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Light of All Lights - A Fairy Tale in Five Parts (2/5)

Notes: As always i want to first thank @caprelloidea for dealing with my tendency to be a needy mess, and offering truly amazing insight and suggestions. I love you a lot. Incredible banner by @thesschesthair

The response to this fic has blown me away and I love and appreciate every one of you for loving it as much as I do. This fandom truly is amazing.

Summary: When his ship crashes onto a secluded island after a storm Killian “Deckhand Hook” Jones finds himself the unlikely companion to the dark “goddess” who inhabits it. A fairy tale in three parts.

Rating: Explicit for very obvious reasons. Some mild violence. Angst.

Word Count: 17K+

Part One Here

ON AO3

_____

The hardest part of the day was the dawn. The sun cresting the edge of the water, a small glow growing brighter on the horizon, the colors of a new morning filling the sky. She watched every daybreak, her own private penance, the darkness hissing and clawing the entire time. It loathed this indulgence. It dealt in death and pain, not the hope of a new day dawning. It was a quiet rebellion watching the sun rise, the world coming to life.

When she was younger, before the darkness, she had missed almost every one. Her family had teased her endlessly over her love of sleep, the difficulty that came from trying to wake her, her sneaking away for afternoon naps when she should be minding her lessons. When Aunt Aurora visited it was even worse, teasing jokes and spindles left by her breakfast plate. Her brother playing Prince Charming, tiny lips pressed to her forehead. Now she rarely slept, she didn't need to, going years without it, the accompanying nightmares making it a distasteful thing, if she had any fear left in her it was reserved for sleep.

“Oh,” the whispered breath by her side startled her out of the memories. For such a clumsy man he was remarkably good at sneaking up on people. She supposed it was a consequence of trying to go unnoticed, a measure of protection. She had been alone for so long she’d forgotten to expect people, it was so rare to be sought for company alone, and even then she had never had anything to fear, not from anyone else at least. He had succeeded again in surprising her, but she was at least more prepared this time, her awareness of him stilling her arm before her mind caught up that he was there.

“Don't you sleep?” She was a bit more harsh than she intended, gripping her arms to hug herself, keep herself contained. “I seem to remember people needing sleep.”

“I did a bit,” he rubbed the back of his head, not at all put out by her tone. She imagined he had heard worse, and the sorry feeling returned, a faint twisting in her chest.

“Habit I suppose,” he gestured out to the sunrise, looked out of the huge windows of the conservatory, the entire wall and roof nothing but clear glass filled with orange and pink light.

“Oh! I can...go?” He seemed to realize he might be intruding, his feet already backing away before she could answer, his head bowing in apology, but slowly, measured, as if he hoped she’d call him back.

“No.” This too came out harsh and forceful, lifetimes of coldness weren’t banished in a day after all, and he froze immediately. Emma sighed, willing herself to relax. “It’s fine. I've seen a hundred thousand.”

He reeled a bit at that information, blinking away the truth of her long life, mouth gaping, doing the math. It made her uncomfortable, and she itched to know how he felt about the unyielding and cruel facts of her long lived and immortal life.

“Good thing they’re all different then,” he said after a moment, smiling cheerfully. It dimmed a bit at her face, impassive and neutral, watching the pale pink light play over him. He continued on in a rush. “I mean, the colors are different every day. And sometimes there's birds.”

“Sometimes there's birds,” Emma repeated slowly.

He flushed, his eyes squeezing briefly closed in embarrassment. He rubbed at the back of head, the hair there sticking up in sharp little tufts, already matted by his pillow. He was endearingly sleep rumpled. If she wasn't there she was quite sure he would have smacked himself in the face. She gave him a small wry smile to let him know she was teasing. He only flushed deeper and turned to more fully face the glass. The smile grew.

“May I-may I go down to the beach later? To see the wreckage..of my ship?” He seemed reluctant to ask her, nervous, as if she would refuse him. He didn't look at her as he asked, watching the sunrise. The smile dropped.

“I said you could go where you wanted. Did you not believe me?” She was angrier than she would have liked, rubbed raw from memory, all these new or rather, old, emotions, her words coming out biting and hard. She didn't expect him to necessarily trust her, their time together had been so brief, a day and a night, though it felt like longer, and she had killed an acquaintance of his, but she also thought she was very clear, he was no prisoner, she couldn't do that to him. He had been a prisoner for too long already. The darkness licked its lips. Her eyes flashed, nails digging into her arms.

“No I-,” he looked at her wide eyed and just as quickly turned away embarrassed. “I wondered if...you might, if you aren't busy, I don't know what you do during the day, I'm sure it's probably quite important, but if you wanted to-” he was babbling, his eyes widening like he knew that, but couldn't stop himself.

“Killian,” Emma said firmly, bringing him up short. He nodded gratefully at the interruption, lashes fluttering, and took a deep breath.

“I thought maybe you could accompany me?” It came out in a rush, and it was only a row of lush green plants, set in their wooden beds behind him that kept him from skittering away from his own question, as if he wanted to be physically as far from it as possible once it was out in the world. He reached back to keep from falling over, his hand sinking into black soil. Emma had to turn her head to keep from laughing, her ire gone in an instant as he shook the dirt away.

The darkness laid back down, resentful.

“Sure,” she said amused. “After breakfast we can go down, and I need to see to my... guests.”

“Guests?” He looked up confused, then seemed to realize she meant the prisoners, his hopefully former ship mates. Killian looked a bit uneasy at their mention, whether because of the thought of the crew themselves or what she had in mind for them, Emma didn't know. She watched him struggle for a minute, “What are-” he cut himself off immediately, reading her face. She finished the question mentally, receiving her own answer in turn to what truly bothered him. Her chest filled with ice.

“I'm going to feed them,” some of the elation she had felt at his awkward request to join him on the beach dimmed, replaced by sharp annoyance. “I'm not a total monster.” She was, but he didn't know that. Shouldn't know that. Would never know that.

“No-I didn't-” he shook his head.

Looking at him, unable to speak, from his own inherent nervousness or something else, she felt the darkness lift its head, smelling opportunity, slithering around her heart, settling into that cold and hollow space. It was too much, her memories, his sudden presence, his unyielding timid fear of her. He’d said he wasn’t scared of her, that he didn't fear her, yet here he was, practically trembling from a look.

He thinks you’ll kill them, the darkness whispered, cruel but honest. Now, why would he want them alive? They hurt him, made him like this. Who could forgive such a thing?

Emma closed her eyes, the sun too bright, Killian’s face too open and apologetic.

What’s he playing at? What does he need them for? They always have a plan, dearie. You know that. You have to be ready for it.

Her fist clenched at her side, nails digging into flesh, lifetimes of betrayal played across her mind. Hadn't she been weak before, hadn't she trusted before?

The glass rattled in its panes and she heard Hook breathe in next to her, quick and distressed.

She had vowed never again, but then this man had washed up on her beach, beautiful and broken, like a gift from the sea.

The rows and rows of lush green plants behind them tremored and shook, leaves trembling as rage boiled up, the crackle and hiss of magic filling the air.

The darkness laughed.

He was supposed to be different, he seemed so new, but he could be exactly the same. Wasn't that the purest truth of all humanity? They were all, every one of them, exactly the same.

A ceramic pot vibrated off a shelf, shattered and broke on the floor, the tinkling melody of destruction, the same as the song in her soul, and it snapped her eyes open.

Hook looked as if he had been struck, wide eyed and fearful, still glowing orange and pink in the sunlight. The fright in his face, those wide blue eyes, only made the anger grow. Maybe he should know she was a monster. He swallowed, reaching out his hand.

“Emma, I’m-”

She didn't feel like waiting for his mouth to catch up, didn't know what she would do if she did, hated that he knew her name, so she just turned from the view of the sunrise, the sun now a golden orb over the water, and walked from the room.

_____

Less than a day and already he had offended her. It wasn't near a record though, he could sometimes manage the feat in a single sentence, but this one was worse. He truly hadn't meant to hurt her, or anger her, whichever he had done, they were inextricably linked, one and the same. He felt like he was walking in a room filled with precious breakable glass, unsure of where it was safe to step, crashing into entire shelves and toppling them whole.

He trailed after her, not because it was necessarily the safest thing to do, her steps pounding and angry on the stone, but because he was at a loss as to what he should do. She didn't look at him as they entered the dining room, waving an arm to fill the table with the day’s fare with a short jerk. It amazed him, all this bounty with barely a thought, that she could move the very foundations of the earth while remaining perfectly still, that she had seen more sunrises than some lands had people. It was thrilling and terrifying, the scale and enormity of her, so much contained in one slight woman.

Killian barely hesitated, his movements automatic, grabbing the tray and the plate before she could move towards them.

“You don't have to serve me,” she snapped, moving to grab them.

“Please,” he clutched the metal tray closer to him, awkward in his arms, as if he could possibly stop her if she truly wished to have them. His heart stuttered, he didn't mean it as defiance, quite the opposite, but this was still new, fragile and breakable, and she might not recognize the difference. His life would be so much easier if he could express himself in pure intent and desire rather than words and gestures.

Thankfully, she did stop, her cool gaze running over his face. Killian had never met a member of royalty, but he imagined they looked a lot like this, straight backed and imposing, physically overwhelming despite her smaller stature.

“You aren't my servant, I can take care of myself,” he couldn't help but flinch a little at her tone, imperious and regal, cold as ice, freezing in his veins, his grip automatically loosening to obey her.

“I know, but this is-” he sighed, agitated, trying to find the right word. “This is familiar.”

He didn't realize how true it was until he spoke it aloud. He wasn't used to any of this. He had awoken this morning alone, in a strange bed, sinking into luxury, with no purpose for the day, no Captain to serve, no duties assigned. He had spent every moment of every day of his bloody life it felt like accomplishing the tasks of others. He didn't have any of his own. Even their brief journeys ashore, what should be his leave, had him fetching drinks and finding the crew willing whores, dragging drunken men home on his back. Other than the rare moment he stole to read a pilfered book, buy a lonely bath instead of company, or look at the stars just because no one could stop him, he’d never had something of his own to do. Going down to the beach to comb the wreckage was the first thought he’d had, an attempt to see what of his old life was salvageable, a physical reminder that this was real, that things had changed.

