Author's Note: Thank you so much for to everyone who read the first chapter! Particularly to petitpain, lethemorai, Angels-heart1, Snarkland78, Lorelei Candice Black, Solemnly Swear to Manage Mischief, FirePhoenix97, Katy, Assiyah, anona, CuteMcBeauty, Mrs-N-Uzumaki, KateHarris14, 50yearoldlady, La Bitca, 5289belle, Kazetsume, and any guests for taking the time to comment! I really appreciate it :)

PART TWO

Bloody minx.

Bloody temptress.

Beautiful girl.

A pouch of gold lying near forgotten in his satchel, Hook's attention fastens upon on the woman striding – albeit a tad reluctantly for his taste – beside him. His jaw shifts. No matter. He doesn't need her to enjoy his company, only for her pretty lips to point him towards the location of the Dark One.

The Crocodile imprisoned. The Crocodile without magic. Bloody hell, if he didn't know better, he'd think it a siren's song.

He lengthens his strides to keep pace with the wen—princess. The poster's claims would still seem a tad unbelievable for his tastes had he not seen the horror seep across her face at the moniker.

Well, he supposes she doesn't lack the looks for the title, if perhaps the manners.

If he'd known princesses could kiss like that, he'd have taken a deeper interest in them long ago. The ones he remembers from his years serving the crown – before the nightshade, before the hook – were pretty creatures of soft smiles, gentle manners, and simpering speech. The one he'd nearly had in his cabin, however… Emma keeps walking, shoulders set back and eyes trained forward. A different sort, altogether.

Yet there remains plenty of time for that conversation yet. He has another question at present.

"Care to tell me the precise location at which your parents entrapped the Dark One?"

A scoff shoots itself from her lips. "And leave you free to turn me over to the Queen's knights? Not happening."

His tongue ticks against his teeth. "I bear no allegiance to the Evil Queen."

"Oh, I believe that. But what about the reward for my neck?" If any fear over that reward lingers beneath the question, she blocks it from her face with a dry smirk (a less observant man might not notice the way her fingers clench tight around her cloak). "Don't try to tell me that you bear no allegiance to your gold."

No, at this point, that would sound a trifle absurd. Her jaw seems to tense in agreement. A new tactic, perhaps. "At least tell me then what exactly the Dark One did to your dear parents to inspire such retribution."

She shrugs (and still does not look at him). "Dangerous guy. You should know." Her gaze leaks down to the hook at his side for only a moment, before righting itself once more.

"Simply playing the benevolent rulers then? A nice story to be sure, but I know the Dark One. He's not a foe many would make without reason."

Her pace eases, and – finally – she fixes him with a stare. A tired stare, but still the eye contact she'd given him so freely in the tavern nevertheless. "Look, I don't know the specifics. He trapped one of their friends in a deal. She wanted out. They helped her."

"How kind." How simple. It's almost disappointing. "The queen, then. That vendetta must be a bit more… personal."

The lass takes her lower lip into her mouth, no doubt pondering just how much to reveal. His eyes trace the gesture; gods but he's met sirens that would fall into fits of envy at the sight of her. And he'd worried that particular effect would fade with sobriety.

"She blames my mother for ruining her life."

Now that is more interesting. "And did she?"

"My mother is a good person."

"Maybe so, love, but that's not what I asked."

Her glare is something to behold – a tempest of green raging at him, choking him, blinding him. "The queen ruined mine."

Hook pauses a moment, even after she speeds her steps once more, to look after her.

The pirate leaves Emma her share of distance throughout their trek back to his ship; it's only when they reach the harbor that his hand slides into place against the small of her back.

She jerks. "What," Emma hisses, "are you doing?"

Hook flashes a grin to the men busying about his ship. "Creating an impression," he murmurs to her under his breath. "For your benefit, might I add – assuming you'd prefer to keep my crew from thinking you more than a mere bar wench."

Smothering her flickered glare before his men can catch sight of it, Emma sinks against him, grating a giggle into his neck. His hand strokes at her back, her waist, then lower down, settling on her hip. "Right," she murmurs against his collarbone. "And this isn't for your benefit at all."

"Course not, lass." They make it down to the cabin without pause, a suggestive smirk from Hook apparently enough to answer any curious looks from his men. He releases her upon setting foot down in his quarters. "I'm always a gentleman. Not to mention," his hook brushes her hood from her face in a slow drawl of a motion, "I'm well acquainted with how dalliances with you tend to end."

Emma bristles a step away backwards. "About that. Here's the thing - one of the queen's knights came into the tavern, and I panicked, and you…"
"And I what, love?" He raises an eyebrow, challenging, suggestive, and infuriating all at once.

Free from the confines of her hood, her hair beats at her shoulders as she shakes her head in a brief jerk. Her hand rises in a vague wave towards his temple. "Never mind. Your head's clearly fine." Irritatingly sharp, as a matter of fact.

She doesn't realize how close she's come to his cabin's table until the pirate takes another step towards her, pushing her against its edge. Her body goes stiff as a plank as his chest moves to hover against hers in an eerie mirror of the other night. "Too hardheaded for that, princess. Still, I can think of other ways of conveying your apologies if you're so inclined."

