planning and local government. Everything she discovers in town forces her back to the question of 'you're sure this town is cursed?' that she asked Jones. Norman Rockwell-esque, tourist trap, and neighborly aren't what she would expect when she thinks 'cursed'. More along the lines of miserable, hopeless and unpleasant, like the group homes.
Supposedly, the first sign of the curse breaking was the clock tower moving. In Emma's mind, the idea that a clock tower hasn't moved because time itself has stood still seems ridiculous. However, had you asked three days ago, she'd be dead set on calling it impossible. Clocks break down all the time. Time itself doesn't just stand still. Now, however, having felt the buzz of magic on the Jolly Roger, she's got a bit more of an open mind. Logically, it's completely possible that some local government official put tax dollars to their intended purpose. And that if she looks at the clock tower, she'll find evidence of recent construction. So checking out the clock tower seems like the place to begin.
She skulks around in an alley across the street. Emma watches a woman with dark brown hair whose entire aura screams elegance and authority pace back and forth in front of the clock tower. Whatever the cause is, she's absolutely furious about something, glaring at the clock face with a rigid set to her shoulders. A black man wearing a nice suit and carrying an even nicer camera walks up with a genial smile. The woman whips out a politician's smile and poise for the man. Emma can hear the buzz of questions from the reporter and the clipped, brisk answers of the mayor. She tries passing the clock tower off as an ongoing public works project, one that finally came through. Emma feels the clenching in her gut that tells her someone is lying. So, the mayor knew nothing about this. When the reporter diverts his focus to the boarded-up library beneath, the mayor shuts him down curtly. Her heels clack away down the main street, striding briskly past the alley where Emma is leaning against the wall. The reporter hastily follows, a bit like a dutiful puppy in Emma's opinion. But at least the crowd is gone and no one is looking too closely at the clock tower.
Emma walks as casually as she can towards the front door of the library. She casts glances over her shoulders, passing them off as checking for traffic crossing the street. Quickly, she removes two metal pins from her pocket and jimmies the lock. Screeching hinges grind against each other, telling Emma these doors haven't been opened in a long time. Cringing at the noise, she slips through the door and wrenches it shut behind her. Light fingering through holes in the covered windows catches on dust floating in the air. Blankets of dust coat the shelves, the circulation desk at the entrance, the few wooden tables, even the floor. Recent construction would have disturbed that. An odd-looking elevator at the far wall makes Emma cock her head with a confused frown. One of these things is not like the others, one of these things doesn't belong, she sing-songs the old Sesame Street tune in her head.
"Now if I were a sign of a cursed town, where would I be?" she mutters to herself, moistening her lips in her nerves as she steps forward into the dimly lit room. As if out of thin air, one minute it isn't there, the next look it is, she spots an old, large leather-bound book sitting on a table between two bookshelves. Walking over, she experiences the keenest feeling of anticipation, as if this is going to change everything.
"Once upon a time," she reads the title as she picks up the book with a slight smile.