He wasn't sorry exactly, he didn't miss it certainly, the novelty of freedom was still burning brightly in his chest, potentially hanging somewhere in a nebulous future, but his fingers were itching, his brain a jumble. He was untethered and anchorless here. He needed something of a purpose, a course to chart as it were. Even if it was something as silly as serving a meal.

Emma’s face softened fractionally, a blink and you missed it relaxation near her eyes. They still burned bright and cold into his, and he imagined she could probably see into his very soul. Was that a power she possessed? He feared what she would find there, possibly unworthy to the very core, worthless and dispensable to the basest parts of his being.

She didn't speak, just nodded once, and went to her place at the table.

Her nods this morning were more curt, her body rigid, as he moved over the fare. He wanted to apologize, to correct her misinterpretation. He didn't think her a monster, on the contrary she was the kind of woman who could keep the monsters at bay. She was strong and powerful, self assured and confident, an avenging angel, punishing the unworthy, freeing the downtrodden, giving a worthless wretch a chance.

Hook could tell her none of this though, the words would come out wrong, he knew this. He had destroyed enough this morning, the sun barely in the sky before he laid waste to what they had built with his useless mouth. So he crafted his apology with the fruits he knew she liked, arranging them as prettily as he was able with poor balance and one hand, a flower plucked from a vase on the table laid next to the silver metal plate, an apology in pink petals.

If Emma noticed the extra flair she didn't comment, just nodded her thanks and gave a pointed look at his own plate, making sure he knew he could eat as well. It still felt strange, not only dining with another instead of ducking the snatching hands of his crew, shoving food into his mouth in shadowy corners where it couldn't be stolen, but with a beautiful woman, an overwhelming variety and abundance within his reach. He took the plate and walked the length of the table, back and forth, eyeing her in his periphery, hoping she would hear his silent plea.

“Eggs, some of the bacon, kippers, and…” Emma seemed to think a moment, looking down at her own plate. “Strawberries.”

She wasn't smiling but he could almost hear it in her throaty voice if he listened hard enough. He had spent a fair bit of time arranging the strawberries. He bit down on his lip to keep the delighted grin from splitting his face, looking down so she wouldn't see. He wasn't some besotted schoolboy, he could at least attempt some manly dignity. Still, there was a boyish spring in his step as he piled her selections on his plate, heart a bit lighter. She had noticed.

They ate in silence, slightly uncomfortable, the weight of his careless words hanging over every bite, every stolen glance, almost all of them his. Emma was staring at nothing, her face an unreadable mask. Some of his delight ebbed, the memory of shattered ceramic, soil spilling over the floor, it still wasn't right, he had still made a mess of things.

“I could-,” his voice rang out in the dining room, much too loud, and he winced, lowering it. “I could feed them.” It seemed like something he should do, a task he should fulfill. Slinging slop to a band of dirty pirates seemed beneath her, even if it would just be a blink or a wave of her hand.

Emma did look at him then, guarded and suspicious. He wanted to crawl away, as he had suspected, he was only making this worse.

“Why?”

“It just seems like something I should do. As your...Companion?” He hated the hopeful lilt on the last word, hated how desperate he probably seemed to her.

“Afraid I'll skin them alive? Rip the flesh from their bones? Eat their still beating hearts for dessert?” This was all delivered with a deadly false cheer, but even in that silken smoke he could hear the faint edge of hurt.

“No!” His knee banged the table, his movements ungainly, unsure of what he was even trying to do. Get up, go to her, make her read the words on his face again. He didn't know. He settled back in the chair embarrassed and frustrated.

“No.” He repeated, not nearly as firmly as he intended, more a whispered plea than anything. It was hard to be forceful when she was looking at him with those eyes.

The silence stretched between them, and it made his heart thud against his ribs, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

“Fine.” She picked up her fork again. “You can handle them.”

“Thank you,” it came out automatically, the one thing always uninhibited by his useless tongue. Her fork paused halfway to her mouth, and she relaxed a bit at the edge of his vision.

When he cleared her plate later, the flower was gone.

_____

In theory feeding a dozen men seemed easy. He had done it many times, but that was in the small ship’s galley, the food readily at hand. Emma had provided him a cauldron of stew, hearty and hot, and more than they probably deserved. They had called her a whore after all, and worse.

She had looked at him though, hesitating before she created it out of thin air, that back and forth battle in her eyes before she waved her hand. A cauldron of stew and dry stale bread, a King’s feast in comparison to some of the rancid slop he had gagged down in the brig. Definitely more than they deserved.

He lugged the cauldron down the twisting flight of stairs, his muscles straining, then went back for the stack of wooden bowls and spoons, one for each. He could hear them spitting and grumbling even on the landing, a few sharp rings of metal as the determined continued to beat the bars.

His heart didn't start up until the labor was done, standing at the threshold of the sand colored stone. These men hated him, would kill him if they had half a chance. He had abandoned them, left them with barely a glance backwards, had slept between silken sheets, been entertained by a beautiful woman, had washed her naked skin, the memory of her scent still filling his head. They would slit his throat for just the first.

He knew these men though, had endured their taunts and abuse for years. They had taken more from him than any men rightfully should, and it was with this thought, emboldened by his change of fortune, that helped him step into the corridor. He felt their eyes on him as he dragged the cauldron, could feel their sneers as he went back for the bowls, hatred hot on his back.

“If it isn't the traitorous swine,” snarled Evans. He came up to the bars, at least half a head taller than Hook, and twice as thick. He’d lost an eye in a bar fight years back, and unlike some, felt the twisted scar and curling empty socket was much more intimidating than the patch. Hook tended to agree.

His hand was trembling as he arranged the bowls, ladling a healthy portion of stew into each one, ripping off equal hanks of bread. Slowly behind him, one by one, the men all came to the openings of their cells like wolves scenting blood, circling fresh prey. He heard the dull ping of wood on metal, someone's billy club, and the hissing rasp of swords drawn from leather sheaths. He had forgotten that they could do more than beat the bars with the weapons they still possessed. He gulped.

“Is her quim all silvery too?” Jasper asked, practically licking the hinge of the door. He made a jerking motion with his hips, tiny monkey like face twisted in a sneer.

“Bah, like ‘e got anywhere nears ‘er quim,” Starkey grunted a laugh.

Hook clenched the ladle, steadying his breath, deep gulps of air, in and out. His hand was trembling, with terror, revulsion, the thin and weak thread of anger that came whenever they spoke, winding through it all making his chest tight.

“You know what we do to traitors, Hook,” came an eerie voice, snake slick and grating, punctuated by the metal of a knife on iron bars. “What we’re going to do to you.”

“Let us out,” came another, punctuated by a loud bang. Hook jumped at the noise, slopping liquid into the floor, dark against the cream colored stone. It looked like blood.

“If ‘e knows what's good for ‘im,” Starkey stared him down with cold brown eyes, his teeth yellow and snarling under an unkempt beard. “Then let me at the bitch. I’ll slit ‘er throat from ear to ear.”

“Don’t,” it was not nearly as threatening as Hook intended it, a shaking, trembling plea.

“Don’t wha’?” Starkey challenged, pressing against the bars, shifting on his feet.

“Don’t-” Hook took a breath. “-don’t talk about her.”

That predictably set them off, a chorus of whoops and high pitched hollers echoing off the walls. Hook closed his eyes, jaw clenched, his chest heaving.

“You ‘heard ‘im,” Starkey’s voice rose in pitch, “Don’t talk about ‘er!”

“I think he’s in love,” Evans crowed. “Is all of her that cold Hook? Like ice on your cock I bet.”

“Like he would even know what to do with his cock if she gave him the chance.”

It didn't matter. None of this mattered. It was the same things they always said. It was no different. A bare chested woman shoved in his lap, apologies tumbling out against his will, men circling, taunting, grabbing his head to forcefully shove it between hot flesh until he couldn't breathe. Women sneering down at him asking him what was wrong with his cock, what was wrong with him, the scents of sweat and sex and foul unclean breath mixing into a fetid haze with the stench of alcohol and the unwashed.

It was different though, she wasn’t some disinterested prostitute in a run down whore house, she was practically a goddess, even if she denied it. She had given him his freedom, her skin was scented with roses and sweet smoke, she looked at him like she wanted him. Emma had given him more in one night than anyone had given him in his entire life: deliverance from heartlessly cruel men who took and took and took.

He kicked a bowl of stew towards the bars of Evans’ cell, the tiny bit of bread tumbling into the dust. He almost didn't feel his leg move, happening so quick he couldn't pull it back. The twisted smile fell from the man’s face and Hook’s heart froze in his chest.

“I will kill you,” Evans said, his voice deadly serious. Hook swallowed.

“You can’t hide behind her skirts forever,” Jasper added with a giggle, jittering in place.

“Please,” Hook said finally. He couldn't have calmed the tremor in his voice if he tried. His whole body was shaking, anger and frustration, fear and dread, a slavering cowardly mess of emotion, trembling before them. He hated himself for pleading. “I'm just trying to feed you.”

“So feed us,” Starkey said, all good humor now.

“Your weapons,” Hook motioned with his hook, the light bouncing off it as it wavered. “Put them at the back of the cell.”

Starkey tossed his club behind him, hands going up in supplication, his grin wide.

“There see?” the man said. Hook nodded, murmured a quick thank you, and picked up a bowl, tentatively walking towards him.

“No weapons gents,” Starkey said cheerfully to the crew. He was in charge now. There was the clatter and bang of several men following suit. Evans however continued to glare at him, knife glinting in the torch light, and Hook edged away.

