A/N: This fic is inspired by the Paul Dempsey song of the same name, which is a fine tune about wanting to escape a dreadful gathering, or the people who tend to congregate at dreadful gatherings. Same difference.

Emma should have expected this, should have expected that her parents would go all out. She'd never seen so many people crammed into the loft before. Wouldn't have even thought that many people would conceivably fit. She'd never even met half of those people before, and she'd really thought she had been getting the hang of Storybrooke's cast of recurring characters by now.

She'd done the whole gracious hostess thing for a while, after Mary Margaret had caught her hiding out in a corner, clutching a glass of champagne to herself like a shield. So she'd made the expected circuit with a plate of cheese and crackers. She'd allowed herself to be caught up in an argument between two of the dwarves, and had suggested they settle their differences with a bout of arm wrestling, rather than the duel they had first proposed. They'd kept her around to officiate, and it had seemed like a better option than sitting on the antique loveseat beside a hot and heavy Ruby and Dr Whale, wondering when the hell that had happened.

She couldn't even take refuge in a corner with Henry, her son having ducked out early with Regina, still tired from his face-off with Pan in Neverland. It stung a little, how happy he'd been at the prospect of a good night's rest in his childhood bedroom. How content he'd been to stay with Regina, and not with her. Not that she could deny him that, when all she had to offer him was a spare cot David had set up in her bedroom. Especially not with the rabble currently trampling all over the place...

He was 11. Of course he wanted his privacy. His X-Box. His comic books. Of course he felt safe in the same bed he'd lain in for years, with the superheroes he loved depicted on the bedspread, and the most powerful sorceress in town, who loved him without reservation, guarding the door.

Shaking off the feelings of inadequacy, and something that seemed suspiciously like a come on from one of the dwarves, (Bashful, if she had to guess, by the pink stain to his cheeks), she stood up from her place around the dining table, making her way to Mary Margaret's wet bar. A skirting glance of the room revealed her mother was otherwise occupied, her and David being suitably gross with the PDA, with their usual fawning crowd of onlookers, and Emma took the opportunity to lift a bottle of bourbon.

She was about to return to her place at the table when a familiarly scruffy head of hair appeared at the front door, and without giving it much thought, Emma suddenly diverted course, making for the stairs to her loft bedroom, taking them two at a time. Only when she was safely ensconced in the darkness of her bedroom did she let out a sigh of relief.

"Fancy meeting you here, Swan."

The voice came from somewhere in the dark, and she whirled around at the sound, hand clutching her chest where her heart was threatening to bust out of its confines, beating a mile a minute. Annoyed at her over-the-top reaction, and her unwelcome intruder, she paused a second to get her heart under control, before taking a few careful steps forward, flicking on the bedside lamp.

Captain Hook lay on her bed. The black leather of his usual pirate outfit looked almost comical when held in contrast to the ridiculously floral bedspread he was currently reclined on, a Mary Margaret pick for sure. He sat up as the light came on, but he didn't make to leave, humor building beneath those cool blue eyes.

"Fancy?" She asked sharply, her arms crossing over her chest, entering full Sheriff mode. "This happens to be my room. What are you doing here?"

Rather than let her tone deter him, he seemed to simply absorb it, letting his eyes scan the room in the soft light at his own pace, letting the details of the space finally soak in. She saw a corner of his lip curve upwards as he took in the framed picture of Henry on her nightstand, before letting his eyes slowly drift back to her.

"I have a gun. And I will shoot you," she warned, when he didn't say anything.

It was an empty threat. She'd left her gun at the Sheriff's station, locked up with the few firearms Graham had kept on the premises. She hadn't liked leaving it in the loft if there was a possibility Henry would be there, but now she kind of wish she'd kept it, if only to frighten the pirate a little.

He raised his arms in front of his face, but slowly, lazily, as if he knew she was bluffing. "No need for violence, love. I did not mean to intrude. Believe it or not, I was merely searching for a short respite from the evening's..." He searched for the right term, "... festivities. I was unaware these were your private chambers." His words were earnest enough, but his gaze betrayed him, lingering meaningfully on her closet door, from the handle of which hung one of Emma's bras. At least it was one of her nicer ones.

"Oh really?" She said, hurriedly stepping in front of the wardrobe to block his view, throwing the offending garment inside and pulling the closet shut behind her back. "You had no idea, huh?"

He shrank a little under her scrutiny, before his eyes met hers. "Well..." he conceded, the beginnings of a mischievous smile spreading across his face, "I may have suspected."

"You know, we have a name for people who sneak into other people's bedrooms in this world. A Peeping Tom. And it's kind of frowned upon." She paused, cocking her head to the side, as if considering his behavior. "Kind of illegal, too." She tapped the Sheriff's badge still clipped to her belt, the threat self-evident.

