#I also only realized today their belts are still different in caps death scene... sigh..

[capswarmedals]

I would like to formally apologize for that last art... I present my apology:

dancing capvers

[pocket-anon]

The Long Way Home (5/10)

I'm so excited to finally get to release this chapter! It contains a few of my favorite scenes, a couple of which you got to preview in the snippets. Be sure to check out the gorgeous art by @waiting-for-autumn that accompanies this installment. I hope you enjoy! Thanks to you all for your continued support. Your comments give me life!

As always, thanks to my beta, @captainstudmuffin, and to @lifeinahole27, @clockadile, and @ladyciaramiggles for their additional feedback.  Additional thanks to my wonderful CSBB artists, @waiting-for-autumn and @giraffes-ride-swordfishes for providing some gorgeous artwork to accompany this fic!  Links to their illustrations of certain scenes (*) will be in the text - go show them some love!

Find it on AO3.  Nautical term glossary here.

Missed a chapter?  Get caught up here.

Summary:  After an unnaturally long life fraught with personal tragedy, Killian Jones has become known throughout the realms as the infamous Captain Hook, an opportunistic ne’er-do-well and one of the most formidable pirates to ride the waves.  When he crosses paths with a mysterious young woman with no memory of who she is or how she arrived there, he recognizes the chance to claim a monetary reward that will constitute his biggest score yet.  But a journey across the world to get her home leads to a series of adventures that reveal that her value lies in far more than gold and jewels.  A Captain Swan Anastasia AU - sort of.  (Captain Swan Enchanted Forest AU.  Romance, Adventure, & Eventual Smut.  Rated E.)

Warning: Brief but graphic depictions of violence, peripheral character death, and smut.

The morning air is warm and balmy, but the breeze that greets Swan as she emerges above deck is still a great relief from the stifling heat of the space below.  It’s just over two weeks into their journey, and they’ve crossed into the tropics – the hottest part of the oceans – with the weather growing steadily less comfortable with every sunrise.  The crew has taken to seeking shade whenever possible, and today she’s elected to join most of them in going barefoot, her jerkin and gloves also left behind in her berth and her shirttail fluttering loose.  

“’Morning, milady,” Smee calls from above.

She shields her eyes and cranes her head upward to see the bare-headed first mate climbing down the standing rigging. “’Morning, Mr. Smee.”

“It’s going to be a hot one,” he comments, jumping down.  He pulls out his red cap and mops his brow with it before tucking it back into his belt.

Swan rolls up her shirt sleeves, squinting at the eight o’clock sun and leaning her back against the side of the ship.  “Yeah. Is this typical?”

“It’s been a while since we’ve been in this part of the world at this time of the year,” Smee admits, sidestepping a passing crewman to stand next to her.  He leans on the gunwhale and looks out over the azure landscape.  “But this is warmer than I remember.  The men are talking about sleeping on deck tonight.  It’s getting too thick down below.”

“I noticed.”  Swan makes a face at the thought of weathering a night warmer than the last one in her suffocating berth.

“But,” he says eagerly as though to cheer her up, “when it’s hot like this, we spend the whole evening on deck and Roberts plays his fife and there’s singing.  Not good singing, mind you,” he adds with an eye-roll.  “Martin sounds like a dying cow, but by the time he’s drunk enough to sing, he’s only two more shots of rum away from passing out, so that never lasts long.”

Swan laughs.  “Sounds like a good time.”

Smee grins and gazes toward the horizon again.  “It’s a good life, if not an easy one. Between you and me, ma’am, I’m glad to be on this journey to take you home.  It’s a good distraction for the Captain.”

Swan’s brow wrinkles, and she looks at him.  “From what?”

He hesitates, scrunching his nose like a man who isn’t sure how much to say.  “What do you know about the Dark One?” he asks in a quieter tone.

She arcs an eyebrow. “Is that the man who cut off his hand?”

Smee’s head bobs emphatically, and she doesn’t miss the slight cloud that comes over his now anxious expression.  “He’s not a man, though; not anymore.  He’s… Well, I don’t really know what he is, exactly,” Smee says with a frown, “but he’s got magic, and he’s basically immortal.”  He swallows hard.  “He’s dangerous.  Like the devil.  Captain’s been trying to find a way to kill him for ages now.”

Swan hums.  “So I’ve heard.”  She eyes Smee thoughtfully.  “And you’ve been with him the whole time?”

“Since the day they started calling him Captain Hook.”  Smee raps his knuckles against the painted yellow wood, some of the cheer returning to his cheeks.  “Anyway, ma’am, it’s nice to be on a different kind of mission for a little while.” He flashes her another smile and takes his leave.

Per Smee’s prediction, the day turns out to be the hottest they’ve seen yet, but the gods are merciful, and a strong wind makes the blazing sun more bearable and gives them excellent speed as the Jolly continues to cut a northwesterly course across the sea.