Squirming, she manages to pull herself to the other side of the table. The heat of him remains on her torso, sinking down to the depths of her stomach. "I thought you were done 'dallying' with me."

"Not quite." Casting his eyes downwards, he shakes his head with a chuckle. "It's underestimating you I've finished with."

Emma snorts. "Yeah. You've got your crew, your ship, and a sword. I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"Oh, and you're utterly defenseless."

Tilting her head, Emma shrugs. "Princess, remember?"

Hook lifts her to the surface of the table without a word.

"What the hell are you—"

Sliding a hand beneath her skirt, he lifts its hem past her knees – revealing a small dagger sheathed against her right thigh.

He grins. "Knew I didn't dream that."

Wrenching herself back to the floor, Emma rights her dress, once again fighting off a blush. "You can't be too careful."

"Too right. Which is why I think it best you relinquish the knife for the time being."

Her fingers clench a fist around her skirt. "That wasn't part of the deal." The walls of the cabin seem to rush around her in a chokehold. It's too small. It's too small, and he's too close, and it's all wrong.

He advances on her once more, effectively erasing whatever space she's managed to wrangle. "Don't tell me you don't trust me."

A shot of laughter tempts her lips. An evil witch – who was supposed to be powerless, who was never supposed to be able to hurt her family again – strips her of her parents, her home, of everything, and she's just supposed, to, what? Agree to travel defenseless?

"Sorry, Captain. Not happening."

"Captain." The title not only stops his strides but sends a grin crawling across his face; the sort of look he'd given her when she'd been nothing more than a nameless bar wench swallowing shot by (discarded) shot of rum. "Oh, I like the sound of that."

She rolls her eyes, and makes a note to avoid referring to him as anything at all.

"As for the dagger, however, I'm afraid I still require it."

Emma's grip tightens a mocking edge into her voice. "Don't tell me you don't trust me."

"Forgive me for doubting the thief who left me gold-less and sprawled across my cabin floor only a few nights ago."

"Please, I took a few coins, not a-"

"Nevertheless," he tramples her words, "I'm an honorable man. What do you say we amend the terms of our deal?"

Suspicion tightens her face. "How?"

"Give me your dagger by night, and I promise to return it to you by day. Not that you'll need it." His lips shrug. "My men know better than to pursue a woman I take as guest in my cabin."

Giving up on any attempt at personal space, Emma looms closer to him in turn. "And what about you?"

"I don't strike you as a man of my word?

Her chin lifts towards his. "Well, you are a pirate."

"Given your affinity for assault and thievery, I'm afraid that point has become rather void." Whether it's amusement or mockery that pulls at his mouth with the words, it fades in favor of gravity by the time he continues. "I have no interest in harming you at present, love. If it's my good will you find so questionable, perhaps you'll find common sense more convincing - seeing you hurt would prove rather counterproductive to my purposes. " The edge of his fingers rubs a short pattern against his chin. "The sooner I see you safely to land, the sooner I can resume my search for the Dark One."

She gropes for the lie in his words, turning each one over in her mind – and detects nothing. Emma's fingers slacken against her skirt; a moment later, they reach down to retrieve the dagger from beneath its cloth.

It's as good an offer as she's likely to receive from him, and, much as her muscles ache at relinquishing the weapon, they manage to push it into his grip.

His hand drops down to grab the dagger, the edge of his sleeve sliding up with the motion to reveal a flash of color. Tattoos are hardly foreign to her, particularly on the skin of a pirate (since leaving the palace, she's seen more arms covered with ink than she cares to count), yet somehow she had not thought of Hook possessing one. A red heart, however, glares from his skin, with a series of letters scripted between its lines. Milah.

Nor had she thought him the sort to cast a woman's name permanently upon his flesh.

Her brow almost creases, her attention almost shifts – but then he speaks, and irritation consumes her once more. "That's a good girl."

A glare cuts away the curiosity from her eyes.

His cabin floor isn't so much worse than any other place she's slept since fleeing her feather pillows and soft bedding. Hard and unyielding to be sure, but at least less likely to drive grass stains into her cloak or woodland beasts into her camp than the forest floor has proven.

Her gaze rises to Hook as he yanks his boots from his feet; the sight prods at her heartbeat far more forcefully than worry over monsters ever has.

She'd protested, of course, when he first told her she'd be sleeping in his quarters. Even now, lying still on her side, Emma's legs itch to run. The cabin seems to close around her a bit more with each moment she spends within its wall, its every inch a reminder of their… charade. (She ignores the first several descriptors that come to mind.) That charade is going to nail dreams into her head that will leave her glad to lack a heavy blanket.

It's empowering and awful all at once.

Hook had only raised an eyebrow at her reluctance. "Where would you rather rest, love? On deck? The brig? Or perhaps among my men?"

Spreading her cloak around her like a blanket, Emma shifts against the wall. For all that she's inherited of her father's stubbornness, she isn't thick enough to argue against a fair point.