He reached out, offering the bowl, the bread balanced precariously on the top. Starkey smiled that yellow and black toothed grin.

His hand snapped out cobra quick, grabbing the front of Hook’s shirt, and yanked him painfully into the bars. His hook banged against the metal, the bowl clattering to the ground spraying hot liquid as his hand went up to grasp the man’s own. But Starkey’s grip was iron, and Hook could barely dig his nails into the hard calloused flesh.

“See, I don't need no weapon to kill you, Hook,” the man snarled in his face, spittle spraying across his cheeks, sneering the name. Starkey’s other hand came up, out of the bars towards Hook’s neck.

Killian couldn't even cry out it happened so fast, pulling back as hard as he could, nothing more than a muted whimper coming out, but the man held fast. Killian raised his hook, intending to strike, to try, but Jasper reached out through the bars of the adjoining cell, grabbing the metal easy as you please, jerking his arm painfully to the side. Starkey yanked, iron pressing painfully into Hook’s chest as the man pulled him tighter against the door.

“I'm going to kill you, and then when I get out of here I'll see that bitch on ‘er back, and then,” Starkey’s harsh whispered threat ghosted foul breath across Hook’s face, the man’s other hand snaking up to grab his neck. “-then I'll do the same to ‘er.”

Starkey squeezed.

“Will you?”

The gnarled hands released him before he could blink, a golden light pulsing and strong illuminating his captor, edging him in frosted gold, throwing the huge man backwards. Starkey hit the stone wall with a sickening crack, bones no doubt shattering and snapping, and he fell to an unconscious heap on the floor of the cell. Jasper flung the hook away like it burned, and scrambled back into the shadows of his own cell in terror. Evans lowered his knife.

Hook gasped, sucking in air, bracing himself on the bars. His legs were shaking, knees buckling, his hook vibrating against the iron as he collected himself. He snatched it away at the noise, hugging it his chest.

“I'm sorry,” he panted out finally. “I thought I could.” Thought he could what exactly? He wasn't sure what he’d thought he could do. Face them? Confront them? Make himself of use to her? Regardless, he had failed utterly. He rubbed at his throat.

He turned to look at her. Emma tilted her head at him curiously, her face that smooth placid calm, but her eyes were brilliant shining emerald. A storm of rage swirled in their depths, thin dark brows narrowed with deadly intent. With a wave of her hand the spilled stew, the bowls and wooden spoons disappeared. In their place was a single flagon made of dark gray metal.

“These cells-” Emma addressed the men, all of them now uneasy and fearful, watching her carefully, no longer wolves but frightened dogs. It sent a tiny dark thrill through him to see them cower for once.

She ran her nails down the door of Starkey’s cell, slowly circling the metal plate of the catch, “-have no locks. I'm sure an industrious crew of pirates like yourselves noticed they had nothing to pick, and thus, no way out.” Her smile was all teeth as she addressed them all.

“But I have let you keep your weapons.” She frowned in mock, pouting, confusion.

“I wonder why that would be?” she tapped one nail tipped in black against the crimson of her mouth. Hook licked his lips, following the movement, anticipation settling between his shoulders.

Her hand rose up and she snapped her fingers, the crack impossibly loud in the still silence of the dungeon, all of them holding their breath. In one wisp of gray white smoke the walls dividing the cells disappeared, one huge communal chamber taking their place. Hook watched the men regard each other suspiciously, hands on swords, fingers gripping wooden clubs and small deadly daggers, unsure of the game unfolding.

“I have water here for you,” Emma said with a cheerful singing coldness. She motioned to the small flagon dead center of the chamber on the corridor floor, within reach if one were clever.

“Enough for one man for a day or so, maybe two... if you share.” She was practically purring now, her teeth unnaturally sharp in the flickering torchlight. “Promise me you’ll share?”

And then she walked away, a brief look over her shoulder at Hook letting him know he should follow. He did, hurrying after her, and he did not look back.

_____

The darkness was unsatisfied. It swirled and scratched against her mind, wrapping itself around her shoulders, settling heavy on her chest. Games were fun, but they were never enough, not nearly enough. It wanted marrow and blood, flesh and muscle. Retribution.

In time, she told it. Soon, she soothed.

She had no intention of letting them get away with this. Killian’s face pained and frightened, fingers around his neck, held down and helpless, flashed across her mind.

Soon.

“Pardon?” Hook asked from her side, his voice breaking through the churning shadowy fog. She had spoken aloud.

“Are you alright?” she replied instead. She stopped walking. He looked okay, his neck reddened and scratched, his chest flushed. She wondered what he was thinking. The words on his face were all rapidly fading fear and stark relief, which helped a bit.

“Oh,” he looked down at himself as if he wasn't sure. “Aye, I’m-,” Killian whispered the next, “-more embarrassed than anything truly.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. He had nothing to be embarrassed about. It was her oversight. She had left those men with their weapons, she didn't have cause to fear them after all, they couldn't hurt her with them, it made them feel powerful and strong until they realized how useless they really were. But Killian was made of fragile flesh, soft and so very mortal. She had made a mistake, allowed her suspicions that he could be colluding with them to get the better of her, and as consequence he had glimpsed a small part of what she could do, what she was capable of. Emma stepped closer.

Killian’s eyes went wide, his brows lifting in surprise as he backed into the wall, his hand and hook moving nervously at his side. She reached out, running the tips of her fingers along the cords of his neck, tracing the red marks with a whispered caress. His eyes slid closed and she felt him swallow against her. She kept moving, gliding them down like trickling water, smoothing across the pronounced bone of his collar, dipping briefly into the fascinating hollow there, to the bright crimson streaks on his chest, bare and exposed by his shirt. He was so warm, so alive, every breath rising against her hand, she imagined she could feel the pounding of his heart through her fingertips.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered, tracing the angry lines where his skin had pressed against iron. It could bruise, and they would pay for every shade of purple, every tone of blue. She wondered if the tautness of his muscles, the fluttering in his jaw was fear, of her, of what she was, what she had shown him in the dungeon below, or just of her, a woman touching a man.

“Not anymore,” his breath was ragged, his eyes tightly closed, the lashes pressed against his cheeks, so long, thick black against golden tan. Emma arched up, onto the toes of her boots, and feather light ghosted her lips across the firm flesh of his neck. He jerked beneath her, surprised, his eyes flying open, brilliant blue. She saw the answer in them, no fear there just plain and honest lust.

Emma stepped back with a small secret smile.

“Do you want to go down to the beach?” she asked breezily. He could only nod, mouth open in reverent awe, his hands brushing where her lips had touched.

The darkness snarled and retreated.

_____

She had changed into a long black dress, smooth silk, the sleeves open and short, her pale arms bare and white in the late morning sun. It fluttered in the breeze off the water, teasing glimpses of curves as it pulled against her skin, flaring out as the wind receded. He liked it very much.

But all he could manage, all that unspoken poetry filling his head, and all that came out was a simple and ineffectual. “You look-.”

She just smiled that small secret smile, reminding him of lips on skin, her feet bare in the sand, perfect little toes painted crimson to match her mouth. That mouth fascinated him. He wondered how the delicate arch of her feet would fit into the curve of his hand. He shook his head.

The castle rose high and sprawling on rocky cliffs above them, the smooth white sand of the beach dotted by intruding bits of debris. Wood and sail, rope and half dried piles of clothing, empty crates and broken casks brought in by the tide. The refuse of their broken vessel littered the picturesque landscape like a pox, and he was suddenly very sorry. They were intruders here.

There was a small tan shell in the sand next to the remains of a broken chair, whole and perfect, and he picked it up, tossing it lightly in his hand before slipping it into a pocket.

As they came around the bend, he saw the ship, half of her gone, the rest laying dead and discarded in pieces all along the beach. He felt his heart clench. He had no love for her occupants, his time aboard her had been the worst of his life, but the ship had always been a thing of beauty, now open and bleeding wreckage onto the sand. When he had first seen her, trailing awkwardly after Blackbeard to his new home, she had seemed to hold a world of possibilities. Surely a ship so bright, sunshine yellow and royal blue, held nothing but good in her depths? How very wrong he had been.

There was another shell in the sand just before the battered prow, a scotch bonnet, white tipped in swirling blue, pink and pearl perfect on the inside. He scooped it up to join the other.

“Do you want to search the ship?” Emma asked. She was watching his face, white tendrils of hair brushing her cheeks in the breeze.

It didn't look safe to do so, the wood creaking as the waves lapped, the vessel rocking precariously on the sand bar, but reading his mind she held her hand out. The ship moved with loud scrapes against the sand further up the bank, groaning with every inch, water receding in a rush, a huge open wound in her side revealing the contents within.

They approached the ship together.

The Jolly’s insides were pitch black, haunting even in the daylight, a ghost ship now, all skeletal remains. Next to him Emma made a soft blue orb in her palm, gentle light filling the rooms. He smiled at her gratefully.

“This is where you slept?” Emma toed a bit of coiled rope on the tilted floor of the crew quarters. It had fallen from its peg.

He pointed to the corner.

“That one, I shared with Carlsdale, I don't think he made it,” he couldn't remember seeing the tiny angry man among the crew in the dungeon. He would have been on deck when the ship struck, he was on the night watch. Carlsdale had once dumped a bucket of rotting fish guts onto the deck under Hook’s face as he’d scrubbed away the grime, kicking the stiff bristle brush in his hand, sending it spinning, so it landed in the slop.

“You missed a spot,” were the last words Hook could remember him saying. He wouldn't miss him much.

“Is there anything left-” Emma wrinkled her nose in distaste at a pile of mouldy clothes. It was so at odds with her normally cold expression it made him grin. “- of yours? What?” She stopped her question.

“Nothing,” he ducked his head, still smiling, and went out into the hall, bracing himself against the wall to keep himself upright. She followed after, taking it all in.

“It’s very small,” she commented.

“It's worse when everyone’s on board,” he agreed, testing the hatch that led to the brig below.