His eyes didn't betray any panic, but he shifted at her words, bringing his legs over so his boots landed on the rug beside the bed. His hand and his hook were still raised by his sides, as if he was the villain in a pantomime. Not that that was so far off the mark, really. "As I said, my motives were not nefarious. I simply found your chambers held certain... tactical advantages."

"Tactical advantages?" Emma asked, his explanation lost on her.

He gestured at the railing which overlooked the rest of the loft. "A quiet place to survey the crowd. To remain unobserved, unbothered." He shrugged.

"Like what? A crow's nest?"

"Look at you, Swan," he grinned, finally dropping his arms to his sides and rising to his feet. "A few days on a pirate ship and already using the correct terminology. We'll make a proper pirate out of you yet!"

Emma rolled her eyes, before stepping towards the railing, peeking out over the heads of those gathered downstairs, seeking out the one she had fled from.

"And I take it you had a similar thoughts?" He asked quietly from behind her, closer than she'd thought, all the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

Pretending his proximity didn't bother her, Emma said nothing, stepping back from the edge, carefully avoiding those all-seeing eyes of his.

"Is it your parents you are avoiding? Or Baelfire?" He asked, all quiet curiosity, head craning out to observe the guests below. "Or all of the above?" He raised a single eyebrow.

Emma let out a small bark of unkind laughter before she could stop herself. The pirate had always been able to read her. Always. And how she had always hated that. "Maybe I'm just saving the last of Mary Margaret's stash from being decimated by the seven dwarves?" She reasoned carefully, holding up the liquor bottle she'd been holding between her fingers, waving it in front of his face.

"Very magnanimous of you, Swan," he nodded, smiling, but she could tell he didn't buy it. Damn him.

He stepped forward then, pulling the bottle from her hands with the scantest of efforts. "But if you do insist on lingering in my hiding space, you will have to share."

"Hey!"

"Pirate," he replied automatically, as he carefully examined the top of the bottle, determining the best way for a one-handed man to go about opening it.

"Just-" A sharp look from him silenced her, so she merely folded her arms and watched him figure it out. Holding the beverage in the crook of his elbow of his left arm, he considered it for a moment longer before locating the tab hidden in the wax with a careful pass of his fingertips, and with a gleeful glance at Emma, pulling it free to reveal the cap, which he twisted off immediately, the rings on his fingers scraping into the red wax.

"Glasses?" Hook asked, eyes scanning the room fruitlessly. "A goblet or two?"

Emma snorted, shaking her head. Goblet. She held her hand out, and he passed her the bottle wordlessly, watching on in rapt fascination as she brought the bottle to her lips, tipped her head back, and let the golden liquid pour down her throat.

They'd crept closer to the edge, all the better for surveying the increasingly drunken antics of the denizens of Storybrooke below, turning off the lamp so they could better go unobserved. It didn't escape Emma's attention, lying as she was beside him on her bedroom floor, the bottle of Maker's Mark sat between them, that this was the first time she'd been alone with Hook since Neverland.

She couldn't help but be aware. The very proximity of him left a humming in her blood, something beyond the simple effects of the bourbon. The last time they'd been alone together, he had said he wouldn't give up on her. He'd promised her fun. But then again, in Neverland he'd said a great number of things. None of which he'd since delivered on, stretched out beside her in the dark, the look behind his eyes friendly and unthreatening now, with none of the excruciating sincerity he'd carried around since his admission in the Echo Caves.

Maybe all he had needed to see sense was to escape that godforsaken jungle. To see how they would never really work. Two people from different worlds, enough emotional baggage between them to kill a pack mule. She couldn't deny that a part of her was maybe... disappointed? He hadn't struck her as the kind of guy whose feelings were fleeting. And maybe she'd drawn some strength in that cursed realm from his support, the way he believed in her. Not because she was the Savior. But because she was Emma.

But as she watched Neal's movements across the loft, smiling and joking with the Darlings, making polite small-talk with his Dad's new girlfriend, she was also relieved. It was peaceful here in the dark, watching her friends and neighbors make fools of themselves. No one needing her to save them. No one expecting her to be the hero. No one demanding she choose. She could just... be.

She rolled onto her side, propped up on one elbow, considering her companion, who was chuckling darkly beside her, as he watched the other dwarves carefully approach Sleepy's prone body, snoring away as he was on the loveseat by the window. Leroy, motioning his brothers forward, took a black marker out of his coat pocket, and set about making crude drawings on the poor dwarf's face, the others having no sympathy for their fallen brother, as they bit back frenzied laughter.

"I'm kind of surprised you're here."

"Pardon?" He asked, attention drifting back to Emma.

"I just mean..." She searched for the best way to articulate herself without offending him. "I'm surprised you came. To the party." She clarified quickly. "It's just, you don't really seem to be the social type. I mean," she indicated their apparent isolation. "Clearly."