"Not even going to try to talk me out of my bed, lass? I know from rather recent experience that the floor yields scarce comfort."

Emma stares up at him from the ground as he discards another boot. "I didn't care too much about leaving you to sleep on it."

That could have earned her a slap. Reminding a pirate captain that she'd bested him – well, Emma has to admit she's made smarter moves. Hook only barks a laugh. "Aye. Luckily for you, I'm more of a gentleman."

Skepticism pushes her onto her elbows, before fixing her shoulder blades against the wall. "And you're just going to give up your bed out of the kindness of your heart." Emma crosses her arms with a wary look at the small bed in question.

"Oh, I never said that." She's beginning to suspect that his eyebrows may remain inebriated, constantly tempted towards flirtation and movement, even when his mind sobers. "But I assure you, I'd be all too happy to share."

Amusement and disbelief conspire to crease her brow. "Yeah, I'm fine where I am."

"Suit yourself, princess."

She nearly chokes on the spare pillow he sends smashing against her face.

That arrangement lasts exactly one night.

Emma wakes to the sight of a dagger hovering above her head.

It takes her a moment to register Hook's face behind it. "Your dagger, love, as promised."

She snatches for the hilt with a yawn and a glare. "You could have stabbed me."

His eyes roll away from her disheveled form. "I've been wielding knives since before your parents were conceived. If I stab you, I'll mean to."

Exhaustion outweighing any curiosity over his age - how old could he be - she grumbles, "Seriously? You couldn't have waited until I was awake?"

"You wake at sunrise." He's already moving towards the cabin's steps. "My ship, my rules."

She waits until the sound of his footsteps has begun pounding at the deck to lift herself to her feet.

Relief stretches through her consequent sigh. He's an arrogant bastard; arrogant enough that he'd have made some remark or other if any sign of what she'd been dreaming had managed to manifest through words spoken in sleep.

Hook's hand tangled among her hair, his hook sloping her thigh, his mouth searing her neck. His hand venturing lower, far from her hair…

Emma clenches her fingers around the dagger until they turn white.

The worst part is that she almost welcomessuch a dream in the stead of those that have taken up residency in her head lately. The ones that leave a scream on the tip of her tongue, and the images of the Queen's fingers curled around her mother's heart flickering behind her eyes. That leave her gasping as black knights beat at her father.

Those ones make her wonder if there will be anything at all to find once she finally reaches her parents.

She'd almost prefer to allow Hook free rein over her subconscious than face that question night after night. Maybe it's selfish of her. Emma pulls herself from the ground. Maybe she doesn't care.

"You can't expect me to sit down here all day."

By the time Hook sets foot back in his cabin, she's already paced the confines of his quarters several times over, examined the majority of the – surprisingly dull - papers strewn across his desk, and made an aborted attempted at practicing her knife throwing skills (it's a miracle she didn't break something).

Grabbing a flask from one of his desk drawers, he cocks his head at her. "Would you rather I put you to work swabbing the deck? There's one blood stain in particular that's been giving my men absolute hell."

Emma pulls her knees to her chest and glares at the pirate from her spot against the wall. "Look, the way I see it, we still have at least another day before I tell you where you can find the Dark One, and you leave me on land. I'll need fresh air or exercise or…. something at some point."

"So eager to face a crew of pirates?"

She ignores his raised eyebrow. "Can't be worse than the Queen's knights."

"Ah, you're a tough lass." Pulling the flask from his mouth, he fits it easily among the folds of his leathers. "Regardless, in this particular case, it's not you I distrust. It's been quite a while since I've taken such a beauty aboard my ship. My men may not bear the trial of keeping their distance admirably." His eyebrows creep towards his forehead as he leans down to claim level ground with her eyes. She wonders if he notices his tongue dart against his lips; the amusement he seems to gain from her heavy gaze would suggest he does. "If it's activity you seek, I'm sure I can find way of distracting you."

Emma bites down hard on her tongue, the sharp pain scaring away any lingering remnants of memory or dream. "Not the kind of exercise I was talking about."

He pulls himself back to his feet. "Pity."

Emma briefly considers throwing her dagger after him as he climbs back up into the sunlight.

Hook leaves most of her meals resting on his cabin's table for Emma to claim when she pleases. Even by a wide margin, none of it qualifies as high quality fare – yet, at this point, even basic bread and butter seems a luxury so long as she doesn't have to procure it herself.

This one, he delivers with a bottle of rum. He sets it alongside the plate she'd expected before claiming a seat of his own.

She casts a skeptical look at the liquor. "What's the occasion?"

Either ignorant of her wariness or unconcerned (she assumes the latter), he pours her a shot of the amber liquid. "If my calculations are correct – which, I assure you, they are – you, milady, have only one more evening aboard my ship."

Emma sits down across from him before grabbing for a slice of cheese. The rum, she leaves be.

"So you're trying to get me drunk?"

Hook raises an eyebrow at her. "I've seen you drink, lass – not to mention of what you're capable after drinking. It will hardly ruin you to imbibe a shot of rum."

