Chapter Text
She couldn't fricking believe this. Damn, damn, damn.
Fuming inside, Emma huffed as she fought to reach the shoreline, the trails of the stupid dress she had on not making it any easier to evade the waves that kept pushing her back into the ocean.
She was soaking wet, she was cold, and she was stranded. All in all, she was pissed off, good and proper.
The moment she reached sand beyond the line of the incoming tide, she plopped down on the ground and refused to move. That didn't stop her from opening one eye when she heard a distinct masculine voice curse very loudly. Repeatedly. Boy, did he really have a sailor's mouth.
Currently, Lieutenant Killian Jones was sporting thoroughly doused hair, dripping clothes, and the most frustrated expression she had ever seen on his face. He was nearly kicking at the water by the time he had reached her side, muttering angrily to himself and swearing colorfully when his soaked boots squelched. It was incredibly unfair ― though everything about this situation was unfair to begin with ― that he still could manage to look very handsome, in a windswept way.
"Bloody bugger it all!" he hissed, throwing his scabbard down and aiming the toe of his boot at the hilt. It went flying some twenty feet away.
Okay, maybe not so attractive.
Emma grinned despite herself when she realized that as of right now, the very prim naval officer, who usually was a right prude with the most immature attitude, most closely resembled a drowned rat. One very cranky, annoyed rat.
Well, she probably looked about the same, with her torn gown and disheveled state.
Bracing herself, she decided to ask the question ― it was a safe guess ― he would not like to hear. "So...what do we do now? Do you know where we are?"
He groaned when she also saw that his spyglass, sextant, and compass were certainly not in his satchel. "I don't bloody know, Princess."
"But you're the soldier here, the naturalist. Surely you can signal for help, find some way to get us out of―"
"Damn it to hell, can't you bleeding understand that I don't know?" He dug deeper into his satchel, searching his pockets frantically next and then grasping at his water canteen. Whatever conclusion he had drawn from all three efforts must have been negative, for he was flushing crimson from fury, his normally polite demeanor gone.
When she tried to continue her directive, he snapped vehemently at her, "If you're so smart, lass, why don't you get us off this damn island and back to the Jewel of the Realm? Because the only thing I see you doing, time and time again, is sitting on your arse, waiting for others to take the lead first!"
Her mouth must have opened of its own accord at his flaming retort, because she was fully conscious of closing it. Then, as his words sunk in, she began to see red. How dare he― "Killian Jones," she said shakily after a second's pause, "you are a rude, mean, ungrateful ass ― blaming me when none of this is my fault ― and, not to mention―"
"Bloody damnation!" he spat out at her, his jaw clenched and his teeth gritted. "You're a spoiled brat of a princess who's never had to fend for herself her whole life, always pampered behind stone walls and with servants at her beck and call!" he returned, clearly not over his misguided rage. "So don't you bloody dare tell me what I am, Your mighty Highness ― have a look in a damn mirror first―"
It only made Emma more determined to have the last word in their banter.
Or, in this case, the last gesture.
Without thinking twice about her emotionally induced instinct, Emma raised her hand and slapped him hard, his head snapping to the side from the impact. Hefting herself to her feet, despite that they hurt dreadfully and she wanted to sink back down into the ground, she stomped away in as dignified a manner as she could muster, leaving a fuming Jones behind her.
The jungle looked thick, untamed, formidable, and oppressive. Should she really be taking a chance like this and turning her back on her only companion because her pride was hurt?
Emma sighed, thinking her options through. She knew how to survive in the wild, thanks to guidance from both her mother and father, but that didn't mean it was a good idea to ignore the lieutenant and take off on her own.
They were friends once ― still were, by all accounts ― so maybe she should give him another chance...
"Oi, if you faint from the heat in there, darling, remember not to call out for me! You know why? 'Cause I'll be out here, waiting for the bloody ship to come by so they can see where I am and rescue me ― like a sane person would do!" came his ill-tempered shouts, the vehement dislike in his cross tone hitting her ears harshly.
Not a chance in hell.
Growling, she only looked back once, making her decision. Swinging the sword she'd salvaged over her shoulder and onto her back, Emma took one step forward and then another, ready to confront the wildlife within. Heck, it was better than expecting the clueless sailor on the beach to come up with another remedy besides waiting.
He wasn't yelling after her anymore. No more swearing or lecturing or shadowing her back. He probably couldn't care less about her. And broiling inwardly, she felt the same about him. Or so she wanted to believe, because a pang of hurt was throbbing somewhere within her as she disappeared into the undergrowth and he was finally out of sight.
But her parting thought, before she withdrew the sword from its sheath and began to cut a path through the hanging vines, was concerning her would-be savior. She paused only long enough to wonder how it would take him to realize that his blade was missing.
Shaking that misgiving away, Emma went farther and farther in across unknown territory, heedless of the distant cries of the man officially responsible for her safety.