this-too-too-sullied-flesh:

i’m so, so sorry about this. if you haven’t seen/heard hook’s number from the musical ep maybe don’t read any further. but like, there aren’t any spoilers in this fic at all, unless you consider the fact that when he starts singing in “revenge is gonna be mine,” hook doesn’t seem even slightly surprised. 

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I’m a Poet and Don’t I Know It

Hook woke with a headache, as one does after imbibing overmuch. It was a feeling he was quite used to feeling, but that did not make it any less traumatic and dramatic.

“What is this awful dread,” he muttered sotto voce, “I feel inside my head?”

Then he paused. Was that–?

This was all quite familiar.

He sat up; a wave of dizziness overtook him, traveling down to his gut. He swung his legs over the side of his bunk, his feet hitting the floor.

“Roiling terribly in my belly, my legs have turned into jelly–”

He groaned aloud. When he attempted to stand, he heard rhythmic stomping above him. 

Fuck. This again.

Dressing quickly and taking care not to speak again, he carefully picked his way up the stairs. He braced himself for what he already knew was occurring above board, if Smee’s wee fife and the banging and clanging of what he knew to be hooks and harpoons thumping against wooden surfaces were any indication.

When he hit the deck, there it was: his entire crew engaged in some sort of ostentatiously theatrical dance number; amused, he simply stood there, leaning against the rail and watching. Harker seemed particularly light on his feet; Hook would have to commend him for it later.

After determining that his men were singing about swabbing the deck and not angering the captain ‘less he make them walk the plank, he finally decided it was time to intervene. Cocking his one brow, he pushed off the rail with his elbows in a purposeful way, his hips swinging in a much-exaggerated fashion as he swaggered down the short stair to the main deck.

“And what’s this I see?” he smirk-sang, enjoying how the the men wielding mops cleared an immediate path for him right in the middle of their circle. “A lazy bunch of louts–where is Smee?”

“Ahoy, Captain!”

“You’re an unwieldy sort, have we yet to reach port?”

“Be there shortly, Captain!”

“We’d better, mates. Take it from me!”

And on it went. He did, indeed, threaten to make someone walk the plank, though that was hardly good form. Pirates did not do that; it was, of course, a tale told by land-lovers to keep likely lads from joining with marauders rather than the more reputable sort of sailors. But it certainly couldn’t hurt to maintain his reputation, so he ran with it. Better to have people assume him a cutthroat blackguard. Even if he was currently tapping out some sort of jig while Doggett played his concertina.

It was hardly the first curse Hook (and most of his crew) had encountered that turned their mundane tasks into music. He shrugged; some of the younger, newer recruits seemed perplexed and somewhat frightened, but they’d soon learn.

Sailing with Captain Hook presented many challenges and rewards, but on the occasion–it was simply entertaining.

“Look lively there, mates! Our destiny waits!” 

And on and on. 

As he made his way toward the most disreputable tavern they could find in whatever godforsaken port it was that they’d landed, he composed some more likely rhymes inside his head, should the need occur. If he could recall, the last time it had happened, there had been three buxom barmaids that he’d managed to compare to both sirens of the sea and the ethereal Boadicea, though he’d be damned if he could remember the exact rhyme. Too bad, really; those wenches had been lovely. He figured he’d be fine off the cuff, should anything particularly delicious cross his path once again.

Good thing he was quite the cunning linguist, then.

He chuckled to himself as he pressed on into the tavern; perhaps he’d make a rhyme of that one, as well.

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sorry. so, so, so very sorry. but i mean…it had to be done.