Mid-morning, Hook makes his daily inspection on deck and confers with Smee about their heading before pausing briefly astern to take some measurements with his sextant and let out the line of knots Swan has learned helps him gauge their speed.  She sneaks glances at him over the pages of her book as she reads on a stool in a corner behind the wheel, a place where she’s discovered she can observe the crew without being much in the way.  Like herself and the rest of the men, he’s forgone a few layers, his long jacket and even his waistcoat left off and his right sleeve rolled up to reveal a leanly muscled forearm with a red and black tattoo she can’t quite make out.  When he finishes taking his measurements, he turns to gaze out over their wake, his eyes narrowed in the face of the wind.  It ruffles his dark hair and the wide open collar of his shirt, and she chastises herself once she realizes that she’s staring, forcing her attention back down to the page and feeling the back of her neck grow warm when he turns his head to look at her.

“Good morning, Swan.”

She tries to affect a relaxed air as she raises her eyes to him, still blinking involuntarily at his devastating grin.  “Good morning.”  She wills her face not to color.  “You, um, you seem pleased.”

If he’s caught her watching him, he says nothing, merely nodding with a glint in his eye. “Aye.  We’re making very good time today.”  Hook throws her a wink before climbing back down the hatch to his quarters, and it’s a full minute before the butterflies in her stomach leave her be.

He’s still there when she arrives for lunch, hunched over his maps and navigation tools and making calculations with a pencil on a sheet of paper.  The door to his cabin is propped open, as are the four windows lining the aft wall, and an agreeable breeze whistles through, making the room more comfortable than she expected.

He glances up at her entrance and gives her a quick grin as he carefully measures the distance between two points with a ruler and makes a note on his sheet.  “Pleasant morning?”

“Uh, yeah.”  Swan moves toward his bookshelf.  “I finished Volume Two.”  She slides the book back into place next to its companions.

“Ah.  Learning all about the history of sailing?” he asks with amusement.

She grins over her shoulder as she reaches for Volume Three.  “It’s not a bad way to pass the time.”

Hook hums.  “Indeed.”

She turns and pulls out her now-customary seat at his table, settling into it with her legs crossed and the new book on her knee.  “Smee says the men will probably spend tonight on deck because of the heat.”

“Aye, the other cabins can be quite uncomfortable when it’s like this,” he says.  He pauses, looking up at her with sudden realization on his face. “What about you, love?  Would you prefer to sleep up there as well?”  

The apprehension she feels at the thought of sleeping amongst the men must show on her face, because she hasn’t even decided how to answer before he blurts out, “Or you could sleep here.”

Swan instantly cocks her head and narrows an eye at him.

Hook sighs exasperatedly. “Calm down, Swan.  I didn’t mean it like that.  Not that that wouldn’t be a life-altering experience, I assure you,” he adds, smirking shamelessly as she rolls her eyes on cue.  He chuckles.  “I meant you should take my berth.  I’ll sleep on deck.”  He gestures behind him.  “With the windows open, my quarters are quite tolerable.”

“Oh.”  Swan blinks, impressed by his selflessness.  “You’re being a gentleman.”

“I’m always a gentleman,” he corrects her amiably.  “Is that not obvious by now?”

Her lashes flutter downward as she chuffs and acknowledges his point with a nod.  “Thank you,” she says, her expression turning sincere. “I’m sorry to impose.”

He waves her off. “It’s nothing.  I’ve seen far worse hardship than giving up my bed for a lovely guest.”  His attention is drawn over her shoulder.  “Ah, Thomas. Lunch.”

The young man walks in through the open door with his tray.  “Hope you don’t mind, sir, ma’am, but it’s simple fare today – just salt pork and dry tack and cheese.  I’d rather not light the galley fire in this heat.”

“Fine, fine.”  Hook briskly stows his navigation tools and calculations in a box and sets it aside before clearing the weights anchoring the map to his table and rolling the parchment up.  

Thomas sets the tray down and smoothes back his damp hair, accepting Swan’s grateful smile with a cheerful bob of his head before heading back out.

As has become their habit, Hook pours the wine while she sets their plates.  He drops into the chair to her right with a gratified sigh.

They begin to eat.  Swan steals a glance at the forearm tattoo she spied earlier, noting the stylized heart, half-black, half-red, that’s pierced top to bottom with a curved dagger and emblazoned with a name.  “Who’s Milah, in the tattoo?” she finally dares to ask.

He freezes mid-bite and his boyish charm disappears, the immediate tension in his shoulders and the thundercloud that appears on his brow like a squall telling her plenty. Hook resumes chewing and swallows, keeping his eyes on his plate.  “Someone from long ago,” he replies quietly, reaching for his glass.  

“Where is she?” she asks, fearing she knows the answer.

“She’s gone.”  His words are flat, his voice heavy with simmering anger and regret, and her eyes flit between the ink and his hook as it suddenly becomes clear to her.  

“The Dark One.”