If his face held any reaction to her words, he hid it well, bringing the bottle of bourbon to his lips and taking a long pull.

"Well," he began slowly, lowering the bottle back to ground. "The Prince did invite me."

"David invited you?!" In her surprise she'd been too loud, her voice carrying across the space, and both of them ducked back at once, lest anyone dare look up.

"Sorry," she whispered, after a minute or two of tense silence, until they were reasonably sure their location was still apparently under wraps. "I just... David?" She still couldn't picture it. She knew they'd gone off on that Boy's Own Adventure in Neverland. Knew that they'd... bonded a little. But still. The last time Hook had stepped foot into the loft, David had punched him in the face. And now he was an invited guest?

Hook shrugged, lip twitching. "What can I say? I'm growing on him." Emma looked doubtful. "Apparently my willing assistance was instrumental in the rescue and subsequent safe return of young Mr Mills." He leaned closer, his voice growing huskier. "Or did you not hear?"

Her head began to swim, from the bourbon, or his nearness, she had no idea. Scrambling for purchase in this situation, Emma leaned back a little, letting the sarcasm coat her tongue. "All hail the conquering hero."

"Aye," his laughter was soft, devoid of humor, and he began scratching behind an ear with his hand. "A ridiculous notion, that. The pirate playing at being a hero." She would have caused less damage if she'd slapped him, his easy confidence slipping away with one careless remark.

He made to get up, but Emma grabbed his elbow, yanking him back down, his body hitting the floor with a loud thump. They both froze as they heard the people below pause in their merriment, wondering at the sound a moment, before returning to their revelry.

"I hardly think that was necessary," he mumbled between them, rubbing at the dent in the hardwood his hook had made on the way down.

"Sorry, I..." She noticed her hand was still on his arm, and she snatched it away. "I didn't mean it like that."

His eyes were wounded when they turned back to her, rather than the angry she expected. "And how did you mean it, exactly, Emma?"

The use of her given name disarmed her. As he knew it would. Emma had never been great at apologies at the best of times.

"I am grateful." Her words are clumsy, but insistent. "For your help. That you came back. I didn't mean to seem like I'm not."

He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at her intently, blue eyes shifting, weighing the truth behind her words. Eventually, he nodded his acceptance, and Emma let loose the breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"So what's next for the illustrious Captain Hook?" Emma asked, trying to alleviate the tension.

And it might have worked, had her words not been immediately followed by the tell-tale scrape of boots on the metal staircase, and both of them looked at each other, scrambling to their feet.

"Emma?" called up David's voice. "You up here?" He seemed to pause at the foot of the stairs, awaiting a response.

"And I'll take that as my cue to take my leave," Hook whispered, backing towards the window.

"The window? We're on the third floor!" Emma hissed back.

"Yes, and I'll much prefer to risk that drop than Dave's reaction when he finds out I'm up here. I doubt his new-found goodwill towards me extends as far as being discovered in the princess's bedchamber, with the princess, unchaperoned."

"Seriously?" She can forget for days at a time that her parents are fairytale royalty, and sometimes it all comes racing back with cold, hilarious clarity.

"He'll get over it," Emma reasoned. She was a goddamned adult, after all. And yet, she still shoved him out of the way, helping to prise open the window as they heard the boots advancing slowly up the stairs.

"Be that as it may." He paused at the threshold, a real smile breaking through at last. "I'd rather like to keep on his good side."

Emma glanced down at the drop, uncertain. The roof of the neighboring building was lower than theirs, but the jump was no small thing. And if he missed it, he'd land on the concrete far below and break something for sure.

"Drop and roll," Emma advised.

"Pardon?" Hook was lost, apparently not altogether familiar with proper sneaking-out procedure.

"If you don't make the jump, drop and roll." She repeated. "And for god's sake, cover your head!"

"Never fear, Swan," he flashed a fearless grin. "I'll make the jump."

"You'd better," she poked him in the chest with her forefinger. He smiled at the action, her concern for his safety an apparent source of amusement.

"I'll see you soon, darling," he said, ducking his head to deliver a single chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth, before climbing onto the window frame.

Brain fogging over slightly, it was all she could do to step back, giving him room to maneuver out the window, coat dragging behind. And with one last wink, he disappeared into the night, like some kind of comic book vigilante.

He made the jump.

Just in time for David to appear at the top of the stairs, a scowl beginning to pull at his intoxicated grin. "Please tell me I didn't just see a pirate leap from my daughter's bedroom window." Emma's heart sank into her stomach.

"You didn't just see a pirate leap from your daughter's bedroom window?" She repeated, hope edged in her voice.

He paused. Saying nothing. Looking at the open window again, then back to Emma. "Good," he replied with a curt nod, before turning back, and commencing his drunken descent down the staircase.