Captain Hook.

Home.

Once they’ve parted enough to allow their gazes to meet, bodies still pressed close together in an effort to maintain contact after so long away from one another, he finds himself lost in those striking eyes of Killian’s, the crystalline blue piercing his heart with their earnest expression of something that lingers just this side of an emotion neither of them have put a name to quite yet. But it’s there, both in the Irishman’s eyes and in the way Guy’s fingers trace the line of his jaw with fingers that (to his credit) only tremble a little, in the way he can’t tear his gaze away from the ethereal, otherworldly creature before him, struck anew by the fact that this beautiful man is his.

Killian’s question draws an easy laugh from within the depths of his chest and the amusement that touches his lips leaves his eyes creasing at the corners, a subtle shake of his head accompanying the reply that follows in a voice pitched to be heard over the noise of the gathered crowd. “No, I’m afraid the sink was the furthest thing from my mind when I decided to come home this time.”

It takes a moment or two for him to realize what he said, for the weight of his own words to register, and there’s a brief instant where Guy feels fear like the grip of some shade from beyond enveloping his heart. What if Killian isn’t that invested, doesn’t want to be tied down by some nomadic lunatic who sweeps through town once every few weeks and then disappears like a hurricane leaving only destruction and loss in his wake? What if…

But before he allows those thoughts to take root and flourish within the cage of his chest, Guy draws a deep breath and slips still-trembling fingers around to bury themselves in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Killian’s neck, one hard swallow punctuating his effort to speak past the knot of uncertainty clogging his throat.

“I thought maybe…if you aren’t opposed to the idea, that is…” His voice falters for just a moment and he learns anew that panic has a flavor, one that sits like lead upon his tongue as he struggles to finish speaking. The irony isn’t lost on him, of being a bloody wreck diver, of taking unbelievable risks for a living with the sort of courage that most men can only dream of possessing, yet being brought to his knees by the man before him. It’s something just this side of comical, really, and it’s this thought that breaks the grip that fear has upon his tongue.

“I wondered if maybe you would be open to the notion of having me around a little longer this time?”

Killian grins all the wider at the knowledge he managed to coax a laugh (his favorite bloody sound), and steps back the slightest bit, fingers finding and interlacing with his boyfriend's own. He can feel those aforementioned women watching them, gazes like claws digging into the back of shoulder blades, no doubt sizing up both men ... and he fight the urge to turn around and tell them to fuck off. Guy is all that matters, all that exists in this moment .. Guy is home.

There's that word again - home - short and simple but full of so much weight, except this time it's falling between them flavored with the rumbled baritone of the other man's voice, leaving blue eyes blinking in the space left behind. It would be weird to tackle him to the floor, yeah? Fingers of one hand curl into sensitive palms while the others squeeze all the tighter around the ones in their grip, head shaking against the halting way that Guy's words stumble across his tongue.

I wondered if maybe you would be open to the notion of having me around a little longer this time?

For a single, solitary moment the Irishman wonders if he's dreamt this all up, wonders if this is one of those torturous tricks of his own mind that will leave him awash in a flat that is decidedly far too empty. He thinks about his bed, small and scrounged up from a cheap local sale, that now feels like an endless expanse of nothing without Guy pressed up against him ... thinks about the four walls that exist like a tomb, housing the bits of their relationship that serve as a memorial to the memory of two men in love, waiting impatiently for the other half to light up it's space once again. Lips twitch at the corners, giving way to a grin that Killian is almost certain will shatter the bones of his jaw, and he wonders if Guy can taste his answer as rum-flavored lips seek out the ones so familiar. His heart beats a steady thrum, thumping hard and loud against the cage of his ribs as if returning the call of the one who truly owns it. The words, when they come, are quiet things .. barely audible over the lingering noise of the pub and flavored with that damn smile that refuses to leave.

"Welcome home, love. If I had my way .. you'd never bloody leave."

The impact is immediate, visceral, and Killian feels a tangle of fear somewhere in his middle accompany the sudden knot of fear that blocks his throat, refusing to be swallowed down. Bloody fucking hell. He wants to apologize, wants to shrug his shoulders in some casual aye well, I didn't mean it way to head off any discontent he's planted.. but his tongue stubbornly clings to the roof of his mouth, dry as cotton, refusing to let any such thing pass over it.