Her fingers still don't move towards the glass. "Shouldn't you be up there steering or supervising or …" she waves a hand about in search of the proper word, "whatever it is captain-ing entails?"

"So eager to be rid of me?"

She doesn't hurry about swallowing her slice of cheese before answering. "I'm eager to make sure we don't lose any time."

He grabs a piece of meat from her plate, dropping it past his lips. "My ship is the fastest in the realm. Rest assured, we'll make port soon enough."

"And then you can find the Dark One."

"And you your family."

Her teeth pause against a slice of meat; it slips down her throat whole. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to." Hook takes a long sip of his own rum. (She wavers between taking offense that he doesn't view her as a force formidable enough to require a fully sharpened mind, or simply giving it over to his arrogance.)

His voice lilts through her mind. It's underestimating you, I've finished with.

Arrogance, it is then.

"Going after the queen is suicide."

"Aye. And yet you still plan to attempt it."

Emma crosses her arms. "Don't tell me you're a seer."

"I'm flattered by your high opinion." A gruff laugh courses through his breath. "The truth of the matter, however, is that you, love, simply happen to be something of an open book."

Abandoning her food, her arms cross at her chest. "Am I?"

"Quite." He leans across the table until his chin is hovering over her plate. "Yet I can see your skepticism – what would you say to a small wager?"

"And what if I'd rather not gamble with a pirate?"

His arms settle on the table, and her shoulders rise at the realization that he has no intention of leaning back to his seat any time soon. "Then you'd be wise. Nevertheless, I doubt you'll be able to resist."

"Oh, really? And why's that?" Emma just barely manages to tack on an inflection.

"Because, if you win, I'll give you my bed for the night. Better, I'll give you the chance to relish the sight of me enjoying the discomfort of the floor." A mocking smile edges across his lips. "You left rather too early the other evening, I take it, to savor the full effect of the sight."

Emma's own arms untwine to extend upon the tabletop. "And if you win?"

Reaching for the bottle, he fills her untouched glass of rum a bit higher. "Then you agree to drink with me."

She expected worse.

When she nods a moment later, it's partly due to the bet, but mostly to the curiosity drawling its way through her thoughts – to the desire to see if he knows her as well as he thinks, to see him realize that he doesn't.

Either way, she doesn't flinch when his grin spreads at the gesture. "The queen took your parents."

"Please, you could have learned that from any local gossip-"

"I'm not finished, lass. The queen took your parents, but not you. You escaped."

Emma tilts her chin, pinning a dry obviously down against her tongue.

"You escaped because they made sure of it. Your sweet parents, who you've never been parted from your whole life, took measures of some sort to ensure your safety, and all you've thought of since is finding a way back to them, no matter if it means braving the very foe they so desired you to avoid. Anything to keep from abandoning them, the way you feel they abandoned you."

Emma could scoff, roll her eyes, and tell him he's out of a bed for the night. Yet her eyes grow a bit wider with his every word, her jaw a bit tighter.

Shrugging, he reads the question on her features, before she can force her lips apart to ask it. "I spent many a year in Neverland, home of the Lost Boys. They all share the same look in their eyes – the look you get when you've been left alone."

Without another word, Emma raises her glass to her lips and swallows a long swig of rum.

His grin isn't as triumphant as she'd expect. Hook's eyes remain upon her, as though there truly is some open book printed upon her skin that he can't help from continuing.

She allows the rim of her glass to linger against her lips in a bid to regain her footing. It's not the end of the world, drinking with him, so long as she keeps her sips short and measured from here. Much as it grates on her to grant Hook yet another flash of insight, he was right one more matter - she can handle one shot of rum.

"My turn." Her glass traces a ring upon his tabletop. "This vendetta against the Dark One – your blood feud… It's not about your hand."

"Isn't it?"

"It's like you said. I had my family taken from me and I-" She would do anything to make the Queen pay for it. Emma chases the words from her tongue with a few more drops of rum. "Whatever you have with Rumpelstiltskin, it's more personal than an injury."

He jerks his hook in front of her face. "Would you call this a mere injury, love?"

Emma continues, unperturbed by the point of his hook and the edge to his voice. "Fine. More personal than a maiming. He took someone from you."

Milah, she almost continues, the woman from the tattoo. But she's already gotten the reaction she was looking for.

Even when he lowers his hook from her face, his fist remains clenched white around the table's edge, and his eyes narrowed into dagger points. "Quite perceptive, aren't you?"

"Like you said." she takes another sip of rum, a longer one this time, maybe because she wants the warmth, and maybe to distract herself from the intensity of his gaze. "Open book."

Eyes not wavering from hers, he fills her glass to the brim once more.

"Or perhaps you simply relate. Tell me, love, how would you see the queen suffer for stealing your family from you?"

Emma's fingers tie a tight knot around her glass, absorbing its every drop of sweat.

He shakes his head down at the table, a low chuckle slicing his voice. "And if you'd watched as she'd torn their hearts from their chests, and crushed them right in front of you. What would you do then?"

Even when she had company on her journey, her family's knight had only ever treated her as a victim – a charge to be comforted and coddled over what the Queen had done to her. No one has ever asked what she'd like to do to the Queen in turn. "I-I…" Not that she hasn't considered it.

