I am in control;

A small grin was borne on Adelaide’s lips, some cold fondness in her eyes. Perhaps it was her familiarity with pain, because Adelaide felt no fondness for any being besides herself, not true fondness. Surely, there was no fondness for the young-old captain himself. But, emotional debate put away, Adelaide stared for a few lucky heartbeats of his longer, looking into his eyes and wondering at the marvelous thing that was a human miracle - the miracle of a human’s ability to change, to heal, to allow itself to be rent apart but to also put itself together again, just so long as the heart kept pumping. “Lucky, lucky Hook,” she murmured, shaking her head as she tutted.

Wordlessly Hook listened, giving no attempt to protest or interrupt. It was hard for him to grasp fully onto what Adelaide was saying, but it was clear enough to the captain to understand his place. She said quite a lot at once, which normally would have never been a problem for the captain. But with his mind still stirring and silencing the constant buzz of words running through it, he was almost in a state of shock. Perhaps this was what she wanted, though. She always relished in her control of things.

Witch Doctor → Hook & Adelaide

Throughout the entirety of Adelaide's care for the captain, Hook was unresponsive. If it had not been for a stubbornly persisting heart, it would have been easy to say he was dead. In fact, he had probably been on the cusp; a few hours longer in the field in which he collapsed and the witch would have found a corpse lying in the glade. After the treatment, though, he bore slight resemblance to a living human being. He was not dead, although it might be some time before he woke and realized it.

Slightly had a mad look in his eyes, they weren’t focused on anything in particular. He just knew that he was getting drunk off Hook’s reactions. He was finally giving Hook a taste of his own medicine. He had finally won, at least this time around. It felt good, as his grip on the pirate’s head was as solid as ever. He wanted Hook to watch it all. He wanted Hook to know how it felt.

The minutes once again started to drag on in unbearable lengths. It could have been seconds or hours that he watched the fire dance up the sails– his sails– and eat along the wooden from of the deck– his deck. Hook knew that he was giving Slightly just what he wanted by this obvious, undeniable anger. He didn't care. His focus did not leave his ship; he scanned the surrounding water and the shore for signs of his crew. He was too far away to notice anyone specific, though, so his gaze went back once again to his ship.

He got the reaction he was looking for, it was wonderful. Slightly drank up Hook’s distress, and he wanted more. He kept Hook’s head steady between his hands, not let it jerking about, even if the captain tried. It was brilliant. This was what he had wanted.

It was unbearable to watch and not be able to do something. To sit idle and watch his ship, his home, slowly be consumed by flames was a torture he had never experienced before. The rage was blinding; he saw nothing but the small spot of fire in the distance. Slightly's words were only just heard over the buzzing of anger in his mind. A thing, he had no name for it, clawed through his chest, nails digging into him from the inside out. If he could, he would kill Slightly where he stood. If fury alone could end a life, the boy would be lying dead.

[So he was going to talk. Croix was glad, thankful, even, that she’d get the chance to talk to him. And better yet, she felt that she held the reigns of conversation - having control over anything, anyone, was nice, but a pirate with repute like that of Hook… Perhaps if he was in his right mind, it would have been better, but if that had been the case, he might have never spoken at all. Croix had let her thoughts distract her, and her unfocused eyes zeroed back onto Hook’s face as she painted a precise smile onto her lips.] It’s been a little while, Hook. A little while. [She nodded pensively, still smiling serene.] It ain’t exact, but I’d say… [Truth, or lie? She could exaggerate, she could make it all seem so short. It was, again, a sweet bit of power to have. She decided against an exact one or the other, in the end, and only in a few brief moments.] A few weeks.

[A few weeks. Hook didn't know what he had been expecting, but the answer settled in him and brought him an equal mixture of finality and anxiety. He gave a small nod in response, mulling over the consequences of her answer. He couldn't pinpoint anything exact, but he knew that this implied something bad. His eyes flickered back up, for they had lowered to the cave floor, and stared at the girl. He shook his head. Any desire to be in her company had vanished.] No.

Slightly was watching Hook’s reactions. All what he expected. He had only come to visit twice, both times the hood stayed on and he just had some fun scaring the pirate up with the Hook, which was quickly becoming Slightly’s new favorite possession. He definitely saw the appeal it had.

Hook grew anxious as his head was twisted back forward. His ship remained, undisturbed in his vision. But a sick worry was churning in his stomach. He had always been, and always will be, protective of his ship. In all his time here, Hook had worried nearly constantly about the state of his crew, about the wellbeing of the ship. He knew more than anyone that Smee was capable, but the worry still nearly drove him mad. Now he was staring at his ship, and without thinking about it, Hook tried to jerk away from Slightly's grip.

Watch it Burn - Slightly/Hook

The endless, terrible monotony of days was very suddenly and unexpectedly interrupted. As he sat there, slumped over as far as he was able, feeling his tired pulse reverberate throughout his entire body, a quick but hard pressure slammed into his shoulder. His chair tipped over at that, his back crushing into his arms. Hook barely found the voice to groan, but a pained sound vibrated in the back of his throat. And then he was hauled up and dragged into a new position.

[Her interest in the silence, as companionable and nice as it was, had begun to wane. She wanted reaction - she wanted a memory worth the effort of the Devils, one to last for her when the repercussion came clapping down on them. It wasn’t every day that someone could meet a centuries old pirate, after all. She leaned forward, cocking her head as she looked into his eyes. It looked like he was withdrawing back whatever little he’d put forward in the first place, and that just wouldn’t do. For a brief moment, she smirked.] You know, why don’t you tell me something, Hook? [Take it slow, try to draw him out. Just enough, only a little bit… And then, grab what he’s got and show him that you don’t mess with the Devils.] Just something, anything you want.

