"You deserve your prince, love. But I'm too bloody selfish to let him have you." Hook/Aurora oneshot

I need this pairing like I need oxygen.

…

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

'The Sick Rose', William Blake

Slipping Underneath

…

She's the touch of spring on winter's frost, bringing the promise of hope and rebirth, the memories of once upon a dream. But he's been so cold and immersed in his thoughts of vengeance too long to realise it.

...

He's never had any patience with victims (bitter experience has taught him that any cringing victim is a villain in the making), and Princess Aurora is to his cynical mind an exceptionally pathetic specimen of one. A weak, whining, girlish burden, Killian thinks with no small degree of contempt, barely able to resist rolling his darkly-lined eyes with impatience at her plaintive voice and clinging submission, the way she hovers close to Mulan like a frightened shadow.

Never mind that at times her tones have a clear, ringing sweetness, or that sometimes carried on the breeze in the wake of gossamer silk he catches her scent – a scent that reminds him of freshly-plucked rose petals in summer and is reminiscent of something he cannot quite define. Innocence, perhaps.

And she was the only one who looked back at him.

She looked back at him.

In that fleeting glance, curious and pitying beneath the demure shadow of lashes before she turned away – he remembers seeing –

Something soft and sweet.

Something so easy to destroy.

…

His icy gaze does not linger on the smooth lines of her elusive, ethereal form. Nor does he flirt outrageously or make leering comments the way he does with Snow or Emma. Not that she isn't beautiful, of course – she's exquisitely lovely, wrapped in lavender silks, cool and indifferent and hostile. And yet… there's something about her that demands respect; her courtesy is in its own way just as impenetrable an armour as the metal plates that protect Mulan or the hard-boiled leather encasing Swan's toned physique (can't blame a man for looking). All delicate manners and politely veiled disdain.

There's a distant serenity to her that he can't touch. And Killian Jones – Captain Hook – is not used to things he can't touch. But Mulan guards the princess with a warrior's sleepless vigilance, and Killian has too few illusions about himself to deny it's that very unassailability that makes her all the more tantalising. He feels an awakening dark urge to lay siege to those defences, batter down those smooth walls of courtesy and restraint, to knock down the ivory tower erected around her royal self. To plunder and take by force. Cora's non-negotiable authority grates on him, and he wants to convince himself that he follows no master but the whim of his own desires. His very survival has depended on the hardening of his heart, of his soul, and the seduction of one proud princess is something that will have no qualms on his conscience. His conscience died with Milah, and he's had little use for it since. It hasn't troubled him for a while (sleeping quietly during acts of villainy beyond count) and this time will be no exception.

…

At night it seems her dreams are just as harrowing as his own. But while his nightmares are of green scales and sworn oaths of vengeance and hearts crumbled to dust, hers revolve around a voice, a face, a name –

Philip, she whispers, the name a murmured litany on her lips. Philip.

He lies restlessly awake on an uncomfortable bed of bracken, musing over this latest revelation. So, she belongs to someone else. Well, that's certainly never stopped him before, quite the contrary in fact. All pirates are covetous and it wouldn't be the first time, at any rate. If this Philip is dead, then he can't have her. And if he's alive – Killian flashes a sudden reckless grin, hard and bright in the darkness – if he's alive – then may the best man win. Only a fool doesn't keep a close eye on his most priceless possession, and Princess Aurora would be an acquisition worthy of any hoard. It's a trait common to his breed – a weakness for pretty things.

He hears her tossing and turning, her tearful pants of breath muffled in swathes of silks, and he clenches his teeth with an agitation that has nothing to do with compassion. He's a man, after all, it's been a damned long time. He wonders with a frustrated growl what his captors were thinking by placing a writhing, moaning princess in such close proximity to a bloodthirsty pirate with a reputation – but then, he's long believed Good to be synonymous with Stupid. He turns over with a muttered oath and tries to think of Milah's hair like twisted lengths of rope, her voice lashing as salt winds, but his mind keeps returning to a shower of hazel curls woven with jewelled flowers and spilling gracefully over pale slender shoulders, and movements of light and airy grace.

