He has lunch at the wrong hour every day until they give up on trying to stop him. He is stubborn, and he has learnt to fight for what he wants until he gets it (which is particularly easy here, doctors and nurses alike worried for the fragile state that he is fairly certain he no longer is in. But he does not complain). It is not for first pickings on the good food, either, although he does not complain when a charming smile manages to drag a few extra potato tots out of the sharp, wirily lady whose worn nametag reads "Sue." She scoops food onto his tray with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes that promises no matter of charisma will convince her the next time (it always does, anyway).
It is the view. The seat that faces the table by the window that they reserve for her. She is a princess in her own right, flowing golden locks alone enough for her to stand out from the greys and whites and stark dullness of the place.
She shines.
The first time he'd seen her was after his first week in. After blank white ceilings and stark grey sweats and heavy thoughts in black and white, when he was beginning to think they'd only gone and made everything worse; that was the first moment he caught a glimpse of bloody sunshine disappearing around the corner. He had been meant to be meeting his doctor. But he found himself redirecting, slowly moving to where he swore he saw the light.
And she stood there, halfway down the hall with the crabby old janitor that haunts the upper levels of the hospital. Her curls hung carelessly beautiful down the back that is turned to him and his fingers clenched tight on the edge of the wall when her melodic voice reached his ears.
"Seen the other dwarves lately, Grumpy?"
He nearly snorted at the nickname, pulling back behind the corner when the unamused janitor glanced his way.
"Have any of them said anything about Henry?"
The dwarf muttered something in return that he couldn't understand, and by the time he realized she'd disappeared down the hall it was too late.
"Who was that lass?" He'd asked the janitor when he'd come back around from searching down the hall, nearly thinking he may have seen a ghost.
"The blonde?" His voice was gruff and he rolled his eyes, "That was the Princess Emma."
And perhaps it is wrong of him, but he is captivated by her. He arrived early to his appointments from then on, hoping to catch sight of her and smiling crookedly at Archie's look of surprise the first day he came out and saw he was the one waiting.
"Did you decide my assistance isn't worthless after all, Mr. Jones?" He asked, thumbing at the edge of the glasses he wears that are perpetually askew.
"Perhaps I've simply had a change of heart."
He knew in the way his eyes narrowed and his forehead folded that he did not believe him, but the words were not a lie.
He had forgotten how it felt to look forward to something.
But he has no trouble remembering the dragging familiarity of anxiety opening a pit in the center of his gut when lunch is half done and she still has not appeared at her usual spot. He chews one of his last tots slowly as he watches the spot where she should be, trying to tell himself that his worries are completely ridiculous. That she probably had her appointments at odd times, that he'd see her in the hallways or at lunch tomorrow.
And then he feels someone sit down beside him. He turns swiftly, preparing his best act to protect his territory and keep it to himself, but whatever he intends to stay catches in his throat.
It is her.
He swallows hard.
"What're you doing?"
She is beautiful and when she rolls her light eyes, it is effortless.
(They shine green beneath the bright summer sun that curtains messily around her smirk).
"I'm not blind," she tells him simply with a shrug. "I see you watch me."
Words fail him as she reaches to his plate and swipes one of his hard-earned tater-tots, looking him up and down. He tucks the arm that ends in a stub self-consciously nearer to his side but her sharp vision catches the movement, and he could swear her smile turns smug before she pops his lunch into her mouth.
"Mmm. I like onion rings better." She informs him in matter-of-fact terms, and he snaps himself out of it.
"Oi, why'd you bloody take it then? It was my last one!"
She stares seriously at him, but he is certain the corner of her lips twitch as she ducks nearer to him.
"I wanted to make sure you weren't one of the territorial ones," she breathes conspiratorially, and he would be offended if was not so distracted by her warm breath on his cheek. When she pulls back, she smiles again, widely, and Gods, she somehow manages to make the grey sweatsuit that hangs loosely from her body look like the highest fashion. He catches sight of the book that always seems at her side in her lap, her fingers curled tight around the spine.
"I was hoping you weren't," she continues, "I'm Emma and you can have one of my onion rings tomorrow, if you want. To make up for your potato crap."
He catches himself gawking at her again. She moves quickly, so quickly he has struggled to force his sluggish mind to follow her through the haze he usually resides in.
And he cannot manage to puzzle out why the hell she's in this joint.
"I don't recall inviting you to sit with me tomorrow," He finally says with a tilt of his head, still struggling to add her up. Her nose wrinkles in disgust that makes his heart skip a momentary beat.
"No, I'm inviting you to sit at my table. You can actually see the world outside of this shithole from there."
She glances up at the single clock that hangs high and barred on the wall above the kitchens. He follows her vision and is dismayed to find that lunch is finished. When he looks back, she is already on her feet. He hurries clumsily up after her, grabbing his tray and following her towards the trash bins (that are attached to the floor, of course, because God forbid someone decide it'd make a nice weapon). She waits for him, book held snug to her chest, and smirks as she watches him dump his entire bowl of spinach away.
"Greens keep you healthy," she tells him offhandedly as they move towards the door. He snorts.
"Why do you think I'm here, love?"
She does not answer, but her arm brushes his as she turns to stop him in the doorway.
"Tomorrow?" She asks, and for the first time he catches a hint of distrust in her narrowed eyes.
"It's a date," he promises, flashing her his winning-est smile. She studies his face and nods once, slowly, before beginning to turn in the opposite direction.
Then it hits him.
"Wait," he calls, catching her wrist softly and breathing a sigh of relief when she turns and does not attack him for the contact (It is always a gamble within these walls). Her eyes are wide and concerned and he continues, "I never told you my name."
Her brow furrows a bit and she frowns.
"I know your name." She says, small frown tugging at her lips, "I told you I'm not blind."
She nods at his crippled arm, then raises her eyes back to his.
"You're Captain Hook."
He watches her disappear into the crowd, and suddenly he can read the puzzling Princess as clearly as the book tucked safely at her side.