#hook's coat

For the endlessly brilliant brainstormers @thesschesthair and @winterbythesea, a rainy interlude in Neverland and a very warm coat. (To Mandy in particular, I hope it brightens your day.) 

summary: Neverland. An unexpected storm, a cave, a bottle of rum. Emma and Hook, alone together, one of them wearing his coat. 

words: 2.1k rating: T tags: Neverland, stranded together, bedsharing, UST, the coat. 

AO3

-

The rain came without warning. 

Nothing more than the faintest breeze stirred the air before heavy drops were falling, hard and thick, in sheets that made it impossible to see much more than a foot or two ahead. Emma was drenched in a moment, her thin tank top moulding to her body and her hair plastered to her scalp. She shivered; the rain was cold and the sudden shift from steamy jungle to icy deluge came as a shock. 

The next shock came when warmth enveloped her, heavy, leathery, rum-scented warmth. Hook’s coat, flung over her shoulders. It did nothing to impede the sharp drops pounding against her skull but it stopped her shivering and kept most of the rain off her, especially after Hook flipped up the collar to shield her face and tugged at the lapels to wrap the coat snugly around her. 

Emma slipped her arms through the sleeves and took hold of the lapels herself, casting a glance up at Hook as she did. He was as drenched as she, more so now, with water running in rivulets down his face and concern in his blue eyes as he released the lapels, then frowned at the sky. 

“We should find shelter,” he said. “There’s no telling how long this will last.” 

He took her hand and she made no protest, using one of hers to hold the coat closed while the other curled around his fingers and held tight. His hand was warm despite the cold rain, large and slightly rough. Emma shivered again, and not from cold this time. She could still remember the feel of that hand in her hair, its rough skin catching on the soft strands... his thumb stroking across her cheek... the hitch in his breath... the look in his eyes…

Not the time, Emma, she reminded herself. Not now. 

Possibly not ever. 

He led her through the jungle, his stride sure and unfaltering in defiance of the blinding downpour. When they came to a copse of trees even denser than the rest he plunged into it with no hesitation, shoving the branches aside and tugging her forward, and when he let the branches go again their thick foliage muffled the deafening thrum of the rain and Emma felt herself relax. 

They were in a cave, she realised. One not that different from Neal’s, if somewhat smaller and surprisingly snug, with a lone torch on the wall and no drawings. She felt Hook move behind her, felt a slight tug on the coat as he reached into its pocket and withdrew his piece of flint. With that and his hook he managed to light the torch after only a few tries, and Emma bit back a quip about how much easier it would have been to use the lighter except oh, yeah, he’d lost it in the Dark Hollow by being an asshole. 

It was probably not the time for that either, she reflected. Not when they were stuck here together, trapped by a furious storm. Instead she watched as he stepped close to her again to slip the flint back in his pocket, watched the play of the soft torchlight across his features and the flex of muscle beneath his clinging shirt. She and Hook, alone in this small space, together, drenched to the skin. For who even knew how long. Emma swallowed hard and looked away. 

“What is this place?” she asked. 

“It’s a cave, Swan,” he replied, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. She rolled her eyes. 

“I know that. But what cave? Who lived here?” 

“No one.” 

“Hook, there’s a torch on the wall and a bed over there. Someone lived here.” She turned back to him, took in his guarded expression and tense posture, and then she understood. “It was you, wasn’t it? This was your place.” 

He gave a shrug. “I remained on my ship for most of my time in this land. But there were occasions when, yes, I stayed here. Stayed, not lived. It was… a haven of sorts. But never a home.” 

Like Tinkerbell’s tree house, thought Emma. Like her mother’s hollow log. Like so many of the foster homes and alleyways and back seats of cars where she’d once spent her own nights. She nodded. 

“Yeah. I get it.” 

Once again that connection flashed between them, as it had on the beanstalk, after the Dark Hollow, before that kiss... Hook’s shoulders relaxed and his lips curled into a smile. A softer smile than she’d ever seen from him, open and earnest and with no hint of flirtation in it. A smile that dimpled his cheeks and crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that should not be as attractive as it was. His voice was soft as well, and low, sending warmth tingling across her skin. “We might as well settle in,” he said. “Storms like this one have been known to last for days.” 

Emma shook herself from her reverie. “Days!” she exclaimed. 

“Aye. Not always, though. Let’s hope this is one of the shorter ones.” 

“How long do the shorter ones last?” 

“Hours. Like I said, settle in.” 

He gestured to the mattress set against the back wall, atop a sort of platform made of stones and rough-hewn wooden boards. Emma hesitated for only a moment before striding over, prodding it experimentally with her finger, then gingerly sitting down. It was soft and springy, and when she shifted her weight it released a faint, dusty smell of hay. 

Her boots were so wet that her toes within them made a squelching noise, so she pulled them off, followed by her socks. These she draped over the end of one of the boards, then curled up with her bare feet tucked beneath her and made herself as comfortable as she could, leaning against the wall and burrowing deep into the warmth of Hook’s coat. 

She could sense his gaze on her, focused and intent, and when she glanced up the look in his eyes set her heartbeat racing and her brain scrambling to think of something—anything—to say that might distract them both from the reality of where they were, the intimacy of it, how little space there was and how long they might have to stay there, alone together. 

“It smells really good,” she blurted, then immediately wanted to kick herself. “I mean, um, I haven’t been in a lot of caves but I guess I would have expected them to be, I don’t know, mustier? Does that make sense?” 