Hook’s expression grows even harder.  “What?”

Swan chances a look up at him and finds a revelation in the emotions swimming in his eyes.  This. This man in front of her now, the scarred and resentful man searching for vengeance – this is face of Captain Hook the world has come to fear. She licks her lips, strangely undeterred.  “All the time you’ve spent looking for a way to end the Dark One,” she says softly. Her gaze falls on his hook.  “He took more than your hand from you, didn’t he? That’s why you want to kill him.”

He doesn’t rage the way she half-expects – doesn’t raise his voice or slam his drink down or jump up and stalk away.  He merely glowers at for several heartbeats, taking a long draught from his cup and setting it aside.  “For someone who’s never been in love, you’re quite perceptive, aren’t you?”

Swan finds herself straightening haughtily.  “What makes you think I’ve never been in love?”

Hook snorts, his amusement at her indignance seeming to soothe his temper, and he goes back to eating. “We could start with the armada of suitors you rejected.”  He interrupts the start of her protest with a roll of his eyes and a dismissive wave. “Allegedly.”

“A woman might reject suitors if she was in love with someone else, you know,” she sniffs.

“The daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming?”  He shakes his head, dunking a piece of hardtack into his glass.  “Believe me, after what your parents had to go through to be together, if you’d found True Love, you’d be married already.”

“You don’t know that. He might be far away.  Or… already married,” she counters weakly.

He gives her a chiding look, a gleam in his eye at the way she flushes.  “Really?  Is that what you’re hoping for?  A life of unfulfilled pining?”

“The only thing I’m hoping for is to find out who the hell I am and what happened to me,” Swan retorts.

Hook’s expression softens. “Too right, lass.”  He brushes the crumbs off his fingertips with his thumb. “Well, for that you might have to hope you do have a True Love out there.  I’m no expert, but if you lost your memories to a curse, True Love’s Kiss might be the only thing that can bring them back, just as it was the only thing that could revive your mother from her sleeping curse.  They say it’s the most powerful magic of all.”  He registers Swan’s blank stare.  “You don’t remember your parents’ story do you?”  She arches an eyebrow, her expression turning delightfully dry, and he laughs, leaning back in his chair.  “Very well, then.  I’ll endeavor to fill in the gaps.  Now, once upon a time...”

 *             *             *

 As anticipated, the crew remains on deck after the sun goes down, taking their dinner rations while sitting or standing amidships and drinking grog from flagons or enjoying harder stuff from flasks.  Their lanterns dot the Jolly, bright points of light to warn away the darkness that settles around them, and the mood is light and raucous as they all bask in the modest drop in temperature brought about by the sun’s retreat.

Hook sits on a crate near the main-mast, his lower back resting against the gunwhale.  His lantern glows on the crate near his hip, and Emma perches next to him on her little stool, using the light to continue reading her history book.

When the men finish eating, Thomas clears cups and plates while others begin stringing hammocks from every available surface.  Roberts brings out his fife and begins to play some of the crew’s favorite shanties, and though the songs are sung daily on the Jolly’s decks by a few men at a time, the addition of more voices and more drink makes tonight’s renditions far more robust.  Hook turns his head curiously when he hears a soft voice chime in beside him, and his face splits into a huge grin at the sight of Emma, book now closed on her lap, singing along under her breath.  She catches his eye, and he can see her blush in the light of the lantern, but she continues nonetheless, a shy smile on her moving lips.

When the shanties have been exhausted, Roberts turns to folk songs and jigs, and a handful of crewmen who are either naturally cheerful or adequately buzzed take turns dancing while the rest clap along.  Emma giggles behind her hand at the way Thomas’ lanky limbs flail independent of the beat, and when they reach the appointed hour when Martin begins to caterwaul, she laughs until her face turns red.  The sparkle in her eye, the sheen of her gold tresses in the moonlight, the way she applauds and tosses her head back with amusement – even dressed in humble clothes and after a long day of wilting in the sun, the Princess is truly a sight to behold.  

Hook watches her with a dopey grin on his face, and he’s suddenly overcome with the urge to dance with her, nevermind the fact that it’s been ages since he’s danced with anyone.  He takes an overlarge swig of rum from his flask, the liquid courage warming his insides, and taps her on the shoulder. “What do you say, Swan?” he asks over the din.  “Care to see what you know of dancing?”  He holds his hand out to her.

Her eyes widen with surprise, but her lips curl in a sly smile as her gaze travels between his outstretched fingers and his face.  She slides her hand into his.  “What the hell.”

He rises and pulls her to her feet, excitement coursing through him as she clutches his hand and they shuttle toward the bow.  He ignores the shocked faces of his men at the sight of the Captain in their midst, and the crowd backs up to make room for him and Emma on the makeshift dance floor, shouts of approval and encouragement filling the air.

