Gold was not in the best of tempers.

He was a man who valued structure, control, who weighed heavily on always having a plan. The plan was to marry Isobel Favreau, curtly tell her that he would be sleeping in the adjoining room, inform her that he would be sending her off to his country estates on the morrow while he attended to business in the city. A fair deal for any nervous bride who married against her wishes. They'd never have to see each other, except when society deemed necessary.

But she had turned the tables on him.

He had not expected to be so…disarmed by her. He'd expected a shivering, silent girl, terrified of him, not a winsome woman whose laugh warmed his heart. She had wanted to consummate the marriage. Cynically, he presumed she wanted to make sure all her ducks were in a row, so that he'd have no reason to annul the marriage. But a ridiculous part of him actually hoped her words were true—that she desired him and was pleased with the marriage.

"Is everything all right?" Belle asked sitting up in bed. She looked thoroughly disheveled, her chestnut curls everywhere, the collar of her nightgown slipping down her shoulder. Her eyes were still heavy-lidded and Gold reconsidered how necessary it was to go to the docks.

"My ships," Gold explained, his voice dry. "The storm is…they want me to manage." Perhaps it was just desserts that he'd yet to find a competent overseer to manage his ships and workers, that now he was being forced from his wedding night to take care of it himself. But this was to be his son's job, and Gold was stubborn enough to hold off on that replacement.

"I have to go," He said tiredly, beginning to dress. "Forgive me…"

"Of course," Belle's voice was warm in understanding. "Is there anything I can do? To help?"

Gold shook his head. "No, sweetheart, it's a nightmare out there. I'll be back in a few hours. Get some rest." He pulled on his coat and exited the room before realizing he'd called her a deeply sentimental endearment. And to think he'd once mocked the other lords and earls for being saccharine with their wives.

He needed to be particularly careful about his enchanting bride.

XXXX

Thank the gods I'm a strong swimmer.

It felt as though Emma had dived into pure ice, the frigid water soaking her to her bones, inhibiting all movement. She swam blindly through the inky blackness, the currents tossing her about, her arms groping uselessly in front of her—in the grand scheme of things, diving after her captor wasn't one of her cleverer ideas.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the icy darkness for the briefest moment and she nearly let out the breath she'd been holding when she saw him, sinking directly to her left. His eyes were closed and fear, colder than the churning water, filled Emma's heart.

She kicked her legs hard, snatching his arm. Holding him as tightly as she could, she paddled towards the surface, ignoring that she was beginning to see spots and that she had no more air in her lungs.

She broke the surface but immediately inhaled a gallon of water as a wave crashed over her. She tried to shove Neal upwards, to give him oxygen, but they'd begun to sink together, into the depths.

Emma felt a jerk around her abdomen. The rope! Hauling herself forward, one arm still clutching Neal's torso, she tugged the rope faintly, praying, hoping. Sure enough, she felt the rope go taut and she wrapped her arms around Neal's torso as they were hauled out of the tumultuous waves.

Strong arms pulled her onboard and she dragged Neal in tow. He fell on deck like a sack of potatoes and Emma immediately struck his chest hard. He jerked upwards, coughing seawater all over himself, Emma echoing in turn.

She stiffened when she felt a dagger at her throat. Tamara was glaring at her.

"So the little bird escaped," She sneered. "Maybe we'll have roast swan for dinner tonight."
"Perhaps so," Hook's voice, lazy and languid intercepted. "As celebration for her brave rescue of our captain."

The dagger lowered and Emma took the proffered hand. Hook helped her up and raised an eyebrow and a thoroughly disgruntled Tamara.

"Don't be a fool," She said through gritted teeth.

"Fool about what?" Silver put in, though Emma noticed he kept a wide berth around Hook. "She saved the captain." He patted Neal's back comfortingly, who was still expelling water from his lungs.

"She was trying to escape," Tamara snarled. "She was noticed, so she went after the captain in the vain attempt to redeem herself, so she'd have an alibi."

The crew shifted suspiciously. Neal rose, managing to catch his breath.

"At this point," He told the assembly. "I don't particularly give a damn what her motivations were." He gave Emma a crooked grin. "But I like that idea of a celebratory feast. Preferably with rum." The storm had begun to die down, but the rain continued to pound.

Tamara looked like she was about to explode. Long John Silver seemed gleeful at her rage, while Hook remained thoughtful. The rest of the crew seemed eager at the thought of alcohol.

"C'mon, captain," A young boy took Neal's arm and began to lead him towards his quarters. "Let's get you out of the rain and dried off and get your heart pumping again—Long John, can you send up some rum?"

"Aye, Jim," The sea cook nodded, starting towards the galley doors.

"And my lady," Hook inclined his head towards Emma. "Won't you join us?" He nodded towards Neal's cabin. Emma glanced at Tamara, who was looking murderous.

Out of the frying pan, into the flames. "Sure," She nodded, following them inside.

XXXX

Neal's cabin wasn't particularly luxurious, but it accommodated herself, Hook, and the captain reasonably well. Neal disappeared into the attached bedchambers, presumably to change out of his soaking clothes. Emma wished she could do similarly.

But when Neal returned, wearing a fresh black shirt and clean dry breeches, he tossed her a piece of clothing.

"Here," He said. "They're probably too big on you—sorry about that. But I think Tamara would rather be strung up with the sails than lend you her clothing. You can change in my chambers."

Emma narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. He rolled his own in response and wordlessly handed her a dagger for her own peace of mind. Glaring at them both, she ducked into his bedchamber and quickly stripped off her wet clothes.

She could hear Hook and Neal talking in low voices. She rooted around and found a belt, which made Neal's pants somewhat fit on her hips. She didn't like how she enjoyed the smell of his shirt.

