Work Text:
The relationship he has with the fairy is tremulous, to say the least. He supposes it has something to do with starting out introductory conversations under knife point upon an island ruled by a malicious little git, but alas. There is not much to be done about it now.
(And she is someone – someone to talk to, to interact with, to distract him from the crushing loneliness of his empty cabin filled with trinkets and pillows and garments and her.)
“You drink too much.” She mutters from her place in front of the fire, curled into a ball and peering up at him from behind her arm. He does indeed drink too much, but he decided to throw a bean into the water and chase his revenge upon a whim, and now he’s stuck – worlds away from his revenge and his peace – with no conceivable notion on how to return.
“Aye.” He takes another pointed sip from his flask, trying to focus on anything other than the crying that echoes around him. The lost boys call to a long buried part of himself and drink is the only thing that dulls the sharp edges of the sound.
“You were right, you know.” She sits up from the jungle floor and shifts so she’s facing him, all bright eyes and thoughtful head tilts that spell out nothing but trouble for him. “When you said I am supposed to help people find their happy endings.” She regards him for another moment, reading him, and he takes another (longer) pull from his flask. “Revenge isn’t your happy ending, Hook.”
He can feel the liquor muting his movements, making his arms feel heavy and leaden. He probably won’t make it back to the ship tonight, he muses, and he starts to scan the surrounding area for a cave or a particularly robust bush for cover. It’s not the first time he’s passed out drunk in the Neverland forest, and he daresay it won’t be his last.
“My happy ending is at the bottom of the ocean.” He mutters, brown hair and brown eyes and a smile full of adventure lodging itself beneath his breastbone, making him swallow heavily and clench his fist tight. “Revenge is the only ending I have left.”
He’s too consumed by a simmering rage and self-loathing (if he just went back to the ship – if he didn’t go to the tavern and just went back to the ship) to notice her quiet murmured words or the glow of green in her palms.
“It doesn’t have to be.” She whispers, and his mind goes blissfully blank.
-/-
He wakes without a hangover for once in his miserable life, the salt heavy in the air and waves lapping gently at the sides of the ship. He groans and stretches, considering just how he managed to stumble his way from the jungle and up the gangplank without killing himself, and stills abruptly when he blinks open bleary eyes.
These are not his quarters.
This is not his ship.
In fact, he is very much stationary and upon land, the sound he thought was waves lapping at the sides of the Jolly actually the tide rolling on surf just outside an open window. Navy curtains flutter against pale green walls in a warm breeze and this is a home – a nice one, if the sleeping quarters and fine linens are anything to go by. He sits up slowly and carefully and tries to remember if there is a place in Neverland like this, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that tells him this isn’t Neverland at all.
Perhaps he drank more than he thought.
He slips from the bed and looks for his hook, rubbing at the bare skin of his wrist in agitation. The clothes he is wearing are strange to him as well and a panic starts to swell deep in his gut. His hook is gone, his belongings as well, and he is trapped in a strange place he has no memory of with garments that have little anchors on them.
Bloody hell.
There is a noise from somewhere within the house and he shuffles out, keeping his movements quiet and slow, eyes darting to the frames that line the wall in confusion as he makes his way down the hall. There is a woman and children, a man bearing his likeness in some as well, and he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know why he is holding a small bundle in his arms and his chest aches –
“Hey, you actually slept in.” A woman with cascading blonde hair smiles at him over her shoulder, working at something on the stove before her. She turns back to her task and his heart beats harder in his chest because this is the woman in the photos – long bare legs peeking out from a tattered black shirt and that is his black shirt and he can’t breathe because Milah used to wear his shirt like that and this is dark magic, it must be. It feels too real – why does it feel so real – he must be trapped, some sort of spell, some new evil from Pan and the Shadow.
There is a knife sitting by a bowl of fruit and he reaches for it, ignoring the devices that are shiny and sleek and unfamiliar in favor of arming himself in this curse. He would rather his hook but this will do in a pinch, and when the woman turns, she doesn’t even start at his new defense – just rolls her eyes and turns one of the many knobs, setting a pan to the side.
“Oh, so you’re actually going to help too? You must have – “
He presses himself against her, the point of the knife at the hollow of her throat. “Who are you and what have you done to me?”
“Killian, what – “
“Do you work for Pan? Are we in Neverland?”
Her eyes go wide and she takes a shuttering breath, eyes darting back and forth quickly between his own. He has the strange sensation of being read by this woman, and he doesn’t like the way it makes his heart clench.
“Hook.” She mutters in a voice that breaks and he frowns.
“So you have heard of me?”
She doesn’t answer, chooses instead to wrap her hands around his upper arms. He holds the blade firmer, untrusting and suspicious, but she doesn’t waiver. “What is the last thing you remember?”
“If you think I confide in illusions, you are sorely mistaken. Where am I?”