"Would you be content to move on?" Fingers slowly unclenching from the table's edge, he leans once more across the table. "Forgive?" he spits her mother's mantra from his mouth like a spoiled bite of food.

She blames the rum for the burn taunting her throat. "I take it you aren't."

"Oh, I'll move on once I take my vengeance."

"Rumpelstilitskin has been locked up in a cell for almost twenty years. I think it's safe to say he's gotten a bit of a head start on that."

His fingers rise from the tabletop to play with a stray lock of her hair. "It's safe to say, princess, that he's in for far worse."

Emma leans back in her chair, pulling her hair back with her. His hand follows the motion briefly, before falling back to his glass.

Much as he had enjoyed the easy smiles and coy words she'd given him so freely at the tavern, he must admit the princess to be something more of an enigma without the mask.

He'd understood his plans for the bar wench. Straightforward, predictable, and only of any relevance for one night's span. She had been a simple creature then, all surface appeal and pretty words.

His eyes follow the princess's glass up to her pink lips. Although there's certainly something to be said of the surface as well. "If you had your Queen locked away and powerless, what precisely would you do to her?"

Her tongue darts out against her lips, reclaiming the drops of rum loitering on its curve. "It wouldn't be my decision. She'd be judged. Given a fair trial."

"And you'd be content to sit idly by, of course."

Face slanted towards her drink, she lifts her eyes to his. "Maybe I'd punch her in the face first."

It's not what he was looking for – a darker confession, a thirst for vengeance to match his own, would have better satisfied his expectations.

He releases a course laugh. A small, surprised smirk creases her mouth at the sound of his amusement.

An enigma, indeed. He's almost reluctant to see her depart – particularly when so much remains unresolved between them.

He's kissed many a wench since his centuries of celibacy in Neverland, yet none have left him as curious as the Princess Emma - though that could very well be no more than an outgrowth of how… unfulfilled they'll leave things.

Hook takes another long sip, allowing the rum on his tongue to recall the feeling of her lips on his – the heat of her breath pushing at his mouth.

Her tongue sprints across her lips again, setting the corners of his own mouth into a twist. And what thoughts might that particular taste drive back into your mind, princess?

His hook digs into his thigh, worrying the leather of his trousers and prodding an ache at the skin beneath. The princess will leave, he'll have the Dark One's location from her, and this fixation will fade.

(Or perhaps his mind will continue to grope for the taste of her mouth, the tug of her fingers against his hair – continue to envision her golden locks splayed out upon his bed, her legs twined around his waist.)

He doesn't lower his glass from his lips until the last of its rum has found his throat.

"Thirsty?" Cocking an eyebrow at the size of the sip, the princess teases the rim of her own cup against her mouth.

His hook eases against his leg. "Aye," he says, a smirk snaking through the word.

(He waits a moment before refilling his glass.)

Claustrophobia has never bothered her before, but the walls of this particular cabin seem to have a talent for sending her nerves spiraling with it.

Emma blames the pirate. If his quarters have a knack for crowding her, he has a prodigious skill for it, even when he's nowhere near her.

The movement of a chair screeches against the ground. Pulling himself to his feet and over to her side of the table, Hook extends a hand and a raised eyebrow towards her. "Tell me, how does a princess become so gifted at holding her liquor?"

Muscle memory compels her to accept his proffered hand. Common sense slackens her grip on it a second later.

Her palm readies itself to rise from his just as his fingertips make an absentminded game of kneading over her skin. Emma freezes at the sensation, her hand relaxing once more in his grip, if only for a moment.

Setting the matter of its source aside, the absentmindedness of the touch is familiar. Before everything, scarcely a day had passed that her mother hadn't taken her hand, that her father hadn't rested his wide palm against the back of her head, that she hadn't rolled her eyes in response. Her family's tactility had always seemed to fall in with idealism among the list of traits she did not inherit. Hook's thumb pads across her knuckle. Or she'd always thought it had.

Either way, she's in no shape to be picky. For weeks, she's felt nothing but the brush of the woods and the touch of its leaves, bark, and dirt on her skins. (Her mother might claim a connection to woodland creatures, but deer and doves stay a good distance from Emma, as skittish and wary of her as she tends to be of them.)

So she waits a moment before flinching away, allowing her lower lip to slip from her teeth's hold. "I was never very good at being a princess."

The words leave a sourness draped across her tongue. It's that taste that nudges at her mind, pierces through any rum-induced warmth, and urges her a step away from the pirate. Her hand falls to her side under the weight of his touch's shadow.

With a cock of his head, Hook flexes his emptied hand against his thigh. "If it's any consolation, I do believe you've missed your calling as a pirate."

"Oh, really?"

"Aye."

He could take a step towards to her, close whatever meager distance she's created between them. It would barely take a stride.

The tilt of his head morphs into a brisk shake that tears the train of his gaze from her, and towards the papers spanning his desk.

He doesn't.

The floor is hard beneath her back, somehow cool even as the cabin's air turns sweltering.