The sound of sharpening metal drags him from his own thoughts. Killian glances up and sees the bright glint of steel slanting along the edge of Mulan's sword and realises that she too is awake – and that the princess is just as untouchable by night as by day. The persistent clang of metal rings in his ears, sets his blood on edge, rising to the challenge –

We'll see about that.

…

He convinces himself it's only the mindless boredom of captivity that compels him to eavesdrop the next day, gleaning pearls of information from words dropped here and there. Gradually, his quick mind puts the pieces together and my, what an interesting picture they make. Killian finds himself looking at the princess with something close to interest flickering in his sharp blue eyes. He can't help but be intrigued; he has so little to occupy him in his present state of captive (and possibly infiltrator, but following through an alliance would certainly make for some interesting bedfellows, figuratively speaking, of course).

Shiny purple crescents curve beneath her eyes and her daintily slippered feet stumble through the tangled undergrowth, the thorns remorselessly tearing through the thin satin. Killian slows his self-assured, fluid saunter, falling into easy pace with her.

"You look tired, your highness," he says, with just a shade of ironic amusement stressed on her title. "Why not slow down for a while?"

"I'm fine," she answers coldly, refusing to even glance at him – something Killian finds rather insulting since most women are unable to take their eyes off him. Still, he's not one to resist a challenge, and this stubborn little princess is proving to be an intriguing one. He wants to draw her out of herself, to make a dent in that porcelain perfection.

"Of course, nothing disturbs sleep like a broken heart. As I'm sure you know all about – isn't that right?"

Aurora stiffens as pain – raw and real – flashes across her features. Then her jaw hardens and a sudden glint lights her celestial eyes – and Killian realises with some surprise that this soft, spoiled princess has the promise of something dangerous in her.

"Don't speak of Philip."

"I was offering my condolences, darling. You look like you could use some. Your friends over there don't seem to care much."

There's a hint of curiosity laced through her apprehensive voice. "Why would you feel sorry for me?"

"Because I've been where you are, love. I've lived it."

"You?" She regards him uncertainly, suspicious still. But beneath the outward reserve he senses the stirring of her sympathy, her heartfelt desire to believe him because in spite of everything she still clings to fairy-tales and happy endings and the thought that there might be a shred of good in his vengeance-blackened heart. And so he adopts the expression of a pained lover, a hand clasped to his breast for dramatic effect. She's no stone-cold Swan; he'd like to see her resist that. And there's just enough truth in the harsh severity of his voice to betray his sincerity.

"You think I don't know what it's like to lose someone you love? To stand by while they're taken from you when there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it?"

Her face softens, a sudden burst of remorseful tenderness lighting it like a ray of sunshine. "I never knew that. I'm sorry."

"Course you didn't." But she does now. He's planted the seed in her mind that he might be worth saving, preying on her well-meaning kindness and tedious martyrdom. Compassion comes first, the rest will follow. He's not normally a patient man, but something tells him that the long game will be the most rewarding. He's well used to waiting to get what he most desires.

Revenge and love – both plotted and nurtured, awaiting the right moment to strike.

…

He's a pirate – it's in his nature to pillage, to ravage – to him it comes as easy as breathing. And she's forbidden fruit, ripe for the plucking. His trap is set, the net spread wide, and she wanders thoughtlessly into the carefully-laid snare. Not objecting when he walks beside her, addressing the occasional remark to him – once or twice he even discerns the slightest smile reluctantly touch the corners of her blossoming mouth at some of his more audacious remarks. He can be sinfully charming when the occasion calls for it, and he takes a perverse pleasure in acting with exaggerated gallantry, inwardly laughing at the incredulity of Swan and the suspicion of her mother. He feels Mulan's dark gaze burn a warning into his back and lifts his black brows with an expression of smirking innocence. If Her Highness enjoys his company, who is he to object?