“What are you doing?” She peered at him curiously, holding her glowing orb higher so he could see.

“I think it's still here,” he let himself drop down the hatch into the hold, his boots hitting with a dull thud. It smelled of rot and sewer, familiar smells, thick green slime covering most of the surfaces. He looked up at her sharply, peering at him over the lip of the hatch.

“Don’t-,” he blew out a breath. “Don’t come down here.” She narrowed her eyes, face cast blue by the light.

“Why?”

Because I don't want you to be tainted by this filth. He wanted to say. Because I don't want you to picture me here. Because this place is so far beneath you I can't imagine you in it. Because I cried on that rotting mattress and threw up spoilt food in that corner, pissed and shit in that bloody bucket for weeks on end, for dropping a plate, or burning the meat, or some other inconsequential crime. He swallowed the thoughts down.

“It’s dirty,” he said finally. Emma huffed annoyed, but she just leaned in further to give him more light, and stayed above.

“What are you doing down there?” she asked. Hook felt along the boards, till he found the one he needed, and with a sharp pound of his fist the wood sprang free.

“I hid my things here,” he answered. The small metal foot locker was thankfully still there. He slid it out of its hiding space carefully, tucking it under his arm.

“In the brig?” She peered over the hatch again, leaning in a bit further.

“Aye,” he grunted as he grabbed the wooden rungs, hauling himself up, the pitch of the ship making it more difficult. It was a bit easier to breathe with each one, the room fading away as he climbed. Emma backed away, reaching down to help him with her free hand. She pulled him back up to the slanted hall as if he weighed nothing, looking at the box curiously.

“Is that it?” she asked. He rattled it cheerfully.

“All I want,” he motioned towards the light pouring in from the hole in the side. “We can go, if you like.”

Emma scanned his face for a moment, brows furrowed, and nodded, leading the way out, back into the day.

“I could fix her,” Emma said, almost reluctantly, the orb disappearing, her hand bunching the fabric at the front of her dress. “If you wanted. She’d be yours if you want to…” she didn't say “go” but he knew what came next.

He looked at the sad remains of the beautiful vessel, outwardly lovely, one of the prettiest ships in all the realms, but inside she was ugly with memory. He shook his head.

“No, leave it to rot,” by his foot he spied a tiny cockle, the edges chipped and sharp, and holding his box, all he had in the world, under his arm, he reached down to pick it up, shoving it into his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked. She was studying him again. “Why do you keep picking those up?”

He blushed.

“For you, for your,” he waved his hook. “Circle things.” He didn't know what they were for, but he’d seen the piles of shells and feathers on the table in her workroom, bits of them adorning the ones hanging from the rafters.

Emma froze, the wind whipping her hair around her face, pale porcelain skin shining in the sun, statue still. She looked every bit the ethereal goddess he believed her to be. She just stared at him, until his skin prickled uncomfortably, the silence stretching. And then she moved, her feet sinking into the beach.

The metal box fell forgotten into the sand as her hands cupped his face, warm despite the cold appearance of her skin, and she pressed her lips to his. His eyes widened in surprise, his arms waved a moment unsure of what to do before settling by his side. He was afraid to touch her. Emma moved perfect lips against his own, hot and soft, and his eyes slid closed.

He had been kissed before, the young daughter of a dockworker, a cool dry mouth pressed against him behind a stack of shipping crates, startlingly fast before her father yanked her away, cuffing him about his dazed head. Bolder prostitutes believing they could kiss his shyness away, tongues too wet, lips chapped and cold, reminding him of fish and musky city air.

This kiss was more of a first kiss than any of those, true and sweet and firm. She slanted her lips across his own, electric warmth curling down his spine, her tongue tracing the seams. He gasped in unchecked pleasure, and she took the opening, deepening the kiss, her fingers digging pleasantly into his cheeks. His knees were watery, threatening to buckle beneath him as a surge of pure unadulterated sensation filled him to the brim. He wasn't even sure if he was kissing her back, his mind blank with sudden lust and warmth, every stroke of her tongue sending frissons of unrecognizable energy into his limbs. A soft moan vibrated against him, rocked him back on his heels, his hand clutching suddenly at her thin waist to ground him.

The world could burn around him, set ablaze by the Gods, and he would have absolutely no idea. Emma’s mouth hot and moving across his own, the press of her breasts against his chest, her skin warm through her thin dress on his hand, that was the only reality he knew. The world tasted of strawberries.

Her teeth tugged briefly on his bottom lip as she pulled away, hands sliding down his neck, another jolt of sensation going straight to where he was hard and straining. Cold sea air washed over him as she hummed in low satisfaction, her eyes opening slowly with lazy desire.

He wanted to grab for her, pull her back, the loss of her lips a truly terrible thing, as if some part of him had been stripped away, exposed and bare, revealed to the open air and sea. His arms lifted weakly, his body swaying towards her, but cowardice rocked him back.

“That was-” he shook his head to clear it, brilliant buzzing white noise where thoughts should be.

Emma smiled that small secret smile in the sunlight, motioning at his feet.

“Don't forget your box,” and then she was making her way along the beach, back towards the looming castle above.

Hook scrambled, his nerves on fire. It took him two tries to scoop the box back under his arm, his boots slipping along the sand, threatening to topple him, as he followed her awkwardly up.

_____

She had meant to wait to kiss him. He was still too skittish, too fearful, overwhelmed by the changes in his life so far, dazed and wide eyed, taking it all in. He clutched his box of treasures like a lifeline, trailing after her in fogged confusion. He looked as if she had ravished him on the beach instead of just putting her mouth to his own.

She should have waited, but he looked so hopeful in the sunlight, those shells clinking in his pockets, the desire to please her on his face. Her skin buzzed with heat thinking of his breath gasping into her mouth, the slick warmth of his tongue. She licked her lips, pretending she could still taste him.

He kissed like a flustered youth, like a stolen moment in an orchard under bright summer sun, unsure yet of how they fit together, where his hands should go. He was ungainly and awkward to be sure, but she knew that future ruin lay in those lips, destruction in that tongue. He could one day lay waste to her. He had no idea of his potential, the word heavy with new meaning, and that thrilled her more than any skilled mouth ever had or ever could.

Just take him the darkness whispered impatiently.

Killian flushed as he caught her dark gaze, darting a glance to her lips before forcing himself to look forward. She pushed the voice away, its metered hiss replaced by warm lips and a hand on her waist holding on for dear life.

She could feel every part of her keenly. Her thighs squeezing tight, rubbing together as she led him through the castle, her nipples rasping against silk. She ran her tongue along her lips and tried to breathe. So much sensation from such a simple act, awkward and new, desire heating her from within. She could only imagine what he could do with time.

She needed to get away, find some measure of release, or she would lose hold of her fragile patience, all her grand plans of a slow and methodical seduction. She would frighten him with her intensity, send him scurrying from the flames.

“I'll find you later, find something to occupy yourself,” he stopped walking immediately, her tone rushed and snappish. She risked a glance at him again. That same lost look, drowning in possibility, and her stomach clenched in sympathy.

Impatient, the darkness growled.

“Go read a book, or tend the garden, I don't care which,” the voice that came out was barely her own, too lyrical, too fast and full of barely restrained giddy glee. Hook relaxed a bit in relief, but he titled his head to the side peering at her.

“Are you-” he paused, unconsciously licking his lips. “-alright?”

Her skin felt too small, her scalp prickling, she needed something to siphon off the excess of energy, dull the edge. One type of lust was much the same as any other, blood or body it made no difference. She was decidedly not alright. She nodded.

“Fine, fine, off you go!” More lilting sing song nonsense, the voice her own but not the words, the cadence, the tone. Hook furrowed a brow, concerned, worry replacing heady lust, but he nodded.

“If you need me,” he said softly, uncertainly. “I'll be here.”

Emma couldn't look at him any longer, she would change her mind, her skin crawling, the darkness grinding its teeth in anticipation. She spun and made off for the dungeon without looking back, the urge to turn around, to go to him, rubbing her raw.

_____

Hook carefully picked shattered shards of ceramic out of dark soil, careful not to disturb the twisting bed of roots. He had briefly considered finding a book, losing himself in the words, but his mind was too busy, his limbs needing action, his nerves needing an open view of the sea.

He wasn't entirely sure what had happened.

He cradled the tiny plant in his hand, scooping it up with the back of his hook into his palm. He could probably still save it he reasoned, the green leaves were still bright and healthy, the roots intact. He didn't know much about plants, their care and keeping, but he liked them. He carried it to an empty space in one of the raised rows, his hook acting as a spade as he made it a new home amongst the rest.

It was an easy solution: pick it up, dig a hole, set it to rights. Simple. Understandable. The rest of it he couldn't make sense of.

Emma had not reacted as she should. Instead of angry confusion, that all too familiar look of disappointment, of betrayal, as if his mouth had made a promise he hadn't fulfilled, she had looked almost pleased. She looked as if she still wanted him, inexperience and all, unlike the rest. Her eyes were bright and shining with what he’d thought was lust, but she’d also left, just as fast as the others, the taste of her barely gone before she was. He wasn't surprised, but he was very confused.

He patted the soil around the tiny thing down, and frowned going over what he could remember. Her lips, soft and warm, fingers on his face, her body flush against his own. He licked his lips, reddened at the memory, but he was at a loss.

He couldn't make her dinner, the kitchen was empty of food, unnecessary here with her magic and pointless anyway since he could barely cook. His room was as clean as when he’d entered, the bed made, pillows rearranged, no trace of either of them there. The little plant was the only thing out of sorts here, besides himself.

He gave it some water from a tiny flask on the shelves and wondered what to do.

_____

She found him in the sitting room, in the same chair as that first night, the high back imposing, making him seem smaller. He’d lit every candle and then some, the room as bright as day, yellow and flickering, a worn book in his hand, the spine cracked, the leather cover ripped. He was startlingly handsome, it had only been a few hours but the candle light playing over the cut of his jaw, the slope of his ears made her feel like she’d forgotten, like she’d never known at all.