When she reemerged, she was surprised to see that Hook had exited. Neal was calmly pouring himself a large bowl from the soup tureen in the middle of the table. His eyes twinkled when he took in her ill-fitting clothes but he didn't comment.

"Want some?" He offered. "Silver put something spicy in it. Said it 'would heat up our bones right quick'."

"Sure," Emma said cautiously, taking a seat at the table. Neal's dagger was tucked carefully into her pants, as long as she had that, she felt relatively at ease.

"I got rum too," Neal pushed a bottle towards her. She looked at him suspiciously and didn't move towards the drink. He sighed.

"Don't trust me, huh?" He remarked.

"Never take a drink from a man you barely know," Emma retorted. "Especially when you haven't seen him drink from the same bottle."

"You've a suspicious nature," Neal noted, grabbing the bottle and taking an exaggerated gulp. "That's probably useful for your line of work."

Emma smiled, taking the proven-safe bottle from his hands. "Once, I was given a job to track down a hatter from a poor village. He was supposed to be unsuspecting, innocent. I had tea with him, intending on knocking him out before the sandwiches were served. Turns out, he'd drugged the tea and I found myself tied up and gagged directly afterward."

She took a gulp, enjoying the way the rum burned down her throat. "So yeah. I'm a little hesitant about who I accept drinks from." She took a seat and started to devour the stew. It was tasty, with a kick that made her eyes water, but she consumed it hungrily.

Neal eyed her thoughtfully. "So," He took another bite of stew. "Why'd you do it?"

Emma swallowed uncomfortably. "Do what?"

"Save my sorry hide."

She paused. Truth be told, Emma had no idea why she'd jumped in after the captain, particularly considering he was the one who'd locked her in the brig and his being thrown overboard could've been key to her escaping unnoticed. She chose a shrug as a safe answer.

Neal continued to watch her, his look inscrutable. She took another luxurious sip of rum, relishing the way it warmed her blood and clouded her head.

"Does it matter?" Emma finally said challengingly. "I did save your sorry hide. Maybe that will earn a little trust."

Neal laughed out loud. "Pirates don't trust anyone, not even each other."

"Maybe so," Emma acknowledged. "But enough trust to get you to Tortuga. To help you find Killian Jones. I know that's what you want."

His eyes narrowed. "You've yet to explain how you know Killian Jones, except a very vague anecdote. How'd you get mixed up with him?"

Emma drummed her fingers against the table, considering. How many cards should she keep at her breast? She could tell she'd earned Neal's respect, if not his trust, for saving him from a watery grave.

"I met Killian a five years or so ago," She replied. "Took up with him and his crew. I thought he could help me. I was wrong."

Neal watched. "And your offer? To help me track him down—doesn't that negate your previous deal with my father?"

Not necessarily, Emma thought to herself, taking a bit of soup. "At this point, that deal's null. You've got the upper hand here, not me. Anyway, I've already missed dragging you back for his wedding, so—"

"His what?"

Emma raised an eyebrow at Neal's shock. "His wedding. He got married. Didn't you know?"

"How would I know that?" Neal snapped, his good humor fading. "Who did he marry?"

She shrugged. "I dunno, some noblewoman. Isobel something-or-other."

Neal's eyes narrowed. His expression looked bemused but he didn't elaborate on why. Instead, he took a swig of his drink thoughtfully while Emma waited for the verdict.

"All right," Neal said finally. "We'll take you at your word. You lead us to Killian and I'll let you go."

Emma smiled. "Glad to see you're making the smart decision. I know trust isn't easy, but—"

"Oh, I didn't say anything about trust," Neal said calmly. "We're pirates, remember? We've an understanding. Break our truce and…well, it won't be pleasant." His words were light and casual, but Emma heard the threat behind them. She tipped her glass to him and downed the sharp remains of her drink.

XXXX

Gold returned to his house, soaked to the bone, exhausted, and nearly dead on his feet.

The storm had wreaked havoc, as he knew it would. His laborers and workers were half-panicked, which meant that he'd had to scream his orders four or five times for them to sink in. His voice was raw with the effort, he felt as though he'd waged war with Poseidon himself, but at the very least his ships were not destroyed. The Spinner had a torn sail, but that was easily mended. The Beast and The Fairy Godmother were relatively sound, a fortune, as they were both due to travel tomorrow.

He tramped up to the master bedroom, remembering Belle was within in the nick of time. He quietly opened the doors and took great pains to be silent as he shucked off his coat and boots. A fire had been lit in the fireplace and he wondered if she was responsible.

"You look tired."

Gold jumped. He'd been so focused on remaining silent as possible, he hadn't even noticed his new wife curled up on the corner of the bed, reading a novel by candlelight.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," He said to her, his voice raspy. Her brow furrowed and she swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded over to their dressing table.

"I had some tea made—I've kept it warm for you, it's chamomile," She poured a steaming cup and handed it to him. He sipped it gratefully, feeling the hot liquid soothe his throat.

"Are your ships all right?" She asked, her eyes filled with concern. "And your workers?"

Gold nodded. "Nothing was damaged too severely, thankfully," He assured her. "Though I am bone-tired." He cast a longing glance at their bed and realized with deep displeasure that he was far too tired to consummate their marriage. Belle deserved a perfect, magical, well-attentive wedding night, and considering his limbs felt like bags of sand, he doubted he could give her that.

"Come on," Belle said gently, leading him to their bed. He collapsed facedown and was vaguely aware of his wife massaging his back, easing the knots of tension that had been there far longer than the storm. It was an extremely soothing and particularly arousing sensation—but Gold was half-asleep before he could try and muster the urge to do anything about it.

He was aware of Belle snuggling next to him and he shifted slightly, turning on his side, allowing her to press closely towards his chest. He heard her sigh against him before he fell into a deep slumber.