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The campsite is understandably tense after the day's revelations, and he is, even more understandably, rather drunk. Or as drunk as he can possibly be considering his small, and constantly dwindling, cache of rum and his strong constitution. Still he's had just enough to dull the emotions that had been so forcefully dragged from his lips and out into the open.
He does not regret that she knows now. The truth, as they say, can set you free. Now she will know what lies within his heart, that if she looks close enough, it will be her face she sees reflected in his every thought, word, and deed. He cannot regret that even if he wanted to do so.
The interesting part of Echo Cave, however, is not the secrets it pulls out of even the bravest and truest of men but its ability to, as the name implies, continue to echo long after the words have been uttered. He had expected her to come to him sooner or later. Preferably not at all but that is not the Emma Swan who reminded his heart how to beat again. No, she would have to find him, if for no other reason than to disabuse him of his silly notion of loving her.
If only she had the power to release of him from that fate, but alas, he knows he passed the point of no return some time ago. He is completely and utterly doomed to love a woman who will never love him back. Such is his life.
The rustling of leaves over his shoulder alerts him to the presence of another. She has come to torment him at last.
"Hook," she says, and she looks everywhere but at him. Charming.
"Swan," he says in reply taking another--extra long--drink of rum.
"Are you drunk?" she asks, her eyes narrowed and frowning. Because she has every right to judge him, of course. Didn't a man deserve a little time to recover from baring his soul to a lady? Could he not wallow for just a little longer without fearing recrimination?
"Seriously? We could be attacked at any moment, and you're no good to us if you can't even stay on your feet," she says so apparently not.
"I can handle my liquor, love; nothing to worry your pretty little head about," he says, toasting her with his flask.
She snorts, tossing her head. "Yeah, well, there are a lot of things you think you can handle that you actually can't."
"You’ll notice that I am at a small disadvantage when it comes to handling," he says, holding up his hook. Perhaps he is little farther gone than he thought. Thankfully, his less than tasteful jokes go unnoticed.
"If you knew then why did you even--" she begins, but he cuts her off with a harsh intake of breath.
"I would request that we cease this line of conversation if I thought it would do any good. As I fear that it won't, allow me to answer your questions before you even ask them. I did not know. If I had, I still would have dared you to kiss me, and I do not regret kissing you. I do not regret being forced to reveal to you the nature of my feelings or the state of my heart. I do not require that you do the same. My confessions are just that, love: mine. You need not concern yourself with them. You have far more important things to consider. Your son, for one, and your Neal for another. I know where I fall on your list of priorities, darling, and I am man enough to accept that it is nowhere near the top," he says, hoping that she will leave him in peace.
He carries her in his heart, and he knows that he will go to great lengths for her. But he will not sit and listen to her deny and dismiss him because he can see in the way she flinches away from him that she was planning to do exactly that.
What does surprise him is that she doesn't go once he is clearly finished with her. Instead, she moves closer to him. She leans against the same tree trunk he is leaning against, puts her shoulder next to his, and exhales as though a great burden has been lifted from her shoulders.
"You're higher than you think," she says, quietly.
"Come again, love?"
"You heard me. Don't make me repeat myself," she snaps.
“What I heard, I can scarcely hope to believe,” he says with a tinge of sarcasm, putting his mind to tucking away his flask.
“Hook,” she says, trailing off into silence. He does not break it for her. Whatever she has to say, she will have to find the courage on her own. He has used up all of his for the day.
“That kiss...it wasn’t the same for me as it was for you,” she says finally.
“That much I gathered, darling,” he smiles bitterly as he says it, and he is glad he cannot see her face as she devours every last morsel of hope he might have managed to cling to.
“That doesn’t mean that...” She trails off again, unable to put words to thought.
“I did say that you need not concern yourself, Swan. I understand perfectly what rejection looks like,” he says, levering himself up and away from the tree trunk.
She grabs at the back of his coat, prevents him from running away. Damn her.
“Wait a minute. I’m not finished with you,” she says, and she yanks him around so that he is face-to-face with her for the first time since the cave. He is surprised at what he finds hidden in her eyes. Even more surprising is her jerking him close and pressing her lips to his.
The second kiss is nothing like the first. It is slower, with her hands threading their way through his hair. He dares to touch his own fingers against the skin of her cheek, and when she doesn’t flinch away, he moves his hand down to caress her neck. Every last inch of skin he can find, he wants to touch if she’ll let him.
All too soon, however, she is pulling away.
“Just because it wasn’t the same for me doesn’t mean that it meant nothing to me, alright? You’re not...what I expected you to be, Hook, but...I don’t hate you. And when this is all over, we’ll talk again,” she says with a fierce gleam in her eyes.
He is still reeling from the kiss, and her offering him hope is far more than he can handle all at once. His heart is beating far too fast, and it is loud in his ears like marching drums and the hoof beats of horses on dirt paths. Again he finds himself raising his hand to touch his lips as though he could still feel her there, and he can’t take his eyes off her. He wants to pin her in place with his gaze to keep her from walking away again.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, love,” he says instead because hope or no hope, he is always true to form. He will challenge her and whittle away at any false truths because he will not allow her to lead him on. Just as his confessions are his own, so too is his heart. He will not allow her to toy with him, and as he is not quite so talented as she in spotting a lie with merely a soul searching glance, he must employ his own methods.
She steps a little closer to him, and he angles his head down in case she decides to kiss him once more with feeling. Instead she merely smirks up at him, and says, “Oh, I intend to keep my promise, Hook. You better prepare yourself.”
And then she walks away, a triumphant sway to her hips that he cannot help but watch.
Perhaps he does not know her as well as he thought. The warmth that spreads through his chest at the thought cannot be blamed on the rum, but he finds that he doesn’t care. He has a great deal, suddenly, to look forward to.