It made her feel dirty, her hands cleaned of blood, her ears free of pained and tormented screams, but she she could still feel it, bright brilliant red running down her wrist, could still hear the pleading cries and begging moans ringing in the air. She shook her head.

He didn't hear her for a moment, brows furrowed in concentration as he read, his hook tapping against his leg, quick and rhythmic, his leg jumping beneath it from nervous energy. She watched him for a moment, the jerking turn of the pages, his mouth moving ever so slightly as he sounded out the words. He was upset. Emma frowned and stepped into the room.

The book fell from his hands with a clatter to the floor, and he leapt up at the sight of her, a half bow before he corrected the action, sheepishly rising. He rubbed his ear, smile small.

“Hello,” he bent to get the book, his place lost, and awkwardly shoved it back into the metal box on the table next to him.

“What are you reading?” She couldn't glimpse the cover, the lid of his footlocker obscuring the view. She desperately wanted to know. It wasn't one of her books, all their covers pristine, perfect and unmarred. This one was roughly used, the pages had been worn, water scarred, the binding barely containing them.

He glanced at it for a moment.

“A poem, it’s Greek,” he lifted it from the box in one jerking movement, shoving it into her hands.

Emma stroked the scarred leather, ran her fingers along the spine, the title once embossed in gold faded, the remaining letters unfamiliar.

“You read Greek?” She looked up in surprise. He shrugged.

“Not very well, I'm afraid,” he gave that quick smile, barely a pulling of lips, the flash of perfect white teeth. “I'm only marginally better in English.”

“Why Greek?” she asked softly, carefully putting the book back, curious eyes taking in the rest of the box’s contents: a few smooth stones, a black feather, a red piece of cloth. There was nothing valuable, not in the traditional sense, no gold or jewels, just moments of his life held in seemingly inconsequential objects.

She collapsed into the chair across from him, her legs over the arm, dress sliding down towards her hips. She watched him, waiting for him to answer as he travelled the length of them with his eyes, teeth on his bottom lip, before he looked away, remembering himself, clearing his throat. Emma smiled.

“I liked the letters,” he carefully sat in his own chair across from her. Emma raised an eyebrow as he went predictably red.

“What did you like about them?” There was no teasing in her tone, just overwhelming interest, every detail of him fascinating, every tiny triviality revealing more and more.

“Ah,” he hesitated, taking a deep breath, thinking. “Well some of them are strong, familiar, bold strokes,” he unconsciously moved his hook by his leg, imitating them. The simple gesture made her warm.

“And some are-” he paused considering. “Beautiful, with these curves-” his gaze flickered back to her legs, his hand moving now, turning inward to imitate them. “-and uh, circles like a, like a picture.” He fisted his hand in his lap.

“Did someone teach you?”

“A little. We had a passenger, man by the name of Nuru on Captain Silver’s ship. A merchant. He taught me a bit,” he shrugged. “He was very...” Killian thought a moment. “Patient.”

“A good man then?” Emma asked softly.

“Oh aye, he gave us sweets, lokum he called it, never had the like,” a small smile ghosted over his face at the memory. Emma mirrored it on her own, then rose a bit to attention, hearing his words.

“Us?”

“Ah,” he tugged at his ear. “My brother and I. Liam.”

“Liam,” she tested the name on her tongue, and across from her Hook jerked as though in pain. She frowned, but didn't press. He would reveal it on his own.

“Show me what's in the box,” she said instead, part command, part request. He relaxed a bit, nodding. He reached over, pulling it on his lap. It was old and dented in places, rust teasing at the corners and the hinges creaked as he lifted the lid higher.

“It’s not much,” he warned.

“Your pirate treasure?” she teased, the tips of his ears flaming red, that brief flash of nervous smile, more satisfying than almost anything.

He lifted a few of the small stones, different colors, some shiny and smooth, others rough and jagged. He weighed them in his hand, letting them fall through his fingers like sand to ping back in the box, one after the other.

“The places I've been,” he explained. “When I could sneak away to get one.”

“You’ve been a lot of places,” she murmured, most of the bottom was covered in various stones.

“I've traveled a long time,” he admitted. “But I haven't seen much truly. Most ports are the same wherever you go. Sometimes, I wasn’t allowed off the ship, or there’d be more.”

“Did you-” Emma hesitated, her chest clenching with anxiety. “Did you like it? Traveling so much?”

“Aye,” he nodded, the feeling in her chest twisting like a knife. “Most of the time, I didn't mind it at any rate. Didn't have much say in where we went.” He chuckled to himself, small and self deprecating.

“What else is in there?” her voice had that hard edge, and he looked up in surprise, eyebrows knitting together.

“Not much,” he held up the red cloth. “A scarf, my father's, he left it behind.”

Anger replaced the sharp piercing anxiousness, it was so much easier to deal with anger. She focused on it. A coward, disappearing into the night, leaving his son, sons, nothing but decades of debt and a single scrap of cloth. Some of her rage on his behalf must have shown on her face because he shoved it away hastily, burying it beneath the stones.

“The book, Nuru gave me that.”

“What’s the feather for?” She leaned closer, forcing the anger away, her voice softer. The black feather shone inky blue and purple in the candle light. He picked it up, twirling it between his fingers. He didn't speak for a long moment, just stared at it, shining and changing colors as it spun.

“A-” he cleared his throat as his voice broke a bit.

Emma wanted to leap up, press her palm against his mouth, stop him from speaking. Whatever had made his eyes look like that, made his face twist in heart wrenching anguish, she didn't want to know, she didn't want him to even think of it, but he was already continuing.

“A raven landed on the deck, the day my brother-” he swallowed. “-the day he passed. Landed right in front of me and just...stared. Right into my eyes. The crew thought it was a bad omen, a raven on the day of a death. Swore I was next. Men of the sea are a superstitious lot,” he chuckled darkly. “I thought it was him, saying goodbye.” He gave a pained smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a hint of teeth. “Childish nonsense.”

Emma did stand then, smoothing her dress, crossing the distance between them. The feather fell forgotten into the box on his lap.

She pressed a hand to his cheek, his eyes sliding closed, pressing back against her.

“How did he die?” Her voice was whisper soft, just pressing against him, afraid to do more, sorry she had even asked. She had intended to peel the layers away, find the man beneath, learn the truth of him, but in doing so, by indulging her selfish curiosity, she’d left him raw and exposed, paying the price for her unwarranted suspicions. She pressed against him harder.

“He got sick, an ailment of the chest,” he kept his eyes closed, moving into her hand. He said it so matter of factly, as if it had happened to someone he didn't know, but she could feel him trembling against her. She didn't move, holding him up.

“Captain Silver wouldn't send for a doctor, and I didn't have the coin to send for one myself.” He sighed into her palm, her fingers stroking the soft hair of his cheek. “I found a hedgewitch at the next port, gave her all I had for a brew she said would help him. I was bloody terrified, the stories they told,” he shook his head. “But Liam was so sick, could barely breathe from coughing.”

“Did it?” Emma stroked his ear, over the elven tip, running her fingers along the hair curling at the bottom. “Help him?” He curled into her, shook his head against her hand, eyes still squeezed tight.

“One of the crew said I got bilked, 'twas nothing but dried bits of herbs.” His voice was thin. “He said, I should have tossed it into the night's stew for flavoring, it would have done more.”

Her hand tensed in his hair, icy rage filling her chest.

A name the darkness whispered. Give us a name.

Killian looked up, his eyes red rimmed but clear, his cheek fitting perfectly into her palm, the scruff of his jaw scraping gently across her hand. He jerked away.

“We could add it to your collection,” he said quickly, too loud in the silence of the room. He pulled back, snatching the box.

“Killian no-” the darkness forgotten, the name forgotten, Emma went to grab him. He set the box aside, placed the feather on his lap, and reached into his pocket to pull out the shells from earlier.

“No, no, I want you to, it's just sitting in this box, and you can actually make something with it,” he moved desperately, shaking jerks as he gathered it up with the shells, pressing the lot into her open palm, closing her fingers around them, squeezing them tightly. His hand tremored, squeezing so the hard the bony surfaces of the shells dug into her flesh. She didn't mind.

“Killian. I can't accept this,” she whispered, jagged bits of forgotten sea pressing into her skin.

“‘Course you can,” he smiled up at her, fake but steady, eyes soft in yellow light, a light sea foam green. She didn't want to, but she would.

“Okay,” Emma said. She clutched them to her chest. “Okay.”

______

The broken pot was gone when she came for the sun in the morning. The soil had been swept away, the jagged pieces discarded. She saw its occupant in freshly tilled soil, a new place in the row of lush green. She bent over it, whispering terse good mornings, feeling distinctly silly, but she’d read once that talking to them helped them grow, thrive, a human voice threading through the darkness. People were much the same, but plants were much easier than people. The green life in their orderly rows, the only things that had heard her voice for decades, until a storm raged and brought men to her shore. One in particular.

This plant had obviously meant something to him, this tiny little thing. He had rescued it, taken the time to carefully find it a place of its own, made it warm and given it life. She wanted it to do well, grow big and tall. As stupid as that was, it felt important.

She had a similar plan in mind for Killian, a new strategy taking shape in the night. Her hand on his cheek, tangible physical comfort accepted when he was distracted, jerking away when he came back to himself, made her realize what she needed to do.

She waited as the sun crested the horizon, heard his footsteps light in the hall as blue and gold broke the edge of the sea, felt his presence in the room as red purple light filled the sky.

He smiled at her as she turned, his hair sticking on end, hand rubbing idly under his jaw. He was slightly out of breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the vee of his shirt, as if he had run the distance. She felt out of breath herself.

She crossed the room, watching as he tensed, posture going rigid, and could only imagine the intent in her eyes, the expression on her face, a tigress stalking its prey. She stopped in front of him.