Emma watches with fascination as he launches into an impromptu bit of low-key step dancing, alternately kicking and tapping and scuffing the boards in time to Robert’s spirited playing, and, after studying him a minute, she takes over, her bare feet leaping into action in a similar kind of step.  The men’s calls grow louder, augmented by piercing whistles, and Hook’s awed smile stretches ear to ear before he answers her with more steps of his own.  Roberts increases the tempo, and Hook loops his arm through Emma’s and pulls her into a wild spin as she shrieks and does her best to match his pace.  After a few dizzying rotations, he tugs her toward him. She falls into his arms, his hand pressing to the small of her back and her right hand wrapping around his upheld hook, and they dive into a frantic prancing step that carries them back and forth across the deck.  It’s a whirlwind of spinning lantern light, riotous cheering, and lively music, and in the middle of it all is her wild grin and the weight of her body pressed to his, and he can’t remember the last time he was this deliriously happy.(*)

They’re thoroughly spent when Roberts ends the song with a triumphant flourish, and Emma collapses against him, clinging to his arms and shaking with laughter while the crew roars and applauds, their chants of “Captain Hook!” and “Lady Swan!” echoing in the night.

He leads her back to her stool, reluctantly releasing her hand and settling back on the crate with a tired but satisfied groan.  “Very good, love.”

She chuckles, still catching her breath.  “That was fun.”

Hook nods, running his palm up over his forehead to brush his disheveled hair out of his eyes. “Think you’ve ever danced like that before?  You seemed to know what you were doing.”

The way Emma ducks her head as she fingers a loose curl away from her face does little to hide her wide smile. “Um, I don’t know.  Maybe.”  She leans back, one elbow propped on the crate, and exhales deeply.  “Strange to think I might have had moments like this before that I just can’t remember,” she muses, looking up at him.  

He studies her face, and there’s something about the shade of sadness in her eyes that pulls at him in a way nothing has in a very, very long time.  “Well,” he says, finally finding his voice, “until you get those happy memories back, we shall just have to help you make some new ones.”

Her long lashes grace her cheeks, and she lights with another smile that sets his heart racing all over again.  “I’d say we’re off to a good start.”  Disappointment fills him when she heaves herself to her feet.  “I, um, I think I should turn in soon.  Are you sure you’re alright with me taking your quarters?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, and he waves her off.  “Go, Swan. I’ll be fine.”  He lifts his lantern and offers it to her, his throat tight as she reaches for it and their fingers brush.

She turns, her ponytail flipping when she flashes him one last look of appreciation over her shoulder and moves off.  Hook stares after her as she ascends the steps to the stern deck and slips behind the ship’s bell to disappear down the hatch.  Her light flickers out of view, and a heavy sigh forces its way past his lips. Bloody amazing, he thinks soberly.  

He sits there a while longer as the frivolity on deck winds down, indulging in more rum and lapsing back into moodiness.  His thoughts continue to churn when at last he retires, retreating aft and climbing into a hammock strung up between the boom and some nearby rigging, and he stretches out in the scratchy canvas with a grunt, wiggling about to try to get comfortable.  Around him, the ship grows darker as most of the lanterns are extinguished, and the sounds of his crew settling in gradually give way to a chorus of snoring.  He stares up at the night sky, the ebony expanse clear of clouds and awash in stars, and he searches the familiar constellations while he tries to get a handle on his thoughts and rein in the desires that are gnawing at his heart.

Gods help him, he wants her. And he wishes that it were a simple matter of lust, but it isn’t.  It’s not just that he wants to yank her into his arms, run his lips over every inch of her increasingly sun-kissed skin, and see what kind of sounds he can get her to make as he brings her to the brink of ecstasy (though the thought crosses his mind more than he cares to admit).  It’s that he likes her, likes being with her, likes talking with her and teasing her and watching her clever mind at work. He likes the way he can make her blush, likes the tingle that her touch sends across his skin and the warmth that floods his chest when she laughs.  He likes her cheek, likes her ferocity, likes the limitless joy on her face as she stares out over the ocean from high up in the rigging.  Excitement fills his blood at the sight of her, and her absence leaves him feeling lonely.  He hasn’t felt this way about anyone since… since Milah.  Hook grimaces.  

Bloody buggering hell.

He’s falling in love.

 *             *             *

 With the crew all sleeping above deck tonight, it’s eerily quiet below.  Swan can’t help but feel like an intruder as she enters Hook’s quarters alone, despite having become quite familiar with the space over the last couple weeks.  Her bare feet are silent on the boards, and she forgoes lighting the lamps and simply reaches up to hang her lantern on a hook on the wall over the bed.  

His bed.

