#we improv like pirates but damn rumple give this MA N A BREAK

[piraticalarchive]

@stiltskin​ : trace + his wrist :| // in which killian’s day gets a lot worse.

Flames flicker and sway, casting dancing shadows across the wooden confines of his cabin, and the pirate captain stumbles to his desk, black boots all but tripping over one another in the haze of drink. The rum had stopped working long ago - it dulls the pain that ebbs and flows in his left wrist like the waves that lap at The Jolly Roger’s hull, makes it easier to breathe, easier to take -  but it does nothing for the dreams that haunt every waking moment. Darkness is a painless bedfellow when its not being chased by the sun, blinding light that sears salt covered skin as if trying to chase the tendrils of grief from an already blackened heart - here, in the confines of his ship, it’s easier to hide from such things. Easier to be Killian Jones than Captain Hook - easier to set aside strength and faux confidence like the curved steel and gauntlet he so casually passes to the side.

Dark tendrils cling to his forehead as he presses a throbbing head to the cool wood of his desk, teeth clenched in a battle against the ghosts that lurk in the corners. They’re waiting, she’s waiting - always there, always with the sad smile that reminds him of the ways he has failed her memory, her life .. the ways in which he has failed them. 

I love you.

Sometimes when he lies there, the ache in both wrist and hollowed chest dulled by the sharp burn of his escape of choice, he can feel her, can almost see her. Cool fingers that soothe the wrinkles from a furrowed brow, that trace salt dried lips as if to remind them of the gentleness that once pressed against them, as if to bring forth memories of smiles rather than threats. And for those brief moments the pirate feels himself relax, giving himself to such fancies though instinct knows it to be a lie 

Tonight she whispers in his ear, those same promises he had uttered to her so many times before. Promises of a future sealed with a brush through sweat dampened hair while lashes flutter against closed eyelids at the haunt of her touch. A ghost of wind brushes over his left wrist and Killian stirs in his sleep, mumbling some word or other - but the scratch of fingernails becomes a scratch of claws and the pirate captain jerks awake, blue eyes sliding sideways with a panicked look.

“Crocodile?” Bloody hell. Chair is unceremoniously knocked to the side as he struggles to his feet, bitterness mixing with drink until he sways, weight shifting as ringed fingers grope blindly for the sword that is not there. Alone, helpless, he has no choice but to face the monster of his nightmares with a set jaw and defiant stare - prideful to the very end. Captain Hook slides easily into place, eyes dark like a stormy sea replacing the lingering glint that had been there while he slept. He yanks his wrist free from the demon’s grasp, cotton covered tongue pressing to the inside of one cheek as heart gives a lurch .. but he is no coward.

 Lips slide into an easy and instinctual grin, one brow quirking in feigned amusement. “Aye - can’t stay away, as it were?” He leans closer, necklace moving from where it rests against a bare chest to dangle between them, words low and tainted with the gruffness of restless sleep. “ - I find I have that effect on people.”