He looked down at her, his lips slightly parted, a pink hint of tongue just above the ridge of his teeth. He opened his mouth to speak, but she reached up, tracing a slow path from his brow, down the slope of his cheek, the hard edge of his jaw, the space where his ear joined, and down.

“What- what are you doing?” He swallowed against her fingertips and she pressed lightly against the skin of his neck, at the hollow of his throat, felt his pulse there quick and fluttering.

“Touching you,” she murmured. She shifted closer, chaste strokes, down the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulder, scratching across the fabric of his shirt. He was barely breathing, eyes locked on her own, violet in the dawning light.

“Why?” He whispered, his breath hitching as she smoothed down crisp dark hair, her palm flat, fingers splayed across his heart. It thumped rapidly against her hand, his breaths quick and short. She could feel them, every gasp of air, every unsteady exhale.

“Because you need to learn,” she murmured, her hand dipping lower, the opening of his shirt granting her easy access to the shifting muscles of his chest, his ribs, following the trail of hair to a hard torso. He shuffled, drawing closer but pulling his stomach in.

“Learn what-” his voice was ragged, strained, moving into her while trying to maintain distance. He panted out one long steadying breath. “-exactly?”

“How to be touched,” she murmured, her hands finding waistband, fingers teasing at the edge. She could make out the ridge of him beneath his pants, and she longed to run her fingers down his length. All in due time.

“I don't think you know how,” she said reasonably.

“And you’re going to-” he swallowed thickly, his voice tight. “-teach me?”

Emma nodded, tracking back up, his narrow waist, the grooves along his back, taut perfect muscle shifting beneath her hand, the raised ridges of scars, each knot of his spine, rising under her fingertips. He shuddered against her, leaning closer.

“I don't-” he started, but she was pressing two fingers of her other hand against his lips, drifting across soft warm flesh, pressing lightly where the pair came together. She rose up on tiptoes, and feather light, pressed her lips to the spot.

“Shh,” she whispered against his skin, the purple of the room turning tawny yellow as the sun climbed higher. He closed his eyes, turning his head to the side as if to chase her, but she was already moving, the scruff of his beard deliciously rough against her mouth. She bit his jaw, his gasp quick at the feel of her teeth, hips jerking.

She stepped back, bringing her hand back across, around the rippling planes of his back, the broad slope of shoulder, down his biceps and the sinews of his forearm, to his hand, linking the fingers, feeling hard rings pressing against her own.

He opened his eyes slowly, black in the yellow morning sun. She smiled up at him.

“So, breakfast?”

_____

Killian was quite sure that she was trying to kill him. He was positive he would let her. When he'd imagined death before, his insides freezing, hollowed out in fear at the thought, that vast yawning sense of nothing that came from such musings, it was always for the same reasons: hunger, violence, the cold dark waters of the sea, racking coughs filling his lungs with blood, alone and forgotten. Never had he dreamed it would come from warm lips pressed to his skin, soft hands tracing his body, his heart shattering against his ribs, struggling for air.

She traced the veins of his wrist at breakfast, mapping the lines of him with her fingertips.

She ran her nails through his hair, scratching against his scalp as she said good bye, gentle orders mouthed against his jaw, sending shockwaves down his spine.

She would disappear for hours, leaving him to his own devices, to read or tend the plants, and appear from the thin air to press her body against him, wind her arms around his neck, drag her teeth across his ear, her breath echoing in the shallows of his skin.

He spent the day in gleeful anticipation, a new sort of game for them to play. Empty rooms where he read alone suddenly filled with grasping hands and ghosting lips, a soothing murmur as he tensed and trembled.

She didn't kiss his mouth, but her lips found the ridge along his collar, the tips of his fingers, the place where his heart tried to break free of the confines of his chest.

Her footsteps were the prelude to warm breath against his neck, a signal flare of oncoming sensation, weak knees and grunted gasps, raw voiced greetings his only reply to searing caresses and her heated mouth.

She was an efficient teacher, her lessons lips and tongue and touch. Pressing him into the dark shadows of the hall as he walked to the study, surprising him as he made his way to the dining room, hoping to find her there and getting so much more than he expected.

He was hard and raw most of the day, barely catching his breath, straining against the confines of his own skin. She was merciless and beautifully cruel in her ministrations, leaving him aching with want, the scent of her skin and his own increasingly desperate need left behind in her wake as she went about the secret business of her day.

Sweeter still were those small smiles as she watched his face, that intense curiosity as if she wanted to see all of him, huffing breaths of delighted laughter pressed against his chest as he stumbled or stuttered, comforting words whispered against him when he apologized or flinched. Patient tenderness laced with heady desire.

He could barely remember his own name by the time night fell, waiting with rapt attention for her in the sitting room, looking at the pages of a book but not registering the words. When she appeared before him, in that black silk robe from the first day, her legs long and perfect, eyes narrowed in concentrated lust, he knew that if the goal here was his destruction, that he would not weep for being destroyed.

_____

There were two men dead in her dungeon, blood and struggle weaving the tale of their demises on the stone floor, and Emma gave a gleeful laugh at the looks on the remaining faces. She rewarded them with buckets of crystal clear water, ice cold and perfect, and they gulped and slavered wretched thank you's at her feet.

But that was not the focus of the day, that would be victory, seeing revolting men brought to their knees, terrified and desperate, the joy of vengeance on her tongue. Her victory lay in reverent awed gasps and crumbling restraint. Her victory lay in a clutching hand at the small of her back, pink lips murmuring her name, in storm blue eyes begging her for release.

Her victory sat in yellow candlelight, a book on his lap, his fingers idle on the pages, surprised and happy delight on his face when she came into the room.

The darkness had spit and raged and moaned all day, and each time she had sought out Killian, silenced it with her lips, her teeth, her hands. Shoved it down and quieted it with fleeting touch and ragged panting breaths in her ear. Her sunrise rebellion was nothing compared to Killian’s lashes fluttering against his cheek, his teeth biting down on firm lips. The darkness was seething, frothing silence and Killian was warm, firm, flesh and pounding heart.

He traced a path down her legs with his eyes, not able to help himself, sitting straighter in the chair, the book sliding down forgotten on his thigh. She crossed the room with measured determined steps, giving him a moment of warning, some time to collect himself. His lips tugged up in a smile, brief and quick, before opening again, taking in her expression.

She tossed the book away, pages fluttering before it thumped somewhere in the room. He looked up at her, apprehensive but curious, his teeth tugging at his lip in nervous anticipation. She smiled, slotting one knee, then the other on the outside of his thighs. He leaned back with a gasp as she rose above him, hovering above his lap.

“What-” he started to speak, but she pressed a cool finger to his lips, feeling lost words moving against her before he quieted.

She leaned in, keeping her gaze steady on his. She could feel his breath against her face as she came closer, and pressed her lips against his own. Killian melted beneath her, that sweet dip and drop of submission, opening his mouth to hers. She guided him with mouth and tongue, slick and hot, gliding across his lips, licking into his mouth, teaching him how to receive and how to give. He moaned beneath her, the sound catching in her mouth, vibrating against her tongue and Emma sank down with steady deliberation.

He was hard between her legs, the ridge of him pressing against where she was already wet and hot and bare. She had spent the day tasting him, touching him, and she burned. She ground down, feeling that sharp burst of pleasure against her core as he groaned against her mouth, arching upwards against her. She rose up again, aching, wanting more, but she knew the rules. He shuddered beneath her, his mouth turning desperate, repeating her lessons back verbatim with the stroke of his tongue against her own. She draped her arms around his neck, tilted her head to kiss him deeper, buried her fingers in thick dark hair, and lowered herself again.

Killian lifted his hips, chasing her heat, a desperate hum against her mouth as he bucked into her. She let him, grinding down, shifting forward to glide against the entire length of him. She bit his lip, tugging it, his breath gasping against her as she rocked back and then forward again and again.

“I-” he strained against her, fingers digging into her back, the flat of his hook against her thigh. “I can't-” she captured his mouth again, rocked forward and back, sharp spikes of pleasure with each movement, a quiet buzz under her skin. She stroked his tongue with her own and ground down one more time.

He jerked away with a gasp, his hips rocking up, and he cried out, pressing his face against her shoulder, tensing and straining with his release.

“I'm sorry, I’m-” his breath sobbed out desperately against her chest, warm through the fabric of her robe, his head shaking back and forth in denial. “I didn't-”

“Shhh,” Emma stroked his hair, feeling him relax beneath her.

“I'm sorry,” he panted out a quiet, miserable, apology against her skin.

Emma leaned back. He was flushed a pale pink, the barest sheen of sweat along his brow, regret written all over his face. He closed his eyes in embarrassment. Emma took his face in her hands, pressed her lips to his forehead.

“Why are you sorry?” she demanded in a whisper.

“Because I didn't want-” he couldn’t seem to find the words again, shaking his head once more.

“Killian.” Emma commanded. His eyes snapped open. “What did you do wrong?”

“I couldn't-” he sucked in a breath, his chest still heaving. “I didn't want to-”.

“What did you think we were doing?” Emma smiled down at him, a wicked thing. “You did exactly what I wanted.”

He froze, looking up at her in disbelief, eyes wide.

“But I-” he shook his head again. Her grip on his face became firmer, holding him in place, forcing his gaze to hers.

“I told you this morning, you have to learn to be touched.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, his face deliciously dazed.

“Now come along,” she held out a hand. His fingers were warm in hers, clutching at her, anchoring himself. Emma smiled at him again, echoing words from another day. “We desperately need a bath.”

_____

Emma stripped him bare again, and prepared this time, it was easier for him to let her. His limbs were too lax and boneless for him to protest much, the pleasant hum of a recent release made him pliable, the delicious peace and calm that came after such a moment soothed his nerves, his mind quieted by pleasure soaked haze.

