And now all I’m picturing is Killian and Emma snuggled up on that wee little bunk all cozy and warm, and as the sun begins to rise, Emma shoves her face into the crook of his neck and makes this kind of pathetic whimpering sound – he kind of freezes and holds his breath hoping that tucking her face into the pillow will have been enough to lull her back to sleep. But after few seconds of silence, a groggy whine just barely loud enough to hear through the bedclothes: “…sooo briiiiiiight”; and he can actually hear her pout and can’t help the fond smile that twitches across his lips.
So he carefully extricates himself from the octopus tangle of limbs and sheets, looks around the cabin and can only spy his leather pants, and you know what? It’s five thirty in the morning on a Sunday. Fuck it.
Up he goes, absolutely starkers, and kind of half crouches across the deck as some kind of vague nod to privacy and begins unhitching the ropes and gently lowering the shutters – nice and slow as to not slam them shut. And in the slowness of it he kind of gets lost watching the sunrise and maybe straightens up a bit and takes in the morning breeze, still cool and crisp without a hint of the midsummer heat that he knows the afternoon will bring.
Until a gruff “Oh come on, you don’t own the docks, pal” interrupts his reverie and he blinks into awareness to Grumpy scowling and very pointedly making eye contact.
And you know what? No. There are only so many times someone can insert themselves at just the most inopportune moment until Killian Jones aggressively does not give a fuck, and Leroy’s counter ran out somewhere in Camelot.
So Killian takes the rope of the last shutter that he has in his hand and very deliberately lowers it at a painfully slow rate all while maintaining a narrow-eyed staring contest with the dwarf, straightens up, and practically sashays back across the top deck to the descending stairs, bare arse to the breeze.
And when he gets back down, he opens the door silently, steps around the squeaky floorboard, and is about to gently let himself back into bed, when Emma pops her head up and lifts the sheets to let him in.
“Thought you’d have fallen back asleep, love,” he murmurs into the spot on her head that he’d just kissed
He can feel her smile against his air-cooled skin as she burrows against his chest. “And miss the traumatised yelling about how pirate booty is supposed to be hidden? No way.”