She runs her hand over the rich red brocade blanket and the velveteen pillows, the fabrics sinfully luxurious compared to anything she’s ever slept in – well, anything she can remember sleeping in, anyway.  Fatigue weighs heavy upon her, and she hoists herself up onto the mattress, still feeling a bit like an uninvited guest but rapidly growing too tired to care.  A contented sigh escapes her as she lays herself down in the berth, pulling her hair loose and allowing her head to sink down onto the generous pillow.  Swan falls perfectly still for a moment, feeling deliciously indulgent in the softness that surrounds her.  The thought of Hook trading this bed for what has to be a far less comfortable hammock strung haphazardly from the rigging tugs at her heart, and she inhales deeply and rolls onto her side, kicking away the lovely but entirely unnecessary blanket and cradling the pillow beneath her cheek.  

A distinct scent strikes her nose, and a wrinkle forms on her brow as she closes her eyes and breathes in more deeply.  It smells like him, she supposes – the saltiness of the sea mingled with olive oil soap and sweat.  There’s something pleasant about it that she can’t name – something solid and safe, something that makes her want to bury her nose in the pillow and remember what it felt like to be in the Captain’s arms.  Something that makes her wish she were still there.

Swan bites the inside of her cheek in rebuke.  It’s madness to moon over a sinfully charming man like Hook.  But, gods, how easy he makes it, she laments with a sigh.  A shiver runs through her at the thought of his confident smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his devil-may-care swagger, and the lilt in his pretty words.  There’s little doubt in her mind of the decency in his soul and even less doubt that he’d be more than happy to join her in this bed if she was willing.  She recoils and tries to banish the latter thought before she considers how willing she might be.  Stop it.  In the end, this journey is still about profit to him, she reminds herself sternly.  She might be able to count on him for kindness, courtesy, and yes, friendship, but devotion? Love?  She shouldn’t fool herself.  He’s already given his love to the woman whose name he bears on his skin – a love so great and all-consuming it’s fueled a desire to avenge her that’s outlived most mortal men.  What room can there be in his heart for anything beyond that?

Swan inhales again and frowns.  She considers tossing the pillow aside before her reaction to his scent overwhelms her good sense, but a little voice protests that she should enjoy creature comforts like this while she can, and she fades out of consciousness dreaming of warm arms and a dancing pair of blue eyes.

 *             *             *

 They remain at sea for another week with only the occasional glimpse of sails on the horizon.  It’s a warm Friday afternoon when the peace ends.

“Enemy!” shouts the lookout from above.  “Enemy off the port bow!”

Hook looks up sharply from where he and the carpenter are inspecting a loose board on deck that needs repair.  “Alec?” he calls back.

“Royal navy, Cap’n! Could be hunters!  They’ve altered course and are coming straight for us!”

He swears under his breath and hastens to the side of the ship, catching hold of the rigging and clamoring up the ropes to perch on a ratline for a better look.  Out comes his spyglass, and his expression sours as the other ship falls into clear view.  “Brigantine!” he yells.  “Fast approaching!  All hands!”

“Hook?  What is it?”

He looks down to see Emma at the gunwhale staring up at him anxiously.  He drops to the deck and hands over his spyglass.  “It’s the royal navy from the kingdom my brother and I used to serve,” he explains as she peers into the distance.  “They have a fleet of ships commissioned to kill pirates on sight. Don’t let the uniforms fool you. If they are who I think they are, they’ve no interest in taking any of us alive.”

Her pretty face pales, and she puts the glass back in his hand.  “What do we do?”

The muscles in Hook’s jaw twitch as he eyes the other vessel, resentment twisting in his chest. “If they want a fight, a fight is what they’ll get,” he grits.  “No one from that land will ever take anything from me again.”  He turns to her.  “We’ll board them before they board us, keep the battle off the Jolly.  But I need you to get below and stay there until I come for you.  Do you understand?”

Deep misgiving fills her wide eyes.

He reaches out and grips her shoulder, earnestness in his voice.  “Please, love.  Do as you’re told.”

Emma blinks and manages a weak nod.  “Be—be careful,” she stammers.

Hook favors her with a grim smile.  “I always am,” he assures her quietly.  “Now go.”

He sees her up the ladder to the stern deck and escorts her to the hatch leading down to his quarters, opening it for her and giving her an encouraging smile when she throws him one last nervous glance and slips below.

Smee rushes up.  “Orders, sir?”

The moment the hatch creaks shut, he spins on his heel and stalks over to the rail overlooking the main deck.  “Hoist the colors and fire a warning shot!  Either they surrender immediately, or we give no quarter!” he hollers to his men. “Bring us alongside her, wet the sails, and everyone to arms!  Ready the canon and grapnels!  Smee, Thomas – you and the night watch stay behind and kill anyone that tries to set foot on this deck!”  

Scattered calls of acknowledgement sound around the ship as the men fly into action, and Hook fixes the enemy vessel with a hateful glare and silently bids it come.

He will keep the Princess safe.

He will defend his ship.

He will remind the men of this kingdom what it means to cross Killian Jones.