And there's some pleasure to be derived from her presence too that isn't purely carnal (though he'll deny it to the death, reiterating the convincing lie until it rings as hallucinatory truth). That pull of wanting is always at the forefront of mind, reveals itself in his longer, brazen glances. Old habits die hard and he'd have to be a blind man not to appreciate the picture she makes enwalled in the forest's tall boughs, the bright rays of sunlight ensnared in her russet curls. A shadow suddenly stirs in his memory, of legends heard in taverns, whispers carried on the salt winds. Princess Aurora. Sleeping Beauty. Pure and innocent, cursed and doomed. A rose tangled in thorns.

"I've heard about you," he remarks thoughtfully. "The Sleeping Beauty – trapped by a hundred year curse to remain in a changeless sleep – oh, don't look so surprised. A man like me – you pick up a few things on your travels."

She turns with light steps, regarding him with a quiet disinterest he senses is only there for propriety's sake. "What kind of things?"

He tilts his head to one side, watching her shrewdly. There is more to her question than idle chit-chat. "Suppose you tell me what it is you're after?"

Her delicate brows rise, an expression faintly akin to scorn on her marble features. Killian feels himself momentarily cowed by her bewilderingly accusing stare. "It's none of your concern."

His breathing accelerates in his frustration, and he could simply abandon himself to violence to end this ridiculous suspense; but he's loathe to strike a woman as a general rule, especially one that already looks like a strong gust of wind could pull her apart. She could snap like glass at the mere flexing of his fingers, never mind what damage his hook could inflict. The realisation fills him with an odd feeling, one that is almost… protective.

He hides it well. Toying with a gold earring, his voice dripping with deceptive innocence. "And here I thought you were beginning to trust me."

"I'm not so easily fooled as that, Captain."

He feels like he's groping blindly towards some immense treasure, hovering mere inches from his seeking fingertips… Now what is it you want? She has her own purposes for courting his company beyond his pretty face, because she might be innocent but she's no fool. Not that she'll get the better of him, but he's amused she thinks she can try. The shadow of a smile hangs from the edges of his mouth.

(Two can play at that game, sweetheart).

…

She's got spirit, after all, a dash of fire hidden beneath her calm exterior.

They treat her like a child, like something to be cossetted and protected. But he knows better. He's heard all about her little assassination attempt on Snow, even though now they've resigned themselves to an uneasy alliance. Killian smiles derisively. As though it's that easy – like all that grief and rage can simply be forgotten, locked up in a watertight chest and the key thrown away (it can't be – he's tried).

He knows that vengeance, bright and sharp, nursed like a knife to the breast. But observation (bordering on fixation) has shown him that she conceals her pain from the world while he carries his in every hard and defiant line of his body, muscles tense and coiled, a cocked brow and a biting witticism lashing off his silver tongue.

A strange affinity that binds them, then. He a captain cast ashore without a crew, she the princess of a kingdom fallen into ruin. He wonders what else is buried beneath that frosted restraint, what depths of sadness and frustration her new friends don't see, because they don't care to. He's the only one who notices her suffering because he's gone through the same hell. Desperation and despair haunt her eyes, all turned inward. The fruits of her hatred will never bloom. And she's too proud – too damnably possessed with a sense of honour – to succumb to grief. She wears the queenly mask to perfection, never daring to speak out. She's not bold and feisty like Milah, Milah who could fight just as heartily as she could f– well, no use in dwelling on that.

He gazes darkly at his arm pressed down with heavy metal, flexing the ghost of fingers, and broods on unforgotten things. Those inner demons can't be chased away. He's tried everything. Drinking to dull the pain, drowning his bitterness in warm flesh. Forgetting is impossible, fighting only hardens his resolve.

Revenge beats in his blood, guides the rhythms of his pulse. Nothing in this magic-blasted world has the power to make him turn aside from his course. Even this princess, who is nothing more than a pleasant distraction from the murky depths of his own thoughts. He's got a crocodile to kill and he'll destroy anyone who gets in his way. Because in the end it will always come back to that all-consuming purpose driving him inexorably onward. He'll continue rushing blindly to his doom, swearing vengeance and striking shadows until the seas run dry and Rumpelstiltskin lies dead at his feet.

