She sat quietly, hands folded neatly in her lap; the only sound was the scratching of quill on parchment as he hunched over the dark writing desk. She wasn't sure what it was that had him writing so often. It was difficult to imagine what sort of business a pirate need record. Yet he spent hours at his desk, laying dark ink into the soft pages.

"Your handwriting is lovely," she commented, eyeing the slanted loops. He smiled at the page.

"It isn't what it once was," he murmured.

"How do you mean?" He paused and she caught him subconsciously reach for the hook. He contemplated his shirt cuff for a moment.

"Before I had the misfortune of meeting Pan, I was not fond of using my left hand." He stretched his fingers as she let out a small 'oh.'

"I can't imagine adjusting." Hook stared bitterly.

"Neither could I."