 *             *             *

 Her sword feels heavy on her hip as Swan stands in the captain’s quarters, ears open to the hurried scuffle of footsteps overhead and eyes peering anxiously out the windows for any clue as to what might be happening above.  She hears muffled yelling, and her breath seizes in her chest at the sudden boom of a canon being fired on deck.  The activity above continues, but the voices die down for a few long minutes before she hears Hook call for the crimson flag and the roar of the men in response.  The ship suddenly turns sharp to starboard, and she catches herself against a support beam, her heart in her throat.

Be careful, she pleads silently.  Be careful, be careful.

She remembers the dark fire she’s seen in Hook’s eyes, the mark of a man relentlessly determined to seek vengeance, and though she’s spent their entire acquaintance hoping his fearsome reputation is overblown, she finds now, when his safety is threatened, that she’s willing to accept his savagery in battle if that’s the cost for his survival.  

She jumps when the other ship’s canons sound off a volley, her pulse throbbing in her ears as Hook orders the Jolly to return fire and more explosions thunder, this time portside. The ship slows to a stop, the shadow of the navy’s brigantine falling upon the window, and feet pound to the side. There’s more canon fire, yells and screams echoing above, and then the activity lessens and the voices grow more distant as the crew of the Jolly boards the other vessel.

Swan paces a path around and around the cabin, her worry growing more unbearable as the minutes tick by. Any one of them could be dead or seriously injured right now, she thinks – Thomas, Smee, Martin, Roberts, Alec… Hook.  Her… her friends. What on earth is she doing hiding below while they fight for their lives?  Her cutlass hisses out of the scabbard.  She may not be as good a swordsman as the Captain, but he’s acknowledged that she’s hardly a novice.  Someone trained her for a fight.  And whoever she is, she realizes, she’s not okay with cowering like this when she might be of some use.

She heads for the ladder. At the very least she can see how Hook and his crew are faring and get some peace of mind that he – that they all are coming back alive.

 *             *             *

 The battle with the navy ship is open war upon the sea, chaotic and loud and fueled by anger and desperation on both sides.  They exchange canon and gunfire, the explosions filling the air with smoke and splinters and the screams of injured men, and Hook bellows orders left and right as grapnels arc through the air and his crew swarms to haul the other ship closer to the Jolly.  

His sword slices out of the sheath, and he mounts the gunwhale and leaps across the divide at the first opportunity, grunting as his boots hit the other deck and cutting down the first three men that descend upon him in quick succession, the frenzy of bloodlust surging in his veins.

A yelp sounds to his right, and he looks to see Alec fall to the naval captain with a vicious slash to the leg.  The young pirate collapses to the deck, and Hook hollers his name, turning course and rushing over.

The naval captain, a towering man with a broad chest, spins in time to catch Hook’s sword with his own, his craggy, clean-shaven face lighting up as he studies him.  “The infamous Captain Hook,” he announces. “At last.”

“Infamous for a reason,” Hook snarls, slashing again.  “I’ve survived a long line of attacks from fools like you.  You really care to die like all the others?”

His jaw grows tight as they exchange half a dozen more strikes, his opponent’s strokes raining down in a powerful battery that he strains to deflect.  Any hope he has of finding an advantage in speed is lost as the man proves as quick as he is strong, and sweat beads on Hook’s brow, his mouth forming a determined sneer as he works to match him blow for blow.

The other captain’s weapon comes swiping down from above, and Hook catches it above his head with both his sword and his hook, the two combatants locking together and lunging toward each other in an attempt to get the upper hand.

“You should have surrendered while you had the chance,” Hook says through bared teeth, the muscles in his arm burning with exertion as he struggles to hold back the other man’s blade.

Their swords grind against one another near the hilt.  The navy captain chuckles coldly, inching closer to put his full weight behind his weapon.  “And miss the chance to kill a bloody pirate?  Never.”  He gasps when Hook’s boot finds his torso and sends him stumbling back, barely managing to deflect Hook’s next jab.  He executes a wild slash and crows victoriously as the very tip of his sword whispers across Hook’s cheek.  The sting barely registers, but Hook growls and takes a step back, his chest heaving, before he launches forward yet again with an arcing backhanded attack.  Steel continues to fly between the two men, and they move back and forth with each other across the deck, each momentarily gaining some ground only to lose it again.

A flash of gold and blue catches the corner of Hook’s eye, and before he knows what he’s doing, he turns his head away from the other captain in time to see Emma hurrying across the deck of the Jolly toward them.  Her cutlass is at the ready, and her perfect features twist in alarm as she spots him.

Hook blinks and roars. “Swan!  What the–”

The navy captain’s elbow bowls into his jaw and knocks him down.  Hook crashes to the deck, stunned, his sword skittering away from his hand as he sees lights and tastes blood.  

“No!”  Beyond the ringing in his ears he hears the scream – barking, raw, and primitive – and despite the fact that it’s like no sound he’s ever heard her make, something in him recognizes it as Emma’s voice.