…

She comes to him one night like a ghost, her face pale and resolute, soft hair fanning about her in the moonlight. Killian leans back against the bough of a tree and watches her, his mouth curving into an appreciative smile.

"So, she comes without an escort. To what do I owe the honour, your highness?" His searing blue gaze travels brazenly down to where the jewelled clasp of her cloak rests against the bared skin of her throat. "The nights can get lonely here, I'll admit, but I'm sure we can work something out…"

"I want you to do something for me." Her tone is supreme and commanding, the voice of one well-accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Too bad he's not the obedient type. Not that he won't take orders from a woman under the right – ah – circumstances.

"Is that right, love?" He stretches his leathern legs out before him, the tips of his booted heels brushing the gauzy edges of her gown that sweep along the ground. Her feet are bare against the dew-damp grass. "Do go on."

"You've been places. Seen things."

He shrugs, careless of his empty experiences, an endless sea of memories, faces, names. Careless of everything. "What of it?"

"Can you rescue a soul from a wraith?"

Jealousy bleeds from his heart like black tar and his voice darkens with sudden bitterness. "Heroics aren't really my area. Terribly sorry to disappoint. Best be on your way, princess."

"So you will do nothing, then?" she demands imperiously, and my, she's delicious when she shows a little passion. But it's not enough to make him cooperate. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

He waves his tightly-bound wrists at her. "I'm a little restricted here. Why don't you tell your friends to set me free, and maybe then we'll talk."

Aurora turns away in haughty movement. "Goodnight, Captain."

"Easy, your highness," he says, smooth and coaxing, a tone that no woman has yet been able to successfully resist.

"Will you please stop calling me that?"

He leans in closer to her ear, all velvet and allurement, darkly satisfied when she shudders against him. Oh, he knows how to tenderly strip away any show of resistance, to him, seduction has become almost an art form. "I can call you other things, sweetheart. You just need to say the word."

Her heavy lashes flutter down, hair falling forward like a veil of woven lace. No cold dismissal or stern words this time. Interesting. He lowers his head to hers, pressing forward his advantage, sensing victory in the winds.

"They all treat you like you're made of glass, don't they? You might as well still be under that spell for all the freedom they let you have. Just once, love, don't you want to know what it's like to simply let go…"

His hand slowly moves down her ribs. Her glittering dress is soft and sheer as sea-foam. He's close enough to feel the rapid hummingbird flutterof her heart. Close enough to see the rise and fall of her chest, soft and white, and he wants her so much he aches raw with it.

He inhales the fragrant scent of her hair, washed in clear rivers and icy streams. That slight exhalation betrays her. He sees her valiant attempt to remain aloof (not that they don't all succumb in the end, but he enjoys watching the struggle).

She turns her face away from him. Her voice distant and soft. "I don't know what you –"

"Yes, you do," he murmurs, and kisses her.

Grabs her jaw without gentleness and tilts her face to his. He kisses her because he can't help himself – she's so innocent, so damnably tempting with her earnest eyes and untainted heart. He's not going to play the chivalrous suitor with her, princess or no. He wants to touch her in ways her prince would never dare to, breathe hot profanities on that unmarked skin, wicked promises of exactly what he's going to do to her –

He presses his body fully against her – did your prince ever make you feel this – relishing the choking gasp she breathes against his mouth. The feel of her, silk and beating heart and trembling warmth, her soft fingers unsteady on his shoulders. He crushes her hips to his – oh, he's not going to be gentle, but she'll enjoy it all the same, he'll make sure of that – feeling the burning heat of her skin through the barrier of flimsy satin that shrouds those curves, as light and insubstantial as a butterfly's wing.

He releases her before she can summon up the strength to push him away. Not that she put up much of a fight, he reflects. Her cheeks are flushed, a brightness in her eyes that isn't anger (certainly not anger). And Killian feels that familiar surge of satisfaction, raw and inherently masculine. Underneath that cold, delicate maidenly exterior, she's a woman after all.