“I regret to have to inform you that, as of this moment, our former section chief, Lucas North, is to be regarded as a rogue officer. He is believed to be in pursuit of information, which, if it fell into the wrong hands, would pose an unprecedented threat to national security. I don’t need to remind you that he is a skilled, resourceful and dangerous operative. Our main priority is to find him and bring him in, whatever the cost.”

It’s difficult at times to recall exactly why they were out here roaming the countryside, sent on some random errand or other to the farthest reaches of the shire in hopes of gaining the upper hand in whatever plot the Sheriff had hatched of late. Whether buying the loyalty of more minor nobles or attempting to curb the lawlessness within Nottingham’s borders, the one thing the knight knows with absolute certainty is that their continued well-being rests upon their ability to appear as if they are doing their job. The Sheriff did not suffer fools, nor did he tolerate failure in those he sent to do his bidding…which is the only reason Guy could imagine willingly setting foot into an establishment like the one they currently found themselves - a tavern given the dubious moniker of “The Rutting Monk.”

A deceptively casual glance around the room leaves him with a sour taste lingering behind his teeth, his gaze settling on a grimy, hollow-eyed wench helping herself to the purse of a customer long since passed out on the floor (either from too much drink or another, more nefarious reason) and he pushes the mug of ale away resolutely.

No point in taking chances.

It’s impossible to keep from giving his companion a wry twist of his lips in response to the familiar grumbling, well accustomed to his pirate’s disdain for the “rural” folk and their ways, and the knight’s reply is a low murmur of sound meant for the other man’s ears alone. “Did you expect something else in a place like this? All we need to do is wait for the messenger to arrive and we can be on our way once more.” His words are meant to placate, to ward off any further unrest until their mission is complete, as is the shared look that passes between them in that moment. “If our luck holds, we may even be able to make it back to Nottingham before nightfall. Pray to whatever gods may be listening that it does, because I would sooner sleep in a hollow tree than whatever passes for a bed here.”

Before either man can utter another word, the tavern door swings open on hinges that screech in complaint, allowing the early evening breeze to stir up dust motes that dance across the filthy floorboards. The newcomer pauses at the entrance, cloak hood pulled up to obscure his features, and Guy finds his hand drifting to the hilt of the sword at his side as a flicker of unease begins to coil in his belly. There’s something off about the stranger, and the knight gives a low sound of warning to alert his pirate to the potential trouble headed their way, though he knows without a doubt that Hook is already on the same page.

As always.

This tavern is a particularly depressing one - an apt description that has no right to grace the door of any establishment promising a round of drink to cool a parched throat - and Hook casts another disparaging glance around the shadowed interior while curved steel follows a gouge in the wooden table left by a former patron.

Aye ... maybe the poor daft bastard had been trying to leave a warning before meeting his untimely end at the hands of one of the rather large rats that no doubt lurked in the corners...

"Tell me something, love .. " Ringed fingers drum atop the scarred oak, one brow arching even as he presses his tongue to the inside of one cheek. "What part of there are some taverns even pirates don't visit did you not understand?" Forget-me-not blues study his knight's face in the dim lighting as frustrated impatience blends with ever tightening muscles to create a fine edge of rising anger that is almost entirely palpable. He's not done yet .. aye, he's barely begun.. but the sudden tension in Guy's frame at the sight of the newest denizen stops any further argument in its tracks.

He considers warning the other man off - go, mate! save yourself! breathe this dust and you'll be coughing for weeks - but, alas, a bored pirate is oft a dangerous thing.. and this particular evening proves no different. Weight shifts, black boots coming to rest firmly atop their meager perch, and Hook smiles (a flash of teeth that is a mix of both charm and threat), ignoring the angry mutterings of the gaunt faced woman who has apparently decided that the pirate and knight are far more interesting than the pilfered purse that has now been cast aside. Maybe she's into the beginnings of witchcraft, muttering a spell in a putrid tongue meant to call the very jewels off his fingers or - one could hope - turn the swill they'd been served into actual drink... but before he can test the water to rum theory, their stranger is stepping closer, unperturbed by the two men or the rest of the tavern's occupants.