She should have discarded her caution, and downed several more shots of rum; with any luck, they would have guided her to sleep by now. The pirate's bed looms several feet away from her. Though gods know where she would have allowed herself to wind up – it's distressing how sentimental she's turned over a soft touch and a few pretty words of insight.

It was better when he was drunk; when his conversation consisted of poorly concealed innuendos and nautical metaphors. Him trying to read her, him succeeding – it's not what she signed on for.

Rolling against the ground for roughly the thirteenth time that night (she's braided a pattern of turning from back to side to her back once more), Emma's teeth butcher her lower lip. Wherever the Queen has her parents locked away, she'd bet Regina is doing a good deal more than simply disconcerting them or depriving them of fresh air.

Emma can't complain much in comparison – she can at least rely upon three meals a day, a pillow (albeit a fairly flat one), and a host without any apparent plan of seeing her walk the plank.

Shifting onto her side, she takes the opportunity to lift her eyes towards the pirate currently lying upon his bed. Not that his tongue couldn't drive her to it.

"Alright, lass." She jerks her gaze away when she realizes that he's looking back at her – and out of bed, following his gaze with his steps. "You're making my back throb just listening to you."

"What are you – let go of me!" But he doesn't, and she finds herself squirming in his arms, then falling towards his mattress. "I am not sleeping with you." His hands reach down to fasten her own against his bedding before she manages to illustrate her point with an attempt at bodily harm.

Hook's head falls back as if begging the ceiling for aid. "Bloody hell, love, you'd know if I meant to seduce you. At present, however, you might show a bit more gratitude – I can't remember ever sharing my bed with a woman for purely practical purposes before."

"Oh yeah, and what practical purposes would those be?"

"I told you." Her shoulders tense in a climb towards her neck when he releases her hands, and climbs upon the bed beside her. "You're driving me mad tossing and turning against the floor – and I thought princesses to be quiet sleepers."

She snorts. "Most people are when they have feather beds."

"Yes, well, I suppose mine will have to do."

In comparison to the fare she's slept upon lately, it's downright luxurious. Still… Emma stays upright, scanning the cabin.

Reclined once more, he casts a wary stare at her. "You might show a bit more restraint over testing my patience, love. You have set an interesting precedent for knocking another unconscious…"

The words drag at Emma's posture, pushing her into a slump. The cabin alone made for close enough quarters; his bed is going to be a complete nightmare.

Nevertheless, Emma folds herself on top of his bedding without another word. If she's going to sleep here, she'd prefer to drift off on her own terms (or retain the option to lie there awake and annoyed until dawn, just waiting for him to give her a reason to run).

If he cares that she hasn't followed him beneath his quilt (which he damn well shouldn't; it's sweltering and she has no need for his blanket or body heat), Hook's slight smirk is the only sign.

Emma had steeled herself for several hours' more exile from sleep upon lying down next to the pirate. She hadn't considered that Hook might have resigned himself to the same fate; yet, if the stiff cast of his body weren't enough to suggest it, his open eyes would be.

She's heard rumors about pirates before, of course – that they take women to bed often enough, but rarely welcome them to remain there for the sake of sleeping alone. He's clearly no stranger to the former. She wonders over the latter. (It begs the question of exactly how quickly Hook would have been done with her had she followed through on her act).

Emma ignores the way her already strained muscles plead with her to relax, and remains as compact and straight as possible. All the better to avoid accidentally rolling against him.

She barely notices when sleep submerges her eyelids under its weight.

It's not the point of a dagger that wakes her that morning, but a grumbled sigh against her shoulder.

Emma tenses, mind momentarily flailing for where exactly she is, and with whom the hell she could be sleeping. The ship and its captain come tumbling back a moment later with consciousness; she remains tense.

Turning slightly, she scrutinizes the man beside her. For all of his bed's narrow width, he still managed to leave her a bit of space – save for the invasion of his face against the curve of her shoulder.

He groans again. It takes her a moment to recognize the grunt as a name.

"Milah."

Emma's eyes widen. Whatever she dreamed that night, the memory of it scattered clean from her brain when she woke (thank God). Hook still seems to be in the thick of whatever images have gained purchase on his mind.

Well, at least it's not her name etching a pattern against his breath. Better he sigh for the woman whose name resides upon his forearm.

Slowly, Emma goes about easing herself away from his bed, edging one foot to the floor. Her toes trace it first, shivering at the loss of heat. Her sole follows. Yet just as she manages to wrangle her shoulder from the mattress and lower her other foot to the floorboards, Hook's hand darts out to snap around her arm. His fingers clench an ache into her skin that prompts Emma's teeth into a hard grip on her lower lip.

He opens his eyes, stares at her, and for a moment looks utterly lost (she knows because the exact same look has seeped across her own face several times among the identical trees and endless paths of the forest).

"I thought you wanted me to wake up early."

He blinks. His grip loosens with the motion, as though the backs of his eyelids hide a map. "I believe I said sunrise."

Emma shrugs away from his hand and onto her feet. "Yeah, well, I just couldn't wait to get started on another day of sitting around."