Stop babbling, you idiot. 

She had no idea how caves were supposed to smell and cared even less, but she’d die before she let Hook find out that her muddled brain had not actually meant the cave smelled good at all. The warm, spicy scent tickling her nose was the same one she remembered clinging to his skin during their kiss. It clung to his coat as well, of course, stronger now that the rain was no longer washing it away, and made her light-headed as she fought the urge to bury her face in the leather and just breathe. 

Hook, fortunately, gave no indication that he noticed her discomfiture. “I expect it’s just the island,” he said. “Whatever keeps its inhabitants young also seems to hold other things in a sort of stasis. Despite all the rain there’s not actually much decay here.”

“Oh,” she said. “Wow. That’s... actually a bit creepy.” 

“Neverland, love. Creepy is its byword. Although, now, I wonder...” His eyes lit with speculation and he strode across the small space to the wall opposite the bed where a small pile of rocks lay. She couldn’t see what he was doing but she could hear his muttered curses and the shifting of the rocks and then he said “Aha. Here it is.” 

“Here what is?” 

Hook turned to her with a triumphant grin. “Something to keep us warm,” he replied, holding up a bottle. 

“Rum, I’m guessing,” snorted Emma. 

“Naturally.” He smirked at her. “But also this.” 

He crossed the cave again sat down next to her on the mattress, tucking the rum between his knees and handing her a small parcel wrapped in oilcloth. She unwrapped it and frowned at the contents. 

“What is this? Beef jerky?” 

“Is that what you call beef that’s been salted, smoked, and dried?” 

“Um. I think so?” 

“Then yes, this is beef jerky. I’ve always known it as boucan.” 

“Huh.” Emma poked at the dark brown strips of meat. “How long has it been here?” 

“Oh, a good forty years I’d reckon.” He grinned at her. “But that’s a mere blink of the eye in Neverland. It’s fine. Here, look.” He took a piece and bit into it. Emma watched him as he chewed, watched his jaw work and his throat flex as he swallowed, and felt her own throat go dry. “See?” he said. “It’s perfectly fine. Try some.” 

Gingerly, she selected a piece and took a tiny bite. It was intensely smoky and very salty, but so good and she realised to her surprise that she was starving. Her stomach gave a loud, gurgling rumble and Hook laughed, the cords in his neck straining beneath skin still damp from the rain, illuminated by the torchlight’s glow. Emma stuffed the rest of the jerky into her mouth and concentrated on chewing it.

When she dared look at Hook again, he was watching her with another of his looks, this one soft and indulgent, the corners of his mouth quirked in a faint smile. Her belly clenched. 

“So what do you think?” he asked. 

“Hmm?” 

“About the boucan?” 

“Oh. It’s, um, it’s good. Salty though.” 

He picked up the rum bottle and pulled its cork out with his teeth. “Quench your thirst, love?” he asked. 

Emma looked at the bottle, then the pirate, then the bottle again, listened to the pounding of the rain outside and the felt the equally intense pounding of her heart. She weighed it all in the balance, then threw her caution to the wind. 

“Why the hell not?” she muttered, grabbed the rum, and drank. 

—

When she awoke the next morning the rain had stopped. Emma vaguely registered the absence of the dull roar of rushing water and was grateful for its lack. Her head was throbbing and her mouth cotton-dry, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep for another hundred years or so. She burrowed deeper into her pillow with a groan. 

“Ahem.” 

The sound of a very pointed throat-clearing penetrated her sluggish brain and the realisation that she was not alone had her eyes flying open. Only then did she realise that her head was resting not on a pillow at all but on Hook’s bare chest as they lay together on the narrow bed, she curled up on her side still swathed in his coat and his arm around her waist, fingers curled over her hip, holding her close. 

Their clothes, she was relieved to note, were still on. 

 From the look on David’s face though, they may as well have been naked. 

“What the hell is this?” her father seethed. Emma jolted backwards, scrambling out of Hook’s embrace and wrapping the coat more tightly around her. Behind David, she noted with dismay, stood Mary Margaret and Neal—she looking disappointed and he incredulous—with Tinkerbell bringing up the rear, smirking at Hook. 

Hook sat up and ran his hand over his face. “Relax, Dave,” he said. “No need for the tone. We got caught in the rain, came here for shelter, drank some rum to keep warm, and fell asleep. I don’t think pistols at dawn or the business end of your sword will be required.”

“And that’s all?” demanded Neal. “You just slept?”

Hook’s eyes flashed dangerously but he held his temper. “That’s all,” he confirmed. “I may be a pirate but I am always a gentleman. Not that it’s really any of your concern. ” 

Neal’s cheeks flushed red and opened his mouth to reply, but David spoke first. “Let’s get out of here, then,” he said. “Pan showed up this morning with a new message about Henry and we’ve got to act fast.” 

Emma scrambled to her feet then realised they were still bare and sat down again to tug on her socks. “What was it?” she demanded. “What was the message?”

“Let’s get back to camp and we’ll show you,” said David grimly. Emma nodded and shoved on her boots as quickly as she could before following her father out of the cave. She didn’t look back. 

It wasn’t until much, much later, after many reproachful looks from her mother and wounded ones from Neal, speculative ones from Tinkerbell and an amused one from Pan himself that she realised she was still wearing Hook’s coat. 

—

And a seamstress.

And Colin O'Donoghue.

And Sebastian Stan.