#brush bob jolly roger pants

[blue-dogg]

[dexeryy9000]

[thepiercingeyedpirate]

|| Lil drabble blep under the cut~ Please do not reblog, mkay? Mkay.

Some might say it was crazy to be awake before golden light even shone through the window, when the morning was still grey and dull, dew misted over every surface outside, the sun herself just barely lighting the world with a watery ray or two. Those people might even be right.

But for one Killian Jones, this was his time of day. He had mastered the art of creeping about his own home without waking his wife or infant daughter (turns out new mothers sleep like the dead, anyway), refreshing himself with a face washing and teeth brushing before silently dressing while Emma slumbered peacefully only a few feet away. When all but the leather boots were donned (they clicked on the floor - it had given him away more than once), Killian leans over their bed and brushes hair more golden than the sun from her forehead to make room for the soft press of his lips there. His daughter, he dares not chance to wake with such a gesture, though he does afford himself the luxury of peering into the nursery at her sleeping form in the crib with a fond smile - just for a moment.

In the kitchen, he doesn't bother with turning a light on. His eyes have adjusted to the grey-gold light that shines lazily through this window, and it's enough to see by in order to drop a piece of bread into the toaster and push down the lever. A pad of sticky notes awaits him next to the device, a pen close at hand. He's got roughly two minutes before his toast pops up, and the pirate-turned-father uses the time to scrawl Emma her usual note in slanted, swooping letters. Every morning it was different, but generally followed the same sort of theme:

Good morning, love.

Don't worry about breakfast; I'll pick up Granny's on my way home. Tell little Hope her Papa loves her and her beautiful mother both, and I'll be back soon.

All my love, always,

Hook

 The side of his mouth lifts in a soft smile as he finishes the note, setting his pen down. Pulling the little yellow square from its adhesive home, Killian sticks it to the 'On' button of the coffeemaker - he's learned that's the only way she actually gets his notes. His eyes drift as he does, noticing the low amount of coffee grounds in the clear container Emma keeps them in. A glance in the cabinet tells him there's no backup - she should have enough for this morning, but then there would be trouble. Picking up the pen once more, he scrawls an addition at the bottom of his sticky note--

P.S. - Will pick up more coffee grounds, too.

 Just as he's putting the pen back in its rightful place, the toaster releases its hold on the now-crunchy bread. Mindless of the heat rolling off it, Killian plucks it from the machine and sticks one end in his mouth as he heads for the door. He pulls on his boots in the entryway with the toast dangling from his lips, tucking keys into his pocket – and his phone, as an afterthought – before he actually takes a bite. Looking over his shoulder one last time, one dashing rapscallion of a pirate slips out of his home with all the stealth of a ghost, locking the door behind himself. Few people came to the outskirts of town where their perfect little abode resided – but the paranoia of the past would never let them lower their guards, not even after almost a year of peace. 

Blonde hair and hazel eyes flash in his mind, then a tiny face, equally tiny body wrapped in soft pink.

Never.

The walk to the docks is achieved in silence, aside from the crunch of teeth on toast – it’s too early even for the gulls to start their cries. The trained ear can pick up the soft sigh of waves on a beach as he nears his first love and second home - The Jolly Roger. She bobs peacefully with the barest of movements, tethered to the dock, putting the small fishing boats on either side of her to shame with her sheer size and majesty. 

“Good morning, old girl,” he greets her as one would an old friend – his oldest, to be precise. The toast is long gone, beringed fingers brushing off the crumbs against his leather pants before he steps aboard the ramp leading to her deck, hand trailing along the worn rail where his fingers have been hundreds of times before. Killian’s hand caresses the rail reverently as he mounts the steps to her upper deck, making his way to the helm. It’s second nature to rest hand and hook on the prongs of her helm, crystalline irises lifting to the line of the horizon as a soft gust of wind rustles the long coat that hangs to his knees and tosses his hair playfully. A smile curls his mouth – warm and peaceful, like the start of the day.

"You raise me up…”

Killian sets to work, his voice slow and soft as he begins to sing. The sail he had mended the day before lay folded in his office, awaiting his hands to secure it back in its proper place, and he intended to let it wait no longer. What took a crew a few minutes would take a single person a bit longer – even if that single person was as adept as Killian Jones. But it was work he loved, and as time (and songs) went on, his voice grew both in volume and passion with his work. Anyone who ventured by would surely think him insane, legs entangled in the rigging, hand and hook deftly securing the heavy sail in place, crooning songs of love and pirate diddies alike in a voice loud and clear as the ocean was deep and wide.

Later, when his work was done, Killian would climb to the top of the main mast, past the crow’s nest, and perch on a wooden beam that was surely too high up to be safely perched on. His hook and left arm remained locked securely in the rigging beside him, just in case. From here, the wind tousles his hair more strongly, and every rock and sway of his beloved ship was more exaggerated than on the security of her deck. But it was one of Killian’s most favorite places in the world; just him, the Roger, and the wind, all watching the sun finish its slow ascent past the horizon to start the day.

[blue-dogg]

[blue-dogg]