In moments the bigger man is upon him, saber glinting in the sun when it rises for the death blow.  Then there’s the flash of an object flying through the air overhead, and Hook watches, only partly comprehending, as the naval captain staggers backward, a dagger buried in his neck and blood beginning to pour out from around it.  He collapses against the fore-mast, his face going pale and his eyes vacant while he gasps the first of his final breaths, and Hook pushes himself up to squint at the handle of the blade, gaping when he recognizes it as the one from Emma’s boot.

Emma.  Ignoring the pain and dizziness, he rolls to retrieve his weapon and staggers to his feet, searching desperately for her.  After a cursory look around, his eyes dart over to the Jolly, and he feels a measure of relief when he sees her still standing across the way at the gunwhale. Her chest heaves, and devastation is written in her enormous eyes, and part of his heart would break at the sight of it if there were time.  

“Smee!  Get her below!” he orders at the top of his lungs, his sword coming up to block an attack from another naval officer who bears down on him.  He swings his blade back around and lunges, sinking it into the other man’s belly and then yanking it free.  “Now!”

Hook catches a glimpse of Smee bustling Emma away before he turns his attention back to the battle. There’s a clear path to Alec now, and he hurries over, dropping to a crouch.  The lad’s chocolate skin is ashen, his jaw set and nostrils flared as he winces and presses a balled-up rag to his leg to try to stem the spurt of blood.

“Hang on, mate,” Hook mutters, eyeing the ugly laceration running along the side of his man’s thigh with dismay.  He hastily lays aside his sword and pulls out his scarf, looping it several times around the leg.  Cinching the makeshift tourniquet causes Alec to buck and cry out, and Hook puffs as he ties it tight.  “Try to be still.  We’ll get you back to the ship as soon as we can.”

“Y-yessir.”

Hook gives him a nod, snatching his sword back up and whirling away to help his men finish the fight.

It’s several more grisly minutes before the battle is ended, with the last remaining member of the naval crew succumbing to a blow from the deadly hammer Martin likes to wield off-hand as a complement to his sword.  Hook pants, surveying the carnage and taking account of his men.  Relief and dark satisfaction fill him at the sight of all but Alec on their feet.  

He gives his blade a cursory cleaning on the coat of a dead officer and sheaths it before swiping the sweat from his brow.  “Get a plank,” he yells across the way to the Jolly, “and two of you come help get Alec back over.”  He swivels his head to the rest of the boarding party.  “The rest of you look below for stragglers and then strip this ship down.  Roberts, take the point.”  

“Aye!”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Yes, sir!”

The calls from his crew are mostly lost on him as he picks his way back over to the fallen naval captain and retrieves Emma’s dagger, drying the blade on a clean part of the man’s stained cravat and marveling at the Princess’ skill (or sheer luck) in striking their enemy in the throat from such a distance.  Hook swallows hard, remembering the horrified expression she wore during the battle.   Thank the gods she wasn’t hurt, he thinks, tucking the dagger into his belt.

He goes to help with Alec, his eyes falling to the dark red pool beneath the lad’s leg as he approaches, the tang of his own blood still fresh on his tongue.  Hook clenches his jaw as he helps hoist Alec onto a makeshift stretcher. It could be her blood beneath his boots or her lifeless body lying crumpled on the deck.  His stomach wrenches at the prospect.  Emma’s disobedience in battle is unacceptable.  When he gets back to the ship, his first order of business is to make sure she understands that such a thing can never happen again.

 *             *             *

 Swan seethes, hands planted wide on the shelf next to the Captain’s windows.  She grinds her teeth and slams her fist against the wood, the pain that blooms in her hand nothing compared to the frustration in her chest. Why is she here?  What ever made her think this was a good idea – running away on a pirate ship, letting herself be charmed by a lawless man with a reputation for womanizing, becoming friendly with his crew?  Now she’s killed a military officer in the defense of a group of fugitives who, by all accounts, have a long string of crimes to answer for. Who is she, and whose side is she meant to be on?

The heat of confused tears is rising behind her eyes when a commotion in the corridor causes her to lift her head and turn from the window.  At the sound of familiar voices, she throws open the door to reveal a couple of the men hauling Alec into one of the crew quarters on a stretcher with Hook bringing up the rear.

“Alec?” she asks, coming forward and craning her head to see.

Hook nods, his expression stony.  His lower lip is bloodied, and a new cut swoops across his right cheek.  “Wounded in the leg.”  He storms past her toward his cabin.  “The others will see to him.  Come.”

She follows, her stomach tightening as she notes the ire in his pace and the displeasure that radiates from him.  

He rounds on her the moment she closes the door behind them. “What the bloody hell were you doing?” he demands, pulling her dagger from his belt and setting it forcefully down on the table with a hollow clatter.  “I told you to stay below!”

Swan stands her ground, the threat of tears surging once again as she glares back at him.  “I’m sorry, I— ”

“You could have been hurt!”