Emma was quick purposeful movement, shifting in front of him from foot to foot, his shirt pulled over his head with scraping swiftness, her fingers flying over laces. She rubbed him down with hot friction, her palms smoothing over his exposed chest, nails scraping his shoulders. She crackled in the steamy air like recently struck lightning, pale cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

He covered himself as best he could, still too nervous to stand bold while bared, his thighs sticky and cool in the air. Emma scraped her teeth over red lips and stepped back, toying with the silk belt of her robe, those legs and tiny perfect feet shifting beneath it.

“Your turn,” her eyes were hard, unyielding. Killian blinked in confusion looking down at himself, already naked, his clothes discarded in a pile at his feet. She lifted the belt of the robe meaningfully.

“Oh,” he blinked. “You meant...together? We need a bath.” The only thing that kept him from scratching the sudden itch behind his neck was the need to keep himself covered.

“Yes,” she seemed almost unsure, checking his face, making sure it was okay. She stepped towards him. “Killian.”

The command was in his name alone and he only hesitated a moment before taking the thin rope of silk in his hand. It was loosely knotted, fell apart easily under clever sailor’s fingers, no fumbling here, the robe parting. It covered full breasts, just the barest hint of curves peeked out from the slit of dark fabric, the smooth expanse of her stomach, firm and taut, pure white against the contrasting black, the soft hair in the furrow between her legs yellow cream.

She shifted closer, urged him with her body to continue, more silent commands. He reached up, sliding the robe off her shoulders with hand and hook to pool on the floor, cupping the rounded curve, stroking momentarily with dancing fingers on the exposed skin, tracing the freckles that had fascinated him before.

She reached up, fingering the straps of leather that crisscrossed his shoulder, leading down to the thick cuff that held his hook, covering the blunted end of his arm. Killian froze, cold fear trickling down his back to replace the warmth, and he made to step back.

“Do you want to take it off?” She asked, her fingers tracing the lines, the skin slightly red where it rubbed him raw, the skin thicker and calloused in parts from years of wear. He shook his head quickly.

“It can get wet,” he shifted his shoulder slightly, her fingers dancing against air as he moved away.

His mind screamed at him to get away, to pull his shirt on and run. She hadn't seemed to notice it before, had avoided touching him there, allowing him the illusion that it was joined with him, no different than any other part of the whole. Her focus on it now unnerved him, his skin too small, the hook heavy on his wrist, pulling him down.

“How did it happen?” She asked, all innocent curiosity, her hand hovering over the metal. He shook his head in snapping jerks. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever.

“Please,” he whispered. He didn't want to ruin this, he didn't want to feel this now, he was still warm and sated, her lips still burned into his memory, her heat on the most intimate part of him, riding him to release, and he clung to it, not wanting to sully it, damage it with pain, override it with things better left in the past. He just wanted to hold onto this bliss for a few more moments, live in this new present.

She looked up at him, eyes scanning his face, touching each strained and anxious feature. She simply took his hook in her hand, and led him to the tub, hot water and rose scented bubbles awaiting them. He could breathe again, taking in the scent that reminded him of her, of here.

The tub was plenty big enough for two but he felt like his legs were touching every part of hers as they settled, and he shifted in the water, pressing against warm stone to give her room. She chased him with her limbs, rubbed her feet and calves on the outside of his thighs, their game was not nearly over, his hook forgotten as he felt her body intermingled with his own.

He went to grab the sponge, to begin his work, distract himself with mindless activity perhaps, but it disappeared under his hand.

He looked at Emma surprised, and she had that laughing look again, the sponge now in her palm. He watched as she shifted onto her knees, rising from bath, liquid and soap tracing paths down her chest, the slope of her breasts, beading on rosey pink tips. Too beautiful and perfect to be here with him surely, the feeling that this was all a dream inescapable as he watched her. She trapped his legs between her own, settling herself on his thighs, smooth skin sliding across the hair there. He could feel the clefts and joins where she came together.

“A job well done should be rewarded,” she said echoing their first night again. She ran the sponge down his arm.

He allowed his eyes to flutter closed, her hand tracing the path of the sponge, a pleasurable game of follow the leader, each scrape and rasp followed by a light caress. He gave himself over to sensation, letting her work, knowing it was pointless to protest, even if he’d truly wanted to, and leaned his head back against the tub.

The rough caresses, the buzzing liquid warmth of recent surrender made him bolder, the question leaving his mouth before he could think on it overmuch. Perhaps a tiny retribution for exposing him so thoroughly.

“Is it a curse?” He asked, his eyes still closed. Emma froze on his lap, her thighs squeezing his legs between them, the sponge stopping its progress across his chest.

“What?” Her voice was cold.

“What keeps you here,” he continued to press. She knew so much about him, had revealed him utterly, laid him bare, but he knew nothing about her. He could read some of her in her eyes, in the tense set of her face, in the slight changes in her smoky voice, but he had no details to fill in those impressions. “Did someone curse you?”

He had heard of curses before, dark magic, a lifetime of sailor’s gossip and superstition. He had never given it much attention, his own cursed life making magic seem unnecessary to incite suffering, fairy stories to give whimsical meaning to pain. Still, he had proof of magic now, had seen her weave miracles with her hands, something dark and cold hanging over her like a specter.

Emma shifted back, sliding off his legs, water filling in the empty spaces, and went to her side of the tub to regard him. She thankfully, didn't look angry, but her face was that stony calm, perfect features etched in white marble.

“Why did you ask me that?” Her tone was stiff.

“I just want to-” the stammer was back, the words always just out of reach. “-know you.”

“Nothing keeps me here but me,” she said finally, shortly. She didn't appear to want him to ask anything else, but curiosity overrode the feeling that he shouldn't, she had issued no command that would prevent him, and he was burning with the need to know about her as she seemed to want to know about him.

“So why do you stay?” He tried to keep her gaze, her eyes burning into him. He wanted to look away, his stomach twisting with anxiety, but he had fallen apart in this woman's arms, and that made it somehow easier to face her. He gave her a small nod, a tiny shaky smile of encouragement.

She didn't answer him for several moments, water lapping at the side of the tub.

“What is a Dark One?” He tried again, a different question, but this one was worse than the first. She tensed completely, going taut, even her eyes were unreadable now. He pulled the smile into his mouth with his teeth and banished it away.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, ducking his head.

“Killian,” Emma shifted again, laying back, relaxing into the water. “I want you to touch me.”

It was so at odds with the current conversation he could only blink at her a moment in confusion.

“Pardon?”

“A new lesson,” she said, raising her arms to welcome him. “Touch me.” The command was unmistakeable, hard voice belying the welcoming softness of her body.

He promised himself he could try again, would ask again, another time perhaps. He may be a fool, but he would not be so easily deterred. He wanted to know everything she was, the sum of her parts, solve the mysteries that swirled around her like smoke. But he also wanted desperately to touch her, to please her, a different sort of retribution to be had if he could make her fall apart as she had him.

The problem was he had no idea how to do that.

“You want to know me, so know me,” she challenged, her voice was cold but her eyes were hot, beckoning him closer. He obeyed.

He shifted awkwardly, trying not to crush her as he moved towards her in the tub. It felt like it had grown smaller in the few seconds of eternity that had passed. He kneeled between her open legs, and she moved, one leg slipping between his knees. He lifted himself, bracing his hook on the side of the bath, holding his weight on his forearm not wanting to crush her as he looked down, hovering over her.

He had never been in such a position, a gorgeous woman, open and wanting beneath him. His head spun as she unceremoniously took his hand, tracing it down the curve of her breast without hesitation, his knees digging into hard ceramic.

“How-?” He let the question hang in the air. “I don't know what to do.”

“I'll help you,” she guided his hand across her chest, the tiny beaded tip of her nipple dragging across his palm. “But if you really want to know me just listen,” her breath hitching. “Watch my face.” She circled the tip again, her eyes fluttering closed. “Pay attention to my movements.” She let his hand go, leaning back, allowing him to explore and test to his heart’s content. Small touches, light caresses, his brows narrowing in determination.

He trailed heavy down around the slope, testing the weight in his hand. She was still beneath him, but when he moved higher, repeating her actions, brushing the tip with his palm she tightened almost imperceptibly, he repeated the motion, slightly firmer this time. Emma nodded little encouragements, her eyes closed as he lightly traced blue veins, circled rosey skin, thumbed against the darkened tip. He catalogued her responses, every catch of breath, every subtle shift, her back arching to chase his hand and questing fingers. He studied her face with burning intensity, her lips slightly parted, lashes moving against her cheek as he caressed and soothed. He suddenly wanted very much to taste her.

“Can I-” he swallowed, forcing the question out through sudden overwhelming shyness. “-use my mouth?” He had seen it done before, the brothels not exactly known for privacy and discretion, and he knew logically he could, but he wanted to check, make sure it was okay, that she wanted him to try.

“Oh yes,” Emma breathed out, her hand clenching against her leg in anticipation. He licked his lips and ducked his head.

Her skin was cool in his mouth, the pebbled tip rough against his tongue. Her hand came up, clutched at his hair, held him in place. He could read that reaction well enough. He loomed over her, feeling her skin on his stomach as he leaned in, testing her with lips and gentle brushes of teeth. He listened to her breath, quick and light, the barest hitch as he did something she liked, held captive in her lungs when he did something she loved.

He went slowly at first, tasting, sucking her between his lips, laving across her with his tongue. She squirmed beneath him, nails hard on his scalp. His eyes cast up to watch her face as he moved, trying different things, switching back and forth, braced against his arm. Her crimson lips were parted, head thrown back, the muscles of her throat swallowing reflexively. His stomach fluttered and twisted with uncertainty, not completely convinced he was handling this well, the entire situation out of his depth and surreal, but she’d told him to get to know her, and the only way was to try. He felt almost like a spectator, disassociated from his own body as he marked the ridges of her flesh with his tongue, filing away her responses.

He stirred beneath the water, coming to life once more with fresh lust, but he was too preoccupied with committing her gasps to memory, reconciling the movement of her hands against his scalp with the actions of his mouth to worry about his own reactions.