Hoisting himself onto his elbows, Hook flashes her a smirk. She pushes away any doubt her gut may nurture over its genuineness. "That well rested, love?" His eyebrows make quick work of spiking along with the question.

A scoff brushes her lips. "It's a bed. I've been sleeping on the ground for weeks. Of course I'm well rested."

Sleep slipping easily from his muscles, Hook swings his legs to the floor with nary a yawn. "You do have a peculiar way of showing gratitude."

"I'll show gratitude when you get me to shore."

He takes a step towards her, a shadow spreading his lips wide. "Is that so?" His breath combs over her temple.

A blush and a smirk war for claim over her face; she opts for the latter. "Yeah." Emma tilts her head up at him. "Get me to my destination, and I'll tell you where the Dark One is as soon as we hit land."

The next breath that reaches her head is short and gruff. "A worthy prize." The smirk levels from lips, his eyes fall from hers, and his breath abruptly leaves her skin, as Hook moves towards his dresser. Emma turns around, finally giving herself over to the blood rushing towards her cheeks.

She wonders if it's the memory of a burning pain separating his wrist from his hand that etches a jaggedness throughout his breath.

Her gaze locks against the wall. Not that it matters. It's not her job to puzzle him out.

"Land ahoy!"

It's as half-hearted a yell as Hook has ever heard.

The crew's disappointment, an entity almost as sharp as his hook and nearly as heavy as the Jolly's anchor, weighs upon his ship when they make port. Hook cants his head towards the distance. For as cold a rebuke as he'd give any man who dared complain, he can hardly blame them for their discontent.

Lifting his telescope (treacherous creature that it is) to his eye, Hook surveys the shore. And sees nothing. Nothing of substance, that is – rather a lot of fields and grass, with an utterly rural village to match them. A dream vacation for livestock, perhaps, but a bloody desolate home for a princess. Certainly not a destination of much excitement for a deck of men with no sodding idea why their captain has chosen to sail them there.

"Forgive me for asking, Captain, but why exactly did you offer your wenchpassage here? You can't have had any interest in visiting farmland-" Smee's curiosity tapers into nerves with a flash of Hook's teeth and a sharp spike of his eyebrows.

"I have my reasons, Mr. Smee. You'd do well to remember that they're my own."

Flushing pink, Smee's fleshy throat bulges as though taking on the task of swallowing the rest of his sentence. "Of course, Captain."

His feet strike thunder down his cabin's staircase, recourse for each curious look he no doubt draws along with him. It's no matter. He'll as likely as not leave his crew behind soon enough; best to leave himself free and untethered to pursue the Crocodile.

The princess waiting for him in his cabin, however – she, he would almost rather keep aboard. In fact, if all she desired was safety from the Queen, he reckons he could ensure that quite easily. Few would think to look upon a pirate's ship for her. Procure a bit of hair dye (although it would be a bloody crime to strip her waves of their gold), and fewer still would take her for the lost princess.

But she wants more than mere safety, and he has plans that don't involve running the extra risk of a fugitive. Centuries' worth of plans, to be precise.

Centuries' worth of dreams about his Milah, and last night's was the first to spin her hair blonde and her eyes green.

A long breath coursing from his throat, Hook steps down into his quarters. Yes. It's for the best that the lass depart now.

Commotion seeps down from above deck, stirring Emma's posture straight and her chin towards the stairs. By the time Hook appears, she's on her feet and half-way through considering the risk of climbing them herself, his orders be damned.

"As promise, milady, your destination." The force of his steps – you'd think a giant was invading his cabin – eases when his feet reach the floor, lightening along with the corners of his mouth.

Her kneecaps beg to buckle even as her legs plead to move. To run. It's been such a long time since she's felt as though she was running towards something, even with the vague destination she's kept ever ready at the back of her mind; the black knights made sure of that.

Destinations don't mean a thing unless you make it through the night.

Still striding towards her, Hook's shoulders and mouth conspire in a shrug. "Granted it's a bloody rural life you've chosen for the time being – didn't peg you the farming sort, to be honest - but that's not the matter at hand, is it?"

"No," she says, even as her tongue rolls back the urge to ask what 'sort' he'd pegged her for exactly. "It's not."

His pace has surrendered all noise, turned more saunter than anything – yet Emma would swear that his every movement is still pounding against her ears. She steels herself against the urge to retreat, clenching her hands at her hips instead. By the time he stops before her, they could maybe fit one of his books in the space between them.

Her eyes flicker to his bookshelf.

One of the thinner ones.

Yet he doesn't make any attempt to move closer with his feet, hand, nor hook. He only raises an eyebrow at her. "You got what you bargained for. I believe it's time you return the favor."

Emma's scrutiny darts from his bookshelf to his window, fixing itself upon the glass, the ocean beyond it, and finally the sight of land. She takes her time shifting her eyes back to Hook (although they'd rather dart, although they're just as eager as her legs to find shore). "And how do I know you've taken me to the right place?"

"Lots of farmland. Nothing for miles and miles. Utterly barren of excitement. Does that sound like the place?"