“You’re in our house. The one by the sea with the old fashioned bath tub that you freakishly insisted upon. The one that looks over the beach, where you and Henry built a castle for him and Theo to play in.” She blinks, and the tears in her eyes make them seem greener. “You’re with me – Emma.” Her voice cracks again and her shoulders set, a firmness in her jaw that speaks of strength and ferocity. “Your wife.”
He feels lost at sea, a riptide wrapped around him and pulling him under. “My – “
“Daddy?”
The knife in his hand falls to the ground with a clatter and the three of them stand, frozen. The little boy is clutching a ship in one tiny fist and this is – this must be –
“Henry!”
Another boy emerges around the corner of the kitchen, nose in a book, but he stills when he takes in the scene before him – the two of them pressed against the counter, Emma clutching his arms, the knife by their feet.
“Take Theo to your room, please.”
“Mom?”
“Lock the door.” Killian’s eyes are locked on the smallest boy, the way he moves towards the older one, clutching at his leg. “We’re okay.”
He listens for the click of a door, tries to move back and give her some space but she pulls him tighter.
“I don’t understand.” She smoothes her palms down his arms, tangles her fingers with his, and it scares him how easy it is to feel at peace with this woman. “What is this?”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to kiss me.” She cups his face in both her hands and circles her thumbs across his cheeks. “It will fix this, whatever it is, just – “
And it is a terrible time to notice it, but his ring with the ruby red stone is sitting heavy on her finger, cold against his skin. He can feel the warmth of the stove against his forearms, the way his heart beats madly in his chest. He can feel her breath against his jaw and gods – if this is meant to be a curse that drives him mad, it’s doing an excellent job of doing so.
“Kiss me.” She whispers and he wants it – wants it with a fierceness he didn’t know himself capable of. He wants her cheeks tinged with pink and her sleep mussed hair. He wants this beautiful woman who calls him by his given name with the curve of her lips and shining green eyes. He wants the little lad with jet black hair and eyes as blue as the sea, matching anchors on his own little garments – and the boy who grabbed his hand protectively and ushered him back down the hallway. He wants this – this home – wherever he is.
He wants to stay in this dream.
“Killian, please,” Her breath hitches and he traces his thumb along the side of her face, down her jaw, across the indent of her chin. “Come back to me.”
He kisses her.
-/-
He wakes on the forest floor, his coat draped over him like a blanket, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. He blinks and tries to recall the images of blonde hair and whispered pleas but it is lost to him, and he sits up with a grunt.
Today is the day he will find a way off this island, if it bloody kills him.
-/-
“What are you boys playing?”
She is radiant, of course, supple curves and tangled curls, but –
But he thinks he’s seen her before. Somewhere. Sometime. Long ago.
It passes just as quickly as it came and he lets his gaze linger, tongue gliding across his bottom lip.
“Whatever you wish, darling.”
-/-
He emerges from beneath the stench of rotting flesh, draped in stolen clothes and pretending to be another.
She is standing above him, and for a moment he forgets to breathe.
“Please help me.” He hears himself say, and perhaps he’s talking about more than his little rouse.
-/-
Come back to me.
-/-
“What the hell was that?” She stares up at him with wide eyes as he crushes her against him, peppering kisses against every square inch of skin he can find. He feels like he just ran to hell itself and back, and there’s a shaking in his limbs that he can’t quite quell, no matter how many times he reassures himself with her lips against his.
“I think – “ He swallows hard and buries his nose in her neck, inhaling cinnamon and sweetness. “I think Tink was showing me my happy ending.”
“From what, like before?” She clutches him back, hand slipping beneath his t-shirt. “Like through time? That’s fucking crazy.”
He’s inclined to agree.
-/-
Theo wraps himself around him once they assure Henry that everything is as it should be, rushing towards him once the door is open with tears on his cheeks and his ship in hand.
Henry even allows him a rare hug, arms circling around his waist with a murmured “I’m glad shit didn’t get weird again.”
He snorts and holds them closer even as Emma admonishes with a flick of the ear and “Henry, language.”
-/-
“It’s interpreted differently every time and back then, when I didn’t really have control of my magic – ” Tink smiles, running her finger along the rim of her glass. “I guess this means you found your happy ending then, if it brought you here.”
His gaze slants to the corner of the diner where Emma is sitting, stealing fries off Henry’s plate as Theo does his damndest to mount her shoulders – no doubt a flight of fancy on his mind. There’s sun on her skin and a smile on her face, her laughter bright as she wrestles Theo into her arms, a kiss pressed to his temple. Killian smirks when he spies little fingers reaching for the plate of fries in front of Henry with a sly grin, and if there was ever any doubt to whose blood runs strongest in the little lad – well, he supposes the stock of coin Theo has taken to pocketing and hiding under his mattress is telling enough.
He picks up his mug and raises both his eyebrows at Tink, moving back towards his family.
“I suppose I owe you an apology then.”