She's breathless and dazed. "I don't want –"

He feels that familiar smirk dancing across his lips, a gleam of malice lighting his eyes. "Don't lie to yourself, love. Every woman wants it." And who am I to deny them?

Killian acknowledges that he probably deserves the stinging slap that throws his head to one side – she's a strong little thing when she's roused – and he puts a tongue to his lower lip, tasting blood, bitter after the delicious sweetness of her mouth. It's curiously arousing.

"Well, well," he says, with something close to real admiration in his voice. "Look at that – scratch her and she shows her claws."

She doesn't even dignify him with a response. Instead, tosses her curls over one shoulder and sweeps away in a magnificent trail of silk, and Killian feels strangely that he's lost more than a mere argument.

…

That kiss is the catalyst, or the bait, as he might call it.

Because now the substance of his dreams has shifted, the tides have turned, moving to a different rhythm. Instead of Milah's cold blue eyes darkened with death, he sees Aurora's dewy blue eyes darkened with lust. He sees her lying beneath him on a bed of purple silk, her body pale in the moonlight. Oh, but he wouldn't make love to her like her beloved prince, with gentle and revering adoration. Instead, he imagines his lips kissing a hot trail down her stomach, his hand sliding lower still, watching beneath heavy lids as she loses all that demure restraint, watching her fall apart piece by piece. He wants to see that delectable lustre in her eyes. He wants to hear her scream his name, her fingers carving bloody grooves down his back as she can't think of anything except him and no one else, no more damn princes or ghosts hovering between them –

Killian jerks awake violently. Audacious equilibrium shattered, and he's restless and wanting –

Something.

And it goes beyond that merely physical craving. There's a tight, gnawing, coiling feeling in the pit of his stomach that nothing can satiate. Is it madness? Enlightenment? Or just sheer stupidity?

His heart is thrashing and beating against his ribcage in a way it hasn't since –

It's a bloody sickness. A rose with trailing roots insinuating its way beneath the skin, burrowing deep, and he wants to grab his hook so he might dig it out and cut the weed that threatens to bind his bruised and beaten heart. She's dawn light spilling pure and bright onto the darkness of his cursed existence. Both a blessing and a damnation. Her kisses soft and sweet as a stolen goodbye.

It's a damn mess, almost laughable, really. Princesses don't fall in love with pirates and pirates certainly don't fall in love with princesses. He's no prince to wake her up with True Love's kiss; no, he'll drown her until her lungs are flooded with darkness. He knows he's not worthy of her, wouldn't even know how to be. She deserves to be courted by a chivalrous hero of romance, given roses and chaste kisses, and that's never been his style. She's something unexpectedly pure in this corrupted world and he's curiously reluctant to destroy those illusions she clings to. Especially when something in the transparency of her blue eyes tells him they might not be illusions, after all.

In his mind's eye, he sees her breathless and sated, looking up at him drowsily through the damp line of her lashes. Like a flower tainted by his filthy touch.

…

He's the one that falls in the end, of course, caught hook, line and bloody sinker. Not that he tells her – not that he ever could. He'd bite off his tongue and swallow it first, lock his secret away in the vast hoard he possesses of treasures and unspoken things. Thoughts, cold, cynical and bittersweet, plague him. He's not made for marble palaces and walled gardens and she'll never throw herself onto the mercy of the high seas. She'll never know the creak of the rigging, the salty tang of oiled tar that lives in his blood, makes him feel so fiercely alive. Her existence is universes away from the struggles and toils of piracy, the fire of revenge that burns low and constant in his gut.

Lying still in the dark, he idly runs his ringed fingers over his chest. If not for the furious pounding of his heart beneath the taut skin, he would have accused her of plucking the damned thing out and taking possession of it.

The rustle of a trailing gown betrays her presence even before he sees her silhouette emerge through the shadowy trees. And now he's painfully aware of his heart, dancing under blood, muscle and skin, obeying the summons of some unheard siren song.