He was immersed in scholarly pursuit, testing the bounds of this new experience, so dedicated to learning the craft, reading her face, he almost missed when she took his hand in her own, dragging it down her skin to the space between her barely parted legs. He gasped against her breast, air blowing across the wet peak, and she moaned then, a small vibration of noise against him.

He had heard it was mostly instinct, bawdy talk in darkened rooms that made him blush before sleep, straining to hear as the men boasted about their conquests in explicit detail, studying illicit images burned into wood or sketched on yellow paper, traded around the crew with wolf whistles and obscene comments, flushing and trying not to stare too long before they were snatched from his hands. But instinct had been beat from him long ago, with fists and hands and careless cruel words and he had no bloody idea what to do. He froze against her, his hand trapped in hot, wet heat.

“Emma,” he panted out, moving to draw away, back up to kneeling, water sloshing around them. She held his wrist firmly, staring him down, her chest flushed pink in the light. She looked slightly crazed, her eyes shining and wide, black rimmed with only the barest hint of green iris.

“I could show you myself,” her voice was ragged, her other hand tracing a line between her breasts, down her stomach, the image of her hands on her body, pleasuring herself while he watched and learned, had his pulse jumping, his length twitching.

“But I'd rather you try,” it wasn't a request necessarily, more a thinly veiled command, pushing his limits, testing his boundaries. His hand twitched against her.

He sucked in a steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Could you...do what you did before, a-” he tried to grasp the word, his brain even more useless now. “-demonstration?”

Emma nodded, her eyes glittering with promise, excited anticipation, as she traveled down his wrist to his fingers. She curled them how she wanted, manipulating the digits, took his fist in her hand and drew it back to her flesh.

He couldn't see through the water, the bubbles had melted away to smooth foam, just the white shimmering shadows of her skin under the surface, and the angle was slightly unnatural, but he could feel her, guiding his fingers through soft folds, pressing him against her. Emma shuddered and let out a broken gasp as he finally touched her, moving him where she needed, with the pressure she wanted, feather light touches swirling against raised flesh.

Killian concentrated, brows pinching together as he committed the movements to memory, the varying crescendos of hard and light, firm and soft, slow and rapid circles. He didn't notice when she released his hand, letting him take over, moving unconsciously with the rhythm she’d set, no longer guiding him, taken over by sensation as she clutched at the side of the tub. He almost pulled away again, but her head thrown back, harsh breaths panted into the air, arching against him, told him he was doing fine. He watched her breath, her face, her teeth white against red as she bit her lip, and he tested.

She was writhing in the water, small ripples against the sides, her face open and so intense it took his breath away. Her hand came back down to his wrist after what seemed like hours but had been mere minutes, and he stopped again, sure he had done something wrong.

“Need to-” she gasped out. “-do something.” Her voice was broken and husky, the tone sending pleasurable shivers down his back. She manipulated his fingers again, twisting his wrist in the other direction so his palm was up, and pulled him down again, deeper into the water until he was spread out against her, his face near her chest.

He blushed furiously as he realized her intent, as she desperately pressed his fingers into her, her core wrapped deliciously around them, drawing him in deep. She moaned again, moving his hand, drawing him out with a slow drag against her, pressing him back in.

“Li-like that,” she stuttered out, repeating the motion. He was burning up, lust and embarrassment taking equal weight. She moved his fingers again, so his thumb rasped against the ridge of her with each motion.

“Gods, exactly right,” she arched up, a small desperate keen caught in her throat as she established a rhythm, his thumb brushing her on each pass, using her other arm to help her find leverage to bear down against him with each stroke.

He licked his lips determinedly, applying the same principles as before, listening for the subtle changes in her breath, the gasps and delicious tiny noises she couldn't seem to help, the twist and writhe of her limbs as he moved. She let him go again, let him maintain the rhythm, the pressure, and speed, all his own decisions to make.

Hook had spent a fair bit of his life in service to others, providing the tools of their pleasure and comfort through the service of hot meals, a clean deck, a willing wench. He had never so directly been the reason however, his actions never affecting another so immediately and powerfully. He was overwhelmed with it, the need to make her feel good, to be the instrument of her pleasure. He pressed in closer, deeper, her face an open window into her needs, clawing and clutching as she rose higher and higher, his hand the catalyst for such remarkable change.

“Please, please,” quiet whispered pleas barely audible over the churn of the water, the sound of her breath in his ear. He kept going, moving faster, consumed by her reactions, adjusting to her cues. He leaned over her further, slid upwards a bit, careful not to disturb the careful established cadence of his fingers. Small affirmations fell from her lips, encouragements with every stroke. He dipped his head again, pressed his tongue against her peak, sucking her into his mouth once more.

Emma cried out loud and it echoed in the empty room, filled his head with only the sounds of her. She reached up to thread her fingers through his hair as he synchronized the disparate movements of his mouth and hand. It was an ungainly and awkward position, nervous uncertainty following his every motion, but it was also perfect and raw, Emma letting him know without explicit words that he was doing everything right for once, exactly what he should. He sucked again, hollowing out his cheeks, drew back and tested swirling flicks with his tongue, increasing pressure with his thumb, small experiments, working towards a theory.

She broke hard against him, shattering around his fingers, her hand snapping down to hold him firmly in place as she arched and jerked with pleasure, a cry rent from her throat. She surged up and back with the force of it, rolled her hips against it, sounding almost pained. It was beautiful release and tormenting uncertainty in equal measure as she gasped and panted, sinking back down into the water.

Killian slowly and hesitantly withdrew, leaning back on his heels. She was still trembling, little earthquakes under her skin, her eyes still closed. He watched her anxiously, waiting for something, what he didn't know, the feeling sinking into his chest. He shuffled backwards in the water, pressed his back against the tub, rubbed at his wet hair, and waited.

Emma opened her eyes across from him, her smile slow and lazy. She traveled his face, all anxious anticipation and miserable uncertainty and she blinked at him for a moment, confused. He could barely breathe waiting for her to speak, to cast down a verdict that confirmed what he had always feared, what he had always been told. Not nearly enough.

Instead she rose up again, the water warm as it moved against him. She pressed her lips to his own, sweet and sure, and looked directly into his eyes, catching him before he could look away. Her words were honest and true, filling in the hollow in his chest.

“Thank you, Killian.”

_____

Emma watched him as long as she could, before she felt voyeuristic and strange, her fingers toying with the ends of his hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he slept. He truly was a beautiful man, his face relaxed and slack from sleep, free of constant anxious worry, the lines of barely suppressed fear that dogged his every movement. For someone so bright, his smiles so easy, eyes always wide and open with endless gratitude, the contrast was startling. Only after watching him drift and fall to sleep did she truly realize how tense and taut he was during daylight, how nervous and constantly unsure.

She had hoped, in truth, to continue her lessons in the soft warmth of a lush bed, coax more than easy smiles from his lips, desperate to hear the unrestrained moans and pleasured whines of his release once more. Visions of him beneath her, clutching and desperate, hips rising up and rolling into her own had her filled her head, made her dizzy with need as they made their way back to his bedroom, her bedroom. But he was weary and emotionally wrought, his face pale and drained as he’d dressed in fresh new clothes, so she let the images drift away and drew a blanket over him instead. He had asked her to stay, his fingers drifting over her own, his expression hopeful, so she had, stretching out beside him on the large bed, cheek propped on her hand as she stroked his hair and lulled him to sleep.

He slept in the hook as well. She had waited and watched to see if he’d remove it, curiosity overwhelming her, the need to see, to know, twisting in her gut, the question on her tongue, but he’d merely shrugged into a new shirt, the straps black against his skin. It glinted silver in soft moonlight, taunting her with mystery, turned away from him with decades of habit. A learned behavior, one born of many nights with it tucked into his side. She traced the delicate lines of the metal, the gentle curve, pressed her fingertip to the sharp point until blood welled and her skin closed up to heal the tiny wound before another could bead.

He had spoken easily of his bitter life, of torture and fear, of harsh words and violence. They were unavoidable truths, the nature of the world as he knew it. He had spoken of his father’s abandonment and betrayal with barely a thought, casually washing his hair as he detailed a crime that no father should ever commit against his children, with no knowledge of how terrible it truly was. Speaking of his brother had been harder for him, a source of light in a dark life that was snuffed out far too soon, but he still breathed the tale out against her palm, given her the gift of his memory in a single black feather.

But his hook was a different story altogether, an untold tale she needed to know. Ignorance prickled at her skin, his terrified reluctance only made the desire to know worse. After such a life how could this be any worse than the thousand other horrors he had endured?

You can find out you know, the darkness beckoned. He doesn't have to tell you.

Emma looked down at him, remembered his face, the jerking of his head as he begged with his body not to speak of it. Even if she could coax the story from him there would be a cost, he would be hurt, be in pain from the telling of it, and that pain would not be because of torture or cruelty at the hands of others. It would be because of her, her need to know, to understand, born of selfish curiosity and possession, her obsessive desire to learn him body and soul, find out what made him who he was, all the parts that comprised him.

She rose from the bed, one final brush of hair from forehead, a finger stroked down his stubbled cheek, the tiny scar that marked it. She had other ways, ones that wouldn't force him to relive the tale, ones where he wouldn't even have to know, wouldn't have to dredge up the memory from the dark. She pressed a kiss to his brow, and he turned towards her, even in sleep seeking her out, drawn in by her warmth.

She left him without another glance, the darkness pushing her along, away from the warm room, his beautiful sleeping form, out into the torchlit corridors of the castle.

Her workroom was cold and empty and dim, the dreamcatchers rattling ominously from their places in the rafters as she opened the door, clinking and swaying against each other, a warning. She ignored it. She had a hundred memories locked inside those intricate weaving threads, she only needed one more.

Emma set down his gifts, three perfect shells collected with a sheepish grin on a sunny beach, and a black feather handed to her in sorrow by flickering candlelight, and she set to work.

Onto Part 3

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