“I can take care of myself. I saved your life!” she retorts angrily, eyes stinging as the first fat drop escapes down her cheek.

“Yes, after you distracted me and nearly got me killed!”  He turns away and runs an agitated hand through his hair.

She collapses into a chair and drops her face into her hands, flooded with guilt both for endangering Hook and for killing the navy captain.  The image of the latter falling with her blade jutting from his neck and the light fading from his wide eyes replays in her mind, and she tries to keep her shoulders from shaking while she shudders and sniffles.  For a long moment, her ragged breaths are the only sound between them.

Then there’s the scrape of a chair across the floor, and Hook seats himself in front of her so they’re nearly knee-to-knee, hunching forward to level his face with hers.  When at last he speaks, his voice is much quieter and filled with regret.  “We’re pirates, love.  What we do is dangerous.  You can’t interfere.”

Swan looks up, swiping the moisture from her lashes and forcing herself to inhale deeply.  His expression is softer now, grave, almost heartbroken, and she doesn’t know whether the way his eyes call to her should reassure her that she did was the right thing or confuse her all the more.  “I wasn’t trying to interfere.  I was trying to help.  I have a sword, Hook, and I know how to use it.  I couldn’t just sit by while the rest of you…”  She bites her lip.  “I was worried.”

Penitence ghosts across his face, and Hook heaves a deep sigh of resignation.  He studies her red-rimmed eyes and reaches up to dab gingerly at her tears with the back of his curled fingers.

The intimacy of the act makes her want to thrust herself forward into his arms, but she closes her eyes and beats back the temptation.  When she looks at him again, her gaze falls to the cut across his cheek.  “That needs cleaning,” she says numbly.  She pulls away and rises, moving to the washstand in the corner in order to pour casked water from his pitcher into the basin.  The water sloshes quietly as she dunks a clean handkerchief and wrings it out, and she clears her throat, reaching down to rummage around in the cabinet of the washstand where she knows he keeps his quality rum.  A bottle lands on the table with a dull thud as she returns to stand beside his chair.

Hook snatches it up and pops the cork.  “Why, thank you, Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, intercepting the rum halfway to his lips and plunking it back down.  “It’s not for you,” she scolds flatly.  Her withering stare transforms his look of protest into one of begrudging submission, and he settles back in his seat as she raises the wet handkerchief.  “Hold still.”

The cabin is quiet as Swan busies herself with gently wiping the blood, grime, and gunpowder residue off his face.  His shoulders relax and his eyes fall shut while she works, only opening again when she pauses to pour a little rum onto a clean corner of the handkerchief.  She thrusts the open bottle back into his hand with a pointed sniff, and the grin that begins to form on his lips is quickly neutralized by the sting of the alcohol as she applies the cloth to his cut.

To his credit, he tolerates her ministrations stoically, his blue eyes now fixed on her face. Her pulse gallops under his enigmatic gaze, but she tries to keep her expression aloof and focus on the task at hand. A huff marks her satisfaction when she pulls back to inspect her work.  Swan gives the cut one last dab.  He’ll probably have a scar there, but at least the wound is clean and dry and less likely to become infected.  

She finishes by touching the handkerchief softly to the split in his lip, glancing at the untouched bottle still in his hand.  “I thought you wanted a drink.”

He holds it out to her. “Ladies first.”

Swan gives him an exasperated side-eye but accepts the bottle and takes a larger swallow than absolutely necessary, coughing as the sweet liquor burns its way down her throat.

Hook smirks and takes the bottle back, his Adam’s apple bobbing in distracting fashion as he indulges in his own long draught.  He grimaces and breathes a satisfied sigh, setting the rum back on the table. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his eyes remaining on the bottle.  “For worrying.  And for saving my life.  And this.” He gestures toward his face.  

She considers him a moment, the last of her anger ebbing away.  “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t know you cared.” He looks up and scratches behind his ear.  

Swan rolls her eyes again and gives an impatient huff.  “Of course I care.”  

The way his expression brightens suddenly makes her feel overexposed by her answer.  She forces her eyes to his tattoo as reminder of where his heart lies and silently chides herself for caring too much.  Her throat is tight as she swallows and manages a wan smile.  “That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”    

He blinks, his gaze falling to the table and his smile fading into a rueful grin.  “Aye, that’s what friends do.”

“Besides, who else is going to help me figure out who I am?” she points out with weak chuckle.  Her feet carry her toward the door, and she pauses, biting her lip.  “I, um, I’m going to look in on Alec and then maybe lie down for a bit.”

“Are you alright, Swan?” he asks, concern in his voice.

“Yeah.”  Her answer comes too fast, and she winces inwardly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He hesitates, as though trying to decide whether she’s telling the truth.  “I’ll see you for dinner?”

She throws him a small smile and a nod over her shoulder before she takes her leave, giving in to the sudden, overwhelming desire to regroup somewhere where his probing gaze doesn’t make her feel like she has to be so painfully honest with him or herself.

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