A beat later than it should have, her chin lowers into a nod. Slowly, Emma's hands loosen their grip against the ache they've carved into her hipbones. It's near enough to what she's heard described to her, at least.

She wants to run.

She wants to stay firmly rooted to the familiarity of the floor.

Emma settles for breaking eye contact. "I take it you're looking for your reward then." Turning around to face his table, she grabs for a piece of paper and a quill.

She feels him close behind her, even before his hook pins the spare piece of parchment against the tabletop. "Unless your parents have enclosed the Dark One away in a labyrinth, I believe memory alone will serve well enough."

The quill drops from her fingers, spilling a trail of ink against the white square.

"Right. I…" Emma's throat closes around the words, her eyes following the quill's descent.

"Yes?" Hook's breath stains her earlobe. "It's a tad late for second thoughts, love."

A deep inhale swells her stomach against the table's edge. "You could turn me over to the Queen once I give you what you need."

His hand moves to rest beside her. "I may be a pirate, but I also consider myself a man of my word. Claiming the price on your head now – well that would just be bad form."

A deep exhale follows. She believes him. Cynical Princess Emma, ever so proud of avoiding her parents' naivety, always so wary of idealism, and she believes him. Her face scrunches into a cringe, eyes flickering shut, brow creasing, and lips pressing tight together. In a rush, she forces them apart. "The mines."

"Sorry?"

Gradually, she turns around to face him – and realizes the extent of their proximity. His chest heaves against hers, his arms locking her in place. When she raises her chin, its stride nearly strikes a blow against his neck. "They converted the Dwarves' mine to hold him – something about the magic or the energy or something. I never paid much attention to the story. But if you can find the mines, you'll find him."

The words seem to strip all recognition of her presence from his face. His eyes lock behind her shoulder, somehow wide and sharp all at once, as his mouth slackens. "Oh, I can find them." She's grateful that he doesn't add a nod to the words, as his chin would doubtlessly prod her face with the motion. Any motion, really. Warmth rising towards her cheeks, Emma begins the effort of edging away from him, sliding back against the table and moving to pull to the right. Or the left. She's not picky, as long as she manages to escape the feeling of his breath quickening against her cheeks.

Her eyes dart down to his arms. This would be a hell of a lot easier without them still tense on either side of her.

"Well, uh, thank you then." All it takes is a nudge for him to look down at his arms as though the limbs have grown foreign to him. Without hesitation, he pulls both back to his sides. She wrangles herself barely a foot away from him before halting, her own muscles suddenly fastening.

Maybe she's gotten used to the claustrophobia of his quarters. Maybe her legs are lazy from days of rest. Emma can hardly tell if she wants to move, only that she can't figure out how.

"And to you, princess." She watches as he snaps back into himself, eyes glinting and tongue moving once more. "I suppose gratitude is in order." As if to make up for the seconds he lost in thought, his eyebrows arch back to life against his forehead.

"Kind of defeats the purpose of a deal."

"So that's all this was? A mutual exchange of goods and services."

Emma's lips curve. "Yeah. That's what a deal is."

Turning his face to the ground to hide a grin, Hook bites his lip and raises his eyes towards her. "Interesting tidbit about deals - some think it good luck to seal them with a kiss."

"I'm pretty sure that's supposed to happen before both sides fulfill their ends of the bargain."

He lifts his face once more, not bothering to hide the smirk playing on his features. "And you always follow the dictates of tradition, I'm sure."

"Please." Emma doesn't think to break eye contact, even as she shakes her head. "You couldn't handle it."

Nor do his eyes move from hers. "Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."

A laugh rises and falls down Emma's throat (and still, she doesn't look away).

It's easier than it should be. Her feet freeze as soon as she takes one look towards the stairs, and her legs have gone half-steel and half-liquid, but it's easy to sway the step separating them. It's easy to curl her fingers around the collar of his jacket, and it's easy to dive her mouth against his.

And why the hell shouldn't it be. It's not as though she'll ever see him again.

His lips freeze against hers at first, still as stones, as if he'd never meant for his teasing to actually work. That lasts all of a moment, and then his mouth is demanding against hers, his hand clenching among her tangled blonde waves.

Even without the taste of rum cloying at her senses, it's familiar - the feel of him against her, of his hair between her fingers, of their lips sculpting to one another's.

Hook crushes his free arm against her back, leaving her writhing against him without flicker of space left to call her own.

Familiarity fades. Heaving a deep breath against his mouth, Emma rests her forehead against his and goes still. It's that stillness which finally gives her legs the will to back away.

He's dazed again; this time his eyes don't fix upon the distance but on her face. "That was-"

"Good luck." Breathless, her voice gropes for air. "For the Dark One." Emma's lips just manage to pull into a smirk. "You'll need it."

His eyes continue to follow her towards the cabin stairs, even as his feet remain motionless. "Aye." She swallows a relieved sigh when a slow nod claims his head. "And you as well, Princess."

Lips tightening into one last smile, Emma turns towards the steps, and gives herself over to the impulse she's fought since first stepping into his quarters. The one that had abandoned her scarcely a moment prior.

She runs.