Aurora kneels before him, the billowing movement of silk unfolding like a blooming flower around her. Some innuendo about having a woman on her knees rises in the murky depths of his mind, but Killian finds that for once he lacks the energy for it.

Closer still. Her eyes are like blue stars and there's a knife in her hands. Killian privately thinks she's lost her wits, though he's not one to judge these days. He half-closes his eyes at the sensation of light, cool fingers on his skin, and it's an effort to speak carelessly.

"You sure you know what you're doing there, love?"

A wreath of shadow falls across her face as the fire flickers brightly. Her head is lowered, but her voice remains steady. "I can set you free. Tell me what I wish to know. I saw the way you looked at me when I spoke of it before. You've encountered wraiths before, haven't you?"

"Oh, but you are innocent, aren't you? You think a kiss in the dark is enough to have a man wrapped around your little finger?" He allows himself a salacious grin. "Takes a little more than that, darling, but if you're willing to oblige..."

"With or without your help, I am not giving up."

He rubs a hand across his stubble-darkened jaw. "You're going to rescue him, aren't you? And I'm just bloody fool enough to help you."

Aurora stares at him in surprise, clearly suspicious of his easy acquiescence. "What do you want in return?"

The simple question makes his chest hurt – like having a heart ripped out – but he takes refuge in flippancy, giving her a suggestive wink, the old audacity curling the edges of his mouth. "I'll think of something, don't you worry about that."

She remains calm, unmoved. "And what do you really want?"

"There's a crocodile I need to skin. I'll help anyone who gets me closer to that end."

The gratitude in her eyes draws him in. "Thank you." And that burst of impulsive tenderness he's seen overcome her at times compels her to add, "I promise I'll –"

Killian silences the unspoken promise forming on her parted lips, pressing two fingers to her mouth with a bitter, half-amused sigh. "I know what you're going to say. And you can't help me. Whether it'd be through obligation, love, pity, you'd try to save me from myself. And I'm a lost cause, love. I'm set on the one thing in this whole damn world that can complete me, that can take away this scorching thirst, that can give me reparation…all your good intentions would be worthless. I'd only use you."

"I thought you didn't care who you used so long as it helped you towards your goal?"

"You're different."

Aurora's voice trembles. "Why?"

His thumb traces the line of her jaw as he looks down intently into her face, his lips hovering a breath away from her own. His blue gaze hard and steady on her. He's galled to realise his voice comes out hoarse, unfocused.

"Isn't it bleeding obvious, love?"

She exhales shakily, tries to step away. He doesn't let her. Calloused fingers prepare to latch onto her firmly; a strong hand to make certain she will never slip away. But she's already gone far away from him; her face alight with love, her eyes closed with painful reminiscence.

"I love Philip." She says the words like a benediction.

His imagination taunts him a figure in a golden gauntlet, a faceless saviour. A hero to love and be loyal to till the end. Then jealousy fills him, as wild and frenzied as the sea-fever that can seize a man and trap him in his own madness. His jaw sets with grim resolution. He can't watch her eyes cloud over with love for another man; that's a hell he wouldn't have to die for. His hand lingers on the curve of her waist and yet she doesn't push him away. It occurs to him then that maybe she can't, that maybe she's enmeshed in this net just as hopelessly as he is.

"The thing is, sweetheart, if you didn't feel something for me, then you wouldn't care so much about breaking my heart."

She turns her head away, but not before Killian catches the glint of tearstains on her cheeks. It's almost enough to make him release her, his ruthless clarity of purpose swept away. Forgotten emotions resurging like the ache of an old wound. Compassion that's almost stronger than his cruelty. Love that's almost stronger than his hate. But he's never been a good man, never pretended to be.

"See, I know you'll always choose your prince in the end – but I'll at least give you something to remember me by." He leans towards her with something of the old sparkle in his eye. "You deserve your prince, love. But I'm too bloody selfish to let him have you. I am a villain, after all. And I'm used to getting what I want."

And he surges forward – plunders, ravages, and does not conquer.

...