She knew it. From the moment he stepped into her apartment and into her life in his ridiculous pointed boots and his bizarre leather outfit that looked so oddly not weird on him, she knew that he means trouble, that her life was going to be turned upside down.
Everything about him is absurd, his claiming to know her better than she knows herself, his nonsense about her parents, a kingdom, a curse – a freaking memory potion!? And yet – from the moment he stepped into her life in his ridiculous pointed boots nothing was the same anymore. It's not just the oddly soothing taste of his kiss lingering on her lips. She's constantly sensing something's off, she just can't shake off that feeling of falseness. Nothing feels... right anymore, and that's deeply disturbing, makes her wish she'd never met him. On the other hand, the thought of him fills her with a sense of need... a need to understand, to know – not that she believes there is actually anything to know, but...
Sure, what he keeps telling her doesn't make sense. But the thing is – nothing else does either. Not the fact that he seems to know so much about her – Henry, her being an orphan, her sort of sixth sense she's always had (her superpower, he calls it) – not that he sent her to Neal's former apartment... and especially not what she found there. Henry's key chain, his camera, those pictures on it... they make no sense at all, and yet – here they are. Yes, he could have photoshopped them, but her... superpower tells her indeed that his confusion about her insinuation is genuine. He has no idea what that word even means. No, the pictures seem to be authentic – but how can they? She's never heard of a town called Storybrooke, and all of this is way too crazy.
Her life, a lie? And then he's pulling out that tiny blue flask again that looks like sprung from a fairy tale and offers it to her.
It can't be true. Her life can't be fake.
"It's all based on lies," he tells her, his voice intense and urging.
But she's not ready to let go of it. She'd have to take a leap of faith – an enormous leap – and that's just not Emma Swan's thing.
"It's real," she insists, maybe more trying to convince herself than the crazy stranger that feels so strangely familiar, "and it's pretty good! I have Henry, a job... a guy I love."
But the moment she says it she knows it's not true. It has never been clearer than in this very moment. She might never have admitted it to herself, but deep down she knows it's true: she doesn't love Walsh. He's a decent guy, yes, and Henry likes him... but she doesn't love him. His proposal the night before, the mere thought of spending the rest of her life with him – it terrified the shit out of her, the only instinct sparked in her was to get up and run and never look back at him. No, she doesn't love him, and the truth has never been staring her more blatantly in the face than it is now, standing before her, annoying, impossible to ignore, wrapped in a black leather coat.
And then he flinches and his face falls a little, as if her words have caused him some sort of secret pain. He seems to have trouble finding the right words, his voice even seems to shake the tiniest bit, and it throws her off track even more.
"Perhaps there's a man that you love in the life that you've lost," he tells her in his damn accent, voice a little strained, and she can't help but stare at him when it hits her like a ton of bricks.
You, she thinks, you're talking about yourself. Her eyes scan his face, desperately looking for a hint that she's right and isn't imagining this, and she finds disturbing things, pain and vulnerability – but then he pulls himself together, and the moment is gone.
"Regardless," he continues in a very controlled tone, "if you wanna find the truth, drink up. Do you really want to live a life of lies?" She feels her breathing speed up and keeps looking at him as if her life depends on it. And maybe it does. "You know this isn't right," he insists, looking up at the skyscrapers surrounding them. "Trust your guts, Swan," he implores and fixes his blue eyes on her again, "it will tell you what to do."
"Henry always says that," she replies breathlessly.
"Well, then if you won't listen to me, then listen to your boy," he pleads.
She scrutinizes him desperately, hoping to find answers, but he has nothing else to say, it seems – and there is nothing else to say. Because she knows. She knows this isn't right, nothing of it is. Her eyes fall upon the tiny bottle in his hand, and finally she takes it. Pulls out the tiny cork and looks at him again, terrified... and then, before she can become afraid of her own courage, puts it to her lips and drinks, drinks up everything until the last drop is finished – its taste sharp and a little bitter on her tongue, like the truth always is.
Her eyes are closed, and she stumbles a little under the assault of pictures and feelings that wash over her – Henry dying, a dragon, Regina, her parents, Neverland, purple smoke, anguish, fear, disbelief, finally love, and...
Her eyes fly open and she stares into his worried eyes when realization hits. "Hook."
And just like that, the sorrow in his expression evaporates, changing into that smile she remembers so well now, with sparkling blue eyes, reckless, teasing and flirty, and he tilts his head, dancing eyebrows challenging her. "Did you miss me?"
And just like that, everything falls into place.