[He did not trust her. She used gentle words but in her expression there was the shadow of malice, and it was for that he did not trust her. Then again, recently he had been seeing little demons in all the dark corners, both of the cave and in his mind. At her invitation to speak, he only narrowed his eyes. He did not trust her, no, but he found himself secretly craving conversation. His thoughts swirled around too much for even his liking, it felt like he was slowly losing grip on something he normally held very tightly. He did not want her here; he did not like the presence of those he did not recognize, not anymore. And yet the thought of being alone in this prison again was as unpleasant as the thought of being her company, perhaps even more so. So he finally spoke, his jaw aching through the slightly slurred words.] I would like to know how long it's been.

[A cold laugh fell from her lips, briefly, scathingly. The slight change she saw in him was uplifting, but it was his echo of the man she’d believed he had been which amused her.] I wouldn’t have wasted my breath the ask if it wasn’t. [She gazed at him appraisingly, guessing for herself what might hurt the most. There was plenty to take in, that was for sure. In the end, she couldn’t be sure, but Croix figured that his jaw, or the gashes in his legs, might be the most painful, physically. She wondered, as she caught it herself, if he would see the double meaning that her words held. What hurt to most - what would be the most painful to think about? What hurt the most - what on your body felt the most pain? Croix smirked. It was unintended, but she wanted to wish he’d catch on, no matter how was doubtful it was that he might. His condition didn’t seem to leave much room for games of the mind - at least, not innocent ones.]

[His eyes narrowed as she laughed, the puzzle pieces of the situation fitting together slowly. She seemed to be expecting something from him. He couldn't find an answer for her, if that was what she wanted. To pinpoint the one pain was like extracting a single drop of water from the ocean. It all hurt, was that not the point of torture? She seemed to enjoy watching him try to collect himself enough to hold a conversation, though. Perhaps that was why she asked him. More moments passed, time continuing to slide along and away from them. His thoughts sluggishly worked through the mazes in his mind, words started to form sensibly once again. Were he more aware of himself, he might have been frustrated. But he wasn't able to recognize the shameful slowness of his condition, maybe fortunately so. He remained silent; he failed to find something worth replying with, so he stared at her with his dulled blue eyes.]

I guess it can be true for everybody. I dunno. Are you hungry or thirsty still or can I go?

[He was silent for a moment before speaking.] I'd like to finish the apple, if you don't mind.

[She should have come sooner. Croix sees the flatness in his eyes - she sees pain there, too. While it seemed that he wasn’t stark raving mad quite yet, it felt to her as though he was well on the way. Her head tilted to the side as she watched him, carefully, with eyes that analyzed and memorized. He didn’t seem to recognize her - not that he would. Even though she’d been in Neverland for a long time, and had been on raids aimed against the pirates, and snuck onto the Jolly Roger itself as both a Lost Child and a Devil, it seemed to her that Captain Hook wasn’t much in the way of giving a damn about anyone who could be considered a part of the era they were in now - post Peter Pan’s return. At least, for the most part. She chuckled, but it was dry, flat. She wasn’t really amused. In fact, she didn’t know why she’d chuckled at all. No wonder Hook was going crazy: the atmosphere was enough to make a mind go in circles. Minutes passed, and nothing happened. Neither moved, and neither spoke. The biggest occurrence was Croix’s brief and abrupt flinch as she saw Tad, Tick, and Rue’s name on his arm. He would carry the scars of their names forever, it seemed, and as perfect as that was, she almost wanted to say that he wasn’t worthy to carry their memory, too. The silence stretched on, and finally, Croix decided that she’d had enough of that. It wasn’t boring, sitting there in the quiet with Captain Hook, but she had come for more, and she would get it.] So. What hurts the most, Hook?

[It was increasingly difficult for him to focus. The girl sitting before him was shrouded in a haze; for all he knew she could be a spirit, an illusion or a waking dream. She was staring at him longer than most of her kind (for he assumed that, if she truly existed, she was a Devil) would. He watched her eyes wander over the damage that were clearly emblazoned along his flesh. He only barely saw the look of surprise when her gaze passed over his arm, although it took him a moment to recall the specific moment that had produced the names of the children along his arm. It had been days ago by now, surely. Or so he thought. Silence dragged on between them, making the pirate increasingly anxious. But she finally spoke, her voice cutting through the clouds around his mind. Another stretch of silence, a small piece of life returning to the captain's eyes as if he had just understood the question. And then, a dry rasp of a voice replied.] Does it matter?

And why me, exactly?

You said it. It must be true for you.

Soft-Spoken With A Broken Jaw

[He was starting to lose his mind here. The days had started to melt into each other; the cave never seemed to brighten with the sun or moon, or he was always missing it. Restless moments of sleep came, lasting only a short while before he'd wake again, still here. Silence had become a sound, constantly buzzing in his ears. Thoughts went by unnoticed, worries settled into his bones. Escape attempts were constant and desperate. Ropes stretched but not far enough. Or he couldn't pull with as much strength as he could have before. Wrists and arms were bloody from the constant rubbing up against rough rope, the skin raw and tender after so long. He felt cold all the time now, though he could feel the sweat roll down his cheeks and sting as they were absorbed by open cuts. He had been left with rocks between his teeth, stretching his jaw, but he had managed to spit them out, leaving the taste of blood on his tongue. The shame of it all was an added burden, keeping him weighted to the chair. When he saw, or sensed, or imagined a girl walking into his prison, he barely lifted his head. Though, his eyes floated up, bloodshot and unfocused from fever. The forget-me-not blues had faded to a dull slate; a puddle of murky water reflecting a clouded sky. He did not know her, although his fast-approaching delirium might be the cause for that. But she did not speak, and so neither did he.]